“I want you to marry me, Cory. I want our son to have a proper father.” About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN Copyright

“I want you to marry me, Cory. I want our son to have a proper father.”

Cory winced. “I’ve already told you I won’t marry you.”

Struggling for calmness, Slade said, “Don’t you think it’s time you started to figure out all the implications of what you’re saying? There are three people involved here, not just you. And one of them is our son.”

“I should have drawn up a contract for our agreement. Instead, I trusted your word. Big mistake,” Cory retorted.

Only the sure knowledge that he was fighting for his life enabled Slade to keep his temper. “I want to live with you, Cory. For the rest of my days.”

Although born in England, SANDRA FIELD has lived most of her life in Canada; she says the silence and emptiness of the north speaks to her particularly. While she enjoys traveling, and passing on her sense of a new place, she often chooses to write about the city which is now her home. Sandra says, “I write out of my experience. I have learned that love with its joys and its pains is all-important. I hope this knowledge enriches my writing, and touches a chord in you, the reader.”

Honeymoon for Three

Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

SLADE REDDEN ran his eye down the day’s list of appointments. “Cory Haines? Who’s he? Another politician looking for a handout? If so, he’s clean out of luck.”

Mrs. Minglewood coughed discreetly. “Cory Haines is a woman, Mr. Redden. She owns a landscape design company here in the city.”

“And what does she want?”

“She did not disclose the nature of her business, sir. But she was quite insistent that she have an appointment as soon as possible.”

She’d want something. Everyone did these days; it was one of the penalties of success—or so Slade was learning. Ever since he’d won that international award for his inner city design in Chicago, realtors and bureaucrats and architects had been after him in droves. He rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t slept well last night, and the mixture of rain and snow that was choking the air was no incentive to get to work. Halifax, capital city of Nova Scotia, one of Canada’s eastern seaboard provinces, had obviously not heard of the concept that March was supposed to usher in the season called spring.

Mrs. Minglewood regarded him sympathetically. She liked working for Mr. Redden on his rare visits to the company offices in Halifax; he was, in general, even-tempered, and treated her as though she was a real person and not a piece of modular furniture. Hidden somewhere in her capacious bosom was the added factor that he was easily the most attractive—not even in her secret thoughts would Mrs. Minglewood use the word sexy—man she had ever laid eyes on. None of the heroes of the old movies she doted on could compare with him. They didn’t even come close.

“...at lunch?”

Flustered, she said, “I beg your pardon, sir?” Patiently Slade repeated his question, and within half an hour Mrs. Minglewood had enough work to keep her busy the whole day. But she was not so busy around two o’clock that she didn’t watch for the arrival of Cory Haines.

At three minutes to two the elevator doors opened and a young woman stepped out. She approached Mrs. Minglewood’s desk and said in a pleasantly low-pitched voice, “I have an appointment with Mr. Redden at two—my name is Haines.”

Mrs. Minglewood’s bosom indulged in a pleasurable flutter of romanticism. Without a speck of envy—for she loved her stout, garrulous husband Wilfred and considered herself a truly happy woman—she decided that Cory Haines was exactly what Mr. Redden needed on such a miserable day. A real pick-me-up. “Come this way, please,” she said, and tapped on Mr. Redden’s door.

Slade had been absorbed in the computer printouts of one of his latest projects—a renewal of the harbor frontage. He wasn’t happy with the placement of the boardwalk, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what was wrong. “Come in,” he called brusquely. He’d give this appointment ten minutes. Maximum.

Cory heard the brusqueness and squared her shoulders. He wouldn’t be the first business executive to give her grief, nor would he be the last. Although his CV hadn’t led her to expect real problems.

“Ms. Cory Haines, Mr. Redden,” Mrs. Minglewood said, and hesitated just a fraction too long before regretfully closing the office door.

Cory walked into the office as though totally confident of her welcome. The magazine articles she’d searched out had prepared her for Slade Redden’s rugged good looks. But in person the man was far more impressive than any two-dimensional photograph could possibly portray. Oh, my goodness, she thought. It’s a good thing I’m immune... talk about an unfair advantage.

Slade, quite unjustly, had pictured a gray-haired martinet with a jutting chin. He saw a woman considerably younger than his thirty-four years who nevertheless possessed that indefinable something called presence. In an attractive contralto voice she said, “It’s very good of you to spare me some of your time, Mr. Redden. I know how busy you are.”

He stood up automatically, wishing he’d taken the trouble to comb his hair. His tie was askew, his jacket draped over the chair and his shirtsleeves rolled up. Oh, well, she’d have to take him as he was.

At six feet he topped her by three or four inches. “May I take your coat?” he asked.

It was a smart navy blue trenchcoat. As she slid it from her shoulders, he caught the scent of her perfume, a subtle blend that hinted of warmer climates; the overhead lighting caught in her smoothly groomed hair so that it gleamed like strands of copper. “Please sit down,” he said, hanging up her coat, pushing the papers on his wide mahogany desk to one side and getting right to the point; he rarely wasted time on social niceties. “What can I do for you?”

He watched her take a moment to gather her thoughts. Her flared wool skirt, kingfisher-blue, worn with a richly embroidered vest and a white silk shirt, spoke of a woman confident of her own taste, who took pleasure in texture and colour. Her face, he thought, rather surprised both at his interest and his acumen, was like a good painting; something to which you could return again and again, always with reward. She was excited about something, he thought slowly. Very excited.

Cory leaned forward in her chair and smiled at him, a smile that warmed her dark brown eyes. Just because he was easily the most attractive man she’d ever met, she saw no reason to change her game plan. “I want something from you, Mr. Redden—and I’m willing to give you something in return.”

“Then you’ve just differentiated yourself from a great many people who come through that door,” he said drily.

“Have I?” Her lashes flickered. “You’re a very successful businessman—but I think you really care about the quality of your work and how it affects those who live with it. And that, I’d say, differentiates you from a great many people.”

She’d neatly turned the tables on him. “And why do you believe that about me, Ms. Haines?” he said, then wondered if she’d think he was fishing for compliments.

“I’ve done my research—I’ve read everything I could find about you and your company.” Again her inner excitement welled up, causing her words to tumble out. “You and I have something in common, I’m convinced of it—and it’s on the basis of that certainty that I’m here. Because if your time is valuable, so also is mine.”

She wasn’t being arrogant; she was simply stating a fact. Intrigued in spite of himself, Slade said, “You have an advantage over me. Because I know nothing whatsoever about you.”

“I own my own company too: Haines Landscaping.” Her lips quirked. “A much smaller company than yours. I’ve been doing landscape design in this area for five years, and last year I won both a municipal and a provincial award for a community park I designed in the north end of the city.”

Unable to contain her energy, she got up, walking over to the tall windows, which were streaked with rain, and gazing down into the street. “I love this city, Mr. Redden. I want it to be a good place for people to live. I want it to stay human-oriented ... user-friendly, if you like. And that’s where you can help. Because I think you share those values.”

“I’m not averse to making money,” he said sharply.

“Neither am I. Nor do I apologize for that.”

He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his neck, feeling the pull on his chest muscles. “So what kind of a touch are you going to put on my checkbook?”

A flush rose in her cheeks. She jammed her hands in the pockets of her skirt and said with noticeable coolness, “I don’t want your money. I want your land.”

She was nothing if not straightforward, thought Slade. For some reason wanting to jolt her out of her composure, he said, “Land is money—surely I don’t have to spell that out for you?”

