Fletcher's Baby!

He jammed his hands in his pockets.

She could have seen him coming if she’d been looking up. But she was concentrating on putting flowers in a variety of vases. Daffodils, baby’s breath, carnations—bright fresh bouquets that brought the outdoors into each room, as she’d once told him. Sam remembered the drill.

She’d been doing it the day of her birthday, the day Kurt had stood her up, the day he’d invited her to his room for a drink, the day—

Hell! The only thing now was to apologize, admit he’d made a mistake—that they’d both made a mistake—then, like the civilized individuals they were, they could put it behind them. And go on.

He opened the door.

Josie looked up over the vases, a smile on her face. It faded at the sight of him. All the color in her face faded, too.

Sam’s jaw clenched. He drew a careful breath. “Josie,” he said, with what he hoped was the right blend of distance and camaraderie.

She swallowed. “Sam.”

He felt as if he’d been slapped.

He was used to seeing Josie’s face light up when he came in the room. He was used to a sparkle in her eyes, a grin on her face. There was no grin now, no sparkle. The look she gave him was shuttered. As remote as if she were standing behind a steel wall. He wasn’t even entitled to the cheerful innkeeper persona that so endeared her to The Shields House clientele.

Well, fine. Sam pressed his lips together, then gave a curt jerk of his head, acknowledging the distance she’d put between them.

If that was the way she wanted it, so be it.

“I came as soon as I could,” he said briskly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to the funeral. I was in Hong Kong and I had to go to Japan before I came home.”

“Of course.” Josie picked up a carnation and with great care added it to one of the bouquets. She didn’t look at him. She didn’t say anything else. Not, How are you? Not, I’ve missed you.

The clock ticked. An airplane thrummed overhead. Sam drummed his fingers against his thigh.

“I should have been here for her. I should have come at Christmas. I didn’t because...because...” Of you.

No, he couldn’t say that. He sucked in a breath and tried again. “The last time I was here... I’m sorry about...”

He stopped there, too.

He owed her an apology, certainly. But she hadn’t exactly been unwilling! He remembered that much. He wished to hell she’d look at him now, give him some indication of what she was thinking.

Sam Fletcher, who had once been told he “oozed charm through every pore,” felt that at the moment he was oozing only sweat.

“About that night,” he said finally, deciding that bluntness was the best policy. “It was a mistake. A big mistake...asking you to have a drink with me. And af ter...well, after...” He paused. Damn it, at least look at me.

She did. It was no help. Her face was so expressionless he didn’t have a clue what she thought. Still, whatever he’d said so far, clearly it wasn’t enough.

“I didn’t mean... I never meant for what happened to... to happen.” He stopped, flushing in the face of her total silence. “It was the whiskey talking...”

“I assumed as much.” Josie’s voice was flat. toneless. She turned to stare out the window.

“I tried to see you the next morning. I got a call from Elinor. I went to see you then, to tell you, before I left...but Hattie said you’d gone out with Kurt...” He looked at her for confirmation.

Her profile nodded.

So he hadn’t screwed up her life. Thank God for that. He grinned shakily and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. “I’m glad.”

“Are you?” She picked up the two vases in front of her and moved to put them on a cart. Sam watched, hoping she was wearing shorts so he could see those long, wonderful long legs—legs that had once wrapped around him and—

He didn’t even notice her legs.

Only her belly.

Josie was pregnant!

And not just a little pregnant, either. She was huge.

“You’re having a baby!”

Josie set the vases on the cart.

She was having a baby and—“And Kurt still hasn’t married you?”

Suddenly Sam was furious. It was bad enough the jerk stood her up all the time! It was worse that he expected her to drop everything to type his damn papers! But this was ridiculous! “Just exactly how irresponsible is he?”

Josie turned to face him. “Why should he marry me? It’s not his child.”

“Not—?” Sam gaped, stunned. Not Kurt’s child?

He scowled furiously, his mind ticking over, processing this new bit of information, trying desperately to sort things out, to put it together with what he knew about Josie Nolan.

