Her Baby's Father. Katherine Garbera

could procreate without ever touching.

      Though he wasn’t domesticated and would probably never have any offspring, his male pride chafed at the idea of a woman having a child on her own. He knew a lot of men dropped the ball on the fatherhood front, but that didn’t mean there weren’t a lot of stand-up guys ready to sign on for the long haul. There were enough guys that sperm banks weren’t necessary.

      His magazine had arranged to pay for the procedure for a woman, Sabrina MacFadden, to ensure that she’d tell them all the details of her decision. She must be desperate—probably thirty-eight, never been with a man and looked as appealing as a tight end after a particularly grueling play-off game.

      He’d left L.A. for this?

      Squinting against the late-afternoon sun, he propped himself against the side of the building to wait for the MacFadden woman. A loud thumping beat of music drew his attention to the parking lot. A classic ’69 Mustang convertible pulled neatly into a front parking spot.

      The top was down and the driver wore a bright red scarf tied around her hair and big, flashy sunglasses. She stepped out of the car and removed the covering from her head. Long reddish-brown hair fell in waves around her shoulders. He wanted to bury his hands in her thick curls.

      Oh, yeah.

      She reached into the car, then pulled out a navy suit jacket. As she tugged it on, the silk shell she wore pulled tight across her breasts. Reese knew he should look away, but he couldn’t.

      The woman walked like a dream. Reese briefly considered ditching the assignment and seducing her into going home with him. She was the embodiment of a dream he’d had when he’d been sixteen. His favorite classic car and a sexy woman, both in overdrive.

      Pig, he thought.

      The woman moving toward him had endless legs. They seemed to start at her armpits and go on forever. The straight skirt ended at mid-thigh and crept upward the tiniest bit with each step she took. He’d never seen such perfect thighs. He felt that she was a dream come to life. He fantasized about those legs as she strode toward him with the fluid grace of a dancer. Maybe this wasn’t going to be a bad day, after all.

      The fitted skirt molded to her hips like a second skin. Longing to caress her, he shoved his hands into his pockets. A shadow blocked her face from view, leaving the mundane detail of her identity to his fantasy.

      He imagined they were on a deserted beach and she wore a skimpy bikini. Realistically, he assumed her body wouldn’t be as good-looking under her clothes as it was dressed in that sexy bit of nothing his imagination had supplied, but his lusty mind filled in all the details. She would look like a cross between Cindy Crawford and Kathy Ireland, but not too perfect, because perfection was its own evil. She’d have the mind of a nuclear physicist and she’d bake like Betty Crocker, because every woman should know how to cook.

      Knowing his eyes were masked by the mirrored shades of his aviator sunglasses, he continued to ogle her body as she stopped in front of him. A soft summer breeze ruffled her hair and carried the scent of flowers to him.

      “Excuse me?” she said.

      Her designer sunglasses hid her eyes and half of her face, but her nose was perky. He liked that. With her body, classic features would have been overkill.

      “Yes?”

      “Are you Reese Howard?” she asked, the words reaching his ears in slow motion.

      Ah, the fantasy continues. Maybe he’d been in the sun too long. Her mouth intrigued him. He had to shake off his lethargy. But more than anything he wanted to kiss those lips, especially her full bottom lip, which looked as if it were begging for a man’s caress. To nibble there before delving deeper and exploring the secret recesses of her mouth. He wanted to feel that mouth move under his as he thoroughly plundered it.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Great. I’m Sabrina MacFadden. Sorry I’m late.”

      She held out her hand and he responded automatically with a handshake. The touch of her delicate fingers shot sparks from his arm to his groin. The sun must have made him dizzy, because never before had touching a woman had such an immediate reaction on his body. Her fingers were long and fine-boned. Her fragile, feminine grip made him feel like a big brute—a masculine warrior. It brought to the fore all of his gut instincts—conquer her and make her completely his.

      She removed her sunglasses with her free hand. He stared into eyes the color of the deep Caribbean Sea where he’d spent last summer. Vulnerable eyes that seemed to invite him closer to her while begging him to stay away. Eyes that reminded him of home—not the house he’d spent his childhood in, but that deep sated feeling for which he’d always secretly longed.

      Realizing he’d never responded to her, he muttered, “No problem. Let’s go across the street to the Bay Side Café and we’ll start our interview.”

      Big problem. This woman was messing with his libido and his protective instincts. He didn’t like it. She was supposed to be older, more maidenly and about as tempting as three-day-old bread. She was young, sexy, vibrant; alive in a way he’d forgotten how to be.

      The only time he came close to that feeling anymore was when he was doing something dangerous. Rappelling without a partner in the dead of night, driving his motorcycle through Devil’s Pass at ninety, hanging on by sheer guts. A sense of purity around this woman reminded him of the fleetingness of his own life.

      He cupped her elbow to help her across the street. She stiffened. Okay, he knew she didn’t need help but he’d wanted to touch her. Longed to feel her smooth, elegant arm under his hand. He wanted to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her flush against his body.

      Reese dropped her arm. Hell, he was a professional. He didn’t get involved with his interview subjects. When the light changed and they crossed the street, he shortened his stride to allow her to walk comfortably. Mario, the owner, spotted him and gave him the thumbs-up sign when he saw Ms. MacFadden. Reese held her chair as she seated herself at the outdoor café.

      She was the kind of woman men noticed, Reese realized. Certainly not the kind of woman who’d have to have a child on her own. If only she wanted to stay single and childless, he thought. He assured himself that once they sat down and talked she’d lose her appeal.

      He’d played the field for a long time. He’d worked hard in L.A. but had partied hard as well. There had never been time for a serious relationship, which was fine with him. He acknowledged that most women seemed the same to him. There was no longer the thrill of meeting and discovering something new.

      But here it was. And stronger than he’d ever experienced before because it was so unexpected. Like the excitement he’d found only in his former work, and in the danger he’d chased on sheer rock mountain faces and rivers of roiling white water. He hadn’t felt this alive in a long, long time.

      And a woman was making him feel that way.

      Not a drugged-out street thug who mistook him for a cop, or even the wild ocean in the middle of an unexpected storm or dangerous rapids on the raging Colorado. It was a woman!

      Please, God, let her be ditzy.

      Sabrina MacFadden fiddled nervously with her water glass. Reese Howard was not the type of man she’d pictured. She hadn’t expected to feel a spark of desire when they’d touched. She shook hands all the time in her role as secretary to the vice president of sales. It was the kind of job that demanded lots of interaction and hand-to-hand contact, but nothing, nothing had prepared her for the shock she’d felt. More like a sense of rightness. A feeling that she’d met the yin to her yang.

      He should have been some stereotypical newspaperman who looked like he belonged in another era instead of the muscle-bound guy sitting across from her. This guy probably had never encountered an obstacle he couldn’t conquer.

      His biceps bulged when he pulled over an extra chair. She felt like a ninety-pound weakling despite the fact that she worked out. Well okay, jazzercise really only worked