“Land is a lot more than money. I don’t have to spell that out for you.” She bit her lip, leaving a trace of peach-toned lipstick on one tooth. “Specifically, I’m interested in two properties—the old parking lot on Dow Street, and the comer lot on Cornell and Cruikshank. Neither one is what you’d call a desirable property in monetary terms.”

He got up too, and walked over to the window, his gaze trained on her face. “So why do you want them?”

She said with an intensity he was almost sure she was unaware of, “The parking lot on Dow Street could be made into a wonderful community garden—plots for individual families, small sheds for equipment, a shaded playground at the far end for the children whose parents are working in the garden. As it is now, it’s a wasteland—garbage all over the place, potholes, nothing to please the eye. Or the soul.”

Deliberately needling her, Slade said, “How very eloquent of you.”

Cory looked straight at him, her eyes narrowing. She might want something from Slade Redden but that didn’t mean she had to let him walk all over her. “Am I standing here making a fool of myself?” she said. “All those magazine articles that spoke in such glowing terms of your integrity and your old-fashioned values—were they just exercises in fiction and flattery?”

In a leisurely fashion that stopped just short of insult, Slade let his eyes wander over her face. Her lashes were thick and dark, and many a model would have paid a fortune to have her cheekbones. Quelling a crazy impulse to wipe the tiny fleck of lipstick from her tooth, and thereby feel the soft curves of her lips beneath his fingertip, he said abruptly, “What about the other property? On Cornell?”

“There are a couple of old people’s homes near that corner, as well as some low-rental housing. It could be made into a small park with benches, flowerbeds and shrubs—there are already three fine maples there for shade.”

“You design it and I pay—is that the deal?”

Her nostrils flared. “There’s no need to be gratuitously offensive, Mr. Redden.”

“You can always leave,” he said evenly.

“And then kick myself for the next month because I gave up too easily? No, thanks!”

He was only confirming what he already knew. “You really do want these projects to go ahead, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise—I already told you my time is valuable.”

“So what would your contribution be?”

“If you donated the properties to the city on the condition that they be kept as a garden and as a park respectively, I’d provide the design, the plants and the labor.”

He raised his brow. “That’s exceedingly generous of you... What’s your motive, Ms. Haines?”

She said pleasantly, “It’s been a long time since I’ve met a man who riled me as much as you do. Could my motive possibly be altruism? Or won’t that wash?”

She hadn’t left his office and she hadn’t backed down. “Nope,” he said. “Altruism, in my opinion, doesn’t exist.”

“I would consider that statement arguable.” Her smile was consciously provocative. “How about enlightened self-interest? Are you more susceptible to that?”

“You’re getting closer.”

“I’m a quick learner. As for my motive, I get the pleasure of seeing worthless land made both beautiful and useful. How will that do?”

“It’s going to cost you.”

“I can afford it.”

“I hadn’t realized landscape design was so profitable.”

For the first time he saw that he’d got beneath her skin. “The source of my money is none of your business,” she said shortly. “I can afford it. That’s all you need to know.”

“I’d need documentation to that effect before making any commitments.”

“You’ll have it.” She swallowed, feeling tension tighten her jaw. “Are you saying you’ll consider my proposal?”

“I’m free tomorrow morning between ten and eleven-thirty—that should be enough time to check the sites out.”

“I have an appointment at nine. I could pick you up outside your office at ten-thirty.”

I have a life too; that was what she was saying. He grinned at her. “I’ll be there. Bring your plans.”

“Thank you,” she said blandly. “Let me give you my business card in case there’s any change in the time.” Stooping by her chair, she extracted a neat green and beige card and passed it to him. Making no attempt to hide the sardonic note in her voice, she added, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Redden.”

“Likewise, Ms. Haines,” Slade said, and took her coat from the hook, holding it for her. Her hair was pulled into a knot at her nape, long hair the colour of polished chestnuts; again her scent drifted to his nostrils. It was a long time since he’d been so aware of a woman, so awake to every tiny detail ... a very long time.

Quickly Cory shrugged into her coat, not wanting to prolong the contact of his hands on her shoulders. She turned to face him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

Suddenly resenting her level gaze, Slade said, “I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ll be running a routine check on your business between now and then.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise.”

Irritated out of all proportion, he swung the door open. Mrs. Minglewood looked up, her bright blue eyes openly curious in a way that did nothing to improve Slade’s mood. Without watching Cory Haines cross to the elevator, he shut his door smartly. He’d get Mrs. Minglewood to pull the files on the two properties and to check out Haines Landscaping later on. Right now he needed to put an interview that had been as frustrating as it had been interesting right out of his mind and concentrate on the plans for the waterfront.

But the printouts failed to hold his interest. Restlessly he strode over to the window. The rain had changed back to snow, big wet flakes falling from a sodden sky. It was time he went back to Toronto, he thought moodily. Back to his head office and his apartment and his friends.

Maybe he’d go and see his mother after work. She always cheered him up.

Delicate and elusive, a woman’s scent hung in the air, mocking him with all that was missing in his life.

Lavinia Hargreave had remarried after Slade’s father had died of a heart attack: an odd death, Slade had often thought, for a man who had given little evidence of having a heart. His memories of his father were of lacks and absences, of coldness and distance, of a quintessentially military man, phobic about emotion and intimacy.

In consequence, Slade had been happy when his mother had married Wendell Hargreave, a retired and rather famous antiquarian bookseller who loved poetry and gardening. Lavinia had blossomed in the eleven years they had been together, and Slade had genuinely mourned Wendell’s death, ironically also from a heart attack. Wendell and Lavinia had owned fifty acres on St. Margaret’s Bay; only two weeks ago Lavinia had rented it to a university professor and his family and had bought herself a small bungalow in the city. Because she was only gradually getting settled, he’d decided to stay in a hotel this trip.

She opened the door to her son and ushered him in. “You look tired,” she said.

He flicked a glance at himself in the ornate antique mirror that overpowered the narrow hallway. Dark brown hair with a tendency to curl, gray eyes, cleft chin—he’d seen it all a thousand times and had never understood why women—secretaries, sophisticates, and sweet young things—all seemed to find him irresistible. “I need a shave,” he said.

“You need a holiday,” she said tartly. “You work too hard.”

They had had this discussion before. “Yes, Mum,” he said, kissing her cheek. “You should sell that mirror; it doesn’t suit the house.”

“The house suits me and the mirror stays. Wendell was very fond of that mirror.”

Without asking, she poured him a Scotch and water. Taking a hefty gulp, Slade broached something that had bothered him ever since he’d arrived in Halifax last week. “You could have bought a much bigger house than this, Mum—you didn’t even touch that account I set up for you.”

Lavinia added a generous dose of Coke to some dark rum; the rum, she always said, was the excuse to drink the Coke. Smoothing down her flyaway white hair, she said, “You know me—I’m much too strong-minded to be dependent. And far too old to change.”

“I hope you didn’t rush your decision to move.”

“I wanted to do it before I was forced to, Slade. Retain an element of choice. There are no stairs in this house, and I’m near a library, a bookstore and a delicatessen. Plus I can take a cab to the theatre and the symphony.” She raised her glass in a toast. “I’m really very happy here. Have some chips.”

Lavinia didn’t believe in cholesterol. He took a handful, smiling at her affectionately, recognizing as always how grateful he was to her for giving him unstintingly the love his father had withheld. “You’ll have to do something with the garden.”

“Sod it.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Grass, Slade. Grass. No fuss, no muss.”

“But you had such a lovely garden in Seaview.”

