Their Accidental Baby

The baby was gurgling behind Justin, but other than that there was only the sound of his breathing.

He was close enough that she felt the movements of his chest with every breath. Warmth licked through her as their eyes met, and the heat in his gaze incinerated the grin right off her face. His hair was soft under her fingers, his body hot as it pressed into hers, his mouth sweet and urgent, and somehow the universe was finally just as it should be.

The baby interrupted, her soft gurgles changing into a whine that told them she would be wanting some attention very soon.

The kiss ended, but their embrace didn’t. Not right away.

“Laura…” he whispered, his mouth at her ear, and his arms tightened around her. She turned her face into his neck, and felt at home. In fact she felt…in love.

Things were getting way out of hand.

Hannah Bernard always knew what she wanted to be when she grew up—a psychologist. After spending an eternity in university studying toward that goal, she took one look at her hard-earned diploma and thought, “Nah. I'd rather be a writer.”

She has no kids to brag about, no pets to complain about and only one husband, who any day now will break down and agree to adopt a kitten.

Their Accidental Baby is Hannah’s second book for Harlequin Romance.

Books by Hannah Bernard

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3762—BABY CHASE

Their Accidental Baby

Hannah Bernard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To everyone at eHarlequin.com’s WR board. May SubCare always bounce with happy news.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

LAURA tilted her head back and peered upward at the path ahead, shoulders slumped in fatigue. Endlessly stretching toward the summit, the way up looked exhausting and treacherous.

But at journey’s end, there was sanctuary.

This wasn’t exactly Mount Everest. Just an apartment building in Chicago’s suburbs. All she had to do was climb three floors, and she would get to her cozy little apartment, close the door and forget all about there being a world outside.

The shades of the maples lining the quiet street gave testament to it already being autumn. And here she’d hardly noticed the summer, except as a hot distraction; a need to daily give thanks for the air-conditioning in her office; and the lingering smell of barbecue in the air as she dragged herself home late at night.

There just weren’t enough Fridays in a week.

Weekend.

For once she wasn’t working at all. She didn’t even have any homework to do. Two days off, to do anything she wanted. She could take a long bubble bath, put soft music on the stereo and daydream. She could pick a book from the huge pile that somehow had taken up permanent residence in her laundry basket and read—if she could keep her eyes open. She could shake the dust off that sweater she’d started to knit before Young & Warren had hired her six months ago. Or she could call some of those friends who probably assumed she was dead and buried and they’d missed the funeral.

Of course, there was also housework. She’d run out of dishes for her morning cereal three days ago. Not that it had mattered much, since the milk had gone bad a few days before.

She hadn’t even had clean underwear this morning and, after twenty seconds of torturous deliberations, had decided to go without.

Bad idea.

After a whole morning of sitting in meetings, imagining that everyone present had to know this scandalous fact, could see it on her face, if not on her bottom, she’d used her ten-minute lunch break to run to the nearest store and buy a multipack of cheap underwear that would see her through the next week. Putting them on in the tiny cubicle that served as the ladies’ room had been a feat that would have earned her the praise of her yoga instructor—if she still had the time to attend classes.

But at least now she knew. The women’s magazines lied. Going without underwear did not make you feel sexy. Just uncomfortable and naked.

If she could have spared more than ten minutes, she wouldn’t currently be wearing green and pink cotton underpants with smiley faces and writing on them. In French. She’d never learned any French, but considering the cheap price and the location in the discount bin, she could only hazard a guess that it said something women generally did not want written on their underwear.

Not that it mattered. It wasn’t as if anyone was seeing her underwear these days, let alone anyone who spoke French. She grimaced. Life was so busy right now that it was as well that Mr. Right wasn’t showing up. She’d just have to shoo him away and ask him to come back later.

“Hi. Bye.” Justin Bane, her neighbor, rushed past her, a blurry figure in black leaving behind the warm scent of leather and sandalwood, and had vanished farther up the stairs before she’d even drawn breath to return his greeting.

