She's Having a Baby (8 page)

Dakota pretended to be contrite. “Sorry.” And then her face lit up again as she continued her quest for more information. “So how did you find out that Wiley Labs is running low on funding?”

“He mentioned it.”

Dakota frowned slightly. She wasn't accustomed to having to resort to pulling teeth in order to get information out of MacKenzie. Ordinarily, MacKenzie talked nonstop with no encouragement. She couldn't help wondering if this new side to MacKenzie was somehow the result of her pregnancy.

“Just like that? He knocks on your door, says ‘Hey, I'd like to borrow a cup of sugar, unless you've got some extra funding in your pantry, and then I'd like that, instead.'”

MacKenzie blew out a breath, feeling irritated and feeling guilty to boot that she was. “No, he said it over dinner—”

Dakota jumped on the word just as MacKenzie knew she would. “Dinner? You went out to dinner with him?”

“Just over to Aggie's place.”

“Aggie.” Another new name. Dakota knew it might seem a tad unreasonable, but she wasn't accustomed to being a stranger in her best friend's life. “MacKenzie,
have you been leading a secret life since I got married? You used to tell me when you lost a button on your blouse, now I had to ask all sorts of questions to find out that you're pregnant.”

MacKenzie hadn't meant to distance herself from Dakota. She truly loved her like the sister she'd always prayed for when she was younger. It was just that, with this new direction her life had suddenly taken, everything was on its ear. The sight of sunrise even irritated her.

She knew she was being unreasonable. Dakota was just trying to help. MacKenzie knew she could count on her. That was why she'd approached the woman with this to begin with.

MacKenzie offered her best friend an apologetic smile.

“Okay, I'll start printing a daily news bulletin about my life, but could we get back to the question, please?”

“Sure.” Dakota leaned forward, all ears and interest. “So, what's he like, this new neighbor with the needy laboratories?”

“My question, not yours,” MacKenzie emphasized. Then, to make amends, she tossed Dakota a bone. “He's cute in a dark, brooding sort of way.”

“Oh, an antihero.”

It was as good a description as any, MacKenzie thought. She talked quickly before Dakota could get another question in.

“I told him that you were a wizard when it came to putting together a fund-raiser and that maybe you could help. Otherwise, the program he's working on might wind up being cut.”

“Can't have that.” Dakota saw the exasperated look making a reappearance on MacKenzie's face. “I'm serious.” Off the top of her head, she knew there were no islands of time readily available to her, but she could always make one. That was one of the things she was good at, one of the things her mother had taught her how to do. “Okay, give me the particulars—who, what, when,” she clarified. “I'll see what I can do.”

MacKenzie realized that she'd put the cart before the horse. These were all things she should have found out before coming to Dakota. But, she had a feeling that Quade might not have gone to his employer to get the information until he had a firm commitment from Dakota that she was onboard.

“I don't have them yet,” MacKenzie admitted.

Dakota took the information in stride. “Then go back and get them.” She picked up the pad again, placing it on her lap. “It'll give you an excuse to knock on his door.”

Thank God she hadn't said anything about last night's kiss, MacKenzie thought. Dakota was going to town on next to nothing. If MacKenzie had said something about kissing him, Dakota would be out there picking out party favors for the wedding reception. “I don't need an excuse.”

Amusement rose in Dakota's eyes. “Oh, it's that kind of relationship.”

MacKenzie sighed deeply, feeling as if she'd run this track before. “It isn't any kind of relationship.”

Tossing the pad aside a second time, Dakota rose to her feet and took hold of her friend's shoulders, looking her squarely in the eye.

“Zee, if it wasn't any kind of relationship, you wouldn't be sporting that very interesting pink color on your cheeks.”

MacKenzie shrugged off her hold. “That's just because it's hot in here.”

“It's the same temperature it's always been.” And then Dakota suddenly looked at the cameo around MacKenzie's neck. And smiled. “When did he move in?”

“Tuesday,” MacKenzie told her. Dakota was grinning broadly, as if she'd just landed the guest of the year on her show. “What?”

Dakota ran her fingertip along the outline of the cameo. “Tuesday,” she echoed. “That was the day after I gave you the necklace.”

That didn't mean anything, MacKenzie thought, refusing to believe that the legend was remotely true. “I also met Aggie that day.”

