A Case for Calamity (5 page)

He stepped forward. She slapped the dress to his chest. Lifting her chin, she dared him to continue the conversation. She’d scream the house down.

Without a word, he brushed by her into the hall. She slammed the door with a resounding crash.

Dropping her forehead to the door, she followed the din of heated conversation drifting up from the hall downstairs until the raised voices ended in condemning silence. She rubbed at her temples. Though the chaos on the first floor was not of her making, the result was the same.

Calamity Jane strikes again.

****

Gabe spotted the scrap of black lace sticking out from beneath the bed. He crossed the room, scooped up the bit of cloth, and grinned. “Forgot something in your race to leave, didn’t you, little cat?” He rubbed the silky material between fingers and thumb, his grin broadening at the thought of Shae fleeing back to her hotel bare-assed beneath her sleek skirt.

He dropped to the edge of the bed and picked up the phone. When he’d awakened to find her gone, he called Michael and got the name of her hotel. The satisfaction in the older man’s voice be damned. This thing between them was too powerful to let her walk away without a word.

If she’d taken a cab instead of walking the streets of her beloved Paris, she would have reached her room by now, but she didn’t answer. Disappointed at not hearing her voice, he left a message. “Shae, it’s Gabe. You should have taken a cab. Now I’ll worry. I’d hoped to convince you to extend your stay, but perhaps I’ll see you back in the States.” He brought the panties to his nose. Her subtle scent wafted through his nostrils, just as memories of the night they’d shared drifted through his mind. “I can’t thank you enough for leaving behind your little memento, especially since you slipped away before I had the chance to say”—he dropped his voice to an intimate croon—“good morning, beautiful.”

Chapter Five

With Christmas just around the corner, New York and its citizens were full of good cheer. Colorful lights twinkled on every lamp post and throngs of seasonal entertainers descended on the city streets. Jane stretched on tiptoes to see past the stalled pedestrians clogging the sidewalk two blocks from her apartment. She shivered, eyeing the group of eight scantily clad street performers. Joyous music suddenly blared, and the eight maids-a-milking twirled into motion, dipping, spinning, and bowing, to the delight of their impromptu audience.

Christmas spirit sadly lacking, Jane pushed past the appreciative crowd, anxious to be home. Her feet dragged when she finally arrived at her building and climbed to her fifth-floor studio. God, was it the eighth day of Christmas already? Where had the time gone? It seemed like yesterday she’d snuck from Gabe Sutton’s Paris hotel room.

She paused in front of her apartment door and dropped her forehead to the cool wood. She’d tried to cling to the flu theory for her lingering illness, but doubt kept shoving aside various acceptable explanations to make room for a single, much more ominous reason she wasn’t getting better. Pregnant.

No!
Women like Jane Whitmore didn’t get knocked up. They graduated from college and spent a few years enjoying the life of a young, carefree New Yorker. They traveled, dated, and built their careers before meeting a man to settle down with to live a happy life.

She straightened, unlocked the door, and rammed a shoulder against the wood to aid in opening the sticking upper corner. Kicking the panel shut, she headed straight for the miniscule bathroom in the far corner of her tiny studio. Unwanted pregnancies didn’t happen to women like Jane Whitmore…
but to Calamity Jane Whitmore?

Slumped onto the closed toilet seat, she shrugged out of her heavy coat, tore the gloves from her hands, and tossed both to the floor. With shaking fingers, she dug into the plastic pharmacy bag and lined three boxes on the chipped porcelain sink. They stared at her like taunting cardboard soldiers. Nausea threatened, and she snatched up the first.

The instruction sheet shook as she read the directions. Pee on the stick and wait five minutes. No change, no baby. Blue line…

It was the longest five minutes of her life.

Pacing the floor, she paused before the foot-tall, tabletop Christmas tree. Her singular attempt at holiday decorating withered from neglect. Needles littered the surface of her tiny kitchen table. She swept them into her palm, then dropped them when the alarm on her phone blared. Her socked feet skidded on the hardwood floor, and she banged her hip against the bathroom doorjamb. The pain calmed her momentarily. Unfortunately, the effect didn’t last. On legs the consistency of noodles, she folded to the edge of the ancient tub.

