Claiming His Love-Child. Sandra Marton

of them who’d made arrangements to fly home that night instead of the next day.

      On the way to the airport, he’d thought about the ideas that had floated through his mind earlier. Going to Nantucket instead of straight home, or to Colorado, or someplace in Europe…

      Why would he do that?

      Whatever had been bugging him was long gone. He’d climbed out of the back seat of Stefano’s limousine feeling relaxed and lazy, gone to the first-class check-in line, had time for a coffee prior to boarding.

      He still felt relaxed. He liked flying at night. The black sky outside the cabin, the gray shadows inside, the sense that you were in a cocoon halfway between the stars and the earth.

      That was how he’d felt that night after he’d taken Marissa to bed. Holding her in his arms, feeling her warm and soft against him until she’d suddenly stiffened, started to pull away.

      “I have to go,” she’d said, but he’d drawn her close again, kissed her, touched her until she moaned his name and then he’d been moving above her, inside her, holding back, not letting go because she wasn’t letting go, because he had the feeling she’d never flown free before and the first time it happened, it was damn well going to be with him…

      “Damn,” he said softly.

      Cullen’s eyes flew open. He put his seat up, folded his arms and glowered into the darkness.

      So much for feeling nice and relaxed.

      This was stupid. Worse than stupid. It was senseless. Why was Marissa in his head? He hadn’t seen her since that night. She’d left his bed while he was sleeping, hadn’t shown up to take him to the airport, hadn’t answered her phone when he called. Not that morning, not any of the times he’d tried to reach her after he was home again.

      He always got her answering machine.

      You’ve reached Marissa Perez. Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

      His last message had been brief, all right, even curt.

      “It’s Cullen O’Connell,” he’d said. “You want to talk to me, you have my number.”

      She’d hadn’t phoned. Not once. Her silence spoke for itself. They’d slept together, it had been fun, and that was that. No return visits, no instant replays. End of story.

      Fine with him. The trouble with most women was that you couldn’t get rid of them even after you explained, politely, that it was over.

      Cullen? It’s Amy. I know what you said, but I was thinking…

      Cullen? It’s Jill. About what we decided the other night…

      Marissa Perez took an admirable approach to sex. A man’s approach. She took what she wanted and shut the door on what she didn’t. That didn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him at all.

      Why would it?

      For all he gave a damn, she could have slept with a dozen men since that night with him. After all, he’d had several women in his life since that weekend. Okay, he hadn’t taken any of them to bed, but so what? He’d been working his tail off. Besides, a short break from sex was a good thing. It only heightened the pleasure in the future.

      Tomorrow, he’d phone the blonde he’d met at that cocktail party last week. Or the attorney from Dunham and Busch with the red hair and the big smile. She’d come on to him like crazy.

      Definitely, he’d celebrate his homecoming with a woman who’d be happy to take his calls and happy to see him. And he’d sleep with her, make love until crazy thoughts about Marissa Perez were purged from his mind. Surely, his memories of that night were skewed.

      Cullen muttered a couple of raw words under his breath as he sat up and switched on his overhead light. To hell with what time it was in New York. The blonde from last week was a party animal. This hour of the night, she was probably just coming in the door.

      He dug his address book and his cell phone from his pocket, tapped in her number. She answered after two rings, her voice husky with sleep.

      “H’lo,” she said. “Whoever you are, you’d better be somebody I really want to talk to.”

      He smiled, turned his face to the window and the night sky. “It’s Cullen O’Connell. We met last—”

      “Cullen.” The sleep-roughened voice took on a purr. “I’d started to think you weren’t going to phone.”

      “I had things to clear up. You know how it is.”

      “No,” she said, and gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know how it is. I guess you’ll just have to show me.”

      Cullen felt the tension drain away. “My pleasure,” he said, imagining her as she must look right then, sleep-tousled and sexy. “How about tonight? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

      “I already have a date for tonight.”

      “Break it.”

      She laughed again and this time the sound was so full of promise that he felt a heaviness in his groin.

      “Are you always this sure of yourself?”

      He thought of Marissa, of how she’d slipped from his bed, how she’d ignored his phone calls…

      “Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

      “You’re an arrogant SOB, Mr. O’Connell. Luckily for you, that’s a trait I like in a man.”

      “Eight,” Cullen said, and disconnected.

      He put away his cell phone, sat back and thought about the evening ahead. Dinner at that French place. Drinks and dancing at the new club in SoHo. And then he’d take the blonde home, take her to bed, and exorcise the ghost of Marissa Perez forever.

      CHAPTER TWO

      September: Boston, Massachusetts

      THE end of summer always came faster than seemed possible.

      One minute the city was sweltering in the heat and the Red Sox were packing in the ever-faithful at Fenway Park. Next thing you knew, gray snow was piled on the curbs, the World Series was only a memory and the Sox hadn’t even made it to the playoffs.

      Cullen stepped out of the shower, toweled off and pulled on a pair of old denim shorts.

      Not that any of that had happened yet.

      It was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer with the real start of fall still almost three weeks away. Cold weather was in the future, and so was the possibility, however remote, that Boston could rise from the ashes and at least win the division championship.

      Cullen strolled into the kitchen and turned on the TV in time to catch the tail end of the local news. The Sox had lost a tight game yesterday; nobody had much hope they’d do any better today, said the dour-faced sportscaster.

      “Wonderful,” Cullen muttered as he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water and uncapped it.

      The sports guy gave way to the weatherman. Hot and humid, the weatherman said, with his usual in-your-face good cheer. Saturday, 10:00 a.m. and the sun was blazing from a cloudless sky, the temperature was pushing ninety with no break in sight from now through Monday.

      “A perfect holiday weekend,” the weather guru said as if he’d personally arranged it.

      Cullen scowled and hit the off button on the remote.

      “What’s so perfect about it?” he growled. It was just another weekend, longer than most, hotter than most. Long, hot, and…

      And, what was he doing here?

      Nobody, but nobody, stayed in town Labor Day weekend. Driving home from his office yesterday, traffic going out of the city had been bumper to bumper. He’d felt like the