Harlequin American Romance May 2014 Bundle: One Night in Texas\The Cowboy's Destiny\A Baby for the Doctor\The Bull Rider's Family (41 page)

“Wait a minute.” She was the one who’d proposed to meet for a drink. “Is this a game?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Jack brushed off his slacks as he stood. “I realize you weren’t feeling well...”

“Probably low blood pressure,” she said.

“Regardless, that’s no excuse for jerking me around.” He’d interrupted his breakfast plans and overtaxed his muscles, which would now probably hurt like hell during the long night ahead. That was all fine—she hadn’t requested his assistance, and he didn’t begrudge a few aches and pains—but it was unfair to suggest they meet for coffee and then behave as if he had pressured her. “If you’d rather I kept my distance, fine. But don’t issue invitations you don’t mean.”

“I didn’t...it wasn’t like that.” A familiar pucker appeared between her eyes.

Jack nearly softened. She had an astonishing ability to stir his protective instincts. But no one had appointed him her guardian. She had plenty of friends, and if she’d rather drink coffee or simply hang out with the other nurses, male or female, that was her business.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he told her. “If it’s low blood pressure, you should eat something.”

“Crackers.” She swallowed. “I think we packed them. But that’s okay. Karen and Melissa promised to fix sandwiches.”

Lucky strode by. “The first of many meals. I don’t suppose you’ve seen the updated kitchen? It’s impressive.”

“No.” Jack was sure he had a much better idea of how to make the most of a kitchen than Lucky did.

“And all that space!” the man crowed. “Once we settle in, it will be a fantastic party house.”

“Knock yourself out.” Jack had endured enough veiled taunts for one day. Also, he realized, the apartment must be nearly empty by now. “I’ll let you folks finish on your own. Enjoy your sandwiches.”

“Thanks for the help,” said Anya.

“Don’t mention it.”

He’d reached the parking lot before he remembered that the van still blocked their cars. Then he spotted Rod’s distinctive fedora. His uncle was facing a statuesque lady in formfitting green slacks and a halter top. Golden-brown hair floated around a determined face as she waved.

“Hi,” Jack called. What was the Realtor’s name? Della? Danielle? It always reminded him of old-fashioned countertops. Formica. No, that wasn’t right.

“Danica was just mentioning she had a couple of very lonely apple pies,” Rod informed him.

“There’s more than I can eat,” Danica confirmed. “It’s my mother’s closely guarded recipe. Homemade crusts, too.”

“With whipped cream, they’ll be better than waffles,” Rod said. “There is whipped cream, isn’t there?”

He noticed a mischievous glint in her eye, hinting that the whipped cream might be put to all sorts of creative uses. “Absolutely. And espresso.”

He’d struck out with Anya, so why not? “Sounds wonderful,” Jack said. “Very kind of you.”

“My pleasure.”

The real estate agent linked one arm through Rod’s and the other through his as if laying claim to them both. That didn’t last long, though, since it was impossible to climb the exterior steps in that formation. As they were separating, he caught Anya’s expression from behind the truck.

She looked...hurt. Or was he kidding himself?

Much as Jack enjoyed her company, he was done behaving like a teenager with a crush. If she chose to retreat from what they’d shared and return to acting strictly professionally he respected that.

Besides, he was starving.

Chapter Five

Empty of furnishings, the apartment had a pathetic air, Anya thought as she took a last look around. Matted patches of carpet revealed the shapes of their sofa and chairs. But after the management had the place professionally cleaned, those marks would vanish, leaving no sign of the two women who had spent a year within these walls.

When she’d agreed to pair up with Zora, Anya had been happy to bid farewell to the motel suite she’d been living in since her arrival from Colorado. Anya had found a sympathetic soul in her roommate, who’d been licking the wounds of her husband’s betrayal. The women had formed a team as they popped corn, shared movie nights and, playing on their names, joked about being experts on everything from A to Z.

