Judy Duarte - Bluegrass Baby

“All right, if you’re more comfortable doing it that way.” Kyle slid her a heart-stopping grin. “I’ll see you at Melinda’s. Around six.”

Milla merely nodded, afraid her voice would betray her nervousness.

And her excitement.

At five minutes to six Milla pulled into Melinda’s parking lot. The red brick building, once a firehouse, had been converted into a steak and seafood restaurant. Melinda’s might not be as fancy as some restaurants found in Lexington, but it boasted an extensive wine list and was the fanciest eatery Merlyn County had to offer.

She parked her car, a white Caprice Classic whose odometer had lapped once or twice and still showed considerable mileage. But rather than opening the door, she continued to sit behind the wheel. Nervous. Apprehensive. And far more expectant than she cared to admit.

She spotted Kyle’s black, late-model BMW parked close to the restaurant’s entrance.

Waiting for her.

Milla Johnson.

Could she be any more flattered? She’d never had a man like Kyle interested in her.

Or had she read him wrong? Maybe he had only asked her here to discuss the lawsuit.

She’d wanted to primp before coming, to try on several outfits and fuss with her hair and makeup. But she’d feared her mother would notice and ask questions Milla didn’t have time to answer, questions she’d have to skirt until she had time to set her mom straight about her personal life, about boundaries.

A quick glance in the mirror told Milla she looked all right. Not bad. But deep inside she wanted to look her best.

As she climbed from the driver’s seat and closed the car door, she heard a man’s voice.

“Why, look there, Darlene. That’s the woman who nearly killed our baby.”

Milla’s feet seemed to take root in the asphalt. She didn’t need to see the man’s face to know who it was. Joe Canfield, the father of the baby who’d been rushed into the E.R. burning with fever and its limp, little body racked with infection.

The baby girl she’d been accused of neglecting.

The baby Kyle Bingham had saved.

“Enjoy your night out on the town,” Canfield said, as he and his wife strolled down the sidewalk that ran along Main Street. “When we get done with you, you’ll be doing jail time.”

Trying desperately to heed her attorney’s advice and avoid any conversation—let alone a confrontation—with the plaintiffs, Milla strode toward the entrance of Melinda’s. Her chest tightened to the point of making breathing difficult.

She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Why were they doing this to her? The baby’s infection hadn’t been her fault.

All she wanted to do was hightail it home and lock the door behind her. For a moment, she’d considered getting back in her car and using her cell phone to call Kyle and postpone their dinner.

But maybe she needed to meet with him, to see him. To let him tell her all over again that the Canfield baby’s life-threatening condition hadn’t been her fault.

She needed the reassurance. She also needed the distraction. And an evening out with a doctor whose smile could turn her inside out would certainly help her forget her troubles, if only for tonight.

So instead of bolting, she held her head high and continued into the restaurant.

“Ms. Johnson?” the hostess asked.

Milla fingered the narrow shoulder strap of her black purse. “Yes.”

“Dr. Bingham is waiting in the bar. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to his table.”

Milla made her way across the polished concrete floor to the lounge, where a massive, carved-oak bar lined the back wall and a vast display of framed black-and-white photographs decorated the brick of the inside walls.

Kyle stood when she reached his table. He flashed her a dazzling smile that sent her tummy topsy-turvy and her heart soaring. She nearly forgot the unpleasant run-in she’d had with the Canfields.

Nearly, but not quite.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

“White wine.” And plenty of it, her nerves shouted in echoed concert.

Kyle motioned for the waitress, and before long their drink order had been placed. “Our reservations are at six-thirty. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”

She managed a smile. “That’s fine.”

Trying to hide her nervousness, she turned to the brick wall and spotted the nearest photo. A small brass plaque said it was the first fire chief of Merlyn County dressed in a Santa Claus outfit and sitting at the wheel of a fire truck. She touched the wooden frame that had been bolted to the wall, then glanced at Kyle and caught him watching her.

He smiled. “I guess the proprietor wants to make sure tipsy, local history buffs can’t run off with any of the old photos.”

Before Milla could respond, the waitress brought a Merlot for him and a Chardonnay for her.

Kyle lifted his wineglass in a toast. “To the start of a friendship.”

A friendship? For the briefest moment, Milla wrestled with disappointment. A part of her, a very young and romantic side she’d almost forgotten about, had hoped for more.

But when her gaze snagged his and she spotted the vibrant sparkle in those baby blues, she realized he had more than friendship on his mind. And so did she. But with her inexperience, at least with guys like Kyle, she wasn’t sure how far she wanted things to go. Still, the idea of letting this night play out romantically intrigued her and sent a warm sense of anticipation coursing through her blood.

She took a sip of wine, then studied him over the rim. He was gorgeous. And charming. And no doubt, a bit of a playboy, the way his dad had been.

Was Kyle Bingham the kind of man she should avoid?

Or the kind of man every woman needed to experience at least once in her life?

Unwilling to give in to either wonder or indecision, she eyed him carefully, as though she knew exactly what they both wanted. Her hormones seemed to kick up a notch. And sexual curiosity appeared to be on the rampage.

What would it be like to touch him, to kiss him, to lose herself in the passion that blazed in his eyes?

She looked at him, as though he might explain the attraction that crackled between them like an electrical storm. But he just sat there, waiting.

Watching her.

Kyle found himself practically gawking at the young midwife who’d caught his eye on more than one occasion since he’d arrived in Merlyn County a few months ago.

Damn. Milla Johnson was one beautiful woman, although she didn’t seem to be aware of it. She’d dressed simply in a classic black dress. And she hadn’t done much to her chestnut-colored hair, other than brush it until it shined. The ends seemed to naturally curl under in a sophisticated style.

She was the kind of woman who stood out in a crowd. The kind of woman who made his libido sit up and beg.

He usually complimented the lady he was with as a means of breaking the ice and gaining an advantage. But tonight, the words came easy. “You look pretty, Milla.”

She flushed at his comment, then smiled, flashing him two dimples he could get used to seeing. “Thank you.”

The women Kyle usually dated were fully aware of their beauty, their sexuality. Milla, although just as lovely and attractive, wasn’t as sure of herself, which, for some reason, pleased him, making her all the more appealing.

She took a sip of wine, then ran her tongue across her bottom lip.

A surge of heat shot through Kyle’s bloodstream, arousing him, tempting him. She glanced again at the photos on the wall, completely oblivious, it seemed, of the effect she was having on him.

Kyle leaned back in his chair, unbalanced by his arousal and by the effect she had on him. The pretty midwife had stirred a powerful hunger, one that dinner at Melinda’s wouldn’t sate.