Prodigal Son (17 page)

“I see,” she said.

And she did. She saw Jacob’s baby boy, his big blue eyes taking in the world, his fingers clutching the edge of his blanket.

So small and soft, so full of promise.

All the rage and resentment and bitterness that she’d suppressed this morning rolled over her.

She’d given Jacob
seven years.
Seven of her best years, apparently. He’d said no to children again and again, and now he had what she’d always dreamed of and she was left to face the possibility that she would only ever be a godmother to her friends’ children.

It was so unfair, so bloody cruel…

Alex realized Dr. Ramsay was watching her, an expectant expression on her face. She’s missed something, obviously.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said I’d be happy to jot down the names of some good books on the subject for you,” her doctor said.

“Yes. That would be great. Thank you,” Alex said.

She waited while Dr. Ramsay wrote down a couple of titles, then somehow found the strength to make polite small talk as the doctor saw her to the door.

She drove on autopilot to the gym to meet her coworker Ethan for their weekly racquetball game. It wasn’t until she was pulling on her Lycra leggings and hooking the eyes on her sports bra that she registered where she was and what she was doing.

She sat on the bench that bisected the change room and put her head in her hands. She didn’t want to run around a court and exchange smart-ass banter with Ethan between points. She wanted to go home and curl up in the corner with her thumb in her mouth.

She pressed her fingertips against her closed eyelids and sighed heavily. Then she straightened, pulled on her tank top, laced up her shoes and shoved her work clothes into her gym bag. As much as she wanted to go home, she couldn’t leave Ethan hanging. Not when he was probably already standing on the court, waiting for her. She’d made a commitment to him and she always honored her commitments.

Shouldering her bag, she made her way to the wing that housed the racquetball courts. As she’d guessed, Ethan was already there, warming up. She eyed him through the glass panel in the door, for once not feeling a thing as she looked at his long, strong legs, well-muscled arms and fallen-angel’s face.

She smiled a little grimly. After months of telling herself that it was really, really inappropriate to have a low-level crush on her fellow partner and racquetball buddy, it seemed that all it took to neutralize his ridiculous good looks and rampant sex appeal was the news that she might have left it too late to have children.

She tucked her chin into her chest, squared her shoulders and fixed a smile on her face. Then she pushed open the door and entered the court.

“Hey. Thought you were going to chicken out on me,” Ethan said as she threw her bag on top of his in the corner. A lock of dark hair fell over his forehead and he brushed it away with an impatient hand.

“Sorry. Got caught up,” she said.

“No shame in admitting you’re intimidated, slowpoke,” Ethan said, his dark blue eyes glinting with amused challenge.

Most of the women in the office would turn into a puddle of feminine need if he gave them one of those looks, but Alex had been building up her immunity from day one. It was part of their shtick, the way he twinkled and glinted and flirted with her and the way she batted it all back at him, supremely unimpressed by his charmer’s tricks.

According to their usual routine, she was supposed to rise to the bait of him using his much-disputed nickname for her but she didn’t have it in her tonight. Instead, she concentrated on unzipping the cover on her racquet before turning to make brief eye contact with him.

“Let’s play,” she said. The sooner they started, the sooner this would be over.

He raised his eyebrows. “Don’t want to warm up?”

“Nope.”

She took her position on the court.

He frowned. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. “You want to serve first…?”

Ethan’s gaze narrowed as he studied her. She adjusted her grip on her racquet and tried to look normal. Whatever that was.

Finally he shrugged and moved to the other side of the court. After all, it wasn’t as though they had the kind of friendship that went beyond the realm of the stuffy oak-paneled offices of Wallingsworth & Kent and the racquetball court. They might be the two youngest partners, and they might see eye to eye on most issues that came up during the weekly partners’ meetings, but she had no idea what he did in his downtime—although she could take an educated guess, thanks to office scuttlebutt—and vice versa. Their friendship—if it could even be called that—was made up of nine-tenths banter and one-tenth professional respect. He was the last person she would confide her fears in.