Now that transitional period of their lives was ending. Maybe that explained Anya’s rush of nostalgia. Also, she would no longer enjoy the awareness that just around the corner of the next building dwelled a guy with a devilish grin and the most skillful hands she’d ever encountered, in
or
out of an operating room.

She hadn’t meant to drive him to that rapacious woman who flaunted her surgically enhanced breasts at every opportunity. Right now, they must be sitting at that woman’s table with their legs bumping underneath. Anya hoped Rod was bumping his legs in there, too.

And she still had to break the news of her pregnancy to Jack. That comment about his nieces needing their father, no matter what the circumstances, didn’t bode well for gaining his consent to adoption. Yet surely he wouldn’t raise a baby by himself. And he couldn’t force Anya to take on a role for which she was completely unprepared.

Their child deserved better. Surely he’d see that eventually, but she dreaded the confrontation. His attitude only reinforced her belief that she should entrust the task of informing him to someone else.

After checking her bedroom for overlooked objects, Anya peeked into the bathroom. The medicine cabinet was empty, no leftover shampoo in the tub...oh, wait. There on the windowsill sat the remarkably robust African violet. Far from withering away, it was thriving. Perhaps, as she’d read on the internet, it really did prefer humidity and filtered light.

She’d intended to toss it in the trash, but it would be cruel to kill a blossoming plant. Lowering it, Anya admired the dark fuzzy leaves and tiny purple flowers. “You deserve another chance, no matter who gave you to me,” she murmured as she exited the bathroom. “It isn’t your fault Jack knocked me up.”

A gasp from the kitchen was followed within milliseconds by a crash. Dismayed to realize she’d been overheard, Anya stared at a shocked Zora as she rushed into the kitchen.

Freckles stood out against her roommate’s face. “He what? You’re what?”

“Forget you heard that,” Anya commanded, despite the futility of such a request.

“See what you made me do!” Zora transferred her distress to the shattered millefiori vase, its delicate colors and swirling, kaleidoscope-like neck reduced to shards on the kitchen floor.

“I thought you gave that away.” The beautiful vase had been an anniversary gift from the treacherous Andrew, who’d bought it on a business trip to Italy.

“Like you said, there’s no sense blaming an object just because a jerk gave it to you.” Zora scraped up the broken pieces with paper towels.

“You have to get over him,” Anya told her.

“He’s still my husband,” her friend retorted. A few months ago, Zora had gone so far as to throw a divorce party in the hospital cafeteria, proclaiming how happy she was to be free. But clearly she was neither happy nor, technically, free.

Anya refused to act as an enabler. “Andrew hasn’t signed the final papers only because you haven’t forced him to. He enjoys keeping you dangling. It’s a power trip.”

“Maybe he hasn’t signed them because he still has feelings for me.” Zora dumped the shards into a plastic trash bag.

Lucky stomped through the front door, which they’d propped open. “Did I hear what I think I heard? You’re hanging on to that cheater? You’re an idiot.”

Zora shot him an unladylike gesture. Anya wished Lucky would quit meddling in their business. Just because he’d overheard their conversation didn’t mean he had the right to pass judgment. Besides, whereas Anya’s criticisms were prompted by concern for her friend’s well-being, his motive was less charitable.

Most of the hospital staff had forgiven Zora for her husband-stealing once nurse Stacy Layne had happily remarried. But Lucky had taken the situation to heart because Stacy had married his beloved boss; therefore, he resented any and all harm that had ever been done to her.

“Let’s lock up, okay?” Anya said. “Melissa and Karen must be wondering if we had an accident on the drive over.”

“Just double-checking the premises.” Finding nothing further to remove, Lucky marched out. Their arrangement was for him to drive the rented van while the women transported personal and fragile items in their cars.

“I’ll return the keys to the manager,” Anya offered brightly, eager to escape.

Zora blocked the doorway. “We haven’t discussed your pregnancy.”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

“When did this happen?
How
did this happen?”