He hadn’t thought she was the type to sleep around! She’d always seemed so quiet, so dedicated. Sweet. He’d always liked Josie Nolan, respected her, had always thought she’d got the short end of the stick in life and even in her choice of fiancés.

He’d felt sorry for her that night last autumn, had wanted to comfort her. Maybe he’d been wrong. His jaw locked. Just how the hell promiscuous was she?

“I trust you know who the father is?” be said acidly.

Josie’s eyes widened. She went rigid. Her chin tipped up and Sam saw color flush her no longer expressionless face.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said flatly. “You.”

CHAPTER TWO

OH, WAY to go, Josie congratulated herself. Such tact. Such subtlety.

But it was hard to be subtle when you were as big as a rhinoceros.

Carefully, deliberately, she suppressed a sigh and strove to look as indifferent as she could. It wasn’t easy. It was, in fact, even harder than she’d imagined.

For the last six months—ever since she’d realized that the night she’d spent with Sam Fletcher last September was going to have lasting repercussions of a more than emotional kind—she’d known this moment was coming. She’d put it off, resisting Hattie’s continual exhortations to tell him, instead preferring to “stick her head in the sand,” as Hattie called it.

Josie called it self-preservation.

What else would you call facing a man with the news that he was going to be a father when he was obviously unhappy about facing her at all?

Their night of intimacy had been “the whiskey talking.” Hadn’t he just said so? Of course he had. She’d known it at the time. She’d just been powerless to resist.

Josie Nolan had loved Sam Fletcher unrequitedly and hopelessly since she was fifteen years old.

A realist, Josie had never expected a drop-dead gorgeous millionaire jet-setter to fall madly in love with the foster-daughter of his aunt’s next door neighbor. She might now be Hattie’s protégée and innkeeper, but she’d started out as her cleaning girl. Josie had read Cinderella, but that didn’t mean she was a fool.

But something must have.

Because when Sam Fletcher had appeared at her door the night of her twenty-fifth birthday, all misery, commiseration and gentleness, she’d been powerless to shut it in his face.

And so she’d spent the last six months trying to figure out how to tell him about the results of that night.

There had seemed no good way. Only ways that would have him think of her as a scheming hussy out to trap him into a marriage he didn’t want.

At times—in the dead of night, for example, when she was remembering the tenderness of his touch, the urgency of his need, the firm persuasiveness of his lips—she tried to delude herself that there really had been something between them, that he’d welcome the news, that when he’d gone back to New York he’d missed her as much as she missed him.

In the clear light of day she knew that was so much hogwash.

But as long as he didn’t show up and say it had been a mistake, she’d dared to hold on to a tiny ray of hope.

Not any longer.

“I never meant for what happened to...to happen,” he’d said.

Neither had she.

But it had. And now they were going to have a child.

She stood now, waiting for him to ring a peal over her. To yell at her as Kurt had done. To turn bright red and point his finger at her, as Kurt had done. To say, “Well, what are you going to do about it?” in a hard, cold voice as Kurt had done.

“Mine?” Sam echoed. He wasn’t red. He was dead white under his jet-setter tan. And his voice wasn’t cold. It was hollow.

Still, he wasn’t yelling. His tone was quiet The quietness was momentarily reassuring. But looking at him wasn’t. He just stood there, looking as if a bomb had gone off at his feet.

Josie supposed, to his way of thinking, it had. He’d come prepared to deal with the inn and the animals, not this.

“Yes,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

Her spine stiffened again, and the pang of concern she’d felt for him vanished in a flash. Color burned in her cheeks. “Yes, I’m sure. Despite the impression I may have given, I do not ordinarily sleep around!”

“I didn’t mean—” he began quickly, then stopped, looked dismayed, then sighed and rubbed a hand over his short sun-bleached hair. “Oh, hell, maybe I did. But just because it was a shock. Sorry.” This last was muttered.

He didn’t look her in the eye. He couldn’t seem to stop slanting glances in the direction of her belly.

Josie took the apology in the spirit in which it had been muttered—grudgingly. She picked up two more vases and turned toward the cart. She wasn’t just going to stand there and let him gawk! And she didn’t want to watch the wheels turn in his head.

