Claimed: The Pregnant Heiress (3 page)

“Now we go to sleep.”

She didn't speak for a brief moment, then remarked, “Wait until the cold light of day when we're both running scared before discussing what happens next?”

His mouth twitched. Her sense of humor always took him by surprise. It was something he was learning to appreciate
about her. “Better than making rash or stupid decisions in the post-heat of passion.”

“Okay.”

He slid his fingers into her hair and turned her toward him. “You're still going to be here when morning comes, right?”

“As you pointed out, I don't have a car. Plus, you know where I live.” She gave an exaggerated shiver. “I'd just as soon you not come pounding on my father's front door demanding to know why I'm not still in your bed.”

“Fair enough. Tomorrow we'll discuss this rationally over breakfast like two mature adults.”

 

Chase woke to an empty bed and shot upright. Son of a bitch! So much for discussing their situation like two mature adults. He touched the sheet beside him, expecting to find it stone cold. To his relief it was still warm, which meant Emma couldn't have gotten far. He escaped the bed, and almost tripped over her dress. It rested in the middle of the floor in a crumpled pearl-gray heap of silk where he vaguely remembered tossing it.

He checked the nightstand table for his car keys. They were there, right beside his BlackBerry. Okay. Chances were Emma hadn't taken off naked and hitchhiked home. That meant she was around here, someplace. He noticed the bathroom door was closed and smiled.

Gotcha.

He padded across the room naked and rapped lightly on the door. “Why don't I get the coffee going?” he offered.

“Fine.”

Chase paused. Her voice sounded odd, tight and almost pained. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

There it was again, that underlying edge of despair. It didn't take much thought to figure out what caused it. Morning-After Regret. Well, tough. She'd have to deal with it because he didn't regret what happened one little bit. And he intended it to happen
again at their earliest convenience…like immediately after breakfast.

He snagged a pair of jeans and yanked them on before heading toward the kitchen. At the last second he pocketed the car keys, just to be on the safe side. He wished he'd remembered to add beans and water to the coffeemaker last night. If he had he'd be enjoying his first hit of caffeine right this minute—the most crucial part of his morning—instead of waiting the endless five minutes it would take to percolate.

But he'd had more important matters on his mind the previous evening. Like Emma. He made short work of the coffee and opened the refrigerator to rummage through the contents, not that it offered up much in the way of real food. He spent most mealtimes in a restaurant entertaining clients or, occasionally, a woman. So what did he have that qualified as breakfast?

Beer. Okay, he considered that real food, at least it was in his world. Still, probably not the best option to offer Emma for breakfast. He shoved the beer aside and pulled out a carton of eggs. That would work. Bread and butter. He still had some left over from last night. And a pint of half-and-half. Fair enough, he decided. It could be worse.

He consumed his first cup of coffee while making some halfway decent scrambled eggs, even if they were a tad rubbery, and toast that wasn't too badly burnt. After dumping everything onto two plates and placing them on the breakfast table, he poured a second cup of coffee for himself and a first one for Emma. Based on what she'd ordered after their one dinner together, she liked it heavy on the milk and light on the sugar. Considering he spent his day putting together million-dollar deals and handling tens of millions worth of investments, he was inordinately pleased with himself over throwing together such a simple breakfast. Now he just needed someone to share it with him.

“Emma?”

He entered the bedroom, his brows snapping together when he saw that she still occupied the bathroom. No sound of
running water. No feminine splashing or fussing. Just a nerve-wracking silence. Hell. She'd been off-color last night. Was she sick? He tapped on the door.

“Sweetheart? Are you all right?”

“Go away,” she moaned.

“The hell I will. Fair warning, I'm coming in.”

“No, don't—”

“Too late. I'm in.”

To his concern, he found Emma curled up on the tile floor, her face buried in the knees she'd drawn to her chest. He'd have found it amusing that she wore his dress shirt from the night before if she didn't look so utterly wretched. He crouched down beside her and smoothed her damp hair away from her brow. Her complexion was as snowy white as his shirt, with just the merest hint of green for contrast. Not a good color combination on her.

“I'm sorry, Emma,” he said sympathetically. “I didn't realize you were unwell. What can I do to help?”

“Other than go away?”

