Christine Bell - A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

“Listen, I know what you think, but she doesn’t know anything. Nothing, Carl. It’s all me, okay?”

“Of course it is.”

“So let’s you and I go somewhere and work this out between us, hmm?” He was coming closer, his hands raised. “You do what you have to do, but leave her out of it.”

“I’m sorry, Michael, but I have no choice.”

“For the love of God, Carl, she’s pregnant.”

“I really don’t care. I never liked kids, anyway.”

He lifted his gun toward Michael. Charlotte aimed hers through the blanket and squeezed the trigger. But it wouldn’t move. Nothing happened.

“Hey, Carl, uh, you don’t have the safety on, do you? I mean, I’d just as soon not have to go through this more than once.”

Carl glanced at the gun, his finger sliding over the small catch above the trigger. Charlotte mimicked the move, finding the same catch on her own gun, and pushing it forward.

“I’ve been doing this awhile, Michael,” Carl said. “No, the safety wasn’t on.”

“That’s funny,” Charlotte said. “Mine was.” She squeezed the trigger just as Carl turned to gape at her. The shot exploded, and he flew backward as if he’d been hit in the chest with a sledge hammer. He landed on the floor, and he didn’t move again.

Michael rushed to kick the gun away from him, then bent over him for a moment. Charlotte didn’t watch. She couldn’t—the pain was back and it was intense this time.

“He’s dead,” Michael said. He moved to the sofa, sat on its edge, and pulled her into his arms. “It’s over. My God, it’s finally over.”

She hugged him back. “Is it?”

Sitting back he looked at her. “Only the bad parts, Charlotte. I promise you that. There won’t be any more pain, no more hurting for you.”

“Actually, I think you’re mistaken there.”

He searched her face. “Honey…?”

“It’s labor. I’m sure now. We should probably head to the nearest hospital, okay?”

He nodded, getting to his feet, scooping her up and carrying her out of the cabin, and down to the car.

* * *

He was with her throughout the labor, the delivery, and finally, that moment of moments, when her tiny, perfect baby daughter was placed in her arms.

Charlotte couldn’t take her eyes off her child—at least not until she saw the look of utter rapture in Michael’s wet eyes. And then she couldn’t decide which was more beautiful.

He looked at her, then kissed her tenderly. “I don’t know how, Charlotte, but I swear, I’m going to find a way to convince you how much I love you. If it takes me the rest of my life, I will.”

She smiled, tears brimming in her eyes. “You already have,” she told him.

His brows went up, eyes widening a little. “I have? But…when, how?”

“I found your journal. I read what you wrote there after you left me.”

He seemed blank for a moment, then realization dawned. “I hadn’t been back to the cabin since then. I didn’t even remember…”

She slid the baby into his arms. He stared adoringly at the child, then at her. “I guess our daughter gets to come to the wedding this time, hmm?”

“Just as long as the father shows up,” Charlotte whispered.

“I’ll love you till I die, Charlotte. And as you pointed out, I’m still alive.”

He kissed her again, and she knew that this time, there was nothing that could keep them apart. 

Charlotte winced as an inebriated party-goer stepped on her foot, but she kept moving determinedly toward the doors that led to the balcony. The Duncans would be delighted with their party; it was clearly the event of the season, and their daughter had been successfully launched into society.

Unfortunately, the noise, the heat, and the crowd combined with Charlotte’s pounding headache to make her want to escape for a breath of fresh air. Reaching the balcony doors, she opened them to find two people engaged in a passionate kiss.

“I’m sorry.” The words escaped her mouth before she realized it would have been better to make an exit without being noticed. The couple jumped apart.

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at her fiancé. “John! I thought you were dead!”

John dropped the woman in his arms and rushed to Charlotte. “You’re okay?”

“Of course I am.”

“Then why did you think I was dead?”

“I was being sarcastic! I haven’t seen you all night. You didn’t even join me for the toast. After our fight in the car, I assumed you wanted some space. I don’t know why you can’t agree to allow a priest to marry us.”

“Charlotte, I’m a scientist, I don’t believe in—ah, forget the argument. Don’t you realize what’s going on?”

“Besides me finding you in some woman’s arms? Really, John?”

“Forget her, too,” John said, indicating the woman draped over the balcony railing like a doll dropped on her stomach. “They’re here,” he said ominously.

He glanced over the balcony and Charlotte followed his gaze. On the rose-laden grounds below, a scatter of party-goers screamed and fled from the motley gang of lumbering zombies pursuing them.

“No,” Charlotte gasped. “The zombies—the ones you’ve been studying—are here?”

“Not the ones I’ve studied, in particular. Probably from some other nest.”

News stations had been reporting contained patches of zombies springing up across the state ever since terrorists had unleashed a strange virus during a local fair’s pie-eating contest. John’s research lab had been granted access to a couple of the captured monsters, and he said he’d been making great strides in finding a way to manage the “condition,” as he called it.

“It’s going to be okay, Charlotte.”

“Okay? Oh, I hate your research!”

“Disease control is necessary research, Charlotte. My work saves lives.”

“I know, but— How can you talk about “controlling” them? They’re zombies! They eat people’s brains!”

He kissed her forehead then nuzzled against her hair, a sensual touch that always sent shivers up her spine. “I won’t let anyone touch your beautiful brains.”

