Bobby's pulse went from pounding to a dead standstill in the space between heartbeats.

Only one woman in the world looked like that. Stella Caine.

Bobby rubbed his eyes, but the vision stayed the same.

Stella.

How was this possible?

Enchanting was all he could think as her hips swayed toward him. A long black fur coat almost swallowed her whole, except for the flash of leg that cut through the night with every other step. When she hit the circle of light that spilled out of his trailer, she looked up at him.

Her eyes, the palest of green, flashed at him. For all her edgy style, her eyes were something completely different— soft. Vulnerable, even.

‘Hello, Bobby.”

He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her he wasn't going to let her out of his sight again.

But a gust of wind blew between them like a warning, and Bobby sensed just then that life as he'd known it was about to change.

* * *

Expecting a Bolton Baby is part of The Bolton Brothers trilogy:

They live fast, ride hard and love fiercely!

Available only from Sarah M. Anderson and Mills & Boon® Desire™.

Expecting a Bolton Baby

Sarah M. Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Award-winning author SARAH M. ANDERSON may live east of the Mississippi River, but her heart lies out West on the Great Plains. With a lifelong love of horses and two history teachers for parents, she had plenty of encouragement to learn everything she could about the tribes of the Great plains.

When she started writing, it wasn’t long before her characters found themselves out in South Dakota among the Lakota Sioux. She loves to put people from two different worlds into new situations and to see how their backgrounds and cultures take them someplace they never thought they’d go.

One of Sarah’s books, A Man of Privilege, won the RT Book Reviews 2012 Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Awards Series: Mills & Boon Desire.

When not helping out at her son’s school or walking her rescue dogs, Sarah spends her days having conversations with imaginary cowboys and American Indians, all of which is surprisingly well-tolerated by her wonderful husband. Readers can find out more about Sarah’s love of cowboys and Indians at www.sarahmanderson.com.

To Leah, the youngest by eight minutes. Sometimes instant families really do work out!

Contents

Chatper One

Chatper Two

Chatper Three

Chatper Four

Chatper Five

Chatper Six

Chatper Seven

Chatper Eight

Chatper Nine

Chatper Ten

Chatper Eleven

Chatper Twelve

Chatper Thirteen

Chatper Fourteen

Chatper Fifteen

Chatper Sixteen

Epilogue

One

What was Stella doing right now?

For the hundredth time this week, Bobby asked himself that question. And the answer was still the same.

He didn’t know. But he wished he did.

Maybe he should have tried harder to get her number after that wild night at the club. Yeah, he should have. But Bobby Bolton didn’t chase women. He enjoyed their company—usually for the evening, occasionally for a weekend—and that was that. He didn’t do long-term, didn’t do “relationships.” Everyone had a good time and parted as friends. That was the way he’d always interacted with the opposite sex.

Until that night two months ago when he’d met Stella.

The last night he’d felt as if he had the world in the palm of his hand.

FreeFall, the TV network that had bought his reality show, The Bolton Biker Boys, had hosted a behind-the-velvet-rope party to celebrate the upcoming season. It was the sort of event Bobby lived for—glamorous people in a glamorous setting.

But even as he’d been doing some serious schmoozing, the woman sitting at the corner of the bar caught his eye. She’d had a sense of style that marked her as different—instead of too tight or too short, she’d had on a long-sleeved dress covered in leather straps and buckles that was completely backless. The outfit demanded attention, but the woman wearing it had been alone, her gaze trained on the crowd.

He hadn’t known who she was when he’d bought her a drink. She’d told Bobby she was a fashion designer, but she hadn’t mentioned her last name. She’d enchanted him with her outrageous sense of style, soft British accent and distance from the rest of the crowd. She’d been a woman apart—except for him. They’d talked as if they were the oldest of friends, every joke an inside one only they found funny. He’d been unable to resist her.

Which must have been how they’d wound up in the back of a limo with a bottle of champagne and a couple of condoms.

It was only afterward, when he’d asked for her number, that she’d dropped the bomb. She was actually Stella Caine, only daughter of David Caine—owner of FreeFall TV, distributor for Bobby’s reality show, majority investor in Bobby’s new resort and one of the most notoriously conservative men in the world.

He’d felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under his feet. How could he not have known who she was? How could he have done something so stupid? What would happen when she told her father?

David Caine would ruin him, that’s what, and everything he’d worked for would be gone.

Even after revealing her identity, she hadn’t given Bobby her number. Just a kiss on the cheek and an “It’s better this way,” leaving Bobby to wonder, Better for who?

And that had been the last he’d heard from her. He hadn’t been called on the carpet by David Caine for corrupting his daughter. He hadn’t received any calls or texts from Stella. He had nothing to remember her by, except a picture.

And the memories.

Just then one of the production assistants, Vicky, said, “We got the shot,” shaking him out of his thoughts. “Anything else?”

Right. Bobby wasn’t in New York. He was filming his show for FreeFall TV in South Dakota. And Stella Caine had made it clear that she didn’t want anything from him beyond their one-night stand. He needed to stop thinking about her and focus on the job at hand.

And what a job it was.

“I think that’s it for today,” Bobby told Vicky as he looked around the narrow trailer that was his office and, most days, his home.

It was four on Friday afternoon in the middle of November, the setting sun already cloaking everything in winter gray. The construction workers had packed up for the day. Vicky and her film crew, Villainy Productions, had stayed later to get a couple shots of Bobby sitting at his desk, looking overwhelmed.

He had not done a lot of acting today.

What the hell was his problem? This was everything he’d ever wanted. His reality show had debuted on FreeFall with impressive numbers. The production contract he’d signed with FreeFall had underwritten half the financing he needed to begin building Crazy Horse Resort, which was being filmed for the show.

Ten miles outside of Sturgis, South Dakota, the Crazy Horse Resort was going to be the upscale destination for weekend bikers—the doctors, stockbrokers and lawyers who made money hand over fist during the week and liked to cut loose in motorcycle leathers on the weekend. It’d be a five-star destination resort, complete with spa, shopping, three restaurants, a nightclub and a Crazy Horse boutique and garage so guests could upgrade their ride or buy a new one. It was the perfect synergy of business form and function and would turn Crazy Horse into a total lifestyle brand.

The reality show, featuring not only the construction of the resort but his family and their business, was also feeding a huge sales boom for his brother Billy’s custom-made choppers. Crazy Horse Choppers was now an international brand with a loyal following among both celebrities and hard-core bikers, and Bobby was still the marketing director.

He had worked for years to get to this point. He was rich, famous and powerful. All of his dreams had come true. By all objective standards, he was a success.

So why the hell did he feel so...unsure?

Hours after everyone else had gone home, he sat at his desk, which was wedged against one wall of the construction trailer. The sales numbers for Crazy Horse were up on his computer screen, but he wasn’t looking at them. Maybe I’m just tired, he thought, trying to get his eyes to focus. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been home.

Instead of sleeping on his California king bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, he’d been spending nights on the trailer’s couch. Instead of cooking in his condo’s gourmet kitchen, the one with marble countertops, he’d been using a hot plate, coffeepot and microwave. And instead of enjoying his Whirlpool-jet tub, he’d been making do with the trailer’s closet-size bathroom. His days had become a blur of coffee, construction, cameras. Hell, he hadn’t even made a business trip since he’d been to New York—two months ago.

