Two Weeks in Geneva: Book Two (3 page)

“Argh,” he practically screamed, would have but for the baby lying there momentarily distracted by a toy yet still showing signs of fatigue. He walked into the living room, the walls of the foyer suddenly pressing in on him as his anger reignited. Quinn trailed behind, but he flinched when she reached out to touch him, and as awful as it was to admit, he was happy at the sight of her face falling at his response. Her lips pursed as if she were about to speak, but no words emerged. Instead, she closed her mouth and settled on the couch, apparently having decided to wait for him. He turned away from her and began to prowl the small space, hoping the movement would release some of his restless energy. He didn’t know how long he paced, but when he barked out, “Why, Quinn? Why didn’t you tell me?” she jumped, appeared startled by the words that sliced the air.

She hesitated a moment, but then said, “I…tried. I mean, I called, but you never called back…and I just thought…”

He searched his memory, but had no recollection of a call from her. He’d missed her when she left, pined for her so much he’d thrown himself into his work in the months immediately after and could have easily missed an attempt to reach out. Ironic that the thing he’d relied on after she’d gone had kept him out of Ethan’s life. Still…

“One phone call?” He tried, and failed, to keep the edge out of his voice. “The fact that you were carrying my child only merited a single call. I can only imagine your efforts if it had been something important.”

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Alexander, I—”

“What? You’re sorry? You tried? Not good enough, Quinn. Not nearly good enough.”

He walked over and sat on the couch opposite her, not trusting himself to be close to her, not with the dual rage and ever-present attraction racing through him.

“Tell me everything.”

“Everything, huh? That’s a tall order.”

Apparently, Alexander was in no mood for jokes. “It is, but I want to know. Everything. We can even start small. How did you pick his name?”

Quinn sighed and bent down to scoop up Ethan, who lay on his play mat and drifted between sleep and awake.

“That was easy, believe it or not. Ethan was my dad’s middle name, and Alexander is obvious,” she said with a slight nod toward him.

“And his last name?” Alexander tried to keep his words light, unaccusing, but Quinn could hear the censure. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t have expected her to use his family name.

“Also obvious, and it would have been a dead giveaway of Ethan’s paternity to everyone at ARc-light and anyone else who cared to find out.”
Like you for example
, she left unsaid. She exhaled, the long breath lifting the hair resting on her forehead. “Look, Alexander, we’ll talk but bath and bed first, okay?”

They stood staring at each other for a long moment before he finally nodded and followed her upstairs. He paid rapt attention to the bedtime routine, tracking her every move and word but thankfully not pressing for deeper discussion. She was grateful for the break. Even having accepted that she needed to own up to her actions, she didn’t relish this upcoming conversation.

After Ethan was down, she and Alexander headed back to the kitchen, and the sudden rumble in her stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten at all today.

“Are you hungry?” she looked back at Alexander as she opened the refrigerator door. “I think my mom made stir-fry…” She trailed off at the sensation of Alexander’s hand atop her own, making her notice how close he was.

Her gaze flashed to his, and the emotions there were unreadable, save the pleading that she saw.

“Haven’t you stalled enough?” His were soft, earnest, more painful for it.

“I’m not stalling, Alexander. I’m hungry. I thought you might be, too. I hoped we could sit and talk like reasonable adults. I’m so sorry for that!”

Quinn hated that her increasingly shrill tone gave away the strain that had been crushing her, the strain that had finally take its toll, but it seemed to soften something in Alexander. Much to her surprise and relief, he relented and walked across the room and settled at the dining room table.

“Yes. I am hungry, so whatever you have to offer would be lovely.”

But the unsaid,
And hurry up about it
was loud and clear too, so she obliged. In minutes, she warmed some leftover beef stir-fry, boiled some minute rice, and fixed two large glasses of iced tea.

“You know,” she said as she prepared to take a sip of tea after a few bites of food, “this was the hardest part of being pregnant.”

“Tea?” he asked, his raised brows indicating his confusion.

“The lack thereof. And coffee, oh, don’t even get me started!”

That got a chuckle. “I know how much you love your coffee. So you couldn’t have any caffeine when you were pregnant?”

“Nope. Well, my doctor said I could
occasionally
have a
small
amount, but I’m no masochist. Why tempt myself? So I went cold turkey.”

“And?”

“And I wasn’t quite the raving, hormonal, caffeine-deprived monster that I’d anticipated. I still missed it, of course,
bad
, but after my first trimester, it was pretty manageable.”

“When did you find out?” he asked softly.

She put down her fork and pushed away her plate, appetite suddenly gone, but she slid the glass of tea closer, mostly so she’d have something to do with her hands.

“About a month and a half after I got back. I’d been feeling…poorly, not sick exactly, but tired, rundown, you know? But I didn’t think for a second that I…I mean, we’d been careful…”

“Not careful enough, apparently,” Alexander said with a humorless burst of laughter.

“Right. So one day I go to visit my mother, and she’s asks, ‘Do you have something you want to share?’ I had no idea what she was talking about, but she was insistent. ‘It’s okay, Quinn. You know I’d never judge you.’ I’m still clueless and racking my brain to figure out what the hell she’s talking about. And then she’s says, ‘Seriously, you don’t even know, do you?’ I tell her I don’t know anything, and she’s finally like, ‘Quinn, you’re pregnant.’

“Talk about the bottom dropping out. I denied it, tried to laugh it off, but she was adamant, said she knew what pregnant women looked like. I went to the doctor the next day and she confirmed it. I was about six weeks along.”

“Any question about the father?”

She looked up quickly, and he held her gaze, refused to look away.

