The Pregnancy Negotiation

He gave her a lopsided grin and glanced down before meeting her gaze again. “What do you think?”

She thought she might dissolve into the expensive tan suede sofa when she, in turn, looked down and noticed some activity stirring below his belt. “I think you’re a normal man. Say the word sex, and here comes the salute.”

When she pulled her gaze back to his face, he lowered his mouth to less than an inch from hers. “Maybe I should shower before I give you my answer. I’m feeling pretty dirty right now.”

Mallory was having some dirty thoughts of her own. “I know. It reminds me of the times you used to come in with Logan following football practice. A regular pheromone fest. Those football pants did enhance your assets.”

He slid his thumb along her jaw. “If I can find a pair, does that mean I have a better chance of scoring?”

“Have you not been listening to me? I’m a sure thing. Ready and willing.”

He collapsed against the couch and moved as far from her as the cushions would allow. Seconds ticked down, turning into minutes while Whit remained quiet, obviously deep in thought. Mallory held her tongue for the time being, giving him the opportunity to consider his answer carefully. And the waiting was pure agony.

He sighed, interrupting the silence. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

He turned his head toward her. “Yeah, I will. I’m probably crazy for agreeing, but if this is what you want, then I’ll try to give it to you.”

On a rush of adrenaline and sheer joy, Mallory climbed into his lap, straddled his thighs and held his face in her palms for a succession of wet kisses on his cheeks. She pulled back, intending to tell him he wouldn’t regret it, but the look he sent her halted her speech. Granted, she’d been out of the dating loop for a long time, but she could still recognize I-want-you in a man’s eyes. Except Whit had never looked at her that way before. Ever.

Without saying a word, he circled her nape with one hand and pulled her mouth to his. If this kiss served as his resume, as far as Mallory was concerned, he was hired. A tempered touch of his tongue to hers, a soft sweep, a heady thrust and she was reacting in ways she hadn’t in years, if ever. She might actually enjoy the consummation. But that couldn’t happen now. Not yet. Oh, boy.

He deepened the kiss, not giving her a chance to protest. How could she when he was occupying her mouth with such tender urging? When he was draining her thoughts dry as a winter skin with his expertise?

Even though Mallory truly didn’t want it to end, Whit obviously did when he broke the kiss. “Was that satisfactory, O’Brien?”

Satisfactory? Had it been any better, she might have been naked about now, disregarding her ultimate goal. “As I’ve said, this isn’t about your skills, Manning. We’ll go into this arrangement knowing it’s for the sole intent of procreation. You don’t have to feel obligated to prove anything to me in terms of your proficiency as a lover. And you don’t have to—”

Kiss me again, dammit. But he did, slowly, seductively, persuasively. This time, Mallory pulled away, with great effort. “I can already tell you’re going to be trouble.”

His smile made him part devil, and all devastating male. “And I feel like I’ve been remanded to stud service.”

“In a way, you have.” She climbed out of his lap and stood on wobbly legs. “Now go take a shower, my little stud muffin.”

When she turned away, he slapped her bottom. “Sure thing, my little broodmare.”

She faced him again, arms crossed at her middle to conceal her onset of trembles. “I don’t think I like being called a broodmare.”

“If I’m a stud, then you’re a broodmare.” He laced his hands behind his neck and assumed an insolent posture. “One more question.”

“Yes, Whit?” Why did her voice sound so shrill? In the courtroom, she never let anything throw her off course. But she’d never faced Whit Manning, and all his masculine arrogance, in a courtroom. Eventually she would have to face him in the bedroom, and she doubted she would have the strength to object to anything he might ask of her.

“Do we begin the breeding process tonight?” he asked in a low, compelling voice.

“No. In three days.”

His arms dropped to his sides and his smile dropped from his face. “Three days? Why?”

“Because I should be ovulating then.” If she was lucky. Mallory grabbed up the polish and started away before she decided to kiss him again. “I’m going to finish my toenails then work for a while in my bedroom.”

