The Baby Project, page 10
“I don’t want to hurt you again. But God help me, I can’t stay away.”
“I want you, too,” she said, her voice cracking.
Relief burst through him at her words, and he kissed her again. She clung to him, wrapped herself around him, ran her hands frantically up and down his back. He feared they were going to make love right on the porch, in plain sight of Mrs. Patterson across the street.
As if in response, her porch light flicked on and her dog barked as she let him out into the yard for his last nighttime prowl.
“Come in,” Liz said, dragging her lips away from his. She dug in her purse for the key, fumbling, until she found it.
“Let me,” he said, taking the key from her and fitting it in the door, sneaking one more quick kiss.
The door opened. They stood in the shadows in the little entryway between her kitchen and living room. Moonlight spilled through the windows, illuminating the room in whitish-blue light.
Gizmo uncurled himself from his bed next to the La-Z-Boy, his tags clinking as he shook himself awake and stumbled out into the kitchen.
Liz petted her dog, who basked unashamedly in the pleasure of her touch. Lucky bastard, to have the assurance of all that every bloody day of his life.
“Does he need to go out?” Grant asked. “I can—”
“He’ll be fine for a little while,” she said as she reached up and tugged him closer by the shirt. “No thinking, no more talking,” She planted her soft lips on his, slid her tongue against his, and started undoing his buttons.
He had to have her. Nothing else mattered, not the fact that he’d soon be gone, or the fact that she might be carrying his child. Nothing short of the house being on damn fire could stop him from worshiping every inch of her amazing body.
He unzipped her pretty sundress until it fell away, the sweet curves of her breasts hidden behind the lacy cups of her bra. He ran his hands along them until her nipples tightened through the lace and she let out a soft sigh that drove him wild.
Her hands roved under his shirt, over the hills and valleys of his chest. With great difficulty, he struggled out of his shirt and tossed it to the floor. It felt so damn good to have her touch him, feel her hands all over him.
She stood there, the creamy skin of her cleavage spilling over the lace of her bra, her hair wild around her face, the moonlight streaming in through the old windows, lighting her in otherworldly light. She stepped out of her dress and tossed it on top of his shirt.
“Dear God, you’re gorgeous,” he said, unable to stop staring at her.
“Grant, I’m dying here. It’s not like we haven’t done this before.”
“It—it’s different this time.” And he didn’t want to screw it up.
He took a step forward and in one smooth motion, scooped her up, over his shoulder.
“Oh my God, what are you doing?” she said, her voice a little muffled from hanging upside down. She beat on his back with her fists.
“Taking you to bed,” he said. “Like I should have from day one.”
Just as he took a step toward the bedroom, her beeper went off in vibrate mode against the wooden floor, buzzing loudly from somewhere among their clothes and shoes.
“Just wanted you to know,” he said, “I’ve every intention of ignoring that.”
“I—I can’t. On call.”
“But you said you’re off all weekend.”
“I’m covering tonight for Paula.”
Cursing, he reluctantly set her down. She riffled through the clothes looking for the phone while he admired her gorgeous ass covered only by a slip of lacy panty. He ground his teeth to stop himself from sliding his hands underneath the bra and gathering her soft, lush breasts in his hands.
“How many centimeters is she?” Liz said into the phone, and his stomach fell. Someone was in labor. But labor took a long time, didn’t it? Maybe it was early, and there would still be plenty of time…
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she said. “Call anesthesia for the epidural.”
Oh hell. Grant struggled to bring his breathing back to normal, not to mention his uncomfortably hard dick.
“I have to go,” she said as she disconnected the call. “I probably won’t be back before three.”
He blew out a breath, raked his hands through his already mussed hair. Then, because he didn’t want her to think he was angry, tossed her a grin.
“Duty calls,” he said. He understood that. How many times had he left for an assignment on a few minutes’ notice?
“I’m sorry,” she said.
