Baby, I'm Yours. Karen Templeton

in a breath over her father’s, “No, she’s not,” his words riddled with grief, anger, regret—the same triad of emotions that had battered Julianne’s soul, in never-ending waves, for far too long. Dad shifted to lean heavily on the three-pronged cane he’d already sworn to burn. “Robyn died three months ago, Mr. Vaccaro.”

      Blood drained from a face downright Michelangelo-worthy. No surprise there, given her sister’s penchant for the cute but clueless, each hook-up less connected with reality than his predecessor, every one summarily dumped before they could dump her.

      Except this one, who’d beaten her to the punch.

      “I’m…so sorry,” Kevin said, shock turning to horror in guileless brown eyes. “I didn’t know.… I should go—”

      “No,” Julianne said, elbowing past her father, in a split second making a decision that would in all likelihood rock her universe. “No, come in—”

      “Julie!”

      “For heaven’s sake, Dad, he’s in shock! We can’t just send him away!”

      Confusion cramped Kevin’s face as Julianne’s presence seemed to finally register. Dimly, it occurred to her how she must look, the epitome of the haggard young widow who doesn’t give a damn anymore.

      “You know who I am,” Kevin said.

      “You bet your ass I know who you are,” her father said. Not budging. Not forgiving. “And you are not welcome in my house.”

      “Dad. It wasn’t his fault.”

      That much Julianne knew, even if her father still couldn’t accept the truth: that Kevin’s leaving Robyn, while not doing her any favors, had played little part in her inability to shake a substance-abuse problem that had been in place long before his involvement with her. Julianne also knew she’d win this battle. Although whether because Dad wasn’t as adamant about his plan as he’d have her believe, or because he wouldn’t deny her anything reasonably within his power to give her, she couldn’t say. Nor did she care. At the moment she’d play whatever hand had been dealt her and deal with the consequences later.

      “Can I get you something?” Julianne asked inanely, as she led Kevin past the quivering, gray-muzzled dog, the family photos lined up against a taupe wall—the Gallery of Illusions, Robyn had called it—into the brightly lit living room cluttered with corpulent leather furniture, local artwork, Southwestern native crafts. “Coffee? Water?”

      “A beer?” her father said behind them, deliberately provoking.

      Irritation flashed in toffee-colored eyes. Kevin was younger than she, she knew. Not by much, a few years. Enough to make a difference, though, to someone who felt old as Methuselah. His shirt was a little too loose, his pants rode a trifle too low, the hallmark of a guy who hadn’t yet figured out that size mattered. Still, she thought—hoped?—she saw the signs of someone playing a hard, fast game of catch-up.

      “I’m a recovering addict, Mr. Booth,” Kevin said softly, reaching down to scratch a panting, grinning Gus between his ears before meeting her father’s lockjawed expression. “I’ve been clean for more than a year.” He turned to Julianne, wearing the slightly blank look of someone unsure of his next line. At the moment, the dog was probably registering more on his radar than she was. “And thanks,” he said, “but I’m good.”

      Then he dropped onto the sofa’s edge, his hands clasped between his knees as he stared at the floor, clearly trying to absorb the news. Finally he lifted his eyes to Julianne’s father. “What happened?”

      Victor’s gaze bounced off Julianne’s, scrupulously avoiding the baby monitor on the coffee table not two feet from where Kevin was sitting. Not that it was likely he’d make the connection, but still. “I don’t have to—”

      “I came here for answers,” Kevin said, his voice surprisingly strong. Unintimidated. “No, actually I came to apologize to Robyn, but now that I’m here…” His hands clenched. “Now that I know…”

      “This is private family business. We’re not obligated to tell you—”

      “My sister was killed in a swimming accident,” Julianne said quietly. “While we were on vacation in Mexico.”

      Kevin swore, softly and bluntly, his reaction genuine enough for Julianne to feel a spurt of sympathy. Robyn hadn’t loved him, she knew that much. Oh, she’d been pissed when he’d left, but that had been more the wounded pride of an emotionally scarred, and very young, woman outraged at being the dumpee. What Kevin’s feelings had been for her sister, she had no way of knowing, of course. Not that she blamed him for leaving. Few people would have nominated her sister for a congeniality award.

      Her father’s eyes cut to hers, pleading. Unflinching, she returned his gaze, shaking her head.

      Even though she knew what her act of defiance would cost her.

      “Was she using?” Kevin asked, shattering Julianne’s thoughts.

      “Yes,” she said over her father’s “What concern is that of yours?”

      “Of course it’s his concern!” Julianne said, startled at her own vehemence. It had been a long time since she’d felt vehement. Since she’d felt much of anything. “It’s always been his concern! He has a right to know! He’s—”

      “Julie!”

      The cane jabbed into the carpet as her father advanced on her, his anguish colliding with hers. Her only excuse, perhaps, for not having fought him harder before this about ending the lie. But, oh, dear God—how incredibly out of whack their lives had been these past few months, focusing on loss instead of gain, on separation instead of connection. A crippling confederacy of negatives Julianne was now determined to overthrow—

      “Don’t do this, Julie-bird. Don’t tell him.”

      —whether her father was on the same page or not.

      “Don’t tell me what, for God’s sake?” Kevin was on his feet, his bewilderment clawing at her sense of decency. “Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on—”

      Kevin’s gaze jerked to the monitor, crackling with the distinct sounds of a baby waking up from her nap.

      “Robyn was pregnant when you left,” Julianne said quietly, her heart splitting in two as she watched her words slowly register in toffee-colored eyes.

      When, all those months ago, good sense—and an awakening survival instinct—had finally shoved Kevin off the track to nowhere, he’d naively believed the temptation to backslide would never be an issue. At least, after those first few days. Weeks. Then it would get easier, right? Only he hadn’t counted on fate lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to send him to his knees.

      Because to be completely honest, he thought, as he gripped the rails of his baby daughter’s crib, at that moment the sickly sweet promise of escape sounded pretty damn good. Except he knew there was no such thing as just one drink, just one toke, to dull the edge. Not for him. No more than he could take one step off a cliff and not end up smashed at the bottom. Literally.

      The crazy thing was, he’d never really understood what had driven him off that cliff to begin with. His family was nuts, sure, but no worse than anybody else’s. A lot better than most, actually. Why he’d hurt them, hurt himself, he had no idea. But even through the fog of shock, as his baby—oh, dear God: his baby!—fixed her calm, blue-gray gaze on his and smiled, pumping her chubby bare legs as she lay on her back, Kevin knew he would never, ever, do anything to hurt her.

      Pippa, they called her. Short for Phillipa. Where Robyn had come up with that name, God only knew. Still, weirdly, it seemed to fit, he thought as he lowered one hand into the crib, his own smile far shakier than the baby’s. Five chubby fingers curled around his index finger, snaring it in a death grip. Rosebud lips pursed, eyes went huge, chunky little legs ratcheted up the pumping to the