Page 8 of Baby Daddy Protector

Two days later, I sat by my father’s bedside again in Georgetown Hospital, knitting up a storm. Usually, my hobbies helped calm me, but that day I doubted there was an afghan big enough to quell the tsunami of tension inside me.

My father’s worsening condition was foremost on my mind. He had seemed to weather the trip to the States well enough, napping beneath his blankets or perusing his favorite financial newspapers while sipping sherry on our private jet. Yes, he had looked more pale and drawn than usual, but considering the disease he had battled so bravely for the last few years, I took courage from the fact he could still laugh and joke with me.

Now, though, he had been in and out of consciousness since his arrival in the ICU. In order to provide more security, the hospital had moved my father into a private wing earlier that morning. The Prylean security team had cordoned off the entire floor, allowing only the medical staff near the king.

As I sat in the quiet room with only the hum, whirr, and hiss of the monitors and machines attached to my father to keep me company, I felt more isolated than I had in my entire life. Which was saying something, considering I lived in a virtual royal bubble as it was.

I sighed and finished my overhand seam, then sat back and stared out the glass wall to the hallway beyond. In the distance, I caught sight of Z speaking with one of his men. We’d had little to no contact these past forty-eight hours, and I couldn’t say I blamed him for avoiding me. God, what an idiot I’d been, blurting out my offer like that to him. But hindsight was twenty-twenty, and it was too late to change things now.

Looking back, if I hadn’t rushed into things that night in the shadows and fumbled my delivery, I might have stood a better shot with him. He would have been perfect, too. He met all of my requirements and was one of the few people I trusted these days. Going through the list from the state dinner had certainly been an exercise in futility. Not one single acceptable candidate in the bunch. Most were too old or too sordid or just too…blech. At least compared to Zachary Raybourn. And yes, I knew that holding most ordinary men up to the lofty standards of a handsome, young, robust ex-Navy SEAL was ridiculous, but still.

If I was truthful with myself—and I always tried to be, no matter how difficult it was—then I’d have to admit that I had never seriously looked for anyone else to fill the job except Z.

I groaned and rubbed my tired eyes. Ugh. In my haste to save my future and the turmoil of my emotions over the looming demise of my father, I had forgotten the number one rule of any successful negotiation—What’s In It For Me. A baby would certainly solve all of my problems, but to a man like Z, it would only be a burden. I should have emphasized the fact that he would only need to be present for the first year, that afterward I would raise the baby myself. It would be me fighting to have the laws of my country amended so that women could rule equally alongside men, me who would change the diapers and handle the late-night feedings, me who would deal with all the mundane and miraculous moments that went into raising a child successfully. All he needed to provide would be his signature on a marriage contract, his sperm, and one year of his life. That was it.

I exhaled slowly and picked up my needles again, the steady clack-clack wonderfully comforting. I had been so sure of my powers of persuasion that I had even gone so far as to have my most trusted advisors back home draw up contracts and all the necessary paperwork for whoever became my chosen candidate. Good thing I hadn’t had them put Zachary’s name on them, which had been my inclination at the time. Instead, there were blanks where the name of my baby daddy would go. My shoulders slumped at the reality that I might never be able to fill those empty slots now.

A figure passed by the glass doors, and I glanced up to find Z outside, now speaking with my father’s doctor. God, he was so gorgeous, even in these dreary conditions. Where the fluorescent lights above normally washed out even the best of complexions and cast everything in a yellowish glow, he only seemed tanner, healthier, sexier.

I shook off those thoughts. If—and that was a hugeif—I somehow could still convince Z to get onboard with my plan, any intimacy between us would be for the sole purpose of procreation, no emotions involved. This was a strategic move, a necessary involvement, not a grand romance. Ours would be a private affair, filled with nondisclosure forms and prenuptial agreements. Two people coming together to achieve their goals, nothing more, nothing less.

No matter how my stupid pulse quickened at the thought of sleeping with Z.

From the graceful way he moved, to his easy confidence, I could tell he would be an excellent lover. He was always so kind and attentive and conscientious, all traits that would translate well in bed. Not that I had that much experience or any concrete evidence that Zachary Raybourn was a sex god. Nothing except my feminine instincts.

And those instincts said he would be very good indeed.

Now, if I could just somehow convince him to say yes, I would be all set and could move on to the next phase of my plans—conception.

Z glanced into the room, a mix of wariness and concern in his blue eyes. He finished speaking to the doctor, then poked his head through the doorway and gave me a tentative smile. “Doing okay?”

I nodded, swallowing hard around the sudden constriction in my throat—part sadness, part apprehension. “I could use a bit of a break, actually. Would you walk with me down to the kitchenette to get some tea?”

“Of course,” Z said, standing still and stoic just outside the door as I set my knitting aside, then leaned down to kiss my father’s cheek. My father didn’t stir at all, but the nurses said he could still hear me.

“Wish me luck, Daddy,” I whispered in his ear before straightening.

Once out in the hall, Z and I walked silently down the bright, shiny corridor to the small, empty waiting room at the end of the hall. It would have been too difficult to fully secure the hospital’s cafeteria, so the security team had set up a sort of temporary snack station there, with protein bars and energy drinks and, of course, a teapot and coffee maker.

“So, the doctor said there’s no change in your father’s condition,” Z said at last, closing the door behind us for some privacy.

“Yes. But he did move his fingers earlier. The nurses said that was a positive sign he might regain consciousness soon.”

“Are you still planning on going to the state dinner tonight?” Z sank down into one of the chairs at the small, round table to one side of the room. “I’m sure they’d understand if you canceled, under the circumstances.”

I fixed myself a mug of hot water, then chose a nice, calming chamomile tea from the basket. Ripping open the tiny packet, I unfurled the tea bag into the steaming mug. “I’m not sure there’s much point now. I’ll admit I’m not really in a sociable mood at present, and with us not finding any viable candidates for…” My voice trailed off as Z’s gaze locked with mine again. “Well, you know.”

“Listen, your highness, about that.” Z straightened as I took a seat across from him and gave him a pointed stare. “Sorry. Esme. I know I—”

“Wait,” I interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. “Before you say anything, please let me speak first. I wasn’t very articulate about my plans the other night and for that I apologize.”

“Not articulate?” He raised a brow. “Not sure how you could’ve said what you wanted any more plainly, but okay.”

Heat prickled my cheeks, but I forced myself to continue. “No. I meant I wasn’t clear about what exactly I would and wouldn’t require of you.”

His eyes darted from mine, down to his crotch then back again.

He wasn’t going to make this easy. I probably deserved that, given how blindsided he’d seemed the other night, but I wasn’t one to give up without a fight, either.

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