Blame It on the Blackout (4 page)

He could lose her as his assistant, which would be more than a personal loss—it would be a blow to Reyware and the future of his program designs. She not only often gave him fresh ideas, but made it possible for him to work long hours without interruption.

He could lose her as a friend. He wasn't sure how to feel about that, since he didn't have many women
friends and had never worried about forfeiting one of them before. He did know, though, that it would be tough not having her around. To talk to, to joke with, to ask for her opinion about everything from names for his latest games to which socks to wear with which shirt.

On the opposite side of the coin, he could be stuck with her. She might think this spontaneous bout of passion meant more than it did and expect him to feel the same way. She could want a relationship…commitment…marriage…

The very possibility sent fear stabbing through his bones like ice water. Wasn't that exactly what he'd been trying to avoid? He would be a terrible husband, an even worse father. He didn't think he had it in him at this point to be even a decent boyfriend or significant other.

If that's what it took to keep her from running, from leaving him for either another job or another man who could give her what she needed, then he would try. But he already knew he'd fail. It was in his genes.

He'd play the part of attentive lover…and relish every minute of the loving, he was sure. But soon enough, she would get tired of the hours he kept. Of being neglected when a new software program claimed more of his attention than she did. And that's when the resentment would begin, quickly turning into hate, and finally indifference.

Hadn't the exact same thing happened with his mother and father?

Lucy's sigh and the feel of her arms and legs falling from around his sweaty body brought him back to the present. He was probably crushing her. Lord knew he hadn't been as gentle as he could have been.

“I must be suffocating you. I'm sorry.” As reluctant as he was to move, to draw away from her, he rolled to the side.

“It's all right,” she said in a low voice. “I kind of liked it.”

Her comment hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted so much to be pleased by her words…but at the same time couldn't avoid worrying that it was simply the first step of an attitude that would soon become clinging.

Reaching out, he found her bare arm in the darkness and stroked from elbow to shoulder. “Did I hurt you?”

He heard a gentle tinkle and thought it must be her earrings as she shook her head.

“No,” she answered aloud. “Did I hurt you?”

His bark of laughter bounced off the mirrored walls. That was Lucy for you; self-confident enough to believe she was just as capable of rough lovemaking as any man.

“Only in a good way, sweetheart.”

As soon as the endearment passed his lips, he cringed. Bad move. What if she took it wrong? What if she thought he was inviting her to a whole new level of their relationship?

When she didn't respond, however, the moment of
alarm passed. Beside him, he heard her moving around and pushed to his feet.

“We should probably get dressed,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up, and then leaning down to make contact when he realized she couldn't see the offer. “Never know when the power will come back on and the elevator doors will open.”

“Wouldn't want that,” she murmured.

Her removed tone reminded Peter that she was probably having second thoughts about their encounter, as well. Regrets.

That didn't sit well with him. As unsure as he was about what they'd done, about what the future might bring because of it, he didn't want Lucy to be sorry she'd let him make love to her. Hell, he wanted her eyes to still be glazed over, wanted to be the best lover she'd ever had.

But he couldn't have it both ways, could he? He had to either curl her toes and be ready for the possibility of building a relationship with her, or chalk it up to hot sex under duress and deal with the blow to his ego when she didn't fall at his feet, begging for more.

Patting their way around the floor of the car, they collected discarded pieces of clothing. It was impossible to identify them all, but they managed to zip up and rearrange their clothes just as the lights and buttons inside the elevator began to flicker.

Peter's stomach turned over in relief. He'd been okay, distracted as he was by this newest turn of events
with Lucy. But if they'd been trapped much longer, he honestly couldn't be sure the claustrophobia wouldn't have come back and sent him hyperventilating again.

Eyes slowly adjusting to the return of fluorescent brightness, he stuffed an extra garment—likely his tie—in the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, watching Lucy tug at her gown, run a smoothing hand through her long black hair, and slide her toes back into a high-heeled shoe as the car gave a giant lurch and once again started its descent.

When the doors opened, he was relieved to find the lobby level fairly empty. A few people milled around, looking disoriented by the unexpected blackout, but in the process of going about their business.

As Peter and Lucy stepped out of the elevator, the hotel's manager raced up to them, offering effusive apologies for the inconvenience of being stuck between floors for so long. Peter waved off the man's worries. It wasn't the manager's fault he was claustrophobic, after all. And being trapped, even for such a short time, had given him the chance to finally make love to Lucy, which he couldn't bring himself to fully regret.