Suck it up.

As his older brothers, Ben and Billy, constantly reminded him, he’d brought this on himself. They weren’t about to step in and offer a helping hand. His brothers thought his ideas were ridiculous and expected him to fail, so Bobby would do whatever it took to prove them wrong.

Including living in a construction trailer and reviewing sales figures on a perfectly good Friday night.

Soon he would have his penthouse apartment on the top floor of the resort. He’d have a private elevator, expansive views of the Black Hills and—most important—he wouldn’t be living in anyone’s shadow. Not his father, Bruce, and his hopelessly out-of-touch way of running things. Not Billy and his insistence on building the bikes he wanted, not the bikes customers wanted. And not Ben and his slavish devotion to the bottom line.

He knew his brothers thought he was a screwup, but he’d show them. Nobody was going to mess up this deal.

For the first time in his life, Bobby would have something that was his and his alone. His own personal kingdom. He’d have complete control—hiring the chefs he liked, the designers he wanted. It was a big dream, but dreaming big was what he did best.

A car door slamming shut snapped him back to the present.

They’d had a few problems with copper thieves. Copper wasn’t cheap and its resale value had recently gone through the roof. He had hired a security guard, but it took Larry about twenty minutes to drive around the entire site.

Then he heard it. Whistling. A jaunty tune, by the sound of it.

Not just thieves, but confident thieves. Bobby slid open the bottom drawer of his desk and grabbed his Glock. He’d gotten the gun a while back. He’d heard tales of contractors taking huge losses when their raw materials walked off. Insurance usually covered it—but then insurance rates went up. He refused to pay for the same materials twice.

They’d learn soon enough that no one stole from the Boltons.

He’d no sooner gotten the lock off the gun than someone knocked on the door. He jumped. Copper thieves didn’t knock.

“Coming,” Bobby said for lack of a better plan.

He shoved the gun into the back of his waistband. This could be Cass, the receptionist at Crazy Horse Choppers. She checked on him from time to time. Maybe she was stopping by to nag him about something.

Bobby opened the door. The light spilled out into the night, illuminating a...leprechaun? He blinked, but the image stayed the same. Short guy wearing a green vest over a plaid shirt underneath an overcoat, reddish hair sticking out from under one of those caps old men wore.

“Ah, there ye are,” the leprechaun said in a distinctly Irish voice, giving Bobby a cocky grin. “Yer a tough feller to track down, laddie.”

“Excuse me?” Bobby peered around the little man and saw a black sedan, the kind with windows tinted so dark they weren’t legal in most states.

Suddenly, Bobby realized he’d seen that car—a Jaguar—around all week long, coasting past the construction site at odd times, the sleekness of the vehicle sticking out like a sore thumb.

He reached around his back, trying to be inconspicuous, trying to get a handle on the Glock.

The next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrel of a snub-nosed pistol. “Don’t think that’s the best idea, lad.” The leprechaun held out his other hand. “Nice and slow.”

“Who are you?” If Bobby was going to hand over his gun, the leprechaun owed him a name.

“The name’s Mickey.” Once he had Bobby’s Glock in hand, he added, “That’s a good lad. She said you were smart. I do hate to prove ʼer wrong.”

“What? She who?”

That got him another cocky grin. “Anyone else in here?” Mickey leaned in.

“No.” Even though Bobby knew he should be keeping his eye on this Mickey, Bobby found himself staring at the black sedan, thinking she?

“Keep yer cool and we’ll all be just fine.” Mickey winked at him. “Sit tight and remember—” he brandished the pistol in Bobby’s face again “—try anything funny and I’ll ʼave to break my promise to ʼer.”

“What promise was that?”

“Not to hurt ye—at least, until she said so.”

At this cryptic statement, Mickey pocketed both guns and turned back to the sedan. Still whistling, he opened the back door and held out a hand to the passenger.

A long feminine leg exited the vehicle, followed by a second equally impressive leg. Bobby’s pulse began to pound. Maybe he wasn’t about to be robbed. Maybe he was about to get lucky. Why else would legs like that be here at a time like this?

A gloved hand settled in Mickey’s and a woman cloaked in black stood up. Even at a distance, Bobby could see the blunt black bangs and the severe bob that was three inches longer on one side than on the other. Bobby’s pulse went from pounding to a dead standstill in the space between heartbeats.

Only one woman in the world looked like that.

Stella Caine.

Bobby rubbed his eyes, but the vision stayed the same.

Stella.

How was this possible?

She stood for a moment, her eyes taking in the construction site. Mickey offered her his elbow, and arm in arm, they walked up to the trailer.

Enchanting was all he could think as her hips swayed toward him. A long black fur coat almost swallowed her whole, except for the flash of leg that cut through the night with every other step. When she hit the circle of light that spilled out of his trailer, she looked up at him.

Her eyes, the palest of green, flashed at him. For all her edgy style, her eyes were something completely different—soft. Vulnerable, even.

“Hello, Bobby.”

A gust of wind blew between them like a warning. Bobby sensed immediately that, beyond the armed leprechaun, he was in danger. What had been cool and reserved in Stella the last time they’d met was nothing but arctic cold today. If she was happy to see him, she wasn’t letting on.

“Stella.” For a moment, he had no idea what else to say, which was something in and of itself. He always knew what to say, when to say it. It was his gift—the ability to read people and know exactly what they needed to hear. That gift had gotten him this far in life.

Apparently, it was going to fail him now. He didn’t want to say anything. He wanted to pull her into his arms and tell her he wasn’t going to let her out of his sight again.

But he knew that would probably get him shot. So the best he could come up with was, “Come in.” He stepped to the side as she brushed past him, the scent of lavender surrounding him.

Mickey didn’t follow her in. Instead, he leaned against the railing, oblivious to the winter temperature. “Keep yer cool,” he told Bobby with a small salute. “I’d hate to ʼave to bust in, all un-gentleman-like.”

What, did he think Bobby would do something to Stella? They’d already...well, they’d already spent time in each other’s company. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d hurt a woman. Bolton men took care of women.

For him, that usually meant that he made sure a woman was just as satisfied with their encounter as he was. He took care of her sexual needs, and she took care of his. Everyone went home happy.

But this? This wasn’t the same thing. Not even close.

With a final confused look at Mickey, Bobby shut the door and turned his attention back to the woman looking around his construction trailer with obvious disdain. Again, he knew he should say the right thing—New York was a hell of a long way from Sturgis, South Dakota, no matter how one went about it. But again, his mouth failed him.

“Can I...take your coat?”

Stella turned her back to him, but he saw her loosening the belt on her coat. He stepped forward and placed his hands on her shoulders.

The fur slipped off her and into his hands, revealing a sheer maroon lace that covered her arms and back but left nothing to the imagination. He stared at it for a moment before the pattern clicked into place—skulls. The lace formed tiny skulls. It was entirely ladylike and entirely out there—very Stella.

Below that, she’d sewn a leather corset. This continued down into a floor-length knit skirt that, from the back, seemed puritanical. Then she stepped free of him and he saw that the front of the skirt was divided by two long slits that went all the way up to her thighs.

Bobby’s pulse began to pound again. Only Stella Caine could pull off something that left her completely covered while still revealing so damn much. What was she doing here? And why did he still want her so badly?

