Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Epilogue

Copyright

He Wasn’t Wearing A
Wedding Ring.

And, Jasmine noted, a spark of interest had flared in his dark green eyes that not only hadn’t undressed her with lascivious speculation, but hadn’t even looked below her chin, except to determine her name, which put him on a pedestal as far as she was concerned.

She considered the other candidates she’d met over the past six months, each of them flawed in some way. Potential Donor 1, who she’d decided wasn’t tall enough; Donor 2, whose ears were too large; Donor 3, whose eyes were too brooding; Donor 4, who wore turtlenecks all the time—what had he been hiding?

Jasmine recognized the alleged flaws for the excuse they were—to avoid making her plan a reality. But now there was Patrick, who was tall enough, had great ears, smiling eyes and a strong, suntanned neck.

He was perfect. Perhaps too perfect?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Silhouette Desire, where you can discover the answers to all your romantic questions. Such as…

Q. What would you think if you discovered the man you love has a secret identity—as a movie star?

A. That’s what happens to the heroine of August’s MAN OF THE MONTH, Don’t Fence Me In by award-winning writer Kathleen Korbel.

Q. What would you do if you were pregnant, in labor and snowbound with a sexy—but panicked—stranger?

A. Discover the answer in Father on the Brink, the conclusion to Elizabeth Bevarly’s FROM HERE TO PATERNITY series.

Q. Suppose you had to have a marriage of convenience?

A. Maybe you’d behave like the heroine in Barbara McMahon’s Bride of a Thousand Days.

Q. How could you talk a man into fathering your child…no strings attached?

A. Learn how in Susan Crosby’s Baby Fever!

Q. Would you ever marry a stranger?

A. You might, if he was the hero of Sara Orwig’s The Bride’s Choice.

Q. What does it take to lasso a sexy cowboy?

A. Find out in Shawna Delacorte’s Cowboy Dreaming. Silhouette Desire.. .where all your questions are answered and your romantic dreams can come true. Until next month, happy reading!

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Silhouette Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Baby Fever
Susan Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SUSAN CROSBY

is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows in her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.

She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven and a half years getting through college, and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory, and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camel! Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels.

Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.

For Christine Rimmer, who is everything I admire—

talented, generous, kind, intelligent and humble. Thanks

for making the journey so much fun.

And for my wonderful editor, Melissa Jeglinski,

who wanted Patrick to have his own story.

He thanks you and so do I.

Prologue

Six thousand dollars.

The words echoed in Jasmine LeClerc’s head as she pushed open the door and exited the quiet, sterile building. She descended a short flight of stairs, her legs trembling so much she had to prop herself against the discreet sign at the bottom step—Bay City Clinic, Specializing In Reproductive And Fertility Disorders.

She closed her eyes. The numbers seemed to flash in neon in front of her. Six thousand dollars.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened, mentally tugging her dignity into place. She was stronger than this. Tougher. She had to be. Cost couldn’t defeat her purpose. Not now. Not after she had come so far and had so little time remaining on her accelerating biological clock. The only viable eggs she had left were probably in wheelchairs by now, waiting to slide down a fallopian tube and on into oblivion.

She could picture them lined up at the starting gate. “Been here long?” October’s egg would ask, and November’s would answer, “Oh, yeah. Long time. Nigh on forty years now.”

The image made her smile, her first of the day. She started walking, the mindless activity helping her focus on facts instead of emotion. The infertility counselor had said that each attempt to be artificially inseminated would cost six thousand dollars and had less than a thirty-three percent success rate.

Those weren’t the numbers she’d wanted to hear.

She did some mental calculations. Her savings account could handle a couple of tries, but giving up that much money to buy herself a pregnancy meant she’d have to go back to work right after the baby was born, and she wanted to share those first precious months with her child. Plus, she really hoped to work only one job instead of the two she’d been juggling for the past seven years.

Then again, none of that mattered if neither attempt was successful.

There was another solution to her problem, of course. Her stomach knotted at the thought. She tried to block the image, but reality insisted she look at it honestly—she had to find an oblivious human donor to father her child.

She used Lamaze techniques to combat her queasy stomach, focusing on breathing patterns to relax. She was known for her honesty—brutally honest, most people called her. What she was considering required more than simple deceit. It meant outright lies. Could she actually go through with it? Could she pretend something she didn’t feel? She wished she could talk to someone about it, but she didn’t dare take even her sister into her confidence.

Bonk.

Something hit the backs of her knees, making her stumble a couple of steps. She caught herself before she fell, then turned around.

“Jason Alexander O’Connor. How many times have I told you not to throw that ball at people?” a woman yelled, exasperation layering each word.

Jasmine picked up the offending big blue rubber ball and smiled at the little boy with the soulful brown eyes. His mother, pushing a stroller, swooped down on him.

“That’s the last time we take the ball with us.” She touched Jasmine’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right, ma’am?”

Jasmine winced. Ma’am. Another reminder of her middle age. “Yes, I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all.” Crouching, she passed the ball to the boy, then shifted her glance to the stroller and the pink-bonneted baby who lay contentedly within, staring in fascination at her own tiny fists. “You have beautiful children.”

“Well, one’s for sale, cheap,” the harried young woman said, eyeing her son. The boy turned a brilliant smile on his mother, apparently accustomed to the threat, as her mouth twitched against an answering grin. “Put the ball in the stroller, Jason, and let’s go home.”

Jasmine watched them walk away, the strings of her heart stretching to their limits. She shoved all concerns about dishonesty aside.

The end would justify the means, she told herself, coming to a decision. She wanted—needed—a baby. But first, she needed a man.

He had to be in good health, of course, and intelligent. And fertile. It would be nice if he were attractive and kind—she hadn’t made love in seven years, so some tenderness and physical appeal would help settle her nerves. And he definitely had to be temporary. No dating, no relationship beyond the window of opportunity that ovulation affords…three days, tops.

And he could never, ever, know anything about her pregnancy. No one would ever steal a child from her again. No one.

One

Patrick O’Halloran paid the cabdriver, added a generous tip for the guided tour he’d been given from the San Francisco airport to his daughter’s house, then stood on the sidewalk smiling at absolutely nothing.

He was in a good mood, a great mood. He was about to surprise his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen since her Valentine’s Day wedding a month and a half ago, and he hoped to spend a lot of time with her over the next few weeks that the doctor had ordered him to stay away from the office.

Doctors—what did they know? So, he’d had a heart attack. A minor heart attack, his cardiologist had reminded him at every opportunity. That didn’t mean his life was over. Just because his father had died of a massive coronary at age forty-seven, and Patrick had just celebrated his forty-seventh birthday, didn’t mean he would become a statistic himself.

“Dad?”

Patrick spun toward the house and grinned. “Hey, kid.”

