Love Child (3 page)

I
was moving
in with Abel Lockwood. For the next year and a half, I’d be living with a man I seemed to have a problem breathing around. When he’d caught me staring at his crotch at Love Child earlier today, I’d been mortified. But when I discovered that bulge wasn’t just the way the fabric of his pants bunched . . . I’d felt something else. Something that felt a lot like desire.

As if the attraction wasn’t bad enough, now I felt some kind of desire for the man who was about to put his child in my body.

Tomorrow night. It was all I could think about as I rode the elevator to the top floor of the building Abel lived in. After signing the contracts with the new terms our attorneys had drawn up, I’d agreed to start moving in tonight. I figured it would be easier to have a night to familiarize myself with my new home before I was expected to also familiarize myself with Abel Lockwood’s body.

He’d had a moving company come over to my apartment to pack up whatever I wanted to bring with me, but I hadn’t needed their help. My place was small, and I was planning to return to it once this was over, so I packed a couple of suitcases and was ready later that evening. Expecting to hail a cab to Abel’s, I found a car waiting for me instead. As I found out, the car and driver had been hired expressly for me and wherever I might need or want to go from now until my contract was fulfilled.

I tried not to feel thrown by it, but growing up on a farm with six sisters, I had been lucky to be able to borrow the farm truck to meet my friends for ice cream on a Friday night. Now here I was, a few years later in the big city of Chicago, and I had my own personal car and driver.

I wasn’t in small-town America anymore.

The elevator ride from the first floor to the seventy-fourth floor of Abel’s building went quickly, and before I had a chance to wonder what I’d gotten myself into, the copper doors chimed open.

Clutching my suitcases, I moved into the hall. There were only a few doors up here, and the one right in front of me bore the number Abel had told me was his. My home. For the next year and few months. What was waiting for me behind this door? Meaning and purpose as I’d envisioned? Or heartache and disappointment?

There was only one way to know for sure.

I knocked on the door and waited. I didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open.

A kind-faced older woman greeted me. “My, my. You are every bit as lovely as Mr. Lockwood said.” Stepping aside, she waved me in and took one of my suitcases. “I’m Helen, and I look after Mr. Lockwood’s affairs on the home front.”

I returned her smile, instantly feeling at ease. “I imagine that’s a big job.”

Helen set my suitcase down inside the entry. “He likes to make me think it is, but it’s as comfortable a job as a woman my age could hope to have. I mostly spend my time cleaning imaginary dust from pictures and freezing meals that one day Mr. Lockwood might get around to eating if he decides to slow down long enough for an actual meal.”

“He’s a busy man,” I said, just as much a question as it was a statement. I knew enough about Abel Lockwood to realize a man like him hadn’t gotten where he had by punching a timecard religiously at eight and five every day.

“Oh, love, emergency room doctors during a natural disaster are busy. Mr. Lockwood is something else entirely.” Taking my other suitcase, she set it beside the one on the floor. “I’m probably not supposed to say anything, but I’ve never been one for keeping my mouth shut.” She took my hands, beaming at me. “But I wanted to say thank you for what you’re doing for Mr. Lockwood. There’s no better man you’d hope to meet and no better father you could find to give this child to.” Her eyes welled as she gave a sniffle. “I’ve known Mr. Lockwood since he was in diapers, and if I could give that man a child myself, I would. Nature took care of that a couple of decades ago though.” She laughed, still holding my hands. “It’s an honor having you here. If you need anything—I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you’re looking for a bag of mini marshmallows—you just let me know. Okay?”

Helen relaxed me. Something about her smile or her candor made this whole situation seem that much less daunting.

“Okay,” I agreed. “And thank you.”

She winked, letting go of my hands. “Thank
you
.” She started making her way through the large living area, then she came to a stop like she’d just remembered something. “Please make yourself comfortable. This is your home now too. Don’t be shy about snooping around rooms or peeking in cupboards. The only secrets lurking within these walls are the ingredients in my plum pudding.”

