P.S. I'm Pregnant

She let go of the damp waistband so fast it snapped back into place. Brody moaned, sweat beading on his forehead in the lamplight.

Calm down, Daisy, stop being a ninny. You can do this. You have to.

She’d just ignore her pounding pulse and her quivering ovaries.

Right. She got up to look for some fresh linen, reasoning she’d need a sheet once she got the sweat pants off, to preserve his modesty. Not that she thought he had a great deal from his cheeky remark about her bra, but it seemed she had more than enough for both of them.

It took her approximately two seconds to find the brand-new bed linen in the dresser drawer. After spending a full minute undoing the packaging and snapping out the sheets, she was all out of time-wasting tactics.

Perching on the edge of the bed, she shook Brody’s shoulder.

‘I have to take your sweat pants off, Mr Brody. They’re soaked and we need to get the fever down.’

No response, just another hoarse groan. Fine, she wasn’t going to get his permission. She’d just have to hope he didn’t sue her when he woke up and found himself naked.

She hooked her fingers in the waistband, pressed her thumbs into the damp fabric and sucked in a breath. She turned her face away, heat pumping into her cheeks as she eased the garment over his hips. Almost immediately, something halted its progress. She tugged harder, he grunted and the fabric bounced over the impediment.

A few moments more of give, and then the sweat pants got stuck again.

She fisted her hands and tried the same trick twice, but this time the pants weren’t budging. Anchored, she guessed, under his bottom. She huffed, not ready to look round. Whatever that bump had been a moment ago, she knew she’d got the pants far enough down now to afford her more of an eyeful than was good for her blood pressure.

She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the band of elastic harder, when he mumbled something and rolled towards her. As the trousers loosened Daisy sent up a quick prayer of thanks and gave them a swift yank. They slipped down before he flopped onto his back again. She was leaning so close to him now, she could feel the heat of his skin against the side of her face, and smell the musky and oddly pleasant scent of fresh male sweat and sandalwood soap.

Do not turn round. Do not turn round and look at him.

Daisy repeated the mantra in her head, staring at the open doorway and trying not to picture long, hard flanks roped with muscle as the silky hair on his thighs tickled the backs of her fingers. She gave a huff of relief as she peeled the sweat pants over his knees, inching along the edge of the bed as she went. The effort to keep her balance and resist the urge to look at him had sweat beading on her own brow. Concentrating hard, Daisy nearly toppled off the bed when her patient groaned again.

Daisy noticed the difference in sound immediately, her ears attuned to even the slightest change in tone. This groan didn’t sound like the others, more a low, sensual moan than a painful grunt. Daisy puffed out a breath, damning her overactive imagination as her thigh muscles clenched and the sweet spot between them began to throb in earnest.

Get serious, woman. This situation is not erotic. Pretend you ‘re undressing a sick child.

But however hard she tried, Daisy couldn’t think of Brody as anything other than a man. A man in his prime. An extremely sexy, naked man who had something nestled between his thighs that had produced that resilient bounce.

As she was busy conjuring up some extremely inappropriate images to explain that damn bounce Daisy’s luck ran out. The heavy, confining folds of the track pants locked around Brody’s ankles. No matter how hard she tugged and pulled and yanked she couldn’t unravel the sodden fabric and get the pants the rest of the way off.

Blast, it was no good, she’d have to look to sort out the tangle.

Keep your eyes down. Remember. Eyes on toes.

Muttering the new mantra, she swivelled her head and her eyes instantly snagged on something they shouldn’t. Something that had her jaw dropping, her eyes widening and the liquid between her thighs turning to molten lava.

Wow!

She’d found the source of her bounce. And it was more erotic than anything she could have imagined on her own. Brody, it seemed, despite his fever, his delirium and his earlier exhaustion, was sort of turned on. His partial erection sat proud and long, angling towards his belly button.

Daisy swallowed past the rock lodged in her parched throat. She’d always been a firm believer that size didn’t matter, but that was before she’d seen Connor Brody naked. Everything about the man was quite simply magnificent.

The sudden urge to run her fingertip along the ridge of swollen flesh was so all-consuming, Daisy had to fist her hands and force her gaze away. She stared at the ceiling and gritted her teeth. Utterly disgusted with herself.

