The Man Who Would Be Daddy Page 7

  She wanted to reach him, she thought, to soothe him. Not because he had saved her child, not because he was an exceptionally good looking man, but because he was hurting. And she knew what it meant to hurt and not know how to heal.

  “So there are no memories here for you,” she concluded softly.

  “No.” None that he would allow himself to remember.

  “Me, I came back for the memories. Memories of happier times,” she confided readily.

  She had had to swallow her pride to do it, but her family had been remarkable and rallied around her. No one said, I told you so. What they had said was, How can I help? It was all she could do to keep Tyler and Ethan from coming and getting her. But she had been determined to return on her own. And to make it work as best as possible.

  “I intend to build on that. The happiness. To have Robin grow up in a place where I was happy.” A nostalgic smile played on her lips. “I thought it might rub off on both of us.”

  “You don’t seem to be having much trouble being happy.” Not from what he’d witnessed so far.

  Christa grinned. “I have an annoyingly bouncy-perky nature.” That’s what Jim had accused her of in one of his blacker moods.

  Malcolm wondered if she was second-guessing his own reaction to her. “I wouldn’t say annoying.”

  Amusement lit up her face. “All right, what would you say?”

  He paused, searching for the right word. He settled rather than chose. Words had never been his medium. “Persistent.”

  His answer delighted her. “I didn’t know you were a diplomat, too.”

  There was something about just sitting here, talking to her in her sparse kitchen, that coaxed a smile from him. He decided that perhaps she was infectious.

  “You learn to be a lot of things when you have to tell a man it’s going to cost over a thousand dollars to fix his car.”

  For a moment, talking to him, she’d forgotten about the cold, hard reality sitting out in her driveway. She remembered now. Christa blew out a breath, then pressed her lips together, bracing herself.

  “And how much is it going to cost to fix mine?”

  Too much. But he didn’t want to spoil her evening. He would see what kind of corners he could cut for her through his various connections with discount suppliers. But he didn’t want to raise her hopes, either.

  He remained closemouthed. “I haven’t come up with an estimate yet.”

  She’d learned how to interpret evasions. “That bad, huh?”

  Well, there was some hope for her. She wasn’t a complete optimist.

  Malcolm avoided answering the question directly. “Your car needs a lot of work.”

  She looked around the room. The long, narrow kitchen was empty except for the table and chairs and the small, combination refrigerator-stove she’d purchased at a secondhand store. The rest of the house, save for Robin’s room, was similarly unfurnished, and the walls could stand to be painted.

  “Everything in my life needs work.” Her smile became affectionate. “Except for Robin.”

  As if her daughter had been waiting to be mentioned, a mournful wail emerged, floating down from the second floor.

  Christa rose quickly. “Excuse me, that would be my cue.” Before leaving, she pushed the platter of chicken closer to his plate. “Keep eating. You couldn’t possibly be satisfied with such a tiny serving.”

  He would have said that about life once, he thought as she left. But as it turned out, all he had wanted out of life was one tiny serving.

  A tiny serving of happiness, wrapped around his wife and daughter.

  Robin’s wail became more insistent, more frightened. Christa hurried up the winding staircase. Robin’s bedroom was only half a landing away. The condo was staggered so that three floors were wedged into a structure where normally there might be two; each had its own narrow hall and half bath.

  “Mommy’s coming, honey. Mommy’s coming,” Christa called out reassuringly.

  Robin was having another one of her nightmares. Last night had been the first time she had slept straight through. Christa had hoped it was the beginning of a pattern. Or rather, an end to one.

  Robin was sitting up in her bed, holding on to the side railing with tight, sweaty fingers. The room, unlike the others in the house, was completely furnished. There was a lamp on, not just a night-light, to hold back the night and the scary things the darkness created just by being dark.

  The lamp, the bed and the tiny table and chairs, not to mention the brimming toy chest, had all made the trip over the desert with them. Christa had purposely surrounded her daughter with all the familiar things from her room in Las Vegas. She’d hoped to make the transition easier for Robin.

  Robin had been the ultimate reason she’d made the move in the first place.

  “Dleem,” Robin sobbed, holding her hands out to her mother.

  “I know, honey, I know.” Christa picked her up, holding her close. “It was that bad dream again, wasn’t it?”

  In reply, Robin buried her head against Christa’s shoulder and sobbed.

  “Shh, it’s over, honey.” She swayed to and fro, hoping the motion would soothe Robin. “All over. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Maybe she was dreaming about the car-jacking.”

  Christa started, surprised that Malcolm had followed her up. She would have thought he’d be relieved not to be dragged upstairs with her.

  She nodded as she stroked the silky blond head resting against her shoulder.

  “She’s been having nightmares for a while now.” A rueful smile curved her mouth. “I think it has to do with waking up one night and hearing Jim and me arguing.” She might as well call a spade a spade. “Shouting, actually. It frightened her pretty badly.” She looked at him over her daughter’s head. “That was when I knew I had to get out. Before it scarred her.” She flushed. “I guess I didn’t go fast enough.”

  Without thinking, Malcolm stroked the tiny head. “Maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe she’s just having a dream about there not being enough chocolate ice cream in the world.”