“Change is the essence of life,” she said grandly. “Growing old, so someone told me recently, is not for sissies.”

“No one would call you a sissy,” he said, and suddenly remembered Cory Haines’s defiant brown eyes. She wasn’t one either. Lavinia, he was almost sure, would like Cory Haines.

Not that they’d ever meet.

“All this nonsense about golden years—I don’t see what’s so golden about arthritis and all your friends starting to die off. Poppycock.” Then she eyed him over the rim of her glass, hesitating uncharacteristically. When she spoke, her voice, for the first time, showed her age. “I probably shouldn’t say this ... but before too long I’d love to be a grandmother again.”

“Don’t, Mum!”

“It’s been two years now.”

“Yeah...” Slade shook his head from side to side, like an animal that had been hit hard and unexpectedly by someone it trusted. “It still seems like yesterday.”

“You can’t hide in your job for ever.”

“I suppose not.” He managed a smile. “If I meet someone, you’ll be the first person to know.”

“You won’t meet anyone until you let your guard down; that’s as obvious as—as that mirror in the hallway. And now I really will be quiet; I can’t stand interfering mothers. Please will you help me move the mahogany bureau in my room?”

The mahogany bureau weighed at least two hundred pounds. “Sure, I’ll help you,” said Slade, and drained his drink.

An hour later, having moved the bureau, put up curtain rails and unpacked some books, he was on his way, driving carefully down the slick, wet streets. His mother had never mentioned the lack of a grandchild before today. He wished she’d kept quiet about it. Pressure in that department he didn’t need.

Feeling unsettled and out of sorts, he decided to drop into the squash club, where he’d purchased a guest pass the day after he’d arrived. It was round robin night; he’d be bound to find a partner.

Before he changed, he checked the schedule by the desk. Tom MacLeod and Bruce Waring were here tonight; he’d played with both of them before. Then another name leaped out at him from the pencilled list. Cory Haines. She’d signed up for a court at seven tomorrow morning with someone called Joe Purchell.

He stood still, his memory calling up her face, so changeable and so vividly alive. Somehow he wasn’t surprised that she played squash, a game that demanded lightning-swift reactions, total concentration and a high level of fitness. Besides, she lived not far from here; he’d discovered that when he’d checked out her company before he’d left the office. Not to his surprise, her business was healthily in the black.

Frowning, he headed for the locker rooms.

At seven-thirty the next morning, on his way to the office, Slade pulled into the parking lot at the squash club. He’d slept badly again. His dreams had been blatantly sexual and when he’d woken at about six he’d remembered all too clearly the woman who had cavorted with him on peach-colored satin sheets with such enthusiasm and expertise. Cory Haines. Naked, beautiful and incredibly inventive.

He could control most aspects of his life. But he couldn’t control his dreams.

He slammed the car door and took the steps two at a time. Then he strode along the upper gallery that offered a view into the courts below. When he came to the end court he stood back, so that he could see without being seen.

They were rallying, both players covering the hardwood floor with speed and precision, the ball thwacking against the walls like miniature gunshots. Then Cory maneuvered her partner into the back of the court, raced for the front and placed a gentle drop shot into the corner. The man gave a yell of frustration that echoed off the white-painted walls and Cory laughed, a full-bellied chuckle of delight. “My serve,” she said, flipping the ball into the air with her racquet.

She was wearing regulation white shorts and T-shirt, her hair in a thick braid down her back. As she stood poised to serve, Slade could see her breasts heaving and the sweat trickling down her neck; her legs were long, their grace in no way lessened by the taut calf muscles. Involuntarily his body hardened in response.

Scowling, he flicked his gaze to her partner. Joe Purchell was taller than Cory, boasted a crop of black curly hair and was extremely good-looking. He was also several years younger than Slade and, by the look of him, in better shape. Slade disliked him on sight.

The rally began. The two players were equally matched, Cory making up in intelligence what she lacked in reach. When the score had been stuck at seven-all for nearly five minutes, Slade left as unobtrusively as he’d arrived.

She played to win. But she also played for the sheer joy of the game. And she was every bit as seductive in the squash court as she’d been in bed in his dreams.

He gunned the car out of the lot and drove to the office, his mouth set in a grim line. The smartest thing he could do was say no to her proposal. A flat no. That way he wouldn’t have to see her again. Because the last thing he needed was to be lusting after a woman who almost undoubtedly was involved with someone else. Especially a woman as intense, intelligent and heart-wrenchingly beautiful as Cory Haines.

A woman like that wasn’t on the cards for him.

CHAPTER TWO

ONCE in his office, Slade plugged in the coffee machine and spread out the plans for the harborfront, forcing himself to concentrate. Years of discipline came to his rescue; when Mrs. Minglewood tapped on his door to tell him it was ten twenty-five, he’d figured out what was wrong with the boardwalk and had come up with an inventive and ingenious way round the parking problem. Feeling well pleased with himself, he ran downstairs to meet Cory.

The snow had melted and a pale, unconvincing sun was bathing the street in an equally pale warmth. He’d tell her that on reflection he’d decided against her proposal; this would save both of them the time and trouble of inspecting the two sites. Then he’d forget about her. In a couple of weeks he’d be back in Toronto, where he belonged.

Ten-thirty came and went. Ten thirty-five, then ten-forty. Anxiety began to gnaw at his gut; somehow he was sure she wasn’t a woman to be late. Then at ten forty-three a small green truck with “Haines Landscaping” emblazoned in gold on its side panels sneaked in between two cars and drew up at the curb with a jolt. Cory leaned over and unlatched the door. As Slade pulled it open she said incoherently, “I’m so sorry I’m late; I’m never late; my mother had a thing about punctuality and it’s ingrained in me. I can’t stand keeping someone waiting... I do apologize, Mr. Redden.”

He’d intended to stand firm on the sidewalk and deliver his speech and then go back to the office. Instead Slade found himself climbing into the truck beside her, his eyes glued to her face. She looked pale and distraught, a very different creature from the woman he’d watched at the squash club only three hours earlier.

Watched? Spied on would be more accurate. “What’s wrong?” he rapped.

“Nothing! I told you, I just hate being late.”

“What’s wrong, Cory?” he repeated.

It was the first time Slade Redden had used her first name. And it was quite clear he’d sit there until she answered him. Cory said rapidly, “The reason I’m late is because my best friend had a baby this morning—her second. I got the message when I got to work, so I had to rush to the hospital, and then I was late for my other appointment.” She gave a weak giggle. “A retired RCMP inspector whose ideas on punctuality would rival my mother’s.”

“And your friend? Was everything OK?”

“Yes! Yes, of course.”

“You don’t look particularly happy about it.”

Her head jerked round. He saw far too much, this man with the cool gray eyes. Trying to subdue the storm of emotions that had been rampaging through her body ever since she’d seen Sue at the hospital, Cory snapped, “Of course I’m happy for her.”

“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”

In a loud voice she said, “I’m very happy ... she has a lovely eight-pound boy. I’m extremely happy.” She scowled into her rearview mirror and pulled out into the traffic with scant regard for the clutch. “We’ll go to Cornell Street first.”

Slade had no idea what was going on, other than that she looked like a volcano about to erupt. He said mildly, “You know, that’s the first time in our acquaintance that you’ve been less than truthful with me.”

“Mr. Redden, I’m—”

“Slade, please.”

