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e fought for sanity, he tried to remember why he’d been so adamant about not letting her take the lead in bed. Just one more way he’d allowed his past to screw up his life. Well, no more. . . .
“I think . . .” he managed, “you’re missing a spot.”
“It’s a lot more than a spot,” she said saucily, “and I want to hear you beg.”
As it turned out, a whole lot of begging went on in that bed for the rest of the night, and not all of it came from him. Most of it did, though, and he had the time of his life. Point number five, he decided, had a lot going for it.
Toward dawn, they found themselves awake again. “Did you ever imagine it could be like this?” she whispered against his inner arm.
“Not in a million years.” He trailed one of her silky curls through his fingers. “I love you so much, baby. More than you can imagine.”
“I can imagine,” she said. “Because I know how much I love you.”
They lay there for a while, petting each other and feeling happy.
“I’ve been thinking . . .” He smiled against her hair. “With your leadership skills and my talent for rescuing you from embarrassing situations, I do believe we’re going to have ourselves a fine life.”
“A very fine life.” She kissed him. “I insist upon it.”
Epilogue
Emma opened one of the buttons on the light blue dress shirt Kenny had just finished fastening. “I’m in the mood for point number six.”
His hand was warm as it curled around her hip. “Absolutely not. The last time you insisted on point number six I pulled a hamstring.”
“Stop exaggerating. You didn’t pull a hamstring.”
“Just about.” He bathed her with the smile he kept in reserve just for her. “Besides, pregnant women have no business messing around with point number six.”
One of the very best things about seeing so much of Francesca was having the opportunity to learn from a master, and Emma actually managed a pout. “But I have my heart set on it.”
He nibbled at her bottom lip . . . which was one of the very best things about pouting. “You sure?”
“Uhmm . . .”
“All right, then. I s’pose we can let Patrick entertain our guests till we get downstairs.”
“Our guests! I forgot!” She leaped away from him and scrambled toward her closet, where she grabbed a loose-fitting coffee-colored sheath. “Goodness, Kenny, they’ll be here any minute. This is all your fault. If you hadn’t started kissing me . . .”
“Can’t seem to avoid it. You and your big belly are about the cutest things I’ve ever seen.”
She grinned at him. She was only three months pregnant, and her belly wasn’t big at all. They hadn’t even told anyone yet, although they planned to do exactly that during today’s Thanksgiving dinner.
She and Kenny had loved keeping this secret to themselves, whispering over it just before they fell asleep at night, discussing names, exchanging secret smiles. Who could have imagined that a handsome rogue like Kenny Traveler could get so much enjoyment from having a pregnant wife?
Her condition had made her emotional, and her eyes misted. She loved being married to him, loved him so much that just watching him walk into a room filled her with pleasure. He was proving to be the very best sort of husband—passionate, loving, and utterly steadfast.
And she was rather proud of herself for being the best sort of wife—at least for him. She knew she was partially responsible for the fact that he had stopped letting the past shape his identity. Now he was the man he should have been all along—someone who was comfortable in his own skin and no longer doing penance for his childhood.
Although he still loved playing the lazy doofus within the family, no one seemed to be fooled. And since their marriage, his popularity with the public had blossomed, thanks in large part to Francesca Beaudine, who’d overlooked her long-standing policy of not interviewing golfers—“the most boring athletes in the world”—on her monthly Francesca Today television special.
The interview had taken place on the sunporch at the ranch, with Kenny and Emma sitting on the couch and Francesca elegantly perched in a nearby chair. During the course of the interview, Emma had, among other things, reduced Sturgis Randall to toast. She’d also defended her husband with a humor and vigor that had convinced the American public that Kenny Traveler couldn’t be quite as pampered as they thought, not if he’d chosen to marry a down-to-earth scrapper like Emma. It hadn’t hurt that Francesca, who at no time during her career had ever pretended at journalistic detachment, also joined in Kenny’s defense.
“The most embarrassing interview I ever went through in my life.” Kenny’d shuddered afterward to Warren and Dallie. “With the way those two women were going at it, I could hardly get a word in edgewise. Promise me something, both of you. If Emma ever decides to drag me in front of the cameras like that again, one of you’ll just shoot me.”
While Dallie had laughed, Warren had pretended sympathy, but Emma knew he was delighted to have his son publicly vindicated.
Unlike Sturgis Randall, Hugh Holroyd had escaped her public censure, but only because Emma had been afraid he’d use St. Gert’s to retaliate. At the time of the interview, her continuing worry about the school’s future had been the only mark on her happiness. Not long afterward, however, she’d hit upon a new plan of action. After dozens of phone calls, she and Penelope Briggs had managed to put together a consortium of parents, alums, local businesspeople, and miscellaneous Travelers who wanted to buy St. Gert’s. Unfortunately, Hugh had discovered Emma was behind the deal and had perversely refused to accept.
