Will blew out a breath as if he were counting to ten. “You need to get some rest and you won’t get that here. We’ve got a lot of things to work out, and I’d appreciate it if you came to the discussion with a clear head.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.” She was being churlish, she knew, but it irked her that he thought he could control her life now that he knew he was Owen’s father.
“What you need, Princess, is a keeper!”
Before Julianne could open her mouth to protest, Carly and Shane Devlin stepped in front of the partition.
“Connelly.” Shane’s hand wrapped around Will’s bicep, pulling him back from Julianne. “Keep it down unless you want to read about this on TMZ tomorrow.”
Will jerked out of Shane’s grasp, shooting him a malicious glare.
“Don’t get all pissy with me.” Shane went nose to nose with Will. “I didn’t know anything about this until a couple of hours ago.”
Will looked over at Carly, who just gave him an empathetic shrug, which irritated not only Julianne, but Shane as well. “My wife didn’t know you were the father, either. Not until this morning. So watch yourself with her or you’ll answer to me.”
When Will’s eyes met Julianne’s, she held his stare for a moment. Something flashed in them that she couldn’t make out—anguish, she thought—before they were hard emeralds again.
“Make sure she gets some rest, will you, Carly?” Then he disappeared through the curtain, his long stride echoing down the corridor.
Julianne wanted to chase him down. She wanted to rail at him, to scratch his eyes out. Anything to wipe that smug look off his face.
But most of all, she yearned for him to hold her, just as he’d held her that night at the wedding. The past several months of pregnancy and duplicity, coupled with Owen’s brush with death, had exhausted her. Guilt was weighing her down and she wanted someone to help carry her burden. Not since her mother died in that awful accident on the sea had anyone been able to provide Julianne with comfort the way Will Connelly had the night they’d spent together.
And now he hated her.
Julianne shook herself. Thinking about Will would only make her crazy. She’d deal with him and whatever plans he had tomorrow. Right now she needed to concentrate on Owen. Her baby was going to live! Joy and relief surged through her body as she collapsed onto the sofa. Carly gathered Julianne in her arms as she sat down beside her.
“Owen is going to live,” Julianne said through her tears. “My baby is going to be okay.”
“I know.” Carly rubbed Julianne’s back. “Will’s blood was all Owen needed.”
Julianne felt the now-familiar hitch of anguish and anger at the mention of Will saving Owen. But she pushed it deep down. The fact remained that despite the way she’d duped the man, he’d stepped in and saved Owen with only her word that he was the father. She owed him much more than just her gratitude.
Julianne wiped her face with her hands. “I know. And I’m going to make it right with him, Carly. Whatever it takes, I’ll do it.” She got up to get a drink of water, completely missing the troubled look that passed between Shane and Carly.
Five
Sleep eluded Will that night. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Julianne, dressed like a temptress in that skintight red dress, her hair flowing behind her as she laughed at him while she pushed Owen in a stroller across the turf in the Blaze stadium. No matter how hard he tried to catch them, they kept getting farther and farther away. The senator’s voice blared across the PA system repeating over and over again: “She never wanted you to know about the baby. She’s going to raise him by herself in Italy. You’ll never have to see him.” Will’s cleats sank like cement into the grass at the fifty-yard line as he helplessly watched her flounce out of the stadium, Owen in tow.
He woke up drenched in sweat and in need of a cold shower, for multiple reasons. It was hard to separate the erotic fantasy Julianne presented from the duplicitous woman she was. The fact that his body still reacted to her made him madder than hell. He would never be able to trust her. She had every intention of denying him the right to raise his son. The sooner he got Owen’s paternity sorted out legally, the better. Especially if it meant less contact with his son’s mother.
Thirty minutes later, Will made his way downstairs to his kitchen for some much-needed coffee. As he peered over the metal railing leading down from his bedroom to the high-ceilinged living area of his loft apartment, he spied a pair of yellow running shoes hanging off the side of the sectional sofa. Unfortunately, they were still attached to the muscular legs of Blaze tight end Brody Janik. Will swore as he stomped down the stairs.
The Today Show blared from the sixty-inch plasma TV hanging above a gas fireplace. Will maneuvered through a storm of dust motes floating across the oak plank floor in front of the large industrial windows. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with the ineffectiveness of his cleaning service, much less the six-foot-three, two-hundred-ten-pound pretty boy sprawled out on his sofa.
“That Natalie Morales is hot. Think she’s married?” Brody thought every woman was hot. And hot for him, which, given his cover-boy good looks and athletic superstardom, was probably true.
Will shoved Brody’s sneakered feet off the sofa and picked up a bottle of orange juice that was leaning precariously against the ottoman. “Show a little respect, Janik. This isn’t a frat house.”
“Jeez, Grandma.” Brody pulled himself up to a seated position before standing and following Will into the state-of-the-art galley kitchen. “You treat this place like a museum just because it’s been featured in Architectural Digest.”
He doubted Brody, who’d grown up in a wealthy Boston suburb, could appreciate the sense of accomplishment Will took in living in a place he actually owned. It had nothing to do with his loft’s appearance in national magazines. That was his buddy Gavin’s doing. Gavin, a successful architect, had helped to design and restore the bank of warehouse lofts in the trendy Federal Hill area of Baltimore, where Will now lived. For Will, the eighteen-hundred-square-foot loft represented a form of security he’d never felt growing up inside a drafty trailer parked in hurricane alley.
Standing in the galley kitchen decorated in varying shades of gray, Will surveyed his home. The kitchen featured concrete counters, stainless steel appliances, a glass-tile backsplash, and glass-front mahogany cabinets. The two-story living area and the large upstairs master bedroom gave the illusion of an abundance of space, but he was just one person living there. Where would he put Owen? And the kid’s crazy mother, if it came to that? There weren’t any parks or playgrounds nearby. Boys needed a place to run and throw balls. Owen couldn’t do that in Fed Hill.
He loaded a canister into the Keurig machine and contemplated his housing dilemma as Brody straddled one of the two bar stools, hooking his heels on the bottom rung. “I brought you some doughnuts.”
Will watched as Brody crammed half a chocolate doughnut in his mouth, sprinkles raining down on the counter like confetti. “Seriously, how do you eat such crap and still run the forty in four point six seconds?”
“Great genes.” At least that was what it sounded like around the doughnut.
Shaking his head, Will grabbed a piece of wheat bread and the peanut butter out of the pantry. When he was growing up, peanut butter made up two meals a day most weeks. He swore when he had money he’d never touch the stuff again. But when he was stressed, his body seemed to crave the familiar taste. After slapping the peanut butter on the bread, he pulled his cup of coffee out of the machine and took a tentative sip. He was reminded of Sebastian and his tea the day before, and he felt the squeezing begin at his temples again. “How’d you get in here, Brody?”