He was taken with the sudden urge to kiss the back of her neck, right under the precise line of her hair. If he recalled correctly, he’d done the same thing once before, pinning her against a back door as they made their way out to the car.

He fought against that urge something fierce. The odds that Mickey would consider that “something funny” were too great. So Bobby hung her coat on the hook on the back of the door. “Would you like to have a seat?”

Her gaze cut a swath through the room before it landed on the couch at the other end of the trailer. He saw it now through her eyes. It was lumpy from where he’d slept on it and someone had spilled coffee on it at some point.

“Thanks, no,” she said in a crisp tone, her hands smoothing down her skirt.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Bobby glanced down at her feet. Black suede boots with more buckles, the heels had to be four inches if they were one. He had no idea how far she’d traveled today, but he couldn’t imagine that standing in those shoes were comfortable.

“Here. Let me get this for you.” His desk chair, at least, was relatively new leather.

He wheeled it over to her. With a nod of appreciation, she settled in—and crossed her legs. The slits of the dress did not contain her right leg. The boot went almost up to her knee, but there was something about the flash of skin, from knee to upper thigh, that was unbelievably erotic.

For lack of anything better to do, Bobby took up residence on the lumpy couch.

He needed to say something.

But as he sat across a cluttered construction trailer from the most enchanting woman he’d ever met, he had nothing. He didn’t know why she was here or what she wanted, which meant that he didn’t know what she needed to hear. All he knew was that his Glock was outside with an Irishman who probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Bobby with his own gun.

That, and he’d never been so glad to see a woman in his life. Which didn’t make sense, because she sure as hell didn’t seem all that glad to see him.

Finally, he couldn’t take the silence anymore. “Your dress is stunning.”

Her smile was stiff. “Thank you. I made it, of course.”

“Where did you find skull lace?”

When her eyes narrowed, he realized he’d said the wrong thing.

“I made it,” she repeated, her accent clipping the words.

“You made the lace?”

“It’s called tatting, if you must know. It’s my own design, my own creation.”

He stared at the fabric. From this distance, maybe ten feet, he couldn’t see the skulls. It fit her like a second skin. “Amazing.” He meant the lace, but he realized he was looking her in the eyes when he said it.

A pale blush graced her cheeks. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice softer. Then she dropped her gaze.

That, at least, had been the right thing to say. But he knew she hadn’t come all this way to fish for compliments. So he tried again.

“Mickey seems like an...interesting fellow. Have you known him long?”

“Since—a very long time.”

Okay, so they weren’t going to talk about Mickey. Which left him out of ideas. If she wasn’t going to give him anything to go on, what could he do?

Luckily, Stella saved him from himself. “This is lovely,” she said, looking around the trailer again. She managed to sound ironic and humorous and cutting.

“Isn’t it?” he said, relieved to have a conversational opening. “Nothing but the best. I have a condo downtown,” he felt compelled to add. “But that’s just until the resort is finished. I’m going to live on-site when it’s done.”

Man, this was not going well. That came out as if he was trying too hard. Which he was. Confusion did that to a man.

Where was the smooth? Where was the ability to talk to anybody, anytime, anywhere? Where was the man who hadn’t been able to keep his hands off this very woman?

He didn’t like feeling this off balance. It was unfamiliar and unsettling.

“You haven’t been to your flat in a week.”

Bobby gaped at her. What did she want? Obviously, she hadn’t come all this way just to stalk him into making awkward small talk.

“I’ve been working on the resort. Would you like to see the blueprints?” He sounded lame, even to his own ears, but he was desperate to establish some sort of connection with her.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she stared him down.

God, he wished he could make sense of that look—angry and frustrated, as if she was barely clinging to her better manners. But underneath all of that, he sensed something else churning in her delicate eyes.

She was worried.

Finally, she moved. She wiped a black fingernail down the side of her lip, as if she’d eaten something she found distasteful. Then she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and launched a verbal grenade into the middle of the room.

“I’m pregnant.”

Two

Her words blew Bobby to shreds. Had she just said—pregnant?

She was staring at him, her face nearly blank as she waited for a response. What the hell was he supposed to say? His mouth opened, ready to ask who the father was, but the part of him that was good at talking knew that was the exact wrong thing to say.

Underneath her careful blankness, he could see she wasn’t just worried—she was scared. Scared of what he was going to say, what he was going to do. But she seemed determined not to let him see that.

Well, that made two of them.

Then he realized. Whatever the truth was—and he was sure as hell going to get to that—she believed he was the father. That was, hands down, the most terrifying thought he’d ever had.

No one had ever said, “Bobby, you’ll make a great dad someday.” Instead, they usually told him to grow up. His brothers said those exact words all the time.

Kids were...messy. Loud. Unreasonable. Prone to screaming for no good reason. Demanding.

Bobby liked things his way. He liked staying out late, sleeping in later. He liked not having to rush home. He liked not having to step over toys or change diapers. Maybe all that stuff suited his brothers, but not him.

He wasn’t father material. He was a businessman and a damn good one. He was focused on making his resort the biggest draw in all of South Dakota. Hell, in either Dakota. And if things went as planned, there could be a chain of Crazy Horse Resorts across the West. A family wasn’t in his plans.

Until now. Maybe.

He chose his words carefully. “I thought...we used protection. Both times.”

At first, Stella didn’t appear to move, but then he noticed that her chest rose and fell with bigger and bigger gulps of air. Finally she said, “We did.”

Then how did she know he was the father? That was the question Bobby was dying to ask, but it probably wouldn’t ever be the right thing to ask.

“I believe,” she went on, her words precise and careful, “that the second condom failed. And that we were too sloshed to appreciate that fact.”

“Oh.” He tried to think. He’d had a couple of drinks in the bar, then they’d gotten a bottle of champagne to go. He didn’t remember being drunk. He just remembered the way she’d unleashed an amazing amount of sexual energy on him. No amount of alcohol could touch that memory.

He ran his hands through his hair. He was coming apart at the seams, but she sat there, as calm as if she’d just announced that she’d like a nice pinot noir with dinner. He was so glad she was here—he’d done nothing but think of her for months. But...pregnant? Looking at him with such disdain?

He wanted to see her, but with that wry smile on her face. He wanted to make her laugh, to feel her body under his hands.

Bobby made a snap decision. He still wasn’t sure exactly what she wanted from him, but he knew one thing. She didn’t belong here, not where camera crews and construction workers came and went. She needed someplace private, someplace more fitting to this situation.

He stood so quickly that she startled. “We should go.”

“Go?”

“Back to my place. We can get this—” he managed not to say “mess” “—we can get things sorted out there. You’ll be much more comfortable—it’s nicer, more private.”

“No cameras?”

It was the first time he heard a note of undisguised worry in her voice. It only made him want to protect her. “No,” he quickly agreed. “No cameras.”

Cameras would only make his worst fear come true sooner rather than later. The reason he hadn’t tracked down Stella, despite being unable to think of any other woman for two whole months? Because he was in no mood to find out exactly how quickly David Caine could ruin his life.

Hell, if Caine even knew his daughter was here, much less that she was pregnant—it would be all over. The show, the money to build the resort. He couldn’t risk losing everything he’d worked for.

He moved to the door but made sure to open it slowly. “Mickey? Can you come in here?”

