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Virginia… He’d have to trust Naima wouldn’t overdo it. Wouldn’t put
herself or the baby at risk. Or further risk.
    Naima paused with the hangers in hand, her
brows bunched together. She blinked. Once. Twice. Again, quickly,
until her dark eyes went glassy and tears rolled down her
cheeks.
    “Ah, hell—”
    “No no no!” One hand waved maniacally while
she awkwardly lifted the hangers to dab at her cheeks with the
other. “These are just pregnancy tears. Happens when I burn toast,
too. Or when I get the lid off a sauce jar all by myself.”
    Chuckling, Xander pulled the clothes from
her hand. “I’m gonna ride you about taking care of yourself,
okay?”
    She nodded quickly.
    “Phil, too,” he warned. “And you know how
prickly he is.”
    More nodding, this time with a brilliant
smile that made those tears sparkle. She threw her arms wide and
slammed her small frame against his much larger body. “Thank
you.”
    Too early for the gratitude. They had to get
on the other side of this thing first.
    “This baby girl’s gonna have you wrapped
‘round her little finger some day,” she mumbled against his
chest.
    “A girl?” He stroked his palm down her
back.
    She nodded. “Found out last week. Just
couldn’t take not knowing any longer.”
    A baby girl. Who would look and sound just
like the little woman he held in his arms.
    “You'll finally have to watch Cinderella.”
Her body shook with laughter and he smiled. “Where’s your
ring?”
    “At the computer.”
    “All right. Nap. Now.”
    Arms still around his waist, Naima angled
away. Her head craned left then right. “But I’m not pa—”
    “Go, before I change my mind.”
    She snapped off a formal salute. “Yes, sir.”
Tossed him a wink. Then she sobered. “Luv?”
    “Hm?”
    “Thank you.”
    Moments later, he heard her climbing onto
the bed and he let out a sigh. This trip had to go well, and she
had to stay safe. If anything happened to her, to them , he’d
lose his mind.
    Against his better judgment, Xander picked
up both white dresses and helped his wife overpack.

 
    Harlem, New York
     
    “MAKE A HOLE!” Kizzie screamed, darting in
and out of the wall of people coming at her on the street. Instead
of moving aside the bodies froze, awaiting her approach like pins
for a bowling ball. “Hole!”
    What was this, Target on Black Friday with
laptops going for a penny?
    Four strides and a million gawkers ahead,
the sidewalk ran out, concrete melding into blacktop. The light
changed in her favor, and that little green dude did the running
man in his square cage. Kizzie pumped her arms, digging deep to put
some distance between her and the guy on her tail. Her boot landed
in the street at the same time an old Corolla screeched to a halt
at the curb, wheels angled hard to bend the corner.
    “Shit.”
    Too late to course correct, she tucked her
shoulder and head as her thigh slammed into the front panel.
Momentum sent her hopscotching at mach 1 across the battered hood;
shoulder smacked first, then the rucksack dug into her spine, then
her low back hit the fender’s unforgiving edge. She melted off the
other side, stumbled forward a few paces in her Timberlands. Risked
a glance behind her.
    The driver leaned out of his window,
red-faced and spitting, calling her a few names that were fighting
words no matter which ‘hood she found herself in. But she didn’t
have the time. She had to get moving.
    Then her gaze flew to the ground and she
cursed.
    The black ball cap lay in the street near
the hoopty’s front tire. She hadn’t even felt it come off with the
crash.
    Leave it.
    “Stop! Stop that woman!”
    Kizzie’s head snapped up. Her pursuer neared
the corner, pointing and yelling.
    Go! It’s just a stupid
hat !
    She planted hard, thick sole crunching
gravel.
    Fine damned time to get sentimental,
Baldwin…
    Eyes on the guy chasing her, Kizzie hustled
back and swiped up the cap. Her knuckles scraped the asphalt just
as her stalker