Daddy By Design?. Kate Thomas

delivering babies. So unless you need an oil change and your tires rotated, you just stand over there and behave yourself, you hear?”

      Now he’d made her laugh. “You poor man. I’ll try to hold on.” Now more at ease with the stranger, Cinda heard herself asking him a personal question. “You’re Southern, aren’t you?”

      He sent her an arch expression. “What gave me away?”

      Cinda pointed to him. “That package of grits sticking out of your coat pocket.”

      He actually patted down his pocket as humor sparked in his blue eyes. “Damn. I meant to take that out.” Then he stuck a hand out for her to shake. “I’m from Atlanta. Well, actually a little town just west of there that nobody’s ever heard of called Southwood. My name is George Winston Cooper the Third, but my friends call me Trey. And you are…?”

      “Not from Atlanta.” Cinda clasped his hand. His flesh was warm, his palm slightly callused. While his grip was firm, he didn’t squeeze too hard, and her swollen fingers appreciated that. “I’m Cinda Cavanaugh of Canandaigua, New York. It’s just outside of Rochester. But I live here in Manhattan now.” He nodded, but didn’t let go of her hand. Cinda melted…and added, stupidly, “But I have a house in Atlanta.”

      As if fate had been waiting only for her to admit that, the diabolically evil elevator stopped dead between floors with a sick grinding crunch of something metallic and a prolonged twanging of cables that just didn’t bode well at all. The ensuing lack of movement taunted its passengers. Cinda gasped, clutching harder at the man’s hand. “Oh, no.”

      Trey Cooper voiced her fears. “This is not happening.” He untangled his hand from hers and turned to the panel of buttons, every one of which he proceeded to push. And still nothing happened. He glanced bale-fully at her and then tried to wedge the double doors open. But despite his evident strength and his concerted effort, they wouldn’t budge. He muttered beneath his breath and changed tactics, now beating on the doors with a fist. “Hey, out there! We need help. We’re stuck. There’s a woman in here in labor—and a man about to have a heart attack. Hello! Can anyone hear me?”

      Apparently no one could. Trey Cooper turned to her, eyeing her as if he’d known all along that she carried some mutant strain of virus that threatened humankind. Cinda stared soberly back at him. His eyes pleaded for her to reassure him. “So, Mrs. Cavanaugh, how are you feeling right about now?”

      Scared, her heart pounding—and her abdomen cramping—Cinda lied. “Fine.” The man gave her a doubting stare. She caved. “Okay, so I could explode any minute here. Trust me, I am not any happier about this than you are, Mr. Cooper. We’re in real trouble.”

      “Beyond the obvious, you mean?”

      “Way beyond the obvious. My baby is in a breach position, which means I can’t deliver her in the normal…well, on my own. I will need help.”

      His frown deepened. “And me without my toolbox. Darn.”

      Cinda’s fear and pain turned to testiness. “Oh, like you’re the one scheduled for a C-section delivery in a nice, safe hospital surrounded by people who know what they’re doing…only you can’t get there.”

      “No one wants you to get there more than me, Mrs. Cavanaugh. So you just stand there and keep your baby where it is.”

      Cinda’s retort was on her lips, but then a twinge of building discomfort made her grimace. She bit down on her bottom lip. “Oh, God. A labor pain. I don’t think I can hold on. Please. You need to do something—and do it now.”

      His eyes widened. “Got any suggestions?”

      Was she not busy enough already? Did she have to do everything? Cinda clutched reflexively at her abdomen. “You said you know something about cars. This is an elevator car. So do something.”

      “Ma’am, my expertise is with the four-wheeled variety that tear around racetracks for huge amounts of money.”

      Suffering a pang of doubt about this heroic-looking man’s ability to cope in this situation, Cinda breathed through her physical pain and pointed to the emergency phone behind its glass case. “Try calling someone, Mr. Cooper.” She took a few more puffing breaths. “Because if my labor progresses much further, the two of us are quickly going to become the three of us.”

      He blanched. “Then you have got to stop doing that whole labor pains thing.”

      Cinda tried not to double over. “I would if I could, trust me. My baby’s early. We didn’t expect this. So do something—and do it before I have to name this child Otis.”

      “Otis?”

      “After the man who invented the elevator. Now, do something.”

      “Good idea.” Trey Cooper whipped around, opened the case, and lifted the telephone receiver. But before he put it to his ear, he treated her to a surly “why-me” expression. “So where’s your husband? I’m of a mind to throttle him but good for not being the one here with you right now.”

      Cinda’s labor pain receded. She inhaled deeply, relaxed, leaned against the wall behind her, and said, very matter-of-factly, “It wouldn’t do much good. Richard is dead.”

      Instant dismay and sympathy radiated from Trey Cooper’s blue eyes. “Oh, hell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re just so young. I never thought you’d be a widow.”

      She held his gaze. “Neither did I.”

      “No,” he said quietly, “I guess you didn’t.”

      Cinda had no idea what to say next. Apparently, neither did Trey. That left only the obvious between them to fill the gap—a pregnant silence. But as they stared at one another, a totally unexpected jet of sensual awareness sparked between them, catching Cinda off guard. Her gaze met and truly held his. Strangers across a crowded room…or a stuck elevator…whatever. It was as if they were the only two people in the world. The moment got warm, heating up with that whole man/woman thing. That kiss-me-now-big-boy feeling.

      Still staring at Trey Cooper, Cinda blinked. She could not believe this. Who’d have thought that in this ridiculous situation—and with me nine months pregnant—that now I’m going to feel a spark of connection, of attraction with some man?

      “So,” Trey said a bit too loudly, breaking the spell between them, “what happened to your husband? Do you mind me asking?”

      “No. I don’t mind.” Surprising her was the realization that she really didn’t. In fact, she realized now that she needed to tell him, a stranger, about Richard’s death, as well as the truth of how she felt about it—a truth she could hardly share with family and friends. “It was all really pretty stupid,” she began. “And I’m still mad at him. In fact, I may never forgive him. You see, Richard was trying to go around the world in a hot-air balloon. You know the type—bored multimillionaire adventurer. Almost a cliché nowadays, right?”

      “Sure.”

      He’d agreed with her, but his expression said he didn’t have a clue about what she was talking about. Different worlds, she supposed. “Well, anyway, he was ballooning and something happened to the equipment. The sick joke was he finally ran out of hot air. Ha-ha. So there he was over Tibet and going down fast.” Cinda paused and eyed Trey Cooper. “I know you’re not going to believe this next part. The falling balloon frightened a herd of yaks.”

      “Yaks?” Trey looked at her as if she’d said something as absurd as, well, yaks. “Those big, hairy buffalo-looking things with the horns, right?”

      Cinda nodded. “Right. So, anyway, the basket hit the ground, and—” She inhaled deeply for courage and then pushed out her words. “—Richard spilled out. The impact probably killed him, but the yaks stampeded and…trampled him, pretty much sealing the deal.”

      Trey Cooper’s features contorted with disbelief and horror. “Damn.”

      “Exactly.