Having Jay's Baby (Having His Baby #2) Read online

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked for at least the second time.

  I glanced at her belatedly, offering a tight smile. I’d barely said a word to her since we’d left the office.

  “Your dad seems like a piece of work,” she said when I didn’t answer.

  I laughed, even though I wasn’t really amused. “You’ve got that right.”

  “Who was that woman?” she asked.

  “That,” I said, “was his P.A.”

  There was a pause, loaded with reluctant humour. “I’d like to see that job description in writing,” she said eventually.

  I smiled despite myself. I made some non-committal noise of agreement. Looking back out at the busy night streets, I suddenly realised I’d automatically headed to the park, towards my apartment. “Wait a minute,” I said, slowing the car, “where am I going?”

  “I’m not far,” she said, pointing west. “You can drop me at the metro. It’s only a couple of stops.”

  “You’re not in Brooklyn anymore?”

  “I bought a place in Manhattan last year,” she said proudly. “A brownstone. It still needs a ton of work, but—you know…” I caught her smiling. “It’s beautiful; right near the park. I have a big old table in the kitchen, and an original Aga; a little kitchen garden to look out over…”

  I pictured lemon-yellow walls and lingering Sunday dinners with the whole family clustered around a mussed table. “Sounds nice,” I said. Uncomfortable with the wistfulness that had crept into my tone, I cleared my throat and added, “I owe you a ride home after a scene like that. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant way to end an evening.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip. My gaze rested there in interest for a moment, before she shrugged in concession.

  Though she’d lost weight since our affair—or our succession of one-night stands, as she’d described it back then—she still had that same soft sheen about her. It reminded me of a gentler, easier time in my life, when things had been infinitely less complicated. I pondered resuming our affair. She wasn’t with the father of her kid anymore … would she agree? Would she show me around that fixer-upper brownstone of hers with the original Aga?

  It didn’t fit though. Small apartments in Brooklyn were a fine setting for a casual hook-up, but homely brownstones with kitchen gardens and small babies asleep upstairs were not. My brain wrestled off the impulse like an annoying itch.

  I concentrated on the traffic, anything to keep my mind on less contentious topics. Too bad this bullshit with my father was like a sore tooth, one that neither of us could stop from probing repeatedly, and I ran over the ridiculous scene in my office again in my head. It had to stop. From now on we would communicate through our lawyers. I didn’t need any more drama like tonight in my life.

  “What did he do?” As if sensing where my thoughts had veered, Stella’s voice filtered through the mental chaos and snatched me back to the present.

  I turned off the park and on to the less hectic streets of the Upper West Side. Though I’d always lived east of the park, I couldn’t deny that it was a good neighbourhood. Stella had to be doing well at the paper; that or the ex was helping.

  “Nothing, really,” I said, “not tonight, at any rate. He’s just making a lot of noise.”

  “Why?”

  “This won’t show up in the Tribune on Monday, will it?” I asked. “Which way are we going?”

  “Still paranoid, I see … 85th Street, and it’s off the record, I promise.”

  I turned the car up a busy residential street bordered on all sides by brownstones. “He’s threatening to dismantle my company,” I told her. “As you can see, he styles himself as a bit of a Lex Luther. He’s pissed because I’m getting divorced, and this is his way of expressing that.” I glanced at her again. “I’m very sorry that you had to deal with that.”

  “It was pretty entertaining.”

  “Yeah, if you like horror movies.”

  I took a turning at her request. The traffic thinned. I was aware of a slight tension in the car’s temperature controlled environment. Or was that just the growing anticipation in my chest? My eyes glanced at each townhouse in query, trying to place Stella in one of them. We pulled up outside a neat row of brownstones two minutes later. It had obviously been recently sandblasted. The quiet street was slick with rain, the trees chucking golf ball sized drops of water on the car’s windshield. The building in front of us had elegant stairs leading up from street level to the first floor.

  The engine cut into a deafening silence. The sound of fabric brushing seemed inordinately loud as I sat back.

  “Thanks for a lovely evening, Jay,” she said in an overly polite tone. Her silhouette was still against the streetlight.

  “I’m glad you had a good time,” I said, equally straight.

  Dimples softened her cheeks. The humour was thick, slightly uncomfortable between us. Torn between the sudden desire to seduce her, and an equally strong desire to end the evening and this strange reunion, I prevaricated. “Can I see you inside?”

  “It’s okay,” she said. She pointed ahead. “It’s that one right there. I’ll be fine.” Her ensuing glance was only mildly apologetic, mostly teasing. She made a move to get out.

  I found myself turning towards her, the action enough to stop her in her tracks. I perused her hesitant features, debating whether or not to come clean. “I should probably apologise—about my questions earlier, in the bar,” I said. “About your daughter.”

  Her expression settled.

  “Someone sent me a message,” I said finally. “It said your daughter could be mine.”

  She was frozen. After a good ten seconds of silence, she said, “Are you serious?”

  I nodded.

  Her expression was ashen. “Why would anyone want you to believe that?”