How could she have admired his private parts like that? How could she have even considered touching them? How had she gone from frightened schoolgirl to raging nymphomaniac in the space of a few minutes?

What she’d almost done was unconscionable and unethical, a gross invasion of his privacy and against everything she’d ever believed about herself. She had absolutely no right to take advantage of the poor man when he was delirious and burning up with fever and needed her help.

She grabbed the sheet she’d laid out at the bottom of the bed and whisked it over him. It settled in a billowing wave over his lower half, but did nothing to disguise what was underneath. If anything, veiled in the expensive linen—the stark white standing out against his tanned skin—Connor Brody’s naked body looked even more awe-inspiring.

She spent several seconds grappling with the sweat pants, finally freeing his feet, struggling to forget what she’d seen. But she couldn’t.

Her eyes drifted back up and she noticed the small scar on his hip, which disappeared beneath the sheet. Her breath gushed out.

She’d always thought Gary had a beautiful body. Fit and perfectly proportioned, with that tantalising sprinkling of hair that had made her mouth water. Of course Gary had always thought he had a beautiful body too, which had taken the shine off a bit. But there was no getting round the fact that Gary compared to Brody was like Clark Kent compared to Superman.

Brody’s long, lean limbs, toned muscles, the deep and, she now knew, all-over tan and that arresting face made quite a package all by themselves—not to mention his actual package, the memory of which was making Daisy feel as if she were the one with a fever—but even more tantalising was the hint of danger about him, of something not quite tame.

One thing was for sure, Gary naked had never had the physical effect on her Brody was having right this instant—and the man wasn’t even conscious.

She couldn’t catch her breath. Her skin felt tight and itchy and nothing short of a nuclear explosion had detonated at her core. And her ovaries weren’t just quivering, they were doing the rock-a-hula—with full Elvis accompaniment.

Daisy frowned, contemplating what her unprecedented reaction to a naked Connor Brody might mean—none of the options being good—when the doorbell buzzed.

She leaped off the bed so fast she tripped on the carpet and almost fell flat on her face.

Brody must have heard her, because his eyelids flickered and he grunted before turning onto his side. Unfortunately, he took the sheet with him, flashing Daisy the most delicious rear end she’d ever set eyes on. She yanked the sheet back to cover his bare butt before her blood pressure shot straight through the roof.

Her heartbeat racing and her pulse pounding in her ears, she headed down the corridor to the front door. She took several deep breaths as she fumbled with the latch.

Get a hold of yourself. He’s just a good-looking bloke and, from his rough, arrogant behaviour earlier, not a very nice one at that.

She tugged the door open to see her friend and local GP Maya Patel on the other side.

‘This had better be good, Daze.’ The harassed doctor marched past her with a loud huff, toting her black bag under her arm, her usually immaculate hair falling in disarray down the back of a two-piece track suit. ‘I hope you realise I can’t actually treat this guy as he’s not registered with our practice. I could end up getting sued if any—’

She stopped in mid-sentence to gape at Daisy. ‘Blimey, that’s a new look for you. What are you? In mourning or something?’

Yes, for my nice, sensible, discerning libido, Daisy thought wryly.

‘It’s a long story,’ she said as she led the way down the hall. The less Maya knew about the situation, the better.

‘Who is this bloke anyway?’ Maya asked, following Daisy into the darkened room.

‘I told you, my new neighbour.’ And the harbinger of nymphomania. ‘I called round to ask about Mr Pootles and he collapsed in front of me.’ Sort of.

‘Let’s take a look at him.’ Maya sat on the edge of the bed, and plopped her bag on the floor. ‘What’s his name again?’

‘Connor Brody.’

Maya touched his shoulder. ‘Connor, I’m Dr Patel. I’m here to examine you.’ She moved her hand to his brow when he failed to reply. ‘He’s certainly got quite a temperature,’ she said, lifting her hand. ‘How long has he been out?’

Daisy glanced at her watch, and realised he’d only collapsed about fifteen minutes ago, even though it felt like a lifetime. She relayed everything she knew to Maya, who began rummaging around in her bag.

‘Would it be okay if I popped next door while you examine him?’ Daisy asked. ‘I’ll be right back as soon as I tell Juno what’s going on.’

‘Sure, it shouldn’t take long,’ Maya replied, fishing a thermometer and a stethoscope out of the bag. ‘Looks like this nasty twenty-four-hour flu bug that’s been doing the rounds to me, but I’ll check his vitals to make sure it’s nothing more serious.’

