Page 52 of A Treasure Worth Seeking

“You bet I am. Excuse me now. I have to get back to that broad in Tulsa. If you need anything, holler.” She clicked off her line and Erin leaned back in her deep leather chair.

The yielding cushions suffocated her, however, and she stood up and walked to the window. She stared out at the Houston skyline, bathed in a hot, watery glare from a humid sky. This was a terrible climate to be in during July. The heat was oppressive, the humidity was cloying, and the air was thick. One couldn’t breathe.

Especially if she were five months pregnant.

Unconsciously Erin rubbed her hand over her stomach which was still flat by most standards. Never having had any tummy at all, she felt like it was enormous. She could still fit into most of her regular clothes, but she had preferred to start wearing loose-fitting dresses.

As to everything these days, she was apathetic to her lovely surroundings. Her office was decorated in ivory, teal, and peach. The gracious setting, decorated in such good taste, was intended to impress clients, which it never failed to do.

Ironically, today her dress matched her decor. It was a soft voile print that picked up the colors of the room. Albert Nipon hadn’t intended it to be a maternity dress, but it served that purpose. It buttoned down one side, over the breast. The bodice was pleated and fell into a graceful skirt beyond where a waistline would be.

The pregnancy had cost her very little discomfort, she conceded. There was always that annoying feeling of being stuffed full even when she was hungry. The doctor said that was because she was normally so thin. She had suffered through a few weeks of morning sickness, but a tiny yellow tablet before breakfast had helped. She was very cautious now about the medication she took. Ever since San…

It mattered not how it got there, her mind always came back to that. To San Francisco. To Lance Barrett. To the hateful and cruelly amused expression he wore that last time she had seen him before she left with Bart.

Bart. Dear Bart. Why must he have been hurt? She could remember the day she had quietly returned the ostentatious engagement ring to him.

“What’s this?” he had asked, staring down at the ring stupidly.

“I can’t marry you, Bart,” she said simply.

He had shaken his large, burly head as if to clear it. “What do you mean, Erin? Why?”

“Because I’m pregnant.”

He had stared at her through uncomprehending eyes. She could have been speaking a language he didn’t understand. Finally he blinked and closed his mouth, which was hanging slack. “Pregnant?” he asked.

“Yes.”

She watched as his stupefaction gradually turned to understanding, then changed to anger. “Pregnant!?” This time the word was a shouted accusation. “How? Who?” Before she could form an explanation, he demanded, “Answer me, damn you.”

She met his accusing eyes calmly. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were the only concession to the trembling fear she felt for this bear whose ire had been raised. “It doesn’t matter, Bart. The baby is mine. No one else’s.”

“Don’t play coy with me, you bitch. It takes two to make a baby. Even this ol’ redneck, who you must think is really dense, knows that.” He gripped her arms hard. “Who was the man, because, by God, I know it wasn’t me! And it wasn’t for lack of trying!”

“Bart, please,” she begged, “you’re hurting me.”

He looked down at the white knuckles of his hands that gripped her delicate arms. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He released her immediately and stood up. He paced the length of the sofa in her living room several times before he stopped in front of her and said, “It was Barrett, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes flew to him in surprise. How had he known? It was useless to lie. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“Dammit!” he cursed, slamming his meaty fist into the palm of his hand. “I’ll kill that bastard. Did he rape you? If he hurt you—”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. It wasn’t rape.”

Her denial doused his impetus. Quieter, more calmly, he asked hopefully, pathetically, “Did he seduce you, sugar? You couldn’t help yourself. Is that it, honey?”

Tears streamed down her face, but she looked up at him and answered honestly, “No, Bart. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

The massive shoulders slumped in rejection and dejection. He put his hands in his pockets. “I see,” was all he said. They were quiet for long moments. Erin cried softly.

“I guess the sonofabitch refuses to marry you. Worthless scum. You say the word, Erin, and I’ll have Mr. Barrett taken care of. I know the people to call. He’ll be snuffed out so quick—”

Erin catapulted off the couch and grasped him by the shoulders, shaking him frantically. Her face was wet with tears. “No!” she shrieked. “No. Don’t you dare hurt him. Say you won’t. God! He’s not to be hurt.” She collapsed against him as Bart put protective arms around her and patted her on the back.

Soothingly he said, “Shhh. Honey, calm down. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.” With a certain fear in his voice he asked, “Are you okay now?” Bart Stanton, the terror of boardrooms, was intimidated by no one or nothing. But an hysterical woman reduced him to mush.

She pushed away from him and nodded. “Yes,” she sniffed. Raising swimming eyes, she said, “Bart, he doesn’t even know. Promise me you won’t tell him or hurt him in any way.”

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