One Secret Night, One Secret Baby(9)

Evenings were her best time of day lately, so she was pretty sure that she could pull off seeing him without doing a sprint to the bathroom. “I’m feeling much better, Dylan. There’s no need for you to be here. Gosh, you must have better things to do on a Friday night.”

He smiled her way, that megawatt lady-killer smile that either slowed breathing or caused it to race. Right now, her breath caught in her throat and she reminded herself to breathe. He was just a man.

And the father of your baby.

“Nope, no plans. And since I’m already here, I was hoping not to eat alone tonight. Come back to the house with me. Maisey’s made an amazing meal. We can eat on the patio. It’s a gorgeous night.”

God, getting some fresh Moonlight Beach air did sound appealing. She’d been stuck in her house for eons, it seemed.

Her hesitation wasn’t lost on him. He eyed her carefully, taking a quick toll of her state of health. She didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the gesture although she knew he was here solely at Brooke’s bidding.

“Brooke says you haven’t been eating. You need a good meal, Em.”

She did, and her traitorous stomach growled quietly, but he didn’t appear to notice, thank goodness. “I don’t know.”

“You want to. Come for an hour or two.”

It was hard to refuse, with the look in those beautifully clear sky-blue eyes. When aimed at her, she usually succumbed. It had always been that way. What could she say? She, like a zillion other adoring fans, had it bad for Dylan McKay. And she knew darn well, he wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Brooke’s nagging. She wouldn’t get off his case if he didn’t succeed in making sure Emma was well cared for tonight.

Why had Brooke put her in this position? As sweet as it was, she wasn’t anyone’s charity case. She hadn’t been for a long time, and she wasn’t ever going back there. She’d learned to fend for herself since her foster care days and didn’t want to be thought of as an obligation in order to ease anyone’s conscience. She had a mind to refuse him flat, but those bone-melting eyes kept a vigil on her and a look of hope spread across his face.

“Well, maybe just for a little while, but only to get you off the hook with Brooke.”

Gesturing in his own defense, he turned his palms up. “I don’t know what you mean. This was my idea.”

She snorted. “And the sun doesn’t shine in LA.”

Glancing out the window at the dimming skies, he grinned. “It isn’t at the moment.”

Okay, she could share a meal with him. She didn’t have to tell him the truth. Not yet. She wasn’t ready for that, and this way, he’d report back to Brooke that all was well and she’d have the rest of the weekend in peace. “I’ll get my jacket, then.”

He nodded, looking ridiculously satisfied.

A few minutes later, they were barreling down Pacific Coast Highway in his licorice-black SUV, the windows down and warm spring breezes lifting her hair. Dylan, recently cleared to drive again, was concentrating on the road, and she took a second to gaze at his profile. He had classic good looks: a solid jawline, a strong chin, a nose that was just sharp enough to suit his face and eyes the color of Hawaiian waters, deep blue with a hint of turquoise. His hair was streaked by the sun, a little long right now so that it swept over his ears. Most times he wore it combed back away from his face, but there were these locks that always loosened from the pack to dip onto his forehead that drove her crazy.

Would their child have his hair? His eyes?

Or would the baby look more like her? Green-eyed with dark cranberry tresses?

Her stomach squeezed tight thinking of the secret life inside her, growing and thriving despite her frequent bouts of nausea. She really did need a nourishing meal and Maisey’s cooking was too good to turn down.

“Here we are.” Dylan pulled into the gated circular driveway of his beach home. There were times she couldn’t believe this was all his. He’d grown up in a normal American household, the son of a high school principal and a civil engineer. Dylan’s dad had died one year before he was due to retire, but Markus McKay had lived a full and happy life. The love he’d had for his wife and family, the life they’d led filled with generosity and kindness, had restored Emma’s faith in mankind.

Once he parked in the multicar garage on the property, Dylan made an attempt to wind around the car to open the door for her, but she was too quick. She stepped out on her own, ignoring how his smile faded as she strode past him toward the service door that led into his house. “Hey, Sparky, wait up,” he said, coming to stand beside her.