  Christa looked at him, bemused, but he was being serious. And his attention was completely focused on Robin. There was a softer look in his eyes than she had seen so far this evening. Because it seemed somehow natural, she moved the child toward him.

  He offered no protest as he took Robin into his arms. Malcolm looked down at the tearstained face. The tiny tear tracks were beginning to dry. “Bad dream, Robin?”

  The girl sniffled and shoved her thumb deep into her mouth as she nodded in reply.

  Remembering what Malcolm had told her about the end result of thumb sucking, Christa began to remove the thumb from Robin’s mouth. Robin wiggled farther into Malcolm’s chest. “Don’t, honey.”

  Malcolm moved her hand away from the little girl, still looking at Robin. “That’s okay,” he murmured.

  Christa stared at him, bemused. “You were the one who pointed out the future ortho bills.”

  “One more time won’t hurt.” The rule was for the daytime, when there weren’t things that went bump in the dark. “It makes her feel better.” He resisted the temptation to kiss the silken head, the way he’d done countless times with his own daughter. “Doesn’t it, Robin?”

  She murmured, making a noise he took to mean yes. The warm breath against his chest evoked a thousand memories in his mind, all bittersweet. They traveled through him like spun sugar, breaking so that there were sharp, jagged edges everywhere. Edges that pricked him and made him bleed.

  He had a daughter of his own, Christa thought suddenly. Or had.

  Where was that child now?

  Malcolm looked down at Robin. He couldn’t see her face, but he felt the even breathing. “I think she’s asleep,” he told Christa.

  “Just like that?” It usually took her more than half an hour of walking the floor before Robin was calm enough to fall back asleep.

  “Just like that,” he whispered.

  Edging C
hrista away with his elbow, he laid Robin back into the bed. Christa pulled the light sheet over the small form, then tiptoed after the man who was a total enigma to her.

  “You know, you’re wasting your time as a mechanic,” she whispered to him outside of Robin’s door. “You should be hiring out as a miracle worker.”

  She had made him smile again. “I thought that was what mechanics were supposed to be.” Then his smile faded again as he became aware of her, of the heat of her body wafting to his.

  He was standing too close to her. Too close to feelings he didn’t want.

  Malcolm took a step toward the stairs. “I’d better go.”

  They hadn’t really finished eating yet. And she had a dessert planned. “The chicken—”

  “Was very good, but I’ve got an early morning.”

  He’d made up his mind. She couldn’t very well throw a rope over him and tie him down. Christa nodded as she shoved a hand into her front pocket. Her finger came in contact with the button she’d picked up earlier.

  “Your shirt,” she said, suddenly remembering. She reached out and touched the empty buttonhole. “I promised to sew it.”

  His hand covered hers. He meant to move it aside. Somehow, his hand remained there. The contact warmed him more than it should have. “I can handle that.”

  What he couldn’t handle, he thought, was his reaction to her, to the little girl and to being here in general. It all felt too good and it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t have ever felt good again.

  Her laugh was light, like her daughter’s. “Well, you’ve convinced me that you can handle just about anything. My car, my daughter. My cooking.” She thought back to what he had said at the table. “Some of my interrogation.”

  Self-conscious, he let his hand drop to his side. “I didn’t mean What I said earlier.”

  Christa turned her face up to his. The light from Robin’s room played on the delicate outline, softening it even more.

  Making it tempting. When was the last time he’d been remotely tempted? He couldn’t remember.

  “Already forgotten,” she told him.

  But what wasn’t forgotten, there in the narrow, dim hallway, was the fact that he was a man and he was hurting. And maybe he was not quite as strong as he thought he was or wanted to be.

  The brush of her body against his as she moved forward sent waves of something basic and unmanageable through him. Before he could think or hold himself in check, Malcolm reacted.

  His hand cupping the long, slender column of her throat, he stroked his thumb along her pulse point. It jumped and echoed his own.

  Malcolm brought his mouth down to hers.

  And shot his successful, uncontested retreat all to hell.

  Chapter Six

  Like a contestant in a game show who had selected a secret door, Malcolm thought he had a vague idea of what was in store for him.

  Two seconds after he’d made his choice to kiss Christa, he discovered that he hadn’t had a clue.

  What he expected, hoped, was that perhaps the kiss would somehow ease the ache he felt a little. Not the one in his heart, but the one in his gut. The one she had caused. Perhaps he even expected the sweetness.

  But not to this degree, and he certainly hadn’t expected that sweetness to both soothe and agitate the ache within him.

  It made him want more. A great deal more.

  Wanting was a sensation he’d almost forgotten. To want a woman, to want to hold her and make love with her. To bury his face in her hair and breathe in the soft, delicate fragrance he found there. To turn in the stillness of the night and find someone beside him, breathing evenly, lost in sleep.

  All these longings seemed like relics from another time, when he’d felt whole. When he had felt anything. Suddenly, he wanted these things back in his life with a passion that stunned him.

  Drawing Christa closer into his arms, Malcolm fed on the sustenance she offered. The kiss deepened so that it took on the aspect of a chasm.

