“Change of plans.” He maneuvered her back toward his room, where the door was propped open by the security lock. The blue glare from his laptop screen provided enough light to guide her over to the king-sized bed. As he eased her down, her eyes locked onto the storm outside the window. Lightning streaked across the dark sky. Will crouched in front of her, gently laying a hand against her cheek. “Shhh,” he said, trying to reassure her. “It’s gonna be okay.”
Her stare darted between him and the storm raging on the beach, fear still paralyzing her face as she fingered a cross around her neck. There was no hope for it. Will lay down on the bed and gathered her in his arms, gently stroking her back.
At this point, things got hazy.
He wasn’t sure who kissed who first, but when their lips met, something ignited within them both. She tasted of coffee and smelled of tropical flowers and he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Their clothes melted away, giving Will’s hands and lips access to warm, soft skin. When he entered her that first time, she welcomed him, wrapping her legs around his hips and bringing him to near-perfect ecstasy.
The thunder and lightning were winding down the second time they made love, her fingers and mouth torturing his body before he found his release. The third time he took her, the storm had dissipated outside but continued to rage on between them as the electricity he’d felt in the hallway reached a fevered pitch. Will had never felt such an intense connection with any other woman.
Until she called out another man’s name while climaxing. And then the condom broke.
When he woke the next morning, she was gone, the battered beach the only evidence of the previous night’s storm. Will’s psyche was as ravaged as the shoreline. His mystery lover had checked out of the hotel and disappeared without a word. As it turned out, she might have taken a lot more from him than a little piece of his ego.
Will took a deep breath and grabbed at his tie to loosen the stranglehold it had around his neck. He needed air. Roscoe and Hank were standing when Will turned to join them.
“You can’t leave!” Mr. Clem threw his body in front of the double doors. “That boy needs you!”
Will felt his chest constrict. A son. I might have a son.
“Mr. Clem.” Roscoe’s voice sounded miles away as the world spun around Will. “We’re not acknowledging anything without a paternity test.”
“We don’t have time for that!” Mr. Clem slammed his fist against the door as his face turned scarlet.
The senator slapped both hands on the table in frustration. “She doesn’t want you to acknowledge the baby! She doesn’t want a red cent from you. You never even have to see him.”
Rage swarmed through Will as he rocked back on his heels. What the hell was going on? Who was this woman? If the boy was his, there was no way Will wasn’t going to acknowledge him! Much less be a part of his life. A very big part.
Hank stepped in front of the senator, getting right in his face. “I’m going to ask you this one more time, Senator. What kind of game are you playing?”
“It’s not a game. My sister never wanted Will to know about him. Her plan was to raise him herself. In Italy. But things have changed. Julianne needs your help.” The senator’s voice sounded like a plea.
Will barely heard Mr. Clem over the roaring in his ears. “She doesn’t want your money!” The man practically wailed. “She wants your blood!”
Two
The monitors in the neonatal ICU beeped incessantly. Their sound, combined with little sleep and even less food, worked to numb Julianne Marchione into a zombielike state. She tried to refocus her thoughts and concentrate on the words her business manager, Sebastian Flanders, was saying, but her mind kept wandering to the incubator containing her four-week-old son, Owen. Her arms ached to hold him, but the disease poisoning his blood kept her baby confined to the NICU, tubes and wires marring his tiny arms and legs.
“Jules, sweetheart.” Sebastian’s British accent permeated the thick fog that surrounded her brain. “You don’t have to do this right now. You shouldn’t be making such rash decisions in the state you’re in, love.”
She gave her head a little shake and gazed over at the man across from her. The handsome black Englishman with the laughing coffee eyes had put as much blood, sweat, and tears into her career these past ten years as she had. His eyes weren’t laughing today, though. They were fearful and apprehensive. Worst of all, Julianne saw pity reflected there.
They were seated at a round table in one of the private vestibules Children’s Hospital provided for the families of its NICU patients. The small, windowless area was not quite a room; a curtained partition made up the fourth wall. Aside from the table and four chairs, the only other furniture was a sofa, too small and too hard to sleep on, and a television. She found it hard to conceive that anyone could watch TV while their child was so ill.