8

Bobby understood how much it took Darla to ask. She was one tough cookie, and admitting what she’d perceived as a weakness showed just how much today’s events had gutted her. He wanted to scoop her up into his arms and never let her go, but the confines of the sedan prohibited that action.

He straightened and held out his hand. “Of course.”

She placed her hand in his, and he guided her from the vehicle. “My purse,” she protested, reaching back in.

“I’ll get it.” He hated letting go, even if it was for just a moment. He made it a quick moment, grabbing the straps of the bag, tugging the weighty leather across the seat. Slinging it over his own shoulder, he closed the door. “Does your car self-lock?”

Darla nodded, stepping away. She swayed, and he let out a curse, scooping her up like he wanted to earlier.

“Bobby! Put me down,” she protested.

“Hush. I’ve got you, love. You can rest now.”

To his relief (and surprise) she relaxed her body, going so far as to rest her head against his neck. He climbed the stairs, holding her close, wishing it were under better circumstances. But the memory of the anguish in Colt’s eyes and the fear in his young voice when Bobby drove the lad to the hospital still lingered. How much more had Darla experienced, right in the middle of the traumatic event from start to finish? He knew how he felt when losing a foal. It gutted him. And for her, each patient, each baby was like her own.

Her fear of losing their child was justified. The risk of problems increased with age; her pregnancy considered geriatric. What if—

Stop! She wasn’t even pregnant yet. No need for going down a maudlin path. Pulling her closer, he rubbed his chin along the side of her head.

And prayed, Please, Lord, let Darla and our baby be okay.

It had been a long time since he’d turned to the religion of his youth. Maybe the visit to Pastor Miller’s church had woken something in him.

Bobby reached Darla’s apartment and stared at the door in annoyance. “Hang on, love. I need to find your keys in that cavernous contraption you insist on lugging around,” he muttered, lowering her legs to the floor.

Propped against the wall, Darla scowled at him. “Outside zipper.”

He viewed the pale grey bag with a frown of his own. “There are five zippers,” he grumbled, taking hold of a zipper tab.

She snickered. “The one below.”

He shot her a side glance. “Are you laughing at me?” he quipped, extracting her key ring.

“There’s a certain … wariness in his movements when a man delves into a woman’s bag.”

He unlocked her front door and shoved it open. “That’s because it’s a veritable minefield.”

“Is big burly Bobby Bell scared of an itsy-bitsy tampon?” she asked, walking past him.

He shut the door and turned to answer her, but his words dried up. Darla stood in the middle of the entrance, tears streaming down her face. “Oh, love,” he whispered. He dropped her bag, tore off his jacket, and pulled her into his arms. “Come here.”

Darla lowered her head to his chest. The sounds of her sobs just about broke his heart. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, repeating his earlier words, scooping her back into his arms. He strode to her couch and sank down.

She fisted his shirt. “He was perfectly formed. No obvious problems,” she whimpered.

He tightened his hold. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, brushing his lips over her head.

She exhaled a huge sigh. “They declined an autopsy, so we’ll never really know. Inez will never know.”

Darla struggled upright, swiping a hand over her cheeks. “She blames herself. Her father claims an act of God.” Her eyes shot shards of coal as she met his stare. “But I’d want to know, Bobby. I’d want to know,” she repeated brokenly, tears starting up again.

He stayed quiet. There was nothing he could say to alleviate her sorrow. And he’d want to know as well.

Then Darla spoke again. “I went back to the clinic, went over all my notes, reviewed her scans. Was there something I missed? Something—”

Oh, no, she wasn’t. “You’re bloody good at your job, Darla. Don’t take this on you.”

“I can’t help but feel responsible.”

“Did you find something?”

She shook her head.

“You did all you could today. Sadly, Inez’s little boy won’t be the last patient you lose. And tomorrow you’ll continue doing the job you were trained to do.”

If only he could protect her from life’s tragedies.

Darla laid her head back against his chest. “I know,” she sighed.

He rubbed his hands over her back, vowing to do his utmost to be around to comfort her the next time she loses a baby on her watch.

God, let it never be ours.

It would devastate the precious woman in his arms.

Bobby rested his chin on her head and held her a little closer.

*

Darla woke alone. Which was nothing new. So why was she feeling so … well, alone ? As she lay pondering the anomaly, the events of yesterday rushed back.

Bobby’s sweet note. Inez’s traumatic loss. Bobby’s visit.

Bobby Bell.

No. Robert Bellerose.

Sir Robert Bellerose.

The man who broke her heart years ago.

The man who stayed last night.

She had succumbed to sleep. Safely wrapped in his arms.

Reaching for his pillow, she pulled it to her face, inhaling deeply.

Finally .

A hint of leather. A note of bergamot. A trace of sweat.

