Practice Makes Pregnant Read online

  She’d never told her parents about that night; in fact, she’d never confided her darkest secret to anyone. Instead she avoided men and dressed in conservative clothes that played down her feminine features.

  Until the night she went to the fund-raiser and met Jorge.

  Had he been attracted to her because of the dress, glamorous hair and makeup? Or would he have wanted her if he’d first seen her in her conservative business suits?

  And was it only that she’d been feeling uncharacteristically reckless that night that she’d shed her fear of men and welcomed his touch? He’d slipped past her defenses without her once trying to stop him, she thought, and hadn’t ever triggered the panic that had made her avoid male contact.

  Too tired to work it out, she stripped off the suit jacket and skirt and hung them up in the large closet, slipped the silk sweater onto a padded hanger and crawled into bed. She was asleep almost instantly.

  She awoke several hours later. The afternoon was gone and the world outside the bedroom window was dark. Refreshed, Allison slipped from the bed and went into the bathroom. Her hair was tangled and she grimaced at the smudged makeup beneath her eyes and the lack of color on her lips and cheeks. She returned to the bedroom and took fresh underwear, a soft, blue cashmere sweater and jeans from the suitcase at the foot of the bed, carrying them with her back into the bathroom where she turned on the shower.

  She paused while stripping off her lace panties, arrested by the sight of diamonds glittering on her left hand. She kicked off her underwear and turned her hand in the light from the overhead fixture, admiring the gleam of diamonds and platinum.

  She was still bemused and amazed that Jorge had bought her such beautiful, obviously expensive rings. She didn’t think she’d ever seen an engagement ring and wedding band so appealing. Several moments went by before she shook herself and climbed into the shower.

  A half hour later she was feeling much better. Hair blown dry, makeup reapplied, dressed in clean, casual clothing, she left the bedroom and padded down the hall to the lamplit living room. A quick, sweeping glance told her that Jorge wasn’t there. But soft music and the sound of someone whistling came from the kitchen, and she crossed the living room to the doorway.

  Jorge stood in front of the stove, his back to her. Delta blues wailed softly from the CD player in a corner shelf unit, and he whistled in time with the saxophone. He wore blue jeans, faded and well-worn at stress points, with a white T-shirt tucked into the waistband. White socks covered his feet and his black hair gleamed, damp from a shower.

  He turned away from the stove, opening a drawer to take out a large spoon, and saw her. A slow smile curved his mouth, and Allison’s toes curled against the wood floor, her nerves tightening with anticipation.

  “Hi.” His voice was a shade deeper than usual, huskier.

  “Hi.” She couldn’t look away from the growing heat in his eyes. Her heart picked up a beat, thudding harder, faster.

  “I wondered if you were going to sleep the night through.”

  “What time is it?” She glanced around the kitchen, locating a digital readout on the microwave above the stove. The lit dials read ten minutes after eight. “It’s after eight o’clock? That can’t be right.”

  “Oh, but it is. You must have been worn-out. Did you sleep at all last night?”

  “Not very much. I didn’t go to bed until after eleven, and then tossed and turned until I finally gave up trying to sleep around 5:00 a.m.”

  “Did knowing we were getting married today keep you awake? Were you having second thoughts?”

  She could have lied to him and said no. But something about the direct question and his steady gaze made her respond in kind. “Yes.” A small frown creased his brow and his jaw tightened. “And no,” she hastened to add. “It wasn’t just getting married. It was everything, the baby, becoming a mother, getting married.” She broke off, gesturing helplessly. “I like to plan my life, and this has all happened so fast. I found out that I was pregnant and we decided to marry so quickly that I haven’t really had time to absorb all the changes that are sure to follow. I’m not sure I’m ready for all this.”

  He didn’t say anything, but his eyes narrowed in consideration. Silence stretched between them and Allison rushed in to fill it.

  “I don’t mean to sound negative or ungrateful. You’ve been terrific about this whole thing—wanting to be a father to our baby, making all the arrangements for the wedding, giving me beautiful rings. It’s just that I feel as if I’ve been swept up in a tornado and then set down again, with my life entirely changed. I’m sure I’ll adjust, but it will take a little time.” She pushed her fingers through her hair in agitation. “You seem so calm. Don’t you feel any of this?”

  “Sure.” His voice was level, his features unreadable to Allison. “But I’m not the one who’s pregnant. The books I’ve read all warn that a woman’s body goes through major changes when she’s pregnant and that those changes can cause emotional swings that seem manic. Do you think there’s a possibility that all of this will seem less overwhelming when your body adjusts to being pregnant?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.” She stared at him, arrested. “The books you’ve read? You’ve read books on pregnancy?”

  He shrugged, muscles flexing beneath the T-shirt, and streaks of color highlighting his cheekbones. “I thought I should read a few so I’d have a basic idea of what to expect.”

  “Oh.” Allison stared at him, a smile beginning. “That is so sweet, Jorge.”

  “It’s not sweet,” he growled. “I told you, I’m not sweet.”

  “Hmm.” She smiled more widely, delighted by his embarrassment. “If you say so.”

  The oven timer went off with a buzz and he turned to pull open the door and peer inside.