Of course he could move fast. He wasn’t wearing heels. Or green underwear with coded messages in French. He didn’t work her hours, either. He even had the energy to sing in the shower, and he was used to moving fast on that motorbike. Nope, three flights of stairs wouldn’t be a problem for him.

Ten steps up, seventy to go. She took another deep breath and pulled herself up one more step with a mighty groan. She’d moved to the suburbs to get away from a tiny apartment overlooking two major streets, but what had possessed her to rent an apartment on the third floor, in a building where the elevator was always on the fritz? Right, she’d been young and stupid six months ago. Convinced she could handle anything the world threw at her, even a daily trek up three flights of stairs, now that she had finally landed her dream job.

She sighed. Dreams weren’t all they were cracked up to be. Eighty-hour weeks and extinct weekends hadn’t figured prominently in her fantasies during those long years in law school.

Housework probably couldn’t be avoided. But not tonight. And not tomorrow. Maybe Sunday she’d feel up to challenging tasks like loading the washing machine or the dishwasher. Tonight she’d order takeout and camp out in front of the television until reality blurred into a Hollywood fantasy and she forgot all about legal briefs, courtrooms, divorces and custody battles.

Her stomach growled.

Food. Oh, yes, that was another plan for this weekend. There had hardly been time to eat at all this week. Or last weekend, or the week before. Fruit or candy bars stuffed in her mouth while running between weekends had been a luxury. Hot meals were just a distant memory. Her mouth watered just at the thought of cooking aromas and the imagined calories gave her enough energy to conquer a few more steps.

Of course, she passed Justin’s apartment on the way to her door every evening, and her nose told her he did not make do with fruit and candy bars. He seemed fond of spicy chicken and home cooked pizza, the smells making her stomach whine in yearning and her own pinnacle of kitchen achievements—grilled cheese sandwiches—taste like recycled paper.

Her stomach growled again, and she winced at the hunger pangs, promising to eat properly this weekend. Perhaps she should invite a friend over, and cook something ambitious. Hamburgers, perhaps. Or grilled cheese sandwiches with actual cheese in them.

Of course that meant she had to go shopping too.

She groaned, and used the impetus of the unwelcome thought to propel her up another step, which took her up to the first floor. She was one third of the way up. She celebrated by leaning against the wall and closing her eyes for a bit. Tomorrow she’d think about shopping. Tonight she wouldn’t do anything at all. Getting home was challenge enough.

Two floors to go.

“Are you sick?”

The voice was only inches away. She forced her eyes open, and looked into concerned dark eyes. She shook her head slowly in response to his inquiry. Justin, again. She hadn’t even heard him run down the stairs. And there was no question that he had run. He always moved fast.

The leather jacket gone, he stood there in a crumpled black shirt and black jeans, hands in his pockets as he loomed over her, even though she was wearing those dreadful heels. She tried not to inhale. That one sniff of male pheromones as he’d rushed past her on his way up had been enough of a mocking temptation for one day, and she hadn’t even seen him dismount his bike this time.

She’d never had much of a thing for motorbikes, but boy, did this one wear them well.

She stared up into those dark brown eyes and inwardly stomped on that reluctant crush she’d had on him ever since he’d moved in. It was absurd. She was much too old to have crushes.

Wasn’t she?

Justin touched her forehead for a second as if to check for fever, then lifted her head to look into her eyes. He grabbed her wrist and put his fingers on her pulse. What was he, a doctor? Someone had told her he was a teacher, but he didn’t look much like any teacher she’d ever had. Perhaps they’d been wrong, and he was really a doctor. Maybe if she stopped breathing, he’d resort to the kiss of life. Not an altogether unpleasant notion.

Justin frowned. “Laura, your pulse is racing. And unless you’re running up and down the stairs for exercise, you’ve been more than five minutes just getting up to here. What’s wrong?”