Dakota cocked her head, curious. “And just what is an Aggie?”

MacKenzie remembered Aggie's comment about wanting five minutes on Dakota's show. She might as well lay the groundwork for that, too, MacKenzie thought. “Aggie is a seventy-two year old woman who has decided to change careers and become a stand-up comedian.”

The very idea fired Dakota's imagination. She loved stories like this. “Now her I'd like to meet–” she looked at MacKenzie pointedly “—too.”

MacKenzie deliberately ignored the
too
. “That can be arranged.”

“Great. Now, get me the name of the head of Wiley
Labs and I'll see what we can do to keep your guy working.”

MacKenzie tried again, although she knew it was close to hopeless. Once Dakota had made up her mind, dynamite couldn't dislodge it. “He's not my guy, Dakota.”

“Whatever you say.” Dakota sat down again, picking up the pad for the third time. “Now if I don't finish going over these notes I made for myself, we're not going to have a show today.”

Giving MacKenzie another wide grin, coupled with a high sign, Dakota went back to studying her notes.

MacKenzie withdrew from the dressing room, an entire houseboat of mixed feelings bobbing and weaving through the choppy waters of her soul.

F
or perhaps the first time in a long time, MacKenzie became aware of how fast-paced her life was. Maybe it was because right now, because of the baby, she felt as if she were moving in slow motion and had gotten sucked in by the whirling hurricane that was her career.

Since things had stepped up, she didn't get a chance to reconnect with Quade until Saturday morning. In a way, that was all to the good because she needed a little time to realign her thinking and her emotions. She wanted no repeat performances, spontaneous or not, of what had happened between their two doors the other night.

With an eye out to May sweeps, she'd had to put in extra hours trying to line up special guests for Dakota. This while attending the endless staff meetings that populated each day. Staff meetings where a great deal
of talking occurred, but very little progress and next to no resolution.

As far as MacKenzie was concerned, she was in the greatest business in the world, but there were times when being part of that world really wore her out. Especially when she faced the beginning of each day feeling as if she had all the untapped energy of an overcooked strand of spaghetti.

Still, she did manage to get over to Quade's door a total of two times in the latter half of the week. Both times she'd rang the bell, there'd been no answer. A belated glance toward his parking space showed her that his car was missing, as well. Quade was either putting in even worse killer hours than she was, or he was out there, familiarizing himself with the city's nightlife.

Given what she'd seen of his personality, MacKenzie figured it was more likely the former than the latter.

And then on Saturday, after Dakota had called her on the phone to ask yet again if she'd gotten a chance to speak to “the hunk next door” about the particulars behind the needed fund-raiser, MacKenzie ventured out of her apartment to try again.

As she did so, it occurred to her that she hadn't seen Aggie around lately, either. She wondered what the woman was up to and decided that if she had the energy, maybe she'd drop in on her later.

She glanced to see if Quade's car was in the carport. The vintage automobile sat quietly in the spot beside her cherry-red Mustang.

Okay, so unless he'd taken the subway somewhere,
he should be home. Marching up to his door, she rang the bell.

There was no answer.

MacKenzie looked at her watch. It was well past nine o'clock. Most people, other than graveyard security guards, didn't sleep in past that time on a Saturday. For working people, Saturday represented the one day that they could try to cram all the errands and responsibilities that piled up during the other five. Sundays were pretty much for recuperating.

MacKenzie tried again, leaning a little on the bell this time. There was still no answer.

The third time, she resorted to knocking. Hard. Though he didn't seem the type, she thought that maybe he
was
still in bed and needed to be summarily roused. Knocking got her nowhere. Short of pounding a doubled-up fist on the surface, she'd made as much noise as she was capable of making.

She wondered if anything was wrong and decided that perhaps her “delicate” condition had made her a little paranoid. He was probably just a sound sleeper. A very sound sleeper.

Giving up, she turned away. About to return to her own apartment, MacKenzie heard the door opening behind her. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Quade standing in the doorway. He wore a paint-splattered work shirt, equally christened jeans and held a roller in the hand that wasn't on the doorknob.

There was something very rugged and earthy-looking about him.

She squelched the thought, telling herself she was re
acting like a dieter to a hot fudge sundae. She refused to entertain any other explanation for the sudden, light-headed feeling that was undulating through her.