In response, he pulled her into his arms. She rested her cheek against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. For a long moment, they stood like that, the only noise the rustling of the dog in his bed.
“Maybe this is fate telling us to come to our senses,” she said after a while, trying to pull back.
He held her close. “No,” he said. All he could think was how right this felt, having her here, in his arms. How he’d missed holding her. And how this time he was not going to let her get away.
…
In Washington, Grant had been awaiting the summons to meet with his network boss, Pierce Leonard, all week. The man had kept him on the edge of his seat waiting.
He hoped he was going to hear good news about the end of his exile, that the network had worked it out with the Kenyan government and he’d be allowed back in the country to continue reporting.
He’d tried numerous times to get the answer out of Pierce about when he was to be sent back overseas, but Pierce would only say he was working on things and would have a definitive answer on Friday. So Grant endured endless meetings, strategy sessions, and debriefings and met with the network’s international lawyers about the Kenya situation.
Pierce Leonard was a powerful man. He could move mountains, Grant had no doubt. Plus, he understood Grant’s burning desire to win a Pulitzer, because he wanted to win one just as much, if not more.
He’d been Grant’s father’s boss, too. Arthur Wilbanks had been Pierce’s great protégé and like a son to him. Arthur’s death in the line of duty had been a shock to the network and to Pierce. Pierce had understood Grant’s desire to follow in his father’s footsteps, understood his desire to win the elusive prize that his father never did. In fact, he’d vowed to do anything in his power to help Grant make that happen. Hence, Pierce usually pulled every string to get Grant into places where the news was happening, no matter how dangerous those places were.
Funny, though, as Grant walked down the treelined DC streets, he didn’t feel the familiar anticipation in his blood. Didn’t feel his usual craving for the action, the danger. Rather, he kept thinking of the little neighborhood he’d just left, the projects he’d started at Dottie’s house, and, above all, the woman who dominated all his thoughts from the moment he’d arrived there just a few weeks ago.
He’d vowed never to let anything distract his quest to bring his father the honor he deserved. To capture the elusive prize, as if that would somehow prove to himself that he was worthy of being his father’s son. He understood only too well the sacrifices he’d had to make to do his job. It required all his focus and dedication, and that meant maintaining relationships with women was damn near impossible.
Not only had he accepted that, but before now it had been a relief. After his parents had died, he’d come to understand that love hurt more than anything. In his book, that had never been worth the risk.
Until now.
When Grant finally reached his boss’s elegant wood-paneled office on Connecticut Avenue, the sense of foreboding in his stomach had grown from raisin- to cantaloupe-sized. Pierce had probably made all the arrangements to send him back to Kenya. He’d promised Grant he would expedite the opportunity as fast as he could, as the situation there had the makings of a huge story: government instability, violence, drought, and the threatened closure of an enormous refugee camp the size of a city.
Then what was his problem?
He took out his phone. No texts from Liz, and today was the day. It was already three o’clock. Why wasn’t she texting him?
“It’s about time you got here, Wilbanks,” the older man said through his open door as soon as Grant reached his outer office and said hello to his longtime secretary, a gray-haired woman named Louise, who still made the mistake of calling him by his father’s name.
As Grant reached Pierce’s inner sanctum, he was reminded yet again why he was secretly called The Lion. From his hard, boxy face and thick, gray hair he wore combed back from a strong widow’s peak, to his sturdy, athletic build, he was physically intimidating as well as one of the most powerful men in the business.
He’d always pushed Grant hard. Somehow, Grant never felt Pierce liked him quite as much as he’d liked his father. The only thing he appreciated was Grant’s fearlessness. He smelled Pulitzer in that fearlessness.
Grant approached Pierce’s intricately carved antique desk with ivory handles that Grant’s father had brought back from Africa. Pierce had wanted Grant to bring him elephant tusks and rhino horns, too, but he’d refused. Now Pierce sat behind the gaudy desk, vigorously typing on his computer.