The pee-dampened stick sported a bright blue line.

****

“What’s wrong? You look like crap.”

“Thanks, girlfriend. I appreciate the confidence boost.” Jane left Shae in the doorway to stagger back to the couch. She slumped onto the cushions and covered her eyes with one arm.

“I went by the pub for dinner, and they said you called in sick. What’s the matter?” Her friend’s purse landed on the coffee table with a thump.

Jane kept her arm over her eyes. “Bathroom.”

“You need to use the bathroom?”

“No.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then, “Oh, God. Please don’t say you need to throw up. You know I make a terrible nurse. I’ll be puking right beside you.”

She groaned. “Go look in the bathroom.”

The click of Shae’s heels marked her progress. Silence reigned, then a squeal echoed through the apartment. Jane dropped her arm and sat up as Shae bolted from the bathroom carrying a test stick.

“You’re pregnant?” Excited horror made her eyes huge in her pale face.

“According to the manufacturer of that test.” Jane stared at the damning evidence in her best friend’s hand. “I always liked blue. Why did they have to make it blue?”

Shae tapped the stick to her palm. “I don’t have any personal experience, but I’ve heard these home tests can give false readings.”

“That’s why I bought several. I figured on best out of three.”

“Smart thinking, and you shouldn’t panic until you’ve taken them and know for sure.”

“The other two sticks are in the garbage. Apparently pregnancy test manufacturers are
all
partial to blue.”

Her friend swallowed. “Oh, shit.”

“That was pretty much my reaction, too.” Jane eyed the stick slapping against Shae’s palm. She jerked her chin forward. “You know I peed on that, right?”

“Oh, ick!” The used test stick hit the coffee table with a clatter, and Jane found she could still smile.

Shae slid onto the couch beside her. “What are you going to do?”

She sighed and met her friend’s sober gaze. “I have a baby inside me. I know it’s early, but it’s already a part of me. I can’t get rid of it.” She squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears. An arm draped around her shoulder.

“I hate to bring this up, but…”

“Gabe Sutton is the father.” Jane shook her head. “My parents are right. I
am
a screw-up.”

“No, you’re not. Shit happens sometimes, and single women have babies all the time. Let’s look at this from a different angle. Pink blankets, tiny ballet slippers. It’ll be fun.”

Jane glared at the stick on the coffee table. “Blue seems to be the color of the day. What if it’s a boy?”

“Blue blankets and, considering who the daddy is, little cowboy boots.”

She moaned.

“I know you planned never to see Gabe again, but this changes things. He called again yesterday. My father is royally pissed.”

She lifted her head from the couch to pin her friend with a glower. “I thought your father believed your story.”

Shae scrunched her nose in a grimace. “Dad believes a stranger found my lost cell phone and met Gabe in my place, because he knows me and knows that kind of thing
could
have happened. But Gabe Sutton hasn’t ever met me, and he isn’t buying the story. Face it, Jane. You did too good a job pretending to be me. Gabe said your imitation of my father was too accurate to have come from someone who didn’t know the man.” She laid a hand on Jane’s. “He’s determined to find you, which means he’s definitely interested. Considering the situation, that’s a plus.”

Jane pushed to her feet to pace. “He doesn’t even know my name. What am I supposed to do? Walk up to him and say, ‘Hi Gabe. I’m the chick who tricked you into believing I was Michael Austin’s daughter two months ago in Paris. Oh, and by the way, I’m having your baby?’”

“I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘Hi, Gabe. I’m the chick who snuck out of your hotel room in Paris before you could say
Good morning, beautiful
. By the way, I had a really good time—and six orgasms. Oh, and I’m having your baby. Want to get a pizza?’”

Jane laughed at Shae’s cheeky grin, then shoved her fingers through her hair. “Right. That’ll work.”

“I googled him. You’re right. He’s hawt! He left his number that morning in Paris.” She smiled slyly. “It’s in my phone. You should call him.”

Jane snorted. “I don’t think giving Gabe Sutton a booty call would be a good idea. Besides, I’m on a sabbatical from men.”

