“I’ve got to teach him better manners,” Chance muttered to himself. He turned back into the kitchen to make coffee—and wondered if Jennifer was thinking of him, as he was thinking of her.
Jennifer stepped out of the silk slacks and folded them atop the hamper. She knew by the label that the slacks had probably cost more than her monthly salary, the nubby raw silk pure tactile pleasure to touch.
I’ll drop them at the cleaners after work tomorrow, she thought. Along with the top. Then I’ll mail them back to Chance.
She pulled the tank off over her head, folding it neatly atop the slacks, before she turned on the sink taps. Cupping her hands, she splashed cool water on her face, reaching blindly for a hand towel. She blotted moisture from her skin before tugging the band from her ponytail. As it pulled free and let her hair tumble about her shoulders, she ran her fingertip over the base of her throat. The gesture was pure habit. She’d worn the locket with Annie’s picture and lock of hair since her daughter was born.
But this time…the chain wasn’t there.
Dismayed, Jennifer stared with consternation at her reflection in the mirror. She knew she’d been wearing it earlier in the day when she’d dressed to go out to brunch. Frowning, she mentally reviewed the afternoon and realized that the last time she’d noticed the locket was after they’d returned to the town house. Chance had rushed her upstairs and stripped off their clothes before tossing her on the bed. He’d joined her immediately and she remembered the slide of cool metal over her skin when Chance’s lips brushed the locket aside, replacing it with his mouth.
Maybe I lost it in his bed, she thought. She hoped the locket had ended up tangled in Chance’s sheets rather than broken and lost on the street or the bus.
She would have to call Chance and ask if he’d found her missing locket. Misgiving warred with delight at the thought. She wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to walk away from him a second time.
The night with Chance was a fairy tale—a few days stolen for herself, Jennifer thought later that evening.
With Annie tucked into bed after telling Jennifer about the fun things she did with Linda’s children, Jennifer walked back into the living room and dropped onto the sofa.
She switched on the television, browsing through channels with the remote control and finally settling on a news station. Dressed in pajama bottoms and a white cotton camisole, she tucked her legs under her and stared blindly at the TV screen. She couldn’t make herself care about the political news or the latest scandal caused by a local state representative.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Chance.
It wasn’t just the sex—which had been amazing. It was his sense of humor, the discovery that they both loved or disliked some of the same movies. They’d argued hotly in defense of book titles the other had merely shrugged over but, each time, the contention had ended with laughter and kisses.
She’d never met anyone like Chance before.
And now that her night with him was over, she had to admit that spending time with him meant more to her than a brief, spicy interlude to her nonexistent dating life.
She had feelings for him. She wasn’t sure exactly what those feelings were, or how deeply they ran, but the ache in her heart wasn’t simple. That nothing could ever grow between them only made her chest hurt more.
There was no possible future between a waitress at the Coach House Diner and a doctor at the Armstrong Fertility Institute. Their lives were too different; the disparity in their background and income too great. She wouldn’t see him anymore, outside the diner.
Jennifer knew it was for the best but somehow the thought of going back to pouring Chance his morning coffee while knowing she’d never be more than a one-time date made her pain grow.
It’s no good yearning for the moon, she told herself stoutly, wiping dampness from her cheeks. I knew when I agreed to go out with him that it was a one-shot deal. No future dates, no building dreams of a relationship.
She switched off the television and the living-room lights, entering her bedroom where the bedside lamp threw a pool of soft white over her solitary bed.
It’s time for Cinderella to go back to her real life, she told herself as she climbed into bed and switched off the lamp. The room was plunged into darkness except for the faint glimmers from the streetlights outside marking the edges of the window blinds.
Resolutely, she closed her eyes but when at last she slept, she dreamed of Chance.
Chance had barely shrugged into his lab coat on Monday when the phone on his desk rang. The caller was Paul Armstrong’s secretary, who relayed a message that he was needed in Paul’s office immediately.
Wondering what could possibly have happened to impact his research funding this time, he left his office and headed down the hall.
He tapped on the half-open door to Paul’s office and stepped inside. “Morning, Paul…Ramona.”
“Good morning, Chance.” Paul leaned against the front of his desk, hands tucked into his slacks pockets. Ramona Tate, the institute’s blonde, blue-eyed public relations expert—and Paul’s fiancée—smiled warmly.
Chance didn’t miss the worry on both their faces, however, and he mentally braced himself. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m afraid not,” Paul said grimly. “There’s no easy way to tell you this so I’ll just say it—a former patient has filed a paternity suit and named you as the father of her baby.”
Chance was stunned. Of all the possible subjects for bad news, this one had never occurred to him.
“That’s crazy,” he said when he could speak. “Totally insane. Who filed the suit?”
“Georgina Appleby.”
Chance bit off a curse.
“I know.” Paul grimaced, shifting to cross his arms across his chest. “The institute is behind you one hundred percent in this, Chance. Whatever we can do to help, we will. Just let us know.”
“I’m so sorry,” Ramona said with sympathy. “The timing of this lawsuit is just terrible. You’ve barely had time to relax after proving how false those outrageous allegations were about funding for your research with Ted.”
“I have no doubt you’ll win the day in this, too,” Paul told him resolutely.
“Thanks.” Chance frowned and raked one hand through his hair, thinking out loud. “I should call my attorney. Has the institute been officially served with copies of the documents?”
“Yes. I had my secretary run a copy for you.” Paul picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to Chance. He turned back to his desk and picked up a copy of the Boston Herald, passing that over, as well. “The newspapers already have the details.”
Chance took the paper, folded open to the society page. Heavy black marker circled two paragraphs of the gossip column with quotes from Georgina Appleby. “She stops just short of slander,” he said grimly.
“No one who knows you will believe it,” Ramona stated firmly.
“Maybe,” Chance commented, rereading the last paragraph, coldly furious. “I’d like to take this to my attorney, as well.”
“Keep it,” Paul told him. “I read it on the way to work this morning.”
“I’d also like to take a short leave of absence to deal with this,” Chance suggested. “The smear against my reputation is probably unavoidable, at least temporarily, but I don’t want to damage the institute’s image with bad personal publicity.”
“Take