He smiled. “Sorry, sweetheart, I'm not made like that. What's option number two?”

“Hold my head while I get sick again?”

He winced. “Stomach virus? Food poisoning?”

“That would be nice,” she replied in a muffled voice.

Okay, that didn't make the least bit of sense. “Why would a stomach virus or food poisoning be nice?” he asked cautiously.

She lifted her head, her eyes dark and bleak. “Think it through, Chase. You'll get there.”

Maybe if he'd downed that second cup of coffee it would all make perfect sense to him. After all, his analytical skills were pretty damn impressive. But for some reason they seemed to be on the fritz this morning. He shook his head, indicating his bewilderment. “I'm obviously missing something here. Care to fill me in so we can both be on the same page?”

She sighed. “Take one woman. Add a tablespoon of gee-
she's-sick. Toss in a cup of second-missed-period.” She made a small stirring motion with her finger. “Mix with hey-it's-morning. And guess what you get?”

No. Oh, hell no. “You're pregnant?” He meant to ask the question calmly, with the same stony cool attitude with which he'd learned to handle all of life's crises. Unfortunately, somewhere between “you're” and “pregnant” his voice had risen to a roar.

She flinched. “I don't know for certain. But I'd say all the signs are there.”

“You said…” He shot a hand through his hair, struggling to think straight. What the devil had she said? “You said second missed period. As in January, minus two equals November. We were together in November. We were together, together in November.”

“You know something, Larson?” she asked, an edge in her voice. “You really are a genius when it comes to numbers and statistical analysis.”

“Can the sarcasm, Worth. I'm not the one on the floor puking my guts out. As I recall we used protection each time we made love that night.” He never, ever made love without precautions, since he'd never risk the possibility of history repeating itself.

“Yeah, that bothered me at first, too.” To his horror tears filled her eyes. Huge, gut-wrenching, I-can't-believe-this-is-happening tears. “It was the shower that did us in.”

“The shower,” he repeated stupidly.

“Exactly. The shower. It came off, remember?”

He winced. That's right. It had. “You think the baby's mine?”

“No,” she shot back, insulted. “The baby's mine. You were simply involved in the conception.”

He bit off a sharp retort. Sniping wouldn't get them anywhere fast. First things first. “Have you seen a doctor? Had a pregnancy test?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I've been deluding myself the past few weeks that I was simply late.”

“Two months late?”

“It happens,” she retorted defensively. “Or so I've heard. But now…”

“Now you're not so sure.”

She buried her face in her knees again. “No.”

He struggled to think logically, to tackle the problem—assuming a baby could be considered a problem—one step at a time. “First, is there anything I can do to help with the sickness?”

“Tea and crackers would be nice.”

“I have the tea, but not the crackers. But since I'm going to run out to a pharmacy and pick up a pregnancy test, I can snag some crackers at the same time. I assume you want plain versus fancy? Crackers, that is.”

She shuddered. “Very plain.”

“Emma?” He waited until she lifted her head and looked at him. “One way or another we'll figure this out. First on the list is to find out whether or not you're pregnant.”

A hint of amusement brought some much-needed color into her face. “There's a list already?”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Honey, there's always a list.”

 

Chase soon discovered the difficulty wasn't finding a pregnancy test. It was choosing among the dozen options that filled the shelves. Finally, he simplified matters and scooped up one of each before heading for the checkout counter. The cashier gave him an odd look.

“That hopeful or that afraid?”

He could hear Brooklyn in her voice, a familiar whiff of home. Chase handed over his card and gave her a steely look that had successfully cowed some of the toughest businessmen New York had to offer.

“Charge it,” he told her.

For some reason The Look didn't work with Brooklyn. “I'm just saying.”

Fortunately, the crackers and the basketful of basic food groups he decided he should add to his ever growing list proved far less stressful to purchase at the grocery store. This cashier, clearly a native Californian, limited himself to a polite “Have a nice day.” And though he didn't actually say “dude,” it was implicit in his voice. Considering that he'd been born and raised here in Vista del Mar, before going to live in New York with his father at the tender age of ten, he had feet planted on both coasts. Memories cascaded through him of a life he'd given up all those years before. Carefree years. Lean years. Years filled with laughter and a mother who adored him. He shoved the bittersweet images aside, refusing to dwell on the what-ifs if he'd made a different choice and forced himself to maintain his focus on the job at hand.

