A Convenient Proposal(50)

She could be pregnant. Maybe Arden’s queasy stomach signaled a baby. His mother always said she knew the morning after she got pregnant.

The idea drove him to his feet. “I guess I will get some dinner. Maybe I’ll check in on you later, before I hit the sack. And tomorrow morning, early.” Leaning down, he kissed her forehead. “I hope you feel better. Call the house if you need me.”

Her fingers fluttered against his cheek. “Of course.”

Outside on the front porch, he stared at the Jaguar, trying to figure out what to do next. Not the party. He’d atone for his sins at the dinner dance next weekend, if Arden was up to going.

And not the bars. He needed to think, not drink. An idea concocted with champagne insights would have to be completed cold stone sober in order to succeed. These next few weeks might be trickier than he ever could have imagined.

A baby would mean he’d fulfilled his part of the bargain. Arden could stay until the wedding, then leave, and they’d both have gotten what they wanted.

But she would be taking his child with her. Faced with the existence of a son or daughter he would never meet—without the veil drawn across his reasoning skills by champagne—Griff’s conscience cringed. His gut cramped. A man didn’t abandon his own flesh and blood to be raised by a woman alone. Not if he could prevent it.

Considering flesh and blood, his family would be devastated to discover the existence of a child they knew nothing about. Jake and Rosalie Campbell had been looking forward to grandchildren since their kids left college. Was he going to deprive them of that joy?

Most important, Arden should not be allowed to resume the solitary life she’d “chosen” for herself. He couldn’t begin to guess what had driven her into isolation, although a philandering fiancé who slept with her mother would be a good start. But the lady was meant for life and love and happiness as part of a family. His family.

Somehow, Griff decided over peanut butter sandwiches, he would have to change her mind about leaving. Surely, given enough time, she would come to love him. But he had only five weeks till the wedding.

Five weeks would have to be enough.



WAKING UP, Arden kept her eyes closed while she assessed her state of health. Curled up underneath the featherlight covers, warm and relaxed, she felt well enough. Especially if she ignored the emptiness beside her, a space Griff usually filled quite nicely.

Igor jumped onto the bed and came to lick her face, his usual signal to go outside in the morning.

“Yes, yes, I understand. Wait just a second.” She turned to her side to get up.

Instead of landing on her feet, though, she found herself on her hands and knees on the floor, as the room spun around.

Folding her legs to sit against the side of the bed, she closed her eyes and tried to make the world stand still. Igor nosed at her face again.

“I know, Igor. I’m trying.” Poor dog. He’d been inside all night long.

She undertook a harrowing journey, lurching from the bedpost to the door frame to the hallway wall, then the kitchen table and counter, all the while feeling as if her brain were sloshing around inside her skull.

Only when she opened the back door did she remember that this was Georgia in January, not the Florida Keys. The temperature hadn’t yet reached forty degrees at 7:00 a.m. Walking outside in bare feet and her nightgown was not a good idea.

At this point, Igor started pulling at the leash, anxious to get into the grass for his morning exercise. Given the state of her equilibrium, he quickly jerked her onto the frost-coated lawn. She squealed at the contact of ice with skin, and pulled back, trying to retreat.

At the edge of the woods, something moved, something fairly big. A deer, she guessed, squinting in that direction. She’d watched them grazing behind the cottage on other mornings.

Igor, however, was not satisfied to watch. Obeying his instincts, he surged into the chase, sprinting toward the animal and yanking the leash free from Arden’s grasp.

The deer whirled and vanished into the woods, with the dog at its heels.

“Igor! Igor, come! Come on, Igor. Breakfast,” she called. But her dog had decided to hunt his own meal this morning. Arden stood out on the stone terrace until her feet were quite numb, but Igor did not return. She would have to dress, get shoes, go find him…

Her stomach chose that moment to revolt. Arden was sick on the grass and then, when she had stumbled drunkenly into the house, sick again in the bathroom. When the spasm passed, she was tempted to simply lie on the floor and go back to sleep. Anything else would be too hard.