Making Babies

To Elaine, though, every word uttered in that courtroom had felt deeply, agonizingly personal. God, she’d hated everything about the divorce. She’d felt drained, pummeled every single day. And, finally, she’d felt that most frightening of feelings: dead indifference.

That’s when she had given up, told her lawyer at the lunch break to ask for half the proceeds from the sale of her and Kevin’s home and to let the rest go. No alimony. He could keep the expensive antiques and the vacation home, the bonds and the stock portfolio. Half of everything should have been hers, but she didn’t care anymore. It cost too much to fight.

Her attorney had been violently opposed, of course, but Elaine hadn’t budged. The day it was all over, she’d walked to a city park near the court building and perched stiffly on a wrought iron bench. Wrapped in a winter coat, numb to the wind chafing her skin, she’d sat and stared at a fountain for who knows how long, until a young couple claimed the bench opposite hers….

In their early twenties, dewy even in frigid December, their giggles were at once intimate yet somehow universal. With the sack lunches they’d brought discarded beside them, they snuggled and kissed, pausing now and again to stare at their own clasped hands as if they had never seen such a romantic sight.

Watching them, Elaine felt her chest squeeze and her throat start to close, and she realized it had been years since she’d known what it was like not merely to be young, but to feel that way. To feel fresh and ripe with plans and giddily, incautiously in love.

Swallowing the grief that surged to her throat, Elaine rose from the bench, turned to walk away and found herself locking gazes with Mitchell Ryder. He stood fifty feet ahead of her, carrying his briefcase. Wearing a wool trench coat, he looked like he belonged in a window seat at Higgins Restaurant, not standing in line at a two-dollar-a-piece Polish dog stand. He stared at her with the same steady intensity with which she’d gazed at the lovers, and Elaine knew instantly he’d been watching her the whole time. The expression in his eyes was different from any she had seen there before. Mitchell “The Eel” Ryder was looking at her with what could only be called compassion.

Embarrassment threatened to drown her. She walked away, moving quickly along the crowded city block, but her wobbly legs wanted to give out. When the Heathman Hotel appeared on her left, she darted in, heading immediately for the bar.

Normally a white wine spritzer gal with a one-drink limit, Elaine sat down and ordered a brandy. She didn’t even bother to take off her coat. At this moment she thought she might never feel warm again.

Her drink hadn’t even been served yet when Mitch Ryder slipped onto the bar stool next to her. He said nothing for several moments, didn’t glance her way, merely called for an expensive scotch and waited for it to arrive. Then still without looking at her, he said in a hushed tone, “Why did you give up? You could have held out for more than you got. A lot more. Your lawyer should have made you see it through.”

He sounded angry, which Elaine thought was a little ironic, considering.

Brandy snifter cupped between her cold palms, she drank quickly, too quickly, but the brandy burned a path to her stomach that at least served the purpose of making her feel warm. She sat, trying not to cough, focusing instead on the heat. After a moment, the drink gave her a pleasantly light-headed feeling, and fortified, she answered, “I don’t want to ‘see the divorce through.’ I wanted to see my marriage through. And I don’t want more money. I just want it to be over.”

In the silence that ensued, Elaine finished her drink, but instead of getting up to leave, which had been her plan, she ordered another. She had a question for Mr. Ryder, too, and it burned like the brandy. “Why did you represent Kevin?”

A muscle jumped in Mitch’s jaw. Beneath the dulcet music and soft murmur in the Heathman’s classic lounge, he answered, “It wasn’t personal. It was business.”

It was an awful answer, and she said so. Her husband had cheated on her. Either you were a person who cared about that kind of thing or you weren’t.

For the first time since he’d sat down, Mitch turned toward her fully. “I am,” he said. The stern masculinity so characteristic of his face seemed even more sober today. “Covington asked me to handle the case.”

Henry Covington was the founding partner of Mitch and Kevin’s firm. Elaine remembered he was also a law professor and that the younger partners thought of him as their mentor.

“If it means anything at all, I regretted that decision every time I walked into the courtroom.” His gaze remained focused and steady.

