His Baby (19 page)

He really was Lark's father.

It was a relief to know absolutely, to be completely sure. Susan
was certainly sure. Diana could check if she wanted, talk to Jay Peters' mama
herself, but Diana knew, intuitively and completely, that Susan wasn't lying. This
was the truth.

The certainty stunned her.

Hours later, when Zack had settled down in the kitchen, a
sleepy Lark next to him in her chair, coffee and a slice of apple pie in front
of him, he listened to her tell the story. He didn't seem stunned. His reaction
was a smile, then a sigh.

"I'm glad to know for sure," he said quietly. "But
it wouldn't have made any difference, Diana. Lark is my baby. You’re her mother.
I want you to be my wife. We're a family. I can't wait until we can clean up
all the loose ends and be together."

"Is it really that simple for you?" Diana played
with the fork at her place setting and then put it down. She didn't feel like
eating the pie, although it looked good.

"It's really that simple for me. I love you. I love
Lark." Zack was looking at her with his usual intensity. His eyes were
bright and alive, his cheeks lightly stained with a flush of color. She wanted
to reach out and touch his cheeks, feel that smoothly shaven cheek. He must
have stopped at his apartment and shaved. Suddenly his words penetrated into
her brain.

You love me?
"You never said it before," Diana
said in a small voice.

"Of course I did," he said, shrugging her
statement off. He took another bite of pie.

"You said you loved Lark, but you never said you loved
me."

"Of course I did," he said, chasing his pie with a
sip of coffee.

"No, Zack White, you didn't," Diana said firmly,
leaning back and then reaching for her own coffee cup. She held the mug lightly
in her hands, aware of the coffee's heat and aroma.

"Well, gracious, how can I do penance then?" he
said, quirking an eyebrow. He leaned back too, one arm extended along the table.

"You do love me?" she asked him again,
as if,
she thought,
he would give a different answer this time.

"I do. I have for a long time."

"When did you know?"

"That first time I kissed you? Remember?" She saw
his eyes darken with the memory.

"I remember." She did, she remembered the kiss,
the blossoming heat and yearning and the pain when he spoke Robin's name in the
midst of their passionate embrace.

"After we broke it off, I went outside and stood on the
porch and told myself it couldn't be possible. I couldn't love you. You could
never love me back. I was crazy to even think it was possible. But heaven help
me, I knew then that I loved you."

"That was too soon," Diana protested, trying to
justify pulling away. Now it seemed silly. But she had been afraid. She had
thought it was wrong.

"Maybe. But I loved you then and I vowed I would give
you every chance I could, give myself every chance I could to make you love me.
But I still don't know if you love me, you know."

"I do," Diana said softly.

"Say it," he demanded. "Say the words." He
leaned forward.

"I love you, Zack," she said. She felt new heat
arise in her core, felt the beginning of a passion she had learned from her
feelings for him.

"When did you know?" he demanded.

"I don't know exactly," she said, pushing away the
urge to lie, to make something up. "I kept telling myself I couldn't
possibly love you. It wasn't right. I could want you, but I couldn't love you
and I couldn't do anything about wanting you."

"You wanted me?" Zack asked. Now he leaned forward
and reached out to touch her hand, lying next to the forgotten fork. She felt
his touch with her whole body, felt the feeling race through her nerves and
blood vessels and bones.

She just nodded. "That's what it is, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

She took a breath, then tried to find the words to tell him.
"This craving for you, the desire to have you touch me, kiss me. The
desire to do whatever I have to be around you. To keep you around me."

"Yes," he said shakily, "that's what it
is."

"I thought so," she said, but kept her attention
on his finger, tracing one of her knuckles as if he were memorizing the shape
it, the feel of her hand.

"You've been in love before, haven't you?" he
asked gently.

She shook her head. "Not really. Not like this. I can
tell you all about it someday, if you want."

"I don't need to know, but I'll listen to anything you
want to tell me. All I care about is how you feel about me now. Because all
that matters to me is how you and I are together. The rest is just
history." He turned her hand over with both of his, then began to touch
the lines of her palm, reading her past, creating her future.