  The danger with chasms was that people occasionally fell into them.

  And he did.

  The sparks came quickly and then took over everything. Christa didn’t realize that she had dug her fingers into his shoulders until she felt them cramping. Whether she was holding on for support or pulling him toward her she wouldn’t have been able to say even under oath. All she knew was that this feeling vibrating through her was something very, very new.

  She heard a moan, and it surprised her that the sound was coming from her. She wasn’t the type to moan. Love for her had been an easy, friendly thing. Never before had she experienced the sensation of being bodily tossed about in a tumultuous sea.

  She did now.

  Christa had been content in what she deemed was adult love. She’d certainly never craved passion. Yet here she was, sopping it up like a dry, insatiable sponge.

  Her fingers tangled in his hair as her body leaned into his, drawn by a force she couldn’t resist.

  Didn’t want to resist.

  If her body felt any hotter, she was sure it would ignite on its own, exploding like a Fourth of July sparkler.

  She’d always liked the Fourth of July.

  There was absolutely no air left in her lungs when Malcolm drew away. She couldn’t have mustered enough breath to blow out a single candle if she tried. Christa felt emotionally spent. One moment, he was leaving; the next, he was reducing her to cinders.

  Had she missed something here?

  Trying to discreetly draw in enough oxygen to function, Christa needed more than a moment to orient herself.

  She looked at Malcolm in unabashed wonder. “You liked the chicken that much?”

  He didn’t realize he was laughing until he heard the deep, rumbling sound resonating in his ears. The amazement in her eyes tickled him in a way he hadn’t experienced in years. God, but it felt good to laugh, really laugh again.

  “Yes, I liked the chicken that much.”

  Christa nodded her head without realizing it. She was still trying to get her pulse to unscramble and her brain to engage.

  So this was what they meant by being knocked off your feet.

  “Maybe I should start a franchise.” And then she smiled at him, the expression blooming in her eyes.

  He could see it, even in the dim light. Somehow, the smile filtered into his chest and branded him. He didn’t think to resist. “That would certainly beat going in for the interview tomorrow.”

  She’d almost forgotten about the interview. It didn’t loom before her like a foreboding entity any longer. Not after she’d been knocked over like a lone pin in a bowling alley during a hurricane.

  Because they couldn’t remain standing there indefinitely, Christa took the initiative. She turned and walked down the stairs to the first floor.

  Malcolm watched the slight sway of her hips as she walked and told himself not to. “What is it that you do, anyway?”

  It took her a minute to remember that, too. “I’m an accountant.” She turned to look at him. His eyes were dark again, and he was growing distant. Had that really been him on the landing? “So was Jim until he thought he discovered the perfect system to beat the odds.”

  Malcolm thought of fate and the accident. “Nobody can beat the odds.”

  She pressed her lips together and tasted him. Tasted the desire, his and her own, and was surprised by both.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Her eyes searched his, looking for a clue to the man who was hidden from her. “Sometimes you can.”

  He didn’t have to be told that she wasn’t talking about the gambling tables in Las Vegas. She was talking about something far more personal. And he didn’t want to go into it. He’d made enough mistakes for one evening.

  He had to leave while he could still reasonably function. The tiny ray of sunshine she’d created within him was now being blocked out by a cloud of guilt that was growing to giant proportions.

  Guilt that had its tentacles wrapped up in the past. He had no business feeli
ng this way about another woman, not when if he’d been just a little quicker, a little sharper, Gloria would have been standing here beside him. Alive.

  And he wouldn’t have felt so dead inside.

  Malcolm walked into the living room. He looked around mechanically. On second thought, the small room with its improbable furniture seemed to suit her after all.

  Malcolm shoved his hands into his back pockets and turned, only to find Christa directly behind him. In her defense, there wasn’t that much room for her to utilize. But even if there had been the length of a football stadium between them, somehow it would have still felt too close.

  “What do you plan to do about the interview?”

  She sighed, thinking. As much as she wanted to savor what had just happened, tomorrow would be here soon enough, and with it, more bills.

  Christa lifted her shoulders in a resigned shrug. As she saw it, there was only one option open to her. “I need a job and as quickly as possible. I figure I’ll call a cab.”

  Wasn’t there anyone else she could call? “Cabs cost money.”

  Everything cost money. Except friendship, she mused. And whether he realized it or not, they were well on their way to forming one.

  Her grin was like quicksilver. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  He shouldn’t be standing here telling her anything. He should have been home hours ago. Nodding vaguely at her comment, he walked to the front door.

  When he opened it, he turned to bid her good-night, then stopped. How could such a small woman have such a large impact? Or had he just imagined what had happened outside her daughter’s room?

  “Thanks for the chicken.”

  Christa rested her head against the door. “Don’t mention it. It’s me who should be thanking you for everything else.”

  “Yeah, well…” His voice trailed off as he began to leave. Abruptly, he stopped without turning around. He was going to regret this. The words came anyway. “About the cab tomorrow.”

  “Yes?”

  He still didn’t turn around. Somehow, it was easier to make the offer without seeing the look in her eyes. “Don’t call it.”