Although the little man had been standing out in the cold for close to twenty minutes, he didn’t show it. True, he had his hands in his pockets, but Bobby got the feeling that was more to keep a grip on the guns than to warm his extremities.

Mickey nodded and stepped into the trailer. “Everything all right?” he asked Stella, who was now standing, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Yes.”

“I wanted to confirm with you that it’d be best to move this conversation to a more private location—my condo. That way, Stella will be in an environment she’ll find more comfortable.”

Mickey looked confused. “He always talk like that?” he asked Stella.

“Not always,” she murmured, dropping her gaze again.

Bobby hadn’t meant to talk as if he was closing a deal with Mickey. It had just happened. Second nature.

Mickey looked to Stella, who nodded.

“You can follow me,” Bobby said, getting Stella’s coat.

“No worries, laddie.” Mickey’s impish grin was back. “I know where ye live.” He turned back to Stella.

“I’ll ride with Bobby.”

If this announcement surprised Mickey, he didn’t show it. Instead, he nodded. “See you there.” Still whistling, he headed out toward his vehicle. With Bobby’s gun still in his pocket.

Bobby knew what that meant.

He still had to keep his cool.

* * *

Bobby had a very nice car, a fire-engine-red Corvette. It fit with Stella’s mental image of him as a consummate player. He’d certainly been one the night they’d met, his blond hair slicked back, the custom-fit gray suit over a white shirt—no tie, though. He’d looked as if he’d belonged at that party—as if he would have belonged at any party—whereas she’d been deeply uncomfortable even just sitting off to the side.

She couldn’t reconcile his reaction to her announcement, though.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to do when she told him he’d fathered the baby growing in her belly.

No, that wasn’t true. If she was being honest with herself, she’d expected him to tick down the reasons why he couldn’t possibly be the father, why it had to be someone else. Or maybe she’d thought he’d flat out say that, even if it was his—which it wasn’t—he would have nothing to do with it. With her.

But he hadn’t. He’d just asked a few clarifying questions. Then suggested he drive her home.

Which he was doing now. They sat in the car in silence. Stella wanted him to say something. The only problem was, she didn’t know what she wanted to hear.

“Have you been here all week?”

His sudden question made her jump. Of course, at this point, she was already jumpy. Something about being unwed and pregnant had her on edge.

“Ah, no. I arrived on Wednesday.” She wanted to look at him again, but sitting in the car made that awkward. Besides, looking at him did some...odd things to her. She pushed aside the fluttery emotions that had her glad to see him. She wasn’t here for him. She was here for the baby. “Mickey drove out last week. He decided that Friday night would be the best time to catch you. I didn’t think so, but he insisted.”

“Thought I’d be out on the town?”

That’s exactly what she’d thought, but she didn’t want to admit it. Instead, she redirected. “I learned a long time ago to trust Mickey’s instincts.”

“Does your father know where you are?”

Even though they were in a dark car and Bobby wasn’t looking at her, she kept her face blank. Years of training were impossible to override. It always came back to David Caine, sooner or later.

What would her father do when he found out about her condition? Would he insist she get married and hope no one counted the months? Would he publicly disown her and cut her off? Her fashion design business had a few loyal clients, but she couldn’t cover the rent on her flat in SoHo by herself. Even though her father hadn’t been there for her, he did pay the bills for both her and Mickey. Most of the time, it was the only connection between them. She didn’t want to know how far her father would go to protect his “good” name.

“No. I’d prefer to keep it that way.”

“Understood.”

She heard him exhale, saw his hand clench the steering wheel far too tightly as the car turned through a grand apartment complex. No doubt he had a laundry list of reasons to keep this from her father, too. Bobby pressed a button and a subterranean garage door opened. Then they pulled underneath the building.

After he put the car in Park, he got out and came around the side to open her door. He even held out his hand for her. She didn’t know if he did it because he’d seen Mickey do it or if this was how he treated all the women he brought back to his place. That thought sent a spike of pain through her, though, so she pushed it aside as she stood.

He didn’t let go of her hand. They stood there, her hand in his, less than a foot of space between them. Heat flared—the same heat that had gotten her into this fine mess. Why had she let something as ridiculous as desire ruin everything? She should pull away, break this connection between them. She should have pulled away two months ago, too.

Despite her heeled boots, he was still tall enough she had to look up at him. His sandy-blond hair was tousled, week-old scruff on his jaw, his eyes a tad bloodshot. Not quite the player from her memory, but his mussed state didn’t detract from his handsomeness. Instead, it made him more real.

And he hadn’t yet told her this was her problem to deal with.

Stella’s throat caught with unexpected emotion. For some ridiculous reason, she wanted to thank him for not rejecting her outright. Ludicrous hormones, she thought, shaking off the feeling. Just because he hadn’t kicked her to the curb yet didn’t mean he still wouldn’t. He was just in shock, that was all.

And the fact that she felt that same pull—the one that had started all the trouble to begin with...? How she’d been drawn to his wide smile? How, even though she knew she had no business flirting with a man in a club, she’d been unable to resist him—his laugh, his touches? She’d tried to tell herself that she just needed a little fun and he fit the bill, but she wasn’t sure that was true anymore—if it had ever been. She’d had no intention of picking up a man that night. But he’d changed everything from the very moment his smile had sent flashes of heat across her body.

That was all irrelevant now. She was not here for him, no matter how handsome he looked or how stunningly good he had made her feel two months ago. She was here for the baby.

Then he said something that took everything she thought she understood about the situation and turned it upside down.

“It’s really great to see you again.”

She froze, afraid to move, afraid to break the spell of the moment. Why on earth would he say that? It couldn’t be because he was actually thrilled by her pronouncement. No, there was too much fear in his eyes for that, despite the admirable job he was doing of hiding it.

What if that was what he thought he had to say? What if the fear wasn’t so much because she was expecting, but because of who she was—David Caine’s daughter? What if he was being a gentleman about this because he was afraid of what her father would do when he found out?

She couldn’t keep this quiet forever. Even if she managed to avoid her father for the duration of her pregnancy—which would probably be easy enough—sooner or later someone would notice that she was packing around an infant to photo shoots. Sooner or later, Mickey would break.

The time would come when she’d have to deal with her father. She wanted—needed—to deal with Bobby first. If she didn’t have everything arranged... Bobby’s promise to keep her secret was first. She’d like to get a promise of support from him, too, but she wasn’t about to set up the baby for the heartbreak of being rejected by a father. She’d had enough of that for one lifetime.

In the middle of this thought, Bobby’s other hand brushed under her chin and he kissed her cheek.

Stella heard herself say, “Even though...?”

It sounded pathetic and needy and everything she didn’t want to be. Everything she wasn’t, by God.

“Even though,” he agreed, the scruff on his chin scratching her cheek. Then he seemed to realize that, despite the fact that he’d promised comfort and privacy, they were still standing in a minimally heated, semipublic car park. “Come on.”

He tucked her hand under his arm, a perfectly chivalrous thing to do under the circumstances. But she felt the heat flow between them. She remembered how he’d acted in the club—suave, sophisticated. Fun. Sexy. Tonight he was...different. Even more appealing.

No.

She’d made that mistake once. She couldn’t let her attraction to him cloud her thinking again.

He led her past a rather dramatic, electric-blue motorbike and to an elevator. “That yours?”

