“He’s gonna be smilin’ tomorrow,” Melvin chuckled.
“Come on, boys. It’s party time!”
Junior pushed her forward, and as she tottered across the limestone floor on her ridiculously high heels, they all started to sing. Happy birthday to you, Happy birthday to you . . .
Dry-mouthed and terrified, she reached the end of the foyer. On her next step, her heels sank into the white carpet. She turned, spotted Cal Bonner, and froze. Even through her narcotic-induced haze, one agonizing fact became completely clear. The television screen had lied.
He stood silhouetted against a wall of windows with nothing behind him but the cold November night. On television she’d seen a country hick with a good body and bad grammar, but the man staring at her from the other side of the room had nothing of the hick about him. She had chosen a warrior.
He cocked his head to the side and studied her. His gaze was cold and grim, and it sent frightening impressions running through her head.
Gray eyes so pale they were almost silver. Eyes that knew no mercy.
Crisp brown hair whose tendency to curl hadn’t quite been tamed by a no-nonsense cut. A man who made his own rules and answered to no one.
Hard muscle and sinewy strength. A physical animal.
Brutal cheekbones and a ruthless jaw. No softness there. Not even a speck of the gentler emotions. This man was a conqueror, designed by nature to make war.
A chill traveled along her spine. She knew without question that he would be ruthless with anyone he decided was his enemy. Except she wasn’t his enemy, she reminded herself. He’d never know what she had planned for him. Besides, warriors didn’t care about things like illegitimate offspring. Babies were a natural consequence of rape and pillage and not to be given a second thought.
Rough hands, accompanied by raucous male laughter, pushed her toward the man she had chosen to be the father of her child.
“Here’s your birthday present, Cal.”
“From us to you.”
“Happy birthday, buddy. We cared enough to send the very best.”
One final shove pitched her against him. She bumped into a muscular chest. A strong arm encircled her before she could fall, and she caught a faint whiff of scotch. She tried to pull away, but he hadn’t yet made up his mind to release her, so that proved impossible.
Her sudden helplessness was frightening. He stood nearly a head taller than she, and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on his lean, conditioned body. She had to force herself not to struggle to get free because she knew he would crush her if he sensed her weakness.
An image flashed through her mind, of her body naked beneath his, and she immediately pushed it away. If she thought about that part of it, she wouldn’t have a prayer of pulling this off.
His cupped hand slid up her arm. “Well, now, I don’t think I ever got a birthday present quite like this one. You guys got more tricks up your sleeve than a deer’s got ticks.”
The sound of that deep, country drawl immediately steadied her. He might have the body of a warrior, but he was only a football player, and not a very intelligent one at that. The knowledge of her own superior brainpower gave her enough confidence to look up into those pale eyes as he slowly released the grip that held her captive.
“Happy birthday, Mr. Bonner.” She had intended her voice to sound sultry, but instead it sounded professorial, as if she were greeting a student who’d slipped into class late.
“He’s Cal,” Junior said. “It’s short for Calvin, but I’d advise you not to call him that because it pisses him off big time, and making the Bomber mad isn’t something I’d recommend. Cal, this is Rose. Rose Bud.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You guys brought me a stripper?”
“That’s exactly what I thought, but she’s not. She’s a hooker.”
Distaste flickered across his expression, then disappeared. “Well, now, I thank y’all a whole lot for thinkin’ about me, but I’m gonna have to pass.”
“You can’t do that, Cal,” Junior protested. “We all know how you feel about hookers, but Rose, here, ain’t your ordinary street corner whore. Hell, no. She’s a real classy whore. Her family came over on the Mayflower or something. Tell him, Rose.”
She was so busy trying to absorb the fact that she—Dr. Jane Darlington, a respected physicist with only one lover in her past—was being called a whore that it took her a moment to muster a haughty response. “A Bud served with Miles Standish.”
Chris glanced toward Melvin. “I know him. Didn’t he play for the Bears back in the eighties?”
Melvin laughed. “Damn, Chris, did you spend any time in the classroom while you were in college?”