The Rogue (The Moorehouse Legacy #4)(39)

Mad frowned. Pushing the covers down her body, she looked at her stomach. She was so lean and so strong, she could see each one of her individual abdominal muscles. Passing her hand over her belly, she pictured herself going soft. Getting round. Growing big.

Carrying a child.

She splayed her hand out. What would that feel like?

And, yes, the baby in this hypothetical had yellow eyes.

Mad groaned and stood up. She’d made love for the first time last night and she was already thinking about pregnancy? For heaven’s sake, she didn’t have the kind of lifestyle for that sort of thing.

Or the man for it, either. Just because she and Spike had shared something wonderful, didn’t change the fact that they were going their separate ways. Even if he magically decided he wanted a woman in his life, her sailing schedule was a crusher and he wasn’t going to quit his chef job just to follow her around the globe.

They had this one weekend together, this one very special weekend that she would cherish always….

God, her chest hurt.

And as she stepped into the shower the ache got worse. She couldn’t help fantasizing about a future that would never happen.

Picking up a bar of soap, which she remembered using on Spike’s body, she started to wash herself. When she ran the thing over her lower belly she stopped, a flash of fear snaking through her. Not getting a period had always seemed like such a relief; she never missed the hassle or the discomfort. And it was great to wake up every morning knowing she was going to feel the same as the day before because there was none of that monthly mood swing thing.

Except what if it never came back? Exactly what kind of gamble was she taking with her body?

She thought of Spike, worshiping her with his hands, his mouth…the most intimate part of himself. She’d never given much thought about being a woman before. She was an athlete first and foremost, a competitor. But last night, underneath him, on top of him, all over him, she’d felt very female.

And she’d loved it.

*

As Spike stepped out of his guest room, he looked down the long hall. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was, but he was definitely knocking on Mad’s door before he went down for breakfast. And if the two of them walking into that sunroom together was a problem, he’d just have to give their audience a big whatever.

He needed to see Mad.

While heading down to her room, he figured he should have been in rough shape because he’d been up all night watching her sleep. Instead, the hour’s shut-eye in his own bed and the shower he’d just had was all it took to totally revive him. He was wired in this best kind of way, totally alive.

He came up to her door and took a deep breath, telling his body that now was not the time for anything remotely sexual. Except as he knocked, all he could think about was how they’d spent the hours in her bed and he was instantly primed. Again.

When there was no answer, he went downstairs. The sunroom where the family ate breakfast was in an alcove off the dining room, and as he stepped inside the bright little space, his eyes adjusted and he grinned like an idiot. Mad was sitting in a ray of sunshine, a coffee cup in her hands. The moment she saw him, she blushed and offered him a slow, secret smile.

“You look well rested,” Richard muttered while flipping his New York Times around with a crack.

Spike took the seat next to Mad. “It’s the country air. And all the exercise I’ve been getting.”

As Mad’s cheeks got even rosier, Spike had to force himself not to take her hand and give it a squeeze.

He was still looking at her when a plate of poached eggs on toast materialized in front of him. God, he was ravenous. Capable of eating thirds. He tucked into the breakfast with the enthusiasm of his teenage years.

When he sensed Mad’s gaze on him, he glanced over at her. She was staring at his hands on his silverware and he knew exactly what she was thinking. To get her attention, he stroked the handle of the knife with his forefinger. As her eyes shot up to his, he deliberately licked his lower lip then bit down on it. Her coffee cup trembled and she looked away, smiling.

Richard rustled his paper again. “So now that your guard dog is here, may we discuss your trust?”

Mad stiffened. “I told you fifteen minutes ago. I told you yesterday. I’m not going to sign those papers.”

“Well—” her half brother looked over the top of the business section “—something tells me you’ll change your mind soon enough.”

From out in the foyer, there came a fast clipping sound.

High heels, Spike thought. And they were heading this way.

The blond woman who appeared in the sunroom’s doorway was an absolutely stunning creature, all Grace Kelly-esque: perfect features, perfect body, perfect long, wavy flaxen hair. She was dressed in white slacks and a pale blue blouse and had a gold chain belt around her waist. Her perfume was delicate and undoubtedly French and her aura was one of profound privilege.

Spike frowned, thinking he’d seen her before. Or maybe not. He could just be getting her mixed up with one of any number of Manhattan’s A-list types. God knew there were plenty of picture-perfect blondes wearing Chanel in the Big Apple.

Whatever…whether he’d seen her in passing before or not, this had to be Amelia and he supposed Mad was right. Most men would be picking their chins off their plates at the arrival of such a high-class knockout. Except as far as Spike was concerned, Grace Kelly over there couldn’t hold a candle to the woman he had held against him last night.