He nodded as they waited for the doors to open. “Built it myself. But I don’t ride it when it’s this cold. Probably won’t take it out until April. It’s been winterized.”

The doors opened and they stepped in. The whole time, he kept his grip on her hand.

They rode to the top in silence.

Even though.

Even though she’d been foolish enough to get pregnant. Even though she’d been foolish enough to break one of her long-standing rules about clubs and parties and men and sex. Even though she was David Caine’s daughter, for crying out loud, he was still glad to see her.

Sure, they’d had a lovely time at that party, an even lovelier time in her car afterward. In fact, it had been fun. Not just the sex—and that had been amazing—but the whole evening, from the very moment she’d seen him.

The music had been far too loud, of course, but that had given her a good reason not to talk to anyone. From her perch at the bar, she’d had an excellent view of the front door and was busy mentally preparing what she would say to her father when he came in. But Bobby had walked in instead, his blond hair and light gray suit standing out in the sea of New York black. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him.

Which had been why he’d caught her staring. She remembered the first moment, the way his face had registered shock—no, surprise. Excitement. She couldn’t remember the last time someone had been excited to see her.

Bobby had kept his eyes on her as he made the rounds of the club. He had been popular, that she could tell. He chatted with everyone—a handshake, a slap on the back, a joke, from the looks of all the laughing. But his gaze had always returned to her. And once he’d made his rounds, he’d made his way to her.

She’d braced herself for the come-on—for him to say, “So you’re David Caine’s daughter—I had no idea you were so beautiful,” or something ridiculous like that. She’d heard them all and had long since learned not to take the so-called compliments personally.

But the line hadn’t come. “I have a feeling there’s more to that dress than the front,” he’d said, leaning in close so he didn’t have to shout over the music.

Her dress. The one she’d designed.

So she’d stood and done a small turn for him, feeling ridiculous. Until she’d gotten back around, facing him, and had seen something unexpected on his face.

Appreciation.

He’d been close enough to touch her then, but he hadn’t. He’d waited until she’d given him the permission that came with her touching the seams of his suit—that came with her running her hands over his shoulders and down his back.

She shouldn’t have touched him, shouldn’t have allowed him to touch her back. Small touches that had set her head spinning, clever observations that had made her laugh. A drink. His hand around her waist, leaning in close to whisper. His lips grazing her ear, then abandoning all pretense, his teeth scraping her lobe.

Her, saying, “Would you like to get out of here?”

She should have stopped it then.

But she hadn’t wanted to. He’d been a stranger—only when she’d done a little digging over the next few days, wondering if the wonderful man from the club would look her up or not had she realized who he was. A reality-TV star. On her father’s network. Which meant he’d signed a contract with her father’s world-famous morals clauses.

So she’d stopped digging. Ignorance was bliss and she had no intention of harming him. She’d let that night live on in one perfect memory.

Then she’d missed her period.

Now, here she was again, knowing it was foolish to want him and wanting him all the same. He was glad to see her. And she wanted another moment of connection, of impulse. Of doing something she wanted for no other reason than she wanted to. She hadn’t stopped wanting it. Not since she’d refused to give him her number, not since she’d missed her period and not since she’d gotten the positive test result.

But she didn’t want to feel that pull again. Wanting Bobby would only muck up the works. She’d convinced herself the drinks had given that evening such a rosy glow. Faced with the decidedly nonlovely prospect of a squalling, shrieking baby, Bobby would do what any good player would do. He’d turn tail and run.

But he hadn’t.

Maybe he’d wait until he knew which way the wind was blowing—until he knew what her father would do. He hadn’t gotten to where he was by being a shoddy businessman, after all.

She wasn’t here to destroy Bobby by bringing her father’s wrath down on him. Why would she? For one night, in Bobby’s arms, she’d felt free. Beautiful. Loved.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. She should have gone straight to her father, claimed she had no idea who her baby’s father was and insisted that she would raise the child on her own. Her father would have been unable to connect her and Bobby. She thought. But she couldn’t be positive. As one of the richer men in England, David Caine had plenty of resources to backtrack her movements for months at a time.

And that, more than anything, was why she was here. If she was going to bring the dogs of her father’s conservative-marriage war down on Bobby, she at least owed him a warning. Her baby was his, too.

Bobby ushered her down a long hallway and unlocked a door that looked just like all the other doorways they’d passed. He went in first and turned on the lights before closing the door after her.

“Here we are.”

Stella took as deep a breath as she could in this bodice and stepped into Bobby’s home. The place was quiet, with no signs that anyone had been here in a great while.

“Yes. Lovely.”

The apartment wasn’t what she’d expected, but that was starting to be a running theme when it came to Bobby. The lines were sharp, the colors—shades of gray and white, with splashes of vivid red abstract paintings for accent—were bold. The furnishings wouldn’t be out of place in a New York loft—much like the one she lived in. None of those hideous overstuffed recliners that Americans seemed so fond of. Instead, a black leather seating group was tastefully arranged. The dining table was polished black glass, big enough to seat eight, with only a small picture frame set on one end. The whole place was spotless, nary a mote of dust to be seen. It looked as if he could host a cocktail party at a moment’s notice.

This space was something he’d clearly put a great deal of thought into. Suddenly, she wished she’d taken him up on his offer to look at the blueprints for his resort.

He moved to stand behind her, and she quickly undid the belt of her coat. Her fur skimmed down her shoulders, as sensual a feeling as she’d had in the past two months. She could feel Bobby’s warm breath on the back of her neck. All she wanted to do was lean back into his arms and feel his body pressed against hers. Could he tell? Did he know the effect he had on her? He might. He’d kissed her there before, after she’d made the impulsive decision to have a little fun, for once.

It was an impulse she should have ignored.

The coat pulled free of her arms, leaving her shivering. Which she tried to convince herself was due to the sudden change in core body temperature—not the memory of Bobby kissing her. Then Bobby’s hand was on the small of her back, guiding her toward the kitchen.

“Have you eaten?”

“Beg pardon?”

She saw the hint of a smile—warm and inviting—curve up the corners of his mouth. “I haven’t had dinner. I’ll make us something.”

There it was again, that odd feeling that she couldn’t quite name. Was he being his charming self or...was he taking care of her? It was the same feeling she’d gotten when he’d wheeled his desk chair out for her in that terrible trailer.

No one, aside from Mickey, had taken care of her since her mother died seventeen years ago. Stella had only been eight. By now, the memories of her mother were hazy around the edges, so much so that Stella was no longer sure what had happened and what she’d created. But she had fond memories—memories she clung to—of Claire Caine wrapping her in a fluffy towel after a nice bath, drying her off, helping her into her favorite pair of Hello Kitty pajamas and tucking her into bed with a long story. Claire had done all the voices, too.

Stella had felt warm and safe and loved. Very much loved.

Then it had all gone away.

She blinked away the memories of the cold years that had followed Claire’s death. Bobby was rummaging around in a rather large icebox. If he hadn’t been home for a week, what on earth did he have in there that would be edible? Just thinking about it made her delicate stomach turn.

She backed out of the kitchen before any punishing scents could assault her nose. The morning sickness—a comical term if she’d ever heard one—had been manageable all day, unlike the day she’d flown out here. She’d spent all of Wednesday and most of Thursday in bed at the hotel, sipping ginger ale and nibbling dry toast.

