Twin Expectations

He nodded. “Okay.” The hard lines of his face softened. “You’re being very reasonable about this, after what my brother did to you. You, um, aren’t actually planning to sue him, are you?”

Anger rose up again. She consciously tamped it down and took two slow, deep breaths. “No, I’m not planning to sue anybody. The incident at the Oilman’s Ball was an unfortunate misunderstanding involving my identical twin sister. Please, can we forget about it?”

He actually chuckled, but he didn’t agree to drop the subject forever. Then he sobered. “Um, by the way, how is the baby? You’re looking a little pale.”

“Am I?” She wasn’t surprised. She’d had a terrible shock to her system. And having him speak so casually about a baby she’d scarcely mentioned to anyone…

“You are pregnant, right? I mean, you didn’t make that part up too?”

Chapter Three

“Yes, I’m pregnant, and can we just drop it, please?” Bridget said.

Judging from the warning flash in her eyes, Nick decided he’d better leave well enough alone. “Understood,” he finally said. “So, how do we proceed?”

She relaxed a bit. “I’ll leave my portfolio in your office. Go through it at your leisure. Pick out the portraits you’re drawn to, the ones you really like. Be thinking of how you’d like to be portrayed—how you’d like to be remembered for posterity. I’ll call back in a few days and we’ll meet again, to mull over ideas. Is that satisfactory?”

“Yes, that meets with my approval,” he said, matching her ultraprofessional, formal tone. Two could play at this game. Even as he tried to one-up her, he found himself fascinated with her, with the way she stood up for herself without being rude. He’d thought her too forward and brassy when he’d first met her, but in this case first impressions were wrong. She didn’t come off that way now.

“You’ll hear from me.” She turned and walked away with a clipped, no-nonsense gate. He watched her, focusing on the sway of her slim hips. How would she look in a few months, when her pregnancy advanced? Would she waddle?

Oddly, he found the mental picture pleasing when it shouldn’t have been. Since when did the thought of a pregnant woman get him excited?

With a shrug he returned his attention to the engine of the old Dehavilland Comet he’d been working on when Bridget had appeared. Bridget. How had he ever forgotten such a cute name? It wouldn’t slip his mind again.

A lot of other things slipped, though. Like his wrench. Suddenly he had fifty fingers, all of them coated with butter. He found himself looking up things in his repair manual that he should have known by heart. That infernal woman had ruined his concentration.

After an hour he gave up and went back to the office to check up on Dinah, his new receptionist. She was punctual, pleasant and a hard worker, but she lacked something in the initiative department. If he didn’t specifically tell her to do it, it didn’t get done.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

“Sure. Phone doesn’t ring much.”

That was because most of Peachy’s customers retired along with him.

“Oh, Mr. Raines? I don’t want to be a bother, but my chair is broken.” She pointed to a stack of kindling in the corner. “I’ve been using this stool, but my back—”

“Good heavens, Dinah, order yourself a new office chair. A nice one.” Nick took a good look around the office and winced. This was what Bridget Van Zandt had seen. This was her first impression of his business. “While you’re at it, order yourself a new desk and a couple of customer chairs. Then call a carpet place. And a painter.” He sniffed the air. “And a No Smoking sign.”

Dinah’s eyes lit up like Christmas morning. “Really?”

“Really. I’ll sign the purchase orders. Do it up nice.”

“Yes, sir! Oh, Mr. Raines, did you see these pictures?” She pointed to an open photo album on her desk. He recognized it as Bridget’s portfolio. “They’re beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she does with you.”

That statement planted all sorts of images in Nick’s fertile mind, none of them involving oil paints and canvas. “Let me see.” He leaned on a corner of Dinah’s desk and flipped through the album. It took only three or four flips for him to admit that he was impressed. The portraits were beautiful—so realistic the models could almost walk off the page. These people breathed with energy and personality. He almost felt as if he knew them, just by studying their portraits.

He recognized the subject in one of the paintings, a local matron named Velma Hampton. The woman was not classically attractive, yet Bridget had managed to catch that spark of humor and openness that shone from within.