Cory was unable to think of any diplomatic way to get him off her case. She couldn’t possibly explain all her tangled and contradictory feelings to him because she didn’t understand them herself. She said in a clipped voice, “My personal life is just that—personal. I would never have told you about Sue if I hadn’t been late.”

Why did he feel as though she’d slapped him in the face when she was only verbalizing something he fully subscribed to? Business was business, and to mix the personal with it was a bad mistake; he’d learned that very early in his career. So what the hell was he doing sitting in this truck when all his instincts had urged him to cut the connection with her?

Not sure whether he was angrier with her or with himself, Slade said tersely, “What sort of time frame are you looking at for these projects?”

With evident relief she said, “I’d get at them as soon as possible. Spring is a really busy time for me, but I’ve hired a couple of extra helpers along with my right-hand man, so I’d be able to handle it.”

Was Joe Purchell her right-hand man? And what was that if not a personal question? “So the gardens could be available for this summer?”

“Absolutely.” She swung down a side street and parked near a corner lot decorated with rubble and a large “For Sale” sign. Her nerves vibrating like piano wire because the next half hour was crucial, Cory slid down from the truck in her neat khaki trousers and work boots and led the way across the street. “I’d make evergreens a priority, so the park would look good in winter,” she said eagerly. “But you can see how the maple would provide a lot of shade in summer. I think a couple of winding paths would be a good idea—with lots of benches.”

He glanced around. “Would vandalism be a problem?”

“I’ve thought of that.” Enthusiasm warmed her voice. “Rather than beds of brightly colored flowers that might encourage people to rip them up or trample on them, I’d focus on foliage. Hostas and ferns. Low-growing junipers—some of them come in lovely soft blue-greens. Then some middle-height yews and flowering shrubs, plus three or four well-placed granite rocks—a bit of a Japanese influence. I might have a red-leafed Japanese maple as well; they’re slow-growing but very effective with evergreens. Here, I’ve done a computer mock-up.”

He perused the paper she had unfolded, which transformed the deserted lot into a peaceful and harmonious oasis in the city streets. “What about a fountain?”

She grimaced. “That gets pricey. Although it would be wonderful.”

“I have a friend who designs fountains that are both vandal-proof and beautiful,” he murmured. “The sound of water can be very soothing. I think your focus on foliage is brilliant, by the way.”

Cory flushed with pleasure; he wasn’t a man to hand out idle compliments. “The birds would appreciate a fountain, too,” she said pertly.

“Keep the pigeons and the people happy?”

She laughed. “Right! Have you seen enough? I don’t want to make you late for your next appointment.”

On the way to Dow Street, Slade studied her diagram for the gardens. When they arrived, the lot itself was so unprepossessing that he insisted they walk the length and width of it, Cory pointing out the proposed location of the garden plots, the sheds and the playground. He said dubiously, “You’d need tons of topsoil and compost.”

“I have access to both. The sheds would have to be pretty basic. But I’d ask one of the local service clubs to provide the playground equipment; they’re very good that way.”

The street was as unprepossessing as the lot. The wind, chill from the offshore ice, whirled a discarded candy wrapper into the air as the sun glinted on the splinters of glass that were scattered everywhere. “What about water?”

“Underground hoses. Best way to irrigate.”

“But not the cheapest.”

His doubts were all too evident. Cory said urgently, “All I’m asking you for is the land, Slade. I read a couple more articles about you last night, about your projects in the poorer sections of Chicago when you were studying architecture. Not all of them worked. But you tried.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s all any of us can do.”

He stated the obvious. “You care about this. Passionately.”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“I’ll deed the land to the city,” he heard himself say, “on condition that you let me supply all the topsoil for both sites, and pay for the sheds. I’ll also donate some large trees for both places—that can run into money.”

“You mean you’ll do it?” she squeaked.

With a strange sense of fatality—he didn’t often do an about-face the way he had this morning—Slade nodded.

“The park and the gardens?”

“Both of them, Cory.”

She’d scarcely dared to hope that he’d give the land, let alone add all those extras. Seizing his hands, she danced up and down, her face lit with delight. “That’s wonderful! Oh, Slade, thank you; it’s so generous of you. I’m so excited!”

The wind blew an empty soda can across the ground; it rattled against the stones. Under Cory’s beige shirt with the logo of her company embroidered on the pocket, her breasts bounced up and down. Slade wanted to kiss her so badly that it took an actual effort of will to pull free of her grip and take a step away from her. “I’ll look after the legalities with the city,” he said formally. “Will you get your lawyer to draw up a contract for the two of us?”

“Aren’t you excited?”

Yeah, he thought. Sexually excited. Not what you want to hear, Ms. Cory Haines. “Of course I am. I’m just older and better at hiding it.”

“Pooh—you’re only thirty-four.” She stuck out her hand. “Put it there, pardner—we’ve got ourselves a deal.”

Her clasp was firm, her fingers cold. “You should be wearing gloves,” he said.

For Pete’s sake, he thought, you sound like her father.

“I always forget them. You should see my hands in summer—fancy fashion magazines are not clamoring to photograph them. Every year I buy a pair of gardening gloves, and every year I contrive to lose them the very first day I wear them.” She crinkled her nose; excitement was still bubbling along her veins, loosing the guard on her tongue. “It’s called regression—I like to make mud pies. The truck, the business cards, the computer designs—they’re all just excuses so I can get dirt under my nails.”

Amused, feeling her fingers begin to warm in his, he asked, “Weren’t you allowed to make mud pies when you were little?”

“Very strict parents. Frilly starched dresses and no dirt. My next job will probably be working in a spa slathering people with mud packs.”

“Your eyes,” Slade said in sudden discovery, “are the color of molasses—that wonderful combination of brown and black. Shiny.”

“Well, I must say I’ve never been compared to molasses before. Gooey and sweet—is that the best you can do?” Suddenly Cory chuckled. “You know what? Your hair is the color of good compost.”

“Rotting vegetable matter? Thanks.”

“And your eyes,” she announced with considerable satisfaction, “are like slate. Gray with gorgeous undertones of blue.”

Slade rather liked this game. “Beech leaves in October—that’s what your hair reminds me of.” His voice deepened. “My stepfather used to grow pink peonies; your cheeks are that color right now.”

As if suddenly realizing that they were still holding hands, Cory pulled hers free and babbled, “We’d better go; you’ll be late.”

“If all the legal stuff’s done before I go back to Toronto, I want you to have dinner with me. To celebrate.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that. Too late now, he thought, with, for the second time, a curious sense of fatality.

“I—I guess that would be all right.”

“Good. I’ll call you.” He glanced at his watch. “Can you get me back to the office in seven minutes?”

They talked about commonplaces all the way back. Cory made no move to touch him again. But before he got out of the truck she gave him a singularly sweet smile and said, “Thank you, Slade. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Slade said, and shut the truck door.

It had taken them ten minutes to get back to the office. Nevertheless, he stood on the sidewalk watching her drive away. So much for separating business from the personal. So much for saying no.

He was going to make use of every one of his connections to make sure there were no hitches with the city. Because he very much wanted to have dinner with Cory Haines. No matter what the consequences.

One week later at seven-thirty in the evening Slade was standing in the lobby of what he considered to be the city’s best restaurant. Cory hadn’t wanted him to pick her up at her house; instead she’d agreed to meet him here.

He was wearing his most expensive dark gray suit and a new silk tie. His hair was brushed into some kind of order and his shoes had a military shine his father would have been proud of. He was nervous.

