The Baby Agenda Page 10

  “If women worked the fields until they gave birth in the good old days, it was because they did it every day. They had the muscles for it. They didn’t sit in front of a computer four days a week, then spend the fifth scrambling over concrete foundations with exposed rebars and pipes just waiting to trip them up.” Now he was definitely yelling, too. “Especially not when they reach the point where they can’t see their feet!”

  Moira blinked. “You’re really worried about me.”

  He sucked in a huge breath and closed his eyes when he exhaled. “Damn it, Moira, yes.”

  “Oh.” She looked down to see her stomach take a bounce. When she laid a calming hand on it, a knob bumped into her palm. An elbow, a knee, the heel of a foot, she didn’t know, but felt awe every time she came that close to touching her unborn baby. Her shouting had upset him.

  She almost snorted. Him. If it was a him, he was probably anticipating the chance to do his own yelling. Yeehaw.

  “How on earth,” she wondered aloud, “did I ever become best friends with a guy?”

  “The same way I became best friends with a redhead.”

  She grinned at him. Then her smile vanished and her eyes narrowed as what he’d said sank in. “So, you’re telling me women in the good old days had muscle, but me, I’m in such lousy shape I’m not safe to let out of the house.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” he snarled. “You’re making me crazy.”

  “You’ve already made me crazy.”

  They glared at each other.

  He sighed. His shoulders relaxed. “I’ve got to tell you, until recently I thought Charlotte was the most difficult woman in the world.”

  “I’m telling her you said that.”

  Gray only laughed. “She knows.” He hesitated. “Why won’t you let me do anything for you?”

  “I will. When I need you,” she said, knowing perfectly well that she was being stubborn, but not why.

  He stood, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that she suspected was an obscenity.

  “I got a call yesterday,” he told her. “From Reynolds.”

  Sam Reynolds was the contractor building both houses in Lake View Heights that she’d drawn the plans for. Moira stiffened.

  “He doesn’t want you out there again. Says the homeowner won’t accept the liability.”

  Her eyes widened. “It was Curtis Tate. That creep,” she stormed. “I caught him using lower grade materials than I called for, and he’s getting back at me. I’m going to call Sam right this minute—”

  “You ever think maybe you scared Curtis?”

  “No.”

  They were back to glaring at each other. Moira was too mad and too upset, too tangled up altogether, to talk about this as if it was an everyday problem. And she was afraid that if she let Gray have a glimpse of her confusion, all she’d be doing was confirming to him that she was too weak to do her job.

  “I’m going home,” she snapped, shooting to her feet. Too fast—her belly bumped the desk and the chair scooted backward several feet. She ignored it, didn’t care that her computer was still on or that she had a couple more calls she should make. She grabbed her purse, said goodbye and stomped out.

  She thought she was doing well, out of respect for the attorneys across the hall, not to slam the door behind her.

  WILL WALKED INTO Van Dusen & Cullen, braced to see Moira, but her corner of the big space was unoccupied. There was a guy sitting at the second drafting table, although he wasn’t working; he was frowning into space until he heard the sound of the door opening. This must be the partner.

  He was good-looking, gray-eyed, with shaggy hair that was almost light enough to be called blond. The minute he saw Will, those eyes narrowed.

  “Will Becker,” Gray said slowly.

  “Have we met?”

  “I found a picture of you on the Becker Construction website.”

  Will winced. It was a crappy photo, almost ten years old, and should have been replaced with Clay’s by now.

  “Met your brother last week, too.” Van Dusen seemed to be musing aloud. “There’s a resemblance, although I might not have recognized you just from that.”

  “He’s better looking.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  The other man was bristling, Will could feel it. Could even understand it. Van Dusen and Moira were close. Best buddies, and maybe more. Sister-brother, on a level that had nothing to do with genetics? Will wouldn’t have felt real cordial, either, toward a man who’d screwed Sophie then walked away, leaving her pregnant.