He unlocked the door and opened it for her. She took a step to enter, just as his arm shot out, blocking her way in. Suddenly, surprisingly, she was trapped between his body and the door. Trapped by the compelling scent of him. Several beats ticked away and then she lifted her lids and locked onto his gaze.

“Do me a favor,” he said softly, the fingers of his free hand coming to rest under her chin. His innocent touch kicked her senses into high gear. He didn’t wait for her answer, but continued, “Don’t pretend you’re completely recovered just to prove a point. I see how tired you are. Your face is pale, and you’ve obviously lost weight.”

He’d hit the nail on the head. The shudder that erupted inside probably wasn’t visible on the outside, but boy, oh boy, how it rattled her all the way down to her toes. His noticing her body was shock enough, but noticing how bad she looked brought new meaning to her humiliation. What next? Would he point out her warts and moles, too?

“I’ve been around the theatre long enough to know an act when I see one. All I’m asking is for you to relax tonight, eat a delicious dinner and have a good time. You don’t have to pretend with me. Just be yourself.”

As he lowered his arm allowing her to pass, Emma blurted, “Yes, Dr. Dylan. Will do.” All she needed now to accompany the nod she gave him was a military salute.

His eyebrows lifted at her sarcasm. “Your mouth...sometimes I want to—” And then he leaned in before she could grasp his intention and brushed a soft kiss to her lips.

She gasped, raking in air, but quickly recovered. “Shut me up?”

He shook his head, chuckling. “That’s one way to put it. But I was thinking of it more as a way to sweeten the sass blistering your tongue.”

Well, he’d shut her up and sweetened her mouth with one tiny kiss. Dylan could get away with things like that. He’d been gifted with an accommodating good nature that charmed any woman in his path. She’d seen it over and over again. His reputation with the ladies had been mulled over, talked about and dissected by the media. Magazine covers, television interviews and social media platforms had him figured out. He wasn’t one to be tied down, but he’d gotten away with it with the press, because he never infringed. He’d been crowned a one-woman kind of man, and the woman he was currently dating received all of his attention. A smart move on his behalf, it kept him out of trouble.

And all it had taken was a power outage burdening most of the city one night to shake his very well-protected reputation. Only, he didn’t know that yet.

Oh, boy, when Emma did things, she did them all the way.

* * *

The minute they entered his luxurious home, Dylan went about opening the massive beveled glass French doors in the living room. Balmy breezes immediately rushed in bringing scents of salty sea air and powdery sands. Emma followed him into the kitchen, where he opened the doors leading to the Italian-stone-and-marble patio deck. Succulents and vines grew vertically up one wall in a landscaping masterpiece Dylan had recently commissioned, adding just the right touch of greenery to the outdoor landing. Patio tables and a cozy set of lounge furniture were strategically placed around a stone fire pit to allow the best views of the Pacific.

“Want to have a seat out here?” he asked. “I’ll heat up the food Maisey left for us and you can soak up some fresh air.”

She’d rather do something with her hands than sit outside. Alone. In the dark. “No, thanks, I’ll help you.”

“Suit yourself. But I can handle it. I give Maisey the weekends off usually.”

“You mean you cook for yourself?”

He smiled as he walked over to the double-door cabinet refrigerator and grabbed a covered dish. “Unless Maisey takes pity on me and leaves me something wonderful like this chicken piccata, I’ve been known to throw a meal together.” He set the dish down and opened the oven door.

“Impressive,” she said.

“I can also wash a dish and toss dirty clothes in the washing machine, too.”

He gestured and she grabbed a casserole dish of rice pilaf from the fridge and handed it to him. Into the oven it went, right next to the chicken. A basket of bread, something garlicky with bits of sun-dried tomatoes, was nestled on the onyx counter next to a tray of homemade chocolate chip cookies. All the combined scents should make her queasy, but she found them actually whetting her appetite. She was hungrier than she’d been in a week. “Such skills. I’m impressed.”

Once the meal was set to reheating, Dylan leaned against the granite island, folding his arms across his torso, and pinned her down with those baby blues. “You’re forgetting how I grew up. Mom and Dad expected us to do everyday chores, just as they did. I washed cars, cooked meals, did laundry, made beds, and good God, I even scrubbed toilets.”