“I like this one, don’t you?” Dinah said, pointing to a cowboy. He stood by a worn wooden fence, holding a coil of rope and gazing out at a field dotted with cattle. “I think you should do yours outside. Maybe with one of your planes.”

“Now that is an excellent idea.” If he had to spend hour upon hour posing for this asinine portrait, at least he could do it outside, in comfortable clothes. And when it was done, his portrait would stand out among the coat-and-tie Statler men hanging in his mother’s library. “Call the Van Zandt woman and tell her I’ve decided what I want. Make arrangements for her to meet me at dawn at my house—you remember how to get there, right?”

“Yes, but why don’t you call her yourself?”

“That’s what I hired you for,” he quipped.

The fact of the matter was, Bridget unsettled him. He would undoubtedly be spending a good deal of time with her, and he intended to keep their relationship cool and professional. He was sure that was how she wanted it, too.

DAWN. Dawn! What had Bridget been thinking to blithely agree to such insanity? She couldn’t possibly be presentable by 7:00 a.m., not if she had to stick her head in the toilet every five minutes. Unfortunately she didn’t have Nick’s home phone number, so she couldn’t call and cancel. She would just have to pull herself together or stand him up, one of the two.

Dripping from her shower, she glared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were puffy and her skin was pale. Makeup helped, but not much. She threw on the first clothes she could find, a pair of faded jeans and a white ribbed shirt.

Then she remembered that Liz had said the shirt made her breasts look bigger. Forget that. She didn’t want Nick to think she was advertising. Initially she’d been intrigued by him—and still thought he was gorgeous—but since the Oilman’s Ball she’d put any thoughts about getting to know him better right out of her mind.

She chose a red cotton blouse and a studded denim vest instead. By the time she’d dried her hair she felt almost presentable, though certainly far from her best. She tied her hair back with a red ribbon.

What did it matter, anyway? she grumbled as she gathered her sketch pad and pencils, a Polaroid camera, some light-reflecting boards, and an industrial-size bottle of Tums. He didn’t have to look at her while she was painting him. And since he was the one who had specified this uncivilized hour, he could suffer the consequences.

Over the past few weeks Bridget had scoped out all of Oaksboro for every gas station and convenience store with a decent bathroom. She plotted her route to Nick’s house so that several of these nausea-friendly pit stops were on the way. She stopped three times and still was only ten minutes late when she pulled into the driveway.

His house was beautiful, she noted with some surprise. She’d been expecting to see something in the same state of disrepair as his business. But this charming, white frame house looked as if every square inch was lovingly cared for, right down to the marigolds and zinnias in the front flower beds.

That was all the time she had to study Nick’s domicile. He burst out the front door as soon as her car pulled up, and all her attention became focused on him.

“You’re late,” he said in lieu of a greeting as she got out of the car. He seemed more anxious than irritated, though.

“I apologize,” she said in a carefully neutral tone, mindful of the negative impact anger could have on her body chemistry. She offered no explanation for her tardiness. For some reason the thought of Nick knowing she’d succumbed to something as weak and…female as morning sickness filled her with apprehension.

She started toward her trunk, where her supplies were stored, but he grabbed her arm. “No time for that. I want you to see something before the light is ruined. Come on.”

He more or less dragged her along the red brick path that went around the house. The path was uneven, making her glad she’d decided against hose and heels this morning. She was having enough trouble in her sneakers.

From the backyard they climbed over a wooden fence. That’s when Bridget saw what he wanted her to see. Parked in the middle of a field was a brightly painted World War I biplane. Behind it the rising sun cast a pink glow over a grove of pecan trees.

Dew soaked through Bridget’s canvas shoes as they made their way closer, through tall, pale-green grass. They stopped a few feet from the plane, and she simply stared, drinking it all in—the mists rising from the wet grass; the shiny, dew-dappled plane gleaming red, yellow and green; the pink and orange sky gradually giving way to blue.

“What do you think?”

She had no words to describe her awe. The scene he’d orchestrated was breathtaking, better than anything she could have imagined. All it lacked was him.

