Dixie Browning – The Millionaire's Pregnant Bride (страница 5)

Women.

At least she’d stopped crying as suddenly as she’d started. Claimed dust had blown in her eye.

Sure it had.

“World-class coconut pie,” he said, forking up the last bite from his plate. “Want to take a slice home with you—or maybe a whole pie?”

Another thing about her that got to him was her smile. It started with a crinkling of the eyes, tweaked the corners of her lips and then it was gone, almost making a man wonder if he’d only imagined it.

“No, but thank you. I’d better get home before the rain starts again. It doesn’t rain often around here, but once it starts, it can make up for lost time.”

“Weather’s been crazy everywhere these past few years.”

So Will drove her back to the office building and left her at her car. Earlier that morning he’d carried down a box of her personal belongings. A small box. Evidently, she traveled light. He’d found himself wondering what was in it. Her own personal photographs? Family? A boyfriend? He doubted that, under the circumstances.

He hardly knew her, but if he had to guess, he’d say she wasn’t the type of woman to spread her personal relics around for public view.

But then, if he’d had to guess, he would never have pegged her for one of Jack’s conquests, either.

When she started to close her car door, he held it open and leaned down. “You’re sure you’re all right, Diana? You look a little washed out.”

“Thanks,” she said, and shot him another one of her quirky smiles. “Nothing a little blusher won’t take care of, I hope.”

Will watched her as she drove away in an eighties model sedan that was just one of the mysteries about Diana Foster that plagued him. She had a face that could easily be called patrician. A body that was tall, almost too lean, yet definitely, temptingly feminine. She wore outfits that could be bought at any discount store, yet he could easily imagine her striding down a runway wearing one of those slinky, transparent, cut-down-to-here-and-up-to-there outfits designed to raise a man’s blood pressure into the danger zone.

She could do that wearing black polyester slacks, a cotton pullover sweater and a battered twill raincoat.

Watching her drive off, swerving to avoid the deepest puddles, he visualized her mouth. She hadn’t bothered to replace the lipstick she’d eaten off with her chili.

Because she’d forgotten?

Or because he wasn’t worth the bother?

If she had any idea how vulnerable her naked lips looked, she’d have layered it on with a roller.

Vulnerable?

Where the hell had that come from? Tack, his ranch manager would have told him he’d been smoking too much locoweed.

One thing for sure—once the transition at work was completed, he was going to hightail it out to the ranch, spend a couple of weeks working with his stock, and then maybe go fishing. Maybe Baja. Maybe even the Outer Banks. Somewhere where nobody had ever heard of Wescott Oil.

It was still fairly early. Things were moving along faster than she’d expected at the office, thanks to Will Bradford’s efficiency. The rest could probably be accomplished in a few days. Mostly they had worked on weekends, to avoid interference by curious staff members eager to see what changes would be made, not only to the decor but to the operations. Sebastian and his father had never seen eye-to-eye on many things.

Pulling out of the employees’ parking lot, Diana imagined the big mug of cocoa she would have as soon as she got home. Since earliest childhood it had been her favorite comfort food, and, for no reason at all, she felt in sudden need of comfort. Probably this crazy weather. The temperature had dropped since they’d left the diner. A gust of wind sent a plastic bag and a large paper cup, complete with lid and straw, scurrying across the street in front of her car, distracting her from her thoughts momentarily.

This was the kind of weather when she would like nothing better than to curl up with a good book and alternately read and doze for the next twelve hours.

She yawned. Stress again. Too many decisions to be made.

What she should do was go through those boxes Jack had sent home with her, as if he’d had some sort of premonition. For all she knew, they contained Sebastian’s baby pictures and report cards. Or maybe love letters from all the women who had gone before her. She’d heard the whispers before she’d ever met the man.

But she was simply too tired tonight. Ever since Jack had died, two months ago, she’d been trying to make plans for the future. The trouble was she couldn’t seem to stay awake long enough to eat, much less to decide whether or not to move back to the secretarial pool at Wescott or pack up, leave town and look for another job in a new town where she didn’t know a soul.

Lately, all she seemed able to do was weep and sleep. Maybe she needed vitamins.

Without thinking, she pulled into the parking lot outside the small walk-in clinic she had passed every day on her way to work. There was probably nothing wrong with her that a handful of vitamins and a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure, but why take chances? She needed to recover her energy if she was going to get through these next few days and decide on her future. Preventive medicine couldn’t prevent everything, but she was still a firm believer in taking control. Of her health, her life—everything. It wouldn’t hurt to have a professional check her out while she still had her company insurance, in case she decided to move on.

Little more than an hour later Diana walked out in a daze, oblivious to the rain that pounded down on her bare head. Oblivious to the wind that whipped her tan trench coat around her legs.

Pregnant?

Impossible!

Impossible but true. Three months, as far as Dr. Woodbury could determine without further tests. “Does it have to go on my record?” Diana had asked the nurse, thinking of all the embarrassing questions that could, and probably would, be asked. She didn’t know how many people had guessed about her and Jack—they’d both gone out of their way to be discreet, but in a town like Royal, secrets had a way of leaking out.

“Not if you don’t intend to use your insurance.”

“Oh. Well, could I just pay cash today and think about it?” With any luck, she could be in another town, settled in another job before she needed further medical attention.

Was pregnancy considered a preexisting condition?

Diana had a feeling the nurse was good at reading between the lines. “We can work it out any way that suits you, hon. Stop by the window and you can either pay today or we’ll bill you. Here, you’ll want to read these pamphlets. They tell you what to expect at which stage. Right now it’s one thing, tomorrow it might be something else. We’ll make you an appointment for six weeks, shall we?”

Diana nodded, knowing she wouldn’t be in Royal in another six weeks. This changed everything. Leaving was no longer an option, it was imperative. Once the pregnancy began to show and people put two and two together and realized whose baby she was carrying, things would be awkward, to say the least.

A baby.

To think she’d vowed to take control of her own life from here on out. Evidently, she hadn’t made the decision soon enough. She had always tried to be careful, but there had been that one time…. Jack had never been known for his patience. One time was all it took.

Out on the sidewalk she took a deep breath and tried to quell the rising panic by reminding herself that she’d always been the most levelheaded member of her family. The only levelheaded member.

After her father had died, her mother had fallen apart. Blamed herself and wept endlessly, claiming she hadn’t been a good enough wife. As much as she hated to admit it now, Diana had lost patience with her mother more than once. She had honestly thought, though, that if they moved to a new locale, her mother might perk up and take an interest in life again.

So they’d moved to Royal, Texas, a place she’d heard mentioned on the news one night, and she’d got a job as a secretary at Wescott Oil.

Instead of perking up, Lila Foster’s depression had grown worse, until Diana had insisted she undergo a complete examination to rule out any physical cause for her lethargy. It was only then that her mother had been diagnosed with advanced ovarian cancer.

Frantic, Diana had been arguing with the insurance department at Wescott the day she’d met Jack Wescott, founder and chief shareholder of Wescott Oil.

“Whoa, little lady,” he’d said, clasping her by the arms as she’d backed out the door, still yelling, just as he was entering the building. He had held her a moment too long, staring at her angry tears, then he’d asked her name.

A week later she’d been moved up to the executive floors, where Jack, who was old enough to be her father, had begun a determined assault on her heart.

At least, she’d thought at the time it was her heart. Frantic with worry, she’d made mistake after mistake. It was a wonder she hadn’t been fired, but instead Jack had given her a raise and stepped up his courtship, offering her jewelry, a car, even a house.

It was when she’d burst into tears and poured out her story that he’d offered the one thing she hadn’t been able to refuse. The finest care available for her mother.