Justin the gallant neighbor, coming to the rescue, completely unaware that her pulse had a crush on him, and had started galloping at his touch. What next? She had visions of him sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her up to her apartment, where he’d carefully lay her down on the couch.

She closed her eyes to better concentrate on the fantasy. His arms would be strong but gentle, his movements sure and confident, an intimate look in those dark eyes and a sensual smile on his lips as he fulfilled her every desire. A soft sigh escaped her as she thought about the delights he could bring her, the things he could do to make her hum with pleasure.

Cook, clean, and fetch the remote control.

Ah, yes. Men could have their uses, if only they’d cooperate.

“Laura?” She pried her eyes open just in time to see him lean closer, and outrage filled her with some extra energy when she realised he was trying to smell her breath.

“I’m not drunk!” she protested, pushing herself away from the wall, straight into him. His arm went over her shoulder as if to keep her from falling and her face got squashed against his chest.

Oh, no. Now would not be a good time to take a breath, she reminded herself, just as her lungs decided the opposite. Too much proximity to Justin was not a good thing. It just made her wonder what it would be like to hitch a ride on his motorcycle—despite her motorcycle phobia.

She pushed herself away, inhaled, grabbed her briefcase and squirmed past him with determined moves. The next flight of stairs taunted her. They were steep. They were long. But she could conquer them.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said over her shoulder to Justin, who was standing there with his hands on his hips, hovering over her. “I’m just exhausted. Some of us don’t have the luxury of a forty-hour week, you know!” She didn’t know precisely what Justin did for a living, how true the “teacher” rumor was—but he was always home before she was. He never seemed to work weekends, either.

Envy was a powerful thing. If she was honest with herself, his lack of overtime was probably the prime reason she resented him. That, and the home-cooked pizzas. She hardly knew him, so there wasn’t any real, logical reason, but she told herself that it was because of his arrogance. Men who rode flashy motorcycles were always too arrogant for their own good.

Of course, if she dug deeper, which she wasn’t necessarily interested in doing, she might find that the real reason was that he hadn’t shown the slightest bit of interest in her during the six months they’d been living side by side. Some friendly neighborly chat when they met on the stairs, yes, some fascinating ten-second discussions about the weather and the state of the front yard, but that was it.

She turned her head to look at him, and sent him a glare to match his own stare. Yep, she was definitely peeved. Not that she was actually interested, despite that silly crush. He wasn’t her type, even if she had time for irrelevant things like the mandatory search for a soul mate, true love and happily ever after. It was just a matter of pride. It wouldn’t kill him to send her a flirty smile every now and then.

“That’s some exhaustion,” Justin remarked, following on her heels as she plodded up a few steps. “You’re dead on your feet. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just tired. And hungry. It’s my own fault. I spent my lunch hour—not that it’s actually an hour, more like ten minutes—buying underwear. So I haven’t eaten anything since this morning.” She frowned in thought, and didn’t really care she was rambling. “No wait, I guess I haven’t eaten at all since yesterday. There wasn’t anything edible in the kitchen this morning. I was going to get a sandwich somewhere, but then I was too busy all day.”

“You bought underwear instead of eating. I see.” He stepped up beside her and looked her over. “You’re scrawny. I could easily carry you upstairs.”

Carry her upstairs?

Fantasy was one thing, reality was something else altogether. “I’m not an invalid,” she grumbled and grabbed the banister, hauling herself up one more step. Scrawny? That put her in her place. Why couldn’t he have said thin? Slim? Slender? All those were positive, alluring, sexy. Scrawny, on the other hand, was not sexy. It conjured up images of famine victims or stray cats, and she wasn’t quite that far gone. Yet.

So that was it. He liked his women voluptuous. No wonder she hadn’t received any of those sexy smiles. “I can make it,” she grumbled, and conquered another step, just to show him.

“At least let me carry your briefcase for you. It looks heavy.”

