His lips touched hers, and she groaned. The fire between them was still as strong as ever. And she needed to be strong. She eased back.
“I’m…uh, pregnant.”
For what seemed like endless moments, he simply stared at her, his expression utterly blank. Then his forehead pleated and his body went rigid as he visibly struggled to process what she had said. “You’re…?”
“I’m going to have your baby.”
Chapter Four
Flynn leaped back, stunned, needing to sit before he fell. “You’re having my…” My God, he couldn’t even finish the sentence. He’d need those Daddy Club meetings more than ever now, he thought stupidly.
“I didn’t mean to catch you off guard.”
He didn’t know whether to laugh or strangle her. He stared at the front of her coat, realizing now why she’d kept the baggy thing on.
A baby? His? What had he been thinking that night? He was a man who cherished family, had always wanted a big one—despite the ineptness he was currently displaying with the one he had—but he was normally more careful with a woman. Protected her.
“Let me see.”
Darcie suddenly felt embarrassed. With trembling fingers, she slipped the buttons through their loops, spread the panels, felt her heart gallop out of control as he eased away from the porch wall and came toward her, never taking his eyes off her belly.
At only five months along, she wasn’t hugely pregnant, but there was a definite swell beneath her charcoal jersey-knit tunic.
He reached out as though to touch, then pulled back. “Are you sure—”
Her chin jutted out and she didn’t let him finish his sentence. She didn’t need to. “Am I sure it’s yours?” Offended, hurt, she clenched her teeth. That damned class distinction that had made her feel like a waif at thirteen and again at eighteen rose up to haunt her. She thought she’d outgrown the insecurity. She hadn’t.
She stepped back, took a breath, told herself she would not cry. “You know, why don’t we just forget this whole thing, okay? We’ll just deal with getting Heather to go home with you and that will be that.”
“Darcie…” He reached for her.
She slapped his hand away. “I might have given you the wrong impression that night in Philly when I hopped right into bed with you, but I’m not like that. I’m not loose.”
“Ah, damn it.” This time he evaded her swatting hands, and cupped her face. “I know you’re not.”
“How? You don’t know me.”
“Instincts, then.” His thumbs massaged her temples.
She sniffed, mortified that the tears had slipped down her cheeks despite her strict efforts to hold them back. He should be hurling questions at her, yet instead he gave her tenderness.
“Your instincts are awful,” she said, not even knowing why she said it. Nothing made sense right now.
He eased her close. “Why in the world didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Her breath caught on a suppressed sob and she shrugged. Admitting that she was a chicken didn’t seem adequate for the moment.
He didn’t push. He simply held her closer. “It’ll be okay.”
“No it won’t.”
“Shh.” His palms were cold against her cheeks, his fingers gentle where they outlined the shell of her ear, cupped the back of her head. His head lowered, paused.
With exquisite care, he removed the colorful barrettes and chopsticks from her hair. Masses of naturally curly hair tumbled down, tangling with his fingers. Pinpricks raised goose bumps on her scalp and her arms. The roots of her hair hurt from being held up for so many hours, but his steady massage soothed…and inflamed.
Unconsciously she pressed against him. His gaze moved to hers, so strong and sure and utterly focused, holding her like a soft caress. She shivered, heard a silent click in her brain and knew she was already in too deep, knew too that there was nothing she could do to turn off her traitorous emotions.
The sound of her moan was lost in his mouth as his lips finally closed over hers. The jolt was almost too much to stand. She jumped, pulled back for an instant and once more met the heat of his eyes.
“Easy,” he whispered.
He took her lips again and heard her say, “Trouble.”
Yes. Definitely trouble. But it was the sweetest kind. The explosion of emotions that burst through him took him by surprise. Darcie Moretti was no shrinking violet when it came to giving and taking…or kissing. She didn’t play games or wait for him to lead. She participated, gave it her all. And man alive! What that “all” did to him.
He’d had his thirty-sixth birthday, and lately he’d been feeling jaded and old. With the simple, avid press of Darcie’s lips, he suddenly felt young and renewed.
He angled her head for better access and dove into the kiss, forgetting that Darcie’s family and his own daughters were on the other side of the door. He was caught up in some really glorious sensations, and for a while he just wanted to feel. Just that.
And he was feeling a lot—the soft warmth of her mouth, the pillowy feeling of her plump lips pressed to his, the heat of her thighs where they made a perfect cradle for his erection. Her pregnant belly was firm and spooned right into his stomach as though their bodies were made to fit that way….
As though the Almighty had made each with the other in mind.
And that thought scared him, big-time.
Darcie could hardly breathe, and then decided that breathing was overrated. There was a certain thrill in the dizziness born of lack of oxygen. At that moment, she was certain that she could sustain her life on Flynn’s taste alone—chocolate cake and milk and masculinity…and yes, trouble.
His kiss was sure and strong, yet soft and seductive. The joy he created with just that touch was potent, liberating. She wanted to go on forever, to take it further, to press closer, skin to skin….
The porch light winked on and off. Darcie’s eyes popped open and she leaped back from Flynn, her breath heaving, puffing white in the cold night air.
“Grandma Connor,” she explained, struggling for breath. “She used to do that to me when I was a teenager, too. It meant my dad was out of his chair and I was in danger of being caught.”
Flynn gave a strained laugh. “Been a while since I’ve worried about being caught necking on a girl’s front porch.”
“Yeah. Me, too. And that was pretty incredible.”
His dimples flashed, illuminated by the yellow porch light. “I could fall for you real easy, Darcie Moretti. I know that sounds weird with you being pregnant and all.”
Steady, she cautioned herself. Don’t jump. “Good thing we’re both sensible adults. And good thing neither of us has time to devote to a relationship.”
He took a step closer. She took a step back. “Who says I don’t have time for a relationship?” Never mind that she was right. It bothered him that she was thinking for him again.
“Your daughter does. Every time she calls the hot line. She’s your number one concern, Flynn. And mine. I won’t lose another kid.”
“Another one?” Flynn asked. It was difficult to think straight with desire still raging through him like a wildfire. But Darcie’s tone flashed warning signals in his sluggish brain, making him uneasy. Even more upsetting was her including his daughter in that category of