Instead Peter asked for the limo to be brought around. As they walked, he helped to arrange the shawl over Lucy's bare shoulders to protect her from the late-night chill.

Inside the limo, the air was warm and he instructed the driver to take them to her apartment first. The silence between them was stifling, growing more
uncomfortable by the minute, and he racked his brain for something to say.

Thank you
didn't seem quite appropriate. Nor did
I'm sorry.

He wanted to ask her to come home with him, to stay the night and let him touch her again the way she had in the elevator. Only this time, he would go more slowly…explore those luscious curves in more detail, study every nook and cranny of her beautiful body.

Stealing a glance at her still form out of the corner of his eye, he felt himself grow hard with wanting her again.

So much for scratching an itch or thinking once would ever be enough when it came to Lucy Grainger.

The car pulled to a stop outside her building, and Peter escorted her to her apartment. She didn't speak as they climbed the stairs, and he couldn't think of any way to fill the awkward quiet.

At her door, he touched her arm, tried to take her hand, but she pulled away. “Lucy…” he began.

“Good night, Peter,” she said, cutting him off and making it clear she wasn't interested in conversation. “I'll see you on Monday.”

And then she turned the key in the lock and disappeared inside.

With a heavy sigh, he slid his hands into the pockets of his jacket and let his forehead fall against the cool grain of her mahogany paneled door. His brows drew together as his fingers burrowed into a strange silkiness.

Pulling his hand back out of the pocket, he found himself staring down at Lucy's lacy black panties. A shudder rocked his tall frame and for a moment he thought his knees might buckle.

If her panties were out here, with him, that meant she had been naked underneath her gown on the ride home. God, he was glad he hadn't known that then or he'd have been hard-pressed not to jump her a second time.

He remembered being inside her. The hot, wet haven of her body, clasping and clenching, driving him insane.

Hot. Wet. Skin to skin.

His eyes fell shut as realization and dread washed over him. He hadn't worn a condom. He wasn't sure he'd had a condom with him to wear, even if the thought
had
occurred to him back in that elevator. Before she'd spun every sane notion from his head with her kisses.

He hadn't worn a condom and didn't know whether or not she was on birth control. Which meant she could be pregnant. With his child.

Oh, this night just kept getting better and better.

W
hen Lucy arrived at work Monday morning, she stood on Peter's front stoop for several long minutes, key in the lock and hand on the knob, trying to convince herself it would be business as usual once she stepped inside.

And why wouldn't it? What happened Friday night in the elevator meant nothing, right? It had been a fluke. An intimate encounter brought on by crisis conditions, and not something that would have ever come about under normal circumstances.

But that didn't explain why Peter had called so many times over the weekend. Thank God she'd let the machine pick up the first time…and every time after that.
With the volume down, she'd almost been able to survive those four rings each time without her heart jumping straight out of her chest.

And then he'd shown up at her door Sunday afternoon. She'd stared through the peephole, bouncing anxiously on the balls of her feet, breathing hard, and biting the inside of her lip to keep from making a sound. He'd looked rumpled and ruffled, and more aggravated the longer he stood outside her apartment, waiting for her to answer.

She felt like a coward, afraid to face her own boss. Which was the only reason she'd come to work today instead of calling in sick. If she didn't, she was afraid she'd never be able to face Peter again.

Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door silently behind her. On tiptoe, she made her way into the den that housed her work area, quickly but quietly putting away her purse and shrugging out of her linen suit jacket.

With any luck, she wouldn't see Peter for another few hours. Hopefully he'd had another long night and would sleep until noon. And maybe by then she could come up with an excuse to leave early or run some errands outside of the office.

How long do you think you can keep that up?
a voice in her head whispered. Sneaking around, avoiding him as much as possible.

If she knew Peter…and after two years, she felt she did…he wouldn't put up with that sort of thing for long. Unless—if she was lucky—he wanted to avoid
her, too. Unfortunately, fifteen phone calls and an impromptu trip to her apartment told her that probably wasn't the case.

“Lucy?”

Peter's voice, raised and eager, floated down to her from the second floor. Then she heard his weighted footsteps as he jogged down the carpeted stairs and let her head fall forward over her computer's keyboard. Oh, boy, here it came. The confrontation.

She straightened in her chair a moment before Peter appeared in the doorway, looking even more scattered and unkempt than yesterday when he'd shown up on her doorstep.

He was in his stocking feet and wore a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his narrow hips. The denim was wrinkled, as was the cotton of his plain white T-shirt, making her wonder if he'd slept in his clothes—and for how long.

