The Billionaire And The Bassinet. Suzanne McMinn
breeze.
She tried to reach out, touch him, find out if he was real—but she couldn’t. Her hands felt as if they belonged to someone else. Her heart hammered in her chest, deafening her to any other sound—to the birds chirping from their nest in the oak tree, to the distant hum of a car on the next street over, to the words coming out of the man’s mouth as he stood in front of her.
“Ben?” she whispered, one hand grappling for the door frame, her knees soupy. Her other hand went instinctively to her swollen stomach.
The man was saying something to her. At least, she could see his mouth moving. She still couldn’t hear him. A rushing sound filled her ears then, and in another second, everything went black.
Garrett Blakemore lunged forward, cursing, and scooped the woman in the doorway into his arms just before she struck the stoop. She felt surprisingly light, fragile.
It hadn’t occurred to him that his resemblance to Ben would shock his cousin’s widow to this extent. The last thing he’d meant to do was scare the living daylights out of her.
At least, he hadn’t meant to scare the living daylights out of her yet.
Moving quickly inside the house, Garrett adjusted his grip on the unconscious woman. Along with the strong, sweet fragrance emanating from the back of the house came the more subtle scent of something soft and feminine. Something that reminded him of springtime and apple blossoms.
Something innocently alluring.
Garrett pulled his thoughts up short. What was wrong with him? The innocence of Ben’s widow was definitely in doubt, and no amount of feminine allure could resolve that particular question.
What Garrett was after was proof. Hard, scientific evidence, one way or another, to show that Lanie had been telling the truth in the letter she’d sent. Ben’s father, Walter Blakemore, needed the truth—and Garrett owed it to the uncle who’d raised him to help find it.
And he owed it to Ben.
Garrett crossed from the foyer to the parlor of the old house, worried about the woman’s state of unconsciousness. Fainting couldn’t be good for anyone, and she was pregnant—that was obvious enough. At least that part of her letter hadn’t been a lie.
Garrett registered surprise at the contrast between the home’s faded exterior and its bright interior as he gently placed the woman on one of the long couches and sat beside her on the edge. The cozy parlor wasn’t what he’d expected.
Outside, a crumbling sidewalk led to a narrow front porch nearly consumed by unruly bushes. A worn sign stuck up from the midst of the scraggly lawn, its flowing pink letters announcing the home to be the Sweet Dreams Bed and Breakfast. The home itself looked to be about a hundred years old, with pink gingerbread trim decorating the flaking white wooden siding.
The inside presented a shining contrast. Soft peach walls and plump contemporary-style couches were set among gently aged antiques. Handwoven rugs decorated the polished oak floor. A vase of fresh-picked flowers cheered one corner. It was comfortable and warm and very, very feminine.
Awkwardly Garret patted Lanie’s hand, hoping for a response. She was young, he noticed as he sat beside her. Probably about the same age Ben had been. He’d seen her only once before, at Ben’s funeral. She’d arrived as the service had begun and had left the instant it ended. But he remembered her—remembered the soft blond waves, the delicately featured face, the mysterious eyes hidden behind dark glasses.
He remembered that she’d been the cause of so much misery in his family for so many months.
She looked small and vulnerable now. Her body, except for her swollen middle, seemed slender beneath the flowing T-shirt. And despite everything, he couldn’t help feeling a surge of some sort of primal, protective instinct. The sensation was unfamiliar. And unwelcome.
Focusing deliberately on the problem at hand, Garrett patted Lanie’s hand again and called her by name. She didn’t move. He thought back to his first aid training in college. He noted she wasn’t wearing anything constricting. The pink cotton shirt, with its soft, scooped neck, flowed loosely to her hips, with white, clingy leggings following the slender line of her thighs and calves below.
Very shapely thighs and calves, narrowing down to slim ankles and small feet encased in white tennis shoes.
Garrett swallowed, his gaze traveling back up her legs. Pregnant women weren’t supposed to be sexy, were they?
He was tired. That had to be it. He’d sworn off women after his marriage—a short-lived debacle that had finished off whatever naive delusions about love and trust he might have once had.
Apparently, however, his libido was in rebellion, reacting to anything female that came within fifty yards, no matter how inappropriate. Garrett took a deep breath and forced his gaze from Lanie’s shapely legs. He reached for one of the fat peach pillows tossed into a side chair and propped it beneath her ankles.
“Lanie?” he called again, softly. “Lanie?”
He ran a finger along her cheekbone, gently trying to rouse her. He wondered what color her eyes where, what had been hidden behind those dark glasses at the funeral. Minutes ago, when she’d opened the door, he’d barely had time to register anything at all. He hadn’t noticed if her eyes were brown or blue—
Suddenly, as he dropped his hand from her jaw, her lashes fluttered, and he had his answer. She had the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen, bugger than the Texas Hill Country sky and at least as mysterious. Slowly, cautiously, she focused her gaze on him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you all right?”
Lanie blinked, remembering where she was, remembering the man in front of her. The man that looked like Ben—but wasn’t Ben.
She forced back tears. She’d thought, for just that one second—
“I’m fine,” she managed, her mouth cottony. She struggled to sit up, but fell back again as black spots filled her vision and nausea choked her. She felt weak, boneless.
“Careful. Not so fast.”
She noticed his voice. So like Ben’s, yet different. It was deeper, harder, darker—like so many other aspects of the man, she realized, as her vision once again cleared.
The likeness to Ben was only superficial, she could see now. This man’s hair was blacker and thicker than Ben’s, his shoulders broader, his jaw more square, his lips more sensual, his eyes more penetrating.
Swallowing dryly, she felt uncharacteristically vulnerable. And very much alone.
He was a Blakemore. He had to be. No one could look this much like Ben and not be a Blakemore.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked, his gaze unrelenting. He’d been sitting beside her, but now he stood, towering over her. He was tall, solidly built, larger than Ben.
“I’m fine,” Lanie said again, sounding feeble even to herself. She pushed herself up again, this time gingerly, until she came to a sitting position. Her body was starting to cooperate, thank goodness.
“I don’t—I’ve never fainted before,” she added self-consciously.
The episode embarrassed her. How long had she been out? How had she gotten from the back door to the couch? Of course he must have carried her. The thought of being held in the arms of this stranger made her incredibly uncomfortable.
She thought she remembered something, just as she came to—had that been his hand she’d felt on her cheek? All she remembered was the touch. The gentleness.
She frowned, bewildered by the clouded memory. Could this man with his hard mouth and cold eyes have touched her so tenderly? The skin of her cheek tingled with lingering awareness, confusing her further.
“Do you need to me to call a doctor for you?”