Rogue's Reform. Marilyn Pappano
hands were trembling as she carefully laid the clipboard and pen on the shelf, then turned on the narrow step to face him. He’d stopped ten feet away and was watching her with a totally unreadable expression.
He looked more handsome than ever, with unruly blond hair and wicked blue eyes, with a stubborn jaw and cover-model-perfect features. Every young man in the state owned the same outfit—faded Wranglers, a white T-shirt, jeans jacket, scuffed work boots—but he wore them with more ease than she imagined anyone else could. Snug and comfortable, like a second skin.
As she looked at him, appreciating the sheer beauty of him, he looked back. Was he disappointed, she wondered uneasily, that the wild, curly red hair, the sexy clothes, the lovely woman on the make—Melissa in her entirety—had all been an illusion? Was he dismayed that he’d spent a good part of a long summer night naked and hot with her? Was that why his features were schooled into such blankness? Why his blue eyes were so cold? Why his voice had been so flat?
She wished she had the nerve to lie, to swear that he was mistaken, that she didn’t know him. But, except for that night, she’d never lied, and she didn’t have the desire to start now. Slowly she came down the ladder, relieved when she felt the floor solid under her feet.
Folding her hands tightly together behind her back, she said in the calmest voice she could muster, “I…didn’t expect to see you.” Again. Ever. She didn’t add the qualifiers, but he heard them. It showed in the tightening of his jaw.
“You can thank Olivia and Shay Stephens for it. They thought I should know—” his gaze raked her up and down “—about you.”
“Rafferty,” she said nervously.
“What?”
“Shay Stephens. Rafferty. Easy came home last fall, and he and Shay got married in November…or maybe October. I’m not sure. It was before he started buying the horses for his ranch but after her birthday. October, I think, but—”
“Forget Shay,” he said sharply, and she sucked in whatever rambling words she might have spoken with a startled breath. He gave her another hard look up and down, one that made her fingers knot where he couldn’t see them. “Olivia tells me I’m…responsible for this.”
In Heartbreak responsible was not a word people used in reference to Ethan James. Irresponsible, yes. Trouble. Lazy. Dishonest. Disloyal. Selfish. She could stand there the rest of the day, listing every negative quality she could think of and still not cover all the failings attributed to him.
But he was waiting for a response to his comment. Which did he want—yes or no? How did he feel about being a father? How did he feel about fathering a child with her?
He was here. That said something, didn’t it? He’d come back to his least-favorite place in the world because he’d been told his one-night stand had produced an eighteen-year commitment. Surely that meant he wasn’t totally averse to the idea.
Unless he’d come back to buy her silence. To give her some reason not to make demands of him. Maybe he wanted her to continue to keep his identity secret. After all, he had a reputation to protect. Charming rogues like Ethan James did not get suckered into one-night stands with plain Janes like Grace Prescott. Or maybe he’d settled down somewhere, with someone special, and didn’t want word of an illegitimate child leaking out to tarnish his future.
“Well?” Impatience colored his voice and gave her the courage to shrug carelessly and start toward the counter.
“I never mentioned you to Olivia or anyone else.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.” He leaned on the counter as she circled to the other side. “Is that— Am I—” He dragged his fingers through his hair, muttered a curse and tried again. “Did we…?”
After studying him for a moment, she knew the answer he wanted. It was in his scowl, his clenched hands, the sinking feeling in her stomach. It was foolish to be disappointed. She was twenty-five, a woman on her own, about to become a single mother. There was no room in her life for daydreams or fantasies, no chance that a charming rogue might turn into her very own Prince Charming, no chance at all that something special could develop out of a one-night stand. Yes, he’d come back upon hearing that she was pregnant, but only because he wanted her to deny that he was the father.
“No,” she said softly, feeling the ache of the lie deep inside.
He looked startled, then relieved, then suspicious. “No what?”
“You’re not the father.”
“Who is?”
“That’s between my baby and me.”
His gaze narrowed, sending heat flushing through her face. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie.”
“Everything about the night you spent with me was a lie,” he said scornfully.
The heat intensified. Did the fact that it was a necessary lie count for anything? It was a simple truth that without the makeup, the clothes, the hair, she never would have found the nerve to walk into that bar. It was another truth that without the makeup, the clothes and the hair, he never would have looked twice at her.
She had desperately needed for someone to take a second look at her.
“It’s my baby, isn’t it?”
She thought of all the emotions she’d experienced since finding out she was pregnant. Shock. Panic. Dread. Fear. Heartache. And, finally, joy. She’d had such dreams, made such plans. She’d fallen in love with her daughter—she liked to think it was a girl—soon after learning of her existence. She couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful, any gift more precious, than the one she’d been given.
“Do you want a baby?” she asked, hearing the wistfulness in her voice. It would be an even more precious gift if he answered yes honestly and sincerely. Even if she was the last woman he would choose to play the role of mother, she would be forever grateful if he could truthfully say yes, he wanted their baby.
For a moment, he couldn’t say anything at all. He opened his mouth twice, then closed it again. Finally, with a stiffness that vibrated the air between them, he said, “It’s a little late to be considering what I want. This baby’s going to be here in two months, whether I want it or not.”
“But you don’t have to be here in two months.”
Once again she’d startled him. He blinked, then refocused on her as she continued.
“I do want this baby. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me. I want to change diapers and have 2:00 a.m. feedings and teach her to walk and talk and ride a bike. I want to be such a good mother that she’ll never miss having a father.” In spite of the awful examples her parents had set for her, she knew she could do it. She had more love to give than any little girl could ever need. She could easily be mother and father both, especially when the father she was replacing had no desire to be a father.
“So I’m not needed here. That’s what you’re saying.” Ethan heard the bitterness in his voice, felt it deep in his gut, but didn’t understand it. He should be grateful. She was offering him the opportunity to walk away and never look back. She didn’t want his name, his money or his presence. Hell, she didn’t want anything to do with him.
He should be used to it by now. He’d been living with it most of his life. His mother had loved him, but she’d loved Guthrie more. His father hadn’t loved him at all, and Guthrie had wished that he’d never been born. Now he was neither needed nor wanted in his kid’s life.
“You don’t want to be here,” she said quietly. “You don’t want to be a father.”
The truth, plain and simple. And not so simple. It was true that he’d never wanted kids—but that was speaking in terms of possibilities, prospects, somewhere down the line. This baby wasn’t a prospect. It—he or she—existed, a real, live part of him and Grace.