"You see, that's my problem," she said, trying to
stay focused on what she had to say. She wanted to capture his hand, bring it
to her mouth, kiss it. "I couldn't let Robin be history. I had to keep
bringing her back, making her the problem, no, the reason we couldn't be
together."

"Maybe Robin is the reason we're together."

"But I thought you hurt Robin, don't you understand
that?"

"Of course, sweetheart. As soon as I knew she never
told anyone about calling off the wedding, I figured you must hate me. All of
you must hate me. Carl said he was angry. Very angry and that's what drove him
to track me down."

"We can't second guess what happened. We can't. I've
been doing that and we'll drive ourselves crazy. We'll drive ourselves
apart."

"I don't want to be apart from you," he said. He
pulled gently on her hand and stood up. She stood up then, facing him, inches
apart, achingly aware of him. "Leaving on Sunday nights was getting harder
and harder. We can't do this much longer." He looked down and sighed. "But
I understand, you have to do what you can for your boss."

"No, actually, after lunch I realized it wasn't up to
me to make things all better for him. Imagine that, me, the original savior. I'm
not going to save my boss. He'll do fine. There's one woman in the office who
would be perfect, but she's younger and in some ways she's kinder than I am. She'll
make him be the tough guy."

She looked down too and saw that he was aroused, very
aroused. She wanted to press herself against him.

"Are you the tough guy now?" Zack asked. She
looked up at his face.

No,
she thought,
I'm not tough, I'm melting
. "Yes.
At least in the office. It's kept people away from me. Kept me away from
people, who might have wanted to be my friends, I don't know."

"I don't know either, Diana," he said slowly, then
he stepped closer and enfolded her in his arms, pressed her against him, bent
his head and kissed her gently. When she kissed him back, urgently tasting him,
sliding the tip of her tongue boldly between his lips, he made a sound deep in
his throat, a guttural sound that she felt vibrating in her core.

She wanted only to kiss him, to explore his lips and face
and to feel his strong hands on her back, her neck, holding her head, to slide
her hands around him, pulling his shirt out of his khakis, working for the
first touch of his warm, smooth skin underneath. Sliding her hands along his
back, she felt triumphant when he pulled back and stared at her.

"Take Lark upstairs and put her to bed," he
ordered, his voice husky, "and then let's go to bed ourselves."

"To bed?" she asked in a small voice. She couldn't
quite manage the surge of anxiety. He would have to know, now.

"Together. I'm not going to my apartment tonight."

"But don't you think we should wait until we get
married?" she asked, stalling even though she didn't want to.

"We should, but I don't want to. I want you now, I want
to make you mine. I want to make you so happy you'll never dream again of
pushing me away."

"I don't want to push you away any more," she
said.

"Good," he said, then stepped back a little and
slid his hand up, touching the side of her breast for a moment before he
reached between the two of them to unbutton her shirt. He traced the lacy edge
of her bra, slid a finger along the curve of her breast and then pressed his
palm against her, gently rubbing the hard nipple against it. She felt the shock
of feeling all the way to her pelvis. "Do you like that?" he asked
softly, whispering the words into her ear. She felt a tingle of reaction to the
soft breath.

"I like that. I like everything you do. But I'm afraid,
Zack. What if I don't do the right thing?" she stepped back another step,
feeling herself tremble.

"What do you mean?" he said. He dropped his hand
against her waist, steadying her.

"I've never gone all the way before," she said
shyly, then felt even more shy. What a stupid way to say it!

"Trust me. I'll take you all the way, darling," he
said, his voice impossibly rough.

"What if I do the wrong thing?" she protested.

"Just touch me. Kiss me. Hold me. Let me love
you." She stared at him then, trying to read his face, seeing only love. After
a few breaths she put her hand over his and moved it gently back where it had
been. She pressed herself into his palm, unable to suppress a gasp when he
began to move his hand again. She closed her eyes, the better to feel him, she
thought wildly. She opened her eyes when he pulled his hand away. He took a
ragged breath.

