His Baby Dilemma. Catherine Lanigan

       CHAPTER TWO

      NEW YEAR’S WAS all about fresh starts. New goals. Rethinking life. At least that’s what Grace told herself to justify flying across the Atlantic at the last minute over the holidays.

      Yet, here she was, sitting in her Aunt Louise’s car outside the Barzonni villa in the freezing cold. The afternoon sky was a slab of blue-gray pewter that was enough to depress the happiest of souls. It did nothing to bolster her courage.

      She dropped her forehead to the steering wheel. “I’m out of my mind.” She balled her fist on her thigh. She had to do this. Had to. Tears stung her eyes, but she pressed her fingertips to the corners. She couldn’t let anyone see her crying. Especially not Mica.

      She had to pull it together. She’d felt brave over the past year, but that didn’t come close to how heartrendingly brave she was going to need to be once she came face-to-face with Mica.

      He’s going to hate me forever.

      Oh, he’d wanted her on that golden October night over a year ago. Those days had been like a giddy ride on a Ferris wheel. She’d worked long hours for Aunt Louise at the ice-cream shop, while Louise went to rehab, saw her doctors and healed. She’d never known when she’d see Mica from one day to the next because they never actually made dates or scheduled dinners. He had simply showed up at closing time.

      He had been battling anger and depression over his injury. She’d cut him a lot of slack, but still, his distance constantly warred with the magnetism between them.

      Before the month she’d spent in Indian Lake, Grace had been attracted to Mica—intrigued by the memory of that day in the pool. Yet in the month they’d spent together, she’d grown to care about him. Deeply. She wasn’t sure he’d understood just how deeply. He hadn’t asked. Mica was a loner. “Aloof” didn’t begin to describe his attitude at times. He needed solitude to heal his psyche. Grace knew instinctively when to be with him and when to give him space. Yet she cherished every glimpse of him. Every breath and word he spoke. For her, there hadn’t been anything more important than simply spending an hour over a cup of coffee with Mica.

      Looking back, the sharp blade of reality was that as much as she’d tried to show she cared about him, Mica had never said he cared about her. Never told her he loved her. Now that she thought about it, he’d never told her that he even liked her. All of which was a flimsy foundation for a relationship.

      “Not that we even have one,” she grumbled. Grace couldn’t pin that one on Mica. She’d been the one to cut off communication.

      She’d itched to send him an email, longed to hear his voice on the phone. But she’d had only one thing to say to him. And it was the one thing she couldn’t—wouldn’t—say.

      I’m pregnant.

      She had told herself over and over that he didn’t love her and only wanted her as a fling. She lived in Paris. He lived in Indian Lake. They were universes apart in just about everything.

      A clean break was best, she’d thought. Then she’d thrown herself into her spring line.

      Part of her had wanted to tell him—had insisted it was the right thing. She remembered the times she’d stared at her phone, punched in his number, then lost courage before the first ring. Lost faith that he would ever want her. As the months passed and her pregnancy progressed, their time together had started to seem like some strange dream. It would never work in the long run. It was easier, for both of them, this way. Finally, she had come to a decision. She would have her baby and never tell Mica. She was capable and responsible and she could raise her child while fulfilling her ambitions for her career. She could do anything.

      So she’d thought.

      A door slammed, startling her. Grace looked up, but the villa was still. The sun was fading behind a shield of dense, snow-filled clouds. The timer on the white lights in the doorway garland and shrubs tripped. Thousands of tiny lights turned the villa’s facade into a fairyland.

      The sound must have come from somewhere else.

      She drove around to the kitchen entrance, and there he was.

      He was dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a leather jacket over a cream-colored cable-knit sweater. His hair was a bit longer than the last time she’d seen him. The lights over the doorway had come on and glistened in his ink-dark hair.

      He’d stopped halfway across the paved area between the kitchen and the stairway to his apartment above the garage.

      He stared at the car disbelievingly.

      She opened the door and got out. “Mica.”

      “Grace,” he said with a sharp edge of irritation. “What are you doing here?”

      Her heart slammed violently in her chest as she took a step back and opened the back door to the car. Her hands were shaking and she absolutely knew that all the blood had drained out of her body. She probably only had minutes to live. She had to do this quickly.

      “I brought you something.”

      “You what?” He took a tentative step forward.

      She leaned down and unhooked the seat belt that secured their son in his infant car seat, then lifted him into her arms.

      She straightened and shut the door with her hip. Mica stared at her and then at the baby. “Hold out your arm, Mica. I’ve brought you your son.”

      Mica was speechless as she walked up to him. She shoved the baby to his chest.

      “He’s yours, and it’s your turn to take care of him.”

      Mica’s blue eyes blazed with mistrust and something akin to revulsion. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

      “Does he look like a joke?”

      “No.”

      “Just hold him. He’ll grow on you.” She took a step back.

      “Hold on.” His surprise and mounting anger hit her like shotgun pellets. Sharp, painful and deep. She’d expected this. She’d thought she’d prepared herself for his reactions, but seeing him and remembering what it was like to be in his arms... She hated herself for being the bad guy. There wasn’t a single thing she’d done since last October that merited his trust, love or respect.

      She would have loved to run back to Aunt Louise’s and cry all night—all week. Instead, she stood her ground and steeled herself for what was to come.

      “I don’t have a son,” he said and started to hand the baby back to her.

      “Yes, you do. This is Jules.”

      “Jules? What kind of name is that?”

      “It’s French. His middle name is Michael. After you.”

      Mica clenched his jaw as he looked down at the sleeping infant. “What’s his last name?”

      Grace swallowed hard. Incredibly, she hadn’t thought about the name issue. “Railton.”

      He