Shae waggled her brows. “What’s that old saying? When you fall off a horse, you need to climb right back on? Screw Todd. You should have slammed the barn door behind him long ago. You’ve got a cowboy all saddled up and looking for a rider. I say, climb on board and enjoy.”

Jane blinked and shook her head. “I’m having a little trouble following your mixed metaphors.”

“Very funny, Professor Whitmore. My point is, you never cared about Todd. Why let him turn you off men?”

She flopped onto the couch with a sigh. In truth, she hadn’t thought of Todd since he’d stormed from her parents’ house. “I’m not turned off of men. I’m dealing with other things, like Gabe Sutton trying to track me down and my mother not speaking to me. Oh, and I’m preoccupied, what with another human being sharing my body and all.”

Shae waved a dismissive hand. “Your mother is forever not talking to you.”

True. Didn’t make it easier to handle.

“You
do
plan to tell Gabe about the baby, right?”

Panic twisted the muscles of Jane’s belly. Her eyes slid shut. “He has a right to know, but I need a few days to think.”

“I’ll call him and set up a meeting.” Shae held up a hand to head off her objection. “I initiated this train wreck. I’ll damn well be there to take responsibility and help with the cleanup. Will this Sunday work?”

Nausea threatened to choke her, but she nodded.

****

“So, this is how the other half lives?”

Jane grinned at Tina where they stood at the edge of the open, retractable wall leading to the glass-enclosed rooftop patio of the exclusive Park Avenue address. Melanie Archer, the host of tonight’s intimate Christmas cocktail party for thirty, knew how to set a stage for elegant comfort.

Clear, hurricane candle lanterns flickered on the low tables surrounded by four long, creamy-white couches. Strings of tiny white lights twinkled in the half-dozen, full-sized fichus trees. Bold red blooms from several dozen enormous poinsettias provided holiday color. Jane blinked at the miniature Lone Star flags accenting each large planter. Obviously the hostess had a Texas connection, but geez. Why was it everywhere she looked these days she was reminded of Gabe?

In the far corner, unpacking boxes at the bar, Tony Garbino, one-third owner of Culinary Creations, and resident bartender, jerked a chin in their direction. “Good evening, ladies.”

“Hey, big brother.” Tina grinned. “This place is incredible.”

“Hey, Tony.” Jane stepped over the threshold with his sister following and skirted a couch, enjoying the smooth brushed silk against the fingertips she trailed over its back.

“We’re about ready.” Tony glanced around. “Tina, go see if Sophia needs any help in the kitchen. Jane, I could use a hand finishing up here.”

“Is Sophia still wild-eyed?” Tina asked of her sister-in-law.

He chuckled. “She’s no longer foaming at the mouth, but be careful. She’s liable to bite your head off for looking at her wrong.”

His sister grinned and headed inside.

Jane shifted two bottles of wine from the box to the rack behind the bar. “It looks like you’ve managed most of the prep on your own. Are we late?”

“No, right on time.” Tony laughed. “Nervous energy. This one’s big for us. Melanie Archer might be a cowgirl matriarch in the Lone Star state, but she’s also the queen of who’s who in Manhattan. Tonight’s event puts us on the map. Sophia’s a wreck—so am I.”

She grabbed two more bottles. “Aren’t you the one who always says the rich put on their pants one leg at a time, just like the rest of us?”

“Yeah, but in the case of this crowd, one pair of those pants would cost more than our van parked downstairs in the private garage.”

“Life is so unfair.” She bumped his shoulder. “Don’t worry. One taste of Sophia’s baked stuffed onions and Mrs. Archer and her guests will be her slaves forever.”

Tony laughed, but then narrowed his eyes. He studied her face. “You okay? You look tired.”

She was
exhausted,
and she blamed the planned meeting with Gabe on Sunday for much of her insomnia, but now wasn’t the time for that discussion. She’d eventually have to inform the Garbinos of her condition. After four years in their employ, the trio were more friends than bosses. She’d miss their company as much as the income, once she started to show, but a waddling prego wouldn’t be someone Creative Cuisine’s elite clientele expected to see serving up hors d’oeuvres and drinks.