Ethan bounced the ball a few times before sending it speeding toward the wall with his powerful serve. She lunged forward, racquet extended, and felt the satisfying thwack as she made contact. In a blur of stop-and-go motion they crisscrossed the court, slamming the ball into corners, trying to outmaneuver each other.

He was taller than her, and stronger, but she was faster and more flexible, as well as having four years on him agewise. The result was that they usually gave each other a good run for their money—although Ethan was slightly ahead on their running scoreboard, having beaten her last week.

Tonight she went after every point as though her life depended on it, pushing herself until she was gasping for breath and sweat was stinging her eyes.

After twenty minutes she’d won the first game and was ahead by three points on the second. Ethan shot her a grin as they swapped sides for her serve.

“You’re on fire, slowpoke. But don’t get too comfortable.”

She didn’t bother responding, bouncing the ball and sending it slamming toward him instead. Another frenetic few minutes passed as they fought for the point.

“I pity him or her, I really do,” Ethan said after she’d won the battle with an overhead slam.

Alex tucked a stray strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Whoever pissed you off.”

“I’m not angry,” she said.

“If you say so.”

She prepared to serve again but he walked to the corner and grabbed a bottle of water from his bag. She waited impatiently for him to drink, tapping her racquet against the side of her sneaker.

They’d just started their third game when she went long, lobbing a shot at the wall. It hit the high line and ricocheted toward Ethan but he let it fly past him to hit the rear wall without even attempting to take the shot.

“One, love,” he said, his chest heaving, a big grin on his face. “Nice volley.”

“Hang on, that was my point,” she said. She wiped her forearm across her forehead.

“Sorry, it was out.” His tone was final, utterly confident.

“It was in, Ethan. Right on the line, sure, but the line is in.” She pointed toward the front wall with her racquet.

“Trust me, it was out.”

“Oh, well, if you say so, it must be right. I mean, it’s not like you’d ever lie to get your own way, is it? You’re a man, and if it suits you, I’m sure anything goes—until it doesn’t, right?”

Her words echoed off the hard surfaces of the court. There was a short silence as Ethan looked at her, his expression unreadable. Then she was looking at his back as he turned to collect the ball.

Heat burned its way up her chest and into her face. Talk about out of line.

“I’m sorry. That was really…I’m sorry,” she said.

Ethan regarded her for a long beat. “Maybe we should take a break. Or call it quits until next week.”

“No!” She heard the desperation in her own voice and tried to find the words to convince him to keep playing. It seemed vitally important that she be allowed to keep running around this small box, smashing the hell out of a rubber ball. She opened her mouth, but her throat seized and heat pressed at the back of her eyes. She spun away.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t you dare cry.

She stared fiercely at the floor, clenching and unclenching her hand on the grip of her racquet.

“Hey.” Ethan’s hand landed on her shoulder. “What’s going on, Alex?”

“I’m fine,” she managed to say.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine.” But her voice caught on the last word then tears were falling down her face.

“Shit,” she said under her breath. Of all the people to break down in front of.

“It’s okay,” Ethan said from behind her. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you can work it out.”

It was so far from the truth that she laughed harshly. “Sure I can. I can make myself younger. I can turn back time and make Jacob want to have a child with me. Hell, I can probably click my fingers and make myself pregnant.”

The moment the words were out of her mouth she was acutely aware of how much she’d revealed, how exposed she was and how really inappropriate this conversation was. This was Ethan Stone, after all. Mr. Suave and Sophisticated, her fellow partner. Just because they shared lunch occasionally and played racquetball regularly didn’t mean he wanted to know all the gory, messy details of her private life. And she didn’t want him to know. Work was work, this was…very private.

“Who’s Jacob?” Ethan asked.

“Nobody important. Forget I said anything.”