“Go stand by the plane,” she said.

“Oh, but I’m not really—”

“Just do it.”

“Okay.” He walked over and stood in front of the plane’s wing.

Bridget held up the thumb and forefinger of both hands, forming a rectangle in the air. She came closer, until Nick filled the frame, then backed away slightly so that she could see enough of the plane to identify it, and a bit of trees and sky in the background.

The light was the best part. That misty, early-morning light would make this portrait her masterpiece. That, and the subject himself. His had to be the most intensely interesting face she’d ever painted. So many facets to his personality. So many layers. As little time as she’d spent with him, she knew that about him.

“So, what do you think?” he asked impatiently, as if he was eager for her to approve.

She started to answer. Then she got a whiff of something—gasoline, motor oil. Her stomach roiled like an ocean during a hurricane. She held on to a brief hope that she could contain the nausea, then abandoned it. She was going to hurl.

She looked around frantically for somewhere to hide herself, but there wasn’t a bush or tree within twenty yards. So she turned without explanation and fled toward the house, praying Nick wasn’t the kind of man who locked his doors whenever he stepped outside.

Unfortunately she didn’t make it as far as the house. She slid behind a wisteria bush and retched. There was nothing in her stomach, but she convulsed violently.

She heard Nick come up behind her and fervently wished the earth would swallow her up.

“Bridget?” His voice sounded full of concern, and at that moment she both hated and appreciated him. Appreciated him for caring. Hated him for seeing her like this, crouching in the bushes sicker than a dog. How humiliating!

“I’m fine, just give me a minute.” She took several deep breaths and promptly passed out.

When she came to, probably only a few seconds later, she was being held in a pair of strong and utterly secure arms. She stifled the urge to insist that Nick put her down. For one thing she felt weak as a baby bunny, and she wasn’t completely sure she could stand unless someone staked her up. For another it felt good to lie back and just let him take charge.

Nick was warm, and he smelled like the country and morning sunshine—the way her cotton clothes smelled if she dried them on a clothesline. She pressed her face against his shirt and closed her eyes again.

He didn’t stop until he’d carried her all the way to his back porch, and then he paused only long enough to elbow the door open. Once inside, he set her down on a big, striped sofa as gently as if she were an armload of eggs.

She opened her eyes and blinked at him.

“Thank God. You’re awake. Are you okay? What am I saying, of course you’re not okay. You fainted.” He ran his hands through his thick, chestnut hair.

Bridget thought irrelevantly that he was adorable when disconcerted.

“We should take you to the hospital,” he announced.

She quickly found her voice. “No, really, that’s not necessary. It’s just morning sickness. By ten o’clock I’ll be fine. Believe me.”

“You fainted. I thought morning sickness was just nausea.”

“I was light-headed. Maybe a little dehydrated.”

“Eyes rolling into the back of your head is not ‘light-headed.’ You were unconscious.”

“Just for a couple of seconds!”

“I’m calling a doctor. I have a friend—”

“No! As soon as I get something in my stomach, I’ll be fine. And I have an appointment with my obstetrician this afternoon. I’ll mention the morning sickness and see if he has any suggestions.” She sat up, though it cost her to do it without groaning. “See, I’m feeling better already.”

He looked almost convinced. She decided she’d better distract him with a task, or she’d be paying some strange doctor for a house call.

“Hot decaf tea with milk and honey usually helps. Do you have some tea?”

“No. Coffee?”

She shuddered. “’Fraid not.”

“Orange juice?”

The thought of OJ made her stomach twinge. “A glass of water and some dry toast or crackers?” she countered.

“That I can do.”

He practically knocked over furniture in his effort to get to the kitchen. She could hear him clattering around in there, searching through drawers, opening and shutting cabinets. Heavens, didn’t he know where things were in his own kitchen?

It occurred to her, then, that he might not live alone. He’d been at the charity ball without a date, and there clearly wasn’t a woman in residence at the moment, or the panicked man would have dumped his ill guest on her. But maybe his wife traveled on business or something.

