Making Babies. Wendy Warren
knew. And why, when he’d said finally, “I’ll take you home,” she’d unresistingly handed him her car keys, bundled into the passenger side and had felt—for the first time since she’d realized her life was falling apart—safe.
But a moment ago, standing in the confines of her small bathroom, with Mitch touching her, she hadn’t felt safe at all. For an instant, with his brown eyes fixed on her, she had felt the thrill that something wild and unknown was about to happen.
Men!
Anger kindled in Elaine’s stomach. Tightly she said, “Your hand is on the back of my neck.”
Mitch frowned quizzically.
“Your hand,” she bit out again. “It is on the back of my neck.” And clearly that was an erogenous zone. “I can’t get to the medicine cabinet.”
“Oh.”
He let her go. Elaine’s neck felt cold and bare.
They did an awkward dance as she moved around him. Catching sight of her own face in the mirror, Elaine longed to sit down right where she was and weep. Her nose where the wasp had stung her was red and inflamed and now that her adrenaline was calming, she could feel the throb again. Every part of her felt like it had been stung. Glancing above her own head, she saw Mitch’s reflection as he watched her.
She shoved the sliding glass of the medicine cabinet harder than she needed to, but could barely see the contents through the tears filling her eyes. Not the damned tears again, she groaned silently, pressing her lips together to refuse the emotion. No, she was not going to cry over this…this…whatever it was. Stupid…hormonal…mistake.
“Excuse me,” she said tightly, without turning around. “Would you please… This bathroom is just not that large.” Nothing happened. He didn’t move. “Would you leave?”
Mitch frowned heavily.
Elaine waited with forced calm, hand on the Neosporin, until she heard him walk quietly across the tile floor and through the hall. Without looking, she reached out, grasped the bathroom door and slammed it as hard as she could. She had no intention of crying in front of Mitch Ryder, and she certainly wasn’t going to cry over him.
She had plans, born of her heart only. If she intended to get on with them, she had better get used to feeling alone. No doubt she was going to feel alone a lot in the coming months as she embarked on a journey usually traveled by two.
As for discovering what had happened the night she left the bar with Mitch, that was a mystery that would have to remain unsolved. What difference did it make? She didn’t need an affair; she didn’t want the headache.
What she wanted was a pint-sized headache who needed all the love she had to give.
Splashing cold water on her face, Elaine dabbed her nose with antiseptic, replaced the tube and closed the medicine cabinet. Time to get down to business. She had a pregnancy to get under way. And a possible ex-lover to get rid of. She didn’t want Mitch Ryder here one moment longer than necessary.
Mitch looked down at the oak floor, grateful for the dimness of the living room with the curtains closed. As if the dimness would keep him from having to see himself too clearly.
What the hell was going on with him?
He had come here to relieve himself of the gnawing, uncomfortable sense of personal responsibility Elaine’s case had engendered. He had come here so he could feel less involved after he left. So far, his plan could be considered a failure.
Mitch wasn’t stupid. He knew what people—co-workers, most clients, his ex-wife—thought of him: that he was cold, impenetrable, virtually emotionless. That was fine. Experience told him their estimations were accurate. He’d long since stopped feeling guilty for his own inadequacies. That which had made his personal life a failure had lent strength to his professional life once he’d learned to use rather than deny his personality traits.
He shook his head. Every time he tried to make amends to Elaine—so he could walk away with a clear conscience—he got sucked in further. And yet he felt compelled to go on trying. Why?
Mitch’s sister, the youngest partner on record at the respected law firm of Cowden, Hardy, Hardy, Nash & Ryder, would tell him to snap out of it. “Do what you’re good at—pay someone else to do the other stuff” was M. D. Ryder’s credo. By “other stuff,” M.D. meant anything having to do with emotion. Mitch had lived by the same philosophy and on those rare occasions he hadn’t—his brief marriage, for example—the results had been suitably disastrous.
His sister was the only person he knew who could separate emotion from…well, everything better than he could. Family quirk.
“Do what you’re good at, forget the other stuff,” Mitch muttered, reminding himself that he had a reason for being here, a reason he could handle quickly and then leave.
He was staring at the closed curtains, at nothing, really, when Elaine emerged from the bathroom.
Her bare feet stepped quietly across the wood floor. She continued on to the kitchen without glancing at him. “I’m getting water. Do you want anything?”
Mitch frowned. From the start, he had admired Kevin Lowry’s wife for her innate warmth, for the gentle grace that came as a surprise every time he saw her. Now her tone was formal, brusque and businesslike.
“Water’s fine,” he said, following her into the kitchen.
As she pulled glasses out of a cabinet and a jug of ice water from the refrigerator, Mitch filled the yawning silence by taking his first really good look at the interior of the duplex.
Like the exterior, the interior had aged and was not as well maintained as it should have been, but the big, raw bones of the divided house were good. What he appreciated most, though, was the simple way Elaine had decorated, with dish towels in a bright sunflower pattern, yellow checked curtains on the windows, and several teapots—one that was covered in ridiculous red cherries—on wooden shelves above the cabinets. Late afternoon sun reached soothing streamers of light through the well-placed windows, enhancing the soft glow of butter-yellow walls.
The kitchen in his Mountain Park condominium was white and stainless steel. A twice-weekly housekeeper kept everything sparkling, though he rarely gave her anything to clean. He didn’t cook. Take-out was infrequent. Occasionally he nuked a frozen meal, but by and large he ate in restaurants and used the kitchen primarily as a wine cellar for occasional entertaining. Elaine lived in her kitchen. It was oddly appealing.
Filling both glasses with water, she set one on the counter in front of him and sipped from the other, eyeing him over the top of the rim. Mitch started to drink then noticed his glass was only half-full. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?
Draining the glass, he set it down. She made no move to refill it, and Mitch smiled. Had to. He’d met few people as unintentionally candid as Elaine Lowry. Clearing his throat, he got down to business, presenting his opening gambit as if addressing a court. “You’re wondering why I’m here.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m wondering how you knew my address.”
Right. He’d forgotten that would be a question.
“I assume Maggie gave it to you,” she continued before he could respond. “Which is profoundly unprofessional, but I will take that up with her next time the rent is due.”
Maggie Lewis owned Portland Property, the company that managed this rental. Mitch had handed Elaine his friend’s business card the afternoon he’d followed her into the Heathman. Later he’d phoned Maggie personally and told her to find Elaine someplace clean and safe where the rent was cheap and likely to stay so. This duplex had been absentee-owned for over a decade. The rent had been raised only twice in that time. Unfortunately the owners had decided to sell one month ago, taking advantage of the spike in area home prices. New owners were sure to increase the rent. Maggie had mentioned the fact to Mitch in passing.
“So other