Power Play (Play Makers Book 4) (30 page)

Startled, she moved to the dining table, set
the vase on it, then pulled the card from its tiny white
envelope.

“At your command,” she read aloud, loving
the sentiment.

“He’s a smart kid. He knows no one else—not
even the great Patrick Murphy—could have orchestrated that the way
you did. It was exceptional, Darcie.”

“I didn’t ‘orchestrate’ anything,” she
assured him. “I just did my job. You’re always so
sure . . . oh, never mind.” She tried for a calmer
voice. “Why are you here, Wyatt?”

“You’re still mad at me?” Stepping closer,
he caressed her cheek in his huge hand, sending tingles of need
through her lonely body. “If you only knew. I’ve been kicking
myself for the way I talked to you. The way I misjudged you. You’re
the best and I was an idiot not to see it sooner.”

The words resonated, and she wanted to melt
against him, but something wasn’t quite right. Why wasn’t he making
a real move? Did he expect
her
to do it?

And then what? He’d accuse her of tricking
him? Of
orchestrating
his downfall?

“Maybe I’m just hungry,” she said lightly.
“The roses smell good, but the tacos smell even better. So let’s
eat, okay?”

He nodded, then waited for her to take a
seat at one end before sitting to her right, close but not too
close. Then he watched her, apparently fascinated as she divided up
the tacos, chips and salsa.

“Do you mind if I talk while you eat?” he
asked. “You’ll have questions, and that’s fine. But if I can get
through the basic presentation first, that would work best for
me.”

The word “presentation” hit her hard. Was it
business after all? What the hell?

Choking back the hurt, she opened the
wrapper on her first taco, even though she knew she couldn’t
possibly chew in this condition. Still, she managed to say, “Go
ahead.”

He studied her with caring eyes, and she had
no doubt he felt bad. He was blowing it—whatever “it” was—and he
knew it.

“It’ll all make sense soon,” he promised.
“Just let me say up front, you’re the most amazing woman—the most
amazing person, really—I’ve ever met. I tried to fight it because
you’re not what I’m used to. But I get it now, Darce. You’re the
real deal.”

She stared in dismay. “What does that
mean?”

“You’re so smart. Or rather, perceptive. And
beautiful, obviously. But it’s more than that. So it threw me for a
while. Because let’s face it, you came on like a whirlwind. But I
had time at the ranch to think. To realize why you did what you did
last Saturday. To understand your motives. To feel honored,
even.”

“Maybe you can explain it to me then,” she
said with a sigh. “Because I’ve been feeling bad about it. You
told
me it was a deal breaker. But like you said, I had to
have my own way.”

“Because you wanted us to experience each
other for as long as it lasted. That’s how you characterized it,
remember? And I wanted that too. So you were right to do it. The
problem is . . .” He inhaled sharply. “There’s more
to the story than simple fear of intimacy.”

“Then
tell
me.”

He sat back, seemed to think about it one
last time, then began with, “When I was seventeen I got a girl
pregnant.”

“
What?”
She felt a surge of
disbelief, followed by an even stronger wave of shame. Of
course
this was it. She and Emily had played amateur shrink,
analyzing his motives and diagnosing fear of intimacy. Even though
he had said it straight out more than once—
I won’t get a girl
pregnant
.

If only he had said, “I won’t get a girl
pregnant
again
.” But the qualifier had been there all along,
hadn’t it? Hanging in the air?

He must have seen the confusion in her face
so he waited a few moments before continuing. “I was being heavily
recruited by colleges since I already showed promise as a
quarterback. The campuses close to my house sent students to lure
me to parties. And I finally went to one. I knew they were just
kissing up to me, but things at my house were bad. Take my word for
that—”

“Wait.” She touched his hand. “I’ll take
your word for it, but just confirm the timing for me. Your dad was
killed when you were thirteen, right? So things at home were bad
because your mom was struggling as a single parent?”

“She remarried when I was sixteen. The guy
was a buffoon. So things at home were bad because of him.”

She wanted to cut out her tongue. Why wasn’t
she just letting him talk? “Sorry, Wyatt. I’ll shut up now. Just
tell me the story.”