She would have liked to turn tail and run, but she was damned if she was going to do that, either.

So she stayed, aware of the silence, aware of the foot-shifting, aware of the eventual clearing of his throat.

“So...were you ever going to tell me?” His tone was conversational now, almost casual, but she could hear the strain in it and knew what control he was exerting.

She ran her tongue over her lips and shrugged in her own attempt at casual control. “Eventually I imagine I’d have had to.”

“You’d have had to?” So much for casual. “You don’t think maybe I’d have wanted to know?”

“To be honest, no.”

He stared at her, jaw slack. Then, as if he realized it, he snapped it shut. His eyes never left hers.

Defiantly Josie stared back. “Well, under the circumstances, this isn’t exactly a Hallmark moment, is it?”

A muscle in Sam’s jaw worked. “Are you saying you don’t want it?”

Josie pressed her hands protectively against her abdomen. “No, I am damned well not saying that! I want this child.”

That was the one thing she was sure of. The daughter of indifferent, incompetent parents, she’d been abandoned, then passed from foster home to foster home since she was six. She wasn’t having any such thing happen to her child. She was keeping it and taking care of it and loving it—and that was that.

“But I hardly imagine you do,” she said frankly. “Do you?” she asked him, with the same bluntness he’d inflicted on her earlier.

He didn’t answer for a moment.

She gave a satisfied nod, then turned on her heel and, pushing the cart toward the dining room, walked out the door.

Very little rattled Sam Fletcher.

Was he not a world-traveling entrepreneur of the highest caliber? Had he not negotiated with the pasha of a tiny west Asian kingdom with armed guards all around for the exclusive rights to a line of furnishings that his competitors would give their eye teeth for? Did he not routinely cope with multi-million dollar decisions upon which the fate of many peoples’ livelihoods—not the least his own—depended? Had he not kept a calm demeanor when his fiancée was throwing him over for another man?

Yes, yes, yes, and yes again.

But being told you were the father of a woman’s child when you could barely remember bedding her—well, that might ruffle the calmest of men.

Sam was beyond ruffled. He was moulting.

He stifled his first inclination, which was to tell Josie Nolan that she had rocks in her head, that there was no way he would be so irresponsible as to father a child on a woman he wasn’t married to! He knew his lack of memory of what precisely had happened that evening proved just how irresponsible he had been.

His second inclination was to run. To turn tail, head out the door and never come back.

But Sam Fletcher did not run. He’d never run in his life.

From the time he was a boy he’d been groomed to face his responsibilities, to take charge, to exert leadership, to do what was right.

He’d come to Dubuque today expecting to do what was right. He’d expected to have to cope with the mare’s nest that usually comprised Hattie’s affairs. He’d expected to have to find a buyer for the inn and even—because Hattie wished it—to find homes for three cats, a dog and a bird.

He’d envisioned showing up and, once the awkwardness of his apology was out of the way, laughing with Josie about Hattie’s having left him a woman.

It didn’t seem funny at all now.

He hadn’t expected a child.

The will had clearly been Hattie’s way of doing what Josie had not done—of bringing him back and making him aware of the facts.

He supposed he ought to thank her for that. He would, if he weren’t so rattled.

He was going to be a father?

That was rattling enough. What was worse was the idea that, without Hattie’s will, he might never have known.

It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

All the while Josie was putting flowers in the rooms, checking in the guests, delivering champagne to the newlyweds, making dinner reservations and answering questions about local attractions, she was looking over her shoulder, expecting Sam to appear.

He hadn’t been in the kitchen when she got back.

“Left,” Cletus had said.

“Poleaxed ’im, did you?” Benjamin had said.

Josie had denied it, but she’d seen the look on his face. She wondered if they had seen the last of him. But, no. His rental car still sat by the curb. So, wherever he’d gone, he’d walked. She remembered he’d used to walk down to the yacht basin or along the river whenever he’d come here to think before.

“He needs space,” Hattie had explained to her. “Perspective. He has to step back to understand his responsibilities.”

