Fat Girl (34 page)

As great a story teller as he is a writer, I’m captivated by the anecdotes and the lull of his deep voice. Even though I have him recorded, I know I won’t have any trouble remembering it all, right down to his inflections.

“Victor and Isabelle want a house full of children,” Mick tells me. “They had started trying to conceive when Dwayde came along. But given his issues then and how much attention he needed, they decided to hold off until he settled in. Now I suppose they’ll wait until after the custody case. But Mama T’s impatient for more grandchildren,” he says with a short laugh. “She was even on me about it.”

I swallow a little too loudly. “I’m sure having a family would have been difficult with your fame.”

“Yeah.” He nods, absently tracing the condensation on his glass. “I see the way the media treat the kids of celebrities. Following them around…I wouldn’t have wanted to subject a child to that. But,” he says, holding my eyes, “that’s not the reason I haven’t married or had kids.”

We’re wandering into dangerous territory. I turn off the recorder.

“The truth is, I never cared about another woman enough to pursue anything long term. How about you?” he asks. “Has there ever been another man you loved? Another man you wanted to have children with?”

His question steals the breath from my lungs. Definitely hazardous ground.

No. Never. Only you.
But fate threw me the cruelest of curveballs.
I twist the napkin on my lap. “I was busy with law school and then with building my career,” I hedge. “And now with my practice there hasn’t been time for much else.”

He blows out a breath. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved. When we were inquiring about a lawyer for Dwayde and Calista suggested a Deeana Chase, I almost fell out of my chair. What were the odds that there was another Deeana Chase who was a child advocate? When I confirmed that it was you, I was sure that I’d find you married with a couple of kids. If I had, it would have made me crazy. I’m a selfish bastard, Dee. You were supposed to be
my
wife. You were supposed to have
my
babies.”

In the silence that follows his speech, my heart feels as though it will burst out of my chest.

“Will you excuse me?” I say, grabbing my bag and slipping out of the booth in search of the ladies’ room.

I locate the single-stall restroom in the back. Inside, I brace my hands on the edge of the sink, hanging my head between my shoulders while my runaway emotions zigzag through my system like a pinball. I take deep breaths in an attempt to quiet them. But regret suffuses my chest, and a mournful sob escapes my lips.

I’m not sure how long I’m in here when Mick’s light tap startles me. “Dee?”

“Yes?”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“The storm’s moving in. We should hit the road.”

“Be right out.”

I look in the mirror at the grief and sadness soaked into my eyes. I’m still not over it. I still haven’t healed. The guilt and sorrow I thought I might have finally buried has all been resurrected. But I can’t let Mick see it. He’s smart…intuitive. He’ll start adding it up and come up with three. Me. Him. And a baby.

I splash cold water on my face and pat it dry with a paper towel. I add a little bronzer to offset the pale yellow of my skin and apply clear gloss to my lips. Then, fixing my low ponytail, I school my expression into a facade of composure and open the door.

Mick’s back at the booth waiting for me, which gives me another few seconds to solidify my calm.

“I’m ready,” I announce, avoiding Mick’s eyes, and stuff my phone into my bag. “I just need to settle up with Jo-Jo,” I say, looking around for her.

Mick climbs to his feet and hooks his jacket over his finger behind him. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

“But this was a business meeting,” I protest, because it seems more important now than ever to establish that firmly.

“Regardless. I wanted to and it’s done.”

There’s no point in arguing, I thank him for dinner and hurry toward the door, eager to get home to safety, sanity, and sleep. After I lavish the chef with praise and make a promise to return with Mick—a promise I can’t keep—Arturo and Jo-Jo send us off with hugs.

We exit the restaurant into a mob of angry clouds and a vicious stream of rain. The awning offers little protection from the cold wind. It bites through my suit and causes me to tremble.

“Here.” Mick drapes his jacket around my shoulders and rubs my arms. “I’ll bring the car right up to the door.”

I start to protest, but change my mind to avoid an argument and being delayed. When another blast of wind hits, I snuggle into the warmth of his jacket, breathing in his scent, allowing myself one final fix of Mick.

Moments later, he pulls up in his Porsche, jumps out, and comes around to open my door. I scramble inside out of the rain while Mick dashes back around to his side of the car.

He slicks the wet waves off his forehead before fiddling with one of the many buttons lighting up the complicated dashboard.

“It should warm up in a minute,” he says and carefully steers the car onto the country road.

I feel the heat begin to blow and listen to the news report.

Thunderstorms are expected to turn severe, with damaging wind gusts. Localized heavy rainfall could lead to some pockets of flash flooding.

“Dee?” He says my name without shifting his eyes off the road. Despite the rapid cadence of the wipers, visibility is severely hindered by a virtual wall of water.

“Yes?”

“What happened at the restaurant?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t do that.”

“What?” I ask retrieving the keys from out of my purse to give my nervous hands something to do.

