Page 17 of Conail (Members From Money Season 2, #150)

He took the opportunity to study her. Scooting to the edge of the sofa, he gazed at her face. Her skin was flawless, a smooth cocoa brown. Her lashes were long, making shadows on her cheeks. Her lips were full and slightly pouty. Shifting his gaze from them, he glanced at the short tight curls.

She was tall, he had noticed that when he was walking with her. He was six three himself and had topped her by a few inches. Her hands were delicate, fingers long and elegant.

He had noticed some of her sketches strewn on the table. Rising, he went to study them, his interest piquing. She was really good. Picking one up, he admired the lines and colors. Replacing the drawing among the others, he turned and walked over to the bed.

Sitting on the edge of it, he gently pulled the covers up over her arms.

He had seen her on her knees retching—had seen her burst into tears and curl into him and felt something. How could he not? It was real. This woman was carrying his baby—his heir. Son or daughter, he was hoping it was a boy.

She was going through hell, and he had to admit to himself that he was incredibly humbled by her immense sacrifice.

When he found himself lifting a hand to touch her cheek, he drew it back quickly and lunged to his feet.

It was a natural reaction, he mused. This feeling of protectiveness and worry was natural. There was nothing else to it. Nor did he want to examine the fact that he wanted to stay with her. To make sure she was okay, he added hastily.

After all, she was carrying his baby.

Hissing out a breath, he spun around and left the room to go downstairs.

He went to the liquor cabinet in the living room and poured scotch into a snifter.

As he sipped the scotch, the warmth of the liquid trickled down his throat, providing a temporary solace from the storm of emotions swirling within him. He couldn't deny the magnetic pull he felt towards her, a mixture of responsibility and an undeniable connection that transcended mere obligation.

The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of the wooden floors and the distant hum of the refrigerator.

He stood in the living room, staring out at the moonlit garden, his mind racing with thoughts and questions that seemed to have no answers.

How had his life come to this pivotal moment?

Being responsible for another human being was a daunting task, one he never truly envisioned for himself.

The scotch didn't offer the clarity he sought, but it did provide a momentary respite. He knew, deep down, that he had to step up, to be there for her in every way possible.

Finishing his drink, he set the glass down and made his way back upstairs to check on her.

She was sleeping peacefully. Finding himself standing there and just staring—he turned and left the room—only to pace the hallway.

In ten minutes, he was back checking on her.

And so, it continued for every ten minutes, until he forced himself to go back downstairs.

That's where Eleanor found him, pacing the living room floor restlessly. As soon as she came in, he pounced, eyes blazing.

"Where the hell have you been all this time?" He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle. "It's almost midnight."

Deliberately taking her time to peel off the gloves, she waited until she was able to keep the delight from showing on her face before responding and tried to sound haughty. "I wasn't aware that I was under a curfew. As far as I know, I happen to be an adult and am still the parent here."

He had the grace to look abashed, but only for a second as he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Mother, you left her alone here."

"No." Walking into the room, she put the gloves carefully on the cherry wood table. "I asked you to check in on her."

"You sent the staff away, at this crucial time." He was jumpy and felt as if he was about to explode. "She had two episodes while I was here. She was on her knees puking her guts out when I arrived and she did it again after I made her tea."

"You made her tea?"

He simply stared at her. "Did you hear the part about her puking her guts out?"

"Darling, it's natural—"

"No dammit! What I witnessed was not natural! It would not surprise me to find out that all the lining in her stomach is in the sewer. It was a wretched sight."

Turning away, she went towards the liquor cabinet to pour a glass of wine. She had deliberately lingered over drinks while at the function—to give him enough time to spend with Yasmine. She knew her son and there was no way he could remain immune after this.

"Where the hell is the doctor and the bloody nurse?"

She turned around. "Charlene had to leave town, and the nurse had an emergency."

"What?" He just resisted dragging his fingers through his already disheveled hair. "Both of them are unavailable? What the hell are we paying them for?"