“New Year’s Eve, and in the usual way.” There—she’d answered the questions. Quickly, Anya added, “Not a word to anyone.”

“You can’t expect to hide it for long.”

“That’s not your problem. And I’m hungry. You shouldn’t make a pregnant woman go without food.”

Scowling, Zora went out. Still holding the African violet, Anya locked up and took both sets of keys to the manager.

I
should have held my tongue.
Well, Zora would have found out sooner or later. So would everybody else, Anya conceded. At least about her pregnancy. Not necessarily about the father.

As for Jack, she’d figure out a way to handle this promptly and efficiently. Unlike Zora, she didn’t plan to drag out the paper-signing until the bitter end.

Carefully, Anya wedged the plant into a cup holder in her front seat. Stroking its furry leaves quelled the nausea rising again in her stomach, just as Jack’s scent had soothed her earlier. Something about male pheromones and lime had a therapeutic effect on her morning sickness.

Wondering where she’d find the right spot for the little plant, she headed for her new home.

* * *

“I
T
WAS
THE
jasmine,” Zora said. “Or maybe the honeysuckle.”

“No, we had stuffy noses,” Anya corrected her as they stood in front of Karen’s house.

The two-story stucco home, freshly painted white with blue trim, glowed in the afternoon sunlight. Most of the other structures on Pelican Lane had been removed over the years, reportedly bought up and razed by supporters of the adjacent marsh. Isolation only added to the place’s dignified beauty.

Trellised roses and bougainvillea, along with other flowering plants, tumbled across the yard that wrapped from the front lawn to the back of the house. What a luxurious spot—if only it didn’t smell like rotten eggs. Maybe the perfumed flora or the lingering paint smell had disguised the stink a few weeks ago when they’d first considered Karen’s offer, but Anya would put her money on their head colds.

Beyond the house and off to their right, toward the Pacific, stretched a green and brown expanse where saltwater and freshwater met. In the estuary, birds nested, nature lovers in sturdy shoes hiked the dirt paths and coyotes prowled, while plants and mollusks decomposed. And reeked.

The African violet quivered in the breeze, as if in sympathy with the dying vegetation. Anya had decided to carry it inside immediately because harsh light through her windshield might damage it.

“Paula doesn’t like it here,” she told Zora.

“Who?”

Anya indicated the plant. “African violet’s proper name is Saintpaulia, after the German baron who took credit for discovering them in Tanzania.” She’d checked out the subject online.

“I’ll bet the natives didn’t think he discovered them,” Zora muttered.

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Anyway, why did you name your plant?” her friend asked.

“Because it has personality.”

“No, it just has memories of Jack. Speaking of which, does he know about this?”

“Oh, look. Here comes Lucky.” Anya wasn’t making that up. He’d parked the van in the gravel driveway, blocking the unpaved turnaround where they’d left their car. He had to take it back to the rental place tonight, so it would be gone before anyone needed to leave.

“We can unload your stuff later,” he called on approach. “Let’s eat.”

“Okay.” Anya fell into step alongside Zora, ignoring a skeptical expression from her friend that warned this conversation was only on hold.

Despite the foul smell, Anya hadn’t lost her appetite. Quite the contrary. Pregnancy had carried her to new realms of hunger.

As the wide front porch creaked beneath their feet, Karen opened the front door. Wearing a long woven skirt and top, she had a relaxed air. “The gang’s all here! Come on in.”

Anya wiped her shoes on the doormat before entering. Even so, she was glad they didn’t traipse through the living room, with its striped sofa and polished curio cabinet, or into the formal dining room. She’d hate to mess up the newly vacuumed carpets.

Instead, they veered left around the staircase and traversed the rumpled family room. Near a pair of sliding glass patio doors, a comfortably chipped table was set with a sandwich platter.

“Finally!” Melissa, dark blond hair loose around her shoulders, set down a fruit salad. “Karen and I almost started without you.”

