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Della had a feeling that Perry was starting to believe her.
That was what she had wanted, after all. She had wanted Perry to stop asking her to marry him, to stop taking her hand before some gloriously blazing starlit night or endless roll of waves and proposing that they take the plunge together. Mostly because she was starting to imagine it as reality, starting to believe that he meant it.
For those few seconds, while he was saying the words, he did. She knew he did. But once the high of solving the case wore off, he would be back at the office, almost visibly agitated by the tedium until another client walked through his door, and the tender words, the long embrace, would be forgotten. And every time she turned him down, just to watch them go back to the status quo, to the late nights and later dinners, strong drinks and slow dances, she felt again that certainty.
Maybe she was convincing herself, when she turned him down. Maybe she was.
The last time had been two weeks before. The case had been impossible until Paul had uncovered proof that Baldwin's alibi had been faked, and Perry had managed to find the chink in Baldwin's armor on the stand and tear through it on cross-examination. It had been thrilling to watch, and afterward, in high spirits, he had treated both she and Paul to a steak dinner, and Paul had rhapsodized until the inevitable phone call had pulled him away. While she was swaying in Perry's arms, her heart still traitorously light from his touch, he had whispered, the faintest warmth of his breath touching her ear as his feet shuffled in time with hers, that a chartered airplane to Las Vegas wouldn't be so hard to arrange.
What he didn't seem to understand was that when his spirit was low, when he was mentally bouncing his head against the wall in frustration, that was when she felt the closest to him; that was when she was most vulnerable to his halfhearted advances. But what she knew in those moments was enough to convince her that it, that they would never work. He was content to share his triumphs. His burdens, though, were his alone.
And the thought of a marriage in Vegas, even to him, filled her with a sort of sinking misery. Of course he would dance with her in public; of course he would flirt, steal kisses when no one was around. But Vegas? To come back with a ring on her finger and know that behind her back they would all be whispering that she had put in her time and managed to snare him, and she would sit at home, gathering dust while he found someone else to share his life with.
That was what truly galled her. That was why some nights she went to bed holding the memory of his hand against hers, the warmth of his fingers against her cheek, the brush of his lips against hers, like a talisman. She couldn't have all of him, and she would take nothing less.
She was glancing through the newspaper for any more of Harrison Burger's outlandish accusations about Perry's formidable skills when she found her gaze skimming through the wedding announcements. She couldn't count on all her fingers and toes the number of engagement, wedding and birth announcements sent her by her friends back home. Della read the accounts of the ceremonies and celebrations, all of them, imagining yards of lace and silk and filigree, matched sets of china and silver, knowing that she would never see it, that such a day would never be hers. Not until she left him.
And she never would.
She had just made it through the entire newspaper when a listing in the real estate section caught her eye.
Charming country estate, secluded, wooded acres with small pond. Perfect getaway. Call Wieman Realtors for showing.
"Any good news?"
She glanced up. Perry was gazing down at her, hat in his hand, overcoat folded over his arm. His dark eyes were smiling. He was in altogether too good a mood for the stack of correspondence waiting on his desk.
"Too little," she said, closing the newspaper and standing. "Shall we tackle the correspondence right away?"
Perry groaned, drawing a chuckle from Gertie at the switchboard. "Miss Street, you are a cruel taskmaster," he said, opening the door to his inner office. He let out an even more theatrical groan when he saw the pre-opened envelopes waiting for him.
"Will you grant me no reprieve?"
"None," she told him sternly, but she was smiling. "Besides, it's already all been screened. This is what you absolutely have to deal with."
And of course he went immediately for the cream-colored envelope at the bottom of the least-important stack. "This? This I must deal with?" He slid the invitation from the envelope with the tips of his fingers. "This... invitation to a reception? Which I have no intention of accepting?"
She nodded at it, a very small smile on her lips. "Then your refusal is due by tomorrow."
He tossed it in the general direction of his trash can, then selected another with the relish of a boy made to write lines after school. "Give Jackson the will contest," he said, after skimming another letter. "He'll enjoy it." Perry glanced up at her. "Well, sit down, let's get this over with."
