“I’m going to see if my house has an attic where I can lock you up, just like men used to do in the old days when they found out they were stuck with a crazy wife.”
“I’ll bet if I were eighteen instead of thirty-four, you wouldn’t be thinking about locking me up. You’d be stuffing me full of bubble gum and showing me off all over town! Now that I know you’re an intelligent man, your attraction to infants seems even more peculiar.”
“I am not attracted to infants!” He turned into the lane that led to the house.
“You certainly don’t seem very confident of your ability to handle a grown woman.”
“I swear, Jane— Damn!” He slammed on the brakes and reached over to push her back down on the seat, but he was too late. His father had already spotted her.
He cursed and reluctantly lowered the window. As he stopped his car well behind the muddy red Blazer, he called out, “What’s up, Dad?”
“What do you think is up? Open this damn gate and let me in!”
Great, he thought with disgust. This was just great, a perfect addition to a miserable day. He punched the button that controlled the gate, nodded at his father, and hit the accelerator, shooting past the Blazer too quickly for the old man to get a good look at Jane.
Those softer feelings he’d been experiencing toward her only moments earlier vanished. He didn’t want her meeting his parents. Period. He hoped it wouldn’t occur to his father to mention any of the activities that had been taking up so much of his time. The less Jane knew about his private life, the better he liked it.
“You follow my lead,” he said. “And whatever you do, don’t let him know you’re pregnant.”
“He’ll find out eventually.”
“We’re going to make it later. A lot later. And take off those damned bifocals!” They reached the house, and Cal hustled her inside before he went back out to greet his father.
Jane heard the door slam and knew he was upset. Good! Mr. Summa cum laude deserved to be upset. Biting her lip, she made her way to the kitchen. When she got there, she pressed her hand over her waist. I’m sorry, little one. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.
She plucked a few shreds of dried leaves out of her messy hair. She should try to straighten herself up before Cal’s father came in, but she couldn’t summon the energy to do more than push her glasses up on her nose while she tried to figure out how she was going to raise a genius.
She heard Cal’s voice. “. . . and since Jane was feeling a lot better today, we went over to see Annie.”
“Seems if she was feelin’ better, you might have driven her into town to meet your parents.”
She dropped her Windbreaker on one of the counter stools and turned to face the men coming into the kitchen.
“Dad, I went over this with you and Mom last night at dinner. I explained . . .”
“Never mind.” Cal’s father stopped as he caught sight of her.
Her mental image of him as a jolly old man with a round belly and fringe of white hair had dissolved the instant she’d caught sight of him at the gate. Now she felt as if she were staring at an older version of Cal.
He was equally imposing—big, handsome, rugged—and he looked exactly right in his red flannel shirt, rumpled slacks, and scuffed leather boots. His thick dark hair, worn longer and shaggier than his son’s, had a few strands of silver, but he appeared to be no older than his early to midfifties, much too young and too good-looking to have a thirty-six-year-old son.
He took his time assessing her, and she didn’t have any difficulty recognizing that straight-on, no-holds-barred gaze as a mirror of his son’s. As she returned his scrutiny, she knew she would have to prove herself worthy. Still, he gave her a warm smile and extended his hand.
“I’m Jim Bonner. Glad we’re finally getting to meet.”
“Jane Darlington.”
His smile disappeared as his eyebrows slammed together. He released her hand. “Most women around here take their husband’s name when they get married.”
“I’m not from around here, and the name is Darlington. I’m also thirty-four years old.”
Behind her back, she heard a choking sound. Jim Bonner laughed. “You don’t say.”
“I certainly do. Thirty-four and getting older by the second.”
“That’s enough, Jane.” The warning note in Cal’s voice advised her not to reveal any more secrets, but he might not have spoken.
“You don’t look sick.”
“I’m not.” She felt something brush her back and realized she’d lost the elastic holding her French braid.