Chase returned to the condo, collecting a speeding ticket along the way. Officer Garcia was also excruciatingly polite and Chase made an executive decision to avoid choosing a red Ferrari for his next visit. You just couldn't go wrong with basic black. He found Emma where he'd left her and joined her on the floor, upending the bag from the pharmacy.

Emma stared at the dozen boxes. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don't have this much pee.”

“I didn't mean for you to use all of them.” Though if the first result proved positive…or negative… Chase frowned. Proved baby-on-board, he'd insist she take another one. “I figured you could choose the easiest to use.”

“I think they're all pretty much the same. But maybe some are easier to read than others.”

“Right. Start with those.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Start?” When he didn't say anything, she sighed and pointed to the door. “If you don't mind, I'd rather do this in private.”

He stood and stared down at her. She looked so small and delicate, curled up on the floor. “You'll call me as soon as you know anything?”

“Of course.”

“And, Emma…?”

She spared him a swift glance, but didn't speak.

“If the baby's mine, I'll do the right thing,” he informed her. “For both you and the child.”

And with that, he left.

F
or several minutes after Chase exited the bathroom, Emma didn't move. Then, reluctantly, she lined up the boxes along the spotless counter before sinking back down onto the equally spotless tile floor. She stared at them. They stared back, whispering to each other, no doubt talking about her and her situation.

Pregnant.

Emma splayed her fingers over her abdomen. Was she? She suspected it was all too likely. For weeks now she'd made excuse after excuse to explain away the telltale symptoms, first because she had no idea how to find Chase. And second because she dreaded the coming confrontation with her father when she informed him of her condition.

The boxes continued whispering, and with an exclamation of annoyance, she snatched the first of the pregnancy tests off the counter—the noisiest of the twelve—and ripped it open. She scanned the literature, determined to get the test over with
as soon as possible. Maybe then the boxes would shut up and leave her alone.

The directions informed her that it only took
One Minute!
to obtain the results.
Just Sixty Seconds!!
—for those who needed further clarification as to the meaning of a minute. The directions didn't lie. As promised, precisely
One Minute!
later she had her answer. Stripping off Chase's dress shirt, she stumbled into the shower and stood beneath the pounding spray struggling to keep from hyperventilating.

How odd that in
Just Sixty Seconds!!
her life could change so dramatically. From
One Minute!
to the next she went from being an average healthy woman to someone carrying the spark of new life. She snatched a deep breath. Okay, it wasn't the end of the world, not even close. It simply confirmed what she already suspected in her heart. She could deal with this, she told herself. Sure she could.

Sometimes life brought her to her knees with a blow so hard she didn't think she could endure it. But she always fought her way back. She always came out swinging. She always triumphed. She'd handled far worse events during the past twenty-five years—the death of her mother, for one—and managed to survive the ordeal. She blinked against the painful burning in her eyes. She would on this occasion, too. Plus, a baby wasn't a death to grieve or some horrible disaster, but a life to celebrate, even if unplanned.

Another possibility struck. Tests like these weren't always accurate. Lots of times they gave off false readings. What if this was one of those times? What if she'd read the directions wrong or hadn't followed them correctly? She'd been in a hurry. It could have happened. She turned off the water, grabbed one of Chase's large, fluffy towels from the built-in linen closet beside the tiled shower stall and wrapped it around herself. This time she'd read everything twice. Be meticulous. Make sure she followed the instructions exactly.

Thirty minutes later she stood in front of the bathroom sink, one lined with a full dozen little sticks and wands and trays
with circular windows. She clutched the stack of instructions for each of the tests while she went down the row, comparing picture to actuality.

Two pink lines. Pregnant.

A plus mark. Pregnant.

Little window that actually spelled out
pregnant
.

Another little window that had forgotten the
not
in front of that all-important word.

Two blue lines. Very pregnant.

On down the row she went until she reached the very last tray. They all said the same thing. The little windows glared up at her with their little lines and crosses and plus marks and those
P
words. She backed away from them until she hit the wall next to the shower stall and sank back onto the bathroom floor. She should be horrified. She should be terrified. In a panic. Her brows drew together. Why wasn't she in a panic?

