This baby was all she had left of Scott, and she could never give that up—no matter what the difficulty.
“Have you seen a doctor?” Dr. Peters asked.
She nodded. “A couple months ago.” Anticipating the lecture, she added, “I’ve been moving around a lot the past few months. But I’m taking my vitamins.”
“You should make an appointment with one of my colleagues.” He wrote down a name and handed her a card.
Natalie promised to do so in the next few days, and he left, telling her he’d be back to check on her again before she was discharged.
The doctor wasn’t kidding about paperwork. It took her an hour to fill out all the insurance forms—along with identity theft she was now committing insurance fraud—but about two hours later after instructions from Dr. Peters, she was discharged into the sheriff’s care.
Becky walked with them back to his squad car before giving Natalie a hug good-bye and telling her not to come in on Thursday if she didn’t feel well.
The sheriff didn’t attempt to make much small talk during the short drive, which she was grateful for. Being forced to confront the child she was carrying had left her in a contemplative mood. She had to start making plans. She couldn’t pretend this was going to go away. She would be showing soon. Already, she could feel a small bump in her stomach. She needed a story... a father.
For about the hundredth time, she said a silent prayer to Scott, begging for his forgiveness.
But she knew he wouldn’t give it to her. She’d betrayed and deceived him. She knew he’d thought he cared for her. But the woman he’d fallen for was an illusion—a fabrication and fantasy. Natalie had been pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Someone confident and savvy and worldly. Someone who weighed fifteen pounds less,whose hair was the perfect shade of California blond, and who loved wearing four-inch stilettos and tight suits.
But that wasn’t her. It was the glossy mask Mick had insisted upon. The real her was much more boring and not at all glamorous. She wore jeans and T-shirts and sneakers and liked her hair in a ponytail. She also liked dessert.
Brock pulled up to the farmhouse a short while later. It was after eight, but thanks to being so far north, it wasn’t completely dark yet.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said to the sheriff as she got out of the car.
He nodded. “You sure you have someone you can call to come stay with you this late?”
“I’m sure.” It was hard enough as it was keeping track of her lies. She’d learned not to offer information unless someone asked. It was a valuable tool.
Fortunately, he didn’t ask, although she could tell he wanted to.
The sheriff waited until she went inside to turn the lights on. She waved from the doorway as he drove off. Only when the taillights had disappeared from the highway did she heave a heavy sigh and close the door.
The sigh didn’t last.
A scream tore from her throat when someone grabbed her from behind, but a swift hand over her mouth snuffed out the sound. Not that it would have done much good. There was no one to hear. Suddenly she was brutally aware of how alone she was out here. The quiet and privacy she’d been seeking could turn out to be her doom.
Instinct took over. She stomped on his foot and heard the welcome groan. Taking advantage of his surprise, she slammed her elbow straight back into his gut and whipped around ready to use the flat of her palm to shove his nose up to his brains.
But his moment of shock was gone. He easily blocked her blow, caught her wrist, and twisted her arm around—hard—to bring her tight against him. She’d been well taught, but he was in a different league. He made her efforts seem like child’s play. It took only an instant for her to realize why.
The contact and the heat of his body stunned her. Confused her. It was almost...
Muscle memory.
The instinct to fight died. She knew even before she looked up and saw his face. The man in the car hadn’t been a ghost. Scott wasn’t dead.
Euphoria rose up inside her. “You’re alive!” she burst out, the tears not far behind. “Thank God, you’re alive!”
“Save it,” he said sharply, pricking her happiness as if it were a balloon.Pop.Clearly, he wasn’t feeling the same happiness and relief at seeing her aboveground and not six feet under. His face was an icy mask of rage. Even his eyes—normally deep blue—had turned as wintry as slate.
He looked so different from the man she’d come to know that she was surprised she’d recognized him at all. Scott was the quintessential naval officer. Though most SEALs adopted the “relaxed grooming standards” of secret special operations units, Scott wasn’t the relaxing type—about anything. He was by-the-book regulation, and rarely had she ever seen him not shaved and impeccably groomed.
Now was one of those times. His face hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week and his hair was both darker (she suspected dyed) and longer than she’d ever seen it. Maybe even a little past his ears. And wavy.
She’d had no idea.
Even the clothes he was wearing were standard, off-the-rack cargo shorts and a long-sleeve T-shirt. The very first night they’d met she’d been struck by hiswell-put-together appearance. Later she learned why. Scott had been raised with incredible wealth—that old East Coast family kind of wealth—and his clothes reflected that. Not that he was flashy. It was actually the opposite. Everything was justnice: the fit, the fabric, and very understated. She’d never met anyone who had bespoke suits from London—she’d actually never even heard that word before she’d questioned him about why his suits looked as if they’d been made for him. They had.