Following her, I tried taking in the surroundings, but it was overwhelming. I’d seen places like this in travel magazines or in movies but never with my own two eyes. Never had I imagined living in a place as beautiful as this. It was like my own personal palace.

“I’ll be in the kitchen finishing dinner if you’d like to join me once it’s finished. It would be nice to have someone other than myself enjoy it when it’s hot.”

“Thank you,” I replied as I approached what I guessed was a picture of a teenage Abel with his family. They looked happy, the kind of happy that went deeper than their posed smiles. “Is Mr. Lockwood not usually home for dinner?”

“Not ever is more like it,” she said, shaking her head.

My eyebrows came together as I moved on to the next framed photo on the fireplace mantel. This one looked like Abel with his brothers. I’d read he had three brothers, but even if I hadn’t been aware of that, I could have guessed it from the photo. They all looked similar save for age and a couple inches of height.

“If Mr. Lockwood is so busy, what makes him think he’ll have time to raise a child?” I asked, more as a question to myself than one for Helen.

“That’s a question for Mr. Lockwood to answer, love. Not me.” Helen continued through the living room, rounding into a hall.

I followed her because even though she’d welcomed me to make myself at home, I wasn’t ready to kick my heels up and get comfortable yet. I caught up to her in the kitchen, checking what looked to be a roast in the big commercial-grade stove. Mama had always wanted one of those. Having to feed nine mouths three times a day kept my mama dreaming about big fancy stoves the way other women dreamed about big fancy diamonds.

“Mr. Lockwood requested that I get a list of your favorites foods and dishes to add to the grocery list and menu. If you wouldn’t mind getting that to me when you get a chance, that would be wonderful, Miss Matthews.” Helen touched the roast with the pad of her finger a few times before closing the stove and setting the timer for another half hour

“I’m not picky,” I said, touched that Abel had thought to consider me. “I grew up a farmer’s daughter—a farmer who’d known his fair share of droughts. I eat what’s put in front of me and am thankful for it.” I smiled as I thought back to some of the more creative meals Mama had whipped up for us when the pantry was in a dire shortage. When Helen lifted her eyebrow at me, obviously not believing I had no preferences, I gave in. “Okay, so I might not be the biggest fan of canned meat.”

She gave a good-natured chuckle as she started washing some fresh green beans. “The day you find canned meat in my kitchen is the day you check me into the nuthouse, you hear?”

Joining in with her laughter, I inspected the kitchen. It was gleaming it was so clean—obviously a place Helen took great pride in. It was large enough to be able to cater a party, but there were enough personal touches to make it intimate. It had been so long since I’d had the opportunity to cook a real meal. My apartment had come equipped with a bathroom but not a kitchen. All of my cooking over the past six months had included hot plates and microwaves.

“Do you mind if I give you a hand?” I asked.

Helen gave me a surprised look. “Be my guest. Aprons are in the middle drawer there.”

Sliding open the drawer she’d indicated, I grabbed the apron on the top of the folded pile then tied it over my dress. I still had on the pretty floral dress I’d worn to the meeting this morning, and since it was the nicest one I owned, I didn’t want to ruin it with a stain. I hoped Mr. Lockwood wouldn’t notice if I wore it several times a week, rotating through the small handful of dresses I had that didn’t look meant for the rag pile. Money had been tight as long as I’d lived, but that had never bothered me. We never lacked for love or attention growing up, and even now, living in the big city and having just signed a contract that would pay me an exorbitant amount of money, my dreams hadn’t changed any.

I’d always wanted to grow up and fall in love, get married, and raise a family of my own just like my mama had. My dreams were simple compared to other young women’s dreams of fame and glory, but they were mine. I wasn’t giving up on them, no matter how unlikely they ever seemed of coming true.

“Did you have anything planned for dessert?” I asked, shuffling through the cupboards and finding they were stocked better than the mini-mart back home.

“Mr. Lockwood doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, so I stopped making them. But this sugar lover wouldn’t object if you wanted to bring dessert back to the table.”

I always used to make the desserts back home, and almost every dessert I knew how to make by heart required the use of a stove. Now that I had one ten feet away, I wanted to use it.

