“Tell me how you want to handle this mess,” he said, stopping just short of pleading. “You know I’ll marry you if that’s what you want. I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me what you want.”

Any tenderness he’d imagined vanished, replaced by an icy hauteur. “You’re hopeless.” She stomped through the leaves and up the steps toward the front door. She didn’t slam it in his face, so he deduced he was supposed to follow her inside for more ass kicking.

The imposing entrance hall held a sweeping staircase, impressive oil paintings, and antique furniture that shouted old money, but the abandoned backpacks, bike helmets, and single multicolored kneesock tossed in the corner spoke of younger occupants. She flung her windbreaker on a chair that looked like a loaner from the Smithsonian and turned to face him again. “What if I’m lying?”

He’d stopped trying to wipe the leaves from his shoes on the Oriental carpet that stretched across the doorway. “Lying?”

“What if I’m not pregnant,” she said, “and I’m making this whole thing up. What if I finally saw through that charade you built to protect me—as if I weren’t perfectly capable of protecting myself—and what if I really do love you and this is the only way I could think of to get you back? What would you do then?”

He forgot about his wet shoes. “Are you lying?”

“Answer my question.”

He wanted to strangle her. “If you’re lying, I’m going to be more pissed than you can imagine because, despite everything I’ve said, I want a baby with you. Tell me the truth right now!”

Her eyes seemed to melt. “Really? You really do want a baby?”

Now he was the belligerent one. “Don’t screw with me about this, Lucy. It’s too important.”

She turned away. “Mom! Dad!”

“We’re in here.” A male voice boomed from the back of the house.

He was seriously going to kill her, but first he had to follow her through the grand house into a roomy, sun-splashed kitchen that smelled of coffee and something baking. The squared-off bay window held a trestle table that looked out over the autumn garden. President Jorik sat at one end, the Wall Street Journal open in front of her, another paper folded at her side. She wore a white robe and gray slippers. Even without makeup, she was a beautiful woman, in addition to being an imposing one. Her husband sat across from her in jeans and a Saturday-morning sweatshirt. Although her hair was combed, his wasn’t, and he hadn’t yet shaved. Panda hoped like hell they were both on their second cup of coffee, or this was going to go even worse than he expected.

“Mom, Dad, you remember Patrick Shade.” Lucy said his name as if it were spoiled meat. “My guard dog.”