Little Secrets:Unexpectedly Pregnant

That looked far more like the person he knew himself to be.

Two

Three months later...

“Are you going to slap me again?”

“The night is still young, who knows?”

Tyce slid onto the barstool next to Sage, ordered a whiskey from the bartender and looked at his former lover. She’d pulled her long, normally curly hair into a sleek tail, allowing her eyes to dominate her face. Tonight her irises were periwinkle blue surrounded with a navy ring; they could be, depending on her mood, navy, denim or that unusual shade of Moroccan blue.

Her eyes always, every single time, had the ability to drop him to his knees. God had not been playing fair when he’d combined an amazing set of blues with a face that was near perfect—heart shaped, high cheekbones, sexy mouth, stubborn chin—and then, just for kicks, placed that head on top of a body that was naturally lean, intensely feminine, all sexy.

He loved her face, he loved her body and God knew that he loved making love to her, with her... He wanted to kiss that mouth, suck on her skin, allow his hands to stroke that endlessly creamy, warm, fragrant skin.

It had been so damn long and, after three years of sheer hell, one night with her had been like offering a dehydrated man a drop of water. He wanted her legs wrapped around his hips, to hear her soft moans in his ear, his tongue in that hot, sweet mouth.

Sage had no idea that his pants were tighter and that his lungs were battling to take in air. She just took a sip of her drink and wrinkled her nose in a way he’d always found adorable. “I suppose I should apologize for slapping you but the incident made all the social columns, creating more publicity for your already successful exhibition and sending your already overinflated prices sky-high.”

Overinflated? Tyce winced and then shrugged. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had the same thought a time or two. The prices his art commanded were ridiculous; it wasn’t like he was a modern-day Picasso or Rembrandt. He was just a guy who slapped steel and wood together, tossed paint onto a canvas in a way people seemed to like. Art critics, his agent and the gallery owners would be shocked if they ever found out how little effort went into the art they all revered.

No one knew or suspected that most of his time was spent painting intensely detailed portraits that were accurate to the last brushstroke. His portraits, intimate, honest, time and blood sucking, were where he found and lost himself. Many of those never-seen portraits were of Sage, and Tyce neither knew or cared to speculate what that meant.

Silence fell between them and Tyce looked around the room. He’d been surprised to receive a text from Sage inviting him to attend the Ballantyne cocktail party and jewelry exhibition and there had never been any doubt that he’d go. Firstly, if one was personally invited to look at one of the best collections of fantastically rare and ridiculously expensive jewelry one took the opportunity. He also wanted to look at the new line Sage designed and it was, as he expected, fabulous. Whimsical but modern, feminine but strong...so Sage. And because he was a guy he was hoping that Sage’s request to meet would lead to some head-bangin’, bed-breaking sex.

There was only one way to find out. “So, is this a booty call?”

Sage blinked. “What?”

“Did you ask to meet so that we can hook up again?”

“You arrogant jerk!” Her eyes sparked with irritation and color seeped into her face. “Are you insane?”

Probably. And, if he was, then her incredible eyes and rocking body and the memories of how good they were together were to blame.

“So, you didn’t call me to try and talk me into a night of hot sex?” Tyce didn’t have to pretend to sound disappointed; the memories of touching, tasting, loving Sage kept him up most nights. He wished he could ring-fence his thoughts so that he only remembered her scent, her soft, creamy skin and the taste on his tongue. But, unfortunately, his mind always wandered off into dangerous territory—how it would feel to wake up to her face in the morning, to hear her soft good night before he slept. He only allowed himself the briefest of fantasies about what a life spent with Sage would look like before he vaporized those thoughts.

Sage was part of a dynamic, successful family and he wasn’t referring to the immense Ballantyne wealth. Sage and her brothers knew what family meant, how to be part of one.