Was that what he was doing now?

Whatever he was doing, Josie wished it didn’t involve her.

She didn’t know whether she wanted him to come back so they could get it over with—or whether she wished he’d stay away so she could pretend he never would.

Probably the former, she decided, unless he agreed to do the latter for the rest of her life!

But the rest of the afternoon passed—the guests checked in, the flowers got delivered, the guests got settled, the questions got answered and the reservations made—and there was still no Sam.

Good, she thought. No. Not good.

Damn. She didn’t know what she wanted—except to tear her hair. She paced the front parlor. She peered out the windows. She even went out on the front porch and craned her neck to look down the road to see if she could see him, determined not to let him surprise her again.

But afternoon turned to evening and evening turned to dusk and eventually the cool of the mid-April evening made her retreat indoors. She paced some more in the parlor, then retreated to the kitchen, but the kitchen reminded her too much of their encounter this afternoon.

She headed down the steps to the basement laundry room. There were loads of towels and sheets to be folded. And if he came looking for her there, the stairs would creak and at least she’d hear him coming.

It was stupid to fret so much. Nothing was going to change even now that he knew. She would still be pregnant. Her love would still be unrequited.

She asked herself for the thousandth time why she couldn’t have been satisfied with Kurt? Certainly he was a little too righteous and unbending for her taste. Certainly he thought his mission was more important than a wife.

But was he wrong?

He hadn’t had to point out how foolish she’d been to taste forbidden fruit

She made her way down the basement steps carefully, hanging on to the handrail. She’d used to trip down them thoughtlessly, light and easy on her feet. But with her new bulk and unaccustomed center of gravity, she had to move more cautiously.

Pity she hadn’t moved more cautiously seven months ago.

She bent and fished a load of towels out of the bin, dumped them on the countertop and began to fold them. She made neat stacks and ran her hands over the soft terrycloth. It was mindless, mechanical work, soothing. She finished one stack, then bent to get another.

The baby kicked.

Josie smiled. Even when she was fretting most, this child could always make her smile. Perhaps it was silly to feel as if she had a confederate within, but she did. It was no longer Josie apart from the rest of the world. Now it was the two of them.

“Awake, are you?” she asked it softly. She set the towels down, rubbed a hand on her belly and was rewarded with another soft tap. She tapped back and smiled again. Sometimes she felt as if she was communicating in Morse code with this person who inhabited her body.

“Had a rough day?” she asked it. “I have. And it’s going to get worse,” she confided. She shook out a towel and gave it a snap before folding it.

The baby kicked again. Hard. So hard Josie winced.

“What’s wrong?”

She nearly jumped a foot. She knocked the pile of freshly folded towels onto the floor and spun around to stare with equal parts horror and consternation in the direction of the wine cellar at the far end of the basement. Sam stood in the shadows.

“Now look what you’ve done!”

“That appears to be the least of what I’ve done,” he said dryly as he stepped forward.

Instinctively Josie stepped back.

“What’s wrong?” he repeated. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head numbly. “No. It...it kicked, that’s all.”

“Kicked?” He looked blank.

“The baby.”

He looked at her belly. She couldn’t read his expression. He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something. But then he just ran his tongue over his lips and shook his head. He bent to pick up the towels.

Josie watched him, dry-mouthed and silent, and wished she could push him aside and do it herself. She couldn’t. There was too much baby between her and the ground. “What were you doing skulking in the wine cellar?” she demanded, indignant.

“I wasn’t getting another bottle, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Sam straightened and set the towels on the counter.

“You might as well put them in the wash again,” Josie said crossly. “I can’t use them now.”

Obediently he dumped them in the washing machine. Then he answered her question. “I was thinking.”

“In the wine cellar?”

“It seemed appropriate.”

Josie pressed her lips together. She turned away and closed the lid of the washing machine, then reached past him to add soap, taking her time to measure it precisely. She set the dial to the right program. She had nothing to say.

Sam didn’t move away. She continued to fuss with the dial, then opened the lid again and checked the balance of the towels in the machine.

“I came because Hattie left me the inn,” he said at last.