Paige O’Halloran-Warner flew down the steps and into his arms. “What are you doing here?” she asked, laughing, then squeezing him tighter. “I’ve missed you, Dad. Really, really missed you.”

A lump formed in his throat as he hugged her back. He might have died without ever seeing her again, without seeing how happy she was. Happy wasn’t even the word. She glowed. “I missed you, too, honey.”

He didn’t make eye contact with her as they moved apart. Instead he scooped up his luggage and followed her into the house, where he almost tripped over several suitcases sitting in the front entry.

“You should have called,” Paige said, seeing where his gaze fell. “Rye and I are leaving in an hour for Brazil. We’ve got an embezzler to track down.”

He refused to let his disappointment show, and he refused to tell her about the heart attack. He’d never seen her so…vibrant. Her hair bounced in springy curls, her makeup amounted to mascara and maybe a little blush. The blue jeans and cotton sweater she wore completed the casual picture. What a change from the formally dressed, perfectly made-up woman she’d been just over a month ago.

No, if he told her about his doctor’s orders she would stay home with him, and he didn’t want that for her.

“Patrick!”

Rye Warner hurried down the stairs. The men shook hands, then Rye retreated to Paige’s side, settling his arm around her waist and pulling her snugly to him.

The gesture reminded Patrick of what was missing in his own life, and a yearning need filled him. The need for a normal existence, with a loving woman—someone to touch and hold, someone to sleep beside, someone to talk to in the deep, dark hours of the night when fear settled in and courage failed. His beautiful wife had died twenty-five years ago, leaving him with a four-year-old daughter and only a stevedore’s salary to raise her on. Aside from the business he’d built, nothing and no one had replaced Priscilla in his heart. He didn’t think anyone ever could. But he missed—

“Why didn’t you call?” Rye asked gently, his far-to-operceptive gaze reading things Patrick wanted to keep hidden. “We have an assignment—”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment decision and I just took a chance. How long will you be gone?”

“At least a week. How long can you stay?”

They wandered into the living room and sat down.

“I was planning on getting a hotel room for a couple of weeks.” Patrick watched them exchange glances. “I know what you’re thinking, but everything’s fine. After almost thirty years of rarely taking vacation time, I decided I was overdue. I’m letting the company take care of itself.”

“I don’t believe it,” Paige said. “O’Halloran Shipping can’t function without you there every day. At least, that’s what you’ve always said.”

Patrick rested his arms on his thighs and clasped his hands. “Well, you know, since the merger, I’ve had a little more freedom. I’ve been delegating work—”

“Are you ill, Dad?” Paige leaned toward him, forcing him to look her in the eye.

“Do I look ill?” His heart did a little dance as he waited for her answer.

“I guess not,” she said finally.

His gaze shifted to Rye, who sat silently observing him. “You look good, both of you,” Patrick said in an effort to distract his son-in-law. “Marriage agrees with you.”

“Paige agrees with me,” Rye said, twining his fingers with hers.

“I never knew it could be like this.” She smiled at her husband. “He fills up every corner of my life, yet he lets me be independent, too. If anyone had told me marriage could be like this, I would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the notion.”

Patrick ached for someone to look at him with the same kind of love.

“I’m just so sorry we’re leaving town now,” Paige continued, her gaze returning to her father. “Promise me you won’t leave before we get back. You can use our house while we’re gone.”

“Thanks, but I’d prefer a hotel, I think. Someplace with room service. You know my cooking skills.”

A slow grin spread across Rye’s face. Patrick noted it, and didn’t like the pure devilment in it.

“I’ve got just the place.” Rye stood. “Let me call and see if it’s available.”

“Don’t go to any trouble—”

“Give up, Dad. Once he’s got an idea in his head, an earthquake can’t shake it loose. So, tell me everything that’s happened at work since I left.”

As restaurant kitchens went, it was quiet. The tinkle of utensils against china, the muffled clatter of pans on the stove, the hiss and sizzle of food cooking—sounds comforting in their familiarity. The tone of quiet efficiency pervaded the building housing the Carola, a private club whose members included the famous and the infamous, giving them space apart from paparazzi and curious onlookers.

Jasmine LeClerc hummed softly as she prepared four dinner salads. Tuesday meant a smaller crowd, a lighter load and slower pace.

“Code green, table twenty, Jazz.”

Jasmine looked up at the sound of her sister’s voice. Code green was staff lingo for an unaccompanied male.

“Hubba-hubba,” Maggie said as she plucked at her blouse and fanned herself with the fabric, pretending to cool herself down. “And J.D. gave him to lucky ol’ you.”

Ignoring her sister’s theatrics, Jasmine poured a healthy scoop of honey dijon dressing on each salad. She hated serving men who came to the Carola without women, although she’d gotten good at diverting their halfhearted propositions and wholehearted innuendos. Her opinion of the male species, not particularly high before she began waiting tables, had sunk to subterranean levels over the years. And the maître d’, J.D., ever the hopeful romantic, took great delight in foisting single men on her, but not on the equally single Maggie—although Jasmine had her opinions about that, too.

“He looks a mite lonely to me, Jazz,” Maggie said.

Hope flared briefly within Jasmine, then died. Since beginning her quest almost six months ago, she had avoided considering any club member as The Donor, as she’d come to think of him, needing the detachment and anonymity. First, most of them were married. Second, she didn’t dare. No matter how desperate she became, she still needed a man who wouldn’t drop back into her life.

“Men have perfected that lonely look,” Jasmine said as she lifted the salad plates onto a tray, then added a basket of crusty sourdough bread and a dish of iced butter, “because women are pushovers. And as long as we allow them to behave like needy little boys, they’ll continue to sucker us in.”

“Pay the bank!” Maggie crowed.

Jasmine half smiled. Undoubtedly it wouldn’t be her last contribution to the bank tonight. Reaching into her pocket, she withdrew a quarter and deposited it in a ceramic jar shaped like Michelangelo’s David and sporting a sign on a string around its neck. She scooped up the tray and headed for the dining room. Her glance drifted to table twenty. The code green definitely qualified as hubba-hubba material. He nodded at J.D., who set a tall glass of iced liquid on the table with his usual dramatic flair. Instead of leaving immediately, J.D. stayed to talk for a few minutes.

Jasmine served salads, refilled water glasses, and tried not to look at the auburn-haired stranger who toasted the air before taking a long swallow of his drink after J.D. left. Then he opened the menu, blocking himself from her view.

He wanted a steak. A one-inch-thick prime sirloin smothered in sautéed mushrooms. He craved a huge baked potato dripping with real butter and mounded with sour cream. And chives. Chives would count as a vegetable, right?

He snapped the menu closed. He would order broiled chicken breast, steamed vegetables and rice.

It was no damn meal for a man.

Patrick glanced around the darkened dining room of the Carola. Along with hotel accommodations at a quaint ivycovered cottage, the English countryside interior of which was a little too froufrou for Patrick’s tastes, Rye had arranged a guest membership for him at an exclusive club not far from the cottage.