“I
want
you to talk,” he said with a
wry smile. “It’s always entertaining. But yeah, just hear me out
first, okay?”

When she nodded and pretended to nibble on
her taco, he continued. “There were lots of girls at this party. No
surprise there. Drugs and alcohol too. I hadn’t gotten into that
stuff, and after that night, I never did again. But for that
particular party, I got wasted. When I woke up I was in the
backseat of a beat-up blue Mustang with a skinny blonde girl. We
were only half naked but it was clear what had happened, and like
an idiot, I probably felt proud. The big stud, right? She was out
cold so I left her a note—my name and phone number—then went inside
the frat house to shower. When I came back out, the Mustang was
gone and so was she. And since I was sobering up by then, I was
relieved.”

She patted his hand again. “But it wasn’t
over yet?”

“I asked the frat guys about her, but they
said she wasn’t a student. Just a fun girl who showed up sometimes
for the booze and pills. They didn’t even know her name. It was
Hannah,” he added solemnly. “Anyway, she called me a month later
and said she wanted to get together. By then, I just wanted to
forget about it, but it felt wrong to blow her off over the phone
so I agreed to meet her.”

She could just see him doing that. Stepping
up, like he did with the Bournes, even when he’d rather be
someplace—
any
place—else. “You’re so noble sometimes, Wyatt,”
she said without thinking.

A scowl passed over his face but vanished
quickly. He even said “Thanks” before resuming his story, saying,
“You’ve probably guessed the rest. She told me she was pregnant and
asked for money for an abortion. It sounds cut-and-dried now, but
at the time she was a basket case. I thought it was all about the
baby—about wanting to keep it—but I learned later she did that
whenever she was strung out. Still, she wanted that kid. Almost
like it would heal some gaping wound in her heart. And since I was
a mess too—emotionally speaking—I told her if she wanted to keep
it, I’d do the right thing.”

Darcie nodded sympathetically, not daring to
speak again.

“She promised to clean up her act. Go to AA,
enroll in classes. We would keep it all secret—the baby, the
marriage plans—until I turned eighteen, because I knew my mom and
stepfather would interfere. So we met in secret once a week, mostly
for a sobriety check, but we had sex too. I’m not proud of that
now, but at the time it felt right. I also did a lot of research on
babies. Gestation and all. And I started getting excited about that
part.” He flushed. “I was already having mixed feelings about my
football career. And my grades were good enough to get a
scholarship even without it. So I figured I’d get a part-time job,
and we’d live in student housing.”

“That makes sense,” she murmured, even
though it made no sense at all. Wyatt Bourne without football? It
was unthinkable.

“The only problem was, she was still getting
high,” he said sadly. “And I didn’t know what to do about it. I
wanted to warn my mother we might need to move in with her and the
stepfather. That there might be extra medical expenses because of
the complications. Man . . .” He rubbed his eyes. “I
don’t think about it much these days, but at the time, it was
constant melodrama.”

“I’m sure it was.”

She wanted to ask why he hadn’t called Tony
and Bea. Or even Aunt Jenny. But she suspected he was too
embarrassed, considering how rock solid the Bournes were. Or maybe
the feud with his mom made communication impossible. But that ranch
would have been good for Hannah and the baby.
And
for Wyatt.
Maybe he could even have gone to UCLA like Matt Bourne. Talked it
through with Tony when things felt
overwhelming . . .

“Two months before my eighteenth birthday,”
Wyatt was saying, “when Hannah was five months along, my mother
called me into the family room to watch a news bulletin. There had
been a fire at a frat house and she recognized the name, so she
warned me that some of my so-called friends might be injured. The
newscaster said the fire was caused when a drunk driver crashed
into the building in an old Mustang.”

“Oh, God, Wyatt.” She stood and moved close
to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. “I’m so sorry. Oh,
my God . . .”

He didn’t push her away. Didn’t do anything
for a minute or two. Then he raised his misery-laden eyes to hers
and admitted hoarsely, “It killed me. She was so sweet. And the
baby—geezus, the baby already had arms and legs and God knows what
else. But the worst part . . .” His voice caught in
his throat. “The worst part was . . .”

“Don’t say it,” she whispered. “I already
know.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “You do?”

“I promise I do. Because any kid in your
situation would have felt the same way.”