Elaine stared back a long while without answering. The brandy snifter was still in her hands. Taking a last, long swallow, she set the glass on the bar and opened her purse to pay for her drink.

Without warning, Mitch’s hand covered hers. “Don’t leave….”

Huddled against the back door, out of sight, Elaine closed her eyes.

She now wished she had left. She should have left.

Mitch Ryder was officially her biggest, baddest mistake ever. Her only consolation from that night until present day had been her assumption that she would never see the man again.

Forcing herself to open her eyes, one at a time, she stood up slowly, peeking out the window.

He was gone. The mower stood alone in the middle of the yard. Smooshing her cheek against the glass, Elaine strained to see to her right and caught sight of him as he rounded the corner of the house. Leaving the ice cream on the counter, she ran to the living room. If she lifted the edge of the curtain just a little…

When the doorbell rang, she yelped. Traversing the space from window to door quickly on bare feet, she placed her palms on the door, leaned forward and looked through the peephole.

Feeling her heart flutter as she peered at Mitch Ryder’s face, she thought, Don’t panic, willing her heart to settle into an even rhythm so she could think clearly. There was no need to panic.

Except that six months ago, she had agreed to have another drink with Mitch Ryder and, for the first time in her life, gotten too toasted on brandy to drive home. The next day all she could remember was that they’d gotten into her car that night and she’d awakened in her big king-size bed the next morning…

Alone.

Nude.

And she almost never slept nude.

Lying under three-hundred-thread-count sheets in her thirty-seven-year-old birthday suit she had been hungover, yes, but curiously serene.

Since she had neither seen nor spoken to Mitch since that night, today she had no idea whether he was the second lover she had ever had in her life or merely…the divorce lawyer who had seen her naked. Either way—

That he had shown up today was positively too cruel. First Stephanie with her glad tidings and now this.

Resting her forehead on the door, Elaine barely resisted the urge to knock herself unconscious against the solid wood panel.

Please let this be a bad dream, God. If I wake up and he’s gone, I promise I will give up simple carbohydrates forever.

Chapter Two

Mitch stood outside Elaine Lowry’s rented front door and tried not to let his mounting anger get the best of him. The duplex she’d been living in for the past several months was the pits. According to his friend at Portland Property Management, the building was structurally sound. But cosmetically?

Mitch flicked a barklike wedge of peeling brown paint off the door frame and swore under his breath. This was not the type of place he’d pictured for Elaine when he’d asked his friend at the management firm to find her a “good deal.”

Standing with his hands on his hips, head lowered, he waited for her to answer the bell. The work shirt that had been tied around his hips now covered his torso, albeit half buttoned and untucked. Perspiration trickled down the nape of his neck, and he swiped it away, grumbling as a wasp dive-bombed past his face. He looked up to see a nest under the eaves. Great. Another thing he’d have to take care of.

He did not want to be here. Should not be here. In life, as in work, Mitch preferred situations that were black-and-white. Cleanly opened, cleanly closed, like the best cases.

Elaine Lowry was not black-and-white. She was a problem for him in walking, talking Technicolor.

For the past decade and a half, Mitch had made quite a reputation for himself and his firm by representing high-profile divorce suits. He considered it his job to make people act responsibly and with integrity when feelings were hurt, egos were bruised and money was involved. Quite a challenge and one he enjoyed. Usually. Representing Kevin Lowry, however, had been as rewarding as sticking needles in his eye.

Raising a fist that was clenched too tightly, Mitch flexed his fingers, balled them again and knocked on the door.

He never got personally involved with one of his own clients; he certainly never got personally involved with the opposing attorney’s client. Never. Capital N, capital EVER. He’d crossed the line. And he was about to cross it again.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was protected financially.

It wasn’t his business to make sure she was well housed.

It wasn’t his business to make amends for her marriage or her divorce or…anything else. Yet here he was.

“Just make it fast,” he hissed to himself, knocking on the door one more time, harder than he needed to. He would stay briefly, speak his piece, make sure she was at least comfortable here and maybe give her the name of a good financial advisor. She could do what she wanted with the information. Or not. It was none of his business.