She caught his longing glance at the phone on his desk and told him, "Paul is under strict orders not to disturb unless it's a matter of life and death."
Perry sighed. "Okay, that was just to tease," he said, tossing another letter into the trash.
When Della walked down the hall to her apartment the next evening, her coat half unbuttoned, fumbling for the key in her pocket, she was startled to see a box propped up against her door.
Part of her expected, bemused, to find some evidence inside. Perry had a habit of mailing items of interest, things that weren't quite evidence yet, to the office or to himself, to keep them out of circulation; she wouldn't put it past him to have sent something to her for the same reason, as well. But the box hadn't been mailed; her address wasn't on it.
Della hung up her coat and put on the kettle before switching on the light in the den. The parcel was fairly large, but not too heavy. Giving in to her impatience, she cut the twine and lifted off the lid.
The dress inside was a rich blue satin, fitted tight in the bodice. Della lifted it out of the box, her heart in her throat, and held it up against the sweater set and pencil skirt she had worn to work.
It was gorgeous.
She checked the entire box, but there was no note.
"I found the most unusual package at my door last night."
"Oh, did you." Perry's poker face was perfect, but he was letting a smile tug at his lips. He took the time to arrange his hat just-so on the bust of Blackstone before turning around.
Della tapped her pencil against her knee. "Maybe I have a fairy godmother."
"Or some Robin Hood in your apartment house," Perry suggested. "Takes from the rich and gives to the poor, that kind of thing."
"Or a secret admirer."
Perry glanced at the correspondence stacked on his desk, away from her entirely too avid eyes. "Shall we get started, Miss Street?"
"It's a day for the record books," she declared. "Heavens above, for you to suggest we start on the correspondence."
Perry settled in behind his desk and Della collected her stenographer's pad.
"So what was in this mysterious parcel?"
As if you don't know. "A rather gorgeous gown. The kind of thing I have absolutely no excuse to wear."
"Well," Perry sighed heavily, "if you need an excuse... I had put us down for that blasted reception."
"And I would be doing you a huge favor—"
"Quite the opposite."
Della smiled. "You will owe me after this, you know."
"Put it on my tab," he said, extracting the first piece of mail.
Della dressed, applied her makeup carefully, and left a lamp on, casting a gaze back at her small apartment as she swept up her clutch bag. She had no real expectation that they would end the evening here, but his gift of the dress was unusual.
Still, she closed the door behind her with a lightness in her step.
Perry looked imposing and immaculate in formal wear, and when she was on his arm, as they walked into the hall, Della felt the unmistakable glow of being in his proximity. He gave polite nods to the smiling guests he recognized, skillfully maneuvered out of giving free legal advice, and, as soon as the moderately nice dinner was over, asked for her hand. A gleaming parquet floor had been cleared for after-dinner festivities; Perry whispered something to the gentleman presiding over the band in the corner of the room, and as they launched into a lively number Perry motioned her to join him.
Della had no idea if dancing had been anywhere on the itinerary for the evening, but soon enough they were surrounded by couples brave enough to try the music. For his part, Perry moved with a grace and assurance that left her flushed with adoration; she matched his steps easily, and she heard a smattering of applause after they managed a moderately difficult dip.
The dancing didn't last nearly long enough, for her. The last was a slow dance and her skin felt pleasantly warm everywhere it touched his. Once she risked a glance up at his face, trying to keep her own perfectly composed, only to see him gazing back at her with warm affection in his dark eyes.
Her heart fluttered traitorously in her. She glanced away and his arm tightened around her waist.
After the obligatory boring portion of the evening, after they had watched a grinning, balding man present a check to a grinning, slightly less balding man, they climbed into his car, and she arranged her skirts around her. The air between them seemed charged, but she was probably imagining it.
"It's early yet," he pointed out. "Or are you tired, Miss Street."
"We could go back to my apartment for a coffee," she suggested, although she heard her voice like it was coming from someone else, a far more confident, far more assured version of herself.