Charlotte clung to John’s tall, muscled body. Despite the fact his research had taken a strange turn of late, she loved this man. She wanted to marry him. Even if they had argued all the way to the party about it. They’d both agreed on a small ceremony, but Charlotte insisted they should have a Catholic priest officiate the marriage, while John—being a scientist—preferred no religion be involved.

But right now the argument didn’t matter, as the screams from below were making her heart pound like bongos.

“Don’t look.” John’s deep brown eyes found hers. “I will protect you.”

Charlotte locked her gaze with John’s. Never had she seen her geek of a fiancé act so manly. Normally he had his eyes glued to a computer report or on a petri dish. This powerful, determined side of him stirred a wanting in her she’d never experienced. For the first time, she regretted their agreement to wait until after they were married to have sex. “Promise?”

“I’d die for you, Charlotte.”

“Don’t say that! Oh, John, don’t let them get us. Not before we’re married. Not before we’ve…”

He smirked. “You think I’m going to let a zombie chew on me before I’ve had a chance to make love to the most beautiful girl in the world?”

Basking in his adoration, Charlotte blushed. “Aww—”

Just then she saw John swing a wrought-iron patio chair straight toward her. She screamed and ducked. Behind her, a zombie’s head went flying off its neck as the wrought iron easily cut through its decaying flesh and bone.

John helped her to stand and wiped a chunk of zombie from the shoulder of her pink satin evening gown. “Close one. This must be an older nest of zombies—the older ones are not as durable. That could prove to our favor.”

“Durable?” Growing queasy, she wilted into his arms. “I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have to, sweetie. Stay by me. I’ll get you to safety.”

“Wait, first we’ve got to find Tina. I don’t want my best friend to get eaten by zombies!”

“Right. But we gotta move, and fast.”

He lifted her and carried her over the zombie’s still-twitching body, then set her down. She brushed bits of something she didn’t want to examine too closely from her floor-length gown, and then they both dashed through the eighteenth-century mansion where Tina’s family had hosted her party.

Social event of the season? More like six o’clock news disaster. John swiped a silver candelabra from a marble-topped table as they rushed by. “Arm yourself,” he said. “They are intelligent. After their initial feed they only have to consume small portions of flesh to survive, and there is very little mental depletion.”

Charlotte accepted the candelabra with a wince. Yet she couldn’t help but swoon a little over his take-command attitude.

Sucking in a fortifying breath, she steeled herself to stay strong and not turn into a weeping Wilma that John would have to abandon to the zombies because she was too frantic to deal. They were in this together. And they would have their wedding day.

Then she remembered the seemingly compromising position in which she had found her fiancé just minutes before, and Charlotte couldn’t help but ask, “John, who was that woman on the balcony?”

“What woman?” John kicked open a pair of swinging doors that led into a gallery, only to be greeted by delirious moans and groping arms. A fresh stew of zombies in fancy evening dress—guests of the ball—lurched toward them.

“Wrong door.” John grabbed her hand and they raced away from the approaching horde, taking a sharp turn into the kitchen. John grabbed a steel-legged bar stool and shoved it through the door handles, forming a sturdy barricade. “That should keep them back. For now.”

Charlotte wondered if her ribs could withstand the torture of her thudding heart as she looked around her. The deserted kitchen was beautiful in the moonlight, the stainless-steel appliances shimmering silver.

Their lives had been blessed up until now. Would it all end tonight?

A strange hissing noise alerted her.

Candelabra in hand and prepared to swing, Charlotte crept around the butcher-block counter. Hunched on the other side and clasping a rosary sat the priest whom Tina had introduced to her earlier. “Father!”

“Back!” The priest wielded his rosary cross as if it were a weapon.

“I’m not a zombie,” she said, kneeling before him. “Are you okay?”

John swung around the other side of the counter to join them, which startled the skittish priest once again. He swung the rosary like a lariat and clocked John on the eyelid.

“Ouch. Is that what I get for missing confession for the last five years?” John rubbed his bleeding brow.

“He’s not a zombie, either?” the trembling priest asked Charlotte.

She shook her head.

“So sorry, son.” The priest sighed. “Demons I can exorcise. Spirits I can cast out. But zombies? What do I do with zombies?”

“Best option?” John shrugged. “Run.”

“I can’t run. My ticker can’t take it. It’s the end of the world. You two are young, the lucky ones.”

“We are.” John clasped Charlotte’s hand. His eyes—the right one now a little clouded with blood thanks to the skittish priest—reflected all the love she held for him. “And since it’s the end of the world, I have a favor to ask of you, Father.”

“I can perform final rites, if that will give you peace.”

“Final—no!” Charlotte protested. “We’ll survive this. We have to. We’re to be married soon.”

The priest wobbled his head as if to say good luck with that.

“Right now,” John said, nodding encouragingly to Charlotte. “Will you marry us, Father?”

“Really?” she asked on a gasp. “You’d be okay with a priest officiating our vows?”

“I know how important it is to you. If we’re going to die tonight, I want to die in my wife’s arms.” 

“Oh, John, that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me. I want to be married tonight, too.”

“You two are crazier than the zombies,” the priest muttered.

A loud bang shook the kitchen door.