After gathering my supplies from the cupboards, I claimed a patch of counter and got to work. Being in a kitchen again felt so good. Mixing dough, using my hands, sharing a laugh with someone. I knew that to most of the world, a woman finding happiness in the kitchen and fulfillment in her home was old-fashioned and outdated, but I didn’t let that bother me. I knew hard work, and I wasn’t afraid of it. The love and concern put into making a house a home was no smaller feat than earning a degree in molecular biology.

I’d just gotten my dough all rolled out and was ready to fold it into the pie plates when Helen and I heard sharp footsteps moving through the living room.

“My, my. Someone’s home early.” Helen was just plating the beans as she checked the clock on the wall above the sink. “I wonder if that has anything to do with you.”

When she winked at me, I felt heat fan my face. It sank deeper when I thought of the way he’d looked at me at the meeting—like he was holding himself back from what he wanted to do to me right there on the conference room table. What he’d be actually doing to me tomorrow night.

I had to brace my hand on the counter when that image flashed through my mind. Abel’s body stationed above mine, naked, his hips moving into mine in slow, purposeful motions.

“Miss Matthews,” a dark voice rolled into the kitchen, making my spine tingle.

Trying to wipe the image from my mind, I slowly turned around. “Mr. Lockwood.” I kept my hand braced against the counter because, oh dear lord, . . . that man. Somehow in the handful of hours since I’d seen him last, he’d grown even more attractive. Tall, built, dark hair, light eyes—he looked more fantasy than reality.

His piercing eyes roamed me, his strong jaw setting the longer he stared. “I’m only asking you to have my child, not to make my dinners—or anything else for that matter. I want you to enjoy yourself. To relax and take care of your body.” His gaze hovered around my stomach. I wondered if it was the apron catching his attention or what he imagined my stomach would look like pregnant with his child.

“This is what I do to enjoy myself. This is relaxing.” I motioned at the pie crust and my flour-covered hands.

“You like cooking?” His dark brow crooked higher, looking doubtful.

“I do.”

“Most of the women I’ve known despise it.”

My shoulders lifted as I reached for a towel to wipe off my hands. “Then I guess you’ve just met a rare one who holds a different opinion on the subject.”

Abel leaned into the doorway, studying me with an almost amused expression. Maybe it wasn’t amusement; maybe it was curiosity.

“Have you seen your room yet?”

My forehead creased.

“I thought you’d want to be the one to show her yourself, Mr. Lockwood,” Helen chimed in as she pulled the roast from the oven.

I’d completely forgotten she was there. Abel had a way of looking at me and making me feel like we were the only two people on the planet, let alone in the room.

“Good,” he said, tipping his head toward me. “I was hoping to surprise her myself.”

Dusting my hands off one final time, I followed him out of the kitchen, careful to keep a few feet between us. The closer I got to him, the harder it became to breathe.

“My room?” I asked as he led me into a long hall. His footsteps echoed off the walls—mine barely seemed to register. “I thought, given our arrangement, I’d be sharing yours.” When I peeked up to gauge his reaction, I found his jaw setting like he was restraining himself from saying or doing something.

“My thought,
especially
given the nature of our arrangement, was that you would like to have a space that was all your own.” It was probably the deep stretch of hall, but his voice sounded especially deep right then.

“Oh, yes. Of course,” I said when I realized this was his gentlemanly way of saying he didn’t want to snuggle every night. We’d have sex until I became pregnant, then we’d each retire to our private rooms. I guessed that did make the most sense—kept things simple . . . or simpler.

When Abel paused outside a closed door, I realized it a moment too late. I’d been busy studying the artwork adorning the walls and crashed right into him. His arm whipped out in a protective sort of way, almost like he was trying to keep me from falling or crashing into the wall. A minute later, his arm was still wound around me, his large hand pressed into the bend of my waist.

My chest moved faster from the feel of the strength of his touch, the power of his body against mine. I didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened or the way they were appraising me—almost like he wanted my body as badly as I wanted his.

Closing his eyes, he let out a slow breath, then he opened the door. “Your room,” he whispered, his arm releasing me.