The Heart Doctor and the Baby (10 page)

“Isn't Cherie going to handle that?”

“She's taking a weekend cruise with her latest boyfriend.” If he was supposed to look sad, he didn't—irritated, yes. “Besides, if I'm paying for these dresses, I want to have some input in what they look like, you know?”

“That's only fair.” She smiled at what his taste might be. “Things might get intense if you suggest a turtleneck and the girls insist on showing some cleavage.”

He nodded, then got quiet and stared at his plate. “I can't figure out where the time went. I still remember bouncing them, one on each knee, and coloring with them.” He glanced at her and smiled, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “They used to beg me to color with them, and
I thought I'd hate it, but you know what? I loved getting down on the floor with them beside me, getting to smell their hair, and see their sweet faces so close while they concentrated. Amanda always smelled like apple juice, and Lacy used to lick her lips over and over in deep concentration while she scribbled her crayon all over the paper. I worried she'd chap her lips. Silly, huh?” He glanced beyond her shoulder at somewhere very distant from the dining table.

Her throat throbbed. “Not silly at all,” she said, as the all-too-frequent tears gathered, clouding her vision. Jon moved toward her, placed his hand on her cheek and thumbed away the overspill.

“In case you're wondering what kind of mother you'll make, I'm here to tell you you'll be fantastic.”

She tried to look at him, but was too embarrassed about her leakage and quickly glanced back at her plate. She'd done nothing but cry around him lately, and it had to stop. He removed his hand, and she was sorry, missed the feel of his nearness and warm fingers.

“You're a natural, René. Trust me on that. You'll do fine.”

She'd made her bed, now she had to lie in it. What had seemed like the perfect solution for her situation had brought a flood of surprises. She loved sharing a meal with Jon, loved having him around, but he wasn't a part of her life. He couldn't be. He saw his daughters growing and leaving home, and she would never ask him to give up his newfound freedom or travel plans to start all over again as a father. His bitter divorce hadn't helped his attitude toward trusting women, either. What would he think if she changed the rules midgame? Wasn't that exactly what his wife had done? No. She couldn't disrupt his life any more than Cherie already had.

He'd given her a wonderful gift, and she couldn't abuse his trust.

“Can I ask you a favor?” he said.

Surprised out of her thoughts, she nodded. “Of course.”

“Will you come with me on Saturday to help the girls pick out their dresses? You know, as my backup in case they do go for that cleavage look.”

“I'd love to.”

The room grew thick with longing, and he must have sensed it.

“I'd better get started if I'm going to slap on the rest of the primer tonight. I'll lay down the daisy yellow tomorrow night, if you're going to be around.”

“I'll give you a key in case I get called in for a delivery. One of my patients is very close to her due date.”

He glanced at her stomach, then into her eyes. “Pregnancy becomes you.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, thinking that the smudge of paint on his cheek became him, too. Lately, his appeal had grown to such proportions that it would be hard to think of anything she wouldn't find endearing about him.

 

Amanda watched with interest as René smoothed the pale apricot silk skirt, and adjusted the finely beaded spaghetti straps of her dress.

Jon sat unnoticed in the lone chair in the changing room, as each daughter took turns modeling their choices. He'd nixed several of the racier cuts and flashy styles, but this classic look suited Amanda perfectly.

As preplanned with René, he lifted his brows twice in approval.

“Some strappy silver shoes and long dangly earrings, maybe a matching pendant, as long as it doesn't compete
with the beads on the bodice, and you've got yourself a look,” René said, as if a fashion guru.

Amanda's shoulders relaxed and she twirled one last time for Jon.

“I like it. How much is it,” he said.

René furrowed her brow. “You said money was no object.”

“Yeah,” Lacy chimed in, drifting closer to René in solidarity, knowing full well how much he'd already laid out for her dress.

He'd talked Lacy out of a cross between gothic and chic with the excuse that black was not a summer color. She'd settled on a sea-blue halter dress with a plunging back instead of front. René had promised to do her hair and loan her the perfect necklace and earrings. Now, it was Amanda's turn.

