LITMIR.BIZ

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the parties.”

      He’d said more than once that he didn’t do emotions, but he’d lied. He’d shown her plenty of passion. And for a while there she had thought he’d also shown her caring and concern and an occasional glimpse of vulnerability. Maybe it had only been in her imagination to start with.

      Now it didn’t matter. He’d known she’d needed to talk. She’d told him it was important. Standing her up for dinner had been a non-verbal response louder than a shout. She just wasn’t enough for him to step outside his comfort zone.

      If he wouldn’t risk his emotions for her then he wouldn’t for his child, either.

      “But you just said—” He dropped the attitude. “I don’t understand, Stephanie.”

      This was a huge admission when he prided himself on his intellect. He really didn’t understand.

      “Jason, I want more.” She reached out to him, then pulled her hand back before she could make contact. “It’s not you. It’s me.”

      Jason rolled his eyes at the platitude.

      It was her. They’d both agreed from the beginning that neither wanted a serious relationship. Jason would readily admit that his work was his mistress.

      She had breached her part of the bargain and taken this much further than an informal friendship with bedroom benefits.

      Then, that night at his cabin in the mountains, when they’d lain on his porch looking into the black sky at the pinpoints of stars above, he’d reached for her hand and she’d known. His touch had made more than her skin tingle. It had made her soul vibrate in accord with his. Life and love had flowed through their clasped hands, intertwining their hearts.

      That was when she’d known, Jason filled a place inside her that no one else ever could—a place in her heart made just for him from the moment she was born.

      Being honest with herself, she’d known their relationship had been destined to become more from the start—at least for her. She didn’t do casual sex—and, as guarded as Jason had always been about his dating life, she was sure he didn’t either.

      But then neither did he do commitment. And raising a child took more commitment than a dozen medical degrees.

      Destiny didn’t guarantee happily-ever-after, and now she had a child to think about.

      That was why she’d had to break it off with him, even though it had broken her heart. She might be able to suffer through a casual come-and-go relationship, but she would never subject her child to that kind of pain and uncertainty.

      She needed to create a stable environment that would surround and protect her child with love. She was prepared to do that. She had the financial means, the emotional capacity, and by the time her child was born she would have her work-life in perspective, too.

      Now was the time. Before she burst into hormonal tears she needed to tell him about the baby and then walk away.

      Now. She should tell him now, while she had his undivided attention. “Jason, I need—”

      His phone vibrated. He held up a finger to wait.

      “Drake here,” he answered. Not a word wasted on social niceties. “No, Doctor, I can take your call. We’ve played tag trying to communicate long enough.”

      His eyes clouded as he looked through her. Another medical matter taking precedence over her. Was it too much to ask to be first? To know that their child would be first in Jason’s life if only for a second?

      Yes. It was too much to ask. While Jason was devoted to the practice of medicine, extending such devotion to a personal relationship was beyond his capabilities. She had to resign herself to that.

      She reached for her lab coat, flailing to find the armhole. He’d been so eager to help her off with it, but he didn’t even notice her struggle now.

      Nor did he notice when she slipped out, silently shutting the consultation room door behind her.

      CHAPTER THREE

      JASON kept his hand tightly wrapped around his phone to keep from reaching out and holding Stephanie back—pulling her close to him and never letting her go.

      He used all his discipline to concentrate on the question the doctor at the Mayo Clinic was asking. “Dr. Drake, do we have a bad connection?”

      “No, I hear you. I’m thinking.” He reviewed the question he’d been asked. “Have you considered a gluten sensitivity? They disguise themselves in a multitude of ways, and many of your patient’s symptoms match, even though the test results might not indicate a full-blown allergic reaction. I suggest a gluten-free diet for the next fourteen days. Be sure to record behavioral changes as well as antibody levels.”

      “I need—” she’d said. Jason wanted to fulfill that need, whatever it was. But he was pretty sure her need was emotional, and he knew his limitations. He was good at understanding bodies, not emotions. If anyone knew that about him she did. She knew him better than he knew himself most of the time.

      How could he give her something he didn’t understand?

      “I’ll give it a try.”

      Jason was vaguely aware the phone line had gone dead at the other end.

      It had begun so simply. A late night of research after the rest of his team had left for their family obligations.

      Stephanie had gotten comfortable, kicked off her shoes and replaced her contacts with glasses.

      Then she’d noticed his stiff neck, from hours spent hunched over the computer terminal, and offered to massage the ache away.

      But the massage had backfired. Instead of relieving his tension, her hands had set him on fire.

      Unable to concentrate on the case any longer, they’d called it a night.

      But fate had intervened. In the parking lot she’d pulled up next to his motorcycle as he’d been about to strap on his helmet. The light mist of early evening had been turning into a heavy drizzle.

      “Want a ride?” she asked.

      “Sure.” He thought—hoped—she offered more than transportation, but he wasn’t sure until he climbed into her red low-slung sports car and she gave him the choice. “My place or yours?”

      The whole moment felt like a clichéd scene from a nineteen-fifties film noir, but it was effective nonetheless.

      Stephanie cooked a meal—of sorts. She shoved a frozen foil tray of lasagna into the oven, set the temperature, and handed him a bottle of Chianti and a corkscrew.

      After popping the cork, he stripped off Stephanie’s high heels, one by one, letting his fingers do a slow examination from her toes to the arches of her feet to her very sensitive ankles. As he ran his thumb along the arch of her foot, she moaned and arched her back, emphasizing the peaks of her magnificent breasts.

      He explored the erogenous and sensitive anklebone, circling his finger until her breath came in short wisps. Her passion brought out the hero in him. He wanted to find a dragon to slay to keep her eyes shining in admiration.

      Her hands fluttered to his chest and along his shoulders. A low, deep growl started deep inside him as his hunger for her built.

      Her usually graceful fingers fumbled at the edge of her sweater as she tried to pull if off. He helped, covering her hands with his own. His own breath caught as he revealed her silky skin hidden underneath.

      As if she were shy, she held back as long as she could, but by the time he reached the band of her thong she was ripping off his shirt and tugging at his belt.

      They’d ended up overcooking the lasagna and washing it down with too much wine. And he’d never slept so peacefully as that night in her arms.

      He and Stephanie

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