Karen Whittenburg - His Shotgun Proposal

But for every female who deserved a man’s trust and respect, there was another like Abigail Jones. A schemer. A manipulator. A liar. She was lying. She had to be lying, because…

There was no because. She was as bad as he believed her to be. Worse even than Gillian, who had had, at least at one time, some genuine feeling for him. Gillian’s mistake had been in thinking Mac was so much in love with her he would never believe she could do what she had, in fact, done. Abbie’s mistake was in coming to the Desert Rose, thinking she could manipulate him, and his family, into aiding and abetting her schemes.

It was just too bad she wasn’t outside with him right now so he could tell her exactly what she could do with her malicious and misbegotten plans. Kicking at a bit of gravel, Mac headed for the darkened house, paying no attention to the sleepy sounds of a hot and humid night. A glimpse of movement, of something white where there should be only dark, caught his eye and he looked toward the lake and the section of dock that extended out into the water. Someone stood there and he told himself it might be his mother, out for a late-night walk around the ranch. Or maybe his aunt Vi, fretting about the fiftieth birthday that seemed to loom large and ponderously on her horizon. But even before the heels of his boots struck the redwood docking, he knew the figure bathed in moon glow was Abbie. Abbie, the schemer. Abbie, the liar. Abbie, with her hair curling loose and dusty gold about her shoulders. Abbie, with her face tilted to the night sky. Abbie, so beautiful his heart actually ached at the sight of her.

Which was crazy. He had fallen in love with an illusion. The mystery woman he had been dreaming of for five long months had never existed except in his imagination. And here was Abbie to prove it.

She turned at his approach, her hand grabbing the dock railing, her expression tightening, her eyes narrowing, her shoulders stiffening as if she expected trouble. Well, she was right on that count. She could look like an angel all she wanted, with her hair streaked silver by the moonlight and the shape of her body outlined softly beneath the loose white shirt she wore. He was trouble. And she hadn’t seen the half of it yet.

“Can’t sleep?” he stopped, directly across from her, and leaned a hip against the railing. Fed by the boisterous Colorado River as it loped lazily through Texas, the lake lapped gently below the dock, lit by the light of a million stars and the shimmer of a moon reflected twice over in the dark water. “Conscience keeping you awake?”

“Heartburn,” she said succinctly, turning in profile but clearly determined to stand her ground against him.

“Really? I’ve never been bothered by heartburn.”

“Yet another example of how Mother Nature allows men to escape responsibility for their actions.”

“Ah, now. I expected better from you than that old life-is-unfair-to-the-female line. A woman of your imaginative talents can surely do better than that worn-out excuse.”

Her gaze settled on him, narrowed and cool. “Look, Prince Not Charming, I came out here to be alone with my thoughts, and while I know it’s probably a lot to ask, I’d appreciate it if you left me the hell alone.”

She was scrappy, he’d say that much for her. “Nicely put, but still just another lie.”

“Another lie? You think I want you to stay out here and insult me?”

“I think if you’d wanted me to leave you the hell alone, you’d have stayed the hell away from me in the first place.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits and he realized she wasn’t wearing the black glasses, which was why, probably, he couldn’t stop looking at her. That or the rather obvious fact that she didn’t appear to be wearing anything but the oversize white shirt, which was certainly modest enough, although unsettling in its brevity. “I don’t know how you ever managed to seduce me,” she said tightly.

“Probably because it was the other way around. You seduced me.”

“That’s not the way I remember it.”

“No, that’s not the way you want me to remember it.”

She sighed. “Okay, let me see if I’ve got your version of events down correctly. I planned the whole seduction. Bumped into you at the bar on purpose. Insisted on secrecy—no names, no phone numbers, no personal information. Had my wicked way with you all night, intentionally getting pregnant in the process. Slipped away the next morning, already plotting to run into you, by accident, five months later so I could make nefarious demands on your pristine name and fabulous fortune, which of course, I have researched to the last penny. Oh, yes, and then there’s your oh-so-precious royal blue blood, which I traced all the way back to Lawrence of Arabia. Did I miss anything, Your Highness?”

He’d spent hours now going over just that scenario and, although it sounded ridiculous the way she said it, he thought there was as much evidence to support his theory as her claim that it was all sheer coincidence. Plus, he had the advantage of firsthand experience on just how duplicitous a woman could be and the lengths she would go to in order to get a wedding ring. “Only one small detail,” he said, attempting to pierce her facade of innocent outrage with a hard stare. “I don’t believe for a second I’m the father of that baby.”

Her breathing grew instantly agitated at the implication and it seemed to take her several seconds to find the raspy sounds that passed for her voice. “All I can say is that if you’re really a prince, the world is hard up for royalty.”

“I don’t believe my character is the one in question here.”

“Well, you’ll have to debate that with someone else.” She turned and started to walk away. Barefoot. She was barefoot.

