Banish Misfortune (12 page)

The telephone buzzed discreetly by her left shoulder, and she eyed it with marked hostility. There was no way she was going to come to a decision with all these interruptions. She reached out, hesitated, then grabbed the receiver with a sense of weary acceptance.

"Jessica? I know you said not to bother you but it's Dr. Brochu, and I figured it might be important." Her secretary's voice was filled with the concern that was far too prevalent nowadays. It seemed as if Jessica could pull the wool over everyone's eyes but Jilly's.

"Thanks, Jilly. Put her through." Leaning back in her chair, she picked up one of the number two pencils she preferred and began to tap it idly against the teak desk. No doubt Morgan Brochu would be prescribing multivitamins and B-12 shots and all sorts of other nasty things. Jessica had seen her reluctantly, only the necessity of updating her shots and Peter's constant carping overcoming her resistance. She had known what to expect, and Morgan Brochu's shocked exclamations rolled off her back.

"Hello, Morgan," she said wearily. "No more lectures, please. I had more than enough from you yesterday. I promise to take whatever nasty vitamins you prescribe for me, but you have to promise not to be so disapproving. I assure you, I'm much better than I was three weeks ago."

"I'm sure you are," Morgan Brochu said dryly. "I had them rush your blood tests because I was concerned, Jessica."

"And?" she prompted, tapping the pencil. "Am I anemic? I wouldn't be surprised—I've been absolutely exhausted lately."

"Yes, you're anemic. Edging toward anorexic but not there yet. You're also in the early stages of pregnancy."

The pencil broke. Jessica stared unseeing out at the heat-glazed cityscape as a thousand thoughts and voices crashed inside her head.

"Did you hear what I said, Jessica? Are you there?" Morgan's brittle voice couldn't hide the concern that filtered over the telephone line.

"Yes, I'm here. And I heard you. I don't suppose there's any chance—

"I'm certain. The blood test is very accurate, and it only confirmed the physical evidence I found yesterday when I examined you. You're definitely pregnant, though not very far along. I'd guess maybe three to six weeks."

"Three to six weeks," Jessica echoed. Her brain couldn't even begin to take it in, to make the obvious calculations.

"Now would be the time to do something about it," Morgan continued briskly, very businesslike. "It's a simple enough matter so early on—an outpatient procedure. I can refer you to a colleague of mine if you wish."

"No, thank you, Morgan."

"You shouldn't wait too long to do something about it, Jessica," Morgan cautioned. "You know as well as I do the dangers in a late abortion."

A suddei, dreamy smile lit Jessica's face, with only the picture window to view it. Morgan was leaning over backward to be diffident, but Jessica knew her too well to be fooled. An ardent feminist, Morgan had campaigned for a woman's right to legalized abortion. She also hated abortions with a passion, and refused to perform them, referring her patients with nonjudgmental concern. She would never believe what she was about to hear.

"What sort of prenatal vitamins should I take?" Jessica murmured, leaning back in her chair.

The screech on the opposite end of the phone made her smile broaden. "Do you mean you intend to keep the pregnancy?"

"There wouldn't be much reason to take prenatal vitamins otherwise, would there? I am healthy enough to carry a pregnancy, aren't I?" There was latent concern in her voice.

"Oh, you're healthy enough, despite having gotten too damned close to starvation. It surprises me that you managed to conceive, but I guess it's that good Scandinavian stock. If you take your vitamins and eat properly you shouldn't have any trouble."

"That's good," she said dreamily.

"Jessica, if you're going through with the pregnancy I'll need you back in here. We need a complete workup, records of the father as well as you. I assume Peter will be cooperative?"

"I'm sure he would be. The problem is, I don't think he's the father." Best not to be too certain, she thought.

The sudden hissing of breath from the opposite line was all the comment Morgan would make. "Would it be impolite of me to ask who it is, then?"