“Pretend that you didn’t run off.”

“You were getting into some personal territory that I didn’t want to discuss.”

I hear his frustrated breath above the pummeling rain. But I tell myself,
I’m doing the right thing. It’s better this way for both of us. I can’t handle talking about the past. And he wouldn’t want to know this secret.

The rest of the thirty-minute drive is slow and quiet, unlike our drive here. We exchange just a few words and the atmosphere is strained. The rain has turned into a torrent, and the news continues pumping out warnings.

When the city lights appear, I break the stretch of silence. “Would you mind dropping me off at my office? That’s where I left my car.”

NO WAY IN HELL AM I letting Dee drive home in this.

The roads into Chicago were obliterated by a pool of water so deep that several times I thought my Porsche might hydroplane. The police have already closed down lanes too flooded to travel. No one in her right mind would set off for Brockville with the obvious danger—unless she thought the danger of staying was even greater.

“You can’t drive home in this, Dee.”

“I’ve driven in the rain before,” she says in a tone that tells me she’s going to dig in her heels.

“Look outside,” I urge her, striving for reason. “You heard the reports. This isn’t exactly the pitter-patter of rain. I live just up ahead in that green glass building. You can stay there until the storm blows over.”

“That probably won’t be until tomorrow.”

“Then you’ll go home tomorrow.”

The brakes labor as I pull up under the overhang at the front of my condo. The valet opens Dee’s side first, and she’s out of the door before I am.

“Mr. Peters, would you like your car parked?” He’s well trained to be discreet and isn’t about to mention the woman he just saw fleeing.

“Yes, thank you.” I’ll catch up with her better on foot.

As I chase after Dee, splattering through the puddles with the rain teeming down on me, Victor’s words come back to me.
Same old story, with Dee running and you chasing.
Haven’t you figured out by now that Dee doesn’t want to get caught?

“Dee!” I call when I’m nearly at her back. She doesn’t slow her stride. I don’t want to get physical, but damn it, she won’t stop. I grab her arm and spin her around to face me. “Where the hell are you going?”

“If you won’t take me to my car, I’ll get there by cab.” She struggles out of my grip and I let go, hoping like hell not to have to chase her again. But knowing if I have to, I will.

“You can’t actually be serious about driving home in a storm, even to spite me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she retorts. “I’m going to spend the night in my office. I have a couch.”

“You think I’m going to let you spend the night alone in a vacant office building?”

“Let me?” she repeats, her voice rising with indignation. “I’m a grown woman, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed.” My eyes rake over the suit plastered to her curves. “But I’m still not letting you go anywhere in this.” And to prove it, I pluck the keys from her fingers and pocket them.

In one breath she goes from annoyed to fuming. “I thought that I had seen some redeeming qualities in you tonight. But I was wrong. You are nothing but an arrogant, overbearing ass.”

“And you’re too bullheaded for your own good.”

“Go to hell!” she snarls.

“That may happen yet. But until the storm blows over, I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“Are you to add kidnapping to your list of crimes?”

My head snaps back as if I’ve taken an uppercut to the chin. “What crimes am I guilty of, Dee?”

“Forget it. Just give me back my keys.”

I’m still reeling from her accusation, but my chief concern is for Dee’s safety. I lost my mother in a car accident, and I wasn’t going to chance losing Dee. “You can have them back when the storm’s over.”

Angry, she stomps away, but at least it’s toward the building. When we reach the entrance, we’re both drenched and breathing hard.

“Mr. Peters,” the doorman greets me. “Thank goodness you made it back in time. The weather advisory is warning people off the roadways.”

Dee glares at me as if I’d scripted his line. I take her by the wrist and tug her onto the private elevator, out of earshot of the lobby staff.

We squish when we move, and our sodden clothes stick to our bodies. Dee must feel as miserable as I do. “I have dry clothes and an extra bed upstairs. You’re welcome to both for the night.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’d rather wait in a lobby in your wet clothes than come up to my place?”

“I’d rather have my keys back.”

I have no intention of complying, so I ignore that. “What exactly are you afraid is going to happen, Dee?”

“As if you have to ask.”

“Don’t imply that I’ve ever forced you to do anything against your will. I may have initiated what happened the other night in your kitchen, but you cooperated fully and enjoyed it as much as I did.”

“Not enough to make the same mistake twice.”

“More than enough. That’s what you’re afraid of. It’s not me you don’t trust. It’s yourself.”

The naked vulnerability in her wide amber eyes confirms the truth of my words. But I get no satisfaction from knowing I’m right.

“Look, Dee…” I take a step back. “It’s pointless to deny the chemistry that’s still between us. But I’m not going to use the storm as an excuse to lure you into bed. So why wait in the lobby sitting in wet clothes when you can come up and get into something dry? I promised you hands-off at the beginning of the evening, and it’s a promise I intend to keep.”