The Black Sheep’s Baby

Her head snapped back and she stared at him. Whiskey eyes, startled and golden, gazed into hers. She opened her mouth to say something-to protest, to explain?-what, she never knew. Just that suddenly, she was in his arms, and his hands were tangled in her hair and his mouth was hard and hot on hers.

Hungry.

And, oh, God, she was hungry, too. How good he tasted-fresh and clean, like joy and hope and sunshine and snow. Famished, she opened her mouth to him, and he brought all those things inside.

And it wasn’t nearly enough to satisfy her. Greedily, she clutched at his sweatshirt, filled her fists with it as she pressed her body against his, as if she were trying to soak him in, the very essence of all he was, trying to steal from him the warmth, the affection, the security and comfort, the gifts he’d been given in such abundance and hadn’t begun to appreciate.

A sob rippled through her and burst from her mouth. He uttered a groan and stifled it with his as he caught her harder against him.

Something-a shock, like lightning-sliced through her chest. The fascinating little bump that had pestered her heart so often came again-and this time exploded. Her heartbeat resounded through her head like thunder. She trembled. And opened still more…

His mouth softened, persuaded. She felt the prick of his beard stubble on her lips. The delicious tingle of his fingertips stroking her scalp. She heard their breathing, the little groaning sounds he made, the soft whimpers that were hers. She felt the wiry strength of the muscles in his back against her palms, the thump of his heartbeat against her breasts. She felt melting weakness, the overwhelming ache of desire.

Dimly, she was aware of movement-clumsy, awkward, directionless. Blind and uncaring, she let it carry her where it would.

Then he was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs and she was astride his lap, her hands tangled in his hair as she arched above him, her mouth the aggressor now. His hands, free now to roam at will, pushed up her sweatshirt to knead the muscles of her back, reached between their bodies to nestle her breasts and chafe their hardened nipples with his palms, then thrust beneath the elastic of her sweats to grasp her bottom and pull the softest and most sensitive part of her hard and tight against him.

And that, without separating, standing, unzipping, undressing, was as far as they could go.

Devon acknowledged it first, with a tiny whimper of frustration. Eric’s arms tightened in denial, his body tensed, and then his mouth withdrew from hers and his breath came in an exhalation that was more like a sigh.

“What the hell’re we doing?” It was a whisper that grated like windblown sand. The only reply she could manage was the smallest shake of her head, before she let it come to rest against his forehead. She heard another soft, sandy sound and realized that he was laughing. “Whatever it is, I sure hope one of us has the good sense to stop it.”

She cleared her throat, realized it was hopeless and whispered instead. “It seems to me, you just did.”

“Then how come nobody’s moving?”

“I don’t know about you, but my legs are useless.” She was shaking all over; some of it was laughter. She could feel her heartbeat and his, colliding in uneven rhythms.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“No kidding!” Laughter gusted from her lungs. What she really wanted was to burst into tears.

And maybe it was fear that she might actually do that that gave her the strength, finally, to push herself away from him. To rise, jerky and uncoordinated, to her feet; to turn, hugging herself again, to the window. For a moment she stood blinking in the brilliance of sunshine on snow, and then in utter misery, closed her eyes and whispered, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what happened. God-we don’t even know each other.”

Behind her she heard the chair creak, and a gusty exhalation. Risking a glance, she saw that Eric was leaning forward with his elbows planted on his knees and his face buried in his hands, and for some reason she didn’t add the rest: Or like each other much, either.

Instead, she said tightly, “There has to be a logical explanation for this.”

Even muffled by his hands, the sound he made was replete with self-disgust. “Yeah, there is-I’m an idiot.”

“For God’s sake, it wasn’t your fault. It was me. I was…I don’t know, thinking about… you know-my parents, Christmas…”

He glanced up and his smile was almost painfully crooked. “Blame it on the holidays?”

This time the snort of self-derision was Devon’s. “That’s such a cliche.”

“Darlin’,” he said, stretching as if his bones ached, “cliches were meant for times like this.” He’d managed to hold on to the smile, but the eyes that lingered for a moment on her face seemed a hundred years old.

When he pushed to his feet and turned away, she felt an irrational urge to call him back, beg him not to go. Her mind cast wildly about for reasons why he shouldn’t leave her standing there, something that would justify continuing what they’d been doing before they’d both come to their senses. Her whole body felt hollow, empty.

Then, in the kitchen doorway he did pause, hesitate, and for a moment turn back, and her heart jolted with an equally irrational stab of fear. Awash with prickles of adrenaline, she folded her arms tightly across her middle, and a pulse tap-tap-tapped against the wall of her belly.

“Look…Devon. I hate like hell to ask, but since she’s asleep, and I shouldn’t be long, would you mind keeping an ear out for Emily? There’s…something I’ve got to do.”

She was so shaken, she barely hesitated before she nodded. She heard herself say, “Yeah, sure. Okay. Where-”

“I’ll be in the bunkhouse.” He dodged into the service room long enough to snatch his jacket from its hook on the wall and was shrugging it on as he went out. A moment later she heard the back porch door close.

What I’m feeling is wrong, Devon thought. It must be. Immoral and illegal, probably. Unethical, definitely.

I should leave. Right now, this minute. Get in that big Lincoln, drive to Sioux City and hop the next flight to L.A.

And what would you do with Emily? Leave her here, or take her with you?

That was it-the million-dollar question. She clamped a hand to her forehead, gave a distraught whimper and raised her eyes to the ceiling. Even if she’d had the guts to try, she couldn’t take Emily back to L.A. without Eric- until court-ordered tests and a judge said otherwise, he was the baby’s father and legal guardian. She didn’t dare go back alone, either; every instinct told her that would be a mistake.

No two ways about it, then, she was stuck-stuck on the horns of a dilemma, stuck in Iowa, stuck on a farm, stuck with strangers at Christmastime.

Worst of all was knowing that leaving here, even if she could have, was the last thing her heart wanted to do.

An hour later, Devon still had no idea what to do about a Christmas gift for Eric. She’d had no trouble finding something among the meager belongings she’d brought with her that would do for Mike and Lucy. The electronic pocket planner that had been last year’s Christmas gift from her firm’s senior partner, and which she almost never used, seemed perfect for Mike, and for Lucy she’d decided on a designer label silk scarf she’d brought along just in case she’d felt like dressing up a bit for that solitary hotel dinner. The brilliant shades of blue and green that complemented her own coloring so well would go just as nicely with Lucy’s nut-brown hair and eyes and sun- freckled skin.

Mike and Lucy had both insisted, as they’d driven off on the freshly plowed road to finish up their own last minute holiday shopping, that under no circumstances was Devon to give them anything for Christmas. She was an invited guest, Lucy had reminded her, and a spur-of-the-moment one, at that. She was not to worry about gifts, period.

Fat chance, Devon had mentally responded, being possessed of a strong sense of propriety as well as a great deal of pride, the kind of person who wouldn’t dream of showing up at a friend’s home for dinner without bringing along a bottle of wine or a potted houseplant. As far as she was concerned, she was an uninvited guest in the Lanagan household, and the least she could do to repay them for their hospitality was to give them a Christmas gift.

That was fine, as far as her host and hostess went. But what about Eric? She had no real justification for giving him a gift-she wasn’t his guest. She owed him nothing-except a trip back to L.A. and an appearance before a family court judge, as soon as that could possibly be arranged. But she couldn’t keep her mind