He was on her fast, taking her arms and turning her around. “After I’ve gone out on a limb to agree to this, you’re really going to make me wait? What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Build up sperm.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. Normally I’d tell you to get a handle on it, but that’s not an option this time. I’m sure you’ll manage. Think of it as preparation, sort of like a boxer training for the big fight.”

“Just so you know, I’m going to be walking funny for the next three days in anticipation.”

As she headed toward the chrome stairs leading to the bedrooms, Mallory couldn’t stop her laughter though it was more nervous than jovial. She also couldn’t stop the tiny bite of fear over the decision they had made.

She was going to have a baby with her roommate. At least she was going to try. And the “trying” part thrilled her and frightened her.

Whit Manning wasn’t a man who did anything halfway. If that kiss was any indication, she suspected that would hold true when it came to lovemaking. One thing she had to remember—no love would enter into the equation, aside from brotherly love. Only sex for the sake of a child, no more than three days at a time, once a month. No great expectations. No emotional entanglement beyond friendship. Otherwise, she could very well begin wanting more from him than a baby.

Yet another thought kept nagging at Mallory’s cluttered mind. Where she had agonized over the decision for weeks, Whit had agreed to the plan in less than an hour. And although he was well known for his spontaneity, Mallory still worried that come morning he might change his mind.

Two

He must be out of his mind. He sure as hell was out of his element, at least when it came to fathering a child. After all, what did he know about raising a kid? Not a thing.

At the moment, he tried to immerse himself in the familiar—his job as head architect and vice president at Manning Development Corporation. But he couldn’t concentrate on much of anything, so he sat at his desk in his cushy downtown office, his skull gripped firmly in his hands. He had a meeting with the design team in twenty minutes and a headache pounding his temples as if he’d been on a four-day drinking binge. But he hadn’t had a drop to drink. He had spent one restless night tossing and turning and worrying that agreeing to Mallory’s pregnancy plan had been a huge mistake.

One thing he did know, Mallory was right about his commitment phobia. So far his marriage examples had fallen short. His father had two failed marriages on his resume and a third that didn’t look promising, and his mother had left her only child behind. One year after the divorce, Julia Manning had taken off for parts unknown with only the excuse that she needed to “find herself.” He’d gone to live with his dad after that and had befriended the O’Brien family. The O’Briens had been great, his proverbial port in the storm, but he’d never gotten over his mother’s abrupt departure, or the fact that she’d stopped all communication beyond an occasional birthday card. No congratulatory phone calls after his graduation from high school or college. Not even a “Hi, I’m still alive and kicking and I think about you often.”

In a way he’d blamed his father’s need for control for his mother’s quick exit. Yet Whit had to admit that his dad had taught him everything he knew about architecture, even if he did have the temperament of a demonic drill sergeant. Taught him every facet of building—from design to construction—as a matter of fact. Since that time, Whit had felt he owed his father a debt. But that debt was costing him his dreams. Someday soon, it would have to end.

Too bad it wasn’t today, Whit decided when Field breezed into the room, looking golf-tanned and prosperous, his hair silver sleek, his expression royally pissed off.

When his father shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the desk, Whit braced for the usual weekly lecture. “You’ve screwed up, son.”

Hadn’t he heard that before? “Good Monday morning to you, too, Dad. What did I supposedly screw up this time?”

“Barclay told me last week you only incorporated three conference rooms into the design instead of four. That kind of mistake is unacceptable.”

Whit clung tightly to his anger but kept it secreted away for the moment. “Actually, old man Barclay changed his mind after the initial design was complete. And I fixed it while you were off on your little weekend getaway with the new wife.” Whit’s new stepmother, Rebecca, who was all of six years Whit’s senior.

Whit enjoyed these moments the most, when Field Manning knew he’d been bested. But as always, his father recovered quickly in order to get in another dig. Today it came in record time.

“You look like hell, Whit. Obviously you’ve been spending a lot of time bed-hopping. That’s a distraction you can’t afford, especially during this particular project.”

Whit held back the string of curse words clamoring to climb out of his mouth. “You know something, Dad. What I do in my off time is none of your business. But for your information, I’m not involved with anyone right now. If that changes, rest assured you’ll be the last to know.”