While she set the percolator she heard him moving around in her living room, and came back around the corner to see him standing, jacket off, tie undone, just straightening from manipulating the radio in the corner. A rich swell of soft instrumental filled the room, and his skin was golden from the faint light of the single lamp. He extended a hand to her and absolutely nothing in her was able to resist the pull of the simple gesture.
She wished for the space of a second that she had bolted back a finger of something while she had been in the kitchen before murmuring, "I saw a very interesting advertisement in the newspaper this week."
"Really," he said, and his breath was warm against her temple.
She swallowed. "Remember the Ellen Cushing Lacey estate?"
"Vividly." She wasn't imagining how close their bodies were as they swayed. She suddenly knew that if she glanced up, the expression she had seen on his face earlier would only be more intense.
"It seems to be up for sale again."
"Such a nice place," he mused. "One where couples might play pirates and laze away the day with nicely appointed picnics."
"Or spend... time together."
Gradually he slowed, and then crooked a finger under her chin, tilting it up. Their bodies were still so close though they barely touched, but oh, just being this close to him made her flush with pleasure.
"Della."
She closed her eyes at the low, tender way he said her name. "If... if you wanted to be with me," she said, and opened her eyes again, and his gaze was rapt on her face. "If you want that, I can't. I can't be the housewife who sits back and gets to hear about what you do without me. And I'd rather it only be what we have now, than you finding someone else to be what I am to you."
He nodded gravely. "I remember."
"But you don't," she began, and forced herself to take a deep breath and start over. "One of these days I'm going to give in to temptation and say yes, and you'll feel honor-bound and for a little while, I'll be the happiest woman on earth. It's the after that I can't bear."
"And there's no other way." He was searching her eyes.
"We could... have a little place," she said slowly. "Where we could be together, and no one would know. And on Monday morning I could come in to work and be your secretary and everything could be as it is..."
"Save a few small details," he said, a trace of humor in his voice.
Their gazes remained locked for a few seconds, maybe a lifetime, before she stepped back. "Coffee," she said.
When she returned with two cups her cheek was burning and she could barely bring herself to meet his eye. What she had just done—he hadn't responded and there would probably be some respectable interval of time before he finally recommended she seek opportunities elsewhere, and—
He took the cup and their fingers brushed. "They would probably take a good price for that estate," he mused aloud.
She glanced up at him, her eyes bright.
"Couldn't hurt to call," he said, and shrugged as he took a sip.
The day he closed on the property, Perry walked into the office briskly, and she saw the muted gleam of the key in his hand. "Miss Street," he said, jerking his chin to indicate that she follow, and vanished into his private office. Della felt Gertie's gaze on her but couldn't risk a look; she stood, smoothed her grey skirt down over her thighs and followed, closing the door behind her.
Perry's expression was pensive, his mouth set, as Della slid into the side chair she usually took when taking shorthand, avoiding the comfortable overstuffed chair meant for clients. "I've been thinking about it for a while," he said, tossing the key onto his blotter, "and this is a problem."
"What is," she asked, distressed to find that her breath kept catching halfway down her chest.
He drummed his fingers a few times. "I don't keep mistresses," he said, and glanced up, catching her gaze with the intensity of his own. "The idea appeals to me not at all. To have a woman sewn up somewhere, waiting to be lavished with furs and jewels and kisses..." He shuddered.
Della nodded. She was going to need a drink when this day was over, she just knew it.
"If we..." He shook his head. "This is... I know you don't want to marry me—"
"I do," she said, standing. She was shaking, but she planted her palms on the desk and leaned over, holding his gaze. "I just don't want to stop being here."
"And why can't you."
Della shook her head slowly. "What are you saying?"
"Why can't you? Why can't we do this, why can't we be together there and here."
"Because—Because—" She shook her head again. "You just don't do that. We don't— And can you imagine what they'll say if they hear you married your secretary and you still have her in the office—"
"And whose business is it?" he asked, standing. "Whose damn business is it, what we do? Or is this really that you're trying to let me down easy?"
"No, no," she said. "I... it isn't their business. How we feel about each other is nobody's business but ours."
He nodded. "So we... if you're worried about anyone knowing, we just take a trip down to Mexico and do this. We have our time together here and there. Is that what you want?"
