“Yes,” she said with exaggerated patience. “And I’ll drive it home again this afternoon. I assure you I have the proper baby seat and everything, so stop frowning.”

“You have no one you could have called on?” If not the man responsible for her pregnancy, then a friend. A sibling. Someone.

Her lips firmed. “Whether I do or not is hardly your business, now is it?”

Kyle would have liked to debate that point, considering he was determined this woman would be his make-believe wife. But there was a loud rattle out in the corridor and the door swished open to reveal a young man in pristine white bearing a breakfast tray.

The orderly smiled genially at them, set the tray on a rolling cart and slid it neatly against the side of Emma’s bed, turning it so the tray hung over her lap. Then he lifted the cover from the food and left.

As Kyle peered at the bowl of cooked cereal, the puny foil-covered plastic cup of orange juice and a half-burned piece of toast, he thought of the fluffy omelet, crisp bacon and fragrant coffee Baxter had served him that morning. He’d barely taken time to appreciate the food or the way it had been served—on china at the wrought-iron glass-topped table on his patio.

“Are you hungry, Mr. Montgomery?”

“No, why?”

“You’re staring at my breakfast like you haven’t seen food in a month.” She didn’t look at him as she peeled back the foil cover of the juice.

“I haven’t seen a breakfast that looks like that in more than a month,” he muttered. “I’ll bring you back something more…appealing.”

She took a healthy swallow of the juice, then picked up a spoon which she plunged into the cereal. “I like hot cereal, Mr. Montgomery. Some people do, you know.” Her tone slowed like rich rolling drops of syrup. “Even rich folks, I’m told.”

He smiled, genuinely amused. “You think I’m a snob.”

Her hesitation was barely noticeable. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

His amusement grew. “Neatly avoided and you didn’t have to lie.” Seeing the corners of her mouth twitch as if she was holding back a reluctant smile of her own, he decided it was a good time to retreat. On a high note, so to speak. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your oats and whey,” he said. “We’ll be talking again.”

“I don’t think so. Our paths are in different neighborhoods. I doubt they’ll cross again.”

He shrugged easily and headed toward the door. She didn’t know him yet, so she could have no idea how wrong she was. He stopped and turned. “Get some sleep after you eat,” he suggested. “It’ll be a busy afternoon taking your son home. What did you say his name was?”

She tilted her head. “I didn’t. Which you know very well.”

“He is a good-looking boy.”

Her eyes softened like rich melting chocolate. “Thank you. He is beautiful.”

“And his name? You’ve already given him one, I’m sure.” He smiled faintly. “I’ll bet you had his name picked out when you were only halfway through your pregnancy.” She seemed like the type of woman who’d have cherished every moment she carried her child. Very much the way his sister had.

“Four months along,” she admitted.

“And?”

She moistened her lips. Hesitated. “My son’s name is Chandler.”

Kyle absorbed that. “Well. Good name.”

“I named him after a very dear old friend from my hometown,” she said evenly. “A name I chose months ago, so wipe that smug look off your face.”

“Not smug at all, Emma. It’s just another indication that I’ve chosen the right woman for my wife.”

“Your pretend wife,” she corrected.

“That’s what I said.”

“Not exactly.”

“You like to have the last word, don’t you?”

“I’m a woman, Mr. Montgomery.”

“I did notice that, Miss Valentine.” He watched her cheeks blossom with pink. “And while I am but a humble man—” he ignored her soft snort “—I’m a determined one. Our paths will cross again, Emma. And again. Until I have your agreement that becoming my pretend wife benefits everyone.”

Her mouth moved, but no words emerged. He smiled and stepped out into the hall. “I’ll see you and Chandler later.”

The door swished closed, but he heard her honeyed voice in the moment just before it did. “Good gravy.”

He pushed his hands into his pockets and thought about the woman on the other side. She was perfect for his needs. He just needed to remember that his needs were strictly business. That her curvy body, from slender neck to trim ankles, was off-limits.

All he needed was a pretend wife. He’d keep his hands to himself. He’d keep his thoughts strictly on sewing up every last detail of acquiring Payton Cummings’s company.

So that when the day arrived that he dismantled every facet of that damned company, he’d have the personal satisfaction of knowing there wasn’t one thing Payton Cummings, Sr., could do about it.

Kyle let out a long breath and went in search of a flower shop.

“Okay, Emma, this one is what we’ll use to file for Chandler’s birth certificate. Fill in the blanks, sign and leave it in the folder with the others. The state will send you the certificate once it’s recorded. You can leave the folder with the nurse when you’re released. Okay?”

Emma nodded and waited until the brisk I’m-from-Records-honey woman left. Then Emma looked down at the form and nibbled the inside of her lip. She’d been completing and signing forms for the past ten minutes. Financial forms, affirming that she didn’t have medical insurance and including a payment agreement that would take every cent of the pay she earned from her part-time teaching job for the next few years. Medical-information forms regarding the aftermath of childbirth. Even forms to purchase sets of newborn photos.

She’d ordered one eight-by-ten and six wallet-size ones simply because she hadn’t been able to resist the first photo of Chandler, his little fists pressed against his round cheeks and a snug blue cap covering his thatch of dark brown hair. But even the photos were an extravagance these days. Signing all those financial forms had brought home with a thump the responsibilities she had to shoulder. Alone.

Which brought her right back to the birth certificate information. She rolled the pen between her fingers, looking at the empty boxes. Mother’s maiden name. Location and date of mother’s birth. Father’s name.

The tip of her pen hovered over that last box. Father. It took much more than biology to make a father. It took love and commitment and dedication.

Yet all she had was betrayal and lies and a twelve-page legal document sitting in the closet of her apartment.

She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Then she deliberately slashed a line through the father box before completing the rest, and placed the form, along with the others, inside the folder.

She looked at her watch and hoped the nurse came by soon with her release. She didn’t believe for one minute that Kyle Montgomery would be returning as he’d said that morning. Why would he?

He had money. He had incredible looks. He could find a make-believe wife wherever he wanted, making it worthwhile for some other woman. Personally Emma had had enough of rich men who thought they could either buy her presence or buy her absence.

The only man she was interested in was the tiny one sleeping in his carrier right beside her.

She looked down at Chandler, feeling tears threaten. Tears of gratitude for his sweet perfection she could happily shed. But tears filled with worry and fear about the days ahead, of managing, getting by—those tears she refused to indulge.

She was twenty-six years old. When her mama was that age, she had five kids. All daughters. Another year and she had six. The year after that, Hattie Valentine had stopped having babies, because her husband went off one night and didn’t come back.

A soft knock on the door caught her attention, and she pushed to her feet, tugging the hem of her cotton maternity top over her hips. Nell Hastings smiled and pushed the door wide until it stayed open on its own. “I’ve got your ride here, Emma.” She patted the bright blue wheelchair, her eyes twinkling. “Is that all your stuff in that bag?”