  But reassuring Gray Van Dusen wasn’t Will’s priority right now. “Where is she?” he asked.

  “She went home.”

  Worry speared him. “Is something wrong?”

  Gray clasped his hands comfortably behind his head and leaned back in his leather desk chair. Surveying Will, he began to relax.

  “She’s mad at me,” Gray said. “I was coming down hard on her, probably for the same reason you’re here.”

  Will’s mouth tightened. “Clay emailed me.”

  “She’s been banned from the Lake View Heights development by the contractor, who claims the homeowner doesn’t want the liability for a pregnant woman scrambling around a half-built house on a steep hillside.”

  “She could scream sex discrimination.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Moira will think about that,” Gray said drily. “Once she cools down a little.”

  Will felt the first stir of humor in days, although it didn’t last long. “She scared the crap out of Clay.”

  “So I gathered. He just called. That’s what set her off in the first place.”

  Eyebrows rising, Will said, “Clay called?” Apparently his little brother shared Will’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility more than he’d realized.

  “Had the gall to ask how she was, apparently. Moira’s not about to tell anyone that, about midafternoon, it’s all she can do to keep from falling asleep across her keyboard.” Gray’s expression hardened. “Or that her back aches whether she’s been sitting too long or on her feet too long.”

  Will sat abruptly in one of the upholstered chairs in their small conference area. He hadn’t had any choice; his knees had given out on him. “She swears she’s fine. Doesn’t need me. Doesn’t want me.”

  “And you? What do you think?” Gray still lounged in his own chair, but the posture, Will guessed, was all show. Probably he wanted to ram his fist into Will’s face. He had to have been seething for long months because Moira was pregnant and alone, and now the guy to blame was right there, in front of him.

  It was understanding that allowed Will to meet Gray’s eyes steadily. “I think she’s wrong,” he said quietly. “I’m back to stay.”

  Moira’s partner began to smile. He straightened in the chair, then stood and walked over to Will, who rose at his approach.

  Gray held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Will. I’m Gray Van Dusen.”

  Will didn’t smile, but shook his hand with a strong clasp. “You going to give me her home address?”

  MOIRA HAD JUST LAY DOWN on her sofa, cozily warm beneath a throw, when her cell phone rang. She’d set it on the coffee table within reach, in case someone needed to contact her. She’d been hoping nobody would—a nap sounded really, really good, even though she’d be sorry come bedtime if she took one. When she saw the number, she almost didn’t answer. But on the fourth ring, she sighed and did.

  “Gray.”

  “What made you think I’d let you get the last word?”

  How was she supposed to stay mad at him? But she pretended she was. “Now what?”

  “Your doorbell’s going to be ringing in about five minutes. Thought you deserved a warning.”

  Her eyes widened and she sat up. “What? Who?”

  “Will himself. We met, we talked, he persuaded me to tell him how to find you.”

  “Will?” she repeated numbly. “He’s here?”

  “Yep.”

>   “But…why?” she all but wailed.

  “Seems he’s been worrying about you.”

  The undercurrent of amusement in Gray’s voice made her grit her teeth. “He wasn’t satisfied by his brother’s report? He had to come and see for himself? I told him—” She bit off the rest and closed her eyes. Breathe. Deep and slow. Hyperventilating wouldn’t help. “Why did you tell him where I live?”

  “You’re in the phone book, Moira,” he said patiently.

  “Without my first name.”

  “Hmm. M. Cullen, with a West Fork address. You think he couldn’t have figured that out?”

  A car pulled into her driveway. No. She stood and peeked. A pickup truck that she recognized. “Oh, God. He’s here. Damn it, Gray.”

  “Do you want me to come over, Moira? I can be there in a minute.”

  “No.” She was being silly. She could handle Will. “No, of course not. He’s a nice guy. Just…”

  “Stubborn?” Gray suggested, and she knew—knew—he was smiling.