"Not impolite but useless. I don't know the father." It wasn't really a lie. She knew very very little about Springer MacDowell, so little, in fact, that it wouldn't take much to simply ignore the fact that he happened, by sheer accident, to help her conceive a baby in her underfed body. She was very adept at ignoring things she wished to blank out in her past.

"Are you certain, Jessica? Couldn't you make a guess? There are things that need checking on—RH factor, inherited diseases and the like."

"I'm afraid not," Jessica replied cheerfully. "Why don't we assume it was an immaculate conception?"

Morgan's sharp bark of laughter was her only response. "Do you want me to recommend an obstetrician?"

"If you can. But I won't be in New York." That easily made the decision that had eluded her for months.

"Where will you be?"

"I'm not sure yet. Someplace away from the city, away from business and people like the Kinseys. People like Jessica Hansen," she said lightly.

"So you and Peter aren't going to get married?"

Another decision, easily made. "No."

"But what if it's his child?" Morgan persisted.

"I'll deal with that when the time comes. I'm not really sure if I owe him anything."

"You may owe him a child."

"Perhaps," she said distantly. "Vitamins, Morgan?"

"I'll call in a prescription to your pharmacy. No drugs, no alcohol, all right? If you're going to keep the pregnancy you may as well do it right."

"I may as well," she agreed tranquilly. "I'll talk to you tomorrow when I've made my plans."

"Do that."

Softly, silently, Jessica replaced the phone. She stared at the pristine confines of her corner office, the broken pencil on the immaculate teak desk. She looked at her hands, thin and strong and well-shaped, and she dropped them lightly on her still-flat stomach. The sudden bubbling of joy, like champagne flowing in her veins, threatened to spill over. And all she could think was, at last she had done something right.

Springer slid down
in the chair, careful to keep his long legs out of the path. He'd already tripped one nurse—he had no desire to repeat the experience. With the way his life was going right now, it would only be fitting if the next one he tripped was carrying a loaded bedpan.

Sliding around, he tried to cram his six-foot-four frame into the metal-and-plastic chair made for a much smaller, much more padded human being. Did hospital administrators take a certain pleasure in seeking out the most uncomfortable chairs for the waiting rooms? Maybe they figured the physical discomfort would take people's minds off their medical worries.

With a sigh he pushed himself out of the chair, wandering down the hallway for the twentieth time in the past hour. For that matter, why did surgery always seem to take twice as long as it was supposed to? Damn, he wished he'd have let Elyssa accompany him back to the Coast. He'd been so caught up in worry and guilt and panic that he hadn't anticipated what hell it would be, sitting in the waiting room, waiting, waiting, waiting. With no one for company but the sullen brunette with the too-youthful clothes clinging to her perfect figure. He didn't want to go back, share that cubicle of space, never meeting her accusing eyes. But there was no place else to go.

He'd have to go back to New York to get his car. Hamilton had it garaged somewhere—he could only hope vandals hadn't stripped its venerable beauty. As soon as he knew everything was going to be all right he'd fly back, maybe stay a few days before the long drive

Hell, was he trying to kid himself? After all these years? He was going to see Jessica. They were completely mismatched—she was everything he disliked in women. Cold, ambitious, shut off from human emotion.

And yet he'd seen emotion in those lost blue eyes of hers, emotions like fear, anger, even a surprised desire. And once or twice he'd heard her laugh, and the sound still haunted him with its rusty, rippling charm. And she wasn't cold at all, once he had gotten past that armor-plated efficiency. She was warm, and trembling, and so shiveringly responsive that he felt himself harden just remembering.

A familiar figure in green scrubs hurried by, and Springer was pulled out of his reverie in sudden alertness. But no, it wasn't anyone he knew. The operation was supposed to take an hour—it hadn't been much more than an hour and a quarter. There was nothing he could do but wait.

Elyssa hadn't been much help. During the endless ride to the airport, when all the unanswered questions about Katherine were threatening to drive him crazy, he'd tried to distract himself by asking about Jessica.