While she was gazing into his eyes, it all seemed so perfect. She glanced away, one palm still on the desk. There had to be more to it. And wouldn't he resent her, eventually, if she wasn't taking care of the house, if she wasn't hosting dinner parties and entertaining his friends.
He scoffed when she said as much. "There are plenty of perfectly competent housekeepers in this town; I have one taking care of my place right now. I don't have friends, as you well know; Paul Drake doesn't count." He came around the desk. "Do you have any other reasonable objections, Miss Street?"
She met his gaze directly. "None," she admitted, and when he kissed her all her doubts faded to nothing.
They were married in a small town in the middle of nowhere, on the ocean, in Mexico, where even Paul would be unlikely to look for evidence. She wore a cocktail-length dress in pale lace, a birdcage veil over her face, and he wore a summer suit. When he put the ring on her finger she glanced down at it, then back to his face, telling herself to remember it, remember all of it.
The brief ceremony ended and they walked out onto the patio, carrying flutes of champagne, her hand in his. The ocean was a brilliant blue in the middle distance, but she had neglected to pack a bathing suit.
"Too bad I can't wear it at the office," she said, glancing down at her ring.
"You could give it to me," he suggested.
She had known it wouldn't work; the ring, sized perfectly to her slender finger, was nowhere near large enough to fit any of his. Admitting defeat, he handed it back to her, and she slipped it back on, the champagne warm in her belly.
"We're fools, aren't we."
"Maybe," she said, but her eyes were shining when she looked up at him.
He didn't carry her over the threshold into his hotel room; instead she went back to her own and changed into a bright blue shirtdress, and they went out together. He led her into the restaurant the clerk had recommended and they sampled local delicacies, growing slow and delighted with the sweet red wine. By the time they made it back the moon was high and they crossed the road, kicking off their shoes as they were bogged down in the dunes. The sand was a perfect silver in the moonlight, and the beach was deserted. The roar of the waves filled her, vibrating against the warmth of the wine.
"Mrs. Mason."
She grinned. He wouldn't be able to say it often; she relished the sound of it, the softness in his gaze.
"Mr. Mason."
He let his shoes drop beside him in the wet packed sand. She dug her toes in, the wine and champagne making her heedless of the fine grains she would leave between the sheets later.
"Are you..." He half-smiled. "Are you entirely unfamiliar with the agenda for tonight."
"Wooing me with legal speak?" she replied, arching an eyebrow. "I am not entirely unfamiliar, Mr. Mason. Although it has been a long time, and I'm sure your instruction in such matters will be more than sufficient."
He chuckled. "I'll do my best."
The warm delirious haze of the alcohol was just starting to fade when he knocked on the door to her room. She took the time to wrap a thin silk robe around her before she answered, the room cast into dim shadow by the faint light of her bedside lamp.
Outwardly he looked calm. She could read the fine signs, though, the way his jaw was set, the tension in his shoulders. He almost began to pace, but didn't, quite, as she reached up and took the first pin out of her hair.
"Let me," he said, moving toward her, stepping behind her when she nodded. "I've always wanted to do this," he muttered.
It felt glorious, his fingers in her hair, gently extracting the pins, softly massaging against her scalp. Her head fell back, loose on her shoulders, and then he leaned in, his mouth finding her neck.
She shivered at the sensation, swaying as he reached for the belt of her robe. The heat of his hands carried clearly through the thin fabric and his lips brushed over her collarbone, and her hands fluttered at her sides. He slipped the robe off her shoulders and as it hit the floor she turned to him, reaching for his face.
"This is real, isn't it," she said softly.
"I hope so," he replied, leaning down, capturing her mouth with his.
There had been boy friends, in high school, one or two once she had moved out to California, but none of them had awakened in her the kind of feelings that she had experienced from the first moment she had locked eyes with this man. She slipped her arms around his neck and he around her waist, and she didn't realize they were moving until the backs of her legs hit the side of the mattress.
And the lamp was still on, casting his heavy-lidded gaze into shadow when they pulled apart.
"The light," she said softly.