Daisy high-tailed it out of the room. She did not want any more flashes of Connor Brody’s anatomy just yet. She’d had enough already to keep her in lurid erotic fantasies for weeks.

‘Have you completely lost your marbles?’

Daisy ignored Juno’s pained shout as she walked past her down the corridor to her bedsit, the towel wrapped tight around her freshly showered body. ‘I’ve got to go back there. He’s really ill. I can’t leave him to fend for himself.’

‘Why not? You don’t know the first thing about him.’ Juno followed her into her room and slumped down on the bed. Her brows lowered ominously. ‘What if he gets violent?’

‘Don’t be melodramatic. I told you, that was a misunderstanding,’ Daisy said, riffling through her wardrobe. Connor Brody getting violent was one of the few things she wasn’t worried about. ‘He looked after Mrs Valdermeyer’s cat. I think I’ve misjudged him. He’s not a bad guy.’ Well, not in that way.

She pulled out her favourite dress, a simple bias-cut cotton sheaf printed with bright pink blossoms. ‘Once the fever’s broken and I’m sure he’s okay, I’ll leave.’ She certainly didn’t want to be around the guy when he had all his faculties back. Brody unconscious was quite devastating enough, thank you very much.

‘But it’s the middle of the night, he’s a stranger and you’ll be in the house alone with him,’ Juno whined.

Daisy paused in the act of slipping on her hooker underwear. ‘I’ll be perfectly safe. Apart from anything else, he’s unconscious.’ She presented her back to Juno after tugging on her dress. ‘Here, zip me up. I told Maya I’d be back straight away.’

Juno continued to grumble about personal safety as she zipped Daisy into her dress. Daisy tuned her friend out as she spritzed patchouli perfume on her wrists, put on her bangles and brushed the tangles out of her newly washed hair.

She knew why Juno was a pessimist, why she hid behind baggy dungarees and a scowl, and why she always saw the cloud instead of the silver lining. Juno had been hurt badly once, very badly. She didn’t trust men. Which really was rather ironic, Daisy thought as she stared at herself in the mirror. After Daisy’s grossly inappropriate behaviour in their neighbour’s spare bedroom, Brody wasn’t the one who couldn’t be trusted.

‘Why are you getting dolled up?’

Daisy stopped dead, her lip gloss in mid-air. ‘What?’ She met Juno’s censorious gaze in the mirror.

‘You’re all dolled up. What’s that about?’

‘I am not,’ Daisy replied, mortally offended. But as she focussed on her reflection she could see Juno had a point. The figure-flattering dress, the sparkle of bangles and beads, the signature scent of patchouli, not to mention the make-up she’d been applying, made it look as if she were planning a night on the town, not a night spent nursing a sick man. Shocked and a little dismayed, she shoved the lip gloss back in her make-up bag.

She most definitely was not dressing up for Brody’s benefit; the very thought was ludicrous. She didn’t even like the guy.

Daisy slipped on her battered Converse, forgoing the beaded Indian sandals she’d already pulled out of the closet. ‘I’m not dressed up—this is me getting comfortable,’ she said lamely.

She pretended she didn’t hear Juno’s grunted, ‘Yeah, right,’ as her best friend trailed after her.

‘Don’t wait up,’ Daisy said, closing the door to her bedsit. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

‘Be careful,’ Juno said, giving her one last considering look.

The crooked banisters of the old Georgian house creaked as Daisy made her way down the stairs. She noticed the peeling paint as she opened the front door, the patched plaster on the stoop. The house’s imperfections had always made her feel comforted and secure. As she walked the few steps to Brody’s door she couldn’t help comparing Mrs Valdermeyer’s cosy wreck of a house to the sleek, impersonal perfection of its neighbour.

Daisy sighed as she walked in.

The sight of Brody’s naked body might have short-circuited her hormones, but she was not going to allow it to short-circuit her brain cells too. The very last thing she needed was for anything to happen between her and her arrogant new neighbour. He might be dishy, but she’d only needed to spend a few minutes in his company—and his home—to know he was so not right for her it wasn’t even funny.