  “I think this is hot.” He put aside the spoon, picked up two hot pads and bent to take a casserole out of the oven.

  “What is it?” Allison crossed the tiled floor and peered around his shoulder at the bowl.

  Jorge lifted the lid, and a fragrant cloud of steam rose from the hot bowl. “The note said it was French something or other, but it looks like plain, old beef stew to me.”

  “It smells heavenly.”

  “Are you hungry?” Jorge looked down at her, but before she could respond, her stomach growled. She felt her face flush, and he laughed. “That answers that question. I’ll put this on the table. Would you grab the salad out of the fridge?”

  Allison pulled open the door of the well-stocked refrigerator, located the salad and carried it to the table.

  “This is lovely,” she said, assessing the glossy, cherry wood tabletop set with deep-blue placemats, china and silverware. A fresh flower arrangement provided a centerpiece. “Fresh flowers? Did you bring them from the city?”

  “No. I’m guessing that Mrs. Penny brought them when she stocked the refrigerator. She’s a great cook, and when I explained that we were on our honeymoon, she insisted that she provide ready-to-heat meals for us as well as stock the pantry. She must have decided we needed flowers, too.”

  “They’re beautiful.”

  The next hour flowed by so quickly that Allison forgot to worry about sharing a house and bed with Jorge. He told her interesting anecdotes about his life as a district attorney that fascinated and amused her, while she returned the favor with stories about law school classes and difficult professors that had him laughing with sympathy. After dinner they shared cleanup chores before wandering into the living room.

  “Do you feel like watching a movie? Ross has a bookcase filled with titles from almost every genre.” Jorge nodded at the small table in one corner. “Or we could play board games, if you like. Or,” he looked at her and lifted a brow. “We could play cards?”

  Allison pretended to consider his suggestions. “Hmm. I think I’d like to play cards.”

  “Good choice. You’ll find several decks of cards in the drawer in the game table. If you’ll find a pack for us, I’
ll light the fire and we can sit in front of the hearth.”

  “All right.”

  Jorge crossed the room and knelt in front of the fireplace to set a match to the kindling beneath the split wood. Allison realized that she was standing still, fascinated by the flexing and bunching of powerful thigh muscles as he bent one knee to lean forward and adjust a log. She shook herself and determinedly crossed to the small table, pulled open the shallow drawer beneath the parquet surface and found an unopened pack of cards.

  By the time she reached the fireplace, flames were licking at the kindling and the bottoms of the logs, and Jorge had taken pillows from the sofa and tossed them on the floor.

  “This is nice,” Allison commented, dropping on to the thick oriental rug that covered the polished wooden floor in front of the raised stone hearth.

  “Yeah, it is.” Jorge stretched out on the floor, his stockinged feet near the hearth, his back against the sofa. “I’ve always liked this house. I haven’t been up here with Ross and his family nearly as much as I’d like to in the past six months.”

  “Why not?” Allison asked, curious about his life.

  “Too busy at work.” He watched her hands as she broke the seal on the pack of cards, removed the jokers, then expertly shuffled the cards. “I’m guessing that you’ve played cards a few times in your life?”

  She smiled, but managed to keep her voice free of gleeful anticipation. “A few times, yes.”

  One hour and several hands of poker later, Jorge eyed her threateningly, a reluctant smile curving his mouth. “You’re a card shark, lady. Just where did you learn to play poker?”

  “From my father and his friends. Dad hosts a Thursday-night poker group, and when I was little, I used to beg to sit on his lap and play his hand. He let me, until I was good enough that the others complained that we were winning all the pots. I think I was about ten years old at the time.”

  “A card shark at age ten? Geez,” he groused, raising a brow and sighing as he picked up the cards she dealt him. “Did your dad teach you to cheat?”

  “Absolutely not!” She was affronted.

  “Then where did you learn?”

  “From Uncle Roberto.”

  “Uncle Roberto? Was he a professional poker player?”

  “No.” She shook her head and laid down her hand. “Cards?”

  “I’ll stay with these.”

  “Dealer takes two.” She discarded two cards on to the pile, then dealt herself two more before picking up her hand and frowning intensely as she quickly shifted the cards. “No, Uncle Roberto was a film director, but he said it was so boring to wait for actors to get into costume and makeup, that he learned to play poker in self-defense.”

  “A film director?” Jorge thought about the photos of her parents and the people with them in her office. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Roberto Angelini? Is that the director who taught you to play poker?”

  “Yes. But I always called him Uncle Roberto. He’s my godfather.” She looked up from her cards and found him staring at her. “What?”

  “Roberto Angelini is your godfather?”

  “Yes. Why, is that a problem?”

  “No problem. I’m just a little amazed that you’re so nonchalant about it.”

  “Why not?” She stared at him for a moment, puzzled, until enlightenment dawned. “Oh, you mean because he’s the Roberto Angelini, the film director who won four Academy Awards in six years.”

  It wasn’t a question; it was a statement.

  “I suppose so. You have to admit, not many little ten-year-old girls are taught to cheat at poker by a world-famous film director.”