The scene was familiar to him—subtle background music, dark furnishings, flickering candlelight, efficient service and undoubtedly superb food, just like his club at home in Boston. Upstairs he’d probably find card rooms, a billiard room or two, and lounges, segregated by gender. He swept an encompassing glance around the room. Even the women looked the same, with their perfectly coiffed hair, their clothes hanging from their shoulders and hips in nice, straight designer lines.

His glance followed the waitress who had come into the room a few minutes earlier balancing a tray of salads on one hand. Now there was a woman. Generous curves in all the right places, curves that made a man wonder and dream, and maybe even salivate. As she moved around the table serving, she smiled in return to something one of the women said and listened attentively to the man Patrick recognized as the star of the San Francisco-based TV detective series “Blue Fog.” She disappeared into the kitchen, the tail of her white-blond braid skimming her waist. She came back empty-handed and headed toward his booth.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice intriguing in its husky timbre. “Have you decided what you’d like tonight?”

Snared by her soft gray eyes, he focused on her face. Late thirties, he guessed, and like the dark-haired waitress he’d seen working the opposite side of the room, she wore a tailored white dress shirt, narrow black tie and straight black skirt. He looked down at the closed menu, taking advantage of the moment to let his gaze flicker briefly to her discreet name tag.

Jasmine. It was a rather exotic name for an American beauty.

“I’ve decided,” he said, handing her the menu and ordering the requisite heart-healthy meal.

“I figured you for a meat-and-potatoes man,” she said, her smile friendly.

“I guess I’ve eaten plenty of both in my day. But the best way to overcome jet lag is to drink no alcohol and eat light.”

“And fresh fruit, I understand,” she added. “Maybe you’d like some for dessert?”

Patrick toasted her with his club soda, signaling an affirmative answer. Fruit. Swell. He supposed apple pie wouldn’t count.

She started to leave, then glanced sideways at him. “Do you mind telling me—No, never mind.”

“What?”

“I was being nosy, that’s all. Forget it.”

“Jasmine.” He liked the way her name brushed his lips, bringing to mind mysterious evenings and sultry fragrances. “Ask.”

“What were you toasting a while ago?”

He lifted his glass again. “A clean bill of health.” He wondered at the sudden narrowing of her eyes, as if she were assessing his-answer for truth.

“Was that something you were worried about?”

He sipped his drink before answering. “Not particularly. It was just my annual checkup.” The lie came easily. He’d never felt so vulnerable. He just wanted it all to go away. Maybe he could learn to ignore—

“That’s always a relief,” she said, angling a little closer.

Curious at the change in her body language, he waited for her to make the next move.

She patted an ironed crease on the tablecloth, flattening it. “And you said you were suffering from jet lag?”

He kept his gaze on her face. “I flew in today from Boston.”

“Business or pleasure?”

Patrick leaned back and smiled slightly at her show of interest. “Just a vacation.”

He watched a smile flicker across her lips before she straightened.

“I’ll be right back with your salad,” she said.

His gaze lingered on her as she moved across the room and disappeared through a swinging door with an economy of movement, no teasing swing to her hips.

He sought a word to describe her that wouldn’t get him into trouble. In his day, if you called a woman stacked or built, everyone knew what it meant. But in these days of political correctness, he was sure he couldn’t use either of those words.

Missing his usual Scotch on the rocks, he sipped his club soda as visions of the gray-eyed blonde with the tempting feminine curves filled his head. Voluptuous. Yeah, voluptuous. That suited her to a tee.

And he’d probably be slapped for even thinking it.

Jasmine set a chilled salad plate carefully on the kitchen counter, afraid if she didn’t control the movement she would fling the plate like a Frisbee across the room.

She mentally listed his credentials. He was here on vacation, he lived three thousand miles away, and he was in good health. Would a complete annual exam include all of the important blood tests? she wondered. Since there wouldn’t be time to get any before they slept together—if they slept together—she had to trust that it did.

He was of an age that he might be interested in her for a brief vacation fling, instead of some twenty-year-old hardbody he could likely have if he wanted one. A spark of interest had flared in dark green eyes that not only hadn’t undressed her with lascivious speculation, but hadn’t even looked below her chin that she could tell, except to determine her name, which put him on a pedestal as far as she was concerned.

He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, nor did his finger hold that telltale indentation of having recently worn one.

He was extremely attractive, with his auburn hair that begged for a trim yet entreated a woman to comb it with her fingers, and his tall, athletic frame looked amazingly fit for a man she guessed was in his mid-forties.

She considered some of the other candidates she’d met over the past six months, each of them flawed in some way. Potential Donor 1, who she’d decided wasn’t tall enough; Donor 2, whose ears were too large; Donor 3, whose eyes were too brooding; Donor 4, who wore turtlenecks all the time—what had he been hiding?

She recognized the alleged flaws for the excuse they were—to avoid making her plan a reality. But now there was this man, who was tall enough, had perfect ears, smiling eyes and a strong, suntanned neck.

He was perfect. Too perfect. He had to have a fatal flaw. And she was going to find it.

Two

Okay, not voluptuous, Patrick decided. Too much of a political hot potato. Statuesque? He tossed that word aside, too, as Jasmine approached. The description didn’t fit, either, because it implied height, and she wasn’t tall, maybe just five foot five or so and, based on his experience with the opposite sex, he suspected she probably always complained about how she needed to lose ten or fifteen pounds. Not in his opinion, however.

He smiled at her as she set his salad and a basket of bread on the table.

“So, how did you end up here?” she asked, resituating the bread basket and moving the dish of butter closer to him, then shifting it again,

“Here in San Francisco or at the Carola?”

She fascinated him. She was obviously uncomfortable making small talk, seeming on the verge of running away, yet she continued to pry into his private life. He’d bet his newest fleet of cargo ships she didn’t usually have personal conversations with her customers. She hadn’t even introduced herself.

“Both, I guess,” she said.

“My daughter lives here in the city. Her husband arranged a temporary membership at the club while I’m here.”

Why did she keep doing that—smiling mysteriously over his answers, as if he was passing some kind of test?

Once again she patted the creases on the white linen tablecloth and kept her gaze lowered. “Your wife didn’t come with you?”

“I’m widowed.” It hurt to say the words. Even after twenty-five years it cut into him, a double-edged sword of loss and guilt.

Jasmine watched tension settle over him. Without thinking, she touched his coiled fist.

He opened his hand and captured hers, squeezing as if he were drowning and she was his lifeline. She felt the distinctive texture of calluses…and warmth—pure, masculine warmth. Then he released her hand and lifted his salad fork.

“Can I get you anything else? Another drink?” she asked, regretting that she’d shattered the mood with her nosiness, especially since he seemed embarrassed by his brief show of emotion. He must have lost his wife recently for his grief to be so fresh. She fought the image of taking him into her arms to hold and comfort. She understood grief. She understood it all too well.