Field’s jaw went as rigid as his frame. “I’m glad you’re not involved with anyone. You’re not ready to settle down.”

Whit shoved aside the latest issue of an architectural magazine and clamped his hands together on the desk. “You’re right, I’m not ready to settle down. Considering the example I’ve had, I may never be ready.”

Anger flashed in Field’s dark eyes, the only true sign of his slipping composure. “I’m not even going to justify that with a response. I had valid reasons for ending my marriages. I just happened to spare you the dirty details.”

“Details as in your need to keep a tight rein on everyone in your life and if they dare challenge you, they’re history?”

“Believe what you will, Whit, but at least I’ve had relationships that lasted longer than a few weeks.”

In other words, it wasn’t Field Manning’s fault. It never was. Whit made an exaggerated show of checking his watch before turning his attention back to his father. “Anything else you’d like to criticize, Dad? I’ve got a full schedule today. But I could mark off a few hours for you tomorrow. You might want to bring a complete list of my shortcomings.”

“Sarcasm is unbecoming, Whit.”

“You taught me that, too.”

Field stared at him for a long moment. “Maybe I have made my share of mistakes, but I deserve more respect considering everything I’ve done for you since your mother left.”

You owe me, echoed in Whit’s mind, even if those hadn’t been his father’s exact words. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, Dad, I know what you’ve done for me. You remind me often enough. But it seems to me that’s what you do for your kids, help them out. And you shouldn’t expect someone to bleed in return.”

“I don’t expect you to bleed. I do expect you to be grateful for what you have. And it would be nice if you’d grow up.”

With a palpable arrogance, Field strode out of the room and closed the door behind him with more force than necessary. Whit contemplated his father’s words for a few moments and then came to a surprising conclusion. He could be responsible and he had the prime opportunity to prove it—both to himself and to his hypercritical father. He could be a better father, and in turn, a better man.

He would give Mallory the baby she wanted and, by doing so, rise above Field Manning’s continuous condemnation. He would stick around to help raise his child, unlike his own mother. And he planned to enjoy every moment, making the whole process pleasurable for both him and Mallory. That consideration might be the only thing that would get him through this godforsaken day.

Mallory was on edge, starving and exhausted. To make matters worse, she had a gorgeous, seminaked man in her kitchen. His kitchen, she conceded. But did he have to drop in wearing only a skimpy black towel draped low on his narrow hips? Odd thing was, she’d seen him in a towel before, but at the time she hadn’t been planning to be impregnated by him. That alone made her curious about certain aspects, namely what he had lurking beneath that towel. Just the thought made her feel as if she had warm, male fingers drifting up and down her body. Maybe there was hope for her hibernating libido yet.

To provide some distraction, she lifted the lid on the pan and stirred the array of mixed vegetables. Distraction was short-lived when a very masculine hand came to rest on her shoulder and the very male specimen pressed against her back. “Smells good,” Whit said.

So did he, Mallory thought, only he smelled like summer-fresh soap. He radiated heat like a hot summer sidewalk. She replaced the lid but didn’t dare turn around. “It’s carrots and peas and potatoes.”

“What’s in the oven?”

“Halibut.”

He stepped away from her, providing some relief from the heat. “You know I hate any kind of seafood.”

Mallory turned and folded her arms across her chest. “You told me you haven’t eaten it since you were in grade school. I think it’s time you give it another shot.”

“Why?”

She opted for a fractional truth. “Because it’s good for you.” If she knew what was good for her—which she didn’t—she’d stop staring at the tuft of hair centered in the middle of his chest. Stop staring at the indentation of his navel peeking out from the low-slung towel. Stop her gaze from going any lower, which, of course, she didn’t.

“What’s this?”

Mallory glanced up to see Whit holding a slip of paper. Damn her wandering eyes. If she hadn’t been gawking at his manly attributes, Whit wouldn’t have found her little list. When she tried to grab it out of his clutches, he raised it above his head. Mallory was taller than most women, but Whit was taller than many men. And he was stronger and quicker, something she realized when he clasped both her wrists in one large hand and held the paper up to read it.