While he’d had a couple of brief conversations with Cory during the week to sort out the details of their agreement, he hadn’t bumped into her at the squash club, nor had she come to the office. This hadn’t prevented him from thinking about her almost continuously, however, and dreaming about her with a sexual insistence that, when he woke up, dismayed him.

He wanted to take her to bed, no question of that. Maybe tonight he’d ask her whether she was attached or free. That would be a start.

A start to what? And would she be as beautiful, as full of life as he remembered?

At seven thirty-one the mullioned door of the restaurant swung open and Cory walked through. Slade’s heart began to racket around in his chest as though he’d been playing a tournament. He smiled at her, brushing her cold cheek with his lips. She smelled delicious. He said, he hoped casually, “You’re on time.”

“No more friends with newborn babies,” Cory said lightly, and slid her arms out of her coat. What on earth had possessed her to say that about babies? she wondered agitatedly.

They were on her mind, that was why. One particular baby—Sue’s—had caused Cory to have a week so full of ups and downs that beneath her surface calm she was as jittery as if she were on her first date. She’d visited Sue three times during the week—Sue was her best friend, after all. But visiting Sue had meant she’d had to bold little Jason in her arms; she’d been deeply upset to learn that pleasure and pain could be so intimately entwined. The last two nights she’d even cried herself to sleep. Her outfit and her makeup were valiant attempts to conceal this fact from Slade Redden’s all too discerning gray eyes.

She watched him survey her from head to foot. Her skirt was midnight-blue, slim-fitting and slit up one side; her blouse, of creamy silk, bared her throat and hinted at her cleavage. Her hair, shining with cleanliness, was looped on the back of her head; she only hoped it would stay there. As for her dark blue eyeshadow and matching mascara, she’d operated on the principle that the best defense was offense.

His mouth dry, Slade said, “You look very beautiful.”

Infinitesimally Cory relaxed: the mask was working. The maitre d’ arrived and led them to a corner table under a collection of old hunting prints, where, as they waited for their cocktails, they talked about the latest developments in their project. Then Slade raised his glass. “To parks and gardens—long may they flourish.”

Solemnly they clinked their glasses. With mutual determination they proceeded to discuss the menu, the changes on the city council and the drop in the Canadian dollar. They ate mussels and smoked salmon and drank white wine. Then Slade said, “Dance, Cory?”

The music was lively and because she didn’t have to touch him—and was therefore safe—Cory danced her heart out; she had always loved to move to music. The fact that her fiery energy and evident pleasure might be as seductive as actual touching didn’t occur to her. Nor could she possibly have known that some of her movements would recall, with uncanny accuracy, portions of her partner’s dreams. As the final chord sounded she said exuberantly, “That was fun! Thanks, Slade.”

He nodded, his jaw a tight line, and followed her back to the table. But the medallions of pork and julienne vegetables they had ordered were cooked to perfection and slowly the level sank in a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Then the small band started a waltz. “Let’s try this one,” Slade said.

Normally Cory avoided what she called contact dances. But she’d had rather a lot to drink and more than once Slade had made her laugh until she cried. Confidently she threaded her way through the tables.

At the edge of the parquet floor Slade took her in his arms. Because she was wearing high heels, her chin nearly came to his shoulder; he dropped his head so that his cheek rested against hers. Curving an arm around her waist, he drew her closer, ignoring her slight resistance.

Dream and reality fused. The woman in his arms was the woman who had haunted his sleep for the last eight nights.

But Cory was suddenly and distressingly sober. As she automatically followed Slade’s lead, she was attacked by a host of conflicting sensations.

One of the buttons on his jacket was digging into her ribs. He smelted nice. Although she was almost sure he wasn’t wearing cologne, a faint scent of lemons overlaid the more earthy scent of clean male skin. She was enclosed in his embrace as a garden was enclosed, safe from the buffeting of wind and storm; yet, simultaneously, she felt as smothered as an evergreen wrapped in plastic, as constricted as a tree trunk girdled too tightly. So tightly that her lifeblood was cut off, she thought, trying to control her uneven breathing.

It was one of her unspoken policies to keep her distance—literally—from men. Because claustrophobia, of the emotional variety, had been Rick’s parting—and lasting—legacy to her.

Then the hand that rested on her waist moved lower, splaying itself over her hip and drawing her still closer. Against her groin she felt the involuntary hardening of Slade’s body, that indisputable and uncontrollable signal that he wanted her. Panic sliced through her illusive sense of safety; she froze, stumbling over his foot. Raising her head, she muttered, “Slade, I’m not—”

Cursing himself for betraying his need, Slade rested one finger on the softness of her lips and eased away from her. “I didn’t do a very good job of hiding that, did I? Sorry. I want you—sure I do. But this is a public place and you’re quite safe.”

She pulled free, and even in the dim lighting he saw that the emotion tightening her features was fear. Turning away from him, she hurried back to their table, pulled up her chair and buried her face in the dessert menu. Slade sat down across from her. “Come on, Cory. This is the twentieth century, and I’m obviously not the first man you’ve dated. Take it as a compliment, why don’t you?”

“Fine,” she said tautly. “I’ve been complimented. I’m not sure I want dessert; perhaps I’ll just have coffee.”

Nonplussed, because she was acting more like a Victorian virgin than the capable and confident woman he knew her to be, Slade drained his glass of wine. “So are we going to pretend that nothing happened out there? That I wasn’t entirely ready to make love to you?”

The menu slipped from Cory’s fingers. Her eyes widened and for a full five seconds she gaped at him as though she had never seen him before. Make love to you, make love, make love... The words echoed in her brain as all the pain and longing of the last week coalesced into an idea so simple and so outrageous that she was struck dumb.

“Now what’s wrong?”

She grabbed her wine glass and tossed back the contents. Then she blurted, “Are you married, Slade? Or engaged? Or living with someone?”

“No, no and no. What about you?”

His answer sank in; his question scarcely registered. It was a crazy idea. Crazy. She should be committed for even thinking it. “This wine is really excellent, isn’t it?” she gabbled. “Just a hint of oak and that glorious rubyred.”

Slade leaned forward. “Why did you ask about my marital status?”

“I was just wondering,” she said weakly, “that’s all.”

“Why don’t you try telling me the truth? You’re a lousy liar.”

“My mother used to shut me up in a cupboard if I lied to her—that’s probably why. Slade, I had an idea. But it was a totally insane idea and I want to forget about it—please. Let’s talk about anything from horticulture to horoscopes, and maybe I will have dessert. I adore key lime pie.”

Storing in the back of his mind the image of a small, chestnut-haired girl being confined in the dark, Slade said implacably, “Tell me about your idea. Because it’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said wildly. “Very definitely.”

“When you first arrived, I thought you looked tired. That’s not considered much of an opener for impressing your dinner date, so I didn’t mention it. What’s up, Cory?”

So much for mascara. “I don’t have to tell you,” she said defiantly. “In fact, I’m not going to tell you.”

“The restaurant doesn’t close until midnight and it’s only nine-thirty. I can wait. I could even order another bottle of the wine you so much admired.” He gave her a charming smile. “I’d enjoy having to carry you out.”

He’d do it, too. She knew he would. And if she kept the idea to herself certainly nothing would come of it.

With the sense that she was embarking on a very flimsy bridge across an extremely deep gorge, Cory said, “All right—you asked for it.”

Who knows? she thought. He might even say yes.

CHAPTER THREE

CORY held out her glass to Slade for a refill, shadows dancing over her features from the candle that flickered on their table; she was rather proud to see that her hand was entirely steady.

