The Scandal and Carter O'Neill (13 page)

Her baby slept under her hand, and Carter slept beside her, facedown in a pile of pillows. She forced herself not to look at him, not to push the hair out of his face so she could see his lips. Count his eyelashes.

She closed her burning eyes and swore under her breath.

Last night had opened up some hidden chamber of want, of craving. And it was all focused on Carter.

Her mother’s voice rang in her head—“You’re a single mother and this is no time to fall in love.”

Once again, her mom was right. Right man. Wrong time.

So, it was time for this particular mistake to end.

Quietly, carefully, she slipped out from under the silky gray comforter and tried as hard as she could not to notice other details of his bedroom. Like the painting over his bed; moonlight on water, a lonely boat in the foreground.

She could tell herself to stop caring, but it was too late. Because when she saw that painting she thought of Carter, so alone. Everywhere she looked, she saw parts of Carter that made him more endearing to her.

Last night, when Carter’s control had snapped, something had snapped in her, too, and she needed to get away from him, get back to her home, her pig mugs and yoga pants. Real life.

Every Cinderella night had an expiry date, and she’d hit hers.

The white-faced alarm clock on the dresser said that it was 7 a.m., and if she didn’t go now, he’d be awake and they’d make love again. Or worse, they’d talk, and he’d already pushed her to all her crumbling, unsafe edges.

In the living room, her dress was a scarlet puddle in the middle of the shiny mahogany floors and she shimmied into it, looking for her underwear. Under her bare feet it felt as though the wood carried the remnants of the heat between them, as if scorch marks might mar the surface.

The need to leave became urgent. She felt shaky, barely in control. She’d leave her underwear; the glitter of a barrette under the couch barely distracted her.

She scooped up her shoes and purse, and after a moment’s consideration, she grabbed Carter’s dress shirt and threw it on over her dress.

She felt so naked, so ridiculous in an evening gown on a Sunday morning.

Her hand just touched the solid brass knob when a knock thundered against the door.

“Uncle Carter!” A girl’s voice screamed from the hallway.

Uncle Carter? Zoe mouthed, dread a hundred-pound weight in her stomach.

“Open up!” The girl’s voice accompanied another barrage of knocks.

This is bad, Zoe thought, backing away from the door until she ran into something warm. Hard.

Carter.

“CRAP,” SHE WHISPERED and winced, unable to turn around. He had to know what she was doing, sneaking out with the dawn. Like a coward.

Or worse.

“Are you okay?” his dark voice rumbled. His breath rustled her hair and her skin nearly purred.

She nodded, her throat closed tight against the thousand things she wanted to say.

He was quiet, his chest rising and falling behind her, and finally she worked up the nerve to face him. It was Carter all right, but changed somehow. That control that had crumbled last night was back in place, but slightly different. Weak in places.

And she could see all too clearly, that her attempt at sneaking off hurt him.

“I’m sorry, Carter,” she breathed in a quick rush. “I…just need to go home. This…last night…”

“Of course,” he agreed, without really agreeing. Such a politician, she thought.

He picked up his underwear and pants from the floor and tugged them on, each motion succinct and restrained. He didn’t say a word but she could feel the disappointment rolling off him.

“I can’t care about you, Carter,” she whispered, and his motions stilled for the barest moment, a hesitation so quick she would have missed it if she hadn’t been staring at him so hard.

She willed him to understand how fragile her heart was, how complicated her life would become.

“Carter!” the little girl yelled again. “Open the door!”

“My niece,” he said with a smile that nearly broke her heart. “I’d tell you to leave out the back door, but I don’t have one.” He put his hand to the door. “You’ll just have to tough this out.”

“Carter!” she squealed. “Don’t—”

But then the door was open and a nine-year-old girl, a cyclone, her long red hair in stiff braids down her back, was hurling herself against Carter’s legs, and he was laughing, stroking her head and trying to keep his balance.

He picked her up, gave her a funny shake.

It was Carter as she’d never seen him. Never guessed he could be.

Her baby kicked, hard, and Zoe took it as a warning. If she stayed, she’d be in trouble—her little boat, barely afloat on the sea of things she could feel for this man, would capsize and she’d drown in unwanted emotion.

She turned, ready to make her escape before having to explain what she was doing in Uncle Carter’s house, in his shirt and no underwear.

And she nearly ran right into a blond woman who looked so much like Carter and so much like the woman he’d said was his mother that she could only be one person.

“Hi!” the woman said, her twinkling, knowing eyes missing no detail about Zoe’s barely zipped dress and Carter’s bare chest. “I’m Savannah,” she said, holding out her hand. “That’s my daughter, Katie.”