"They'll both be back tomorrow and this is a normal occurrence for a pregnant woman." She settled on a chaise and crossed her legs. "Why, I was violently ill for the first six months when I was pregnant with you."

The color drained from his face, and he had to lean against the mantle for support. "She's only three months pregnant. You're telling me she has another three months of this?" He flung out his hand. "Of puking up everything? Of going through all of that?"

"Now darling—" She began, alarmed at the sickened expression on his face.

"Why? Why the hell is she putting herself through it?"

"To give us a baby." She reminded him.

"Is she that hard up for cash? How the hell can she do this?" He groped for the chair and simply sank down, his knees weak. "Can the pregnancy be terminated?"

"What?" Eleanor blinked at him, the delight she was feeling at his concern, dissolving.

"She's only three months into it. Surely an abortion—"

"Don't!" He jolted at the sharp tone of his mother's voice. "How can you talk that way about your own baby?"

"It's not a baby yet." His voice was tight. "And what I saw with my own eyes was inhumane. No one should have to go through what I saw tonight."

Her shoulders went straight. "I went through something similar. Are you saying that it was not worth it?" This time she did not have to pretend to be haughty.

"It's different," he muttered.

"How?"

"You were doing it because you wanted the child.

You wanted me. At the end of the allotted time, she will have to give up the baby.

All of what she goes through will be for nothing.

I don't want anyone to make that kind of sacrifice for me.

This was a bad idea to begin with, and we should consider—"

"I hope I am not interrupting."

"My dear—"

"What the hell are you doing up?"

"Please stop shouting. It's making my headache worse."

Eleanor watched in amazement as he sprang up and rushed towards Yasmine.

"You have a headache?" He gripped her arms. "How bad?"

"It gets worse when you shout and dig your fingers in my flesh."

He let go immediately and stumbled back. "You should be in bed." He started to reach for her again, but she evaded him. Turning to look at Eleanor, she gave the woman a fleeting smile. "I just came down to get something to eat. My stomach is empty."

"I will make you some soup."

"I don't want to trouble you."

"No trouble at all." She rose gracefully and glanced at her son. "Why don't you go upstairs my dear and I'll have Conail bring the meal to you?"

"As long as he's no longer shouting." With that, she turned and walked away, with him moving a few steps towards her.

"She should not have come downstairs." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he went to watch as she ascended the stairs.

"She'll be fine." Brushing past him, she made her way to the kitchen with him following.

"I think we should have a talk with the doctor."

"Charlene has prescribed something to counter the worst of the nausea." She searched for a can of soup and decided to add some vegetables for volume.

"I am talking about terminating the pregnancy." He said stiffly. "We should at least consider the possibility—"

"No." He jumped when she slammed the saucepan down on the marble countertop. "You're talking about my grandchild, and I will not stand here and listen to you discussing terminating his or her life. Yasmine will get through it. In a few months she will be okay—"

"And the months in between that?" He asked tightly. "The suffering, the inability to keep anything down? Being in bed for the duration? What if something else happens?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know mother. Anything."

"Then we deal with it. She's not complaining."

"She should."

Eleanor touched the button to light the flame and started to chop vegetables. "You're being unreasonable and letting your past color your attitude." She did not have to look up to know that he had turned rigid with anger.

"My past has nothing to do with it."

"Doesn't it?" She asked mildly as she dumped celery and carrots into the pot.

Grabbing an apron as she remembered that she was wearing a five-thousand-dollar designer dress, she tied it around her waist. Plunking the kettle on, she searched for a pouch with the intention of making tea.

"That woman and the man you considered your best friend are winning the battle.

While you're stuck in the past, they're moving on with their lives. Think about that."

Instead of responding, he just turned around and left the room.

Leaning against the counter, Eleanor heaved out a breath.

When she came home and saw him prowling the living room restlessly, she had felt the hope blossoming.

And she had seen the way he came to attention when Yasmine came into the room.

But her son was stubborn and what had happened to him was still eating away at him and it was killing her.