Elyssa had hesitated, obviously loath to interfere. "Is that where you were last night when I was trying to find you?"

"Yes."

"I wish you wouldn't, Springer," she had said plaintively. "You don't need to add another scalp to your belt. Just because you can't resist a challenge—"

"Is Jessica a challenge?" he'd drawled. "I got the impression that she might be far too easy with her favors."

"She's not cheap, Springer," Elyssa had snapped.

"I didn't think so. I imagine she'd be a very expensive habit to acquire."

"I wouldn't have thought a man with your experience with women would be so easily deceived," Elyssa had snapped, rising to the bait quite nicely. "Jessica doesn't happen to be an executive hooker."

"Then what is she?"

There was a slight softening in Elyssa's dark eyes. "A confused, unhappy young woman. And she doesn't need you to add to her confusion. Not for some sexual whim on your part. Oh, Springer, I thought you'd gotten past all that. I can't stand the thought of your hurting Jessica more than she's been hurt already."

"I'm not going to hurt her," he'd replied. "And you're right, I have gotten past sexual whims."

"Then why did you do it?"

He met her gaze with his customary honesty, the honesty he reserved for those he loved. "I don't really know," he admitted.

Elyssa shook her head sadly. "Keep away from her, Springer. You may not want to hurt her, but I think you already have. She's a lot more vulnerable than she looks."

Leaning against the hospital window, Springer remembered that vulnerability, just as he remembered that mask she'd pull over herself. But which was the real Jessica? The efficient, manipulative vice-president of Kinsey Enterprises? Or the shivering, clinging woman who ran from him and then reluctantly, completely, fell into his arms? Retrieving his car was only an excuse. Far more important to his peace of mind was finding out who Jessica Hansen really was.

"John." His ex-wife had never called him Springer. Probably figured that if she had her own name for him she'd own him. That pinched, sour voice broke through his reveries, and he pivoted on his heel to face the approaching figure of Katherine's doctor.

Chapter Thirteen

Jessica stepped out into the cooler night air outside the Tavern on the Green, greeting its soft breezes with an unconstrained smile. She could feel the curious eyes of the man beside her and considered hiding her unexpected pleasure with the night and life in general. She dismissed the thought, turning to encompass Peter in her sense of well-being.

"You're looking quite pleased with yourself," he observed.

"Why shouldn't I? We've just been celebrating an extremely successful merger; I'm about to go on a long vacation. I'm very pleased with my life right now."

Peter's high forehead was creased in disbelief. "Somehow I hadn't gotten the impression you were looking forward to your trip with Lincoln. Particularly since I'm not able to join you." He sounded faintly aggrieved, and Jessica didn't bother to hide the wave of irritation that swept over her.

"I never expected you'd be able to join us, Peter," she said, her voice deceptively gentle. "After all, that was an unwritten part of the bargain, wasn't it?"

A dull red suffused Peter's face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Jessica. I would never—"

"Then I'm not part of the deal?" she queried gently. "A month of unrestricted fun and games with Jessica Hansen isn't included in the terms of the merger? Shall I go back in and tell Lincoln that I won't be going with him tomorrow?"

"No!" Peter's voice was strangled, and Jessica almost felt sorry for him. Almost. A light film of sweat had broken out on Peter's tanned, aristocratic face, and the panic she'd only guessed at was in full evidence. "Jessica, even you don't know what kind of shape we've been in. This merger was our last chance—if it hadn't gone through we would have been looking at receivership by the end of the year."

"But the merger did go through, Peter. The company will have a nice infusion of fresh money, and Lincoln will have the possibility of substantial profits. And he'll have me as a lagniappe."

"Damn it, Jessica, it's not as if we're asking for something you've never done before," he cried, shoving a rough hand through his blond hair. "You're not a virgin sacrifice, for heaven's sake."

Springer's term, she thought distantly. And Springer who had told her she was worth more than executive prostitution.

"You are asking me to do it, then?" she questioned serenely. "I just want to be sure I have this straight."