Seeing her hesitation, Grant said, “Give me his number. I’ll call and make certain he’s agreeable. Surely he’ll understand the need for you to meet with your attorney.”
She reached for the cell phone with a resigned sigh. Obviously Grant Lawson was a man who liked to have his way. Given the ache in her back and the wobble in her knees, she’d go along with his wishes this once. “I’ll let him know he has carry-out on the way.”
“That works for me.” Turning, he exited the car and came around to her side while she spoke on the phone, then escorted her into the restaurant.
“I hope you like Italian.” Grant pushed open the door to Gionni’s, inhaling the rich spiced air as Ariana preceded him inside. He liked the quaint Italian restaurant snuggled into a space right off the alley where only the locals would find it. Checkered cloths on the tables, a breadboard and knife waiting for the fresh, hot loaf that would appear the moment they sat down, La Boheme playing softly in the background. The old-world atmosphere soothed him after a difficult day. He hoped the place would work its magic for Ariana as well. For all her pretense to the contrary, she was frazzled.
“Mmm. This is lovely.” Ariana gazed around, and Grant relaxed, pleased that she appreciated his choice.
The hostess showed them to a corner table, and Grant seated Ariana, once more catching the faint scent of gardenias.
She adjusted her chair to accommodate her enlarged stomach, and he marveled at a woman’s ability to deal with the changes of pregnancy. Physically, financially, emotionally, the total burden of childbearing rested on a single mother, a fact that disturbed his sense of fair play.
“This place smells delicious. What do you recommend?” she asked, smiling.
Grant noted how full and soft her lips appeared. She had a beautiful smile, brilliant white against her dark complexion. Orthodontia must have cost her family a fortune.
He opened his menu. “If you like Italian, there are no bad choices. I’m having linguini with pesto sauce.”
“That sounds good. I’ll have that, too.”
“And antipasto. You need the vegetables.”
Closing her menu with a soft wap, she tilted her head appraisingly. “Are you always so bossy?”
He smiled, liking the way her hazel eyes flashed. “Yes.”
She laughed, a warm melody, and he liked that, too. “All right. Antipasto.”
“Mineral water or milk?”
She stuck out her tongue and grimaced. “Plain water.”
The waiter, who appeared to have enjoyed more than his share of Gionni’s fine cooking, took their order and moved away.
Lacing his fingers, Grant propped both forearms on the table and leaned forward. As long as he had Ariana in his company, he might as well make the most of their time. “Will you be uncomfortable if we discuss your case during dinner?”
“Of course not. I thought that was the purpose for stopping here.”
It was, wasn’t it? The fact that he enjoyed her company and liked looking at a pretty face was an added bonus. And she certainly had no business standing on her feet cooking for this Roger person. The very idea annoyed him. Roger annoyed him. And Ariana’s devotion to the man annoyed him even more. He’d heard the sweet tone of her voice when she’d made that phone call—the sincere apology, and the promise of tomorrow night. If he had his way, she wouldn’t go out with the loser at all. Hadn’t she learned anything from her experience with that mutt, Benjy?
“Have you considered that your ex-fiancé may deny paternity?”
Ariana’s eyes widened. “Could he do such a thing?”
Grant opened his palms in a questioning gesture. “You know him better than I do.”
She lay a protective hand over her abdomen. “Benjy does whatever makes him happy at the moment. And spending money on anyone except himself does not make him happy.”
“We’re likely looking at a court case, then.”
Ariana frowned, gnawing at her lush bottom lip. “Isn’t there another way? Benjy’s been out of rehab less than a year. I wouldn’t want to be the cause of a relapse.”
Grant couldn’t believe this woman. Her fiancé had left her in dire straits and she was concerned about upsetting him? “Taking responsibility for one’s actions is a part of adulthood.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. My babies deserve that much.”
“Is there any chance that he might file for custody?”
“Benjy?” The light came back on in her face. “He wouldn’t take custody of a parakeet if it required any sacrifice.”
He hoped she was right. Men had a way of behaving strangely when a woman pressed them for support.
“Okay. We’ll file the paternity suit and ask for full custody with child support. But what are your plans in the meantime? The case may take a while, depending on how quickly we locate your ex. Financially speaking, can you afford medical care? Child care? Do you have family here in Boston that can help you after the twins are delivered?”
She shook her head, shiny hair dancing around her shoulders. “My family lives in Florida.”
“All of them? You’re completely alone in this?” He didn’t much like the sound of that. “Would your mother consider coming to Boston for a few weeks until you adjust to some sort of schedule?”
“Oh, no. Absolutely not. I have friends who will help out, but I can’t let Mama come here.”
He frowned at that. “I take it you and your family are not close.”
His own family was small—Mom, Dad and a married sister in Connecticut, but if he needed them—which he never did—they’d be here as fast as Dad’s Lincoln would go.
“But that’s the problem. We’re very close. That’s why I haven’t told them.”
The idea shocked him. He leaned back in his chair and stared at her fragile little face. “Your family doesn’t know about your pregnancy?”
“No. It would break Mama’s heart.”
“To be a grandmother?”
“Of course not. Mama loves kids, but she already has enough grandchildren. My brother has two and my sister has three.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Their meal arrived. Ariana gave the waiter a warm smile and thanked him while Grant waited patiently for her answer. She might be trying to avoid the subject, but he was an attorney and never forgot the question.
The pungent smell of pesto wrapped around the table. From the depths of the restaurant came the low murmur of voices—some in Italian—and the gentle strains of an Italian aria.
Ariana adjusted her napkin and took a bite of the linguini. With a deep sigh, she briefly closed her eyes. “Wonderful,” she breathed.
He concurred, savoring the rich flavor while appreciating Ariana’s impeccable manners, and the dainty way her fingers tore the bread into small chunks. She popped a piece into her mouth and chewed, making a soft moaning sound. A thought filtered through his mind that had nothing whatsoever to do with Italian food.
Good grief. The woman was pregnant. Explosively so.
He swallowed, eager to escape his wicked thoughts. “And your