Commitment (13 page)

She drew a deep breath and tugged the edge of the towel. It fell to her feet in a heap. Cupping her breasts, she pushed the soft mounds high like Tom had just before he buried his lips in the valley between them. The look in his eyes when he gazed up at her almost did her in. Wonder. Reverence. Unabashed desire.

Men had lusted after her body before. When a girl is fitted for her first training bra in the fourth grade, those looks start way too early and continue with mind-numbing frequency. In fact, she hardly noticed them anymore. Still, she hadn’t expected it from Tom. It was funny to her that a man with a known predisposition for stick women seemed to relish the bountiful curves of a woman without a single straight line.

Shaking her head she released her breasts, grimacing when gravity took over again. Maggie snatched her robe from the back of the door and cinched the belt at her waist. She would store these memories away for another night, another time when her body wasn’t sore from his loving, her skin didn’t prickle from his caresses, and her mind wasn’t clouded with misty wisps of daydreams. She had more important things to think about.

Worn out in mind, body and spirit, she shuffled toward the bedroom. Her gaze landed on the unmade bed. The hum of the dryer filled the apartment. Fred leapt onto the bare mattress with a grace belying his bulk. Sighing, she scooped the rumpled duvet from the floor, wrapping it around her body like a cloak then falling onto the bed. The scratchy cotton shell of the bare pillow rasped against her cheek. She curled into a ball and waited for the cat to settle into the crook of her bent knees.

Closing her eyes, she ran through the list of her new hopes and dreams. The plans she was determined to build on using the rubble of the fairy tales she once believed. A house with a little yard… Maybe a dog one day… Fred’s claws tested the duvet’s resilience and she chuckled. Okay, no dog… And no prince.

Maggie flung one arm over her head. Her fingers grazed the headboard. Soft, slippery silk brushed her knuckles. She pulled Tom’s necktie from the rungs, scowling as it slipped through her fingers.

He wasn’t a prince. And even if he was, Sheila was right. Princes were unreliable. No, she didn’t need a prince, but she wouldn’t mind having someone to serve as consort every once in a while—if for no other reason than to conserve batteries. But guys like Tom Sullivan were not consorts fit for a queen. They were men born to be a fling. And she was a girl who no longer believed in happily ever after. She just wanted to be flung every now and again.

****

Tom dropped the receiver onto the cradle and scowled at the leather blotter on his desk. No answer. His pen beat a steady staccato on a thick stack of files. He jiggled his knee. Thinking he was being clever, he purposefully waited until the clock struck twelve on Monday afternoon to call. Now he felt like a fool.

He snatched up the receiver again and jabbed at the keys, punching out his brother’s cell number. Tucking the phone under his chin, he leaned back in his chair and turned to face his office window. The moment Sean answered he blurted, “Hey. Do you have Maggie McCann’s cell number?”

“Who?”

“Maggie. Maggie McCann… Tracy’s friend,” he clarified impatiently.

“Uh…no. Why would I have Maggie’s cell number?”

“Didn’t you do the work on her building?”

Sean laughed. “Five or six years ago, yeah… Why do you need it, anyway?”

“I, uh…” He tipped his head back, trying to come up with a plausible excuse that wouldn’t lead to more questions. “I ran into her the other night. She mentioned something about needing some legal advice.”

Sean didn’t answer right away, and the stretch of silence made Tom nervous. “Since when do people need a divorce lawyer when they’ve never been married?” his brother asked at last.

He twirled his pen between his fingers. “I didn’t say she needed a divorce lawyer. I was just going to answer her questions for her.”

“Uh-huh. And you forgot to give her your card?”

“Yeah.”

His brother’s snort was impressive. “I’ve seen you hand those things out like an ambulance chaser at a fifteen car pile-up.”

His patience snapped. “You don’t have her number?”

Sean hesitated only a moment. “You can call Tracy at work,” he offered in a gruff grumble.

“Never mind.” Tom swiveled back to his desk. “I have to go. I’ve got a lunch appointment.”

He hung up before Sean could squeeze in another word and shot from his chair. Running an agitated hand through his hair, he turned his glare on the bustling street four stories below his window. He couldn’t call Sheila. She’d be even quicker to pounce than Sean. Biting the inside of his cheek, he perched on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

The pose lasted about one minute. He hit the button for the speaker and dialed The Glass Slipper’s number again. The phone rang and rang. He let it go on, stubbornly refusing to give up. Once it hit an even dozen, he had to concede defeat. Something he wasn’t particularly fond of doing.

He glowered at the blank display and his stomach growled. Lunchtime. Maybe she closed the salon during the lunch hour. He checked his watch, smoothed a hand over his tie, and pushed away from the desk. He fumbled with the buttons on his suit jacket as he crossed his office. His secretary, Mrs. Osgood, jumped when the door opened. “I’m going out,” he announced, striding past her desk.

“You’re due in court at two,” she called after him.

He raised one hand in silent acknowledgement and strode through reception, trying to resist the urge to break into a jog.

The elevator took too long. Every damn cab seemed to be taken. He finally snagged a ride north by jamming a five dollar bill into the fare box on a city bus. Clamping down on his impatience meant he ground his teeth at every damn stop. By the time the bus crossed from the Loop into the River North area, he lost it. Spotting a line of cabs queued in front of a hotel, he bounded from the bus the moment it stopped at a red light.

Mid-day traffic snarls held him up. Tom slid forward on the duct-taped seat, checking his watch and trying to gain a little forward momentum through sheer force of will. By the time he sprung from the cab at
Damen
and Division, the big hand was inching toward straight up one o’clock. The soles of his shoes slapped pavement. A disgruntled panhandler voiced his displeasure when Tom dashed past without sparing him a glance, much less some change.