And she recalled briefly surfacing earlier, hearing him whisper, “Need to go, love.” He’d kissed her cheek, adding, “See you tonight.”

Tonight.

They hadn’t done anything last night.

She gave a disheartened sigh.

And they don’t need to do anything ever again.

But she hadn’t told him last night, Inez’s loss still too raw.

And what if she lost—

She flung the pillow aside, got to her feet, and strode to the bathroom.

Time to start her day.

*

A note lay on her kitchen counter on top of the insulated lunch cooler she occasionally packed for work. It was written on a page torn from her shopping list notepad.

Make time to take a break.

I’ll bring Chinese tonight.

The day dragged by, thankfully uneventful. And as requested, she took a lunch break, wolfing down the scrumptious chicken salad Bobby had whipped together from the contents of her fridge. She sent him a picture of the emptied bowl.

Yummy! Thank you!

His reply was succinct:

My pleasure.

*

Her heart leaped when the doorbell chimed, setting her pulse hammering. He was early. Darla cast a panicked look at the clothes strewn across her closet floor. “Get a grip, girl,” she muttered, closing the button of the dark blue skinny jeans she had tugged over her hips. She scooped up the clean clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket (it wouldn’t do for Bobby to think she was dressing up for him) and forced herself to leave the room.

But not before stopping and giving herself a critical look in the mirror. She’d settled wearing a loose, tunic-style, V-neck flowy blouse made from soft blue-and-pink floral print cotton. The pintuck pleats defined her breasts rather nicely, and she loved the three-quarter bell sleeves.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” she called out, hurrying from her bedroom. She reached the front door. And hesitated, her hand resting on the handle. Dropping her head to the wood, Darla took a deep, calming breath before straightening. She opened the door.

His eyes roamed.

It wasn’t hard to discern the desirous gleam in his hypnotic stare. Her heart fluttered, and she dropped her gaze, suddenly shy.

Shy ? What the hell, girl?

And of course, her eyes settled on the bulge hidden behind his jeans zipper. Bobby packed quite the package. And it had been a while since she had experienced all he could do with that package. And she really, really wanted to experience all he offered. Again, and again, and—

“You okay?” he asked.

Her gaze shot to his.

Concern had replaced the desire in his eyes, and a deep frown creased his forehead. Bobby stepped closer, and he gently cupped her face with his free hand. “You okay, love?” he repeated.

This near she could smell the fresh scent of his cologne. That hint of spicy citrus she’d come to associate with him. It permeated her senses. Made her feel safe. Made her want to believe in him.

Trust him.

No, no. No!

Get a grip, Darla.

You’re allowing your carnal feelings to override your common sense.

Bobby Bell is not trustworthy. He once broke your heart, remember?

He agreed to be your baby daddy, not your forever lover.

And for goodness’ sake, you do not need a man to make you feel safe.

His thumb swept below the apple of her cheek. “Darla?”

She gave herself a mental slap and stepped back. “Sorry. Just spaced out for a moment.” She spun about and walked to the kitchen.

Hot on her heels, Bobby muttered something under his breath. He placed the takeout packet on the counter and his hands on her shoulders. Nudging her to turn, he peered intently at her. “Something’s amiss, darling. Talk to me.”

He frequently used “love” as a term of affection. But she hadn’t heard “darling” since … well, years ago. Did he mean it? Was she his darling? Could she trust him with her heart again?

Desire, emotions, fears got the better of her.

And she crumbled. Just crumbled.

Her eyes prickled, and her throat thickened. “I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted, bursting into tears.

And for the second night in a row, she found herself in Bobby’s embrace, crying.

Gah.

She was so weak, turning into a veritable waterpot overnight.

And that Bobby comforted her while she cried over him was just plain wrong!

“You’re not going to lose me, love,” he murmured.

She managed to pull herself together, utterly spent. Accepting the tissue he held out, she blew her nose and mopped as much of her face with a second tissue.

Bobby maneuvered her closer to the kitchen sink, dampened a dishcloth, and wrung out the excess water. “Let me help,” he murmured and proceeded to wipe her face with infinite care.

Damn it all. Why was he so freaking calm and nice ? The cool cotton soothed her puffy skin and ravaged emotions. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, discarding the cloth in the sink.

Expecting him to interrogate her outburst, she looked on in surprise as he reached for the takeout bag and placed one carton of food after the other on the counter. Her stomach rumbled.

Bobby gave her a side-eye. “Hungry?’

She welcomed the distraction. “Starved.”

He pushed a carton her way. “Kung pao chicken.”

And she wasted no time digging in, relieved he wasn’t asking about her outburst.

But halfway through her meal, the relief morphed into pique.

He didn’t care.

And why should he care? He signed up to impregnate me. And then co-parent with me. Not to deal with my insecurities.

She stabbed at a piece of chicken, tipping the carton onto its side, spilling the contents. “Dammit.”