In the end, Ivy had agreed to something she’d convinced herself was good even if it might prove emotionally difficult, but she’d never expected it to go as far as it had. To turn into something she’d regretted almost immediately, something she wept over night after night—
Something she might well end up fighting in court, and how would she pay those legal fees?
Ivy picked up the phone, called her agent and told him she’d do the La Belle cover after all.
It was excellent money and it was a head shot; nobody would see that she was pregnant.
Still, head shot or not, the photographer insisted she be styled right down to her toes. She spent the day in heavy makeup and endless outfits matched by spectacular sky-high Manolos on her feet.
When she finally reached her Chelsea brownstone, it was after five. She was exhausted and headachy, her face felt like a mask under all the expensive makeup she hadn’t taken time to remove and her feet…
Her feet were two blobs of pain.
She was still wearing the last pair of Manolos from the final set of photos. Actually she was swollen into them.
“Poor darling,” the stylist cooed. “Keep them as a gift.”
So she’d limped into a taxi, limped out of it. Now, if she could just get up the three flights of steps to her apartment…
Three flights of steps. They never even made her breathe hard. Now, they loomed ahead like Mount McKinley.
Ivy took a deep breath and started climbing.
She was shaking with fatigue when she finally reached her landing, and wincing at the pain in her feet. She waited a minute, then took out her key and fumbled it into the lock.
Soon. Oh, yes, soon. Off with the shoes. Into the shower, then into a loose T-shirt and an even looser pair of fleece sweatpants. After that, she’d put together a peanut butter and honey sandwich on the kind of soft, yummy white bread that the health gurus hated…
Ivy shut the door behind her, automatically slid home the chain lock, turned around…
> And screamed.
A man—dark hair, broad shoulders, long legs, leather jacket and pale blue jeans—was seated in a chair in her living room.
“Easy,” he said, rising quickly to his feet, but it was too late. The floor had already rushed up to meet her.
“Thee mou,” a voice said gruffly.
Strong arms closed around her.
After that, there was only darkness.
Damian had never moved faster in his life.
A damned good thing he had, he thought grimly, though the woman he held in his arms was as limp as the proverbial dishrag.
A man might joke about wanting a woman to fall at his feet, but this was surely not the way it should happen.
Especially if the woman was pregnant.
He cursed ripely in his native tongue and shoved that thought aside. He had come here to deal with that fact and he would. Right now, what mattered was that Ivy had passed out cold.
She felt warm and soft in his arms, but her face was frighteningly pale. Her breathing seemed shallow. What was he supposed to do now? Call 9-1-1? Wait until she stirred? Did he search her apartment for spirits of ammonia?
Ivy solved the problem by raising her lashes. She looked at him and he saw confusion in her deep green eyes.
“Damian?”
It was the first time she’d called him that.