“I want to have a baby,” she said, and heard the words coming from a distance, as though someone else were saying them. “I’d like you to be the father. But I don’t want to get married or live with you or even see you again once I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence, a silence so charged with tension that Cory frantically wished her request unsaid. Then Slade bit out a single word. “No!” His voice was raw with pain, and she watched as wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.

The stain on the cloth looked like blood. With a superstitious shiver, Cory looked up. The same pain had scored deep lines in his face; his eyes looked like those of a man in hell. She felt as though, rough-handed, she’d ripped a dressing from a wound not yet healed. Yet she’d had no inkling of the presence of the wound, and no idea as to its source or meaning.

Appalled, she whispered, “Slade, I’m sorry.”

Briefly Slade closed his eyes, knowing he’d revealed something he’d have much preferred to keep hidden. With a superhuman effort he clamped down on himself, forcing breath through the tightness in his chest. Picking up his serviette, he mopped at the spilt wine and said, more or less evenly, “You took me by surprise—that’s all.”

“Come off it! You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but kindly don’t pretend that nothing is. I’m not blind and deaf.”

Hard-eyed, he said, “Mind your own business, Cory.”

She plonked her glass down and said with more vigour than tact, “I bet you’re not often taken by surprise, Slade Redden. Especially by a woman.”

Pain translated itself to anger. “You take the cake, I’ll grant you that. Here’s a guy who’ll donate a park ... might as well get him to make a baby while I’m at it.”

“There’s no need to be crude.”

“I feel crude.”

“I told you it was a ridiculous idea!”

“Ridiculous comes nowhere near describing it. And the answer, in case you’re wondering, really is no.”

The expression on his face when she’d first spoken had given her that message right away. Bright patches of color staining her cheeks, she said, “OK—the answer’s no. So let’s forget about it. Why don’t you order the chocolate pâté? Then I could try it too.”

Slade’s anger went too deep to be so easily defused. “You drop a bombshell like that and then expect me to discuss desserts?”

“You’ve given me your answer—there’s nothing more to discuss!”

“That’s what you think.” He’d been ambushed by an old agony, there was no question of that; but now that he’d subdued that particular feeling Slade was aware of other emotions, none of them pleasant. “If you didn’t want anything to do with me afterwards, why should it matter to you whether I’m married or engaged?” he demanded. Because that, he thought with ugly accuracy, was where she’d knifed his self-esteem. In the cold-blooded way she was prepared to dismiss him. As if he didn’t exist.

Faintly surprised that he should even have to ask, Cory said, “Oh, that wouldn’t be moral. To cheat on another woman, I mean.”

“Whereas bringing up a fatherless child would be?”

Her temper rising, Cory said, “I don’t want to talk about this any more; I thought I’d made that clear.”

“We’re going to. Whether you want to or not.” Viciously he stabbed at the cloth with his fork. “How many other men have you asked?”

“None!”

The odd thing was that he believed her instantly. “So why me? Why don’t you ask your squash partner? You must know him a whole lot better than you know me.”

“Joe?” Cory frowned. “How do you know about Joe?”

“I have a guest pass at the club where you’re a member.”

Cory didn’t like that, not one little bit. She summoned a smile and looked at Slade through her lashes. “Well, I could scarcely ask Joe. His girlfriend might object.”

Slade’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he said, and realized he’d been surprised twice in the last five minutes. Maybe Cory Haines was good for him, he thought sardonically. Because she was right—it was a long time since he’d allowed a woman to knock him off balance. “Then why me? You must know a lot of other men.”

“They all live in Halifax. I don’t want to be tripping over them afterwards. You’re from Toronto—although I’d really rather you were from Vancouver. Or Outer Mongolia.” Avoiding his eyes, she counted off her fingers one by one. “You’re handsome, you’re healthy, you’re intelligent—good genes, in other words. You don’t live here, and—this is important to me—you have principles and you live by them. On top of that, as I discovered on the dance floor, you’re not indifferent to me.”

“Why, when you’ve listed all my good points, do I feel as though I’ve been insulted? I’m not a prize bull, for God’s sake!”

She tilted her chin. “This discussion’s a complete and total waste of time. You said no—remember?” She gestured to the waiter and when he was standing by their table said crisply, “I’ll have the key lime pie and a coffee, please.”

“Chocolate pâté and coffee,” Slade said. As the waiter turned away, he took a deep breath and said in a more reasonable tone and with entire truth, “I’m curious. You’re very young—why this burning need for procreation?”

She said flippantly, “Oh, I probably garden too much. You know, the birds and the bees, all those seeds being planted and coming up in the spring. Fertility, fruition and fecundity.”

“Cute, Cory, cute. What’s the real reason?”

“I could tell you to mind your own business.”

“You could. You’d even be justified. But I’d really like to know.”

Cory stared into her wine, where the candlelight had kindled flames the colour of rubies, until Slade was almost sure she’d forgotten both his presence and his request. Then she whispered, “I’m not so young. I turned thirty-one last October. I’ve wanted a child for years; I’ve always known that being a mother would fulfill me in a way my job never could. But I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation if Sue hadn’t had her baby last week.

“Slade, I really was happy for her; of course I was. She’s my best friend and a healthy baby is such a miracle.” As a sheen of tears glittered in her eyes, Slade fought down the urge to take her hand in his. In the same toneless whisper she went on, “But I envied her too. Envy’s a horrible feeling! How can I want something that’s hers?”

Considering that only moments ago he’d been furious with Cory, Slade’s voice when he spoke sounded oddly gentle. “You’re a bright and very lovely young woman ... marry someone and have a whole pack of babies.” This time he did reach out and cover her hand with his own, feeling tension stiffen her fingers. Her skin was smooth, her bones paradoxically both delicate and strong.

I don’t want her to marry someone else, he thought blankly. And explain that if you can, Slade Redden. Because you’ve got no intention of marrying her yourself.

Earlier, Slade’s anger had roused in Cory a matching anger; now his gentleness made her want to cry. She looked down at his lean fingers with their well-kept nails, at the strong bones of his wrist where they emerged from his cuff, and suddenly wrenched her hand free. “I don’t want to get married! Slade, I’m sorry I ever brought this up; it was really stupid of me. Can we please change the subject?”

She looked very unhappy. A host of questions hovered on the tip of his tongue. But why ask them? He’d said no, and he’d meant no. No ifs, ands or buts on that one. So she was right. It was past time to change the subject and the one thing he wouldn’t do was ask her to dance again. “Here come our desserts,” he said. “You can have one spoonful of my chocolate pâté—no more.”

With a watery smile she said, “You’ll give away real estate but not chocolate, hmm?”

“A man’s got to have his limits.” After the waiter had gone, Slade put a generous dollop of the rich dark chocolate on his coffee spoon and held it out across the table. With the beginnings of a real smile, Cory leaned forward, closed her eyes, and licked the spoon clean. “Heavenly,” she said solemnly.

Her throat was as smooth and creamy as her blouse; her hair was sliding out of its pins, falling in silky strands about her ears. I still want you, Slade thought. Nothing you’ve said or done has changed that. I want you so badly it hurts.

And what the hell am I supposed to do about that?

Then Cory opened her eyes, smiling right into his. His face was naked with desire, exposed and vulnerable to her in a way that touched something so deeply buried within her that she hadn’t realized until now that it still existed. For several seconds, seconds that shivered with intimacy, she held his gaze. Then her lashes dropped and she said with only the slightest of quivers in her voice, “Do you want to try the lime pie?”