“I know.” She didn’t look at him.

“I’d thought she was going to leave it to you.”

Josie shut the lid and gave the start button a push. “Why should she? I’m not family.”

“You were closer to her than anyone. You were the granddaughter she and Walter never had. She loved you.” He made it almost sound like an accusation.

“I loved her, too,” Josie said fiercely, and turned her head to meet his gaze. “She was the mother—the grandmother—the family I never had. But I didn’t ever expect her to leave me the inn! She did enough for me. She set up a trust fund. Mr. Zupper can tell you about it if you want. One for me and...and one for the baby.”

“You were supposed to have the inn, too,” Sam insisted. “When I was out here last fall—when Izzy... when I...”

“I know when,” Josie said sharply. Did he think she’d forgotten?

Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Okay, you know when. Well, back then she told me I wouldn’t have to worry about the inn when she was gone. And I told her she wasn’t going anywhere.” He paused and Josie heard the ache in his voice. It matched her own ache, but she wasn’t going to comfort him.

“You didn’t know she was going to die,” she said. “None of us did.”

“Hattie did. She said, ‘This old heart of mine could go any day. So I want you to know this.’ And then she told me she meant no disrespect to the family, but she was going to leave it to you.” He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck. “So when she left it—and you—to me, she was making a point.”

Josie’s head snapped around. “She left me to you?”

“I thought it was a joke.”

A hell of a joke, Josie thought. But, “It is,” she said firmly.

Sam shook his head. “No. She was right.” He shifted from one foot to the other. His hands were jammed into his pockets. He looked at the floor for a long moment. The dryer swirled, the tap dripped. He lifted his gaze and met Josie’s. “We’ll get married.”

As a proposal it left a lot to be desired.

In fact Josie felt as if he’d stabbed her in the heart.

We’ll get married. Just like that. As if it were a foregone conclusion, a business negotiation with only one possible outcome.

She supposed where Sam Fletcher was concerned most business deals had only one possible outcome—the one he wanted.

But he didn’t want this!

She knew he didn’t want it. She could see it in his face, in his eyes. She heard it in the resignation in his voice.

And why would he? He didn’t love her. He didn’t want their child.

He was doing it because Hattie had forced his hand. He was doing it because he was used to doing the right thing, the necessary thing.

Just as Hattie had known he would.

Just as Josie had feared he would. It was why she wouldn’t tell him about the baby.

“A child has a right to know its father,” Hattie had said in a tone far more gentle than the bracing one she usually used.

“I know that,” Josie had replied. “I just...can’t tell him. Not now.”

“When?”

“Sometime,” Josie said vaguely.

“A father has a right to know his child, too,” Hattie had gone on implacably.

“I’ll tell him,” Josie had promised. But she hadn’t said when. And she’d changed the subject whenever Hattie brought it up.

“You can tell him at Christmas,” Hattie had said eventually.

But Sam hadn’t come. Josie had seen Hattie’s disappointment when he hadn’t come. She’d seen the older woman watching her with worry and concern in her eyes. But Josie had steeled herself against that concern because she knew why Sam hadn’t come.

After that Hattie hadn’t brought it up again.

Josie had dared to think Hattie had given up.

Obviously, once the will had been read, she knew she’d thought wrong. Hattie had made sure Sam would know.

Now Sam did know—and had done the very thing Hattie had hoped—and Josie had dreaded—he might.

It wasn’t the way he’d imagined proposing marriage, standing in a laundry room, willing his prospective, very pregnant bride to look at him, his hands in his pockets, fists clenched.

It certainly wasn’t the way he’d proposed to Izzy. That had happened at a cozy dinner at a candlelit table in a restaurant on the top of Knob Hill. They had been laughing together, touching, and his suggestion that what they had was too good to waste on casual moments had been enough to make Izzy catch her breath, then turn a thousand-watt smile in his direction.

This time he was standing stiffly, touching no one, his head bent beneath the stone basement’s low ceiling. His voice was stiff and awkward. And, far from bestowing any thousand-watt smile, Josie was looking at him as if he’d just electrocuted her.