Her hand stole across her abdomen. She was pregnant. Her baby grew here, nestled deep within her womb. Hers and Chase's. She wasn't panicked, she realized, any more than she was horrified or terrified. A child. Dear heaven, she'd been given a child. She'd been given the chance to have a family again, one not torn apart by death and disaster, dishonesty and despair. The tears came then, but to her amazement, she discovered they weren't tears of misery or fear.

They were tears of wonder.

 

Chase frowned at the bathroom door, a firmly closed bathroom door. How long did a simple pregnancy test take, anyway? He thought he'd seen one of the packages exclaiming:
Response in just one minute!
Maybe she hadn't used that one. Maybe she'd used the one that read:
Response whenever we damn well want to give it to you!

Unable to wait another second, he tapped on the door. “Emma? Do you need help?” He shut his eyes. Help? That was wrong on every possible level. “I have your tea and crackers.”
Of course, the tea was now iced tea and the crackers were probably stale. The hell with it. “Emma, I'm coming in.”

He found her more or less where he left her, curled up on the floor. Only now she wore a towel instead of his shirt. He couldn't decide if that was a good sign or a bad one. She looked up when he entered and waved a slim hand in the direction of the counter.

“Take a look,” she said.

To his surprise, she'd used all twelve tests. “No wonder it's taken you so long. How much water did you have to drink to pull this off?”

“Think camel and add a gallon or two.”

“So, what's the verdict.” He examined the lineup and stiffened. “Some of these say pregnant.”

“All of them say pregnant.”

“All?”

He whipped around, feeling sucker punched. Until that moment he'd refused to consider the possibility that she might actually be pregnant, had maintained an emotional distance from the unfolding events. He'd managed to convince himself that Emma had made an understandable mistake, one rectified by a simple test. After all, why stress until there was something to stress about? Well, there sure as hell was something to stress about now.

“All?” he repeated.

“Every last one. Look, I'd rather not discuss this dressed in a towel, if you don't mind,” Emma said in an excruciatingly polite tone of voice. She pushed herself upward. “I need to get dressed.”

His brain switched to automatic, processing and stringing words together in a seemingly calm and coherent manner. “You can wear your dress from last night, although it's pretty wrinkled. Or I have a T-shirt and running shorts you can borrow.”

“Thank you. I think the tee and shorts would be more comfortable.”

He realized he blocked her exit and stepped back into the bedroom. Emma trailed after him. Still moving on automatic pilot—dear God, a baby—he opened a dresser drawer, retrieved the promised clothes and set them on the bed.

He gave her a searching glance. She remained ghost-pale, though not as shell-shocked as he undoubtedly looked. In fact, her poise impressed the hell out of him. “We need to talk,” he announced.

“In all honesty, I'd rather go home. Perhaps we can meet in a few days and discuss the situation then. That will give us time to assimilate the information.”

Assimilate the information? What was he, a Borg? He'd already assimilated all he needed to know. Emma was pregnant and she'd pasted a big, fat red arrow over his head, labeled Daddy. Still, it wasn't worth arguing with her, not when she didn't feel well. Since she couldn't go home without his driving her there, she couldn't very well control what he chose to say or discuss between now and then. Nor would he allow her to leave without feeding her first. Feeding their child. He shot a hand through his hair. Aw, hell.

“Get dressed, sweetheart. I'll freshen up your tea and crackers.”

“Thanks. I'm actually starting to feel a little hungry.”

She joined him a short time later and he smiled at the droop of his running shorts on her daintier frame, while something visceral swept through him at the sight of her breasts outlined by the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Were they larger due to the pregnancy, or was it his imagination?

“Since you said you were hungry, I opened up a very mild bean dip to go with the crackers, if you want. Or, if you're in the mood for eggs, I can scramble up some more.”

“More?”

He shrugged. “I made some earlier. The trashcan says thank you.”

She smiled at that. “Believe it or not, the bean dip sounds great. Do you have any fruit?”

Good thing he'd decided to pick up a few of the basic necessities from each food group. Even better, he actually considered fruit a food group. “In the fridge.”