His grin arrived slowly. “‘Deciding Your Baby’s Gender the Old Fashioned Way?’”

When he loosened his grip, Mallory took advantage and yanked the page from his hand. “It’s just a few tips,” she said as she folded the paper into a small square and shoved it into her jeans’ pocket. “Something I found interesting.”

He leaned a hip against the counter and deepened his grin. “You found it on the Internet.”

Mallory turned back to the stove and stirred the veggies that didn’t need stirring. “Yes, I did. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not a problem, but I am surprised.”

She afforded him a quick glance. “Why? It’s good to be prepared.”

“I agree, and I expected you to find some kind of how-to guide because that’s in line with your personality. But relying on old wives’ tales? That shocks the hell out of me. And honestly, I don’t believe any of it.”

“As I’ve said before, sometimes the old ways are the best ways. And you might as well face it, you don’t know everything about me.”

“But I plan to.”

That drew her attention to his face, particularly his trademark grin. “A girl has to have some secrets, Whit.”

“And a guy has ways of uncovering them, one by one.”

A shiver scanned the length of Mallory’s spine. “You wish.”

“I know.”

Greatly needing a subject change, Mallory told him, “Speaking of making babies, go look on my bed. I bought something for you today.”

“If it’s performance enhancers, I don’t need them.”

Mallory considered that she might need them when coming up against Whit Manning’s talents. “I bought you some boxers.”

His smile withered into a scowl. “I prefer briefs.”

“It’s only temporary. You can go back to wearing whatever you like after…you know.”

He inched closer to her side. “After we procreate?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I ask why this is necessary?”

Mallory shrugged. “Supposedly it’s best if you’re somewhat unencumbered.”

“What if I just wear nothing at all?” He grinned again. “You know what they say, if you love them, set them free.”

Mallory laughed but it ended abruptly when his hand went to the knot on the towel. “Don’t you dare!”

“Why not? I could just walk around the house naked and unencumbered.”

A really nice idea, Mallory decided, before jerking herself back into reality. “Not a good idea, Whit.” At least not yet.

He folded his arms across his chest, enhancing the bulk of his biceps. “Does this have something to do with that list?”

“Yes.”

“Wearing boxers helps determine the sex of a baby?”

“That’s what they say.”

“They being who?”

“The people who came up with the list.”

He rubbed his chin. “Just one more question. You hoping for a boy or a girl?”

“Actually, a girl.”

“What if I want a son?”

That macho attitude didn’t surprise Mallory a bit. “You have a fifty-fifty chance.”

He pointed at her pocket. “Aren’t you stacking the odds against my choice by using those tips?”

She smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe in them.”

“I don’t, but I’d prefer not to take any chances, just in case.”

Mallory decided to use the one thing men always seemed to relate to—the act itself. “I get to be on top.”

“Guess we’ll have a girl then.”

They exchanged a brief smile before the moment turned rife with tension. The kind of tension that came with the tug and pull of desire. Mallory saw it in Whit’s dark eyes—a powerful, dangerous kind of desire.

He took her hand and rubbed her knuckles over his shadowed jaw. “After dinner, are you interested in priming the pump?”

She forced her eyes to remain on his face, focusing on the single strand of damp hair falling across his forehead. “My pump or yours?”

“Both.”

Avoiding Whit’s continued perusal, Mallory pulled out of his grasp and turned back to the stove. “Go try on your boxers and I’ll put dinner on the table. I thought we would eat out on the verandah since it’s such a nice night.”

He patted her bottom and she jumped like a freaked-out frog. “You do that.”

After he left, Mallory went through the motions in a haze, filling the plates and setting them out on the round, glass-topped patio table situated on the balcony beneath a blue-striped umbrella. As the largest in the building, Whit’s loft spanned a good deal of the ninth floor, and the wall of windows in the living room, as well as the balcony, provided a breathtaking view of the street below lined with sports bars and shops, the lights of the downtown skyline twinkling in the distance.