Mac pushed away from the dock rail and fell into step beside her, wondering if he should offer to carry her across the gravel driveway so she wouldn’t hurt her bare feet. But she stopped short and faced him with a contemptuous glare. “What part of leave me alone do you not understand?”

Her chest rose and fell with each angry breath and he had a sudden, compelling impulse to rip off her concealing white shirt and bare her breasts so that he could see them full and ripe with her pregnancy. He found the idea of the changes in her body not just sexually titillating but exciting. Very exciting. And that realization unsettled him even further and made his voice scratchy and sharp. “You made a big mistake in coming to the Desert Rose. I don’t know what you thought would happen here, but I can personally guarantee that you won’t be happy with the outcome.”

“That’s already quite apparent,” she said with an irritated sigh. “Because the only request I’ve made of you so far is to leave me alone.”

He ought to do just that. He should take her lack of denial as validation and walk away from her right now. But this was his ranch, his home, his dock, and she’d contaminated them, along with the memories of the one night they’d spent together. He didn’t know why the latter charge seemed the most offensive, but he’d be damned if he’d let it bother him. “I want you to leave tomorrow,” he stated firmly, and hated the way his gut twisted in protest. “I know Jessica will try to persuade you to stay, but—”

“But it would be so much more comfortable for you if I go. You don’t have to draw me a map. I understand I’m to make no claims on you for myself or for the baby.” Her lips curved with a wry contempt. “But you know what? I can do that right here.”

Mac frowned, waiting for fury at her defiant manner to sweep over him. “Do what?”

“Leave you alone, of course.” Her chin was up, her eyes shining, as she gave an arrogant, decisive little toss of her head. “I’ll stay here and work with Jessie as I planned and you’ll stay out of my way and I’ll stay out of yours. Voilà, we both get what we want.”

“You can’t stay here,” he said, not only not furious, but a little panicked. “That would be very unwise.”

“Why? Are you going to run around behind my back, assuring everyone you’re not the father of my baby?” She smiled, obviously of the opinion she had the upper hand. “That’s only going to make them think it’s a possibility.”

“I have every right to defend myself.”

“Against what? This?” She patted the slope of her belly. “Sorry, but you’re a little late for that.”

“You’re not staying,” he said, determined she would not best him in this argument. “Tomorrow, you’ll tell Jessica that you’ve changed your mind and you must leave. Tomorrow, I’ll drive you to the airport and pay for your ticket, if need be. But one way or another, tomorrow, you are leaving this ranch.”

She turned her gaze back to the lake, looking both determined and satisfied with herself. “No, I don’t think so.”

“This isn’t your decision.”

Her eyes returned to him with the fire of her resolve. “Yes, Mac, it is. For five months now, I’ve rocked along, pretending this wasn’t happening, putting off decisions, believing that if I ever met you again, you’d help me make the right choices for our baby. But I realize now, I am the responsible party here. And I will make the decisions without benefit of your advice. So, as far as I’m concerned, you and your arrogant, self-important opinions can take a flying leap into this lake and swim all the way to the Gulf of Mexico before I’ll give half-a-second’s consideration to what you want.”

“My family will never permit you to claim any portion of the Desert Rose for your child.”

“Your family will never know this child has every right to make such a claim unless you tell them.”

“You expect me to believe you haven’t already told them?”

“I’ve told no one. Except you. And believe me, if I could think of a way to take it back, you wouldn’t know, either.”

What could she hope to gain with this tack? Time? Opportunity? Support? “So you intend to hold me hostage here on my own property, while you wait for the right moment to drop your little bombshell?”

“I intend to stay as far away from you as you and the boundaries of this ranch will permit. But even if we step on each other every time we turn around, I am not going to be forced into leaving simply because my presence here makes you uncomfortable.”

“You’re making a mistake, Abigail Jones.”

She stared silently into his eyes for a moment, then spun around and walked back to the end of the dock, reaching up with both hands to push the bulky weight of her hair off her nape. “Well, I made a mistake in not bringing a swimsuit, that’s for sure.”

Did she think she could simply announce her intention to make his life a living hell and then change the subject? Well, he could turn the tables as well as she. “What a pity,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “A midnight swim would undoubtedly clear your head and enable you to think more clearly. It might even soothe your heartburn. But then again, probably not.”

“If you were a gentleman, you’d go away and the swimsuit would be a non-issue.”

His eyebrows went up. “And leave you to swim alone? Now, that would be very ungentlemanly.”

“So it’s okay to swim without a swimsuit as long as I don’t do it alone?”

“Got it in one, Abigail Jones.” He shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it over the rail, then his hands dropped to the buckle on his belt. “The question is, are you going in with me or are you going to run away like a frightened little chicken?”

She turned around just as he unsnapped the top of his jeans. Her gaze flickered down the shadowy vee of hair on his chest to his abdomen, then rose in a guilty rush. “Are you daring me to take my clothes off in full view of the house?”