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, dismissing her by stabbing some lettuce.

She watched him for a second, then said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

He set down his fork. “It’s been—”

“Hi, there, honey. My name’s Magnolia. Is my sister taking good care of you?”

Jasmine watched as, in a blink, he changed moods upon the arrival of her younger sister, who was as different from Jasmine as borscht from chicken noodle soup.

“Magnolia,” he repeated with some humor, glancing at Jasmine. “Your mother must’ve liked flowers.”

“Our mama was a fine Southern belle who gave her girls respectable Louisiana names. ‘Course Jazz here prefers to leave her roots behind. She treatin’ you all right, is she?”

“Maggie,” Jasmine cautioned, fighting a grin at her irrepressible sister.

Bright blue eyes sparkling, Maggie tossed a triumphant look in her direction then spoke conspiratorially to Patrick. “You must be one mighty interestin’ man to get Jazz to carry on a conversation. She likes to keep business in its place, you understand.”

Jasmine put her arm around her sister’s delicate shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction. Maggie’s coal dark hair swung softly against her collar with the movement. “Table six is trying to get your attention, Magnolia, dear.”

“Why, so they are!” Maggie looked over her shoulder and winked at Patrick, then left, her hips swaying provoc-atively.

Patrick smiled. He could handle Maggie—she wouldn’t present any surprises. She knew she was flirting and so did he. His glance shifted to Jasmine. Now there was an enigma. She might be making an effort to flirt; she might not. Just the fact that she wore a conservatively loose uniform as opposed to the more formfitting one her less voluptuous sister sported said a lot about her personality— and her need to keep customers at a distance.

So why in hell was she making an effort with him?

“Don’t mind my sister,” Jasmine said, breaking into his thoughts.

“I like a woman who speaks her mind.” Patrick held her gaze until she gave him a small smile and walked away. Ah, yes, this woman was much more interesting.

The chicken was broiled to perfection, the vegetables tender-crisp, the rice neither clumped nor sticky. It was a meal some workout guru would turn cartwheels about, but not this red-blooded American man who’d earned his calluses by moving freight. Patrick swore he could hear the last bite of chicken hit bottom in his stomach, like a bucket splashing into a well.

No way in hell was some damned plate of fruit going to fill the emptiness. Not even a basketful would do it.

His good mood deteriorated into annoyance. Hunger did that to him. As the hospital nutritionist, Nurse Crackwhip, had instructed, he visualized a healthy heart, the blood flowing unrestricted through a steadily pumping machine. Of course, she had also told him stress would add to his problems, and he was extremely stressed when he was hungry.

Eating healthy was for women.

He drummed his spoon on the table and watched Jasmine approach with his fruit plate and coffee—decaf, another curse from the evil Crackwhip. He felt the stick of pins in him at the slightest temptation to deviate from his healthy food program, as if she’d made a voodoo doll of him and would push in a pin when necessary to keep him on the straight and narrow. Okay, so it was really the road to recovery. It felt like capital punishment.

“How was your dinner?” Jasmine asked as she exchanged one plate for another, then began filling his coffee cup.

“Fine. Great.”

She looked up at his tone of voice and he apologized.

“Jet lag catching up with you?” she asked, smiling.

He shrugged. It was a convenient excuse, and probably part of his problem, as well. “I’m sure a good night’s rest will straighten me out. How about you? How much longer until you get off your feet?”

“A couple hours. Midnight, usually, unless we’re really slow.” She glanced around the room. “Excuse me. A customer wants more coffee.”

Patrick jabbed a slice of cantaloupe and took a bite. Not too bad. The grapes were okay, as well. And the strawberries juicy and tasty. He felt better when he was done, and sat back to enjoy his coffee. His gaze landed on Jasmine’s sister, Maggie, as she laughed with a couple of men old enough to be her father.

Hell, he was old enough to be her father. He’d bet she was near Paige’s age, and a good ten years younger than Jasmine. Still, he was holding together all right, considering he had an almost-thirty-year-old daughter. The first strands of gray had made their appearance over the past year but his hairline hadn’t receded at all.

And recently he’d been more sought after than ever. The reason for his sudden popularity probably stemmed from the announcement a few months ago of the merger of his company, O’Halloran Shipping, with the smaller firm of Collins-Abrahamson, especially since actual dollar figures had been revealed in newspaper articles. When his net worth had become public knowledge, ambitious mamas had doubled their dinner party invitations and seated him next to their twenty-something daughters, hoping to draw his interest.

There was nothing wrong with either his eyesight or his libido. He found many of those young women beautiful, sexy…and far too young to be of interest. He wanted a woman who had a memory of the Vietnam War, not one who’d learned about it in high school history class. Neither did he want a woman who hung on his every word or whose focus was on shopping and partying.

Then there were the divorced women blatantly prowling for a new mate…and meal ticket.

Why couldn’t he find someone in between, maybe someone with a couple of children he could still be a father to? He wiped a hand down his face. Nothing like acknowledging your mortality to bring on an attack of sentimentalism, he decided.

“All done?” Jasmine asked. “Or would you like more coffee?”

He hadn’t even heard her come to the table. “I’ve had enough, thanks.”

“Are you running a tab or paying cash?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be around, so I don’t want to run a tab.”

“Oh? This is a really quick trip, then?”

“I’m not sure. My daughter and son-in-law had to leave town. As soon as they get back I’ll probably be with them instead of coming here.”

She placed his check upside down on the table. “So, you may not be back?” she asked, her voice soft but her chin lifted.

Patrick didn’t know what to make of the contradictions he saw in her. She looked as if she’d had the wind knocked out of her and seemed suddenly small and lost, yet she also appeared ready to do battle. “Do you want me to come back, Jasmine?” he asked, equally softly and with as much intensity.

“I—I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

“Do you want me to come back?” He had a sudden urge to kiss away her hesitation, and an even stronger urge to feel her pressed against him. Was she stalling because she was an employee and he a guest? Or because she was feeling the same attraction that he was, and didn’t know how to handle it either, especially this soon? She was the first woman he’d met in a long time whose intentions weren’t conspicuously apparent within the first fifteen minutes of acquaintance—which didn’t say much about his choice of women lately.

“Good night,” she said softly.

Patrick watched her walk determinedly away, then he pulled a slim gold pen from inside his jacket and wrote a message on the check stub. After adding several bills, he strode out of the club and into the night.

Jasmine watched him leave, regretting that she hadn’t answered him. She didn’t have time to be a fatalist. If she wanted something to happen, she had to make it happen.

She’d seen him write something on the check. Usually when a man did that, it was his phone number. Please, don’t let it be his phone number, she prayed. She wanted him to be better than that.

