Her Little Secret, His Hidden Heir(20)

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.