"I don't mind it," he said, his fingertips drawing little circles over the small of her back.
The desire in his eyes, knowing that she would be able to see him, brought a flush to her cheeks as he leaned in to her again. He buried his hand in her hair, and when she tilted back with a little moan he trailed kisses down the column of her throat.
Then he caught the hem of her gown in his hands and began to slide it up, above her hips.
Della reached for the buttons on his shirt and her heart beat painfully hard as she touched his bare chest, as he paused to shrug his shirt off. He was a broad, solid man, over a head taller than she, and she ran her fingers through the hair on his chest, feeling him chuckle as he slid her gown up to just beneath her arms. She raised them and he pulled it off, and she stood gazing up at him, in her bra and panties, feeling his gaze travel down every inch of her.
She reached up and slipped her arms around his neck. "Perry," she murmured.
"Della." He put his arms around her and she felt the warmth of his fingers at the small of her back again, but this time against her skin, barely touching the elastic of her panties.
"This... we've changed everything."
He shook his head. "We have this," he told her. "But I've felt this way about you for a long time."
"How long?" she asked, feeling very much like a skittish schoolgirl as she tilted her head and gazed into his eyes.
"From the first week we met," he said, and pushed her hair back from her cheek. "I would be lost without you."
She smiled. "You would."
He chuckled at the pleased look on her face. "And you, my dear?"
"Oh... I'm sure I would muddle through, somehow." Then her face grew serious. "But my life would be a hundred times dimmer without you in it."
He kissed her again, hard, and everywhere his fingertips glanced over her skin she flinched back. She was just so sensitive that even his skin against hers made a shiver tremble over her. He unfastened her bra with a practiced ease and she let it fall down her arms, tossing it onto the floor as he kissed her again.
Then he pushed her onto the bed, gently, and she maneuvered until her head was on the pillow, but she was still on top of the covers, aware of the air against her bare skin as she watched him push his pants off.
And he was naked.
And she would be damned if she didn't take advantage of the lamp he had pointedly left on.
She glanced below his waist, then back up at his face. "Chief," she said approvingly.
Perry shook his head, chuckling. "Cheeky."
Then he reached down and she arched, and then she was naked, too.
"You're not so bad yourself, Miss— Mrs. Mason."
She fluttered her eyelashes in false modesty. "Come here," she said softly, reaching for his hand.
"Paul owes me fifty bucks," Perry said, when they were seated on the plane, about to head back to California.
"Oh?" Her inner thighs were complaining. Her abdominal muscles were complaining. When her husband took her hand and brushed his mouth over her fingertips, she felt her inner flesh tighten in answer.
Oh, the terribly wicked, terribly glorious things he had done to her with that mouth.
"He said this," and she didn't have to ask what he meant, "would never happen. Or maybe he just wanted it to. I know he carried a torch for you for a while."
"I'm not so sure it's past tense," she told him, laughing at the expression on his face. "Does that mean you're going to tell him, so you can collect?"
"Of course not," Perry told her. "Besides, if he's worth anywhere near what I'm paying him, he'll know in six weeks without my having to tell him."
They didn't exactly make it hard for Paul, either. Della came to the office one morning still wearing her ring, and only because she made it in before anyone else and because she saw the glint of it when she put the coffee on, did she remember to take it off.
Then there was the night they were waiting on a report from one of Paul's operatives, and she had stayed with him, catching up on some dictation, thinking the entire time of the sheer green nightgown she was planning on wearing for him later that night.
The estate, their little hideaway, was being remodeled, and the other tenants in Della's apartment house had become accustomed to seeing Perry at all hours, even before their secret marriage. While she had been to his apartment a few times, now, she preferred her own, not having to whip together an overnight bag and pray she hadn't forgotten some crucial part of her ensemble for the next morning. His morning ablutions were far less complicated than her own.
And she had her own place, and he his, although she could count on one hand the number of nights they had spent apart since their return from Mexico.
She walked into his office, correspondence ready for his signature in her hand, a slow swing to her hips. Gertie was gone, the front lights were down, the blinds closed. Perry was drumming his fingers impatiently on the blotter, staring at the phone as though he could will it to ring.