“Okay,” he said. “We'll take it.”

Amanda flashed him a sweetly pleased glance and he smiled at her. “You look beautiful. Both of you. I can't believe my little girls have grown up.”

“Aw, Dad, can we skip the sob story just this once?” Lacy said.

He laughed, and noticed a look of admiration on René's face. She blinked when she caught on he was watching her.

“Let's get you out of this dress, Amanda, before he changes his mind!” She scooted his oldest daughter back into the changing room as Lacy snuggled on his lap.

“Dad, I really like René. I wish you could find someone like her.”

“I'm not looking for anyone, kitten, you know that.”

“So you say. Still, I worry about you being all alone, especially when I move to Hawaii.”

“Worry all you want, but I'm counting down the days until I'll be a free man again.”

Lacy giggled and lightly cuffed his chest. “Not. So not.”

Okay, she knew him through and through, and though he professed to want to be a free man again, the thought of his daughters being on opposite ends of the States nearly made him break into a sweat. He'd deal with it when needed. Not today. Not when he'd just seen two of the prettiest young ladies in Santa Barbara buy their favorite dresses.

“It's so exciting how René's going to have a baby on her own.”

“Don't go getting any ideas, young lady.”

“Of course not! I've got plans.”

Amanda and René stepped out of the dressing room, Amanda draping the dress over her arm. “We're ready.”

Lacy sprung from Jon's lap and grabbed the hanger with her gown and, as she passed René, stopped. “If you ever need it, I'd love to babysit for you.”

“That would be great, Lacy. I'll definitely take you up on that offer.”

“If I weren't going away to school, I'd offer, too,” Amanda parroted the sentiment.

His girls never offered to do anything they didn't want to. René, with little effort, had managed to make a big impression on them. But what was surprising about that?

Twenty-six weeks' gestation, late August

Normally, August was a hot, dry month, and the third week of the partner-coached birth class was right on the money temperature wise. The sight of René answering the door in a long brown-with-white-batik-pattern sundress, a motif that looked suspiciously like a Rorschach test, had Jon reading sexual images into the design before she could
even say hello. He kept his primal reaction to himself, and purposely locked eyes with her to help him do it.

This more voluptuous version of René, including protruding stomach, was a sexy sight to behold. It charged the positive and negative energy between them, heating to a simmer his new and constant companion whenever he was around her—lust.

He'd taken notice of the change at work more times than he'd care to count, batted the wicked thoughts out of his head and did his best to think nonsexual thoughts about her. Most days he'd lost the battle. And this extracurricular activity with his “coworker,” the woman he'd insisted to help with delivery since he felt responsible for her in a twisted pact-with-the-devil sort of way, proved to be his undoing.

Damn. This coaching business was far harder than he ever imagined. It required getting up close and personal. He'd gritted his teeth through the first two classes, being forced to be near René, yet keep his boundaries. Each week seemed to get worse, drove him to his limits, which seemed far closer than he ever imagined.

Some guys took cold showers; Jon jogged. Lately, he'd jogged so much to keep his mind off of her that he'd lost a few pounds.

Tonight, she'd worn her hair up in a ponytail and the sight of a few loose strands of hair on her delicate neck nearly made him salivate.

It didn't help a bit when the older female instructor kept referring to him as the husband of Dr. Munroe. René had piped in with “birth coach” on the first night, but it didn't seem to register and after the second class they just let it slide. He'd slant her a sideways glance and roll his eyes and pretend it was such a pain to be mislabeled, then
she'd smile and blush, and the misunderstanding was all worth it.

He wished he knew what she was thinking. Was she as sorry as he that they'd taken the greatest invention on earth—sex—and turned it into a science project between friends? That they'd scrolled over the best part and had gone right to the big finale, missing all the fun?

Oh, wait. Those would be
his
thoughts.

The instructor was droning on, and he needed to pay attention, if he was going to be any help at all to René.