“Beg pardon, but where’s the loo?”

His arms full, Bobby’s head popped up. “The what? Oh, yes. Sorry. Last door down the hall. Feel free to look around.”

It’s not as if she would snoop, really. He had given her permission to at least open a door or two.

So after she used the loo, she opened. One room had a pool table in it; another had a rather large telly and stadium seating. The third had a crisply made bed that was so large it had to be a California king.

Did he have someone sleeping in it with him? Perhaps he was the sort of fellow who brought home a different girl every night. It was entirely possible, after all. All she really knew about him was that he was the sort of fellow who left a club and had sex in a car.

When she walked back into the kitchen, the smell of food—eggs and cheese, bacon and veg—hit her. Suddenly, she was ravenous.

Bobby stood at a small island, whisking something. He had a dish towel draped over one shoulder, a chopping board and a knife in front of him. She could see a stove with several pans heating behind him. He seemed completely at ease doing all of this—not fumbling about, as she might have expected.

“Smells delicious.”

His head popped up, a pleased smile on his face. “Veggie frittata and bacon.”

“You...cook?” It wasn’t the most diplomatic statement, but perhaps they were past the point of diplomacy. “No offense.”

“None taken.” His grin seemed heartfelt. “It doesn’t mesh with my image, does it?”

“Not really.”

“Promise me you won’t tell my brothers, okay? They don’t place a lot of value on cooking.”

Ah, yes. The brothers. His show, The Bolton Biker Boys, was about the whole family. The press release she’d found said so. She didn’t watch telly much and hadn’t looked him up on YouTube—couldn’t bear to watch her father’s shows and know that he’d spent more time on them than he had with her. “Then how did you pick it up?”

“I spent more time with Mom,” he replied, checking on a pan. He flipped something—peppers?—before continuing. “Billy’s eight years older than me, Ben’s five. They were always off doing their own thing while I was still in grade school. Mom would pick me up from school, then we’d head home and get dinner ready together.”

Part of her chest started to hurt. The whole thing—a sweet mum to cook and talk with, to spend time with—that’s what she didn’t have. What she’d always wanted. “Do you still cook with her?”

His back still to her, he froze. “She died. When I was eighteen.”

“I was eight. When my mum passed.”

The words escaped her lips before she quite knew she was saying them. She didn’t tell people about Claire. She’d long ago learned that talking about her mother was something not to be tolerated, as if speaking of her would sully her. Her father claimed it hurt too much. Maybe seeing Stella had made him hurt too much, too. Maybe that was why she rarely saw him at all. That had hurt almost as much as her mum’s death—being ignored by her father, foisted off to boarding schools and Mickey.

She’d already pushed aside the hurt again—it was easy when one had as much practice as she had—but the next thing she knew, Bobby had set his bowl down, come around the island and wrapped her in a strong hug. The contact was so unexpected—so much—that Stella felt rooted to the spot. People didn’t usually touch her. Even Mickey just offered her his arm. Her father hadn’t touched her in years. Decades. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been touched like this.

No, she took that back. She could remember. Bobby was the last person who’d put his arms around her. The last person to hold her. As if she meant something to him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his hands pressed firmly against her back. “That must have been really hard on you.”

Her throat closed up, pushing Stella toward tears. Where the bloody hell was all this emotion coming from?

Ah, yes. Hormones. She was pregnant, after all.

“Thank you,” she managed to say without bawling.

After a small squeeze, Bobby leaned back. “You okay?”

“Fine, yes.”

She managed to push the sorrow back down. What she needed to do here was focus not on the unchangeable past, but the very changeable future. She was pregnant. She’d do anything to make sure her child didn’t suffer the same joyless fate she had.

Bobby let go of her and turned back to the stove. Heavens, the food smelled delicious. Part of her wanted to just enjoy this moment. He was making her dinner. He’d comforted her when she’d gotten upset. Wouldn’t it be lovely if this were something she could look forward to on a regular basis? Wouldn’t having someone to rely on—someone besides Mickey, that was—be just...wonderful?

It was a shame it wasn’t going to happen, Stella thought as Bobby flipped slices of bacon. He was being delightful now because it was a wise business maneuver. In no way, shape or form was this an indicator of things to come, no matter how nice it was. She hadn’t come for a husband. She’d come because it was the proper thing to do, to warn him. To give him a chance.

That’s all she wanted for their baby. A chance.

Quickly, Bobby had plated up slices of omelet and bacon and added buttery toast browned in the oven. “I don’t have any tea,” he said apologetically as the coffeepot brewed.

“No worries. This smells amazing.”

He carried the plates over to the table, setting them down next to each other. The table was empty, save for the picture frame she’d noticed when she’d first entered the flat, but he’d set the plates right next to each other, anyway. Close enough to touch, really. The proximity felt cozy.

Then she saw the picture in the frame.

Three

As Bobby set down the plates, the coffeemaker beeped. He hoped the coffee would be okay. His sister-in-law, Josey, hadn’t been able to touch the stuff when she’d been pregnant. The smell had bothered her.

It wasn’t until he was carrying the cups to the table that he realized what Stella was doing.

Holding the photo. Studying the photo.

“This is...us,” she said in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper.

Immediately, Bobby knew why Stella was here. It wasn’t just that she was pregnant, although that was a huge part of it. That one word was why she was here. To see if there were an us.

Damn.

If this were a normal negotiation, Bobby would do whatever it took to give Stella what she wanted. But...us?

She hadn’t wanted an us. She’d made that blisteringly clear with her “don’t call me, I won’t call you” attitude. And once he knew who she was, he couldn’t really blame her. If David Caine were his father, he’d do everything in his power to avoid irritating the man. Bobby had abided by her wishes. He’d not taken her out to lunch the next day, not tracked her down in the past two months.

He should have. If he’d had any idea she was pregnant, he would have. He fought the urge to drop everything and pull her into his arms. Again. The pull to protect her was overwhelming. But then, the pull to track her down had been, too.

This—the pregnancy, his need for her—was a problem.

He did not have time to drop everything and start playing house with anyone, let alone Stella Caine. Maybe in a few years, sure. The resort would be turning a profit, he’d have his penthouse apartment...then he might like to have someone in his bed who set his blood racing and made him laugh. But now?

So he did the next best thing. He told her only part of the truth.

“I get snapshots of all the celebrities I meet. I have a whole wall of them at the shop.” All true. Nothing wrong with anything he’d just said. “It’s good for our brand image—creates desirability.” When she didn’t say anything, he felt compelled to keep talking. “It’s a good shot.”

It was. Bobby had his arm around Stella’s waist, but she had her back turned to the camera, revealing that swath of creamy skin left bare by the backless dress. She looked at the camera over her shoulder, a wicked pixie grin on her face. Her eyes bright, her hands rested on Bobby’s chest.

What the camera didn’t show was that, seconds before the paparazzi had snapped the photo, Bobby had been kissing her in that delicate spot right beneath her ear. The photo also didn’t show them bailing on the club entirely about twenty minutes later. But he remembered those things every time he looked at the photo.

Stella touched the glass with the tip of her finger. “Why is it here, then?”

“Excuse me?”

Stella leveled those beautiful eyes at him. “It’s been eight weeks. You haven’t hung it yet.”

