Caroselli's Accidental Heir. Michelle Celmer

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СКАЧАТЬ My roommate moved to Ohio. Not to mention that I don’t have a job.”

      “You’re going to live with me. And as soon as we have time to arrange it, you’re going to marry me.”

      * * *

      If that was Tony’s idea of a marriage proposal, no wonder he was still single.

      How many times had she fantasized about him asking her to marry him? This particular scenario was not at all what she’d had in mind. Technically, he hadn’t even asked. He’d issued an order.

      Could anything be less romantic?

      “Why would I do that?” she asked, giving him the perfect opportunity to redeem himself.

      “I know how against marriage you are,” he said, “and I understand how you feel, but I really believe this is what’s best for the baby.”

      Wrong answer, dude.

      Not only did he drop the ball, he smashed it flat. He didn’t even try to sugarcoat it. He would only be marrying her for the baby’s sake. So much for those sentiments of love she’d been hoping for. Why didn’t he just reach into her chest and rip out her still-beating heart?

      Her mom would have jumped at the opportunity to have a rich and handsome guy take care of her, which is exactly why Lucy couldn’t allow it. Though she couldn’t deny it would be wildly entertaining to see her mom’s expression when she heard the news.

      “That sounds like a really bad idea,” she told him, and the deep furrow between his brows said he disagreed.

      “It’s not,” he said, as if he expected her to just take his word for it.

      “If I marry you, it will confirm what everyone in that house was already thinking. That I got pregnant on purpose to trap you. That I’m looking for a meal ticket.” Just the way her mom had with Lucy’s father. What he had neglected to mention during their brief affair was that he was already married with a family. He had no interest in being a parent to his illegitimate daughter. He’d sent the obligatory monthly check, but when he died three years later, the gravy train—and any hope that he and Lucy might someday meet—died with him.

      Lucy had three siblings she had never even spoken to, and whose lack of contact over the years said they had no interest in meeting their illegitimate half sister. She could only imagine what they must have thought of her. And her mother.

      “I’ll make sure everyone knows that isn’t the case,” Tony said.

      If only it were that simple. “That never works. People are going to believe what they want to believe, regardless of what you tell them.”

      His deepening frown said he was getting frustrated with her. “Why does it even matter what my family thinks?”

      It mattered to her. She loved Tony, and she wanted to be his wife, even knowing the rest of his family would probably never accept her. But not like this. Not because it was convenient. Or good for the baby. She wouldn’t be anyone’s consolation prize. “I can’t marry you.”

      “Sure you can.”

      “No. I really can’t.

      “I want to take care of you.” He took her hand and held it tight. “You and the baby.”

      She pulled her hand free. “Thanks, but I can take care of myself.”

      “If you won’t marry me, would you agree to stay with me? At least until the baby is born?”

      “I can’t.”

      She could tell by his expression that he thought she was being stubborn, and maybe she was a little. But who could blame her? The dynamic was simple. She loved Tony, and he felt obligated. Living together would be painful enough. Marrying him would be downright torture. She could fool herself into believing that his feelings might change, but the reality was if he hadn’t fallen in love with her by now, odds were good he never would. To marry him, even if it was for the baby’s benefit, seemed sad and pathetic. She refused to play the victim.

      Been there, done that, burned the T-shirt.

      Maybe when they were alone at his place he would pull her into his arms and hold her tight, and tell her he was miserable and lonely after she left. Of course he would have a very logical, not to mention romantic, reason for not coming after her.

      And maybe the Pope would convert.

      Tony pulled down his street and found a spot close to his building. She’d been a little shocked the first time he brought her there. Everything about Tony screamed rich and classy. He drove a luxury import, drank the best scotch, owned a closet full of designer brand clothes, yet he lived in a nondescript apartment in an equally nondescript building, in what seemed to her to be one of the most boring streets in the entire city of Chicago. But as he had logically put it, why spend a lot of money on a place when he was hardly ever there?

      Normally he would have held her hand as they walked into the building and got in the elevator. Often he even got frisky during the ride up, but this time he didn’t touch her. She was both relieved and disappointed.

      After a history of nomadic tendencies, Lucy had learned to never attach deep personal feelings to places, but when Tony unlocked the door and she stepped inside his apartment, she got a lump in her throat. She had so many good memories of the time they’d spent here together. At some point in their relationship his place had begun to feel like a second home to her, and she had fooled herself into thinking he might actually want her there with him.

      Shame on her for forgetting who she really was.

      Tony shut the door behind them and when he touched her shoulder her heart stopped. But then she realized that he was only helping her with her jacket, which he tossed over the back of the sofa. His suit jacket landed on top of it, and his tie on top of that. “Would you like something to drink? I have juice and diet soda. Or I could make tea.”

      “Just water,” she said. There were newspapers strewn across the coffee table and a blue silk tie draped over the back of the leather chair. Guy furniture. The apartment was full of it. Leather, metal and glass. Bare wood floors. She would have thought that something might have changed in the four months she’d been gone, but everything looked exactly the same. And she saw no evidence of a woman staying there.

      “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the sofa, more an order than a suggestion. He was working up to something, she could feel it. For every second he didn’t speak, her nerves wound tighter as her hopes for a civilized solution faded. Responding to her tension, the baby was doing circus acrobatics deep in her womb.

      The galley-style kitchen was separated from the living space by a wall, but she could hear him rattling around in the fridge. He reappeared a second later with a bottled water for her and a beer for himself, and though she’d assumed he would sit in the chair opposite her, he sat down beside her on the sofa instead.

      The urge to touch him, to scoot closer and lean into him—to knock him onto his back and climb all over him—was as strong as ever. She longed for him to take her into his arms and hold her, promise her that everything would be okay. Make love to her until the last four months no longer mattered.

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