Her brows drew together as she looked at the roller again. “You're painting.”

He found the bemused, slightly confused expression on her face oddly appealing. “What was your first clue?”

She ignored the sarcastic tone in his voice. She hadn't come here to wrestle verbally with him.

Wrestling might be fun, a small voice in the recesses of her mind whispered.

She wondered if hallucinations were part of first-time pregnancies.

MacKenzie nodded at the roller he was holding. “Isn't management supposed to do that for you when you first move in?”

“The old tenant moved out Saturday. I needed a place in a hurry because I was starting my job and had to have somewhere to stay. Management offered to paint the apartment after I moved in, but I didn't want to come home to find strangers crawling around my place.”

No, she thought, he wouldn't have. “Privacy issues, huh?”

“No ‘issues.'” He thoroughly disliked that word. Something was a problem or it wasn't.
Issues
was a word to describe magazines, like the latest issue of
People
or
Time
. But mentioning that would probably embroil him in some kind of long, convoluted debate he had no intention of getting into. So he merely said, “I'm just not keen on strangers.”

Was it her imagination, or was he looking at her pointedly for some reason? Paranoia again, she decided.

Moving past Quade, she peered into the living room. It was half yellow, half soft blue, the same color on his paint roller.

MacKenzie nodded her approval. “Nice choice,” she told him.

Still standing by the door, he shifted from one foot to the other, impatient to get back to what he was doing. Impatient to have her gone. Any way he looked at it, she was a distraction.

“Thanks. Look,” he said, opening the door farther, a silent invitation, “I'm kind of busy right now—”

This man was not in the running for host of the year, she thought, amused as she turned back to face him. “I came to tell you that Dakota needs to know the particulars.”

“Particulars?” He had no idea what she was talking about, or who for that matter. Was this some vague reference to some kind of news story she'd heard about one of the Dakota states? He hadn't a clue and, frankly, he was in no mood to play games. He had only the space of today to finish painting his apartment. Tomorrow was reserved for the lab. Until the money ran out, people in his department were pulling double shifts.

Looking at him, MacKenzie realized that he was drawing a complete blank. The man had too much on his mind, she decided.

“Regarding the fund-raiser. We talked about it,” she reminded him, enunciating the words slowly so that they could register. But there was no light of recogni
tion coming into his eyes. She gave him another hint. “At Aggie's table when she had us there for dinner the other night.” His expression didn't change. She blew out a breath. The paint fumes had obviously gotten to his brain, blotting out the part that was reserved for short-term memory. “You said that Wiley Labs was underfunded and—”

Now he remembered who Dakota was. It wasn't a place, it was a person. The woman MacKenzie had said she worked for. And then he looked at her in surprise. “You actually asked her?”

“I said I would.” And then her smile faded a little. Had she misread signals? “Why—didn't you want me to?”

He hadn't had any thoughts about it one way or another. He's just assumed that it was one of those throwaway lines, like “We'll talk,” and “Let's do lunch.” He hadn't actually expected her to follow through.

The idea of a fund-raiser definitely had its merits. It might actually buy Wiley Labs some time, provided that it was successful. “No, I'm just surprised that she'd actually be willing to help.”

He sounded so distant, so disengaged from the world that existed around her. She suddenly felt sorry for him. “Why? Don't people help each other in the world you live in?”

Because he felt like an idiot walking around with a roller in his hand, Quade walked inside his apartment and retired it to the tray he'd been using. It still held a generous amount of light blue paint in it.

“Yes, but usually for a reason.” In his experience,
most people didn't do anything unless there was something in it for them.

MacKenzie came to Dakota's defense. “Well, Dakota has a reason. She likes to help. Dakota has always been easily the most generous soul I've ever known. She grew up in show business, where people were always running off to do something for charity when they weren't collecting together talent to fly overseas and entertain the troops stationed in various foreign countries. It's what she does,” she explained.

MacKenzie looked around. He hadn't gotten around to opening any more boxes than the one she'd seen him tackling at the beginning of the week. The remaining boxes were clustered around the existing furniture. Everything was pulled together into the center of the room like members of a wagon train circling in anticipation of a hostile attack. From the looks of it, he had a great deal of work ahead of him. Paint-wise, only the kitchen was done.