‘He’ll probably drift in and out until the temperature breaks,’ Maya Patel announced, slinging her black bag under her arm. ‘Keep dousing him with ice water. And if you can, get some more paracetamol down him in four hours’ time.’

Daisy nodded, the butterflies having a ball in her stomach at the thought of the long night ahead.

‘Are you sure it’s not serious?’ Daisy asked. Like most doctors, Maya didn’t seem to think anything short of double pneumonia was worth getting excited about.

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine once he’s sweated it out of his system. His temperature’s hovering around one hundred and two, but that’s to be expected. If it gets any higher give me a call. But his breathing’s okay and he’s a young, healthy guy.’ Maya smiled at Daisy. ‘Actually, if I wasn’t here in a professional capacity, not to mention married and a mother of three children—I’d say he was a total hunk.’

Daisy dropped her head to concentrate on undoing the front door latch, her cheeks boiling.

‘He’s been in the wars a few times,’ Maya continued. ‘But he seems to have come through them surprisingly well.’

‘You mean the scars on his back?’ Daisy asked as she yanked the heavy door open.

‘Yeah, do you know where he got them?’

‘No, I hardly know the guy,’ Daisy replied. Then her curiosity got the better of her. ‘What’s your professional opinion?’

‘Old, probably from before he hit puberty would be my guess, but I’m no expert,’ Maya said matter-of-factly, then chuckled as she stepped onto the stoop. ‘And why, might I ask, do you care if you hardly know the guy?’

Daisy struggled to come up with an answer that wouldn’t sound totally suspicious. She might as well not have bothered.

‘Ah-ha.’ Maya pointed an accusing finger at her. ‘I thought so. Seems I’m not the only one who thinks our patient is a hunk.’

‘He’s okay,’ Daisy replied flatly, praying her rosy cheeks weren’t a total giveaway.

Maya jogged down the front steps. ‘Let me know how he’s doing tomorrow if the fever still hasn’t broken.’ She turned by the kerb and wiggled her eyebrows at Daisy. ‘And keep an eye on your own temperature, Daze. Being in a room with a guy that hunky and that naked all night long can be hard work.’ She winked. ‘But I’m sure you’re up to the job.’

She laughed as Daisy’s cheeks shot from rosy to beetroot, and climbed into her car.

Daisy locked the front door and leaned back against it, focussing on the room down the hall where her hunk of a patient awaited.

A platoon of butterflies dive-bombed under her breastbone.

Hard work indeed. Maya didn’t know the half of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

CONNOR awoke with a start to the dazzle of morning sunlight. The shadows from the long, traumatic night still lingered at the edges of his consciousness.

He squinted, threw his arm up to ward off the glare, and noticed several things at once. The hammer in his head had quit banging, his muscles had stopped throbbing in time with it and he was no longer sleeping in a sauna. He eased his arm down as his eyes adjusted to the light, gazed out at the leafy old chestnut in his back garden, and the last of the dark disappeared.

Hell, it was good not to feel as if he’d gone six rounds with the champ any more.

How long had he been out? He didn’t have a clue. He caught a whiff of perfume: flowery, spicy and wildly erotic. Recollections from the night before washed over him: the pain, the heat, the terror. But more vivid was the recollection of calm words, of whispered reassurances, of firm hands soothing him back to oblivion when the cruel flashbacks had wrenched him to the surface. And all the good memories were wrapped in that enticing scent.

She’d stayed with him. Just as she’d promised.

He pushed up on his elbows as panic sprinted up his spine.

Where is she? Has she left?

His heartbeat slowed when he spotted her curled up in the armchair across the room. He drank in the sight of her—like the icy water she’d made him sip through the night—then felt like a fool.

When had he turned into such a girl? The nightmares had stalked him on and off throughout his life, always catching him at a weak moment, but he’d learned to handle them a long time ago. They didn’t bother him now the way they once had. It was good of her to stay last night, to see him through the fever and the familiar demons it had brought with it, but he didn’t need her here.

But as he gazed at her a smile curved his lips. He might not need her, but she was still grand to look at in the daylight.

He folded his arms behind his head, relaxed into the pillows and indulged himself.

She’d changed her cat-burglar outfit, which was kind of a shame. The creased summer dress did amazing things for her figure, but the hint of satin at the plunging neckline, which he guessed matched her panties, meant her nipples were no longer clearly visible. Still, the pale, plump flesh of her cleavage was some compensation.

