Not wanting to reach out and rub one of those loose curls between his fingers. To step closer and breathe her in. Touch her.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. Stepped back. She’d really screwed him up. Had him retreating. It grated his pride, which had kept him sane and controlled all these months.

“So, you were in the neighborhood and thought you’d look me up?” he asked, wanting badly for that to be true.

She strolled over to the glass doors leading to the balcony. “Houston isn’t exactly one of my regular hangouts. But for this view,” she said with a nod at the twelve-acre park his suite overlooked, the city of Houston behind it, “I might have to change that.”

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I did some digging. You’d be amazed what a woman can find out with a Wi-Fi connection, a name and a few clicks of a mouse.”

“What are you? Nancy Drew?”

“Not quite that innocent. As you well know.” She looked around. “Not going to offer me a drink?”

This entire experience was so surreal, he almost did. “No. What are you doing here?”

“It seems I have something of yours.”

He hadn’t noticed anything missing from his wallet that night. He had his watch. His phone. All the personal belongings he’d brought with him to Shady Grove four months ago. “Still playing games, I see.”

“Oh, but you know how much I enjoy those games,” she purred, walking toward him, all sex appeal and artifice. She touched his chest, the warmth of her fingers burning him through the material of his shirt. “You didn’t mind when you took me to bed.”

He caged her wrists, wished her skin wasn’t so soft. “I should call security. Have them toss you out.”

“Do you often have women thrown out of your apartment?”

“You’d be the first. You said you had something of mine?”

She swallowed. Tugged herself free. “You could say that.”

He waited, but she just stood there looking almost...nervous. Scared.

What was that about? Had she stolen from him without him noticing? He wouldn’t have thought she was a petty thief—even if a flash of conscience had brought her here to make amends. “Just return whatever it is, and I won’t call the authorities.”

Now she frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever you stole from me that night.”

She bristled. “I didn’t steal anything from you.”

He rubbed his chin, totally confused. “Okay.”

“I didn’t steal anything from you,” she repeated, pacing in front of him with short, agitated strides. “But I do have something of yours.” Stopping in front of him, she inhaled deeply and met his eyes. “I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER SIX

IVY WISHED SHE could take back that deep inhale. She’d gotten a nose full of Clinton’s aftershave with it. Her stomach turned. The back of her neck grew cold and clammy.

Well, wouldn’t throwing up on his feet take this moment from plain old bad to freaking horrible?

She breathed shallowly. Airplane travel and pregnancy didn’t mix—at least not in her case. She’d battled morning sickness for more than two months but hadn’t had a bout of it for the past two weeks. Until she’d been strapped in her seat, taking off from Pittsburgh.

Plus, yes, okay, she was nervous. She was dropping a bombshell on him. The night they’d spent together was supposed to be a one-time thing. Now, the child growing inside of her bound them for the rest of their lives.

But as bad as she felt, Clinton looked worse. The color had drained from his face, and he stood there, glassy-eyed, as if he was seconds from passing out, just...bam! Falling flat on his handsome face.

If that big, solid body started tipping, she wasn’t going to try to catch him. She was getting out of the way.

The last time she’d been underneath him, things hadn’t quite worked out the way she’d planned.

His mouth hanging open like a six-foot-plus blond guppy, he blinked. Shook his head slowly, as if coming out of an intense dream.

“What?”

His voice was low. Calm. And very, very cold.

Good thing she wasn’t intimidated by anyone, or else she’d be shaking in her sandals right now. As it was, she had to force her gaze to remain steady, herself not to back up to...oh...somewhere in Kentucky would suffice. “I’m pregnant.”

“Am I to assume that you’re trying to tell me I’m the father?”

She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t crazy about his snotty tone—and she preferred the term sperm donor over father—but he’d had a shock, so she’d give him a break. Never let it be said she couldn’t be reasonable and tolerant.

At least once.

“No,” she said, her tone all sorts of dry, “I internet stalked you, flew to Houston and talked my way into your apartment because I thought you might want to buy me a baby gift. I’ll leave you a list of where I’m registered.”

His jaw went rigid. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”

She snorted. “Please. That was such a stupid question it practically begged for sarcasm.”

His cool gaze went to her stomach then back to her face. “You’re lying.”

The man was really testing her limits. “We don’t know each other all that well, so I’m going to let that slide.”

“Know each other that well?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “Lady, I don’t even know your last name.”

She nodded slowly. Pressed her lips together because her stomach was roiling again. “Fair enough. Let me fill you in on what you need to know. My name is Ivy Rutherford, and I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t lie, cheat or steal, and I’m not big on second chances.” She swallowed, but the sick taste in the back of her throat remained. “Something you might want to keep in mind before you speak again. I’m also seventeen weeks pregnant.”

She turned to the side and smoothed the loose material of her dress over her stomach. She hadn’t shown at all during the first trimester, but at week sixteen, as if overnight, a noticeable baby bump had appeared.

“Satisfied?” she asked, letting her hands fall back to her sides.

He didn’t look satisfied. Or scared, which had been her reaction when that stick she’d peed on two months ago had flashed a positive sign. No, the only word she could find to describe the expression on Clinton Bartasavich Jr.’s face was furious.

And she was alone with him. Maybe she should have chosen a public place to tell him, instead of ambushing him in his apartment—if you could call what had to be over three thousand square feet of bright, open rooms, million-dollar views and the highest of high-end furnishings, counters, floors and appliances an apartment. She’d been half-afraid to even sit on that fancy couch.

“We used protection,” he said, his lips barely moving. “That night.”

“Yes. I realize what you’re referring to. Unfortunately, my eleventh-grade health teacher was right and the only foolproof way to prevent pregnancy is abstinence. We’re in the small percentage of cases in which condoms are ineffective. Looks as if you have some sort of supersperm. You must be very proud.”

“I don’t believe you,” he said as evenly as if they were discussing what to have for lunch.

Bile rose in her throat. Okay, no thinking about food, not even in general terms. “You think I have a pillow in here?” she asked, indicating her stomach.

“I don’t believe I’m the father.”

“Why would I lie?”

He sent her a bland look, and she replayed her words in her head. Winced. Guess he wasn’t the only one who could ask a stupid question.

He was a Bartasavich. Oh, she’d heard all about Kane Bartasavich’s wealthy family in Houston, but she’d assumed wealthy meant upper-middle class, like Charlotte’s parents. Dr. Ellison was an ophthalmologist, and Mrs. Ellison owned a popular boutique clothing store on Main Street. Regular, well-off folk who lived in a big, tasteful home, tipped generously and vacationed in the Caribbean.