"Okay, then
I'll
put Lark to bed. You go get
into your bed and I'll be right there."

"I have to clean up down here," she said, glancing
around at the dishes, the coffee pot.

He swatted her gently on her bottom. "Go upstairs,
Diana.," he said firmly. "I'll be right behind you. I'll clean up
later or in the morning. Doing dishes isn't your job."

"It's not?" she asked, smiling a little.

"Pleasing me is your job, and raising Lark and our
other babies. That's it. That's all I expect from you."

"I see," she said. She resisted the urge to argue
with him. She felt heavy-limbed with desire for him, languid, willing to obey
him when he was being quite bossy. But his bossiness was only telling her to do
what she wanted to do.

 She had slipped her nightgown over her head and felt it
settle, cool against her heated skin, when he came up behind her in the
bathroom. He slipped his hands around her waist, then moved up along her body
until they cupped her breasts. He pressed himself against her, molding his body
to hers, raining kisses along her neck and shoulder. She lost herself in the
sensations, barely protesting when he moved one hand down, along her belly, and
pressed it lower, until he reached the apex of her thighs and slid his finger
against her wetness, apparent even through the soft flannel. He moved away from
her then and stripped the nightgown off and turned her around to face him.

She felt shy suddenly, completely naked and vulnerable to
him. He was still dressed, although not his dapper self with that shirttail
out. He still had his shoes on. She reached over to unbutton his shirt but he
grabbed her hand and led her out of the room into the bedroom, stopping at the
foot of the bed to gather her up, pressing his mouth along her neck and her
collarbone and then kissing her breasts.

She felt her knees wobble then, and leaned back for the bed.
He broke away and watched her sit down, unbuttoning his shirt, undoing his
belt, unsnapping and unzipping his khakis. He paused then, kicking off one shoe
then the other. He stripped off his shirt, his pants, and muttered, "damn
the socks". She saw him naked then, naked and fully aroused. He started to
move forward but she issued an order of her own.

"Take off your socks," she said, watching him
avidly, drinking in the sight of him as he struggled out of one sock. He was
magnificent, lean and muscled and very well built, she thought, wasn't that the
right term? She reached to touch him, then, shocked at the hardness of him
under silky skin, tracing the shape with one finger. He groaned and pressed her
down on the bed.

"You can't do that yet," he said, putting his hand
on her. She wanted to protest, had protested for years when boys tried to touch
her, but he wasn't a boy and he wasn't asking permission, he was touching her,
stroking her, making her wild with desire, making her press up harder against
him. He was kissing her breasts, nuzzling and sucking them, making her arch off
the bed, producing breathless noises in her throat until she knew she was
crying out, but couldn't stop.

She felt waves of fulfillment, felt herself spiral out of
control, heard him talking to her, coaxing her, yielding to the touch of him,
the feel of him pressed against her, lost herself in pure feeling, pure
sensation, pure satisfaction.

For a moment, she didn't want to open her eyes, but she did.
He was studying her, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, shifting his body
to cover hers.

"I hope this doesn't hurt, darling," he said as he
moved her thighs gently, then poised, he slid himself home inside her,
sheathing himself slowly, steadily, inexorably, past a moment's resistance, a
sharp, quick pain that was lost in the overwhelming sense of union she felt
with him. She opened her eyes wide, connected with him and found him looking at
her, waiting for something, for that feeling arising in her. She knew it
because as soon as she felt it, it must have shown in her eyes, he moved and
she was lost again. Lost in pure sensation, lost in an urgent need to feel him,
to move, to find a new pleasure and a new urgency in another move, another
moment, another thrust. She felt herself building again, ready to explode with
feeling and saw he was there with her.

"Yes, Zack," she said, not knowing why she was
saying it, exactly, just that he was there and she was there and they both knew
it. She held him gently as he shuddered above her and inside her, felt a rising
sense of something inexplicable but wonderful. He collapsed against her,
pressing his face against her neck but she welcomed the sweet weight of him,
stroked his damp back and murmured something in her throat, something she
couldn't identify herself.