“Got an extra roller or brush?” she asked suddenly.

He'd bought two. He liked being prepared just in case something went wrong with one. “Yes,” he admitted slowly, eyeing her. “Why?”

“I'm with the local hardware store and I'm taking inventory for them,” she quipped. “Why do you think? To help you paint.”

He frowned. “I don't remember asking.”

“Good, because if you did, you'd be hallucinating.” Rather than wait for him to produce it, MacKenzie looked around and spotted the extra roller, still wrapped in plastic, lying on the kitchen table. Pleased with her
self, she took off her jacket and placed it on the back of a chair. She rolled up her sleeves before going over to the roller and ripping off the plastic.

He felt as if he'd just been invaded. “There's no need for you to do that,” Quade told her as he followed her into the kitchen.

“Trust me, there is. After doing nothing but thinking all week, I really need to do something physical to help me balance it all out. You'd be doing me a favor.”

He couldn't figure out if she was being serious or not. All he knew was that she was wearing a sweater that nearly matched the walls he was painting. The garment caressed her curves and drew his eye to the low neckline. He would really be better off if she weren't here, distracting him.

“I sincerely doubt that,” he told her, placing his hand on the roller and ready to take it out of her hand.

Except that she was holding on.

He saw amusement enter her eyes. “Why do you make it so hard for people to be nice to you?”

“Maybe it's because I don't want to owe anyone.”

Or form bonds, because bonds broke. And when they did, it hurt too much. It was better his way. If you moved through life in a solitary fashion, you didn't expect anything. No expectations, no disappointments. It was as simple as that.

Or so he thought.

But apparently she had other thoughts on the matter. With a snap of her wrist, she pulled the roller out of his hand.

“There's no charge, no tab. I'll owe you, okay?”

His eyes swept over her. “You'll get paint on your clothes.”

MacKenzie looked down for his benefit. “These were going into the rag bin soon anyway. They might as well accomplish something useful before they go.”

He blew out a breath. “Have an answer for everything, don't you?”

“In my line of work, it helps to be able to cover your back at all times.”

Resigned to having her help him, at least for a little while, Quade popped the lid off the can of paint he'd been using and poured a little more into the tray. He took her words at face value. “This Dakota, she a hard task-master?”

“Dakota?” she echoed incredulously. Nothing could have been further from the truth. “Dakota Delaney is the sweetest, most generous person in the whole world. I was talking about management.”

She waited for him to set the paint container aside. The second he was finished pouring paint into the tray, she immersed her roller, moving it around until the last shred of pink disappeared beneath an ocean of light blue.

MacKenzie carefully removed the excess before applying the roller to the wall. “Since I'm shorter than you, I'll take the bottom of the walls. You take the top.”

The division of labor sat well with him. There was no way he would have allowed her to climb up on the ladder he'd borrowed from the super. “You give orders like a general.”

MacKenzie laughed as she selected a section of wall and got started. “Hey, Napoleon was approximately my height.”

She was right, she thought as she spread with growing gusto the color along the wall. It
did
feel good to do something with her hands, to let her mind drift, emptied of strategy meetings and schedules.

Needing more paint, she crossed back to the tray and dipped her roller in. She glanced toward him. Quade was using a pole extension, his strokes reaching all the way up almost to the ceiling. For a second, she watched him move. He was graceful, she thought and wondered if he knew that. Probably not. He didn't strike her as someone who paid much attention to himself, only to the details of whatever he was doing.

She thought of what he'd just said. “Was that your polite way of saying I'm bossy?”

“Just an observation.” Looking in her direction, he saw that MacKenzie had stopped painting and was looking at him. Now what? He raised his brow in a silent query directed at her. Missing the peace and quiet that had been here only minutes ago.

“You can smile,” she said.

“What?”

“Just now, when I asked you if you were saying that I was bossy, I saw a glimmer of a smile on your lips.” She grinned, doing something very odd, very unsettling to his stomach. “Nice,” she pronounced.

Impatience clawed at him. Trouble was, he wasn't exactly sure just what it was that he was being impatient about. The work was getting done, perhaps even
faster than he'd anticipated. And he had nowhere else to be, nothing else to accomplish today. So why did he feel like a man about to miss his train connection, the last one out for that day?