“Don’t touch me.” She had never looked so beautiful, so powerful. “At least show me the respect of doing as I ask.”
As soon as he stepped into the hallway, the door slammed with absolute finality. Slowly, he trudged up the wooden staircase to his third-floor apartment, fitted the key in the lock and went inside. The halogen lamp on his desk shone down on his battered laptop, which probably wasn’t going to survive immersion in the Mediterranean—the dunking that had taken place when he was being chased by dangerous men who wanted to do him harm. How the hell could he explain that to Melinda? How could he tell her that he was a superhealing machine, and a dark, faceless enemy was after him? He never shared his secrets. If anyone else knew, they might also be targeted. No way could he drag Melinda into the maelstrom of his life.
Stretched out on the leather sofa, he stared up at the high ceiling with the old-fashioned, frosted glass fixture. He’d chosen this old, brick apartment building because of the prewar charm and the fact that the landlord was willing to issue his lease to one of Drew’s fake identities. None of his mail came here; it was delivered to a P.O. box in Manhattan. He paid his bills online. This apartment was untraceable—a safe haven where he could hide while he dug into his past and found out what had happened to him when he was growing up in South Dakota.
And that was exactly what he should continue to do: find the answers. He should take Melinda’s advice. Leave her alone. Let her have her own life.
As a rule, he kept his relationships short-term and uncommitted. He hadn’t expected to get involved with Melinda, hadn’t expected to care so much about her.
But he did care. He wanted her in his life. And their baby. My God, I’m going to be a daddy.
An incurable ache squeezed his heart. He’d suffered a lot of injuries in his life, but losing Melinda and his unborn child was a scar that his miraculous, regenerative blood couldn’t heal.
MELINDA GLARED angrily at the ceiling. As far as she was concerned, Drew Kincaid could go straight to hell. She’d never forget the look of terror on his face when she told him. What happened to the daredevil who skied down an avalanche? Was he scared of a baby?
Apparently, yes.
She needed to burn off some of this anger. Though it was chilly and dark outside, she’d go for a run. In the bedroom, she peeled off her clothes, threw on her sweats and jammed her feet into well-worn running shoes.
Before she left, she decided to put away the dinner she’d prepared for him so she wouldn’t have to face it when she came home.
She picked up the unused china from the table. Her mother had given her the delicate Wedgewood blue-patterned plates for her hope chest. They were supposed to be for after she got married. That wasn’t likely to happen now. Melinda was seven months away from becoming a single mother.
This wasn’t the way her life was supposed to work out, but she wasn’t totally miserable about the prospect. She wanted children, and she had to admit—though she was furious at Drew—that he was an excellent sperm donor: healthy enough to tackle all those extreme sports he seemed to love. Smart enough to be a decent reporter. Motivated enough to make a success of his life. I could have done worse.
A heavy sigh pushed through her lips. Drew’s flaw was his inability to make a commitment. A man like him didn’t want to be tied down, and it wasn’t as if he’d made her any promises.
Neither of them had ever declared their love. Do I love him? The word had been poised at the tip of her tongue once or twice. But she hadn’t actually said it.
With the plates put away, she surveyed the massive dinner. All this food would go to waste; she didn’t have the appetite to sit down and eat.
But Drew probably did. He must be starving and wouldn’t have food in his house after being away for three weeks.
On a paper plate, she put together helpings of pot roast and rutabagas. Might as well give him the entire apple pie. Being pregnant meant she ought to concentrate on healthy foods that would nourish the baby. And, of course, she should return his wine.
With both hands full, she climbed the stairs to his apartment, intending to place the food outside his door then return to her apartment, call and tell him dinner was served.
As she approached his door, it opened.
She held out the plates. “You might as well have this food. I’m not hungry.”
He took her by the arm and pulled her forward. “We need to talk.”
“Be careful. I don’t want to spill.” She allowed herself to be led into his apartment, where she set down the plate, the pie and the wine on the kitchen counter. “I invited you for dinner. And here it is.”
He closed the door to his apartment, folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned against the door. “A long time ago, I made myself a promise. If I was ever so blessed as to become a father, my child would have a better life than I did in foster care.”
She didn’t know he’d been raised in foster care. Drew never spoke of his childhood, and she’d assumed that he came from a privileged background. With all his jetting around the globe, he seemed like a trust-funder. “What happened to your birth parents?”
“They’re dead. I have no family.”
He spoke with such harsh finality that she couldn’t bear to look at him. Her gaze darted around the room. Though Drew had lived here for almost four months, his apartment still looked unsettled. There was a desk, a huge leather sofa with a coffee table in front of it, a television, two straight-back chairs and not much else. No pictures on the walls. His reference books and magazines were stacked around his desk in piles.
“Melinda, I want to do the right thing.”
“Don’t worry. I would never cut you out of your child’s life.”
“Our child,” he said. “This baby belongs to both of us.”
This simple, obvious declaration sank deep into her consciousness. No matter what she did for the rest of her life, she’d be connected to Drew through their child. “Why do I feel like I should apologize? I didn’t get pregnant by myself, you know.”
“I haven’t forgotten one minute of our lovemaking.”
Neither had she. When he took a step toward her, she retreated. “You just stay over there.”
“That’s not what you really want. Tell me how you’re feeling, Melinda.”
“I’m confused.” She felt an incongruous smile sneak onto her face. “And I’m excited. I love babies, and I’ve always wanted children. Single motherhood is a difficult prospect, but I know my parents will be supportive. They always are.”
“How do you feel about us?”
“Well, I can’t help wishing things were different.”
“I’m not good with relationships,” he admitted.
“Ooooh, big surprise.”
“Sarcasm? That’s the coward’s way out.”
“I don’t know how I feel about you because I don’t know you.” When they talked, he told her about his adventures and the exotic places he’d been. She knew nothing about who he really was. “I didn’t even know you were a foster kid.”
“You want a biography? Fine. I bounced around in foster care until I was ten. Then I was placed with Belle and Harlan Anderson in Lead. That’s a little town in the Black Hills near Rapid City. I was a loner, but I had a girlfriend in high school. My first love. She died in a car accident.”
Though the tone of his voice remained steady, she heard an echo of sorrow. “I’m sorry.”
“On