  With a growl, she disconnected then thought, Oh, my God, my hair! Bathroom… No, there wasn’t time. Her purse. Where had she put her purse? There, on the kitchen table. She hurried around the sofa to it and groped frantically in the depths until her hand closed on the bristles of her brush. Even as the doorbell rang, she ran the brush through the hair she’d released from a bun the minute she got home.

  Then, steeling herself, she opened the front door.

  Neither of them said anything for a long moment. He made no attempt to hide his thorough appraisal. She couldn’t help feeling a moment of weakness, of—heaven help her—longing, to be wrapped in his arms for a minute. He was so big and solid, and from the moment she’d met him she’d heard something in his deep, slow voice, seen something in his brown eyes, that made her feel as if she’d be safe with him.

  Get real. All she had to do was look down at her belly to see how deceptive appearances were. Safe was the last thing she’d been with him.

  “Will,” she said, finally.

  His gaze met hers. “You’re not surprised I’m here.”

  “Gray called.”

  “Ah. May I come in?”

  “I suppose,” she said, embarrassed at how ungracious she sounded. Okay, she felt ungracious, but still had this compulsion to be polite. She stood aside and let him past.

  He stepped into her living room and glanced around in an appraisal as blatant as the one he’d given her all-too-ripe figure. “Nice,” he said after a minute.

  The interior of her house owed as much as she could afford to the Arts and Crafts movement of the late 1800s and early 1900s. She loved the combination of strong, clean lines and sophisticated sensuality. Mostly her furniture was reproduction, but she’d started collecting pottery from the period. Will went immediately to the glass-fronted case where she displayed her pieces.

  “Genuine?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Reluctantly, Moira joined him. “That’s a Grueby.” She pointed at a particular favorite, a small vase with the classic stylized designs in a matte green glaze, then gestured to a second pot, this one cylindrical with hand-incised, extraordinarily delicate geometric designs drawn in brown, rust and pale orange glazes. “Do you know anything about pottery of the time? That one’s from Marblehead Pottery. I like that it was started to teach ceramics as therapy to sanitarium patients.”

  “That’s interesting,” he said. “I know enough that I’d have snapped one of those up if I saw it at a garage sale, but not enough to identify the pottery.” He turned to face her.

  Her interest was caught despite herself. “Do you go to garage sales?”

  “Weirdly enough,” he admitted, “I can’t resist a garage or yard sale sign. I’ve found some good stuff at ’em. Mostly tools, but a couple pieces of furniture, too.”

  What an odd thing to have learned about him.

  “Do they have them in Zimbabwe?” she asked.

  His mouth quirked. “Not that I’ve seen. They have street markets instead. They’re as irresistible, in their own way.”

  So much for the niceties. She took a deep breath. “Will…why aren’t you in Zimbabwe?”

  “I didn’t like how we left it between us,” he said bluntly.

  Moira’s heart began to hammer. “That’s it? You flew home so we could…what? Have a heart-to-heart chat?”

  She couldn’t be sure, but she thought his expression had become wary.

  “No,” he said. “I came home to ask you to marry me.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MOIRA COULD ONLY GAPE at him. “You have got to be kidding.”

  Marry him? Was he nuts?

  Dark color streaked Will’s cheekbones. “No. I’m serious, Moira. We’re having a baby together.”

  She backed up to the sofa and sank onto it. “Will… this is the twenty-first century. The word illegitimate has pretty much disappeared from our vocabulary.”

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. In dark pants and a rather wrinkled, button-down gray shirt, he was dressed more formally than she’d seen him since the night of the gala. If he’d worn a tie, he’d shed it at some point and rolled up the cuffs of his shirt to expose wrists that had to be twice the size of hers. He looked as if he might have come from a daylong meeting. Or, it occurred to her, straight from the airport. If so, he must be exhausted.

  “I’d rather my child have my name,” he admitted, “but I’m more concerned that he knows his parents were both committed.”

  Stunned beyond belief, Moira said, “We’re not.”

  He considered her for a minute, expression unreadable, then said quietly, “I am.”

