The situation is bound to get worse after the baby’s birth. Whether I keep the child or put it up for adoption, I’ll be damned either way. My future with Smith Cannon has been compromised by my pregnancy, and I don’t see a way out. Although I would hate to pull up stakes and move to a new law firm, I may be forced to do just that.
When I catch the limo pulling up, I grab my purse and walk toward the car where Samuel stands, holding the back door open for me. He’s wearing a stylish two-button suit which favors his large build to a T.
“Good morning, Ms. Watson.” His accent is a curious combination of southern American roots with a touch of Brit.
“How are you, Samuel?” I touch his arm, first time I’ve done so, but I can’t help myself. He got me out of a sticky spot in London, and, in a strange way, he’s dear to me.
“Fine. Thank you for asking,” he returns with a smile.
Soon he’s whisking me down the George Washington Parkway. The day is one of those early fall days, not hot, not cold, just right. As we cross Key Bridge toward Georgetown, I recall that wild ride in the limo and how I came apart in Gabriel’s arms. His power to seduce me in less than a day’s acquaintance astounded me then. Still does. I never fell so hard, so fast, for another man.
When we arrive at the Four Seasons, Samuel asks a valet to park the car while he escorts me through the lobby, up the elevator, down the carpeted corridor to Gabriel’s suite.
Barely a second after I knock on the door, Gabriel flings it open and my breath goes AWOL. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, taking him in.
He’s as gorgeous as ever in denim jeans, white shirt and a heather blue v-neck cashmere sweater, with a gray jacket thrown over it all. His hair falls loose to his shoulders, curling at the ends. His sexy stubble weakens my knees. Who am I kidding? The entire package weakens my knees.
“Thank you for bringing Ms. Watson,” he says to Samuel.
“My pleasure, Mr. Storm.” To my surprise, Samuel folds his arms across his front and remains standing against the outside wall of the suite. I can’t imagine what Gabriel would need protection from here in D.C.
“Please come in,” Gabriel says to me.
I’ve never been inside the West Wing Presidential Suite, or any other at the Four Seasons for that matter. The entire place screams understated elegance, decorated as it is in light blues, golds and greens. A huge square coffee table commands the living room surrounded by two sofas, one a soft green, the other a light blue.
“May I use the facilities?” One of the cons of pregnancy. You can’t go five minutes without having to pee.
“Of course.” He points to my right.
After I take care of business, I swipe a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spread lotion over my hands. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Elizabeth. Enough stalling. I step out to find him lounging against the opposite wall, cane in hand, waiting for me. My cheeks flush with heat. I’ve done the dirty deed and then some with this man. Why I’m embarrassed by his hearing me urinate is beyond me.
Ignoring my obvious embarrassment, he leads me farther into the suite. “The ride wasn’t too long?”
“I wasn’t sure what you liked to eat or if you suffered from . . .” His voice drifts off.
“Morning sickness stopped about a month ago. I’m in the second trimester, the one where you eat like a horse.” I pat my stomach.
He grins that special crooked grin of his, and my insides flip flop.