“Lucy.” Her name came out part huff, part sigh. He ran both hands through his hair, leaving sandy-blond spikes sticking up here and there.

“I've been waiting for you all day,” he said, apparently unaware that it was only nine in the morning. “I called your apartment a dozen times over the weekend. I even ran over to see you on Sunday. Where the hell have you been?”

She opened her mouth to tell him it was none of his business, but he shook his head, waving a hand in the air to cut her off.

“Never mind, it doesn't matter. We have to talk.”

Her stomach fell to her knees as he dragged a chair over and sidled up to her desk, getting right to the point.

“Lucy,” he began, elbows balanced on his thighs, hands clasped between his spread legs.

But she couldn't stand to hear him talk about what a lapse in judgment that night in the elevator had been, how they were employer and employee, and he didn't feel that way about her.

“Peter,” she cut him off, not quite meeting his gaze. “I know what you're going to say, and I agree one hundred percent. What happened the other night was a mistake. We were caught off guard by the blackout and being unexpectedly trapped in that elevator. Neither of us would have indulged in such behavior otherwise, and I'm sure we never will again. Let's just forget it and go back to business as usual.”

Peter sat back, intently studying Lucy's face. The alabaster skin, the sparkling violet shadow shading her black-lined eyes, the red-hot lipstick glossing her full, kissable mouth. She had a small beauty mark to the left and a little above the corner of that mouth, making him want to lean in and swipe his tongue across it for a quick taste.

Speak for yourself,
he thought. She might believe their sexual encounter after the charity dinner was brought on solely by the lack of electricity and his unfortunate bout of claustrophobia, but what she didn't realize was that he'd been fantasizing about making love to her for a very long time.

Sure, the city-wide blackout had spurred him into taking actions he probably would have otherwise managed to control, but he wouldn't go so far as to say it never would have happened. And he most certainly wasn't going to forget it anytime soon.

As if that was even possible.

Still, it was a relief to hear she was prepared to brush the incident under the rug rather than turning it into something it wasn't or expecting more from him than he was willing or ready to give. That made one element of the situation easier, but not the portion he'd spent the weekend working up the courage to discuss with her.

“That may be easier said than done.” He kept his tone low and serious enough to catch her undivided attention. Finally she raised her head and met his gaze directly.

“What do you mean?”

Instead of blurting out his primary concern, he tried to broach the subject in a more delicate way. “I don't suppose you're on the Pill,” he said, and then realized that was about as subtle as a bull in a china shop.

Immediately her hackles went up. She stiffened, leaning away from him and folding her arms beneath her breasts. Those luscious, mouthwatering breasts that he'd kissed and fondled only two days ago. It was enough to bring his body to full, highly aroused attention and force him to shift in his seat for a more comfortable position.

Brow furrowed, Lucy crossed her legs, driving her
skirt up a good two inches and jiggling a high-heeled foot—which didn't help one bit—before snapping, “What business is that of yours?”

“None,” he said carefully, “until Friday night. We didn't, um, use any form of protection. Unless…”

He let the word hang, watching realization dawn in her sapphire eyes. Hoping against hope that she'd laugh and slap him on the back and tell him not to worry, she'd been taking birth control for years. Instead, the color washed from her face while at the same time two rosy flags of embarrassment bloomed on her cheeks.

Something cold and ominous settled low in his belly. “I take it that's a no.”

The muscles in her throat convulsed as she swallowed. “No,” she croaked, giving an almost zombielike shake of her head. “There was no reason to be taking anything. And I always thought that if the situation presented itself, we'd both be smart enough to use a condom.”

A wry smile curved his lips. “Yeah, me, too. Guess we both went brain dead there for a while.”

Taking a deep breath, he got to his feet and began to pace. “As careless as we were, what's done is done. Now we just have to figure out what to do about it.”

Silence filled the room for several long minutes, the only sound the tick-tock of the grandfather clock drifting in from the foyer. And then Lucy seemed to collect herself. She uncrossed her legs, unfolded her arms and stood.

“This is ridiculous, Peter. We're jumping to conclu
sions, fretting over nothing. What are the chances of my becoming pregnant from that one short encounter?”

“Spoken like any number of single mothers just before the stick turned blue.”

She shot him a quelling glance. “All I'm saying is that we shouldn't borrow trouble. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about.”

“I hope you're right,” he said slowly, “but all the same, when will we know?”

A blank expression washed over her features, and then it donned on her what he was asking. Once again, her cheeks blushed pink.

“I'm not, um…a few weeks, I guess.”

