Daddy By Design?. Kate Thomas

eyes, her expression was controlled. She lifted a hand and held it out to him. Trey took a deep breath, hating the leave-taking, hating the staying, and then clasped her warm, long fingers in his hand. He had to fight the urge to raise her soft hand to his lips.

      “Trey,” she said, somehow giving his nickname a depth it had never before possessed, “Thank you. I owe you one, as they say. A big one. You won’t ever be able to convince me that you did anything less than save my life and my baby’s. I really wish you’d tell me how I can repay you.”

      He released her hand before things progressed to the point where he wouldn’t let go because he couldn’t. In his mind’s eye, he saw Nurse Peg wielding a scalpel to cut him away from this fabulous woman. “Repay me, huh? Well, I suppose that maybe one day you could save my life. That’d be a fair trade.”

      Cinda surprised him by saying, “You’ve got a deal. Hand me that notepad and the pen there on the table, please. I want to give you my phone number. One day when you need me, you can call.”

      Though he really didn’t think he should, Trey did as she asked and waited while she wrote down her number. Striving to keep things light, he remarked, “Will you just look at what’s happening here? I swear, all those nights I’ve wasted in bars. I never once thought to cruise a maternity ward looking to pick up chicks. And now here’s a gorgeous one giving me her number.”

      Shaking her head and, grinning, Cinda folded the piece of paper and handed it to him. “You Southern gentlemen will be the death of me one day. I swear, how anyone could think I could be gorgeous at this moment is beyond me.”

      Now, flirting he could do. “I’ve got eyes. I can see. You’re gorgeous.”

      “And you’re too kind.”

      “Never.” He fisted his hand protectively around her phone number. He told himself he wouldn’t keep it. It wasn’t right. She was just emotional right now and had that hero-worship thing going. By tomorrow, she’d probably regret giving her number to him, a grease monkey in a dangerous profession. “Well, Mrs. Cavanaugh, I’ve got to be going.” He forced cheer into his voice. “I think I might drop by the viewing window to peek in at your little girl and then I’ve got to get back to my hotel. It’s late and there’s a plane with my name on it leaving early tomorrow morning. You and your daughter take care now, ya hear?”

      “I hear,” she said.

      He met her gaze. Trey feared she could see right into his heart and could see what he didn’t want her to know…that already, in only a matter of hours after meeting her, he didn’t like the thought of having no part in her life. But when she spoke again, her voice was tinged with finality. “Goodbye, Mr. Trey Cooper.”

      3

      IN THE LAVISH NURSERY of the huge and elegant Atlanta showcase home she’d lived in with Richard, Cinda sat playing with six-month-old Chelsi. The phone rang. Every nerve ending in Cinda’s body jumped. This was ridiculous, and she knew it. If the man hadn’t called her in the past six months, what made her think he’d choose today to do it? But she’d seen in the paper this morning that the Jude Barrett racing team was back home in Atlanta. That meant Trey Cooper was, too, and could call if he wanted to.

      But he hadn’t. So obviously, he didn’t want to. That knowledge didn’t keep Cinda from waiting, her heart thumping heavily, as Major Clovis answered it in the next room. She could hear the older woman talking but couldn’t hear what she said. Cinda held her breath. Could this finally be him?

      Come on, Cinda, her conscience railed at her. This is really a bad crush you have here. You’d think that after six months without a call, you’d be over him. And what about you? You can’t call? You looked up his number in the phone book, but you haven’t used it. So get over it. But she couldn’t. He’d been this nice, handsome guy who’d stood by her during her worst possible moment. So maybe she just had a bad case of hero worship. Maybe. She tried not to look desperately up at her regimentally formal assistant/nurse/social secretary who entered the nursery with the cordless phone in her hand.

      The afternoon’s late-June sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains at the windows across the room. Major Irene Clovis—a no-nonsense older woman with severely short gray hair—walked in and out of sun and shadow as she approached her employer. “Hate to ruin your day, ma’am, but it’s The Real Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

      Disappointment ate at Cinda. It wasn’t him. It was never him. She groaned and slumped over her legs. “Not her again, Major. Not my mother-in-law.”

      “My apologies,” her unsmiling ex-Marine assistant said. “I told Dragon Lady that you’d dyed your hair and the baby’s purple and the two of you had run off with the drug-selling leader of a motorcycle gang. I further said the two of you were now known as Hell’s Belles. But she didn’t believe me.”

      “I can’t imagine why not. But still, you always know just what to say, Major.” Cinda’s grimace over the caller’s identity warred with a grin that tugged at her lips. Major Clovis was the most outrageous and loyal person Cinda had ever met. She also harbored all the love and protective instincts of a lioness toward Cinda and Chelsi. “Thanks for trying.”

      “Yes, ma’am. Next time, I’ll tell her you became a Buddhist monk and sold the only Cavanaugh heir to a zoo in Berlin as part of their mammalian exchange program. That ought to do it.” With that, she handed Cinda the phone, did a smart military about-face, and precision-marched toward the door.

      Bemused, Cinda watched her go. When Major Clovis reached the open door, she neatly executed a left turn and disappeared from sight around a corner. No doubt she was going to torture poor Marta in the kitchen. Not because the cook had done anything wrong, but simply because the ex-military nurse could hassle her—and because the tiny Hispanic woman was terrified of her. Cinda fully expected their wary stand-off to one day erupt into a weapon-based free-for-all. She hoped she wasn’t home when it happened.

      Sighing over her staff’s ongoing bilingual and multicultural altercations, Cinda put a hand over the telephone’s speaker and whispered to Chelsi. “It’s Grandma. The big scary one in New York City.”

      The bright-eyed baby girl pulled a face, as if she were about to cry. “Oh, honey, I know,” Cinda sympathized, taking a chubby little hand in hers and leaning over to kiss the tiny fingers. “Everyone has that reaction. But she loves you and has your best interest at heart. How many times this week has she told me that, huh?” The baby’s expression instantly cleared.

      “That’s my girl.” Then, forcing cheerfulness into her voice for her caller, Cinda spoke into the phone. “Hello, Mother Cavanaugh. How nice to hear from you. How are you?”

      Sitting on the carpeted floor of the nursery and listening to her mother-in-law’s familiar opening harangue, Cinda winked at her baby, who had her own problems. Perched on her diapered bottom atop a large quilted square of colorful blanket, the blond little girl wobbled tipsily, trying to keep her balance. To Cinda’s mother’s mind, Chelsi’s controlled sitting at six months of age, while a completely normal activity in the development of babies according to the pediatrician, became the newest evidence of her daughter’s extreme intelligence and precociousness. A trait she’d inherited from Cinda’s side of the family, of course.

      Cinda tuned in again to her mother-in-law in time to hear her ask a question, which Cinda promptly answered. “No, Major Clovis isn’t drunk. Or on drugs. But I didn’t hire her. Richard did. I think. Or she came with the house. One of those. Yes, I’ll speak to her about her shocking tales that upset you.” But Cinda knew she wouldn’t say a word to Major Clovis. Her shocking tales were too funny and too deserved.

      The conversation moved on to the weather. “Yes, I’ve seen the weather report. We do have television in the South now. Yes, it is hot in New York City, isn’t it? I’m sure you’ll be glad to leave next week for the Hamptons. Oh, you’re too kind, but we really couldn’t join you. No we can’t. Why?” Because I flat out don’t want to. Because I’m tired