Elaine’s nose, lips and chin were pressed against the door when Mitch knocked. Caught off guard, she jumped, nearly blinding herself on the old-fashioned peephole. She twisted the knob and opened the door.

“Wait a minute! Don’t open—” Mitch started to say, but it was too late; a wasp so big it was probably in violation of the leash law, flew straight at her face.

Elaine yelped and flailed her hands.

“Don’t move!” Mitch ordered with the same deep authority she remembered from the courtroom.

Unfortunately the wasp kept buzzing, so she kept flailing. Then the buzzing stopped, and her nose felt like an entire pincushion had launched itself at her.

“Ow!”

“Damn it.” Mitch pushed the door open in an effort to reach for her. It banged into her bare shin.

“OWWW!!!”

He swore more colorfully. “Sorry. Are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” Elaine shook as she pointed to her nose. She could see the wasp if she crossed her eyes. “Get it off, get it off!”

“Stop hopping.” He grasped her elbow with a strong hand and pushed her a step back, following her into the room. Holding her steady, he examined her face from a distance of less than a foot. “It’s got you.”

She stared back at him; pain and exhaustion that was about a lot more than a wasp sting filled her to overflowing. “This newsflash just in,” she snapped, “I Already Know That.”

Mitch’s brows rose ever so slightly at her tone, but he didn’t seem offended. “Hold still.” Reaching up, he slapped the wasp and—inadvertently, she assumed—her nose.

“Hey!” she protested.

The wasp buzzed away, still alive and only a little worse for the wear.

“Duck,” Mitch ordered, using his hand like a racket to swat the insect out of the house. He slammed the door shut.

Turning back to her, he ignored the glare she attempted to give him. Her poor nose was starting to throb already. She cupped her hands around it.

“Where’s your bathroom?” he asked. Elaine pointed, and Mitch took her elbow, overriding her little tug of resistance.

He found the light switch and flicked it on, then pulled her in front of the sink to the medicine cabinet. “Are you going to put your hands down so I can see your nose?”

“No.” Her voice emerged muffled. Call her vain, but if sensation was anything to go by, her nose was swelling already, and she didn’t have the smallest shnoz to begin with. “It’s fine.”

Reaching up, Mitch drew her hands away from her face, gently but insistently. He had large hands; one easily wrapped around both her wrists and with the other he tilted her face and gazed at it, taking his time. “Not too bad,” he said finally.

Elaine licked her lips. “It isn’t?”

When he shook his head, she expected him to let her go, but he didn’t. He continued to hold her. His touch, however, was light. It was impersonal.

It was driving her crazy.

Elaine’s heart pounded far more than it should have under the circumstances, unless, of course, wasp venom was making her delirious. She knew she was staring at Mitch’s mouth, but felt helpless to look away.

And then the hand cupping her chin moved. He ran his knuckles lightly across her cheek. When he reached her jaw, his fingers unfurled to wander into the hair at her nape.

Oh, Lord, they had slept together. Elaine knew it the moment he touched the back of her neck. She couldn’t remember the last time a man other than Kevin had touched her there, except for Dr. Larson when she’d had swollen glands last winter, and he was seventy. Yet Mitch’s hand did not feel new or strange or even unfamiliar. She remembered it. Her body remembered it.

A shower of tingles raced down her back, along her arms and, incredibly, over her thighs. During the last few years of her marriage to Kevin, she’d forgotten she even had thighs. Mitch was barely touching her and suddenly she felt every pore.

“Where’s your antiseptic?”

Elaine licked her lips. “Where’s my—” She blinked, blurry with desire, but not too blurry to realize what he’d just asked. Her lips formed a confounded O. “What?”

“Antiseptic,” he repeated. “That sting is…pretty nasty.”

“Is it?” Her racing heart skidded to a dull, heavy thud. Embarrassment washed up her neck and face. What she remembered clearly from that night in the bar was the incomparable comfort of Mitch’s presence. The case had ended. Her marriage was over. Sitting in a bar, in her winter coat, in the middle of the afternoon, she’d felt more alone than ever before in her life. She’d tried hard not to show despair, humiliation, or any of the myriad emotions she’d felt. She’d tried not to look at Mitch’s face, so often shuttered and unreadable, but on that day almost…compassionate.

