He’d spent his entire life guarding against being used, making sure he was well protected. Never knowing for sure if someone was with him because of who he was or what his last name was. Or what was in his bank account.

“Poor little rich boy,” she said. “I hate to break it to you, but not everyone is after your money. That wasn’t why I slept with you.”

A couple walked past them, did a double take at her words, but she didn’t seem embarrassed or uneasy. Just kept her gaze on C.J.

He edged closer. Lowered his voice. “It may not be the main reason women sleep with me,” he said, knowing what he looked like, knowing his appeal. “But it’s not a deterrent, either.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you honestly think I couldn’t have found myself some wealthy man to take care of me before now?” She spread her arms. “Look at me. Do you really think I’ve never had men of certain means proposition me, want to take care of me? We may not be Houston, but there are plenty of rich men right here in good old Pennsylvania. I didn’t care about how much money you had when I went up to your room.”

“Do you really want me to believe you don’t care about it now?”

“I’m not going to say that, because now there’s more than just me to think about. So, no, I’m not going to say it’s the worst thing ever, knowing my child’s father—who seems to be responsible—has the means to make his or her life more comfortable. But it also makes my life more difficult. If you decide you want the baby, I can’t afford to fight you. That test we just took is going to prove you’re this baby’s father, and I have no idea what that’s going to mean to me or to my child.”

He stepped back, so shocked he couldn’t even stop her when she opened the car door, got inside and, a moment later, drove away.

C.J. wasn’t sure how long he stood there. The wind picked up. Rain started to come down, and he couldn’t force himself to move. Ivy was scared. Terrified. Of him. His stomach turned with self-disgust. Wasn’t that what part of him had wanted? For her to fear him, his power?

Jesus, he really was as bad as his father.

He didn’t want to be. His entire life, all he’d wanted was to be better than his old man, to prove that the only things they had in common were their work ethic and their name, and now he was acting just like Senior.

Well, not quite as bad as that. Yes, he was protecting himself and his family, but he hadn’t used Ivy. No more than she’d used him. He wasn’t making her promises he had no intention of keeping. Wasn’t stringing her along, holding on to her until he got bored and then tossed her aside for the next pretty face that walked by.

If the baby really was his, then he and Ivy were going to be in each other’s lives. Whether she liked it or not.

He needed to prove he trusted her. That she could trust him. There was only one way to do that.

* * *

“IS MR. BARTASAVICH the father?” Fay asked late the next morning.

Ivy, in the middle of cleaning up after breakfast service, whipped her head around so quickly, she was surprised it didn’t twist off and go flying across the kitchen. “Maybe ease into a question like that,” she said, rinsing the baking dish she’d just scrubbed and handing it to Gracie to dry. “Hey, Ivy, great scones this morning. And the guests loved your blueberry pancakes. Oh, by the way, is the guest in the Back Suite the father of your unborn baby?”

At the table, Fay sipped her tea, eyeing Ivy over the rim.

“Okay, okay. God, you know how I hate it when you nag,” Ivy said, tossing the dishrag into the water, splattering her top with water and bubbles. “Yes. He’s the father. Are you happy?”

“The cowboy from Valentine’s Day?” Gracie asked, setting the dish on the counter. “I thought you weren’t interested in him.” She didn’t sound accusing, just curious.

“More like I was attracted to him.”

Gracie nodded sagely, as if she was some eighty-year-old who’d been there, done that—dozens of times. “Yeah. The physical stuff can really knock the good sense out of a woman.”

“I don’t even want to know,” Fay murmured, holding up a hand as if to stop Gracie from ever speaking again.

“How’d you figure it out?” Ivy asked her boss.

“It didn’t take much. You tell us you’re pregnant, and then a few days later Mr. Bartasavich shows up wanting to stay here indefinitely. I may not be a genius, but even I can put two and two together. He’s here for you. You and the baby.”

Fay was smarter than she gave herself credit for. “He’s here to get proof the baby is his.”

“He doesn’t believe it is?” Gracie asked as the timer buzzed.

Ivy picked up oven mitts, took the sheet of oatmeal cookies from the oven and set them on the counter. “He didn’t.” Though that attitude seemed to have changed. At least a little bit.

Not enough for her to actually trust him.

“But he does now,” Gracie said.

“I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter anyway. Once he gets the proof he needs, I’m sure he’ll go back to his life in Houston.”

“You don’t sound too certain about that,” Fay said softly.

Ivy dropped balls of cookie dough onto a new sheet. “Well, it’s not like he’d stay here in Shady Grove. The man runs a multibajillion-dollar company. It’s just...” She put the cookies in the oven and set the timer. “What if he wants to be a part of the baby’s life? He has the power to make my life miserable. And he lives in Houston. I don’t want to ship my kid halfway across the country for daddy-and-me weekends.”

“I think you need to take it one day at a time,” Fay said. “And understand that this might be new to him, too. Unless...” She frowned.

“Unless what?” Ivy asked.

“Unless he has other kids?”

“He doesn’t. That much I do know. Well, that and I didn’t find anything about him having ever been married when I looked him up online.” She explained about the Bartasavich family. Their wealth and power and how Clinton, after his father’s stroke, was now head of it all. Head of an empire. “It’s like a horrible, low-rent version of Cinderella. Except I don’t want to marry the prince.”

“I’d marry him,” Gracie said, taking over the dishes for Ivy.

“What about love?” Fay asked, and Ivy almost pitied her for still believing in the concept of true love after everything she’d been through.

“He’s handsome and rich,” Gracie pointed out. “What’s not to love? I mean, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is with a poor man, right?”

“That’s what my mother always said.”

At the familiar deep voice, Ivy shut her eyes and groaned. What was Clinton doing here, in her kitchen, her sanctuary?

She opened her eyes to find him in the doorway, a smile on his handsome face, his hair perfect, his clothes pressed, his shirt blindingly white. While flour covered her stomach, her hair was frizzing from the stupid humidity and she’d spilled syrup on her shorts.

“It’s sound advice,” Gracie said, letting the water out of the sink. “And, if you think about it, fair. You should love someone because you love them. Whether or not they have money shouldn’t have any bearing on your feelings.”

He winked at Gracie. “Smart girl.” He tipped his head, narrowed his eyes. “Does everyone who works at King’s Crossing work here, too?”

She beamed, obviously pleased he remembered her from Valentine’s Day. “Ivy got me a job here. The hours are much better, and Fay’s about a thousand times nicer than Wendy.”

“You’d have to be an actual demon to be meaner than Wendy,” Ivy pointed out. She faced Clinton. “Guests aren’t really allowed in the kitchen, so unless you need something—”

“I do.”

When he didn’t continue, just leaned against the counter, making himself at home, a large envelope in his hand, she huffed out an exasperated breath. “What?”

“You.”

She blinked. Her mouth dried. “Excuse me?”

“You asked what I needed. I need you. To see you,” he corrected.