For the first time she took stock of his living room. Peach-and-white-striped furniture and pastel woven rag rugs created a pleasant atmosphere. A wealth of houseplants, set in decorative Mexican pots, were apparently thriving, probably due to the abundant light spilling in through two generous skylights. Either Nick had good taste, he’d hired a decorator or some woman had staked her claim on his home.

Then again, something about his house was uniquely male, even with the flowers out front and the pastel living room. It was…unpretentious, she supposed. Lived in. No fussy widgets on the coffee table or lace whats-its around the no-nonsense window blinds. He must be single, after all.

Just as well he was unattached, she decided. More than once she’d been doing a portrait for a husband, and the wife got jealous over the amount of time Bridget spent with the man.

She got up and took a closer look at the items on his fireplace mantel—a large quartz crystal rock, a pocket watch under a display glass and a model biplane very similar to the one in the garden.

She nudged the tiny propeller on the plane, delighted to see it actually spun.

“I thought you were sick.” Nick stood directly behind her, much too close for comfort.

She whirled around, her heart racing for no good reason. “It…comes and goes,” she managed. “That’s the way this morning sickness thing is.”

He held a glass of ice water in one hand and a plate of buttered toast—at least four pieces—in the other. He’d forgotten she wanted it dry. He set both down on the maple coffee table. “Sit down before you fall down. A good breeze could blow you over.”

She followed orders, not wishing to be any more of a problem than she’d already been. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I do appreciate your concern.” She did, too, sort of.

Nick sank onto the opposite end of the sofa and put his head in his hands. Goodness, her sudden illness really had taken a lot out of the man.

“You’re not going to sue me, are you?”

“Sue you? Good heavens, what for?” She nibbled on a corner of toast.

“I’m an easy target. And you were talking about suing my brother—”

“I never said I was going to sue your brother. I never even met your brother! That was my sister.”

“She’s pregnant, too?” he asked, faintly amused.

Bridget slumped back on the sofa. “No. She’s not pregnant. She was referring to me, but she was only making a joke. Not a very good one, I’m—”

“A joke? I wouldn’t think an unplanned pregnancy is something to joke about.”

Now he was getting personal. “You think I should hide myself away like I’ve done something shameful?”

“Forgive me for saying so, but some people might think that sleeping with so many men that you don’t even know your child’s parentage is shameful. There, I’ve said it. I’m an old-fashioned, fossilized dinosaur. I know it. I can’t help it.”

Bridget knew she should be furious by the assumptions he’d made about her. But there was something pretty funny about a studly guy like Nick Raines talking about family values like a blue-haired old lady.

She folded her arms. “So, that’s what this hostility is all about. It’s not the baby that bothers you. It’s my sleeping habits.”

“It’s both. I don’t understand how you, a seemingly intelligent, successful woman, could so thoughtlessly conceive a child.”

Okay. It was time to put that particular misconception to rest. “For your information, Nick—not that it’s any of your business—I put a great deal of thought into conceiving this child. I love children. I want to raise a family more than anything in the world. I just don’t happen to have a husband.”

“How would you have time for a husband?” he grumbled.

What seemed humorous a moment ago suddenly didn’t. Bridget felt tears coming on—her raging hormones had turned her into an emotional wreck—but she ruthlessly swallowed back the lump in her throat. “I was artificially inseminated.”

She almost enjoyed the look of consternation on his handsome face. Then she promptly burst into tears.

“Oh…oh, here, now, stop that. There’s no need…” Nick waved his hands around helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Bridget sniffed. “I’m just overemotional.”

He held the glass of water out to her. “Here.” When she didn’t take it right away, he set it down, dashed out of the room, then back again with a box of tissues. “Here.”

She took the tissue and dabbed at her eyes, then blew her nose in a most unladylike fashion. After a few more sniffs, she had herself under control.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, though he looked relieved. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. But you have to admit, you did lead me to believe—”

“I didn’t lead you anywhere. You assumed.”

“I assumed the most likely scenario, given the limited information you gave me. I don’t think I’ve ever known or even heard of a single woman having herself artificially inseminated.”

