LITMIR.BIZ

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looked her over. Other than the pale face, she appeared composed, her usual competent, cowgirl self. Actually, she looked better than when they’d said, “I do” this morning. Had it only been this morning? He waited for her to say more, but she just walked past him and sat on the couch. He called in the order and worked hard to wipe the stupid, sappy grin off his face before sitting down with Olympia. She’d turned on the TV, putting it on mute.

      “The food should be here in fifteen, twenty minutes.” He paused, letting his brain sort through possible ways to get them on better footing. “You know Jessie from some rodeo camp you went to as kids, right?”

      Olympia nodded, her eyes not meeting his. “Is there something to drink?”

      “I can go to the soda machine. What would you like?”

      She sat for a moment, her face blank. Then she shook herself and said, “An orange soda?”

      “Sure thing. If room service comes, just put it on the room tab.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and gave her a twenty. “Here’s a tip, too.”

      He hurried from the room. Olympia’s blank eyes were disturbing. He needed to remember that she’d never gone through this before—the delight and fear of pregnancy.

      * * *

      HE SMELLED THE FOOD as soon as he stepped back into the room with four cans of soda, none of them orange. He’d even tried different floors, hoping that the machines had different offerings. But no orange, so he’d gotten a variety that excluded caffeine—not good for the baby, not that any of the other ingredients were exactly healthy.

      The room-service table sat by the window, covered with silver-lidded dishes. Olympia stood by it, looking out at the peaceful desert, just as he’d done.

      “Why don’t we eat? You’ll feel better. It’ll help with the nausea,” he said. Her shoulders went up around her ears. “Come on. I know you’re hungry. I’m starved. Plus we need to celebrate.”

      “Celebrate?” she whirled around, her mouth contorted in rage, pain or maybe terror.

      “Sure. A baby and a wedding.”

      “A fake wedding and a baby that neither of us wants.”

      “Well, at least you’re admitting you’re pregnant.”

      She barked out a laugh. “Three pee sticks don’t lie. I’m a James. Of course I’m pregnant. It’s what we do. Hook up with some random guy, get pregnant, hope that it’ll last, then when it doesn’t, look for the next guy willing to—”

      “Whoa. Hold on. I won’t abandon—”

      “You’re all puffed up and proud because your swimmers won, but it doesn’t last. It never lasts.” Her words devolved into a sob.

      Spence took one small, slow step closer, wanting to comfort and reassure her. He picked up her hand and held it. She didn’t pull back. “I’m fighting for custody of my son. I won’t walk away from another child.” His heart flopped again as he thought about another baby in his life.

      “No,” she said, pulling away. “You’re not going to negotiate or talk me into this.”

      “I’m not talking you into anything.”

      “I know we’re married, but it’s fake. We’re not a forever kind of thing.”

      “Maybe, but—”

      She cut him off again. Her face lightened two shades, and her mouth clamped into a firm line. “I’m giving the baby up for adoption.”

      “What? This is my child. You can’t do that.”

      “No. It’s mine.”

      “I don’t think so.”

      “Who’s the one who’s pregnant? Huh? Plus, we’ll be divorced before I have the baby.” Her chin thrust out again.

      “Whether we’re divorced or not, the baby is mine, too, just like Calvin. A real man doesn’t walk out on his family. My God, the whole reason we’re married is because I want my son in my life. Why do you think this baby will be any different? You can’t give the baby up for adoption without my consent.”

      “What if I run away? I bet they wouldn’t care in Mexico.”

      His hands went clammy, and the collar on his shirt suddenly felt too tight. Would she really do that? Or was it just fear talking? He stared at her hard, assessing her as he would an opponent across the negotiating table. Her lips trembled just a little. She wasn’t an opponent. She was the mother of his baby and, for now, his wife. “You’re not runnin’ away, darlin’. We’ll work this out,” he said in his most reasonable voice.

      “You can’t stop me.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong. We have a contract, and I know the law.” He let that hang there because she was right. He couldn’t force her to have the baby or to stay in Arizona, but by the time she figured out all that, he’d have her sign an addendum to their contract. He waited for her to say something. He hated to lie to her, but this was about his baby. He’d do whatever it took to save his child.

Chapter Three

      Olympia sat down suddenly. Her head whirled; the room wavered. She couldn’t think about keeping a baby, even if he told her he’d stick around. A big lump settled midway up her throat. Throw up or pass out—those were her options. Her vision started to darken around the edges. She swallowed hard.

      “For God’s sake,” Spence said, firmly grasping her by the neck and pushing down her head.

      She tried to suck in a deep breath, but her insides were being crushed. Was that what happened? She remembered Mama waddling around, pregnant with her sister Rickie. She couldn’t train for the rodeo while she was pregnant, could she? What would she do? She’d waited so long to get on the circuit. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God,” she moaned. A garbage can appeared under her nose. She batted at it. She wasn’t going to be sick, and the dark spots were disappearing. She sat up and stopped moving abruptly when the room whirled again.

      “Here,” Spence said, thrusting a doughy white roll at her. “You said that you haven’t had any food, and even if you did, you left it out there along the 10.”

      She cautiously took the roll. Regardless of her state of knocked-up-ness, not eating would make anyone sick. She nibbled at the bread while he lifted the silver covers from the plates and put them back. After a deep breath, he smiled at her. She guessed it was the smile he used in court to win over the ladies on the jury.

      “Looks good,” he said, his dimple deepening.

      She continued to munch on the bread, which seemed to settle just fine. Spence didn’t sit down but watched her as though he’d taken up guard duty.

      “Aren’t you hungry?” she asked after finishing the roll and thinking that the steak and cowboy beans—even cooled—smelled good.

      He gave her another for-the-jury smile. “No, ma’am. Not right now. Maybe later.”

      Great. He was back to pretending he was a cowboy. Annoyance flooded her, and bile threatened to choke her. The food was no longer tempting. “So you have me trapped in this room. What are we going to do?” she asked, not caring that she sounded belligerent.

      “Well,” he drawled, “I’m going to finish my drink here, then mosey on down to the bar.”

      “I thought you were proving to anyone who cared that we’d actually gone on a honeymoon.”

      “The receipts will be enough. There isn’t a PI tracking us.”

      “Whatever.” She lifted the cover on the food again, just to give her something to do, because she was not going to eat it. Maybe a milk shake would be okay.

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