To Love and Protect. Susan Mallery

protect her.”

      David felt himself tensing, as if there really was a preteen for him to defend. As if this child was his.

      “Why the stories?” he asked.

      “All questions will be answered later. Just go with me, okay?”

      “Sure. I’m about to find those guys and beat the crap out of them.”

      “I like that in a father. Now she’s sixteen and going to her first school dance. She’s as beautiful as you always knew she would be. But she’s growing up and slipping away and even though you know in your head she’ll always be your daughter, in your heart you feel like everything’s different.”

      Without thinking, David tightened his hold on the baby. She couldn’t be grown up yet. Not so fast. Not while—

      “Done,” Liz said, sounding both triumphant and slightly stunned. “This was fast, even for me. I guess I got caught up in the story, too. You can relax.”

      For the first time David realized his muscles ached from holding so still. He shifted the baby against his chest and moved his arm under her.

      “I’ll take her,” Liz said as she set the sketch pad down on the table and reached for the baby.

      David handed her over, then glanced at the picture.

      “That’s amazing,” he said honestly as he gazed at the sketch.

      It was exactly as she’d described—a man’s hands holding a baby. Simple, minimalistic, yet evocative. There was power in the drawing. The man’s hands—his hands—supported the baby in such a way that he could feel the protectiveness and the love. This was not a father who would let anyone mess with his kid.

      “How did you do that?” he asked. Was it the curve of the fingers, the shadows? Thirty minutes ago he’d never held a baby in his life. Based on this drawing, he’d been doing it for years.

      “I drew the baby first,” Liz said as she settled the little girl into the bassinet on wheels. “While I talked, your hold on her changed. I can’t explain it, but you just connected to what I was saying. I waited until you were really into it, then drew like crazy.”

      She looked up and smiled. “The talking thing is a technique I learned in a class. The instructor said the best way to get a subject to do exactly what you want is to make him feel what you want people to feel when they look at the drawing. Sounds strange, but sometimes it works.”

      She picked up the sketchbook. “They’re going to love this. Which means you’re officially my model and I need you to sign a release.”

      The baby whimpered. Liz shook her head.

      “Someone is waking up and I’m guessing neither of us is ready to take responsibility for actually dealing with her. Let me run our star back to the nursery, then I’ll get you a release form. Oh, and I have expenses on this job. I can even pay you.”

      “Money?”

      “That is the generally accepted means.” Her green eyes widened with amusement and anticipation. “Did you have something else in mind?”

      Where she was concerned? Absolutely. “Lunch.”

      “You’re on.”

      David picked a small bistro down by the river. It was not the kind of place dirt-poor, struggling commercial illustrators frequented so Liz was determined to enjoy every second. The trick was going to be focusing on something other than the man sitting opposite her. It wasn’t just that he was handsome and nice and funny, it was the way he looked at her, as if he’d just discovered something amazing about her, and the way he moved his hands when he talked. She had a real thing for his hands.

      “Tell me about being a commercial illustrator,” he said when they were seated. “Is all your work freelance?”

      It was late, nearly one-thirty, and most of the lunch crowd had already come and gone. She and David had the front of the restaurant to themselves.

      She brushed her fingers against the thick white tablecloth and stared longingly at the basket of bread. She’d skipped breakfast, more out of financial necessity than a desire to lose weight, and she was starved.

      She nodded in response to his question. “No, boss.” As the waiter appeared with a pitcher of ice water, she explained, “No regular paycheck, either. I find my own jobs, work my own hours. I’m trying to build a portfolio of just the right work, which means I’m picky about the assignments I take. Times can be lean, but I get by.”

      “Where does Children’s Connection fit into your plans?”

      She wrinkled her nose. “I’m not doing it for the money. There’s very little pay. But the exposure and publicity opportunity is huge. Plus I’m a fan of what they do.”

      He leaned toward her. “Were you adopted?”

      “No, but my grandmother was. She was Russian. When her parents were killed during the Second World War, she had nowhere to go. Some aid workers took her in and she ended up in Poland. There she met an American nurse who wanted to bring her here.”

      His dark gaze moved to her face. “So that explains the great cheekbones.”

      “Aren’t you the slick one? Complimenting my appearance while getting information on my past.”

      “I have my ways.”

      She liked his ways. “Enough about me. What do you do?”

      Before he could answer, the waiter returned to take their orders. Liz chose a club sandwich, knowing she could take at least half of it home for dinner, and added on a cup of soup. David picked the burger.

      “So typically guy,” she said. “A burger and fries.”

      “I have to get my fix while I can.”

      She picked up her water glass. “Because you’ll soon be forbidden to eat red meat?”

      “Because I’m heading to Europe in about—” He checked his watch. “Eleven hours.”

      “You’re what?”

      He lowered his voice. “I’m a spy and the government is sending me to Russia.”

      “Oh, please.”

      He grinned. “It’s half true. I really am going to Moscow, but not as a spy. I work for the State Department.”

      “Like I’m buying that. How old are you?”

      “Twenty-five. I was recruited out of college.” He held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m a low-level flunky. Trust me, they hire guys my age. Someone has to do the grunt work.”

      “An overseas assignment is hardly grunt work.” She thought about her nana. “But to see Moscow…” Someday, she promised herself. Because she wanted to and because she’d told Nana she would.

      “Have you been?” he asked.

      “No. We talked about going, but Nana’s health was never great. Not that there was tons of money.”

      “She must be very proud of you.”

      “She was.” Liz reached for the bread. “She died three years ago.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      David’s words were a simple, expected courtesy, yet he spoke them as if he meant them. As if he understood loss.

      “Thanks.” She looked at him. “So what exactly is grunt work for the State Department? I don’t guess you carry packages across the border or anything?”

      “Sorry, no. But I can probably get you a decoder ring.”

      She laughed. “I’d like that. Oh, and maybe some disappearing ink.”

      “I’ll check the supply cabinet