  I didn’t know, and didn’t pretend to, dismissing the question. “It said you’d had a kid, about nine months after we’d split. It said I should look into it.” I weighed her shocked reaction, guessing the message hadn’t come from her. “The intimation being that someone wants me to believe I’m a father, obviously.”

  “That’s—insane.” Her lips were parted in lingering shock. “Not insane that you could potentially be the father. I mean, I know the timing probably looks suspicious, but … why would someone be sending you anonymous notes about it?” Alarm tightened her features.

  Good question; in all honestly I wouldn’t have put it past my father to pull a stunt like this, anything to throw me off. He and his cohorts had an army of foot soldiers hired to make their enemies’ lives difficult in a million weird and terrible ways. I wasn’t about to supply Stella with the details, though.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t worry about it too much. I had to ask. You understand.”

  She nodded tightly but didn’t seem assuaged by my confidence.

  I exhaled. “Listen, I wanted you to know in case there’s anyone on your side who might—have cause to send a note like that, but this is my problem, not yours. I’ll deal with it.”

  “I can’t think of anyone,” she said, breathless. “I’ll think about it, but nothing comes to mind right now.”

  “It was probably a prank.”

  Stella exhaled slowly. “Will you let me know – if there’s anything to know – once you find out?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.” She laughed suddenly. “Christ, what a night...”

  “At least it wasn’t boring...”

  She stared at me for a long moment, her face like an unsettled sky. “Well, goodnight, Jay.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. There was no time to analyse the merits of opening this particular can of worms. I moved forward and touched her delicate jaw with one finger. Her eyes widened, the breath catching in her throat. Her skin was cool, and impossibly soft. I waited a beat— a tense, heavy heartbeat like I had a piston in my chest—and then leaned in to kiss her.

  It was shocking, how familiar she was. A mix of citrus
and sweet, and her lips welcomed mine with cushioned hesitation. Yes … this was exactly what I needed. The relief tore through me with the intensity of a flash-fire.

  Her lips parted. I wasted no time in deepening the kiss in response. The spark between us exploded. My whole body was suspended in some kind of current, blood stiffening my cock.

  She made a low, guttural sound in the back of her throat. Her arms clasped mine with shaky determination. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to steady herself or hold me at a distance. Or at least, I was unsure until she reared back, breathing heavily.

  Her eyes were inky black. “I have to go,” she said abruptly.

  Go? Why the hell … damn, had I come on too strong?

  “Sorry,” she said, her hand grasping for the door handle. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have … it’s—the babysitter. It was really good to see you, Jay.” She opened the door. “Take care.”

  I sat back and nodded, but the disappointment seared like a toxin under my skin. On a certain level I couldn’t believe she was really going … I frowned, forcing a smile as she said something else, rushed, awkward, polite.

  Once the door had closed I blew a terse breath out of pursed lips. My eyes trailed her all the way in front of the car and up the stairs, my pulse echoing each step. I waited until she’d closed the brownstone door before I let out a proper groan.

  Damn it ... how the hell had I misjudged that so badly? It’d been a while since I’d received such a resounding rebuff. Stella had sure as hell never turned me down before, but then I’d never made a habit of barging in without assessing the lay of the land before. Motherhood was definitely a game changer.

  So, that was that. Have a good life, Stella Winters. Taking another steadying breath, I put the car into drive.

  #

  Elizabeth Benson Fitzsimmons was a stunning woman. Coltish legs and flowing blond locks, she could silence a room just by walking into it. That, when she felt the need for attention, of course, which she seemed to this morning. I watched her progress across the lower floor with vaguely irritated interest. What the hell was she doing here? I had forty minutes before my meeting, so whatever it was, she’d better be quick.

  Her perfume arrived in my office before she did. “Jay, why did you move the first year associates down to the third floor?” she asked, forgoing a greeting. Her tone dripped with privilege.

  I looked at her with reluctant patience. The bag was angled perfectly over her forearm, showing off a discreet but unmistakable designer badge. The faintly clinical perfume and the billowing hair told me she’d probably been at the spa all morning.

  I glanced back down at my report. “I’m sorry, darling,” I said. “Did I forget to run that by you?”

  The ensuing silence was rank with antipathy.

  “What can I do for you, Elizabeth?” I asked, unable to hide my impatience any more.

  “For your information, I’ve had a terrible weekend,” she told me.

  She glided over to the sofa and then sat down with a sigh. “We were at the Hamptons on Saturday. Darling, you won’t believe this: police officers came barging in. Police officers!” She paused for effect. “I was absolutely mortified.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” I murmured, only barely listening as I turned over the stock report. My stomach clenched at the plummeting numbers.

  “…they wouldn’t let anyone leave—they just kept us trapped there in the garden,” she was saying. “Then after they’d turned the house upside down and made sure to thoroughly humiliate us, they told everyone to go home.” Another expectant pause. “I won’t be able to face any of the ladies at the club. Mummy told me I should go down there this afternoon and just have it done and over with, but you know how awful they can be.” She stopped. “Jay, you’re not listening to me!”

  I lowered the report. “I am.”

  “No, you’re not!” she said. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve just said. I’ve had a simply awful weekend and you can’t even put that beastly piece of paper down for a second to hear me out.”