Then over the sound of waves crashing in her ears, she’d heard him say, “He’s not worth it, Elaine.”

He’d sounded so sure and so angry and so on her side.

That had to be the reason she’d agreed to stay. And why she had found herself, over an hour later, still sipping brandy and actually laughing at the awful jokes Mitch told her and which she was surprised he even knew. And why, when he’d said finally, “I’ll take you home,” she’d unresistingly handed him her car keys, bundled into the passenger side and had felt—for the first time since she’d realized her life was falling apart—safe.

But a moment ago, standing in the confines of her small bathroom, with Mitch touching her, she hadn’t felt safe at all. For an instant, with his brown eyes fixed on her, she had felt the thrill that something wild and unknown was about to happen.

Men!

Anger kindled in Elaine’s stomach. Tightly she said, “Your hand is on the back of my neck.”

Mitch frowned quizzically.

“Your hand,” she bit out again. “It is on the back of my neck.” And clearly that was an erogenous zone. “I can’t get to the medicine cabinet.”

“Oh.”

He let her go. Elaine’s neck felt cold and bare.

They did an awkward dance as she moved around him. Catching sight of her own face in the mirror, Elaine longed to sit down right where she was and weep. Her nose where the wasp had stung her was red and inflamed and now that her adrenaline was calming, she could feel the throb again. Every part of her felt like it had been stung. Glancing above her own head, she saw Mitch’s reflection as he watched her.

She shoved the sliding glass of the medicine cabinet harder than she needed to, but could barely see the contents through the tears filling her eyes. Not the damned tears again, she groaned silently, pressing her lips together to refuse the emotion. No, she was not going to cry over this…this…whatever it was. Stupid…hormonal…mistake.

“Excuse me,” she said tightly, without turning around. “Would you please… This bathroom is just not that large.” Nothing happened. He didn’t move. “Would you leave?”

Mitch frowned heavily.

Elaine waited with forced calm, hand on the Neosporin, until she heard him walk quietly across the tile floor and through the hall. Without looking, she reached out, grasped the bathroom door and slammed it as hard as she could. She had no intention of crying in front of Mitch Ryder, and she certainly wasn’t going to cry over him.

She had plans, born of her heart only. If she intended to get on with them, she had better get used to feeling alone. No doubt she was going to feel alone a lot in the coming months as she embarked on a journey usually traveled by two.

As for discovering what had happened the night she left the bar with Mitch, that was a mystery that would have to remain unsolved. What difference did it make? She didn’t need an affair; she didn’t want the headache.

What she wanted was a pint-sized headache who needed all the love she had to give.

Splashing cold water on her face, Elaine dabbed her nose with antiseptic, replaced the tube and closed the medicine cabinet. Time to get down to business. She had a pregnancy to get under way. And a possible ex-lover to get rid of. She didn’t want Mitch Ryder here one moment longer than necessary.

Mitch looked down at the oak floor, grateful for the dimness of the living room with the curtains closed. As if the dimness would keep him from having to see himself too clearly.

What the hell was going on with him?

He had come here to relieve himself of the gnawing, uncomfortable sense of personal responsibility Elaine’s case had engendered. He had come here so he could feel less involved after he left. So far, his plan could be considered a failure.

Mitch wasn’t stupid. He knew what people—co-workers, most clients, his ex-wife—thought of him: that he was cold, impenetrable, virtually emotionless. That was fine. Experience told him their estimations were accurate. He’d long since stopped feeling guilty for his own inadequacies. That which had made his personal life a failure had lent strength to his professional life once he’d learned to use rather than deny his personality traits.

He shook his head. Every time he tried to make amends to Elaine—so he could walk away with a clear conscience—he got sucked in further. And yet he felt compelled to go on trying. Why?

Mitch’s sister, the youngest partner on record at the respected law firm of Cowden, Hardy, Hardy, Nash & Ryder, would tell him to snap out of it. “Do what you’re good at—pay someone else to do the other stuff” was M. D. Ryder’s credo. By “other stuff,” M.D. meant anything having to do with emotion. Mitch had lived by the same philosophy and on those rare occasions he hadn’t—his brief marriage, for example—the results had been suitably disastrous.