She pulled out an orange and proceeded to strip away the rind and section it, then went back for a kiwi and some black grapes. Satisfied with her selection, she arranged the dip, crackers and fruit onto plates, her artistry impressing the hell out of him. Then, with uncanny accuracy she crossed to the cupboard that contained place mats and linen napkins and proceeded to set the table with the same style and eye appeal.

“Okay, how do you do that?” he demanded.

Her smile grew. “Years of practice entertaining my father's clients. My mother—” She faltered for a split second before continuing. “My mother was an artist. I guess I inherited her eye for color and space.”

“Do you paint?”

Emma took a seat at one of the chairs surrounding the glass breakfast table and waved him to the one opposite her. “Not so much as a brush stroke.” She unfolded the napkin and placed it in her lap. Even when enjoying a casual breakfast dressed in his running clothes, she exuded a natural elegance in the way she sat and moved. “I'm lucky if I can draw a straight line.”

“But you wish you could draw,” he guessed shrewdly.

She nibbled on a cracker smeared with bean dip. “You're right. I do.”

“Maybe our baby will inherit her abilities,” he said, deliberately introducing the subject of Emma's pregnancy.

“Let's hope that's all he or she inherits,” Emma murmured.

His gaze sharpened and he made a mental note to research Ronald's late wife. Chase vaguely remembered some sort of scandal from his youth, but couldn't quite recall the details. It must have been after he'd moved to New York to live with his father. He didn't think his mother had ever mentioned it, though she hadn't moved in the same circles as the Worths then—or now.

“Fair enough. You don't want certain characteristics of your mother to show up, and I have to admit there are a few anomalies I'd just as soon any son or daughter of mine didn't chip off the old genetic block.” He paused, then asked, “Should I assume you plan to keep the baby?”

“That's the only part of this you can assume. I will have the baby and I'm not considering adoption. I…” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I couldn't. I couldn't give my baby away.”

“Our baby. At least, I assume it's ours.” He wished there were a less awkward way of asking his next question. “You implied I'm the father.”

“There's no other possibility.” She made the statement with calm certainty.

“You're sure?”

She jabbed an orange slice in his direction. “All right, Money Man. Let's put this in terms even you can understand. One woman who's had a rather lengthy sexual dry spell plus one man who ended aforementioned dry spell, minus one condom equals oops. In case you missed it, I double-checked my math twelve different times. It came up baby on every test.”

He would have laughed if the situation weren't so serious. “I'm not questioning your math.”

Her expression froze over. “You're just questioning which of my many lovers is the father, is that it?”

He cautiously moved the question aside and out of reach. “I assume you won't object to a paternity test?” he asked instead.

“Of course not.”

“In utero?”

Her brows drew together. “They do that now?”

How the hell should he know? He'd never been in this situation before. Had done everything within his power to prevent it from ever happening. “We can ask your doctor.”

Emma shoved her plate aside. “There is no
we
.”

“If there's a baby, there sure as hell is a
we
.” He leaned
forward to give emphasis to his words. “Perhaps this is a good time to explain that I won't walk away from my child. If it's mine, I'll be intimately involved every step of the way.”

“First things first. I—and I do mean I—go to see my ob/gyn and confirm the pregnancy. Then we'll discuss the best way to handle the situation after that.” She rose, the dame at her most grand. “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to go home.”

He did mind. He minded more than he could express. But he hadn't gotten where he was in the world by losing his temper or indulging in a knee-jerk reaction when someone gave him a verbal shove. Chase relaxed back against his chair and studied Emma, while making a swift analysis. She was beautiful and clever and fascinating. But, she was also a Worth, which meant she came from money. Unfortunately, that small detail made her the last person he'd have chosen as mother to his child because he'd had so many bad experiences with others who came from that rarified world of inherited wealth.

The irony didn't escape him. No doubt his father had felt the same dismay when Penny Larson had informed him of her unplanned pregnancy though Tiberius Barron's reasons would have been far different. Unlike his father, Chase wouldn't allow Emma to give birth to a bastard, to force his son or daughter to deal with the sort of snobbery he'd dealt with his entire life. Nor was she the same as the other trust fund babies he'd known. There was something irresistible about her. Something that appealed on every possible level. Even more important, she carried his child, which meant that whether she realized it or not, he was going to take control of both her and her pregnancy, starting now.