“Nice to see you, too,” Grant said. The man kept typing, the only sign of acknowledgement one thick, raised brow.
“Tell me how your exile’s coming,” Pierce said, drawing a cigar out of his drawer and finally looking up. “Want a Cuban?”
“I thought those were illegal.”
“Not anymore.”
“Scotch?”
“It’s ten thirty in the morning.”
“And your point is?”
“I’ll pass, thanks,” Grant said, not bothering to sit. “The assignment’s coming along.” Not as well as he would’ve liked, but he’d been under deadline pressure before. He would pull this off, as he always did. He couldn’t help glancing yet again at his phone. Surely Liz would’ve found out by now. Why wasn’t she texting him?
“Hope you’re finding lots of fodder for a story,” Pierce said. “Economic depression, jobs migrating overseas, mom-and-pop businesses going under, Walmartization. Pay your penance so I can get you back in the hot zone as soon as possible.”
“Right, right.” He tried not to sound less than enthused.
“By the way, I have good news for you.”
Oh, here it came. His summons back to action, back to his old life. He braced himself. The dull burn in his belly grew to three-alarm-chili size.
“The Kenyan government is still angry about your little ‘incident.’ And because of that, their next-door neighbor Somalia is, too. But I have a friend who’s agreed to accompany you.” He passed over a document containing a passport-size photo. “His name is Hector. He’ll protect you.”
“A mercenary? You’ve hired a mercenary to get me into Somalia? But I know Kenya like the back of my hand. We couldn’t resolve the dispute? For God’s sake, Pierce, all I did was get a kid to a doctor.”
“You transported a family illegally across the border and the government doesn’t forget stuff like that. Trust me, there’s better stuff going on in Somalia.”
That’s for sure. It was a known haven for terrorist groups. Journalists weren’t treated well there. In fact, a group had been “detained indefinitely” just last month. In other words, put in prison. Oh, and there was a civil war raging. The three-alarm warning bumped up to four.
“The perfect storm is brewing, and our network plans to get the story before anyone else. That’s why we need you to do what you do best. Your famous face in front of the cameras, telling the world about humanitarian crisis, political upheaval, and impending drought.”
Grant was always up for a challenge. Danger usually didn’t faze him, if the risks were taken for good reason. He’d reported on earthquakes, mudslides, tsunamis. But the work he’d done in Kenya—bringing awareness to government corruption and the plight of the people—that’s what he needed to continue. He didn’t want to go into the middle of a damn bloodbath for thrills. To beat out the other networks for a story.
“Don’t worry,” Pierce said, studying his face. “That’s why we have Hector. Just stay away from the border. If the Kenyans find you, they won’t be happy.”
“When do I leave?” he asked.
“We’re waiting for the story—and we’ll be the first ones to get it, because so many networks are refusing to send their people in there. Once the crisis intensifies, we’re sending you. Write a hell of a story, take some great photos. For now, go back to Podunkville, finish your documentary, and be ready to run at a moment’s notice. That’s it. You can go.”
“It sounds like you’re posing for a story.” For a prize.
“You know as well as I do that you have to play the game to get anywhere in life. We’ve come so far and we’re this close.” He held up his fingers to demonstrate. “All we have to do is play along a little more. This is the chance of a lifetime. Your father would jump at this chance.”
Grant stared into Pierce’s cool, level blue eyes. His heart wasn’t leaping for joy. Why did he get the feeling Pierce would stop at nothing to get a story? Not a story, the story?
“How long do I have—to finish up what I’m doing?” Grant asked.
“I’d guess a month. Just be ready.”
As he left the office, he checked his phone again. No text from Liz. God, at this point he’d take a nasty one.
One month. A reprieve. Better than he’d expected. He brought up Liz’s number to call her. As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a text. One final glance down confirmed the worst: I’m not pregnant.