Mallory strolled to the railing to survey the coral sunset, her favorite time of day and her favorite scene. Yet the familiar atmosphere seemed somewhat surreal this evening. Things were changing between her and Whit; that much she knew. She supposed preparing to have sex with a man, according to a well laid-out plan, would present some changes—and challenges. She had to keep everything in perspective. Had to remember this was Whit, her friend. Her roommate. Nothing more would exist between them. Nothing could.

Granted, Whit was a great guy, but he was also a player. She’d made the fatal mistake of marrying one of those before. She wouldn’t make the mistake of falling for another, no matter how tempting Whit Manning might be. Even if she found the courage to go anywhere he might take her in terms of lovemaking. Considering past experience, she wasn’t certain she could.

Tucking that little reminder away for the time being, Mallory sat down and waited for Whit’s return. Several minutes passed before he appeared at the sliding glass doors leading into the den, wearing the boxers she’d bought on her lunch hour.

A giggle bubbled up in her throat and rushed out on a full-fledged laugh. Whit, on the other hand, did not look amused. But he did look cute as could be in the red thigh-length drawers, a bright yellow happy face centered strategically over the fly.

He looked down, then up again. “You’re kidding, right?”

Mallory let another little laugh slip out before she asked, “You don’t like them?”

“I look like a joke.”

He looked like a dream come to life, as far as Mallory was concerned. “Who’s going to see them?”

“Since we’re nine floors up, probably no one. But if I wear them to work, the guys will see them.”

Mallory drummed her fingers on the table’s edge. “Not unless you plan to go to the office without your slacks.” That pleasant image slipped into her brain—Whit wearing his dress shirt and nothing else. And she was really losing her grip on reality.

Whit rubbed a hand over his bare belly, drawing Mallory’s undivided attention. “I do have to take bathroom breaks now and then.”

The old “communing at the urinals” thing, talking about the baseball score and scoring in general, according to her brothers. Mallory had always wondered over that whole concept. Women tended to gather at a vanity, which seemed much more civilized. “You have your own private bathroom, Whit. Besides, you shouldn’t be so worried about what other people think. I personally think they’re precious.”

His face screwed up into a scowl. “I don’t do precious. And I don’t do boxers, either.”

Mallory placed the black cloth napkin on her lap and smoothed it with one hand. “Relax. I bought you a few more. Plain ones. Navy, your favorite color, made of silk for those moments you feel really sexy.” Her insides did a little jig just thinking about him in those.

Whit yanked back the cushioned chair and slumped into it, followed by a sigh. “Where are these sexy boxers?” His tone held a note of suspicion.

“In the laundry room. I washed them so they wouldn’t irritate you.”

He looked incredibly irritated at the moment. “Thanks for being so thoughtful.” He looked down again. “But a happy face?”

“Yes. A happy face for Mr. Happy.”

He leaned forward and clasped his hands before him. “Mr. Happy isn’t so happy right now.” He sent her a crooked smile. “But you know what would make him happy?”

Mallory gestured toward his plate before he formed the words. “Time to eat.”

“Mr. Happy would really like to come out and play.”

Dear heavens, another grand visual, one Mallory thought best to ignore for now. Besides, she could only rely on her imagination, for now. “Your food’s getting cold.” In contrast, she was quite hot.

Whit’s dark eyes took on that flaming quality, intense and captivating. “I’m not that hungry right now. At least not for any kind of food.”

She sent him a frustrated look. “Two more days, Whit. And believe me, you’re going to need your strength.” So would she, a lot of strength to get through another forty-eight hours of his continued innuendo.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Oh, yeah. Making a baby takes a lot out of a man.”

“I’m up for it.”

If the table hadn’t been in the way, Mallory might have tried to confirm that fact. Not that she really needed to. “Great. Right now, let’s have some dinner.”

He stared at his plate with a look of disdain. “I’m not going to like it.”

“You won’t know unless you try it.”

He met her gaze, his dark eyes leveled on hers. “That’s true in some instances. But I have good instincts about these things. Sometimes you just know when you’re going to enjoy something. And when you’re not.”

She wanted to ask for examples, but that damnable smoldering look on his face, the suggestion in his voice, told her exactly what he meant. “Just take one little bite. If you find it totally unpalatable, you can make a ham sandwich.”