“I really haven’t gotten into the shop much.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the truth, either. Because the truth was, every time he looked at Stella’s bright eyes, he remembered the feeling of her lithe body in his arms, the way she’d lowered herself onto him with a ferocity that had blown his mind, the way she’d curled into his chest after the first time, her wicked grin all the more wicked with sated knowledge.

It should have been just sex. Great sex, but just sex. However, in the course of one evening, he’d found himself matching wits with a cultured, refined woman who subtly pushed his boundaries while she made him laugh. He’d been with a lot of women, but none had made him feel like Stella had. It was something he couldn’t quite explain, not even to himself. When he was with another woman—any other woman, now that he thought about it—they were there to have a good time, but also...because he could offer them something—a little PR, another good tweet. But Stella hadn’t been interested in mutual promotion and satisfaction. She’d been interested in him.

If he’d hung the photo on the wall in the shop, mixed in with all the other photos of famous people—some of whom he’d also slept with—then that would have meant that she was just like all the rest of them.

And she wasn’t.

“Dinner’s getting cold,” was all he could say.

He held her chair for her. By the time he’d settled into his own chair, close enough to touch her, she was half done with the omelet. “This is excellent,” she told him after she washed down another bite with coffee.

“Glad you liked it. Have you had a lot of morning sickness?”

Still chewing, she shrugged. “Some. The flight out...” She grimaced, her hand fluttering over her waist.

He nodded in sympathy. “Have you seen a doctor?”

She paused, as if she wanted to retreat behind that icy silence she’d first confronted him with. Then her shoulders relaxed. The bacon seemed to help. “Yes, two weeks ago. I’m eight weeks along, due on June 24.”

A date—even one in the middle of next year—was something concrete and real. All he could do was stare at his coffee as he repeated the date in his head. June 24. The date he’d be a father.

This was really happening.

“What do you want?”

It wasn’t until the words were out that he realized he’d said them.

They were the wrong words—too much of an ultimatum—but he couldn’t take them back. He’d spent approximately seven total hours in the company of Stella Caine. Seven hours wasn’t long enough to base the rest of his life on.

Plus, she was David Caine’s daughter. All of Bobby’s plans—the television show, the destination resort, the chance to finally prove himself to his family? David Caine could change all of that, if he saw fit. This wasn’t just about Bobby and Stella. This was something that affected the entire Bolton family.

He felt the icy wall Stella put up between them even before she set down her fork. She stood and walked across the room, the distance between them growing.

“It’s not about what I want, not anymore.” She looked out the patio door that led to a small balcony. “I won’t complain about the lot I’ve drawn, but if I have this child, I need certain assurances about her future.”

If.

So maybe Bobby wasn’t ready to be a father. He might never actually be ready.

But he was a Bolton, by God, and there was one thing the Bolton men valued above all else—family. His father had married his mother when they were both seventeen, after Mom had gotten pregnant with Billy. Through the ups and downs of twenty-five years of marriage and motorcycles, the family had always come first.

If Bobby was going to be a father to Stella’s child, then she was already family. For it to be any other way was unthinkable. Stella was giving him a chance to do the right thing here. He just had to man up and...

Marry her.

Make sure the baby was a Bolton, through and through.

This realization hit him harder than any punch ever had. Honest to God, his knees went weak and his vision blurred. Married. Oh, hell.

Stella was still staring out the window, thankfully. She hadn’t seen his reaction. But she was probably expecting a reasonable response.

“What kind of assurances?”

He saw her reflection in the glass take a deep breath, but that was the only outward sign of her mental state. Otherwise, she was an unreadable wall.

“I will not have a child who is used as a pawn or a child who is not loved by her father. I’d rather she never know you exist than that she live life knowing she wasn’t wanted.”

That statement hung out there, practically icing over the glass with its frostiness. Something in the way she said it hit Bobby in a different way.

David Caine was world famous for being conservative—a staunch proponent of abstinence-only education, marriage between one man and one woman and no abortions—not even in cases of rape or incest. He believed in these rules and others so that when Bobby had signed on the dotted line for The Bolton Biker Boys, he’d also agreed to an extensive morals clause. David Caine believed there was such a thing as bad publicity, apparently, and he enforced a strict rule of law on what constituted “bad publicity.” Which included almost everything that would land a man on TMZ or any other gossip site.

Which included getting his daughter pregnant out of wedlock.

Not that this particular situation was outlined in the contract, but Bobby had a feeling David Caine would do a whole lot more than just terminate Bobby’s contract with FreeFall TV. He thought of Mickey, who still had Bobby’s Glock. Hell, he’d be lucky if David Caine didn’t terminate him, period.

He didn’t like the distance she’d put between them, the cold words she’d just said. It wasn’t as if he wanted her sobbing and hysterical, but this detachment? No. He wasn’t having any of it.

So they barely knew each other. So this development could blow all of his carefully laid plans to bits, probably hers, as well. That didn’t change the facts—they’d met, felt an instant chemistry and followed up on it. He hadn’t been able to hang her picture on the wall with all the others.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.

No, the one thing he knew was that she’d been wrong in the back of her car, when she’d kissed him instead of giving him her number and told him it was better this way.

Her way was not better.

Time to try it his way.

He went to her, folded her into his arms and kissed the spot on the back of her neck.

Her skin was cool against his lips, her body ramrod stiff in his arms. She was going to fight him on this, fight to maintain her icy detachment. I don’t think so, he thought as he kissed his way around her neck until he got to that special spot, the one just below her ear, half hidden by a silver earring. When he traced the area with his tongue, she shuddered.

For a brief moment, her back arched. Her bottom pushed against him. Yes, he thought. Unleash that energy on me.

But then she pulled away from him and said, “Stop.”

Bobby froze. But he didn’t let her go. Instead, he held her even tighter, hoping the steel would leave her body. He let his hands skim over her body until they rested on her stomach. Between the leather bodice of her dress and the fact that she wasn’t very far along, he would never have guessed she was pregnant. But if she’d already seen a doctor, then it was a fact.

He felt the smooth plane of her body—a body that held his child. “Is that what you want? This baby to never know my name? To never know that I loved her?”

She sucked in a hard breath, as if Bobby had slapped her. “This isn’t about what I want,” she said again. But she didn’t sound as if she believed it. “This is about what’s best for everyone involved.”

Damn it, he was done with her forced detachment. They weren’t discussing stock options or a merger or whatever she and her father talked about around the dinner table. This was a life—a baby-to-be—theirs.

Careful not to hurt her, he turned her in his arms as he backed her up against the glass doors. Although she moved, her body was not the soft, welcoming thing he dreamed of at night.

She refused to meet his gaze, though, so once he had her secure, he lifted her chin until she looked him in the eyes. No mistaking it this time—she was terrified of what he might say. “I don’t care what ‘everyone’ thinks is best. I only care about what you want.”

He saw the doubt flash over her eyes right before she shut them. “It’s better this way.”

She sounded as though she was on the verge of tears, but Bobby didn’t care. He wanted to know that she cared—one way or the other.

“Better for who?”

He kissed her, just a touch of two lips.

Just a promise.

Then, in a flash, the cold steel melted from her body. She laced her arms around his neck and pulled him down as her mouth opened, her tongue hesitantly tracing his lips.

He couldn’t deny it. He needed her.