“No,” she bit out, knowing that if in his shoes, it would be one of her first questions. Still, while she wasn’t outright angry, she was nonetheless irritated at the insinuation. “The father was never in doubt.”

“Then why didn’t you find me, Quinn?” he asked, pinning her with a harsh gaze and raking his fingers through his short hair, his facade cracking just a bit.

“Oh, I did. I called you that very same day, but you never called me back.”

“I told you I didn’t—”

“I know, Alexander, but weeks passed,” she said, the tears clogging her throat bleeding into her voice, “and by the time I’d decided to try again, I wondered. Maybe you were avoiding me, didn’t want to talk to me, had moved on. It wasn’t malicious. I swear.”

She looked up at him, hoping her eyes reflected the truth in her heart. “I never intended for this to happen, but somewhere along the way, I got the idea that I’d have to go it alone, so that’s what I did.”

It was all out, the simple, painful truth that Alexander had missed so much—that Ethan had missed so much—because she’d been a coward, had been unwilling to be persistent. Something snapped inside her, and she stood up abruptly. It took her a moment to realize that the sharp sob that rent the air had come from her. Not that she could have stopped it. The tears and sobs flowed freely, rushing from her as if a dam had been broken. And in a way it had, she supposed. She’d been overjoyed at the birth of her son, felt that love and joy grow each time she looked at him, but always, in the back of her mind, guilt had nagged at her, weighed her down. And to now look at the man she’d so wronged, confront what she’d done, it was too much.

“I’m—I’m sorry, Alexander,” she stuttered on a wail.

She started to sink down, literally collapsing under the weight of her guilt and grief. But before she could reach the floor, Alexander’s strong arms encircled her and pulled her close, pressing her against his warm, solid bulk. She rested against him shamelessly, pressed her face against his chest, trying to soak up his strength, trying to convey her regret.

He rubbed her back, softly mumbled what had to be words of comfort in French, and how long they stayed that way, she didn’t know. But her sobs and his quiet words created their own strange sort of music. Then finally, her tears slowed and her sobs stopped, but she was reluctant to pull away, equal parts comforted by the feel of a man’s—this man’s—arms around her and embarrassed by her display.

“Sorry. I’m used to people crying on me, not the other way around.”

He squeezed her tighter, and she felt his laughter rumble out and through his chest, shivering as the vibration flowed through her. Suddenly, she was acutely aware of the feel of him pressed against, her breasts molded against his chest, his arms notched in the curve of her waist as if they had been designed to fit there. This was close, too close, too much of a reminder of that time in Geneva, a time that, but for Ethan, she might have believed was just a very elaborate fantasy. She needed to pull away, couldn’t even begin to fathom the complication that having Alexander in her life would present. And she would pull away. Soon. Just a moment longer…

Alexander stepped back, breaking the spell, and Quinn jumped like she’d touched a hot stove.

“Ah, I must look a fright,” she said. After a quick glance at the clock, she noted the hour, far later than she’d realized, and as suddenly as the tears had hit her, fatigue set on with equal ferocity.

“I’m also beat. Where are you staying? I’ll take you to your hotel.”

Alexander looked at her, his brows raised slightly but his expression not giving anything away otherwise.

Finally, after a moment, he said, “I’m staying here.”

Quinn thought—hoped—she’d misheard him, but one look confirmed that he had indeed said he was staying here.

In her house.

With her.

That couldn’t happen for a variety of reasons that seemed obvious. At least to her anyway. Another glance at Alexander and Quinn knew he was determined. Still, she couldn’t just fold on this. Resolved, she turned to face him fully, steeling herself against what she knew would be his ultimate rejection of her attempt at all-out persuasion.

“No. You can’t stay here, Alexander. No. I won’t allow it.”

“Seriously, this is a terrible idea,” she said an hour later as she finished making up the futon that also served as the guest bed that she’d set up in her home office. He remained infuriatingly quiet, as he had during each of her attempts to explain why his staying just wasn’t possible. He’d rebuffed her excuses—correction, explanations—like he was swatting away flies, and he reminded her so much of the man she’d first met in Geneva.

At some point, much to her disgust, she hadn’t had the will to keep up the fight, so she’d finally acquiesced, while making it clear that he’d be in the guest room. It seemed an unnecessary stipulation. Alexander hadn’t expressed even a hint of interest, not that she could blame him given the circumstances, but saying the words out loud had felt essential. Hell, maybe she just needed to remind herself, and her sex-starved body, that he was off-limits.

“And don’t look so smug about it,” she said with a mutinous eye roll as she walked over to the closet. “Here are some sweats that should fit.”

“I don’t want to wear some other man’s clothes, Quinn,” he said gruffly, the first he’d spoken for a long while.

She looked back at him and sighed, suspecting she knew the source of this hesitation. “The clothes aren’t Joe’s, Alexander.” The slight relaxation of his tense jaw proved she’d hit the mark. “And for your information, Joe and I have not previously, are not now, and will not in the future be anything more than friends.”

She reached into the closet and pulled out the shirt and pants that she’d, not that she’d admit it to him, treasured and worn religiously, especially during her pregnancy. Then, after Ethan had been born, she’d decided she needed to move on, or at least stop actively wearing his clothes as a first step in moving on, so she’d tucked them in the closet, still unwilling to throw them away completely.

“Look familiar?” she asked as she handed the bundled clothing over and was rewarded with one of his few genuine smiles of the day that hadn’t been directed at Ethan.

“I wondered where those went. Glad to see you couldn’t bear to part with them,” he said with the smile still on his face and now in his voice.

She returned the smile and stuck out her tongue, laughing at his exhaled chuckle as she walked past him and toward the door. But before she could leave, his hand on her arm stilled her.