“Zoe,” Zoe managed to stammer past the huge boulder of embarrassment lodged in her throat. Savannah wore a clingy blue top that revealed the very small swell of a pregnant belly. Or too big a lunch, it was hard to say. “Madison.”

“Are you a friend of Uncle Carter’s?” The redheaded cyclone asked, wedged against Carter’s side. “Because we brought Thanksgiving.” She looked up at her uncle with hero worship pouring from her eyes. “Mom said you’d never remember that Thanksgiving’s on Thursday so we needed to bring you some food so you wouldn’t starve because all the restaurants will be closed and you’re far too important to come home for the holiday.”

“She said all that, did she?” Carter grumbled.

“Please, stay,” Savannah said to Zoe. “We’ve got plenty of food.”

“Zoe was leaving,” Carter said, his voice so cold it blew frost across her skin, but Savannah shot him an acidic look.

The baby kicked again, a wicked one-two combination, and Zoe put her hand under her belly in comfort.

A move Savannah did not miss and Zoe knew that under the white dress shirt, Savannah saw that she was pregnant. Her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open.

“You,” she breathed to Carter, “have some explaining to do.” Savannah looked like an angry teacher about to give one hell of a lecture that Zoe wanted no part of.

“The baby isn’t his,” Zoe said.

Savannah’s eyes narrowed even farther. “Is it your husband’s?”

Zoe stared dumbstruck and Carter laughed. “She’s not married, Savannah. You can retract the fangs. And there’s no need for you to pretend to be a prude. Zoe’s an adult. I’m an adult. And she was leaving.”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Zoe grumbled, glaring at him.

“Am I wrong?” he asked, one of those fine eyebrows arching, making him look like some unforgiving ruler. “You weren’t sneaking out of here without saying goodbye?”

Mortified to be having this conversation in front of a kid and Carter’s sister, Zoe glanced sideways at Savannah, who held up her hands. “We’ll be in the kitchen. And for what it’s worth—I hope you stay.” She laughed and shook her head before picking up two big totes that wafted delicious smells and hustling her daughter through a far doorway. “I mean I really hope you stay,” she yelled over her shoulder.

And then they were gone and it was only Carter watching her, unreadable as ever. Bright sunlight flooded the room and illuminated every dark corner, making it impossible for her to ignore all those things she didn’t want to see. The pieces of him on display. Photographs on the wall of a trio of blond kids and an older woman around a giant cypress. Books in a book shelf—the man liked Mark Twain.

The running shoes, slumped by the door, an iPod tucked into them.

She wanted to close her eyes and clamp her hands over her ears, but she couldn’t. She’d gotten herself here and now it was time to get herself out.

“I’m going to have a baby,” she whispered.

Carter’s lips curled. “I know.”

She took a deep breath and put it all on the line. “It’s one thing to have a one-night stand—I can handle that. But if we keep going like this—dates and sex and meeting your family—it’s going to hurt when you leave.”

“Who said I was leaving?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe you’ll leave. You already seem halfway out the door.”

“Don’t be obtuse.”

“Then don’t be a coward.”

She glared at him, and he ran his hands through his hair, putting it all on end. It was adorable.

She glared harder.

Her mother’s words came back to her, all her warnings about being a single mother, about the perils of following one’s heart instead of one’s head.

Only pain, her mother always said, is guaranteed.

“Look, Zoe,” he breathed, dropping his arms to his side and looking somehow deflated. “Last night…I didn’t bring you here and make love to you lightly. I knew what I was doing. Now my sister’s here and she’s brought food, and I’ll bet it’s sugar pie—which you will love. You can stay, see what happens, or you can go.” He shrugged as if all of this was no big deal, and it made her feel totally unreasonable. Foolish, for thinking they were walking into a disaster. But they had to be. Honestly, how else could this end?

She was a pregnant dance teacher without insurance, and he was probably going to be mayor by the end of next year.

“I would like you to stay,” he said, leaving her speechless and weak. All those reasons why making love to him was a mistake, why staying here with him was a catastrophe—were so far away. She couldn’t remember them so well anymore.

Carter turned, walking across the room toward the bright kitchen with the yummy smells and the sound of a kid laughing. Here in his house. She never expected it, would never have guessed this kind of scene could take place in this house. It was like finding caramel under rock—a sweet surprise where she never dreamed it would be.

And if she left, what else would she miss?

Besides sugar pie, which frankly sounded worth staying for.