He hadn’t really stopped needing her, not since that night two months ago. She hadn’t been far from his mind, despite the long hours and the crazy schedule and the determination that everything would be perfect.

As she warmed against him, his body responded. For every degree she softened, he got that much harder, that much hotter, until his skin was on fire, desperate to feel hers against him.

It had not been an accident, the first time. The chemistry between them was electric, shocking him again with how strong it was. He wanted to bury himself in her body, to feel the force of her desire unleashed on him again.

Except he had no idea how to get her out of this dress.

He pulled back. Desire warmed her features and she looked up at him through thick black eyelashes. Oh, yeah, that was the woman he’d lost himself in two months ago—sensual, witty, aware of the power she held over him and not afraid to give him a little power over her.

God, he was so glad she was here. He wanted to keep her here—if he didn’t, she might slip away from him and he didn’t think he could handle that a second time.

He kissed her again, letting his tongue trace her lips—tasting what he’d missed. He’d missed her in a way that didn’t make a damn bit of sense. He never got involved. He’d never wanted a relationship—certainly had never wanted to be a father.

But something about her...

Her cell phone chirped from somewhere on the other side of the room. “Sorry,” she murmured as she moved away from him. “Mickey.”

Yeah, he’d sort of forgotten about the leprechaun.

Stella retrieved her cell phone from her coat pocket. “Yes? Yes. No.”

Bobby couldn’t hear both sides of the conversation, but he could guess. Mickey was somewhere nearby, waiting for the word to come in, shoot Bobby in the knee and swoop Stella away. Okay, so maybe he wouldn’t shoot Bobby—but he was here for Stella, one way or the other.

Bobby wasn’t ready for her to leave just yet.

He approached her, hand out for her phone. “May I?”

The look she gave him was almost comical—doubtful and confused and cold and yet still very much tinged with the desire that had reddened her lips.

“I just want to talk to him for a minute.”

“Yes—he’s here. He wants to talk.” Then she handed Bobby the phone.

“Keeping yer cool up there, laddie?”

Bobby gritted out a smile. “We’re doing well, thanks for asking. I’ve been thinking. I don’t know where Stella is staying, but if she’s coming and going at a hotel, the media might pick up on that. They might try to make a story out of it.”

“Is that so,” Mickey said in such a way that Bobby turned to glance out the patio doors, just to make sure the man wasn’t sitting on his small deck, weapon drawn.

“Yes. Perhaps it would be better for Stella’s long-term well-being if she stayed in a more secure location, at least through the weekend.”

Stella gave him a look—one eyebrow raised, lips pursed—that only made him want to kiss her again.

“Are ye speaking the queen’s English?”

Bobby grinned at Stella. “I think you should stay here for the weekend.”

“What?” Stella said.

“What?” Mickey echoed in his ear.

Bobby ignored Mickey. “Stay here with me,” he said to Stella. “Just until we can decide what’s best for everyone involved.”

“Oh.” Stella’s eyes were as wide as the moon.

“Saints help us all, that part I understood,” Mickey muttered. “Let me talk to me girl again.”

That last bit—me girl—struck Bobby as odd, but he didn’t press the issue. What Mickey needed in this negotiation was to know that he had fulfilled his duty to protect Stella. Anything Bobby did that cast doubt on her well-being was, more than likely, a permanent black mark against him.

“Absolutely.” He handed the phone back over, but he didn’t move out of earshot. Instead, he reached down and took Stella’s free hand in his.

“No, I didn’t—but it’s okay. Yes. Yes. If you think it’ll be all right...” She squeezed Bobby’s hand. “Fine.” She ended the call. “He’ll be by with my things.” The nervous look stole over her face again.

Bobby understood. After all, she’d just agreed to what had the potential to be a highly intimate weekend with someone who was little more than a stranger. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

But he could see by the look on her face that she was pleased he wasn’t pinning her against a wall and giving her no choice. Sort of like he’d done about ten minutes ago. And a lot like he wanted to do right now.

“It’s not a problem. But there’s still a lot we need to talk about. Right now, I only know a few things. I know that I met you eight weeks ago, that there was something between us—something good. I know that I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since then. I know that I’m glad to see you. I know that your father doesn’t know where you are and that we both want to keep it that way until we have a plan. I know you sew and make your own lace. But beyond that—”

He leaned forward, brushing the sharp angle of hair away from her cheekbone, marveling at the pale blush that sprang up wherever his fingertips touched. She could pretend that she was some sort of ice princess, but he knew better. Buried beneath her cold detachment was a woman whose blood ran as hot as his did.

“Beyond that, I don’t know you like I need to. That’s what I want to work on this weekend.”

This time, she didn’t look away, didn’t close her eyes. She met his gaze straight on. “What if it takes more than a weekend?”

If the baby was his, then they had all the time in the world. For Bolton men, family came first. Family was everything. Of course, he hadn’t quite figured out how that was going to work while he built a resort, produced a reality show and helped run a company.

That’s why he needed the weekend. That, and he wanted to keep her as close to him as possible.

He grinned and was rewarded with a smile that got so, so close to wicked. “Then we’ll make a damn good start.”

Four

Bobby drew her a bath. At first, Stella had scoffed when he’d offered to fill up the tub. But he’d done so, anyway, insisting that she should relax.

So here she sat, nude, stretched out in a tub that had jets. The water covered her body, the warmth seeping into her bones. The whole time, she was thinking, What am I doing?

Because taking a warm bath, sleeping in Bobby Bolton’s bed—even if he wasn’t in it with her—was not the plan. Although, with her stomach happily full and the bath doing an admirable job of making her sleepy, she was having trouble remembering what, exactly, the plan had been. Show up. Inform him of his contribution to her situation. Determine if he would be supportive of the child or not. Decide what she was going to do. Go home.

Alone.

But this? Soaking her toes in his bath? Sleeping in his very large bed? Eating the meal that he’d made for her? Seeing the photo of the two of them so prominently displayed on his table?

Feeling as if he cared for her?

No. How he made her feel—as if she was more than just an inconvenience to be dealt with, more than just a reminder of a painful mistake he’d made—this was a short-lived sensation and could not figure into her plans. It wouldn’t last. Aside from Mickey, bless his soul, no man had ever done a thing to take care of her. She had no reason to think that Bobby was any different. Not once the shock of the situation wore off, anyway.

Stella cradled her belly with her hands. She couldn’t tell if her body had changed—not on the outside, anyway. Inside, she was something of a mess.

Her world was carefully controlled to buffer her against the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Because she couldn’t bear another arrow. Better to feel nothing than to feel the pain that had been her constant companion since her mum’s death.

But Bobby...she felt things for Bobby. That was how she’d gotten into this fine mess in the first place—he made her feel things that she’d never felt before. Happy. Exuberant. Silly, even. She’d laughed with him in the club when he’d told a disparaging story about his brother breaking his jaw, and she’d giggled in his arms in the back of the car, and the orgasm she’d experienced brought forth a whole new range of feelings.

Now she was feeling things, things that she didn’t want to feel, because feelings were messy and unclear and hard to control.

She hadn’t lied to Bobby. She wouldn’t allow him to use the child as a pawn in negotiations with her father. Better that her baby never knew her father, if that’s how it was going to be. At least, that had been the plan. The life she had was not a life she wanted to pass on to another generation.

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