“But you’ve known lots of women who slept around and got pregnant.”

That stumped him for a moment. “Well, no. A couple in college, maybe.”

Bridget took a deep breath. The crisis was over, and with it all of her hostility. Maybe she had deliberately led him to the unfair assumption. She was willing to let bygones be bygones if he was. “So, let’s set up a schedule for our work together. Can you spare me an hour in the morning, three or four times a week for the next couple of weeks, then once a week thereafter?”

“You still want to do the portrait?”

“Yes, of course.”

“That’s generous of you, considering I all but called you a slut.” He almost let himself smile, and Bridget was reminded of exactly how handsome a man Nicholas Raines was, particularly when he wasn’t showing off his sardonic wit at her expense.

“Can we please put the misunderstanding behind us and start fresh?”

“Okay. I think I can spare a few hours a week. I’ll even buy some tea and honey and soda crackers, just in case.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She stood up, feeling vastly better. “I think I should go home now.”

A couple of minutes later, as Nick opened Bridget’s driver’s door as if it were Cinderella’s coach, she felt optimistic about the coming portrait. She always enjoyed committing a client’s personality to canvas, but it had been a long time since a subject had so excited her creative juices. And maybe a few other types of juices as well.

“Just one more question,” Nick said as he helped her into the car.

“Sure.”

“Don’t you think your kid ought to have a father?”

Something in Bridget’s imagination snapped shut. “A bit judgmental today, are we?”

“Just curious.”

Since the question hadn’t been asked with the intention to antagonize, she decided to give him an honest answer. “I would dearly love for my child to have a father. But good husbands don’t grow on trees. I’ve had several dating relationships over the past few years, but most of those guys, once I really got to know them, I couldn’t picture as fathers. And the few ‘maybes’ flipped out if I even hinted at possible long-term goals.”

“You mean they wigged when you said you wanted a baby.”

“Something like that.”

“Can you blame them? Most men aren’t like women when it comes to children. They have to get used to being husbands first. Then they gradually grow into the idea of having kids.”

“You know all about this, huh?”

“I know that if a lady I was dating suddenly started talking babies, I’d run as far and as fast as I could.”

“You’ve just made my point for me.” Bridget gave him a steely-eyed look. “I’m thirty years old. The old biological clock thing isn’t just an old wives’ tale.”

“It’s no fun growing up without a father,” he said, making his point in a different way.

“What would you know about it? You were raised by Eric Statler, Jr.”

“That’s not exactly correct. My mother, who had me out of wedlock, by the way, met and married Statler when I was five. But he was never, ever my father.”

Bridget realized she’d struck a sore spot. Nick’s feelings on this subject ran much deeper than she would have guessed. She felt for him. But the way he was raised had nothing to do with how she would bring up her child. She wouldn’t allow any man into her life who didn’t accept her son or daughter 100 percent.

“My sister and I were raised without a father, too,” she said quietly. “Ours died when we were two and my mother never remarried. She loved us more than enough to make up for it. And we turned out okay.”

“So it seems.”

“For that matter, though you might regret some elements of your childhood, you seem to have turned out okay, too.”

He sighed deeply. “Some might argue with you there.”

“No family is perfect. But if you raise a child with love, whether you’re one parent or two or ten, that has to be enough.”

“I hope you’re right.” He was silent for a few moments, during which he seemed to close down. The bitter emotions flashing across his face faded until he could look at her impassively. “Tomorrow, same time?”

“Yes. That will be fine.”

Bridget couldn’t help thinking about their discussion during her drive home. There were lots of single mothers in the world. Some of them provided good homes for their kids; others didn’t. Most of them hadn’t chosen to raise kids by themselves, but somehow they coped, and the kids survived. Some thrived, like her and Liz. But what if she wasn’t as good a mother as her own mother had been? What if the child, despite her hopes, wasn’t good at coping with the stresses of a single-parent household?

Was it selfish and unfair of her, wanting to bring this child into the world without a father?

Nick Raines seemed to think so.

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