But this man, this beautiful man with the filthy mind and the broken control and the niece like a fire-cracker—what other secrets would he show her, if she stayed? If she had the courage to stay?

Stay or go? she thought.

Head or heart?

She rubbed her fingers over the taut lines of her belly, felt the kick and flutter of the baby under her fingers.

She did not want to put her baby in the strange prison Zoe’s mother had put her in.

Just the two of them. Forever.

And maybe there was no guarantee with Carter, but when had she ever needed one? She’d gone into dance knowing that one misstep, one injury, might end her career. There was never a guarantee with any man she ever dated—did she think there was going to be one now? Was she never going to date again, unless the man had some kind of feelings-back guarantee?

Her decision to be a single mom had been the riskiest thing she’d ever taken on and she’d done that knowing what she was getting into.

There were no guarantees. In life. Love. She knew that. It was what she liked about life. What she loved about it.

Zoe’s stomach growled and the baby kicked and the decision was made.

She followed him into the kitchen.

CARTER WAS HAVING an out-of-body experience; it was the only explanation. His pregnant sister and his pregnant…Zoe were talking about Bonne Terre, his family home, like it was Tara before the war.

“It sounds beautiful,” Zoe whispered, her eyes alight. Of course she would love Bonne Terre, the mystery and romance of it. What he remembered of it was being left there by a mother who didn’t love him enough to stay.

“It’s falling down,” Carter said. “She’s not telling you that part.”

“No, Carter, if you ever came home you’d know we’re fixing it up. It’s beautiful now. Again.”

He glanced sideways at Katie while he and his niece unloaded mountains of Thanksgiving Day food. Turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce. Two sugar pies.

“It’s nice,” Katie said, nodding enthusiastically. “After Matt fell through the floor in the foyer, they fixed up everything.”

He heard Zoe laugh behind him and his whole body smiled.

“Did you already have Thanksgiving?” he asked Katie, wondering where all this food had come from.

“Mom’s practicing,” Katie said. “Matt’s dad, Joel, is coming and she wants everything to be perfect. Also, Mom likes eating piles of stuffing.”

“She eating a lot?” Carter asked, watching his sister and Zoe out of the corner of his eye. How was this moment even possible? It was odd enough having his sister here, but Savannah and Zoe sat there as if they’d known each other their whole lives.

Maybe it was a woman thing.

Or maybe it was the magic of Zoe.

“Tyler says she’s eating for four,” Katie whispered, “but he only says that when she’s not around.”

“Ty’s no dummy,” Carter said, and was suddenly overwhelmed by how much he missed his family. The longing to see his brother was so sharp he braced himself against the counter. Ty, who made life seem so easy, who practically glittered when he walked.

The last time they’d all been together, Ty had told Carter to stop protecting them from their mother, that they were adults and he could cut the protective big brother act.

Ty had said it like it should be easy. Like Carter’s whole life wasn’t sewn up in the act.

“Carter?” Zoe asked from across the room, and he blinked back the ridiculous tears. “You okay?” she asked, and he wondered how she knew—what sixth sense she had about him that warned her when he was running low on control.

Savannah watched it all with hope written all over her face. Hope that he would fall in love, not be so lonely—it was written in big block letters right across her forehead.

Suddenly he wasn’t sure if having Zoe here was a good idea. It was one thing to have her in his life here, in Baton Rouge, but it was another thing to involve her with his family. He kept those parts of his life separate for so long and she wouldn’t understand that. Zoe would blur the lines and make a mess of the rules he lived by.

“Carter?” It was Savannah this time, her voice sharp, and he realized he was being rude.

“Sorry. I’m hungry. How about you?”

She nodded, her smile cautious but happy, and he started making plates for all of them, happy to have something to do.

“Uncle Carter?” Katie whispered.

“What?” he whispered back, loading a plate into the microwave.

“Is she your girlfriend?”

Carter glanced back at his niece and her bright eyes and then past her to where Zoe sat at the table.

Last night had been amazing—there was no doubt about it. But they were both still surrounded by hard shells of secrets.

“I don’t know,” he said. For now. But when he told her the truth about lying in court, would she still want to be with him? And when, and if, she told him about the father of the baby—maybe there was something in that story that would change the way he felt about her. Though he couldn’t imagine what that could be.

“Have you asked her?” Katie asked.

“You think I should?” he asked.

Katie shrugged, the nine-year-old sage. “It’s a big move, Uncle Carter. A big move.”

You don’t know the half of it, he thought. He picked his niece up and gave her a squeeze before throwing her over his shoulder and walking with her and two full plates of food over to the table.