Emilie Rose - Pregnant on the Upper East Side? / The Billionaire in Penthouse B - Pregnant on the Upper East Side?

She transferred her attention to the flaky confections cut into bite-size diamonds.

“Go ahead, Amanda. Dive right in. You know you want to.”

Exactly. And that was becoming a big problem.

The police again?

Amanda’s steps faltered on the marble floor as she entered her lobby early Monday evening. She hoped the police presence was more of the same old unsolved investigation and not some new occurrence in the apartment building.

As she passed under the massive crystal chandelier on the way to the elevators she nodded a silent greeting to Detective McGray, who loomed over the doorman’s desk. His green eyes and lean, paunchy body looked tired and harassed.

The detective had been haunting the building since a former resident had been found dead back in late June. At first the police had believed Marie Endicott’s death to be a suicide, but now they suspected foul play. The possibility of someone being murdered in the building gave Amanda the creeps. She shivered and shifted her attention to the doorman.

Poor Henry was sweating and mopping his face with a handkerchief despite the frosty air Amanda brought whoosh ing in on her heels. She couldn’t blame the guy. The hard-eyed detective could make anyone squirm. McGray had certainly rattled her cage when he’d questioned her after the woman’s body had been found. Amanda hadn’t even known the deceased. But she’d heard everyone in the building had been questioned. And then there’d been an even more uncomfortable Q&A in July when Julia had received a blackmail letter from someone threatening to spill the news of her pregnancy.

Amanda stepped into the waiting elevator. According to her former roommate, the scandals of 721 Park Avenue’s residents could keep the tabloids busy for years. Yet another reason to keep the Curtis situation quiet. She wasn’t ready to involve Alex’s associate and risk exposing her predicament.

Which brought her thoughts back to Alex. As if they’d strayed far from that taboo subject lately. She sighed and leaned into the corner as the elevator shot upward. His enticement with the baklava had almost led her to create a scandal of a whole different kind. How she’d managed not to lick the man from head to toe right there in his office when he’d fed her a bite of chocolate baklava was still a mystery.

Kudos to her for having the good sense to invent another appointment and rush out of there before she devoured him and his baklava. Her willpower was stronger than she’d suspected. But it was worrisomely shaky.

The doors opened. She straightened and prepared to exit but stopped. Jane Elliott, penthouse B’s housekeeper, stood in the opening. Amanda glanced at the floor number. Six. “Hi, Jane. Going up?”

Jane hesitated and then stepped inside and hit the button for the penthouse. “Yes. Good evening, Amanda.”

The doors slid shut. Amanda briefly wondered who Jane had been visiting on the sixth floor and then shoved the question into the “none of her business” category.

She looked longingly at the housekeeper’s long, curly hair and wished—not for the first time—that her babyfine hair would hold a curl. But no. She might have inherited her mother’s height and build, but she’d been cursed with her father’s flyaway locks and pale coloring instead of the thick auburn hair and sultry looks that had made her mother a top fashion model for two decades before she’d traded in that career to become a successful clothing designer.

Bad hair. Just one more way to disappoint her overachieving parents. As if she needed another way.

She shook off the negative thoughts. “Detective McGray is back in the building. I haven’t missed anything new, have I?”

“I’m not aware of any new occurrences,” Jane replied. The doors opened again. “Are you visiting Gage—Mr. Lattimer, I mean?”

Amanda’s gaze shot to the numbers. “Oops. No. My mind was wandering. I guess I forgot to push the button for my floor.”

“Good night, then.” Jane left the elevator.

“Good night.” Amanda stabbed the 9 button. The doors closed. She smacked a palm against her forehead.

Alex had taken over her brain, and she couldn’t afford to mix business with her personal life again. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a clear pattern to show her the error of her ways.

During her senior year in high school she’d fallen head over heels for Heath, the star quarterback. She’d almost flunked her last semester and that would have cost her her acceptance to Vassar if her father hadn’t bailed her out by having a long talk with the dean. Amanda suspected there had probably been a deep-pocketed donation along with the discussion.

And then while in college she’d met Douglas at an art gallery. Talk about being stupidly distracted. She’d been young, naive and totally trusting. Douglas had been thirty-two, suave and so attentive. He’d swept her off her feet and taken her to Vegas. Instead of marrying her like she’d expected, he’d proceeded to gamble away the majority of the money she’d inherited from her grandmother on her twenty-first birthday. When the money had run out, so had he. She’d had to call home for airfare. Hadn’t that been embarrassing?

By the time Curtis rolled into her life, her parents considered her truly stupid and irresponsible. And she’d proven them right. She’d been distracted by the whole falling-in-love myth and she’d trusted too much. Apparently her hormonal stupors caused her to miss critical details—details that still could cost her Affairs by Amanda.

But the hormonal stupors induced by Heath, Douglas and Curtis were like mild colds compared to the fullblown flu version Alex brought on.

Maybe a little inoculation would cure her.

No. Don’t go there.

She couldn’t afford to lose her business. That meant she couldn’t lose her head. Because if she lost Affairs by Amanda she’d be forced to admit to her parents and herself that she was a failure.

“Alex.” The flash of hunger in Amanda’s eyes when she opened her door later that Monday was gratifying. The frown that followed was not. “What are you doing here and how did you get upstairs without Henry buzzing me?”

“I’m here because I heard you’re a Monday night football fan. And Gage Lattimer brought me up. He lives in the penthouse.”

She gave him a patient look. “I know who Gage is. You took a lot for granted assuming I’d be at home and free tonight.”

“I did, but I brought food, beer and fresh Krispy Kremes to make up for it.”

Her gaze dropped to the bags in his hands. Indecision filled her face. She shifted on her bare feet, drawing his attention to her fuchsia-painted toenails. “I don’t think—”

“And another party proposition.”

He had her. Whether it was the donuts or the party that sealed the deal didn’t matter. He saw capitulation soften her grey eyes before she opened the door wider, albeit with obvious reluctance. “Come in. But only if you’re pulling for the Giants.”

He grinned. “I have season tickets. Box seats. Fifty yard line. Be nice and I’ll take you to a game.”

That earned him a smile. What more could a guy want? Amanda was smart, sexy, a networking genius. And she liked football.

He scanned the place for competition as he followed her in, but he didn’t spot any sign of a date. He had taken a risk showing up uninvited tonight, but his previous strategy wasn’t working. He’d needed an adjustment. The exercise mat on the floor clued him in to her evening plans and explained her T-shirt, cotton pants and lack of makeup. Not that she needed to paint a face like hers.

He handed over the beer—an imported brew that Julia claimed was the only brand Amanda would drink. “Shove that in the refrigerator while I unpack the rest. The game doesn’t start for an hour. That gives us time to eat and talk about my brother’s birthday party.”