Claiming His Love-Child. Sandra Marton
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beginning for a trip he probably shouldn’t have made.
Cullen fell in behind an ancient truck whose sole reason for existence was to make green sedans feel like Ferraris.
Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
And that was the one thing he wouldn’t do with Perez. Beg. No way. He’d confront her, get in her face if that’s what it took, and he wouldn’t let her off the hook until she explained herself, but he wouldn’t let her think he was pleading for answers…
Even if he was.
Damn it, he was entitled to answers! A woman didn’t give a man the brush-off after a night like the one they’d spent. All that heat. Her little cries. The way she’d responded to him, the way she’d touched him, as if every caress was a first-time exploration. And the look on her face, the way her eyes had blurred when he took her up over the edge…
Had it all been a game? Lies, deceit, whatever a woman might call pretending she was feeling something in a man’s arms when she really wasn’t?
Cullen hit the horn, cursed, swung into the passing lane and chugged along beside the wheezing truck until he finally overtook it.
Whether she liked it or not, Marissa Perez was going to talk to him.
He had her address—she’d never given it to him but he’d found it easily by using her phone number to do a reverse search on the Internet. Another exit…yes, there it was.
Cullen took the ramp and wound through half a dozen streets in a neighborhood he remembered from his own graduate days. It was still the same: a little shabby around the edges but, all in all, safe and pleasant. He’d wondered what kind of area she lived in, whether it was okay or dangerous or what.
He hadn’t liked imagining her in a rundown house on a dark street. Not that it was any of his concern.
“What the hell’s with you, O’Connell?” he muttered, digging her address from his pocket. “You thinking of turning into the Good Fairy?”
Her building was on the corner. Cullen parked, trotted up the steps to a wide stoop and checked the names below the buzzers in the cramped entry. No Perez. He checked again, frowned, then pressed the button marked Building Manager.
“Yes?”
A tinny voice came over the speaker. Cullen leaned in.
“I’m looking for Marissa Perez’s apartment.”
“She don’t live here.”
He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. “Isn’t this 345 Spring Street?”
“She used to live here, but she moved.”
“Moved where? Do you have her new address?”
“I got no idea.”
“But she must have left a forwarding—”
Click. Cullen was talking to the air. “Damn,” he muttered, heading back to his car while he took his cell phone from his pocket. He hadn’t intended to call. Why give her advance notice of his visit? Now, he had no choice.
And no success, either.
“The number you have reached, 555-1157, is no longer in service.”
He tried again, got the same message. What was going on here? Cullen called the operator and asked for a phone number for Marissa Perez.
There was none. Not a public listing, anyway.
Annoyed, he tossed the cell phone aside. There wasn’t a way in the world he could shake loose a privately listed number from the phone company. Back home, maybe, he could pull some strings, but not here.
Someone had to have her number or her address. The bursar’s office, the dean’s office…
Or her advisor. Ian Hutchins.
Cullen sat back and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. The offices would be closed for the weekend. Ian was the logical choice, but he’d want to know why Cullen was trying to get in touch with Marissa.
He was digging himself in deeper and deeper.
A sane man would turn around and head for home but then, a sane man wouldn’t have come out here in the first place.
He started the car. It lurched forward. The engine bitched when he tried to coax more speed from it, but it finally gave a couple of hiccups and complied.
Even the car knew he wasn’t in a mood to be screwed with, he thought grimly.
He only hoped the Perez babe could read him just as quickly.
THE Hutchinses lived in a big Victorian on a tree-lined street in North Oakland.
Music, and the sound of voices and laughter, spilled from the yard behind the house. The air was pungent with the mingled aromas of smoking charcoal, lager beer and grilling beef.
Cullen climbed the porch steps, took a deep breath and rang the bell. After a minute, Hutchins’s wife, Sylvia, opened the door.
“Hello,” she said, her lips curving into a cautious smile that suddenly turned genuine. “Cullen O’Connell! What a nice surprise.”
“Hello, Sylvia. Sorry to barge in without notice, but—”
“Don’t be silly!” Laughing, she took his arm and drew him inside the foyer. “I was afraid you were the fire marshal. Ian’s grilling steaks.”
Cullen chuckled. “The Hutchins method of incineration. Nothing’s changed, huh?”
“Not a thing,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “Come inside, Cullen. I had no idea you were in town. Ian never said a word.”
“He doesn’t know. And I apologize again for not phoning first. You have guests.”
“We have half the Bay area, you mean. You know these barbecues of Ian’s—students, faculty, friends, every person he’s ever met on the street. Besides, why would you call first? You’re always welcome. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”
“Actually, I just need a couple of minutes of Ian’s time.”
“Oh, come on. There are a couple of unattached women here—Ian’s third-and fourth-year students—I’m sure would love to meet you.”
“Is Marissa Perez one of them?” Holy hell. How had that slipped out? Cullen felt his face burn. “I met her that last time I was out here. She drove me around all weekend.”
Sylvia arched an eyebrow. “Marissa? No, she’s not here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in a while.” She winked. “I’m sure we can find a replacement.”
“Sylvia,” Cullen said quietly, “if you’d just tell Ian I’m here…I need to ask him something and then I’ll be on my way.”
“Ah. You’re really not in a party mood, are you?” Smiling, she patted his hand. “I’ll get Ian. Why don’t you wait in his study?”
Cullen bent and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”
The professor’s study was a small room off the foyer. Cullen had always liked it. An old sofa covered in flowered chintz faced a small fireplace; an antique cherry desk stood in a corner. The walls were hung with family photos, and an ancient Oriental rug lent a mellow touch to the hard-wood floor.
The place felt familiar and comforting. And when Ian Hutchins crossed the threshold with a beer in either hand, Cullen smiled.
“As always,” he said, taking a glass from Hutchins, “the perfect host.”
“It’s not the fatted calf—I’ve got that laid out on the barbecue—but I figured you might be thirsty.” The men shook hands, then sat down. “If I’d known you were going