“No, thanks,” Slade said huskily. “Cory, I don’t want to get involved any more than you do.”

“Then we won’t get involved,” she said. “It’s simple.”

He wasn’t sure that anything about Cory Haines—or his reaction to her—was simple. He passed her the cream for her coffee, and with a huge attempt at normality said, “You’re thirty-one years old and your company’s only been in existence for five years—what did you do before that, Cory?”

She ate a mouthful of pie and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “Luscious,” she said, and in her mind quickly rehearsed an edited version of her working life that would reveal nothing she didn’t want it to; her answer would have the added advantage of masking with words that devastating moment of intimacy.

“I took a course in business administration and went to work for a travel agency when I was nineteen.” The same year she met Rick. “More or less by chance I started specializing in making the arrangements for women traveling alone, and tapped into a market that eventually led me to manage the agency, and then buy it out.

“I ran it for three years and at first it was enormous fun—I got to go to all kinds of interesting and exciting places. But one day I realized I was spending far too much time in the office staring at a computer screen and dealing with accountants.” She grinned. “So I sold it. At a substantial profit, I might add.”

“You’re not the type to be cooped up in an office.”

“Definitely not.” She took another mouthful of pie. “That summer I worked as a naturalist in a privately owned resort on the west coast. While I was there, I began to understand that the wilderness is beautiful on its own. Effortlessly. It’s the cities that need help. Lots of help. So I took a course in horticultural design and set up my own business here on the east coast.” As far from Rick as she could get. “It took a while to get known, but I’m doing fine now.”

“So what’s next, Cory?”

She laughed and said with the eagerness he’d come to expect, “I’d like to branch out into supplying unusual bulbs and perennials—ones that can survive our maritime climate. A lot of the catalogues are from the west coast and the fruit belt in Ontario—the Atlantic region’s been neglected. I’d enjoy doing that.”

“I’m sure you’ll succeed ... Do you want some more coffee? Or a liqueur?”

“No, thanks. I should probably head home; I have an eight-thirty appointment tomorrow morning. Let’s split the bill, shall we?”

“Why not?” he said agreeably. “Shall we share a cab too?”

“I brought the truck. The passenger seat is full of soil samples I’ve got to send off to be analyzed—sorry about that.”

She wasn’t really sorry at all, thought Cory. It was bad enough that she’d asked him to father a child. She wasn’t going to crown the evening by inviting him in for a nightcap.

The sooner she got rid of him the better.

They dealt with the bill and the tip, then Cory led the way into the foyer. When she had her coat on, Slade said, “I’ll walk you to your vehicle before I call a cab.”

Suddenly aware that she was exhausted, Cory also realized there was no point in arguing with him. She walked out into the dark street, pulling her coat closer. “Is it ever going to warm up? I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

Slade took her by the elbow. Music drifted from a jazz bar; traffic lights blinked red and green, and a crowd of teenagers jostled them on the sidewalk. Cory walked fast, her heels tapping on the concrete, her one desire to be alone in her little house. She’d made a fool of herself tonight. An utter fool.

When they reached the truck, she turned to face Slade. “I don’t expect we’ll see each other again,” she said. “Thanks so much for all your help with the land, Slade. And good luck with all your other projects.”

The wind was playing with her hair; she looked as remote as a statue. He had nothing to lose. Nothing. He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her parted lips and stepped back. “Goodbye, Cory,” he said, and to his considerable satisfaction saw that she no longer remotely resembled a statue. Rather, she looked as if she’d like to run him over with her truck. He added blandly, “I’ll wait here until you’ve driven off.”

With uncharacteristic clumsiness she unlocked the truck and climbed in. Then she slammed the door, and with a roar of the accelerator drove away down the street.

Slade headed up the hill, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. He’d eaten too much; it would do him good to walk back to his hotel. Besides, he was too riled up to sleep.

Cory Haines wasn’t any more indifferent to him than he was to her.

Not that it mattered. Because he was going to put her right out of his mind.

Two days passed. Slade met with the mayor and the city council, pushed through his plans for the waterfront, inspected several sites on the Bedford Basin, and was approached about a lucrative contract in Montreal. But all his spare moments were spent thinking about Cory. Cory and her idea that he father a child.

Why didn’t she want to get married? Was she widowed or divorced? Why had she been so rigid in his arms on the dance floor, so resentful of his kiss by the truck? And why had she chosen him as the sole recipient of her idea?

It was an atrocious idea. So why the devil was he thinking about it night and day?

He knew why. For one thing, if he agreed to it, it would mean he’d be able to make love to her. Assuage the gnawing hunger for her body that had been with him ever since he’d first met her. Maybe then he’d be able to forget her, and she’d stop figuring in his dreams every time he laid his head on the pillow.

The other reason was one he had difficulty bringing himself to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts. If Cory got pregnant, then a child of his would be alive in the world. His own flesh and blood. Alive. Living and growing and learning.

Cory would be a good mother; he’d stake everything he owned on that. But he, Slade, would be an absentee father, his sole act that of procreation. He wouldn’t love the child. He wouldn’t even see it.

He’d be uninvolved. Safe.

His thoughts went round and round in his head, like hamsters on a treadmill. But, unlike the hamsters, he couldn’t get off the treadmill. Let alone out of the cage.

He spent the weekend with his mother, hanging pictures, carrying boxes up from the basement and painting the smaller of the two bedrooms; on Sunday they drove to Mahone Bay, where she bought herself a lovely antique armoire that he lugged into the newly decorated room and polished with lemon oil.

He planned to go back to Toronto before the end of the week. On Tuesday evening, irritable and out of sorts, he walked to the squash club. He’d booked a court for an hour, which should be long enough to wear himself out; Tom had promised to meet him there. At least when he was playing squash there wasn’t time to think about Cory. Nor was he worried about meeting her there; she and Joe always booked for early in the morning.

He played like a man demented, fighting for points he wouldn’t ordinarily have contested, risking shots that more often than not paid off, to his surprise and Tom’s chagrin. Because he was totally focused on the game, he didn’t notice the small crowd of onlookers in the gallery above his head, their heads swiveling to follow the shots. He certainly didn’t see Cory among them.

She was standing well back, clutching her racquet to her chest. For a big man Slade moved like greased lightning, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, his racquet digging the ball out of impossible situations; he was constantly on the attack, only rarely allowing himself to be caught defensively. A lot could be learned about someone by watching him play a game. He was, she thought fancifully, playing as though demons sat on his shoulder.

Ten minutes before she was due for her own game, she edged free of the spectators and ran downstairs to the women’s locker room.

Slade, had he been asked, might have agreed with Cory about the demons. But Tom, a chemistry professor, had had an extremely frustrating day at work, and at the end of fifty-five minutes Slade won by only a narrow margin. They shook hands, laughing, then Tom wandered over to the benches to talk to one of his students. Slade strode down the narrow corridor towards the locker rooms, swiping at his wet hair with his towel. He had to figure out a way to return those high-lobbed serves of Tom’s and keep control of the T at the same time.

He didn’t even see the woman until he had collided with her. His elbow brushed the softness of a breast, his arm automatically clutched her round the waist and her racquet dug into his ribs. Then she pushed back from his chest and he saw that it was Cory. She was wearing shorts and a white knit shirt, a sweatband holding back the thick sheaf of her hair. He said blankly, “You only come here in the mornings.”

“Joe’s out of town. So I’m playing with a woman friend.” Slade’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest so that she could see the curl of dark hair from throat to navel and the jut of his collarbones. He was still breathing hard.

