Her father thought she'd just provided him with the keys to a business it had taken him a lifetime to build. A company she'd always wondered if he would have sold if he'd had a son to enter the still testosterone-dominated construction business. Now, with any luck and with Quentin's help, he had the chance to pass the business along to a grandson.
Her father suddenly asked suspiciously, “He asked you to marry him, hasn't he, sweet pea?”
Liz felt her temper begin to rise. Why, her father already had her at the altar! “I haven't told him.”
“You have'n—In the name of all the saints, why not?” her father boomed. “At least have him own up to his responsibility.”
A responsibility, was she? “Maybe I don't want to marry him, have you thought about that?” Let him chew on that for a while! “I'll tell him about the baby in my own time,” she warned, “and don't even try to interfere!”
“Now don't get your back up, sweet pea—”
“Don't sweet pea me. I don't need another man trying to tell me what to do!” She sounded shrill but she was beyond caring.
Her father's rumbling laugh sounded over the phone. “Tried to tell you what to do, did he? He'll learn. Donovan temper's one to be reckoned with.”
“Goodbye, Dad.” She dropped the receiver back in its cradle.
How could Quentin own Donovan Construction and she not know it? Because he didn't own it directly… and because he hadn't mentioned it to her!
Suddenly she had a more ominous thought. What if Quentin had purposely kept the information from her? She thought back to the Fourth of July concert and their conversation about her father. Surely he must have known then, if not before, that she would have considered that tidbit of information very important.
While she'd been spilling her most private thoughts and fears about proving herself to her father, he'd known—known!—that he held Donovan Construction! When had he planned to share that information with her, she wondered?
She drummed her fingers on the desk and narrowed her eyes. Maybe in the delivery room? Yes, she could see it now. Quentin and her father having a nice little chuckle over her prone and exhausted body, which had just brought forth the much anticipated little Whittaker-Donovan heir.
She could just throttle Quentin! After what she'd told him, he must have known she would be unwittingly playing into her father's hands. And, yet, he hadn't warned her. Hadn't said anything at all but had made mad, passionate love to her.
Hurt intruded where the anger was. She'd trusted him! Shared feelings with him that she'd never voiced to anyone else.
Well, she'd show him. She wasn't some little thing that needed to be protected from the truth, manipulated, or told what to do. She'd have her baby on her own and she'd manage just fine!
“She's what?”
“Liz is pregnant.”
Quentin stared at his sister. All his life she'd been the bearer of news designed to bring upheaval to his life, but she'd just surpassed herself, whether she knew it or not.
Elizabeth pregnant. He was going to be a father. “How pregnant is she?”
Allison's lips quirked and she quipped, “Oh, you know, just a little bit.”
Quentin prayed for patience. “How far along is she?” He already knew, but he wanted the confirmation his instincts were right.
Allison gave him a quizzical look. “I don't know. She didn't say.”
“Did she tell you who the father is?” Quentin demanded.
“She went to a fertility clinic—”
Quentin's hands bunched into fists. Was that possible? Had Elizabeth followed through on her plans for artificial insemination soon after their night together? Was this baby not a Whittaker after all? His jaw tightened. There was one way to find out.
He strode out of his office and Allison hurried after him. “Quentin, where are you—”
“I'll be out this afternoon,” he informed his secretary as he aimed for the elevators beyond the reception area. “I'm not reachable.”
“You're always reachable,” Allison piped up as she tried to keep pace with him. “Where are you headed?”
Quentin ignored the question. The elevator arrived and he stepped in, turning to face Allison, who was insisting on answers.
“Just what's happened between you and Liz?”
“I'll let you know as soon as I find out,” he told her before the doors closed.
His mind worked furiously as he drove to Elizabeth's house, keeping just the wrong side of the speed limit. What if the baby was his? Had she been planning to keep it from him? Or had she really gone from his arms to the cold and clinical ones of a fertility doctor? He felt a nerve begin to twitch at his temple.
One thing was for sure. If this baby was a Whittaker, he was going to make damn sure Elizabeth acknowledged the kid's paternity.
He pulled up in front of Precious Bundles, and strode to the door, taking the porch steps two at a time. An OPEN sign showed through the paneled glass. As he let himself in, he turned to give it a flick.
Elizabeth sat at her antique desk, cradling the phone between her shoulder and one ear and jotting notes on a pad in front of her. Her eyes widened the minute he entered. “Y-y-yes, Mrs. Bradford, the wallpaper should be delivered Tuesday.”
He walked to the desk and leaned over, planting his hands on the smooth mahogany finish. She scribbled something and the pencil point broke from the pressure.
As she reached for something else to write with from the pencil holder, he caught hold of her hand, forcing her to look up. Get off the phone, he mouthed and then let go of her hand.
“O-o-okay,” she stammered and he was unsure who she was addressing. Maybe it was for both his benefit and Mrs. Bradford's. “Yes, right. Speak with you on Tuesday.”
Liz set the phone in its cradle and looked up at Quentin. He looked like a tiger ready to pounce.
“One question.” His voice was deceptively soft. “Is it mine?”
His slate-gray eyes caught and held hers. Magnetic, intense, relentless in their scrutiny.
“Yes.”
His shoulders relaxed and a little bit of tension seemed to roll out of him. “You told Allison that you'd used a sperm donor,” he accused.
“No, she just assumed and I let her think that. Anyway, it's not a lie. You were one of the first donors she suggested.”
“When were you going to tell me?” he demanded.
That did it. Anger was the last thing she was willing to take from him! “About the time you decided to tell me that you own my father's company!” She rose from her seat. He still towered over her, of course, but at least she no longer felt like a criminal being interrogated under a strobe light.