"Any other time, you'd just shrug it off," she pointed out, perching at the edge of his desk.
Perry shook his head. "Not now. If the operative says that Greevey is lying about the identification, I'll have everything I need to nail him tomorrow."
Della nodded. "And you sitting here glaring at the phone is doing exactly nothing, in that regard."
"And what would you suggest?" Mrs. Mason, the warmth in his eyes completed the question.
"Some relaxation," she said, and moved behind him, reaching up to stroke his temples. He murmured in pleasure at her ministrations, as she ran her fingertips over his scalp, as she smoothed his brow. When he was visibly relaxed she ran her hand down the front of his shirt, slowly, and he watched it progress until she lightly touched his belt.
"Here," he said, and it was barely a question. "Do you know how many times I thought about this?"
She shook her head. "Do I want to know?"
"You know that dark gray skirt you wear sometimes? Tight?" She nodded, as he caught her wrist in his grasp and moved her beside him. "I just wanted to shimmy that damn thing up and bend you over the desk."
Della flushed, but she knew by now that he loved to see it, that half the comments he made to her in that vein were just to provoke that response. She moved between his knees, and unfastened the first button of her shirt.
"Guess it's a shame I'm not wearing it today," she said, peering at him through her lashes.
With one final glance at the phone Perry let out a groan of frustration and stood, reaching for her shirt. He had it half unbuttoned when he glanced at the door leading to the corridor. With a muttered curse he went over to lock the door, and Della went for the office door, and he caught her when she was still standing at the front of the desk.
"Like this?"
"Yes," she agreed breathlessly, as he pulled the tails of her shirt out of her skirt, pushing it open to reveal her bra. As she turned to the desk she pushed down the zipper of her skirt, and he shoved it up above her hips.
"Garter clips," he muttered.
She turned again and sat on the desk, arousal making her fingers tremble as she unsnapped the garters. "There," she said triumphantly when she was done, and when she stood he pushed her panties down and she stepped out of them, his hands warm at her waist as he turned her around.
She didn't say how many times she had thought about it, too, so nascent that it hadn't even been a real image. Oh, how she had just wanted him to touch her this way, and now that she knew just how amazing he was at the act, she was glad it hadn't just been a meaningless night like this, a distraction while he waited for a phone call.
She gripped the edge of the desk as he held her hips in place, and then—
"Perry!"
They hadn't even heard Paul's footsteps. Della's eyes widened as she pulled her bra back into place, fastened her shirt with trembling fingers. She heard Perry zip up behind her and then he tugged her skirt hem down over her thighs as she yanked the zipper up.
He had his hand on the knob when Della saw the white silk of her discarded panties on the floor. She managed to hook them with the toe of her pump and caught them, then shoved them into Perry's pants pocket.
He shot her a half-amused, half-sardonic glance before he opened the door for Paul.
Della was pretty sure he knew, then. Paul didn't say anything, though, and when he confirmed the tainted identification Perry began to make his prediction about how the case would play out in the courtroom the next day, and Della, very unobtrusively, adjusted her stocking, which was drifting in the absence of a clip to hold it in place.
Oh, she would kill him for this when they got home.
Even so, she had to admit, office sex was some of the best sex they'd had yet.
It was at the estate, their home, that it ended.
The house had been lovely, and he put a significant investment in it, letting her pick the furnishings. She had opted for modern, a traditional bar, guest rooms for the day they finally told her family.
When she first missed her period, she didn't think anything of it. They were in the process of moving, after all; her apartment held all her professional ensembles, and the house was for the casual shirtdresses, the sheer nightgowns, nights spent lounging in each other's arms. They used condoms almost every time, anyway.
Almost.
She thought it was the flu, but it lingered, and besides, it wasn't only limited to the morning. And she was losing weight, because she couldn't keep anything down.
"You have to change your diet," the doctor admonished her, as she sat at the edge of the examination table. She had taken a long lunch and come here just to reassure herself, wearing her ring just in case, and the doctor's eyes had been sparkling when he gave her the good news. "You have to find something the baby won't reject and just eat that. In a few months you'll be back to normal, right as rain, all your energy back again." He patted her hand.