  “I’m listening,” I said, aiming for a reassuring tone. I put the papers down with pointed care. “So—you were at the Hamptons?” I prompted, crossing my arms in front of my chest. I paused as the story rewound in my head. Staring at my estranged wife’s expectant expression, I asked, “The police?”

  “Yes,” she said, calmer. “They absolutely ruined brunch. Mummy’s threatening to sue the government for the sheer amount of damage they caused, especially to the summer house.”

  I held up a hand in a distracted attempt to stop her talking. “You were raided?” Inappropriate amusement tickled me. “Why?”

  “It’s not funny, Jay!”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said. Her tone couldn’t have been more accusatory.

  I took a deep breath. My wife had a skill for finding blame—and it was usually mine—in any situation that wasn’t to her satisfaction. “Did you speak to your father?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “He won’t take my calls,” she said, pouting.

  I frowned and checked my watch.

  “Call him, darling, please,” Elizabeth said. “Or call your father. Abel will know what to do. I’m absolutely beside myself. So is Mummy.”

  I had no intention of calling anyone’s father, especially not my own. I did, however, have a friend down at City Hall. “I’ll make some calls,” I said, “but I’m not promising anything. And I’m not doing it now,” I added for good measure. “I have a meeting in half an hour.”

  “No, darling, please,” she said. “You’ll get distracted with all this—whatever it is you do, and you’ll forget. Phone him now.”

  I gathered my things and ignored her.

  She pouted again, easing her lithe, tanned body off the seat. To my utter bewilderment, she took my jacket lapels in her hands and applied slow, careful pressure down my chest. “Darling,” she said, the baby-like tone of her voice grating against my nerves. Her lower body swayed towards me.

  I eyed the full red lips just for a second before I clasped her wrists in a firm grip. “I told you, I’ll do it later,” I said, my voice dangerously low. God, the woman really was incorrigible. I eased her away from me, already anticipating her reaction.

  True to form, she wrenched her wrists from my hands and uttered an oath that would have made Lucifer blush. “You’re impossible!”

  “I’m busy.”

  “No, you’re not busy, you’re just selfish,” she said, and I could hear the rage building in her tone, making it quaver. “God, I should have listened to Jinny Adams! Even at college, she said you’d make a lousy husband—she said you were damaged goods—and she was right about that.” Elizabeth’s voice raised an octave. “I’ve wasted the best years of my life pandering to your needs!”

  “We’ve only been married for eight months, Elizabeth.” I wasn’t in the mood for going through this tired little routine again. It was with practised efficiency that I allowed the words to glance off me without a dent.

  “Plus a two year engagement,” she said, still in the throes of the argument.

  “You know perfectly well we were never engaged,” I said. “It was your father who spread that rumour.”

  Elizabeth ignored my logic, and cried, “I should never have said yes! I don’t know what I was thinking!”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. She’d been thinking then what she was thinking about now—money and connections. Slipping the phone into my pocket and making for the door, I paused for only a moment to say, “I’ll drop you at the club,” before leaving the office.

  Her outraged howl reverberated down the corridor.

  #

  I called for one of the town cars so I could continue reading the stock reports on the way to the meeting, but after we were on the road, it was hard to concentrate. I stared at the report but my mind kept churning over the recent spat, the tension exacerbated by Elizabeth’s silent and passive ag
gression next to me in the back seat. Damaged goods … what the hell did that mean? And who was Jinny Adams, anyway? I had no memory whatsoever of her. I rubbed my eyes, my fingers absently loosening the tension in my jaw. Fuck this Jinny Adams and her cohorts, and fuck Elizabeth if she thought I was damaged. The Bensons, my parents—they were the damaged ones. They were so beyond hope that they were pathologically incapable of happiness.

  I stared down at the stock reports again, forcing myself to concentrate. What I was seeing was alarming. Fitzsimmons & Jones’ share price had dropped two points overnight. My father had obviously leaked his plans to take a more ‘disruptive’ role in the company. Part of me had wondered, given the intervening months of silence since the scene in my office, if he’d been making idle threats. How could I have doubted him, knowing the man as I did?

  Glaring out of the tinted car window, I ran through the various scenarios in my head. Exactly what kind of evil plan was the old bastard hatching? And even if I could find out, could I stop it?

  I sighed and got a lungful of flowery musk. Elizabeth was staring mournfully out of the other window, her presence having been momentarily shelved by my busy mind. A stone dropped into the pool of my conscience, guilt rippling out. Though in her early-thirties her profile was still somewhat childish; the tall, convex forehead and arched nose were precocious to say the least. She looked like she was drowning.

  She’d always needed—or wanted—me or someone else to take care of her. She’d never shown any desire to be independent, neither financially nor emotionally. She was dragging this divorce into its second month of mediation now, bickering over every line in the prenuptial agreement, and as much as I detested the process, I sensed that for her it was a form of assimilation—of adjustment. My patience with Elizabeth was, though, like gasoline: exhaustible and highly flammable in the process. I could feel it threatening to ignite in my chest as I considered the additional complication caused by the drama over the weekend in the Hamptons.