First she noticed the staggering tip he’d left, then she lifted the check. “I’ll be back.” The words were printed in bold, masculine script.

She closed her eyes, tore off the perforated stub and shoved it into her pocket, keeping her hand on it for a few seconds. She’d seen complexity and intelligence in the man, along with some pain and, she was pretty sure, mutual attraction.

She hoped he would be the one to fath—be The Donor, yet she didn’t even know his name.

And she didn’t dare ask J.D., who would gloat over finally accomplishing his goal of the past year—getting her to show the slightest interest in a man.

No, she had to wait for him to come back and then work up her nerve to entice him to her bed. It was a tall order for a man-hating woman who treasured honesty above all else.

Honesty. Why should she worry about it? How long had it been since a man had been completely honest with her?

Her father had left before her first birthday. Her first stepfather lasted six months. Her second stepfather had stuck it out until Maggie was almost three.

Then there was Jasmine’s ex-husband, Deacon, the supposed love of her life. He’d broken through all of her defenses and convinced her to marry him. She’d given up so much of herself to please him. But when he’d wanted out, she’d suddenly become a second-class citizen—and her children, Matthew and Raine, pawns in his game.

Six years ago he’d spirited their children out of the country. Six years of her searching and hoping. Six years of hell. What would it be like to have so much money and power that you could break all the rules, legal and moral? she wondered for the thousandth time, even as her subconscious whispered that she was breaking the rules by deciding to find a donor—not a father. No. She couldn’t give in to that particular weakness. The end had to justify the means. For once, her needs were going to come first.

“What’s going on between you and the code green from last night?” Maggie asked as she and Jasmine changed into their uniforms in the women’s locker room.

“Nothing.” Jasmine almost wished for a more figurehugging uniform like her sister’s, something to draw the man’s interest in a hurry. The basal thermometer had registered a normal temperature that morning, but she had to be ovulating soon.

“Uh-huh,” her sister commented as she lined her lips with cherry red lipstick.

“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Snow White?” It was an old joke between them. Jasmine with her long blond hair had always been Sleeping Beauty. They taunted each other with the contrast whenever they wanted to change the subject.

Maggie sighed. “Why is it we complain about wanting men to admire us for our minds, then we spend a fortune on makeup?” She turned toward her sister. “You’re as transparent as spun sugar, you know. Not only did you spend time talking to that gorgeous hunk of masculinity, you only had to put one quarter in the jar the whole evening and that was before you met him.”

“So?” Jasmine leaned into her locker to exchange shoes.

“So…you’re good for three or four slams against the male gender every night. How am I supposed to buy myself a wedding dress if you stop maligning men? I’ve only saved two hundred and sixty-two dollars so far. I’m counting on you.”

Jasmine tossed her street shoes into the locker. “You might find it handy to get yourself a fiancé first.”

“By my thirtieth birthday I—”

“Better hurry up.” Jasmine shut the door and gave the combination lock a twirl.

Maggie sniffed at the reminder. “Obviously, you don’t want to discuss your gentleman caller.”

“There’s nothing to say. He came, he ordered, he left. Same as a thousand other men before him.”

“Except you didn’t have conversations with the other nine hundred and ninety-nine.” Maggie pushed open the door and preceded Jasmine down the hall and into the kitchen.

“Only one out of a thousand men is worth engaging in conversation.”

Maggie pointed dramatically at the Michelangelo jar labeled Men Are The Scum Of The Earth, with its handprinted addendum, Except J.D. “Two hundred and sixty-two dollars and twenty-five cents.”

Compact. Patrick had finally come up with a word to describe Jasmine that wouldn’t get him into trouble. Maybe. She probably wouldn’t think it much of a compliment.

He’d spent the day contemplating her behavior. She hadn’t wanted to be interested in him, yet she was. She hadn’t flaunted herself before him, yet he’d been more attracted than he’d been in years to any woman. He hadn’t let her catch him eyeing her—he’d learned that women either loved or hated that kind of attention—but he’d observed her thoroughly.

As he followed the maître d’, a dark-haired man by the name of J. D. Duran, to the same table as the previous night, Patrick realized he was nervous. That in itself was a rarity. He’d always had an abundance of self-confidence. Suddenly he felt like a teenager at his first school dance, and he didn’t know any of the steps.

He’d just been served his club soda when Jasmine made her way to his table.

“So. Your daughter isn’t back yet,” she said, looking at his glass.

“I made you a promise.”

She lifted her gaze. “I didn’t know whether to believe you.”

“Now you know.” He said the words lightly, not wanting the conversation to get too serious, and he was rewarded by seeing her shoulders relax.

“Still recovering from jet lag?” she asked. “Club soda again?”

“Drinking alone is a sobering thought.” Nurse Crackwhip could keep her stickpins to herself, too, he thought. “I slept twelve hours straight last night. I guess I needed this vacation more than I realized.”

“How’d you spend your day?”

He grinned. “Doing something I haven’t done in years. Watching television.”

“San Francisco is a beautiful city. You should get out and see it.”

“If I had a companion—”

“Well, hello again, honey.”

“Miss Magnolia,” Patrick drawled, shifting his glance to the dark-haired woman.

“Did you come back for more of our tasty morsels?”

The ambiguous words made Patrick smile. “My appetite’s healthy.” His gaze flickered to Jasmine, who was watching her sister indulgently.

Maggie eyed his suit jacket. “It appears you favor Italian tailors.”

“Not unless Geoffrey St. Clair has stopped telling the world he’s the only important African-American designer.”

“Really? It’s a St. Clair?”

Patrick leaned forward. “I knew him when he was Jeff Troutner He gives me suits to buy my silence.” He laughed at the expression on Maggie’s face. “I’m kidding. Well, not about his name, but that’s common knowledge. He and my daughter went to school together from kindergarten on.”

Jasmine let them talk for a minute as she looked him over, noting more detail this time. His hair was a little long but well cut, his clothing already noted as designer. When he showed Maggie the trademark St. Clair logo embroidered in the lining of the jacket, Jasmine spotted a discreet monogram on the stark white dress shirt, which was probably made of the finest cotton known to man.

What had she been thinking? She couldn’t intentionally deceive this man. He was a power unto himself, she could see that now. He probably headed up some high-revenue computer company or high-visibility law firm. He wouldn’t be welcomed at the Carola unless he had money and power to back him, no matter who his son-in-law was.

What in the world would he want with her—some waitress who saved fifty percent of her income in the useless hope that she could have a second chance at motherhood? He probably made in a month what had taken her seven years to save. He was so far out of her league, they weren’t even playing the same sport. She’d already played a mismatched game once in her life. And lost.

You only need him for a day, maybe two. The reminder slithered from her conscience to her brain, her practical side emerging to tamp down the emotional side. It only mattered that he be attracted for a couple of hours, maybe two nights in a row. Then he’d have his visit with his daughter and return to his life in Boston. Surely a couple of nights in bed together would satisfy his curiosity about her. He might even pick up on the fact she was faking it with him and not want a repeat performance.