He arrived at The Glass Slipper to find a darkened storefront. With a growl of frustration, he jammed his thumb to the buzzer for her apartment. He checked his watch, mentally calculating the time it would take to get back downtown, grab his briefcase, and make it to court on time.

“Come on, Maggie,” he hissed, laying into the buzzer again.

“Tom?” He whirled to find Maggie standing on the sidewalk. A handful of shopping bags bumped her shins. “What are you doing here?”

His eyebrows rose as he took in the faded jeans and nubby sweater she wore. “Why aren’t you open?”

“It’s Monday,” she answered, shifting the bags to one hand. “The spa is closed on Mondays.”

Like that explained anything. He scowled when the wind caught her hair, tossing the riotous red curls. “I’ve been trying to call.”

The tiny furrow bisecting her brows was nearly irresistible. “Because you need a facial?”

A thousand crude thoughts flitted through his brain, but he clamped the filter in place. “No.”

“Actually, you do. Your pores are clogged.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll take some sandpaper to them.” He checked his watch again and figured he had about five minutes to convince her to have dinner with him. “Listen, about that dinner—”

“I thought I was pretty clear about that.”

Frost sparkled around the edges of her tone, but he was nothing if not determined. “I was hoping I could get you to change your mind.” He added what he hoped was a charming smile to sweeten the deal. It never failed him before.

“No, thank you.”

Her simple refusal hit him like a baseball bat to the knees. She made it seem so easy. Too easy. He focused all his energy on keeping the smile in place. “No? Come on,
Mags
, give a guy a chance.”

Her lips pursed. Color rose in her cheeks. He tried to parse the blush, searching for clues on which way the emotional wind blew, but Maggie just shook her head. Those crimson curls danced over her sweater, catching on knots of yarn and springing free. He coiled his fingers into his palm to keep from fisting his hand in her hair and kissing her stubborn refusal into a resounding yes.

“Why?”

“What’s the point?” she asked.

“The point is I like you. I want to spend more time with you.”

Maggie looked away, drawing a deep breath and staring at the trash wafting along the gutter. “I don’t have time,” she said quietly.

He crossed the sidewalk and took his stand right in front of her. “Any time you’re free.”

She shook her head harder. “No, Tom. I don’t have time to play games anymore. I’m done.”

“I’m not playing a game.”

A derisive snort erupted from her freckle-dusted nose. “Listen, it was fun. It was great. You were great, okay? You’re one hell of a last fling. I’ll even provide a testimonial to any future women of the moment you want to refer, just make sure they book a couple of services with us,” she said in a low, firm voice.

“I don’t need your help, thanks. And last fling? What’s that about? Are you dying or something?” he asked in a snide tone.

Maggie met his gaze head-on at last, her emerald eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to stare him down. Tom raised one eyebrow and crossed his arms over his chest, prepared to stand his ground.

“I’m going to have a baby.”

The pavement dropped out from under him. Good thing, otherwise his jaw would have been scraping sidewalk. “You’re pregnant?” he managed to croak.

Tipping her chin up, she shrugged as she pushed past him. “Not yet, but I will be.”

His stomach dropped, pooling around his Italian loafers. He glanced down just to be sure he hadn’t just pissed himself. “But… But we used—”

“Oh. No!” She held her keys up in one hand. “Don’t stroke out, Sully. I’m not planning on having
your
baby,” she said with a smirk. “I’m picking my donor daddy by number. Well, number and a few other considerations.”

“Donor?”

She nodded once then slid her key into the lock, favoring him with a sunny smile. “Tick-tock, you know.
Gonna
be forty next year. I can’t keep waiting for Prince Charming to mount that white charger.” The locks tumbled and his world tilted, spinning off-axis. Maggie shot him a glance over her shoulder then pushed through the door. “So, uh, thanks for a good time, okay? I’m sure I’ll see you at some Sullivan soiree or another, but if not…Have a nice life, Tom.”

Before he could pull his tongue out of his throat the door closed between them. Locks
snicked
into place, and it all clicked. A passing cab blasted its horn and a city bus belched black exhaust. Reeling, he slumped against a metal trashcan embedded in the sidewalk. Fate must have been keeping a watchful eye on him, because the moment he mustered the strength to look up, a Yellow Cab pulled to a stop just down the block.

He sprinted for it, grabbing the door handle before a portly man in a cheap suit pried himself from the seat. Once the cab pulled away he let his head fall back and blew out a breath. Blinking at the stained headliner, he waited for the wash of relief he was certain should follow such a narrow escape. It never came.

The driver blasted the horn as they soared through an intersection. Startled, Tom glanced at his watch. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he dialed his office and briskly instructed Mrs. Osgood to send his paralegal to the courthouse with his briefcase. He ended the call, dropped his phone into the pocket of his suit coat, and let his head fall once again.

“A baby,” he whispered to the mottled felt above his head. “Holy hell.”

****

Maggie paused in the entryway to catch her breath. Heat flooded her cheeks. Her blood rushed in her ears. She pressed her fingertips to the wall, steadying herself on wobbly legs. Then she took off.

She didn’t look back. She refused to acknowledge the twinge of regret pinging away at her stomach. Dashing to the top of the steps, she fumbled with the locks and hip-checked the door. The bags flew from her hand. A set of snowman-printed hand towels skittered across the floor. She leaned against the solid oak door and pressed her fingers to her lips.