His sister was the only person he knew who could separate emotion from…well, everything better than he could. Family quirk.

“Do what you’re good at, forget the other stuff,” Mitch muttered, reminding himself that he had a reason for being here, a reason he could handle quickly and then leave.

He was staring at the closed curtains, at nothing, really, when Elaine emerged from the bathroom.

Her bare feet stepped quietly across the wood floor. She continued on to the kitchen without glancing at him. “I’m getting water. Do you want anything?”

Mitch frowned. From the start, he had admired Kevin Lowry’s wife for her innate warmth, for the gentle grace that came as a surprise every time he saw her. Now her tone was formal, brusque and businesslike.

“Water’s fine,” he said, following her into the kitchen.

As she pulled glasses out of a cabinet and a jug of ice water from the refrigerator, Mitch filled the yawning silence by taking his first really good look at the interior of the duplex.

Like the exterior, the interior had aged and was not as well maintained as it should have been, but the big, raw bones of the divided house were good. What he appreciated most, though, was the simple way Elaine had decorated, with dish towels in a bright sunflower pattern, yellow checked curtains on the windows, and several teapots—one that was covered in ridiculous red cherries—on wooden shelves above the cabinets. Late afternoon sun reached soothing streamers of light through the well-placed windows, enhancing the soft glow of butter-yellow walls.

The kitchen in his Mountain Park condominium was white and stainless steel. A twice-weekly housekeeper kept everything sparkling, though he rarely gave her anything to clean. He didn’t cook. Take-out was infrequent. Occasionally he nuked a frozen meal, but by and large he ate in restaurants and used the kitchen primarily as a wine cellar for occasional entertaining. Elaine lived in her kitchen. It was oddly appealing.

Filling both glasses with water, she set one on the counter in front of him and sipped from the other, eyeing him over the top of the rim. Mitch started to drink then noticed his glass was only half-full. Here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?

Draining the glass, he set it down. She made no move to refill it, and Mitch smiled. Had to. He’d met few people as unintentionally candid as Elaine Lowry. Clearing his throat, he got down to business, presenting his opening gambit as if addressing a court. “You’re wondering why I’m here.”

She crossed her arms. “I’m wondering how you knew my address.”

Right. He’d forgotten that would be a question.

“I assume Maggie gave it to you,” she continued before he could respond. “Which is profoundly unprofessional, but I will take that up with her next time the rent is due.”

Maggie Lewis owned Portland Property, the company that managed this rental. Mitch had handed Elaine his friend’s business card the afternoon he’d followed her into the Heathman. Later he’d phoned Maggie personally and told her to find Elaine someplace clean and safe where the rent was cheap and likely to stay so. This duplex had been absentee-owned for over a decade. The rent had been raised only twice in that time. Unfortunately the owners had decided to sell one month ago, taking advantage of the spike in area home prices. New owners were sure to increase the rent. Maggie had mentioned the fact to Mitch in passing.

“So other than a love of lawn mowing, what brings you here, Mitch?”

He scowled. He could overlook her patent hostility because she hadn’t realized yet that he was on her side. But she would soon. He decided to warm things up a bit before he answered her question. “How’s your nose?”

“It hurts. I think I’ll go to bed early.”

Mitch plowed a hand through his hair and surrendered. Okay. Get to the point. Once he clarified the situation, she would realize he was here to make amends. No doubt she would be surprised by the news, so he’d give her a moment to process it. Because he tended to feel uncomfortable with profuse expressions of gratitude, he would take his cue to leave when the thank-yous began.

“If you recall, Maggie is a former client. I represented her in her second and third divorces.”

Elaine raised a brow. “I hope she got the frequent flyer discount.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It’s a joke.”

“Oh.” She was being wry. Unfortunately, humor was not his forte. He’d been told that on a number of occasions as well. Clearing his throat, he attempted to get back on course. “As I was saying, I know Maggie, and because I referred you to her originally, she thought I would be interested in any changes that occurred in your current living situation.”