Her rich red hair, which had been springing out all over her head last night as if she’d had an electric shock, fell in soft unruly curls to her shoulder, framing high cheekbones. His lips quirked as his gaze wandered to her feet, which were folded under her bum, and he spotted a pair of battered blue basketball boots tied with lurid green laces.

The funky mix of styles suited her. From the little he could remember of last night, before he’d passed out, she’d been headstrong and prickly as hell—with a surprisingly soft centre when her angel-of-mercy tendencies had come charging to the rescue.

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, glad that they didn’t even wobble as he stood up. He wrapped the sheet around his waist, and his smile widened as he spotted his sweat pants neatly folded at the end of the bed. She must have stripped him. The smile became a grin. What he wouldn’t give to have been conscious at that moment.

He stretched, yawned and rubbed his throat—pleased to discover the rawness gone—but kept his eyes on his angel of mercy.

Jesus, but she was pretty, in a cute, off-the-wall way. Not his usual type for sure, but then he considered himself very flexible where women were concerned.

Despite the horrors of the previous night, desire stirred. Then his stomach growled, interrupting the erotic direction of his thoughts—and reminding him all he’d eaten in the last twenty-four hours was her brownies.

The memory of the rich chocolate squares—crusty on the outside with a luxuriously moist centre—had his senses stirring again and his stomach giving another loud rumble of protest. She didn’t move, her breasts rising and falling in steady rhythm. Connor’s heart stuttered. She really had exhausted herself on his behalf. No one had ever done that before.

Once you factored in the gift of the brownies and her mad mission to save her landlady’s cat, it occurred to Connor his sweet and captivating neighbour was quite the little Good Samaritan. Definitely not his type, then. But he still ought to thank her for being so neighbourly. At the very least he should show her there were no hard feelings for sneaking over his garden wall.

He chuckled. What he’d like to do was scoop her up and give her a long, leisurely kiss to show his appreciation. He resisted the urge. He doubted she’d thank him for the attention until he’d had a shower.

He strolled to the French doors, and closed the drapes. He’d let her sleep a while longer. Once he’d cleaned up and staved off starvation he’d wake her. He could offer her breakfast and then maybe they could get to that thank-you kiss if she wanted. No harm in seeing if they couldn’t celebrate his recuperation together before she took the cat and its kittens and headed home. If he remembered correctly she hadn’t been completely immune to him before he’d fallen on his face.

He began to whistle softly as he left the room. He felt a little shaky, probably from lack of food, but his other symptoms were as good as gone. It looked like another scorcher of a day outside, the morning sun making the garden’s showy blooms look bright with promise. He’d call the French deli round the corner, get them to send over some fresh pastries and coffee and they could eat on the terrace. He fancied finding out a bit more about the intriguing Miss Daisy Dean before he sent her on her way.

All the stresses and strains of the last few days, the torments of the night, lifted as he bounded up the wide sweeping staircase to his bedroom suite. It felt good to be alive and back to his usual self. Anticipation lightened his steps, making him feel like a kid let loose from school on the first day of summer.

An hour later, Connor had indulged in a scalding hot shower, pulled on his favourite worn jeans and Boston Celtics T-shirt and stuffed down the last two brownies and a cup of steaming black coffee.

He peeked into the spare room and frowned. Angel Face hadn’t moved. He padded into the room and squatted in front of her. Thick lashes rested on her pale cheeks and her breath scythed out in the gentlest of snores.

He caught a curl of hair that had fallen over her face, breathed in the spicy scent and then tucked it behind her ear. He skimmed his thumb over her cheek, felt the soft downy skin as smooth as a child’s and fought the urge to kiss her awake. Still she didn’t budge.

He cocked his head. Damn, but that position had to be uncomfortable, she’d have a crick in her neck when she came round and probably wouldn’t thank him for it. She’d be better off sleeping in his bed. The sheets were fresh and she could lie down flat. It was the least he could do after all she’d done for him.

Never a man to second guess himself, Connor threaded one hand under her bum and the other beneath her shoulders and hefted her into his arms. She murmured something, then cuddled into his chest, her flyaway hair tickling the underside of his chin. Her scent drifted up and he breathed it in. She smelled delicious. So delicious he had a hard time controlling the rush of blood to his groin as he walked from the room.