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  Will came to sit on the coffee table facing her, his knees touching hers. He reached out and took her hands, engulfing them in a warm, steadying clasp. “I don’t want you to be in this alone. I’m not asking you to promise me forever, although I’d like us both to go into this with the idea that we’ll try to make our marriage work. But even if it turns out to be temporary, I’d like to stay here with you. I intend to take you to the doctor, do any work that needs doing around the house, cook dinners, drive you to job sites. I want to be there when the baby is born. Take my turn at diaper duty. I want him to know my voice as well as yours. When he’s a few months old, then we can talk.”

  All she could think to say was, “You’re supposed to be in Zimbabwe.”

  The deep color of black coffee, Will’s eyes held hers. “You’re more important.”

  “You loved what you were doing.”

  “I did.” His pause was awkward. They both knew he couldn’t with any honesty say, I love you more. Of course he didn’t. She’d become a responsibility to a man who took them seriously. “We’re having a baby together,” he repeated instead of claiming any feelings for her whatsoever.

  “Oh, God.” Moira wrenched her hands away and covered her face with them. “I should never have told you I was pregnant. I knew better. I knew you’d feel stuck.”

  “Moira.” He gripped her upper arms, squeezing gently.

  “I don’t feel stuck any more than you claim you do. I like the idea of being a father. It didn’t hit me as soon as it did you, but…I can hardly wait.”

  Slowly she let her hands fall, her eyes searching his. “You’re just saying that.”

  He let out a rough laugh. “No. I admit I’ve surprised myself. I’d have probably preferred to wait to start a family, but…” His gaze flicked to her belly. “I keep thinking about the baby moving inside of you. I want to put my hands on you and feel him move again.”

  “What if he’s a she?”

  His smile was curiously tender. “That’s more than okay. I hope she has bright red hair and freckles.”

  “God forbid,” Moira muttered.

  Will lifted his eyebrows.

  “I’ve always hated my freckles. And when I was a teenager I would have killed to have plain brown hair so I could blend in. I woul
d have dyed it, except with the freckles that would have looked dumb.”

  He laughed again, more naturally this time. “Moira, honey, you have gorgeous hair and lovely skin. That night, I wished I’d had time to kiss every single freckle on your body.”

  Like an idiot, she blurted, “That would have taken—” She stopped before the last word could emerge. Forever. That’s how long it would have taken.

  “Weeks,” he said softly. “Months, maybe.”

  Get a grip, Moira Cullen. “You’re crazy,” she told him.

  “No. What I am is determined.”

  “You’re already committed, and not to me.”

  Now his tone was completely inflexible. “I’m going to quit my job with the foundation. They can replace me.”

  “Midway through the job?”

  “I’ve given them a good start. Someone else can take over.”

  He was serious, she realized. She couldn’t tell at all from his face how he really felt about walking out on something that had meant so much to him. No, that was stupid; of course she knew how he felt. But Will Becker was made up of bedrock that was…traditional, maybe, but solid enough to be earthquake proof. The fact that the condom had failed was no one’s fault, but he’d still feel responsible.

  No. Her forehead crinkled as she kept studying him. That wasn’t it. The thing was, this baby was his. It carried his genes. That was what he took so seriously.

  “How old were you when your father and stepmother died?” she asked.

  A ghost of some emotion passed through his eyes. “Twenty.”

  Her suspicion solidified. “Clay’s a lot younger than you, I could tell. And he’s the next oldest, right?”

  “Yeah. Dad didn’t remarry right away. Clay is seven years younger than I am.”

  “And you said Sophie just graduated from college. So she’s…twenty-two?”

  “Twenty-one, actually. She got a year of college credits while she was still in high school.” He realized he’d never told her how old he was. “I’m thirty-five, in case you wondered.”

  She nodded acknowledgment, but stuck to the point. “Who raised them?”

  Other than the flex of muscles in his jaws, Will was expressionless. “I did. I was an adult. There wasn’t anyone else.”