Honeymoon For Three. Sandra Field
over to the benches to talk to one of his students. Slade strode down the narrow corridor towards the locker rooms, swiping at his wet hair with his towel. He had to figure out a way to return those high-lobbed serves of Tom’s and keep control of the T at the same time.
He didn’t even see the woman until he had collided with her. His elbow brushed the softness of a breast, his arm automatically clutched her round the waist and her racquet dug into his ribs. Then she pushed back from his chest and he saw that it was Cory. She was wearing shorts and a white knit shirt, a sweatband holding back the thick sheaf of her hair. He said blankly, “You only come here in the mornings.”
“Joe’s out of town. So I’m playing with a woman friend.” Slade’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest so that she could see the curl of dark hair from throat to navel and the jut of his collarbones. He was still breathing hard.
Feeling breathless herself, her palms tingling from the contact with muscles as hard as a board, she heard him say, laughter warming his voice, “You don’t want to be within ten feet of me right now. I’m in need of large quantities of soap and water.”
This man to be the father of her child? Heaven help her. Cory said ironically, “I was watching you for a while. Remind me never to get in a squash court with you—you’d pulverize me. Do you always play like that?”
“Cory,” he said, “after your game why don’t you join me at Harold’s Pub for a snack and a beer? I’ve been thinking about your idea.”
She said vigorously, “That’s one discussion I do not want to reopen.”
“I might agree to it,” he said.
She paled. “Are you serious?”
“Given certain conditions. I think we should at least talk about it some more.”
With a hunted look she said, “I’m late; I’ve got to go. All right, I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”
Sweat was stinging his eyes. Slade wiped his face again and headed for the shower. He’d really only opened the way for negotiations, he told himself as he pushed open the locker-room door.
He hadn’t made any hard and fast decisions.
CHAPTER FOUR
SLADE had eaten a plateful of nachos with very hot salsa and downed two beers by the time Cory walked in the door of the pub. Several of the men eyed her speculatively, and in a primitive surge of possessiveness Slade stood up, waving to her. She smiled, wending her way through the tables; she looked slim and attractive in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and kissed her, unsurprised to feel tension knot her muscles.
“You’re quite a woman,” he murmured. “Fifty-five minutes of squash and I still want to throw you down on the floor and make love to you.”
Color crept up her cheeks. “The bouncer wouldn’t approve.”
“Plus the carpet needs cleaning.”
With great relief Cory saw the bartender approaching. They ordered burgers and draught beer, then Slade asked, “How did your game go?”
“I lost—couldn’t concentrate.” She hesitated. “I thought you’d have gone back to Toronto by now.”
“Friday afternoon.” As their beers were delivered, he paid for them, waited until the bartender was out of hearing, then added, “Although I could delay my flight until Sunday. That way we could spend the weekend together. During which I’d do my best to make you pregnant.”
“Slade, I—you’ve got the wrong idea.” As if she knew exactly what she was talking about, rather than having only the haziest of notions from reading popular magazines, Cory said in a rush, “There are clinics—it can all be done artificially.”
“What did you say?”
“You heard.”
His eyes narrowed. “I’ve applied several adjectives to you in our brief acquaintance, but cold-blooded wasn’t one of them. Artificially, for Pete’s sake!”
“The whole situation’s artificial! And I’m not cold-blooded. We hardly know each other, and we certainly aren’t in love with each other—how can we make love?”
“Very easily, I assure you. People do it all the time.”
“I’m not people. I’m me.”
“Then we’re both wasting our time. I won’t bring a child into the world that way, Cory. You can find someone else.”
She couldn’t even imagine broaching the subject with someone else. As Slade stared moodily into his glass, she studied his face, seeing as if for the first time the strongly boned jaw, the fan of laughter lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the cleanly sculpted mouth and cleft chin. Right now he looked older than his years. He’s suffered too, she thought humbly, and remembered the pain that had convulsed his features at the restaurant. She said steadily, “I don’t want to ask anyone else.”
He looked up, his gray eyes unreadable. “But you want me to disappear once you’re pregnant.”
“That’s right. I’d be the sole parent.”
“What have you got against marriage, Cory?”
“I’m an independent, financially secure woman. I scare the heck out of eighty percent of men. The other twenty percent have already been snapped up by women quicker on the draw than me.”
“I have no doubt there’s an element of truth in that. But it’s scarcely the reason you react like a gun-shy dog every time I mention the word ‘marriage’. Why don’t you want to get married?”
Shrugging, she said, “Been there, done that.”
He said flatly, “You have this habit of giving flip answers to serious questions. Neat way to keep people at a distance.”
She frowned at him, disliking how easily he seemed to see through her. “With most men it works.”
“I’m not most men.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” She paused while the waiter put their food in front of them, and reached for the ketchup. “I was married once. I never want to be married again. And that’s all you’re getting out of me. Because I’d be willing to bet you’re not going to tell me why you’ve changed your mind. About my idea, I mean.”
“You’re right. I’m not.”
“This isn’t about building a relationship. It’s about making a baby.”
Slade didn’t want a relationship; that had been achingly clear to him every day of the last two years. So why did he dislike Cory’s honesty so much? He said obliquely, “I’ve got a clean bill of health. What about you?”
“Me too.” She gave a rueful smile. “It’s not even an issue.”
Almost sure she wouldn’t answer if he asked why, he said, “How much financial support will you want?”
Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “None! This has got nothing to do with money.”
He’d sensed that would be her answer. “Once you find out whether or not you’re pregnant, I’ll expect you to let me know.”
“I don’t want you keeping tabs on me!”
“If you’re not pregnant,” Slade said smoothly, “you’ll presumably want to try again. Won’t you?”
And what was she supposed to answer to that? Scarlet-cheeked, Cory said, “I hate talking this way... it sounds so—so utilitarian.”
“The same goes for the baby’s birth—I’ll want to know when it happens.”
“I’ll think about