Page 6 of Claimed by the Wolf

I already found my hands caressing my belly. Me, a mom. The image made me smile a little. I’d always thought about having kids someday. I’d just thought they’d be with Avon.

My stomach twisted. No. I wasn’t going down that route. Avon had made his choices, and so had I.

I found Grant’s business card in my coat pocket and dialed his cell phone. After five rings, a prerecorded message played. Just the sound of Grant’s sexy baritone sent shivers all through me. “You’ve reached Grant Beal’s personal line. I’m afraid I’m away having too much fun right now, but please do leave a message, and I’ll get back to you when I can. Ciao!”

I hung up. What was I going to say, anyway?

Maybe it was better if I didn’t tell him. I’d take care of this myself. Somehow.

A thought crashed over me. And if I didn’t have money to take care of myself right now, how on God’s green earth was I going to be able to afford a baby?

No, I had to call Grant. I had to tell him.

I dialed his number again, and when it went to voice mail, I left a message. Even though I felt like throwing up—maybe that was just the morning sickness starting, but I knew it wasn’t as simple as that—I schooled my voice into being cool. “Mr. Beal—Grant—this is Zenobia Jones. I need to talk to you as soon as possible. It’s—uh—it’s a matter of prime importance. An urgent matter.” I added my phone number and then clicked off.

I let my head drop into my hands. Oh, God, what was I going to do?

But part of me insisted it was excited—really, really excited—to have an excuse to see Grant again, even if it was this particular excuse.

Maybe it was just pregnancy sensitivity, but I could feel the ghost of his hands all over me again, and I sighed. The patch between my thighs grew hot and wet. I could picture the way he had looked, all muscular and solid in that golden skin of his, his big, manly hands making my body do what he wanted, the way his blue-green eyes had drunk in every bit of my brown body like he was a parched man in a fiery desert and I was his oasis.

Ohhh.

I couldn’t lie! That night with Grant was the one highlight in a string of dark, hopeless months. He’d made me feel desired. Not just desired, but enjoyed. Savored, like a dessert. It had finally broken the spell of rejection I’d felt after finding Avon with the neighbor. More than that, he’d made me forget.

If nothing else, we had made this baby together. Grant needed to know.

And I needed to see him. atOptions = {'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca','format' : 'iframe','height' : 50,'width' : 320,'params' : {}};document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

* * *

Sunset. I had checked my phone obsessively all afternoon, waiting for Grant to call me back. But he didn’t. Once when an unfamiliar number came up on my phone, my heart jumped up into my mouth. But it turned out to be a stupid telemarketer recording promising me an all-expenses-paid cruise if I took the automated survey about food preferences. I couldn’t slam the end call button soon enough.

A thought popped into my head. If I were going on a cruise, I’d want it to be on Grant’s private yacht. Now that would be something.

Where was he? I swore under my breath. When I woke the morning after our night of passion, his side of the bed was empty, and a tray sat on my bedside table, with a bagel with cream cheese and a mug of black coffee. Though I couldn’t see Grant, I could hear him. He was in the hallway, already on the phone, discussing the particulars of some business deal or other.

I closed my eyes and curled up in the silky sheets, and before I knew it, an hour had passed. My coffee was cold, but I drank it anyway. Then I got up and got dressed. Grant was nowhere to be seen, and luckily, neither was any of the huge staff he had to have to maintain this place.

When I emerged from the bathroom—and I almost didn’t after seeing the marble hot tub and gold faucets—a woman in a business suit and hair in a neat chignon stood in the bedroom. Her nod was impersonal, and she avoided my eyes. “I’m Mr. Beal’s personal assistant. I trust you enjoyed your breakfast?”

I nodded. What kind of weird question was that? How did she even know about the breakfast—unless Grant had asked her to get it?

The woman smiled but without any warmth. “I’m glad to hear it. Now, I’m afraid Mr. Beal has already departed for the day, but if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you out.”

I followed her clicks on the hardwood floor out the door. Then I got it with the force of a freight train slamming into me: she did this. A lot. Grant would take lovers and leave her to make sure they left without a fuss.

Part of me cringed at this. But another part of me was too busy remembering how good his hands on my body had felt. How good his mouth had tasted on mine. How delicious he’d smelled, like a dash of some expensive cologne mixed with natural musk. My belly lit up with heat. I put on a poker face so the assistant couldn’t tell what I was feeling.

She waited for me to pick up my bag from where it sat by the front door, then handed me my coat. “I called you a taxi. It’s waiting outside.”

Without a word, I pulled on my slingback heels and walked out the door. It closed behind me.

As I looked back, the whole night already felt like an incredible fantasy. If it weren’t for how relaxed I felt, I might have believed it was, too.

But now, with the seed of a baby growing inside me, I knew the night had been all too real.

I tried calling Grant’s cell phone again. It went straight to voice mail.

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