Feeling breathless herself, her palms tingling from the contact with muscles as hard as a board, she heard him say, laughter warming his voice, “You don’t want to be within ten feet of me right now. I’m in need of large quantities of soap and water.”

This man to be the father of her child? Heaven help her. Cory said ironically, “I was watching you for a while. Remind me never to get in a squash court with you—you’d pulverize me. Do you always play like that?”

“Cory,” he said, “after your game why don’t you join me at Harold’s Pub for a snack and a beer? I’ve been thinking about your idea.”

She said vigorously, “That’s one discussion I do not want to reopen.”

“I might agree to it,” he said.

She paled. “Are you serious?”

“Given certain conditions. I think we should at least talk about it some more.”

With a hunted look she said, “I’m late; I’ve got to go. All right, I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

Sweat was stinging his eyes. Slade wiped his face again and headed for the shower. He’d really only opened the way for negotiations, he told himself as he pushed open the locker-room door.

He hadn’t made any hard and fast decisions.

CHAPTER FOUR

SLADE had eaten a plateful of nachos with very hot salsa and downed two beers by the time Cory walked in the door of the pub. Several of the men eyed her speculatively, and in a primitive surge of possessiveness Slade stood up, waving to her. She smiled, wending her way through the tables; she looked slim and attractive in jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and kissed her, unsurprised to feel tension knot her muscles.

“You’re quite a woman,” he murmured. “Fifty-five minutes of squash and I still want to throw you down on the floor and make love to you.”

Color crept up her cheeks. “The bouncer wouldn’t approve.”

“Plus the carpet needs cleaning.”

With great relief Cory saw the bartender approaching. They ordered burgers and draught beer, then Slade asked, “How did your game go?”

“I lost—couldn’t concentrate.” She hesitated. “I thought you’d have gone back to Toronto by now.”

“Friday afternoon.” As their beers were delivered, he paid for them, waited until the bartender was out of hearing, then added, “Although I could delay my flight until Sunday. That way we could spend the weekend together. During which I’d do my best to make you pregnant.”

“Slade, I—you’ve got the wrong idea.” As if she knew exactly what she was talking about, rather than having only the haziest of notions from reading popular magazines, Cory said in a rush, “There are clinics—it can all be done artificially.”

“What did you say?”

“You heard.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’ve applied several adjectives to you in our brief acquaintance, but cold-blooded wasn’t one of them. Artificially, for Pete’s sake!”

“The whole situation’s artificial! And I’m not cold-blooded. We hardly know each other, and we certainly aren’t in love with each other—how can we make love?”

“Very easily, I assure you. People do it all the time.”

“I’m not people. I’m me.”

“Then we’re both wasting our time. I won’t bring a child into the world that way, Cory. You can find someone else.”

She couldn’t even imagine broaching the subject with someone else. As Slade stared moodily into his glass, she studied his face, seeing as if for the first time the strongly boned jaw, the fan of laughter lines radiating from the corners of his eyes, the cleanly sculpted mouth and cleft chin. Right now he looked older than his years. He’s suffered too, she thought humbly, and remembered the pain that had convulsed his features at the restaurant. She said steadily, “I don’t want to ask anyone else.”

He looked up, his gray eyes unreadable. “But you want me to disappear once you’re pregnant.”

“That’s right. I’d be the sole parent.”

“What have you got against marriage, Cory?”

“I’m an independent, financially secure woman. I scare the heck out of eighty percent of men. The other twenty percent have already been snapped up by women quicker on the draw than me.”

“I have no doubt there’s an element of truth in that. But it’s scarcely the reason you react like a gun-shy dog every time I mention the word ‘marriage’. Why don’t you want to get married?”

Shrugging, she said, “Been there, done that.”

He said flatly, “You have this habit of giving flip answers to serious questions. Neat way to keep people at a distance.”

She frowned at him, disliking how easily he seemed to see through her. “With most men it works.”

“I’m not most men.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” She paused while the waiter put their food in front of them, and reached for the ketchup. “I was married once. I never want to be married again. And that’s all you’re getting out of me. Because I’d be willing to bet you’re not going to tell me why you’ve changed your mind. About my idea, I mean.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“This isn’t about building a relationship. It’s about making a baby.”

Slade didn’t want a relationship; that had been achingly clear to him every day of the last two years. So why did he dislike Cory’s honesty so much? He said obliquely, “I’ve got a clean bill of health. What about you?”

“Me too.” She gave a rueful smile. “It’s not even an issue.”

Almost sure she wouldn’t answer if he asked why, he said, “How much financial support will you want?”

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “None! This has got nothing to do with money.”

He’d sensed that would be her answer. “Once you find out whether or not you’re pregnant, I’ll expect you to let me know.”

“I don’t want you keeping tabs on me!”

“If you’re not pregnant,” Slade said smoothly, “you’ll presumably want to try again. Won’t you?”

And what was she supposed to answer to that? Scarlet-cheeked, Cory said, “I hate talking this way... it sounds so—so utilitarian.”

“The same goes for the baby’s birth—I’ll want to know when it happens.”

“I’ll think about it,” she said shortly.

“I said I had conditions, Cory. There are three more. One, if you ever need help, you’re to get in touch with me—I mean that. Two, I’ll be contacting you once a year to hear how things are going. And three, once I know you’re pregnant I’ll change my will so that you and the child will be beneficiaries.”

Cory gave up any pretence of eating. “You know what I feel like? A fly that’s blundered into a spider’s web. At first just one foot’s stuck. But the more the fly struggles, the more bits of web it gets entangled in.”

“We’re not talking about something simple here—a game of squash, for instance,” Slade said in a hard voice. “This is a new life you’re going to bring into the world—a baby. Not something to be done lightly. If one of the reasons you chose me is because I have principles, you can’t expect them to fly out the window when it suits you.”

The trouble was, he was right. “Maybe we should give up the whole idea. It’s getting more and more complicated.” She poked at a dill pickle with her knife and burst out, “Slade, am I wrong to want a baby? I know you’re supposed to get married first and then have children. But I hated being married! It seems to have immunized me against falling in love again. I don’t want to fall in love. I just want a baby.”

Clearly she wasn’t talking just for effect; she wanted an answer. But she was asking the wrong man. He was immune to both marriage and children. He said carefully, “Being a single mother won’t always be easy.”

The pickle was being reduced to a series of neat cubes. “All the other women I know are either settled with families, or else they’re having affairs and falling in and out of love. I don’t fit; that’s part of the trouble.”

“Have you thought of adoption?”

“There’s a huge waiting list—it could take years. I’m too impatient for that, Slade; I want the baby now. And I know you’re right—being a single mother and holding down a job won’t always be a bed of roses. But I’m learning to delegate at work. Dillon—my right-hand man—could manage the firm in a year or two, especially if I got into the perennials.”

That nasty little jab in his gut—of course it wasn’t jealousy. “So why don’t you ask Dillon to be the father?”

She gave a rich chuckle. “Oh, no, not Dillon. It’s not that he’s uninterested in women; he’s the very opposite—altogether too interested. A bad case of rampant hormones. When he first came to work for me, I had to set him straight in the first week... and now we’re buddies.”

Then she sobered, pushing a French fry around her plate. “I have some money put away, from the tourist agency and from when my aunt died. I know Sue would pass on baby clothes and cribs and things.” Then she looked straight at him, and said with passionate honesty, “I have so much love to give, Slade. I’d make a good mother; I know I would.”

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