He understood the “sleep imitation” stage and “sleep-breathing” technique necessary in early labor. In class, he'd helped René practice, helped her focus inside, and he liked how it gave him an excuse to study her up close. In the medical clinic, he used to sneak peeks at her once in a while when they worked closely together, but had never let himself indulge in her beauty for long. She was totally out of his league.

He liked how her bottom lip curled ever so slightly, and that hint of a cleft on her chin. He'd admired her single dimple for years, but she always concentrated in class, and rarely smiled.

Tonight, her breathing was barely noticeable, and the instructor had the partners sit behind and place their hands on their diaphragms. This required taking her between his thighs and snuggling with her, a position of torture complete with heavenly scents and a serious desire to nuzzle his nose in her hair. His fingers splayed ever so slightly as she practiced sleep-imitation breathing. Okay, it was a cheap shot, but he enjoyed the view of her cleavage from the over-the-shoulder angle, and wondered if she sensed his pulse speed up.

Tonight, the instructor had sent them home with a
specific assignment, but he didn't know how to carry it out, unless…

For friends who'd never had to search for conversation, the ride home was painfully quiet. He worried René had picked up on his ramped-up sexual attraction to her, didn't want to make her uncomfortable by it. But my God, even if she wore bottles for glasses, she couldn't miss it.

“How am I supposed to observe you sleeping?” he said, when they reached her front porch.

She laughed softly. “Maybe I can video tape myself?” She opened the door. “You want to come in for some herbal iced tea?”

Why stop the torture here? He wouldn't pass up the opportunity to spend more time with her, even though he thought herbal iced tea was a vile waste of perfectly good water. “Yeah, please. I'm parched from all that practice.”

A second bubble-smooth laugh rolled from her tongue; it landed on him and set off yet another reaction. The innocent sound started on his skin, raising the hair, then reached inside and tightened his muscles, the exact opposite of what they'd learned to do in class tonight. But stiffening up was his only defense to keep from mauling her. He was at the edge of his restraint, dangling on the end of the rope, wondering how long he could possibly hold on. Why in the world had he gotten himself involved? Oh, yeah, he'd offered, because he couldn't stand to see her unhappy. Sap. Hopelessly aroused sap.

She looked beautiful. He wanted to touch her, the same way he got to in class tonight when the instructor had them lightly massage each body area that needed to relax for the “letting go” exercise. He swallowed the dry knot in his throat, and instead of touching, he followed her into the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, safely across the room.

She moved fluidly about the kitchen in that damn sexy sundress. It swayed and folded around her hips, and before he knew it, he'd lost control of his tongue.

“You know what my favorite part of the class was?”

She tossed him an inquisitive over-the-shoulder glance as she got down two tall glasses.

“The letting-go exercise,” he said, not caring that his voice had slipped into husky mode.

There'd been a lot of slipping and sliding into a new direction over the past three weeks with René. He'd seen her skin prickle at his touch, heard her soft breaths of relaxation and had the pleasure of sitting close like a real life-partner for two straight hours each week. He hadn't set out to let this intimate shift happen, but it had, and he didn't have a clue how to deal with it. It went against every natural instinct he'd ever had. Don't get involved with business associates. Don't ruin a perfectly good friendship. Never sign contracts and agree to donate sperm!

He'd spent almost a month of Wednesdays with her being called her husband, and knowing she carried a part of him inside her. As wrong as he knew it was, the term had started to feel right.

They'd practiced the birthing techniques to help her relax, which involved constant yet gentle touching. Her soft skin beneath his fingertips had felt like nirvana and nearly had been too much to bear. He couldn't shut off the quiet roar of desire building and cresting even now, and for the first time he dropped the shield, and didn't bother to stop himself.

As she poured tea into the glasses, he moved toward her and, from behind, placed his hands lightly on her arms. Halfheartedly, he quelled the urge to nuzzle her neck with his mouth. His lips hovered licking distance away and he
inhaled the same faint scent of strawberry-mango skin cream as he had in class.