“Okay. Thanks,” she added grudgingly, as she handed him her black leather briefcase. It had been brand-new when she started at the firm, but it wasn’t surprising that it was already showing signs of wear. “Be careful, though. The weight of the world is in there.”

It did indeed feel like the weight of the world was in her briefcase. She wasn’t quite sure how a rookie like herself ended up assigned to all the difficult custody cases the firm handled, but they were interfering with her sleep and her peace of mind, and she badly needed both. In many cases, these were no-win situations, with the children as the biggest victims.

Sometimes she really hated her dream job.

Justin took her briefcase, and for a second, she actually felt better. Step by step, she made it to the second floor, with Justin following quietly. Fatigue returned with a vengeance then, and she slid down to sit on the top step, desperate for just a few minutes to gather her strength. She rested her head on her knees and groaned, embarrassed to be showing such weakness in front of Justin. But she really was running on empty. “I’ll just rest for a minute, Justin. If you go on up ahead and leave the briefcase by my front door, that’ll be great.”

A curse exploded out of Justin’s mouth. He leaned over her, dumped the briefcase in her arms and scooped her up. She opened her mouth to protest and stiffened in an effort to get out of his arms, but he had carried her the rest of the way before she could even get a word out. “Yes, definitely scrawny,” he repeated under his breath. “You weigh next to nothing. No wonder you have no energy.”

Laura would have protested, but she couldn’t. Mostly because the body contact jolted all air out of her, and replaced it with liquid fire at being pressed against him. He smelled far, far too good.

Starvation did funny things to your body chemistry.

“Keys,” he barked, as he was standing at her front door, not even breathing hard from the exertion. He wasn’t looking like he would be putting her down any time soon, either. “What are you trying to do to yourself, Laura? You have to know your own limits or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Mr. Protective, wasn’t he? Should she be calling him Mr. Mom? “Let me down,” she mumbled into his neck. Later, she’d be indignant over his interference. Right now, she was too busy being mortified over the surge of lust that had assailed her as soon as he’d taken her into his arms. The things exhaustion and hunger did to your brain. Short-circuited all the sensible centers and made you lust after men you had no business—or time—to lust after.

He was warm. Solid. Still smelled of leather, even though he wasn’t wearing his jacket anymore. What she really wanted to do was to put her arms around his neck and cuddle closer, preferably fall asleep right there, and then, when she woke up, things could get interesting.

There was no denying it. Her latent crush on her neighbor, almost forgotten in the hectic first months of her new job, had resurfaced in full force.

“Well?” Justin asked impatiently.

She surfaced from her rumination to realize he still hadn’t put her down. She squirmed a bit, but stopped since it just reminded her tired body of where it was and with whom. “Justin, let me down. My keys are in the briefcase, I need to get them out.”

A sense of loss ambushed her when he did as she asked, dropped her to her feet and stepped away. She cursed herself as she got her keys from the briefcase. Home, sweet home, just inches away. She should be thinking of the comfort of her home, not the comfort of Justin’s arms. She should be thinking of sliding under the covers of her bed—alone.

As the key finally slid into the lock—it only took four attempts—she looked up at him and tried for a smile. She was too tired for a confrontation over his bossy behavior. And he’d meant well, probably. Actually, she realized, he hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t his fault there was a voice screaming inside her head, telling her to grab the front of his shirt and yank him inside with her. “Thanks for your help, Justin. I would have made it up here by myself eventually, but thanks, anyway.”

He grabbed her arm, preventing her from entering her apartment. “Is there someone you can call? Someone to stay with you? You don’t seem to be in any condition to be alone right now.”

“I’ll be fine. Really, there’s no need to worry about me. Thanks.” She slipped her arm from his grasp and escaped inside, shutting the door behind her. The briefcase fell forgotten to the floor as she leaned against the door, eyes closed. After a moment she heard Justin’s footsteps retreat, and then the sound of his own door closing.

