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She picked up on the fifth ring. “It’s six-thirty in the morning,” she croaked. “I’m still in bed.”
“No problem.”
“I said I wasn’t ready to talk to you.”
“Now that is a problem. You have one minute to get these gates open before I ram them.”
“Send me a postcard from Gitmo!”
Another hang-up.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to follow through on his threat because, thirty seconds later, the gates swung open. After a brief conversation with a Secret Service agent, he drove along the curving lane that cut through the heavily wooded property to the house, a large brick Georgian. He parked in front and got out. The chilly air carried the smell of fall leaves, and the clear morning sky promised sunshine, which he tried to convince himself was a good omen. Not an easy task when he felt sick to his stomach.
The front door opened, and there she was. His stomach jumped to his throat. Everything that had been murky to him was now crystal clear, but obviously not to her … Instead of inviting him in, she came outside, a black windbreaker tossed on over bright red pajamas printed with green bullfrogs.
The last people he wanted to face right now were her parents, so having this showdown outside was an unexpected gift. She’d shoved her bare feet into a pair of sneakers, and her hair was a beautiful, shiny light-brown rumpus. She wore no makeup, and a sleep-crease marked her cheek. She looked pretty, ordinary. Extraordinary.
She stopped between a pair of pillars at the top of three wide steps. He walked toward her along the brick sidewalk. “Who died?” she said, taking in his suit.
She had to know he wouldn’t show up at the home of the president of the United States in jeans and a T-shirt. “No time to change.”
She came down off the steps and into the crimson and yellow leaves scattered along the walk. Despite her small features and the frog pajamas, she didn’t look anything like a teenager. She was a fully grown woman—alluring, complicated, and angry, all of which scared the hell out of him.
She jutted her jaw at him as belligerently as a prizefighter. “There’s a big difference between having a vasectomy and planning to have a vasectomy.”
“What do you mean? I never said I’d already had one.”
She blew that off. “I’m not arguing with you about it.” She tromped onto the damp, leaf-covered grass, moving in the direction of a tree that looked like it could have sheltered Thomas Jefferson while he proofread the Declaration of Independence. “The fact is,” she said, “somewhere along the line one of your little buggers hit a home run, and now you’re going to be a father. What do you think about that?”
“I-I haven’t had time to think.”
“Well, I have, and I’ll tell you what’s not going to happen. I’m not pretending I went to a sperm bank, and I’m not getting rid of this baby.”
He was horrified. “You sure as hell aren’t.”
She went on, still highly pissed. “So what are you going to do about it? Crack up again?”
The way she belittled his past mental problems, as if they weren’t all that important, made him love her even more, if such a thing were possible.
“Well?” She tapped her foot in the wet grass, just as if she were his third-grade teacher. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
He swallowed. “Good job?”
He expected her to take a swing at him for that. Instead, she pursed her lips. “My parents are not going to be happy.”
Surely an understatement. He spoke carefully, fully aware that he was treading on dangerous territory. “What do you want me to do about this?”
She went supersonic. “That’s it! I’m done with you!”
She stomped back toward the house, and since he couldn’t manhandle a pregnant woman like he’d manhandle an unpregnant one, he cut around her. “I love you.”
The brat stopped in her tracks and sneered at him. “You care about me. Big difference.”
“That, too. But most of all, I love you.” His throat grew tight. “I’ve loved you from the moment I found you in that Texas alley.”
Those green-flecked eyes flew wide open. “That’s a lie.”
“It isn’t. I’m not saying I knew I loved you, but I felt something important right from the beginning.” He wanted to touch her—God, did he ever want to touch her—but he was afraid that would only make things worse. “Every moment we’ve been together, I fought to do the right thing. I can’t tell you how tired I am of that. And I think you love me, too. Am I wrong?”