She wiped her cheeks with her fingertips and sucked in a shaky breath. She had to get a grip. Had to put on her game face and convince him that she was good and to forget what she’d said.

“Alex…”

“I’m okay. A little stressed, that’s all.” But the damned tears wouldn’t stop.

Warm, strong arms closed around her, pulling her toward a big, broad chest. Instinctively she resisted his embrace, trying to pull away.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, the sound vibrating through his chest and into hers, his arms tightening around her.

Finally she gave in, although she couldn’t bring herself to return the embrace—that would be admitting too much, asking for too much. Instead, she stood with her arms hanging uselessly by her sides, her body rigid with tension, waiting for this moment of pity or sympathy or whatever it was to be done with so she could make her excuses and get the hell out of here.

He didn’t seem in any hurry to let her go, however. She could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her ear and she could smell his aftershave, something with sandalwood and musk notes. It had been a long time since she’d been held by a man—eighteen months.

She’d forgotten how good it felt.

Slowly, despite herself, some of the tension eased from her body.

“Nothing wrong with being upset, Alex,” Ethan said.

She sniffed, in desperate need of a tissue. This time when she pushed Ethan away he let her go. She kept her face averted as she crossed to her gym bag. She squatted to rummage inside for her towel, then pressed the soft fabric against her face until she was sure she’d blotted away all evidence of her outburst. Then and only then did she push herself upright and face him again.

They eyed each other for a long beat. Finally Alex cleared her throat.

“I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to pretend the last few minutes never happened?”

“Who’s Jacob?” he asked again.

“I appreciate the concern, I really do, but you don’t want to hear the pathetic details of my personal life.” She worked hard to keep her tone light and dry.

His gaze searched her face for a long moment. “Let me guess. Jacob’s your ex, right? What happened? Is he getting married? Moving countries? Dying from an obscure disease?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“So he’s getting married.”

“He’s not getting married. Can we just leave it?”

“How long ago did you break up?”

She threw her hands in the air. “He was pushing a baby stroller, okay? He’s a father. Is that what you wanted to know?”

There was a short silence. She could see the surprise on Ethan’s face, as though she’d presented him with a puzzle piece and he didn’t know where it fit. Like Dr. Ramsay, he was probably shocked that she wanted to be a mother. She’d done such a good job of building the facade of Alexandra Knight, cool, efficient corporate lawyer, that no one had any idea what lay behind the power suits and overtime. Which was the way she liked it. Most of the time.

“How old are you?” Ethan asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

“I’m thirty-nine this year.”

“Thirty-nine’s not old—”

She held up a hand. “Please don’t tell me that I have plenty of time to meet someone else and have a child. I know it might be hard for someone who only has to click his fingers to have half a dozen women panting at his front door to understand, but men over thirty-five who want to get married and have kids are a little thin on the ground. And I have it on the good authority of my doctor that my chances of conceiving drop to ten percent once I hit my forties.”

“I see,” he said.

And she knew he did—too much.

She stood, shouldering her bag. “Look, I really have to go. I’m sorry about the game. And the blubbering. I’ll make it up to you next week.”

She didn’t wait for him to respond, simply strode for the door. She should have stuck to her first instinct and canceled the game. Should have gone home and gotten all the anger and hurt and despair out of her system before she’d had to face the world again.

She didn’t relax until she was behind the wheel of her car, cocooned by the dark outside and the instant warmth of her heater. Then and only then did her shoulders and stomach muscles relax. She sank against the seat and exhaled noisily. She felt so bloody weary and defeated. Overwhelmed. Filled with regret.

But she couldn’t turn back time, could she? Couldn’t go back eighteen months and be the one to “accidentally” forget a few vital pills so that she could be the mother of Jacob’s child and force him into fatherhood against his will.

Not that she hadn’t considered doing that toward the end. She’d been tempted, more than once. The bottom line was that she hadn’t wanted to build their family on the foundation of a lie. She’d respected Jacob too much to take such an important decision out of his hands.