Where to put Paula? Anya set the plant in an empty spot on the floor, away from the traffic pattern. “It’s only till I finish lunch,” she told it and went to wash her hands.

Then, taking a paper plate from a stack, Anya joined the others, grateful for the healthy selection of food. When she came up for air, she surveyed the circle of new housemates: tanned Lucky, devouring his second sandwich; Karen, blooming with good cheer now that she’d rented out all her rooms; Melissa, who’d piled her plate with fruit, and Zora, sitting as far from Lucky as possible.

It occurred to her that, in this house, she’d be progressing through the formative months of her baby’s gestational life. Instead of a family, she’d be relying for support on a group of people who were—except for Zora—casual acquaintances. How would they react when they learned of Anya’s pregnancy?

A longing to burrow into Jack’s arms and rely on his powerful paternal instincts twisted through her. He’d take care of her, wouldn’t he?
And then he’d assume he’s the boss of me. I’d be stuck raising a kid and trying to please a guy and chewing my fingernails to the quick like I used to.

No, she wouldn’t because Anya had a choice now, unlike when she’d been growing up. She’d been the fourth child in the family. Her sister Ruth, older by nine years, had been tired of helping supervise their twin brothers and, when Anya was born, had openly resented the newcomer. Anya had spent her toddler and preschool years tagging along after her parents as they worked in their feed store. Naturally, there’d been chores, from collecting chicken eggs in the morning to sweeping the floor after dinner, but they hadn’t been burdensome.

At age five, those relatively carefree years had ended when her mother had given birth to triplets. Although the older siblings occasionally babysat, everyone assumed that Anya would pitch in with diaper duty and clean-up. And as arthritis sapped her mother’s mobility, more and more of the care of her three little sisters fell to Anya.

Everyone had worked hard, so she hadn’t complained. Maybe she should have been more cantankerous, like Ruth, who’d argued a lot with their parents and married at nineteen. Or quicker to shrug off domestic duties, like her two brothers, although they
had
assisted Dad in the feed store. But, sensitive to the deepening lines on her father’s face and to her mother’s silent pain, Anya had carried on.

She’d expected the pressures to ease when she entered college and the triplets threw themselves into high-school activities. However, the family had figured Anya, as a nursing student, was the natural person to assist their increasingly disabled mother and to babysit Ruth’s growing brood when difficult pregnancies sidelined her. The few occasions when Anya had spoken up, her family had simply dismissed her complaints. The more she tried to distance herself, the bigger the guilt trips they laid on her.

Though there’d been sweet moments, too. When she received her nursing degree, the triplets—juniors in high school at the time—had thrown her a surprise party. It had been their version of the now-abandoned “capping” ceremony in which nurses used to receive their white caps. Because modern nurses don’t wear caps, the girls had bought an array of funny hats for the whole family to wear while they cut the cake and sang silly songs.

But as her career progressed, so did Anya’s desire for independence. She developed a passion for surgical nursing, and it was frustrating to be summoned home for one thing after another on top of the hours she put in doing her family’s housework and supervising her mom’s home medical care. The last straw was when Anya was forced to trade shifts for an “emergency” at home, losing a chance to assist at a major transplant operation. She’d arrived home to learn that the urgent situation was that her dad needed her brother to do stock inventory and so he couldn’t drive Molly to physical therapy.

Mom had apologized profusely, but it wasn’t her fault. The rest of the family had taken Anya for granted, refusing to change
their
schedules or recognize that Anya’s work was just as important as theirs. She’d realized they never would, and the only way to have her own life was to move away. In frustration, she’d signed up for a nursing registry and moved to California. Later, she’d learned of an opening at Safe Harbor and she’d leaped at the chance to apply.

Most of her family still didn’t understand why she’d left, although she’d explained herself frankly as recently as last Christmas. The holiday had been a miserable series of criticisms and nags for her to move back. Her mom, who might have intervened, had been under the weather while adjusting to new medication and hadn’t spoken up.