Page 79 of Whispers

“Everything worth having is.”

“So now you’re a philosopher.”

“No,” she said, lifting up her chin. “What I am—or will be—is a mother.” She took his big hand in hers and said, her voice shaking, “Like it or not, Hunter Riley, you’re going to be a father.”

“Christ.”

“In my opinion, you’ll be the best.”

His fingers, callused and strong, tightened over hers. “What I am, Miranda, is a nobody. I haven’t had time to be somebody yet.”

“You’re somebody to me and to this little person.” Slowly she tugged and placed his hand over her flat abdomen. His face was so close to hers, she kissed his cheek. “I believe that you and I can take on the world, Hunter.”

“I believe you can. I’m not so sure about me.”

“Have faith.” She kissed his cheek again. “Together, Riley, we’re a terrific team.”

“You think so?” One side of his mouth lifted and his hand flattened possessively over her belly. His ring rubbed against her bare skin.

“I know it.”

“Okay.” His voice cracked as he slid beneath the sheet and took her into his arms as he settled next to her. “Let’s . . . Let’s think this through. You know that I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Her heart soared. “Would you?”

“And I’d always hoped that someday, if I could finish school, buy a place and, you know, establish myself, that there was a chance for us.”

“There is.”

He looked into her eyes and sighed. “This—the baby—wasn’t part of my plan.”

“Nor mine.”

“What about your career?”

“A baby won’t stop it. Just put it on hold.”

He thought a minute. “It would be hard.”

“I know, but it’s not like I don’t have some money—”

“Forget it. If we’re going to make this work—I mean get married and start a family, we have to do it on our own. No help from your father. No tapping into money you’ve saved for college.”

“It’s my trust fund,” she said, “and it’s not that much.”

“We’re not using it.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m enough of a chauvinist to want to support my own wife and children. Oh, God, would you listen to that? My children!” He laughed and squeezed her, one strong leg pinning hers against the mattress. “This is insane.”

“I know.”

“But I love you.”

“And I love you.” She blinked back those damned tears that kept threatening her eyes.

“That does it,” he said with a half smile. “I guess there’s no getting around it now.” Sliding out of the bed, he bent one knee and, while the firelight played upon his nude body, asked her the question she’d hoped she’d hear. “Miranda Holland, will you be my wife?”

So it was true.

In the privacy of the sauna off the recreation room in his parents’ house, Weston read the private investigator’s report for the third time. His fingers shook and he wanted to scream. The old man had another kid—a bastard son. One who, if and when he found out the truth, would claim his inheritance.