Weeks. Great. Peter made a mental note to stock up on antacid. Waiting days, let alone weeks, to find out if she was pregnant with his child was bound to give him the mother of all ulcers.

He wanted to demand an answer now. Drag her to the nearest drugstore for one of those over-the-counter tests and insist she take it. Of course, it probably wouldn't tell them much. He knew next to nothing about women's cycles and symptoms of pregnancy, but thought it took more than a few days to be able to tell about these types of things.

So he would be patient—swig his antacid, watch her like a hawk and wait until they knew for sure.

 

Lucy stepped out of the downstairs powder room tucked beneath the stairwell and nearly jumped to find
Peter staring at her from the other side of the kitchen island. She rolled her eyes, tamped down on the annoyance that seemed to be brimming too close to the surface these days and headed back to her office.

What did he want from her? she wondered, not for the first time. It had been three days since he'd brought up the topic of an unexpected pregnancy. And since then, he'd followed her around like a shadow. He was always nearby, asking if she needed anything, watching her every movement. It was as though he expected her to sprout feathers or in some other way show outward signs of carrying his child.

If only it were that easy. Truth be told, the waiting was driving her crazy, too.

She'd bought a pregnancy test on her way home from work Monday, after spending the day on eggshells, pretending his pronouncement that they hadn't used protection didn't concern her a bit. The test had come up negative, but that only served to increase her sense of anxiety.

Maybe the test was wrong. Maybe it was too early for an over-the-counter method to show accurate results. Maybe one of these days—since she'd bought out the corner store's supply and taken to running one each morning before she left the apartment—the stick would show a plus sign instead of a minus one and her whole world would come crashing down around her ears.

That thought sent a lead weight of dread straight to the bottom of her stomach.

She should call her doctor and make an appointment so she could get a definitive answer once and for all. But, God help her, she couldn't bring herself to do that. She was too frightened of what he might tell her.

What if she was pregnant?

Her initial response had been elation. Pregnant. With Peter's baby. Wasn't that the twist her overactive imagination often took when she pictured the two of them together? There were dating scenarios, seduction scenarios, marriage scenarios, family scenarios, even retirement scenarios for when their children were grown and they were once again alone in the house as the ripe old age of sixty.

Under the right circumstances, she would be delighted to be having a baby with Peter. The way things stood between them now, however, she couldn't think of a worse development.

If it turned out she was pregnant, Peter would likely offer to marry her, or at least insist on being involved in the child's life. That's the kind of man he was.

But he would resent Lucy for locking him into a situation he wanted no part of. The child would be a constant reminder of the mistake he'd let himself make one night in an elevator in the middle of a blackout, and of the freedom he'd lost because of it.

She didn't want that. It would be better, she thought, to leave. Go somewhere else, raise the child on her own, and never let Peter know he'd been right about their lack of birth control producing a child.

Not that she could ever bring herself to do such a
thing. A child deserved to know its father…and a father deserved to know about his child. Besides, Peter could be like a dog with a bone. He wouldn't rest until he knew for sure, and if she went away, no doubt he would track her down. With his computer skills and contacts all over the world, he would find her, if only to get a final answer to his question.

But she was getting ahead of herself. The smart thing would be to find out whether or not she actually was pregnant before making any drastic plans on how to handle the situation.

Without so much as a creak of the hardwood floor in warning, Peter appeared in the archway of the den, once again startling her out of her reverie. Lucy put a hand to her heart in an effort to slow its erratic pace. If he didn't stop sneaking up on her, she was going to tie a bell around his neck.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

He was wearing a pair of dove-gray dress slacks today, with a casual, light blue button-down shirt. His feet were bare, as was his habit, and which probably accounted for his ability to move silently through the house. Leaning a shoulder against the carved wood molding of the doorjamb, his green eyes ran over her intently, making her squirm.

Turning back to her computer screen, she did her best to act impervious. “Fine.”

“Is there anything I can get you?” he pressed. “Juice, water, a sandwich?”

She'd eaten lunch less than an hour ago, and she noticed he didn't offer to bring her coffee or tea, which might be harmful to a growing fetus. Little did he know she helped herself to a cup or two each morning before leaving her apartment. Of course, she'd switched to naturally decaffeinated, just in case. She honestly didn't believe there was any reason to be concerned, but on the off chance she
was
pregnant, she wasn't willing to risk eating or drinking anything that might hurt her—possibly imaginary—unborn child.

“No, thank you,” she answered. And then a beat passed and she changed her mind. “On second thought, I could use a glass of milk. My stomach has been a little upset lately, so maybe that would help.”