The Mother Of His Child. Sandra Field

old. She said coldly, “I’m perfectly capable of walking to your car. Let go.”

      “No.”

      Although he hadn’t loosened his grip, Cal did stop tugging so hard. His fingers were warm; as she marched along beside him, Marnie discovered to her dismay that she liked the contact. Liked his height, the way his gray shirt was rolled up to his elbows, the tanned column of his throat. Scared to death by this realization, she said defiantly, “You didn’t see my car because I borrowed a friend’s.”

      “I figured you’d pull a stunt like that. Which is why I was watching for you.”

      “Don’t you think you should be at work? To pay for the very expensive house I drove past this morning?”

      “It’s paid for, Marnie Carstairs. Every shingle and tree root. I’m surprised you didn’t bang on the door to check out the furniture.”

      To her annoyance, Marnie couldn’t come up with a retort that would sound anything other than pettish. They’d reached the Cherokee; she climbed in and fastened her seat belt. As Cal turned on the ignition, she said with deliberate provocation, “Where are we going? Home for coffee?”

      “Don’t push your luck,” he growled, then pulled out into the street.

      “Or are you planning to fling me over the nearest cliff?”

      “I’ve thought of it, believe me,” he said tightly. “We’re getting the hell out of Burnham and then we’re going to have a talk. During which I shall make a few things clear to you. In the meantime, why don’t you just shut up?”

      It seemed like good advice. Marnie gazed out the window as though the drugstore across the street was the most interesting building she’d ever seen.

      Once they’d left Burnham, Cal turned onto the highway that would lead eventually to Faulkner Beach. When he came to the picnic spot where Marnie had eaten her lunch the day before, he wheeled into it. There were no other cars there. Why would there be? thought Marnie. Most people don’t picnic for breakfast. He even chose the same table as she had.

      She slid out of the Cherokee and sat down on top of the table, facing the sea, her feet resting on the bench. The buds were still tight on the trees, although a song sparrow was piping its melody from a nearby birch. The ocean glinted as though it were alive, the waves chuckling among the rocks. “No cliffs,” she said. “That’s a relief.”

      Cal stationed himself in front of her, his back to the water. Shoulders hunched, hands jammed in the pockets of his jeans, he looked at her unwaveringly. His gray shirt was open at the throat as though he was immune to the cool ocean breeze; his hair shone with cleanliness, and he was clean shaven. He did not, Marnie noticed, look the slightest bit amused by her pert remark. Not that she really felt pert. She wasn’t sure how she felt.

      She’d probably find out in the next few minutes. Cal Huntingdon would see to that.

      Without saying a word, Cal reached out and pulled her dark glasses off her nose, then folded them carefully and put them on the table beside her. Then he undid the cord on her hat, the back of his hand brushing her chin, and took the hat off, placing it on the table, too. Her hair tumbled around her ears. And the whole time, his eyes were intent on her features.

      Her lashes flickered involuntarily. His face was so close to hers she could see the small white scar over one eye and catch the faint mint scent of his aftershave.

      She’d expected a tirade from him. Not this.

      She had absolutely no idea what he was thinking.

      Marnie stared back at him, forcing herself to keep her hands loose in her lap and struggling to hide her inner trembling. His action, so unexpected, had broken through a boundary that she guarded fiercely. Her voice faltering, she said, “What you just did—that’s got nothing to do with Kit.”

      Cal didn’t bother denying it. “The sun in your hair…it’s like little strands of copper.”

      The timbre of his voice, dusky as red wine, brought a flush to her cheeks. His eyes now looked more blue than gray and not at all like slate. She found herself gazing at his mouth, a generous mouth, cleanly sculpted, and wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him. To kiss him back.

      He said levelly, “Don’t worry, I’m thinking exactly the same thing.”

      Kiss him? She must be out of her mind. Cal was the enemy, the man determined to keep her from her daughter. Marnie shrank back. “Stay away from me.”

      Thrusting his hands into his pockets again, Cal said in a raw voice, “What’s the matter? Not part of your game plan, Marnie?”

      He’d gone so fast from what she would’ve sworn was desire to what she knew was rage that she felt dizzy. Which emotion was real? Only the anger? Had the desire been merely a facade? She rested her palms flat on the table, needing the solidity of wood to give her some kind of balance, and said with as much dignity as she could muster, “You took me by surprise.”

      “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure,” he said with heavy irony, “if I don’t believe you. I think it would take a lot to surprise you. When I stationed myself on the street where Kit walks to school, I was telling myself I was every kind of a fool. You’d said you wouldn’t do anything to harm her— I assumed that meant you’d stay away from Burnham. Not risk her meeting you and seeing the resemblance between you. In other words, I trusted you.” He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You’re not to be trusted. This morning, you put yourself in a situation where you ended up twenty feet away from my daughter. I’d call that taking a risk, wouldn’t you?”

      Her own temper rose to meet his. “So we’re talking about trust, are we, Cal? Why didn’t you tell me you’re a widower?”

      Visibly, he flinched. “How did you find that out?”

      “I asked. At the gas station in Burnham last night.” She raised her chin. “I don’t like being ordered around.”

      “Not even when it’s for the good of your daughter?”

      “You have to allow me some part in that decision.”

      “I didn’t tell you I’m a widower for the very obvious reason that I wanted you out of town. Out of my life. Mine and Kit’s.”

      Marnie pushed her palms hard against the wooden table; his eyes were those of a man in torment, his jaw an unyielding line. How he must have loved his wife: a realization that filled her inexplicably with envy. She’d never known that kind of love and doubted she ever would. Forcing herself to continue, she asked, “Are you living with someone else? Or is Kit motherless?”

      “That’s got nothing to do with you.”

      “It’s got everything to do with me!”

      “You’re forgetting something. You gave up your rights to Kit when she was born.”

      Although her palms were sweating, the rest of Marnie felt ice-cold. Knowing she was fighting for her life, she said in a cracked voice, “I turned seventeen three months before Kit was born. Until this morning, I’d never even laid eyes on her.”

      “Unfortunately, some decisions we make in life are irrevocable. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

      “Are you really that hard, Cal?” she whispered. “Is there no room in you for human frailty?”

      He said flatly, “I’d guard Kit’s peace of mind with my very life.”

      Marnie pounced. “So is she happy? Tell me she’s totally happy with her life the way it is, and I’ll go away. I promise.”

      Abruptly, he swung away from her, gazing out to sea. The breeze toyed with his hair; his shoulders were rigid with tension.

      Swiftly, Marnie stood up, putting herself between him and the water. In unconscious pleading, she rested her hand on his bare arm and