  Allison shrugged. “I don’t think of him that way. To me, he was always Uncle Roberto, the man who always gave me a doll for my birthday and had peppermint candy in his coat pockets. And he liked my red hair.”

  “Sounds like a nice guy.” Jorge eyed her across the short span of carpet that separated their bodies. “And he had good taste. Who wouldn’t like your hair?”

  A stab of old pain hit Allison. “Just about everyone.”

  “Why?” he asked bluntly, his expression half frown, half bafflement.

  “Because when I was a little girl, my hair was orangey-red, I had matching freckles everywhere, and I couldn’t go out in the sun without burning a truly horrible lobster-red color. Red doesn’t go well with carroty hair and freckles. I was every mother’s nightmare—especially since we lived in California, among the tanned, blond, beautiful people.”

  Jorge’s deep chuckle stopped abruptly when she didn’t smile back. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

  “I’m very serious.”

  He reached out and stroked his palm over the shiny fall of hair from the crown of her head to her chin, then curled a strand around his fingers, testing the silky texture against thumb and forefinger.

  “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen. It’s the first thing I noticed about you.”

  “Really?” Allison held her breath, the web of intimacy that spun between them taking all the oxygen from the air.

  “Really. I looked across the ballroom and there you were, the light from the chandeliers pouring over you, your hair like a flame.” His gaze left the strand of hair and met hers. “Then you turned around and I realized that the rest of you was just as beautiful.” He frowned in consternation. “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”

  “Because no one’s ever told me that before. You say the sweetest things.”

  “I told you before, I’m not sweet.” His voice was huskier, edged with exasperation. “Just because I recognize a beautiful woman when I see one, doesn’t mean I’m sweet.” He bent his head and brushed a soft kiss against her mouth. “Sweet. That’s as bad as hearing a woman say that she thinks of you as a brother.”

  Allison met his gaze. “I don’t think of you as a brother,” she whispered.

  “Good.” His eyes darkened, and his thumb moved over her bottom lip in slow, mesmerizing strokes. “Because I don’t want to be your brother.”

  His mouth covered hers again, and Allison forgot about the cards in her hands and anything else but the sweet, hot slide of desire through her veins. He picked her up and settled her across his lap and she murmured in protest when he lifted his mouth from hers for a brief second. Then his fingers threaded through her hair, his hand cradled her head, and his mouth covered hers again with hot urgency. Wrapped against the heated strength of his body, Allison quickly was swept up in passion. It wasn’t until she felt cooler air against her midriff that she realized he’d unbuttoned her sweater. The chill was chased away by the warmth of his hand as he cupped one breast through her bra, his mouth hotter, more urgent on hers until he suddenly jerked away from her and stood.

  Dazed, she lay where he left her on the carpet, staring up at him in confusion.

  He thrust his hands through his hair and bit off a curse. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to let things get out of hand. I know you need time to adjust to being married, and I swore I’d give it to you.” He caught her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Why don’t you have a shower and get your pajamas on while I warm a glass of milk.”

  And before Allison had time to adjust to the sudden switch from passion to warm milk, he hustled her down the hallway and was closing the door behind him as he left the bedroom. She stood, staring at the door panels for a long moment before she shook her head and took a black lace slip nightgown from the dresser drawer and went to the bathroom.

  Moments later, shower finished, teeth and hair brushed, wearing the thigh-length black slip that was a wedding gift from Zoe, she padded barefoot back into the bedroom and stopped abruptly when she saw Jorge.

  He stood beside the bed, the blankets turned down, plumping the pillows.

  “You don’t really expect me to drink that, do you?”

  He looked over his shoulder and went perfectly still, his eyes going black with heat as his gaze ran swiftly over her from he
ad to toe. Slowly he straightened.

  Allison’s legs trembled at the promise in those dark eyes, at the swift clenching of his hands at his sides and the ripple of chest and shoulder muscles beneath the white T-shirt as he checked himself.

  “Drink what?” His voice was distracted, rough and the slightest bit unsteady.

  “The warm milk.” Allison walked to the bed, her bare arm brushing his chest as she reached the nightstand and picked up the glass. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and looked up at him through her lashes. His eyes were hot, predatory, his body taut. “I really don’t like warm milk.”

  “Okay.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’ll take the glass away. Get in bed.” He held the blanket and sheet back.

  Allison sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the heat like a brand on her skin as his gaze followed the movement of her legs when she lifted them onto the bed and lay down. He didn’t say a word, only tucked the blankets around her waist before he planted his fists on each side of her and bent to brush a chaste kiss on her brow. “Good night.” The word was guttural, his voice a deep growl.

  “Good night, Jorge.”

  With one last, blistering look, he turned and strode out of the room, snapping off the light as he went and closing the door behind him.

  “This is my wedding night,” she said aloud, staring at the ceiling in frustration. “And I’m in bed, alone.”

  Was Jorge no longer interested in making love with her now that she was pregnant? He’d certainly seemed interested earlier, when he’d kissed her in front of the fireplace. He’d said he didn’t want to be her brother, so why was he treating her as if she were untouchable? Okay, so she had to admit that sharing space with a male was a little intimidating. She’d lived alone since leaving her parents’ home, and even as a child, she’d been a solitary soul.