Her heart ached for that high school boy.
Trying so desperately to do the right thing, feeling guilty because
he couldn’t do more when he knew his baby was being damaged—perhaps
irrevocably—by drugs and alcohol. And then to hear it was over? He
was off the hook?

It had devastated him, but in an oddly
shameful way had brought relief. Given him permission to become a
huge star.

The Surgeon.

“The bizarre part is,” he said finally, “I
didn’t even question whether I was the father. Which is crazy,
right? She was good-looking, partied all the time, and was always
trying to score drugs. But I believed her because—well, the timing
matched up, and she was sure it was mine, and as crazy as it
sounds, I
wanted
it to be mine.”

Returning to her chair she said quietly,
“Thank you for telling me that, Wyatt. I didn’t get it. Now I
do.”

“It was a long time ago. I just figured you
should know. Because I made a promise to myself that night that I
would never get a girl pregnant again. Never put myself in that
position. Never get married. None of that. It wasn’t all about
Hannah, either. Like I said, my home life was fucked beyond belief.
So I opted out and never looked back.”

“I get it,” she repeated. “And I’m so sorry
I fought you on it.”

“I’m sorry too,” he admitted. “Because you
told me you were on birth control, and we were using a condom, so
that should have been enough, even for me.”

She leaned back in her chair, feeling
drained, and knowing it had to be worse for him.

Then he surprised her by reaching to the
floor and hefting his laptop case up to the tabletop. Then he said
in an almost cheerful voice, “Which brings me to the reason I’m
here.”

“Pardon?”

It took Darcie a moment just to process what
he had said. And even then, she didn’t quite get it. Her thoughts
were still with Hannah. With Wyatt.

Now there was more? And it came in a
briefcase?

And so she just watched, speechless, as he
pulled a stack of papers into view, then re-stacked them neatly in
front of himself, his huge hand obscuring the contents.

“What’s going on, Wyatt?’

His steely gaze met hers. “I meant what I
said earlier. You’re the most amazing person I ever met. The person
I trust most in the world—”

“
Excuse
me?” She couldn’t help
laughing. “I’m a manipulative bitch, remember? One who just
has
to have the last word.”

He seemed horrified. “I never called you
that. I never thought it either. Tricky, maybe, but even that
wasn’t fair. I can’t apologize enough for it.” Grasping her hand in
his own, he continued eagerly. “It’s been a long time since I
trusted anyone. Then suddenly there you were. Too good to be true.
Except I was wrong. You’re everything you appear to be. I’m still
wrapping my mind around it, to be honest.”

Once again, she wanted to throw herself into
his arms. And once again, she stopped herself. Because he had moved
his hand enough for her to read the title of the document:
Contract for Surrogacy
.

“What the hell?” she murmured, reaching for
the papers.

“Hear me out first,” he pleaded. “Hannah and
the baby were just background. So you’d understand where I was
coming from. So please, just hear me out.”

She forced herself to nod, even though this
was insane. He actually
did
want her to be his lawyer. And
not the regular kind that might draft a will, review an investment
contract, or even rid him of a pesky paternity suit. He wanted her
to navigate the unfamiliar, contentious world of surrogacy law.

How had he said it? That he had promised
himself on that awful night when Hannah and the baby died that it
wouldn’t happen to him again. He’d never get a girl pregnant. But
apparently he still wanted children, and being Wyatt Bourne,
control freak, he had found a way to accomplish that where
he
called all the shots.

He was droning on and on about the research
he had personally conducted. In vitro fertilization. Eggs and test
tubes and all manner of science. And because she was speechless,
she leafed through the contract, shocked anew by every provision.
He even had a checklist for the surrogate to follow. Rigorous
genetic testing prior to IVF. Detailed diets and exercises. Lots of
fresh air, and of course, complete confidentiality. When the
blessed event arrived, he’d be there to take over in person. More
check boxes followed—a paternity test, a midwife as well as an
OB-GYN, and as soon as it was medically safe, mom and baby would be
separated forever. The mom agreed to cooperate with lactation
protocols so the baby would have the ideal composition of breast
milk, but if that failed, no problem. Breast milk was apparently
available for a price on the open market.