Della just blinked at him, uncomprehending. She took a taxi back to the office and didn't realize she still had the ring on until she was in the elevator. She put her hands behind her back and wrenched it off, holding it in the cup of her palm.
"Feeling any better?" Gertie asked sympathetically as Della closed the office door behind her.
Della glanced up, blankly. "Oh. I... not really, to be honest. The doctor said I should go home and rest. Is he still here?"
Gertie glanced at Perry's closed office door, then shook her head. "He said he had to track down a lead and he would be back later."
Della nodded. "Okay. If he gets back or calls before you go, just let him know I went home. Or leave him a note."
Della looked at her desk. Wouldn't be her desk, anymore. It would be someone else's.
It had just been a dream, hadn't it. All this had just been a dream. She had tried to tell him, but...
Della shook her head. That wasn't fair. She had known, they had both known what they were doing.
When Perry walked into their house that night, she had a roast chicken on the table, the places set, a bottle of wine waiting. Granted, she had become nauseated by the smell of the chicken as it had cooked, three times, but the end result was a gloriously brown bird, and Perry was suitably appreciative.
Della twisted the band on her finger as Perry sat down at the table. "So how was the doctor?"
"How was your lead?" she deflected, and served his plate as he told her that he was pretty sure his main suspect had been dating the victim's daughter, and that the night of the murder she had been carrying the knife that had ended up killing him.
Then he cast a suspicious glance at her plate. "You still aren't feeling well."
She had served herself tiny portions and was busily pushing them around the plate. "I'm not," she admitted, and propped her elbows on the table. "There—there was a flaw in this plan, you know."
Perry put his fork down. "Honey?"
She sighed. "It's not the flu. It's morning sickness. That just happens to last all day."
When she glanced up, Perry's face was brightening. "Della. And everything is fine?"
"As far as he could tell," she agreed, watching him push his chair back and come around the table to her. "Oh, Perry..."
She rose and wrapped her arms around him, hard, burying her face against his shirt. He rubbed her back, untying her apron in the process. "Honey, this is amazing. It is."
She tilted her face back to look into his. "Yeah. I won't be able to work anymore. And what about our wedding, and, and..."
She sniffled and he touched her cheek, smiling. "We'll just announce when we were really married and they can go to hell if they ask why we didn't say it sooner," he told her. "And yes, for a while, you won't be able to work, and then there will be nursery school and babysitters..."
"And you'll get some other secretary—"
"Who will be a third as efficient and an eighth as gorgeous as you," he said. "And you can screen the applicants just to make sure, if you want."
She gave him a watery smile. "I just... I want to be there, with you."
He nodded. "I know. Me too."
He finished his meal and helped her clear the table, washing the dishes, and when she returned from changing into a short nightgown he was sitting on the couch with his feet up, the evening edition of the city newspaper open on his lap. She sat down beside him, curling her legs up, snuggling into his side.
"I just didn't see it like this," she told him softly.
"I did," he admitted. "From the minute I talked you into marrying me. This is what it is, this is what it might have been, and Della... you are the only person I have ever wanted to share it with."
She gave him a small smile. "Tell me it will be all right."
He slipped an arm around her shoulders. "It will," he said. "And when you feel better you'll come back to work, until you start showing, and then we'll find a crib..." He trailed off and kissed her forehead.
"And now I've been demoted to forehead kisses."
He chuckled and pressed his mouth to hers, hard. "I'm sorry, I was trying to be gentle with the mother of my future child."
"Well, the mother of your future child has been thinking about you all day," she said, smoothing his tie, then grasping the tail. "And before we know it there will be a squalling infant keeping us awake all night, and there will be no time to..."
"To what?" he asked, his gaze shifting between her eyes and her mouth.
"To see exactly how many places I can kiss you before you give up and take me," she said, and fluttered her lashes.
Instead of blushing, because he never blushed, he reached for her, picking her up and heading for their bedroom. "And that sounds like an excellent thing for us to find out, right now."