She contemplated just dropping down on the floor for a nap instead of trying anything more ambitious tonight. The instruments of torture known as high-heeled shoes continued to squeeze her feet, and her shirt stuck to her back. She needed a shower, a change of clothes, food and sleep, in that order, but right now, a weekend spent curled up right there on tiles that hadn’t seen soap and water in too many weeks didn’t sound too bad.

Two seconds later adrenaline flooded her system, abolishing the exhaustion as surely as a whole weekend of sleep.

There was someone inside her apartment.

Laura snatched the briefcase up off the floor and held it in front of her as a shiny leather shield, standing immobile in a defensive posture as she stared in the direction of the sound.

The noise had come from her bedroom. Heart racing, she tiptoed closer—no mean feat in those shoes—and stuck her head out into the open space between the living room, the bedroom and the entrance. She couldn’t see anything. The bedroom door was half-closed.

She held herself still, trying to think despite the panic. Had she left that door half-closed this morning? Her head started to hurt as she tried to dig up details of the hectic morning. She couldn’t remember. Barely breathing, she looked in the other direction, toward the living room. Nothing out of the ordinary there. Nothing seemed to have been taken.

But she’d definitely heard something.

She couldn’t hear anything now, but that might be due to the blood pounding in her ears, a combination of fear and rage, bludgeoning its way through the numbing exhaustion. She was a private person; the thought of someone entering her home without permission, rummaging through her belongings, was abhorrent, more horrible than the thought of them actually stealing her few valuables.

Fear and rage battled for a few moments, and fear won. It made no sense to confront the burglars. She should escape while she could, call the police from a neighbor’s apartment, and let them deal with it, even if it meant that the thugs would have time to get away. There was no other choice. Under normal circumstances she wouldn’t stand a chance of overpowering a man on her own, and in her current condition, probably not even if he actively cooperated.

Still clutching her leather shield, Laura had almost backed all the way out the front door, when she heard the low sound coming from her bedroom a second time. She paused, listening hard. The noise was difficult to define. It wasn’t anything breaking, not a grunt from someone trying to lift her computer out of the window, not a voice, not even footsteps. Just a…sound.

She hesitated, remembering the last time she’d thought there was a burglar in the place. She’d shot out of there and attacked Justin’s door screaming until he had opened it, then wrapped herself around him, trembling and stuttering, overcome with terror. At the time he’d just moved in next door, and as first impressions went, this one must have been…unique.

He’d been nice, she grudgingly admitted. Patronizing, yes, but helpful and polite. He’d managed to disentangle her from his body with the lure of offering her a calming cup of coffee, and after he’d finally managed to decode her incoherent stutters, he’d led her to the phone. He’d even pushed the buttons for her when her fingers shook too hard to press 9-1-1. Of course, as a typical male, he’d wanted to check out the situation himself, but she’d grabbed hold of him again and refused to let him leave.

The police had arrived, although they took long enough for her to get comfortably stuck in the role of “hysterical female” in the eyes of her new neighbor. The policemen had entered the apartment, badges gleaming, guns at ready, machismo in motion, and after a brief search removed the offender. Uncuffed.

The villain turned out to be a gorgeous white kitten with a nametag that said Angel, still washing her face as she rested snug in the arms of the policeman, purring her catty little heart out. The damage was minimal: she’d dug Laura’s leftover tuna sandwich out of the garbage and had a little feast on the kitchen floor. Nothing a mop wouldn’t fix. And nothing seemed to be missing, the two policemen had informed her with identical smirks on their faces, and added that they’d be sure to book and pawprint the perpetrator before returning her to her family.

Justin, leaning against his doorjamb with arms crossed on his chest as he watched the show, seemed to enjoy this part of the action. He’d shared a knowing grin with the cops. None of them actually said it out loud, but Laura could almost hear them mutter “women” in a tone that should have gone out with black and white television.