Chapter Nine
I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Earlier that afternoon, Liz blinked hard, forcing her eyes to focus on the numbers in front of her on the computer screen. Her lab results showed undetectable quantities in her blood of human chorionic gonadotropin—indisputable evidence that she was not pregnant. She bit down on her lip hard enough that she tasted the metallic, bitter taste of blood.
What on earth had possessed her, checking in the middle of the workday? She’d been so excited. So positive and hopeful that she couldn’t wait another second to find out.
Except…the disappointing, crushing result had thrown her off her game.
“Deep breaths, deep breaths,” she whispered, trying to pull herself together. Trying to tell herself it didn’t matter…that things were better this way, really. Her feelings for Grant were already so complicated, certainly the fact that she was not having his baby should be a huge relief.
Except it wasn’t, for reasons she didn’t fully understand. She told herself this wasn’t about him, not at all, but rather about the fact that her window to be a mother was closing fast, the sand pitching rapidly through the hourglass. She ached to hold a baby in her arms.
Brett burst through her office door and took a good hard look at her face. “Dammit, Liz, why couldn’t you have waited until I called you? You’re a terrible patient.”
She had nothing to say to that. He was right. She had no words, because her throat suddenly clogged up as if there was a giant wad of Kleenex stuck there. All she managed was a shrug.
Brett immediately walked over and wrapped his arms around her. She leaned into him, never so grateful for his presence. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I guess I—I was too excited to wait. I felt so certain it would be good news.”
Liz gave him an anemic smile. “I did everything,” she whispered, blinking back tears. “I took the drugs. We did everything right.” With her science background, she understood the odds. But she’d been so hopeful.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Brett said, rubbing her back. “Really sorry.”
His compassion skewered her. She hated pity, but she was so glad he was here for her. She could only afford a moment of his comfort, though, because duty was calling. It was midafternoon, and the waiting room was packed with patients.
“I should’ve waited,” she said, swiping at her eyes, trying to stand up straight and get it together. “I just felt so sure…”
He walked over to her and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders, looked solidly into her eyes. “Go home,” he said firmly. “It’s three o’clock. I’ll cover you. We’ll tell the patients you’re sick.”
“I can’t do that to you.” Unlike Paula, she didn’t dump her responsibilities on people. Trouble was, tears were leaking out of her eyes, down her cheeks. And she couldn’t seem to stop crying.
“I know you haven’t missed a day of work since we began residency six years ago. But I don’t think you should be seeing patients now. Go home. If not for you, for your patients.”
She looked at Brett, contemplating that carefully. She’d never missed a day of work or school since medical school when she’d gotten some kind of gastrointestinal flu and literally could not work. But Brett was right. She wasn’t thinking straight. She’d be a disaster to her patients right now.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Brett offered to call her sisters, her mother, which she flatly refused. He told her he’d pick her up some dinner. She said no. He said he’d do it anyway.
“Are you okay getting home?” he asked.
“Brett, I can walk home from here. I’m sure I’ll be okay.” She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him again and told him thank you. Then he literally pushed her out the back door.
Home was the last place she wanted to be, but where else could she go? She’d told no one, not her sisters, not her mother. Only Grant. Ironic that the one man she’d confided in was the one who shied away from all relationships.
He’d been there for her in so many ways. Supporting her. Agreeing to this whole crazy thing in the first place without asking for anything in return. Charming her family and bolstering her confidence when all the talk was about babies. And he’d texted her several times today, wondering about her results.
Ten minutes later, she sat on her front steps staring at her little gravel driveway for a long time, rubbing her temples, trying to make sense of her life. Even Gizmo, ever happy to see her, seemed more subdued than usual, running out in the yard to do his business then coming back to settle by her side. When he realized she wasn’t up for throwing the tennis ball he’d found, he dropped it, letting it roll down the steps and not even chasing after it. Then he rested his head on her thigh, looking up at her with big sad eyes.