And maybe she would end up with a child from their brief affair. But perhaps she could give him something, too—the human contact missing in his life since his wife died.

That was the way to look at the situation, of course. A brief, life-altering bisecting of lives, then each could move on. No broken hearts, just a moment out of time.

“Jasmine.” Patrick watched her seem to shake herself back into the real world. Maggie had left half a minute ago, yet Jasmine had stayed frozen in place, her eyes glazed.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a slight smile. “Are you ready to order?”

She angled toward him and tossed her head, a gesture he would expect her sister would make. Every time he decided Jasmine was just being friendly, she would do something obviously flirtatious—and look uncomfortable doing so.

On her recommendation he ordered the fresh fish of the day, his mouth watering for the steak he’d watched her place in front of another customer just before she’d come to his table, but Crackwhip’s pin jabbed him just as he’d been about to order. He slid out of his jacket and started to lay it across the seat beside him.

She reached for it. “I’ll hang that up for you, sir.”

“Patrick,” he said. “Patrick O’Halloran.”

“Mr. O’Halloran.”

“Patrick.”

Three

Patrick O’Halloran. Her baby would have an Irish father. And maybe his beautiful auburn hair and all that emotion she could see in his eyes.

Jasmine accepted the jacket and took a step back. “I’ll bring your salad,” she said, then walked to the coat check cubicle, trying to control her reaction. For the first time, genuine hope filled her.

Looking around and finding herself alone, she cautiously lifted the jacket to her face and breathed in the distinctly male fragrance that lingered there…and the warmth. The temptation to slide the jacket on and hug herself was overwhelming. She, Jasmine LeClerc, cofounder of Man-Haters Anonymous, wanted to wallow in this man, Patrick O’Halloran, who she’d bet her last dollar made love with a slow hand and hot need.

What would his hands feel like on her skin? Would he kiss her for a long time or would he rush through that part of lovemaking? Would he insist she take the lead sometimes or would he want to be the one in charge all the time?

Jasmine, you idiot. She hung up his coat, slid a receipt over the hanger and pulled off the stub to give to him. What was she thinking? Even if he was interested, she couldn’t do anything about it tonight. She had to wait until she stood a chance of becoming pregnant. Which meant trying to keep him interested enough to come back, but without seeming like a tease until the time was right. She didn’t know if she could walk that tightrope.

Patrick watched her set his salad and bread on the table then lay the coat check stub beside the salt and pepper shakers.

“I’ll get that for you when you’re ready. Do you need anything else?” she asked.

“No, thanks.” Except maybe a Scotch on the rocks, a slab of prime rib, a big bed and you. Ah, yes, all of his cravings satisfied at once, everything that had been denied him since the little medical problem. That would be a perfect night, he decided as he watched her move away from him.

He bided his time through the evening, waiting for the right moment to ask her out, wondering whether she would be willing to go somewhere tonight or if he’d have to wait until tomorrow. Chafing at the confinement of the booth, he made himself linger over his third cup of coffee.

He looked at his watch for the fifth time in forty-five minutes. Still more than an hour to go until she would get off work, but he didn’t think he could consume another drop of anything liquid. He could stall a few more minutes by going to the rest room. Then he would just ask her.

What did he have to lose? If she said yes, great. If she turned him down, that would be the end of that. He was ready for a livelier environment anyway. The peace and quiet of the Carola was getting on his nerves, adding to his stress, especially sitting at the booth for hours on end. Although he’d also found something enlightening about being alone and trapped—he could observe. Which was why he’d noticed that J.D. and Maggie spent a lot of time casting surreptitious glances at each other. The tall, broadshouldered J.D. kept a close watch on the flirtatious and sassy Maggie, who sashayed a little more wickedly when the man was nearby.

Shaking his head and smiling, Patrick started to stand when Maggie strolled up.

“If you want Jazz to go out with you, honey, you can’t take no for an answer.”

He took his seat again. “I take it she doesn’t date much.”

“An understatement.” Maggie glanced around, apparently checking on Jasmine’s whereabouts. “Look, honey, she’s interested. I can tell you that. But if you intend on toying with her affections, I would strongly advise you to take no for an answer. Frankly, I believe she could use a good time or two, but only if she knows up front this is temporary.”

“How could I promise anything else? We don’t know each other.”

“We’ve all seen Pretty Woman, honey, where the poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks makes the rich man throw caution to the wind, no matter what the public’s opinion might be. It was just a modern-day fairy tale, and women like Jazz and me know it. So treat her with fairness. That’s all I ask.”

“I give you my word.”

She nodded. “You have kind eyes.”

Did he? While he’d never been accused of mistreating anyone, he didn’t think there was a well of kindness in him beyond the average. Maybe the heart attack was changing him more than he thought. Then again, maybe it was just Jasmine.

Now or never, he decided, taking a deep breath as Maggie hurried away when she spotted Jasmine marching to his table. Taking care of business first, he asked for his bill and handed her the coat check stub, deflecting whatever emotions seemed anxious to spill out of her. By the time she returned with his jacket, he’d paid the bill, and she seemed calmer. But the sparks he’d seen intrigued him more than her pretense of flirting.

He stood as she arrived, and she held up the jacket, indicating he should turn around. He couldn’t remember anyone doing that for him, ever, and he was uncomfortable letting her. Then he felt her fingertips graze his neck as she straightened the collar before brushing her hands across his shoulders, patting the fabric in place, a wifely gesture that startled him into stillness.

When he could manage it, he turned around. “I’d like to take you out when you get off work. You know the city, so you could choose where.”

Her gaze settled chest-level on him. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m exhausted.”

“Tomorrow, then? During the day? Breakfast or lunch? You name the time and place.”

Her eyes flickered briefly to his face, then lowered again. “I’m sorry. I can’t tomorrow.”

He bent down a little, keeping his voice low. “Have I misinterpreted?”

Jasmine held herself still. His breath was warm against her forehead. She could lean forward two inches and be able to rest her head against his shoulder. “misinterpreted?”

“Your interest?”

Anticipation surged through her. Misinterpreted? Not likely. But she couldn’t tell him that, not tonight. She wanted—needed— him to come back tomorrow and maybe the next and the next, until she was ovulating. “I’m just saying no for now.”

“So if I ask tomorrow, I might get a different answer?”

“Maybe.” She should smile at him, flirt with him, something. But she couldn’t even look him in the eye. The lies would show.

He was quiet for too long. She finally looked up.

“I won’t promise, but I’ll try,” he said.

“I hope you do,” she answered quietly, giving him a smile of sorts. “If not for dinner, maybe you’d enjoy a card game or two upstairs. I’m sure you could find a table to join.”

“Good night, Jasmine.”

