About That Night by Beth Andrews Page B

assume that you’re trying to tell me I’m the father?”
    She raised her eyebrows. She wasn’t crazy about his snotty tone—and she preferred the term sperm donor over father—but he’d had a shock, so she’d give him a break. Never let it be said she couldn’t be reasonable and tolerant.
    At least once.
    “No,” she said, her tone all sorts of dry, “I internet stalked you, flew to Houston and talked my way into your apartment because I thought you might want to buy me a baby gift. I’ll leave you a list of where I’m registered.”
    His jaw went rigid. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”
    She snorted. “Please. That was such a stupid question it practically begged for sarcasm.”
    His cool gaze went to her stomach then back to her face. “You’re lying.”
    The man was really testing her limits. “We don’t know each other all that well, so I’m going to let that slide.”
    “Know each other that well ?” he asked with a harsh laugh. “Lady, I don’t even know your last name.”
    She nodded slowly. Pressed her lips together because her stomach was roiling again. “Fair enough. Let me fill you in on what you need to know. My name is Ivy Rutherford, and I’m twenty-six years old. I don’t lie, cheat or steal, and I’m not big on second chances.” She swallowed, but the sick taste in the back of her throat remained. “Something you might want to keep in mind before you speak again. I’m also seventeen weeks pregnant.”
    She turned to the side and smoothed the loose material of her dress over her stomach. She hadn’t shown at all during the first trimester, but at week sixteen, as if overnight, a noticeable baby bump had appeared.
    “Satisfied?” she asked, letting her hands fall back to her sides.
    He didn’t look satisfied. Or scared, which had been her reaction when that stick she’d peed on two months ago had flashed a positive sign. No, the only word she could find to describe the expression on Clinton Bartasavich Jr.’s face was furious .
    And she was alone with him. Maybe she should have chosen a public place to tell him, instead of ambushing him in his apartment—if you could call what had to be over three thousand square feet of bright, open rooms, million-dollar views and the highest of high-end furnishings, counters, floors and appliances an apartment . She’d been half-afraid to even sit on that fancy couch.
    “We used protection,” he said, his lips barely moving. “That night.”
    “Yes. I realize what you’re referring to. Unfortunately, my eleventh-grade health teacher was right and the only foolproof way to prevent pregnancy is abstinence. We’re in the small percentage of cases in which condoms are ineffective. Looks as if you have some sort of supersperm. You must be very proud.”
    “I don’t believe you,” he said as evenly as if they were discussing what to have for lunch.
    Bile rose in her throat. Okay, no thinking about food, not even in general terms. “You think I have a pillow in here?” she asked, indicating her stomach.
    “I don’t believe I’m the father.”
    “Why would I lie?”
    He sent her a bland look, and she replayed her words in her head. Winced. Guess he wasn’t the only one who could ask a stupid question.
    He was a Bartasavich. Oh, she’d heard all about Kane Bartasavich’s wealthy family in Houston, but she’d assumed wealthy meant upper-middle class, like Charlotte’s parents. Dr. Ellison was an ophthalmologist, and Mrs. Ellison owned a popular boutique clothing store on Main Street. Regular, well-off folk who lived in a big, tasteful home, tipped generously and vacationed in the Caribbean.
    The Bartasaviches, she’d learned from her internet searches, were the kind of wealthy that defined the word ostentatious , donated millions to charities and politicians, and owned their own island retreat, a little place to escape the stresses of being richer than God and as beautiful as the angels above.
    And she had to go and sleep