For Their Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

depressing. Another prepubescent dream busted.

      Anyhow, the green-haired bartender and her trashy friend, whom he’d tossed out of the cottage in about ten seconds without wasting much time on tact, were history. Belle Carson, who had been happily married eight weeks now, too, was also history.

      Marta was smart, classy, witty and obviously interested. And she was here. So what was he waiting for?

      Nothing. He nestled her heel in one hand and began flexing her long, slim toes with the other.

      She leaned back, palms down on his desk, and let her eyes drift shut. “Mmm,” she said in a low purr. “Nice.”

      A sudden commotion in the outer office stilled his hands. He glanced toward the closed door, not alarmed but curious. It was at least eight o’clock. He didn’t have any appointments tonight.

      That is what his paralegal, Amanda, was clearly trying to tell someone. A woman, from the sound of it. A woman who was refusing to take no for an answer.

      Within two seconds, his door flung open. A young female with crazy green curls stormed in, her eyes fiery and her head pushed forward, like a determined goose. Behind her, Amanda stood helplessly, hands up in defeat. “Miss—Miss, I told you Mr. Gerard is unavailable and—”

      The young woman scowled over her shoulder at the paralegal. “And I told you I don’t care. What is it with you people? He’s not the president, for God’s sake!” Then she turned toward David, and he saw her face harden as she took in Marta lounging on the desk, her jacket on the chair, her foot cradled in David’s hands.

      “Oh,” the newcomer said. “That kind of unavailable.”

      David’s mind wasn’t working fast enough. He knew what he saw, or what he thought he saw, but it was so impossible his brain wouldn’t accept it. The hair was green, just like before. And the eyes…

      He knew those eyes. And yet, how could it be? It couldn’t. It couldn’t be—

      He’d called her “the green-haired bartender” in his mind so long he couldn’t, for a minute, remember her name.

      Marta had already moved her foot and let her legs slide down, so he stood.

      “Miss…” He took a breath. “Katie?”

      But the instant he said it, he knew it was wrong. Not Katie. Kitty. Of course it was Kitty. In his mind, he could still see the white rectangle of her name tag, moving up and down as she panted…

      What on earth was she doing here?

      Her eyes narrowed. “Close,” she said icily. “Partial credit. It’s Kitty. Kitty Hemmings. You look surprised to see me. I guess this means none of your bodyguards called to give you a heads-up.”

      “My what?”

      “Your bodyguards. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all afternoon. But your receptionist, she’s not that friendly, is she? Neither is your housekeeper, for the record.”

      She’d been to his house? Of course Bettina, who was a terrible snob, would have been rude to a visitor with green hair and…whatever that geometrically patterned green and pink sarong-like thing was supposed to be. Bettina was rude to him if he wore sweats or brought home fast food.

      How had Kitty found his house? He hadn’t known her last name, and he wouldn’t have thought she knew his. In the end, though, how she’d found him was relatively unimportant. Relative, that is, to the real sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

      Why had she found him?

      Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Marta had slipped on her shoes, and she’d put on her game face, too. As he’d just been observing, Marta was smart as hell. She clearly knew something wasn’t right about this scene.

      Half a dozen explanations raced through his head. Could Kitty need a job, a recommendation, a lawyer? Surely not. People didn’t expect their one-night stands to give them career references. His shoulder muscles tightened. Crap—had he picked up a stalker?

      Or was she bringing bad news? An STD? He always, always used condoms. Blackmail? God help him, she wasn’t underage, was she? She looked mid-twenties, but you never knew these days. He’d assumed the bar wouldn’t employ anyone…

      But assumptions could be lethal. Any good lawyer knew that.

      “Of course. Kitty.” Years of poker-faced negotiations saved him from revealing the chill that ran through his veins. “How can I help you?”

      It sounded stilted, almost rude. He saw her recoil slightly. But what the hell had she expected? Whatever he’d briefly, brainlessly, believed might be going on between them that night—he’d been wrong. He’d just been her flavor du jour, a tourist novelty to be shared with her horny girlfriends. Fine. He was a grown man. No one had held a gun to his head. No big deal.

      But with that kind of cheap treat, no one came back for seconds.

      “How can I help you?” he repeated. He didn’t change his tone.

      “We need to talk,” she said flatly. Her gaze slid to Marta. “Alone.”

      The other lawyer didn’t budge.

      He touched Marta’s shoulder. “The reservations are for eight-thirty. If you go ahead now, we won’t lose the table. I’m sure this won’t take long. I can meet you at the restaurant.”

      A frown line bisected Marta’s perfect, pale forehead. “David, it might be better if—”

      “It’s fine.” He smiled. He hoped he was right. “I’ll meet you there.”

      Marta nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. The room rang with silence as she gathered up her briefcase and her coat. She moved to the door, then turned.

      She looked at David. “I’ll mention to security that you’re still in the office.”

      “Oh, brother.” Kitty dropped her purse on the desk and crossed her arms. “He’s twice my size, and I’m not packing heat.” She glared at David. “But if you’re afraid to be alone with me, I’d be happy to have a group discussion. Invite security. Hey, invite everybody. The alone part was for your benefit, not mine.”

      “It’s fine,” he said again, giving Marta a straight look. “Really.”

      Marta knew he meant it. She slipped through the door, shutting it behind her.

      And then he and Kitty were alone. With Marta gone, he was much more aware of her, of her deep, island tan and a scent with a hint of strawberry. For a minute, he could smell that little beachside bar again. Salt in the air, lemons and limes and kiwi fruit, an undercurrent of barbeque smoke.

      She glanced around, and her frown deepened. “Nice office,” she said cryptically.

      Did that mean she was surprised? By what? How dull it was? By the decorator-chosen beiges, the bland paintings that even Belle, who was ten times as conservative as Kitty, had hated? Had he seemed more interesting in the Bahamas?

      Or was she surprised by how luxurious it was? Half his clients were pro bono, but the other half required impressing. So the decorator had hauled in solid mahogany paneling, carpet like velvet air, a marble bust of Thomas Jefferson for the corner. If Kitty had come for blackmail, this probably looked like the jackpot.

      But something in him couldn’t believe that. What blackmail could possibly stick? He wasn’t married, and the sex had been consensual. Even if she’d caught the whole thing on tape, up to and including the second offer from her friend, he’d be nothing worse than embarrassed. Lunches at the University Club would be awkward for a while, with everyone asking why he’d turned down Lady Number Two, but he’d survive.

      He watched Kitty as she roamed the room, proving it didn’t intimidate her. She even gave Jefferson an affectionate tap on the nose. But the gesture didn’t ring true. Her body looked tight, as if she were nervous, but hell-bent