“Good night.”

He waited, just staring at her.

“Patrick,” she added. “Good night, Patrick.” Come back tomorrow, please, she begged him silently as he walked away.

“I don’t mind you talking to him when I’m there, but I don’t trust you alone with him,” Jasmine said in clipped tones as she cornered Maggie in the hallway a few minutes later.

Maggie’s eyes opened wide. “I wasn’t trying to lure him. I wouldn’t do that to you, Jazz. You know that.”

“I’m just telling you I don’t need your help where he’s concerned.”

“Help? We were just shooting the breeze. Honest.”

Jasmine wished she could take her sister into her confidence, but she knew Maggie would go crazy if she knew. Jasmine had never known anyone who so totally believed in the sacred order of things the way Maggie did. Dating, marriage, then children. Well, Jasmine had tried that once. It had been enough.

But if Maggie knew Jasmine had every intention of seducing that glorious man solely for the purpose of having his child, not only would she interfere, she would probably even tell Patrick. Patrick. Even the name made her shiver with anticipation.

“Shooting the breeze? I don’t believe you,” Jasmine said. “You know how I feel about men. I have good reason to feel nothing but contempt. One seemingly nice man isn’t going to change my opinion of the gender.”

“Jazz--”

“I mean it, Maggie. Don’t interfere with—”

Maggie’s hand landed against Jasmine’s mouth. “Hush.”

The hairs on the back of Jasmine’s neck stood up. Even without confirmation, she knew Patrick had come up behind her. He must have gone to the rest room before he left. She’d been vaguely conscious of the door opening, but she hadn’t tempered her speech. Please let us have an earthquake right now, she prayed uselessly.

“You’re going to pay for this one with more than quarters,” Maggie whispered to her before disappearing.

Steeling herself, Jasmine turned around. Had he heard her words to Maggie?

“Good night again,” he said as he started to move past her in the narrow confines of the hallway, brushing against her and smiling.

Relieved, she concentrated on the sensation of his body skimming hers, then he stopped, pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Not a hard, quick kiss but a gentle merging of lips and breath, a kiss meant to entice. A kiss that started at their mouths but flowed the way of hot, thick, maple syrup over pancakes, down, around and through her body, saturating her with sweetness and temptation.

He settled his hands at her waist; hers glided up his chest. He slid his hands over her rear and pulled her closer; hers slipped behind his back to curve over his shoulder blades, bringing their chests as close as their hips. His tongue swept her lips then dipped inside her mouth. Was that sound coming from her? God, he was so warm, so very warm.

He lifted his head and stood in silence until she opened her eyes. She saw that his smile was gone, replaced with an intense expression she could put no name to.

“What you have to understand, Jasmine, is that seemingly is your operative word. A man can be seemingly nice. Then again, he may be an expert at pulling the wool over the eyes of unsuspecting women. It’s probably better that you continue to feel contempt for all men than to trust any of us individually. You might end up lonely as hell, but you’ll find comfort in the knowledge you’re right, I’m sure.”

He strode away from her as she wilted against the wall and closed her eyes, blocking her final glimpse of him.

She wouldn’t look, not yet, Jasmine decided as she continued serving the party of eight. From the corner of her eye she could see J.D. leading a single customer to a booth in her section, the same booth where Patrick had sat the previous two nights. Patrick, who had given her hope before her foolish words had sounded a death knell to her dream, mournfully, dolorously, plaintively.

Yet a small part of her still clung to a fragment of hope that he was a man who didn’t give up easily.

She held her breath as she tucked her tray under one arm and casually, almost carelessly, glanced at the lone man…with the fringe of shockingly white hair.

I am not going to cry. Again and again she repeated the order as she slipped into the kitchen and busied herself by slicing bread and building two salads.

“Why’d you put ten dollars in the jar?” Maggie asked, coming up beside her. She leaned a hip against the stainless-steel counter. “Crime and punishment?”

“It was the tip he left last night. I couldn’t keep it, so you might as well add it to your dress fund.”

“He really got to you, didn’t he, Jazz? In a way that no man has, not in a long time.”

Jasmine scooped dressing on the salad. “You’d think I would have learned with Deacon, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie made a crude noise. “You can’t compare Deacon with anyone.”

“Rich is rich. Power is power. I’m not blaming Patrick, you understand. It was my fault entirely. But I was foolish to think for even a minute a man like that might want me. In the end, I’m glad he overheard. Better to kill the possibilities now than later, I think.”

“But some part of you wants the fairy tale.”

“I’m human,” Jasmine said, forcing the words past a lump burning her throat. “But if I really do want to have a relationship with a man again, I need to look at my own kind. Someone from the diner, instead of here.”

Maggie raised her brows. “From the sublime to the ridiculous. The people you meet at that afternoon job of yours swing to the other side of the pendulum, don’t you think? And since when did you start defining yourself by your job? You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you, especially your Patrick-the-gorgeous-hunk-of-masculinity.”

Jasmine hugged her sister. “Have I told you lately how much I love you? For all that I resented Mom getting married again and having a baby when I was ten, you were the best thing that happened in my life.” She stepped back and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“What’s weighing on you, Jazz?” Maggie asked softly, following her. “I can’t remember seeing you this emotional since—”

Jasmine let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m ovulating.”

“You mean, PMS’ing.”

Jasmine shrugged, then lifted the salads onto her tray, choosing to forget her problems by working harder than usual. She kept up a constant dialogue with customers, drawing Maggie’s curious looks as she laughed, sometimes a little too boisterously. She would not cower. She would not grieve. She would continue to be strong and independent and—

Oh, God, and childless.

Midnight came. She changed into a sweater, jeans and tennis shoes for the walk home. Usually J.D. played bodyguard, but he had a late date. The problem with living only four blocks from work was that it was too close to justify a cab ride, and waiting at a bus stop seemed more dangerous than walking.

She stepped out into the night and glanced at the sky, sensing imminent rain. In a way she welcomed it, because it kept some of the crazies off the street. She could make a dash for home without looking around every bend and within every doorway. Cursing her all-day distraction, which had resulted in her forgetting her windbreaker, she folded her arms across her stomach, put her head down and began walking against the wind.

Up the concrete walkway she hurried, then out the gate with its discreet wrought-iron C, identifying the club to its members. She latched the gate and turned in the direction of her apartment. A man blocked her path. Knowing instinctively who stood there, she slowly lifted her gaze, taking in the look-alike wardrobe of sweater and jeans. His expression broadcasted his reluctance to be there, as did his words.

“I tried to stay away.”

Four

Patrick lifted a hand to her cheek and felt her shiver from the touch of his icy skin. He’d been waiting for almost an hour. Perhaps waiting wasn’t the right word. He’d walked past the building then returned three times, not wanting to see her, not being able to keep his distance.

