Small red clutch in hand, she shot him another withering glare before spinning on her heel and marching toward the hotel room door.
"Vanessa."
Her free hand was out, reaching for the knob, but his sharp voice stopped her in her tracks. She didn't turn to look at him, but remained still, waiting for him to continue.
"I'll see you at the bakery first thing tomorrow, eight o'clock sharp. Be sure Danny is with you."
A shudder rolled through her, and she wasn't sure if it was aversion to having to deal with him again in the morning or relief that that was his only parting remark.
With a jerky nod, she pulled the door open and started to step into the hall.
"And I'll want to know as soon as you do," he went on, stopping her a second time.
Her heart lurched in her chest. "Know what?" she asked, forcing the words past her tight, dry throat.
"Whether or not we'll be presenting our son with a little brother or sister nine months from now."
Marc wasn't at The Sugar Shack when she and Aunt Helen arrived with Danny in tow at five o'clock the next morning. Vanessa wasn't surprised, since he'd said he would meet her there at eight, and frankly, she could use the short reprieve.
It might only be three hours, but it was three hours without having to see or deal with Marc. And after last night, she needed them. Desperately.
While she and Aunt Helen bustled around readying the bakery for the breakfast opening, she tried her best to put him and the myriad of issues between them out of her mind. Not for the first time … not even for the five hundred and first time … she wondered how she'd managed to get herself into such an incredible mess.
It felt as though her life had turned into some kind of daytime soap opera, and the worst part was that she knew those things were never-ending. They just went on forever, with more and more dramatic cliff-hangers cropping up to throw the main characters into a tizzy.
Well, she didn't need any more tizzies. And she sure as heck didn't need any more drama. If she could have, she'd have canceled her own personal variation of As the World Spins Out of Control.
Unfortunately, those few hours of blessed freedom sped by much too quickly. Before she knew it, Summerville's early risers were filing in for a morning coffee and croissant on their way to work, or to sit and enjoy a more leisurely sticky bun with a cup of hot tea. Even before the clock struck eight o'clock, her eyes were practically glued to the front door, waiting for Marc to arrive.
But the clock did strike eight and he didn't appear. Then it struck ten after, twenty after, quarter to nine, and he was still nowhere in sight.
She should have been relieved, but instead, Vanessa found herself beginning to worry. It wasn't like Marc to be late for anything, especially after making such a production of warning her of where he would be when-and where he fully expected her to be to meet him.
She rang up an order for four coffees and a box of mixed Danish pastries with one eye on the time, trying to decide if she should bask in her apparent-and most likely fleeting-freedom, or call the Harbor Inn to check on him.
By nine-thirty, she'd not only decided to call the hotel, but if he wasn't there, intended to drive over herself to search his room, and call the police, if necessary. But before she could untie her apron and ask Aunt Helen to cover the front counter for her, the bell above the door rang and Marc strolled in, a charming smile on his face.
As hard as she tried not to notice, he looked magnificent. In place of his usual suit and tie, he wore tan slacks and a light blue chambray shirt. The shirt's collar was open, cuffs rolled up to midforearm.
Anyone else might see Marc and think he was just a run-of-the-mill guy, out and about on a beautiful summer day. But Vanessa knew better. If one looked closer, one would notice the solid gold Rolex, the seven-hundred-dollar Ferragamo loafers and the air of absolute power and confidence that surrounded him.
This was Marc's casual appearance, but as wise men knew, appearances could be extremely deceptive.
He walked through the maze of small round tables as though he owned the place, his smile turning more and more predatory the closer he came to the tall glass display case that separated them.
"Good morning," he greeted, sounding much too chipper for her peace of mind.
"Morning," she returned with much less enthusiasm. "You're late. I thought you said you'd be here at eight."
One solid shoulder rose and fell in a casual shrug. "I had some errands to run."
She raised a brow, but didn't ask because she wasn't sure she wanted to know.
"Do you have a minute?" he asked.
She glanced around, judging the number of customers at the tables and the few people who were milling in front of the display case, trying to decide which sweet was most worth ruining their diets.
With a quick nod, she moved toward the kitchen and dipped her head through the swinging double doors. "Aunt Helen, could you work the register for a second? I need to speak with Marc."
Aunt Helen finished what she was doing and came out, wiping her hands on the front of her apron while Vanessa removed hers and hung it on a small hook on the far wall. Her aunt cast Marc a cautious, almost disparaging glance, but held her tongue, thank goodness.
Vanessa hadn't told Aunt Helen what happened with Marc the night before. She'd given a brief recap of dinner, acting as though all they'd discussed was the bakery and a potential business agreement, and that everything had remained very professional. But she hadn't mentioned word one about following him up to his hotel room or letting things get out of control. And she certainly hadn't shared the fact that her hormones had so overwhelmed her common sense that she'd allowed Marc to make love to her without any form of doctor-recommended birth control.
Knowing the whole story would only have increased Aunt Helen's animosity toward Marc. There was a time, not so long ago, when Vanessa welcomed her aunt's protectiveness and having someone to talk to about everything she'd been through both before and during the divorce.
But things had changed now. Not necessarily for the better, but in ways she couldn't avoid. Marc knew about Danny, was determined to be a part of his son's life, and that meant he was going to be a part of hers. For better or worse, she had to find a way to make peace with her ex-husband, if only to keep the next eighteen years of her life from being a living hell.
In order to do that, and also keep the peace with her aunt, she had to avoid bad-mouthing Marc. She probably shouldn't have done so in the first place, but she'd been so hurt, so miserable, that she'd had to talk to someone, and Aunt Helen's had been the perfect shoulder to cry on.
Marc came up behind her, laying a hand gently on her elbow. As soon as she was sure Helen was settled behind the counter, she let him lead her across the bakery and through the shared entrance that led to the empty space next door.
She thought they were simply going to use the area to talk privately, and her stomach was nearly in knots wondering what sort of shoe or bomb or anvil he would drop on her this time. But rather than stopping in the center of the empty space, he kept walking, pulling her with him to the front of the building and the glass door that opened out onto the sidewalk.
"Do you have a key for this?" he asked, pointing to the door's lock.
"Yes. The landlord knows I'm interested in renting the space and occasionally lets me use it for small bits of storage. Plus, I can let other potential renters in if he isn't available."
"Good," he replied, his warm hand still cupping her elbow more intimately than she would have liked. "I'm going to need it."
She blinked. "Why?"
"To let those guys in," he answered, cocking his head in the direction of the glass and the street beyond. "Unless you want them traipsing through your bakery and dragging all their dirty, heavy equipment with them."
Following his gaze, she blinked again, only then noticing that the sidewalk outside the empty storefront was littered with men in jeans and work shirts unloading toolboxes, sawhorses, lumber and various cutting implements from the row of pickup trucks parked at the curb.