“Jasmine.” Her name sound magical and mysterious to him, conjuring up visions he should probably ignore. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

She looked away from him and sighed. “Yes and no.”

“Meaning?” Somehow her hands had settled within his and her warmth radiated to him.

“What I said to Maggie was just automatic reaction. It didn’t really pertain to you in particular.”

“You’ve been hurt before.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“But you more than most, I think.”

She shrugged one shoulder, and he focused on their joined hands, feeling her anticipation as she waited to learn what he wanted from her.

“I’m not making any promises—”

“I don’t want promises, Patrick.”

“I just want to spend some time with you. You can’t imagine the loneliness.” The nights are long and scary, he wanted to tell her. I lie awake listening to my heartbeat, and sometimes it feels like it stops.

“Yes, I can,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I can.”

He heard it in her voice, too—loss and longing. “Night Flower,” he said softly, “will you spend an hour with me?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in a nervous gesture. “I could use some warming up.”

He leaned a little to block the rain from her face as it began to fall. The wind howled. “What’s open around here where we could get coffee?”

“Do you have a coffee maker in your hotel room?”

Surprised, he focused his gaze intently on her. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “And a fireplace. Two, as a matter of fact.”

“Sounds good to me.”

If it hadn’t been pouring he would have made her be specific about what she expected of him. But first he needed to get them out of the rain.

They ran the short distance, splashing through potholes of trapped water that was accumulating quickly in the deluge. He tugged her around a three-story house that had been converted into a hotel, then followed a pathway until they ended up at a brick cottage nestled in an Edenlike garden of greenery behind the building.

“Quick,” he said, urging her forward with a hand at her lower back as he unlocked the door.

“I can’t go inside like this!” Jasmine pressed herself against the building, under a short overhang, as he swung open the door.

“Why not?”

“I’ll get everything soaked. So will you.”

“People will clean it up.”

The patient exasperation in his voice made her smile. “Men. You know, if you had to do the cleaning, you wouldn’t be so blasé.” She glanced inside. “Go get some towels from housekeeping.”

“At this hour?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought about the time. Well, I guess—”

Patrick swept her into his arms and carried her over the threshold, then kicked the door shut. He walked directly into the bathroom and set her in the claw-footed tub. “Take off your shoes. I’ll get towels.”

“Take yours off, too,” she said, grabbing his arm. “You’re squishing water out with every step.”

They sat on the rim of the tub and each pulled off soaked leather sneakers. The intimacy of the act struck Jasmine as soon as they both set their bare feet flat in the tub and looked at each other.

“Do you want to take a hot shower?” he asked finally.

“Okay.”

He sat up a little straighter. After a few seconds he climbed out and grabbed the hotel-provided, navy blue velour bathrobe, laying it within arm’s reach of the tub. “You don’t need to lock the door behind me,” he said carefully. “I won’t come in.”

Why, he’s nervous, Jasmine realized, more nervous than she was. The thought relaxed her. She smiled. “I trust you.”

He nodded. “I’ll fix something to warm us. I’ve got coffee and tea, or—”

“You.”

His head jerked back a little and his nostrils flared. “Me.” Not a question, but a statement of controlled surprise.

Jasmine stood and moved close to him. She lifted her hands to brush back his wet hair, not daring to look at his face until she thought she could actually get words out. She settled her hands at the back of his neck, letting her thumbs brush his skin from his ears to the base of his throat. “I haven’t made love in seven years.” If his pulse hadn’t started pounding in the neck veins beneath her fingers, she never would have known how her words affected him. She tried not to smile. “I’d like to end the drought.”

“With me?”

She laughed. “No, with the president.”

“It’s just…You don’t know me.”

“I know what I need to know, and I’m afraid if I wait, there won’t be a chance at all. Am I right?”

“Maybe.”

“You probably don’t like forward women,” she said as she pressed her lips to his throat. “You probably like being the one who initiates everything—”

“No.” Ba-boom. Patrick’s heart announced its reaction. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. The sound vibrated in his chest and echoed in his ears. He took a deep breath. Her rainsoaked hair smelled of strawberries, inundating him with anticipation of the sweetest dessert in his memory. “Your full participation is welcome,” he said finally, putting his arms around her as she laid her head against his shoulder. “But I can’t help wondering, why me? Why now?”

“Why not you? Why not now?”

Ba-boom. Her arm snaked around his waist and glided under his sweater to stroke his damp skin. Ba-boom. He clamped his hands on her elbows, pushing her back a little. “I don’t have protection,” he said.

“You don’t need any.”

He searched her face, seeking answers she either didn’t have or didn’t want to give. “I’m forty-seven years old. I don’t have any desire to become a father at this age.”

“I should have phrased it differently,” she said, calmly meeting his gaze. “You don’t have to worry about my getting pregnant. I’m no spring chicken, either. I’m not going to trap you. I just want to be with you.”

“And when I go home?”

“I know you live a life totally different from mine. You belong with your own. I belong with mine. That’s it.”

“But for now—”

“For now, we can ease the loneliness for each other.”

Because he couldn’t wait another minute, he kissed her, softly, briefly. Ba-boom. “I’ll be waiting,” he said, then turned to leave.

“Patrick?”

He faced her and saw shyness as she twisted her hands together, an action distinctly at odds with her boldness of just a minute ago. “I have just one favor to ask.”

“What’s that?”

“Could you, just for tonight, pretend you love me? Just a little?”

Ba-boom. Ba-boom. He hadn’t loved a woman in twenty-five years, not since Priscilla. She had died because he’d gotten her pregnant again when the doctor had said she might not survive another pregnancy. “I’m not a monster, Jasmine. I’ll treat you with respect.”

Jasmine closed her eyes for a moment, waiting for lightning to strike her at her half-truths. But all she felt was a sense of rightness. She wanted her baby created in a loving moment, if not out of love. It was important that he or she be conceived in a night of beauty, not just physical pleasure. She looked at him, the man she had chosen to father her child. He was a good man, and strong. A kind man who didn’t deserve to be lied to. But didn’t she deserve something, too?

His silence unnerved her. She almost told him to forget it—she didn’t need this extra tension.

“This is the honeymoon cottage,” he said at last.

Hope filled her again. “Is it?”

“My son-in-law arranged the room. He told me he hoped I enjoyed my visit as much as he had.”

“What does that mean?”

“He and my daughter—” He looked around, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden thought. “They were here.”

“For their honeymoon?”

“They didn’t wait that long.”

Jasmine smiled. She liked that he was protective of his daughter, even though she was an adult. “You’ve already carried me over the threshold, but it would just be pretend for us, Patrick.”

He stared at her for so long she felt mesmerized. Then he walked toward her, his gaze on hers, and stepped into the tub. He grasped the hem of her sweater and pulled it over and off her. She was grateful that she’d worn her only remotely sexy bra and panties, ones she hadn’t worn in years. But she’d been hopeful tonight—

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