Gavin's Child. Caroline Cross
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“It must’ve been a real hot date,” he said caustically.
Up on tiptoe to put a box of crackers away, she stiffened, shoved the box into place and sank back down. She turned to the table, delved into the grocery sack and pulled out a half gallon of milk. “Look. I was at work. Okay? I stayed longer than usual because someone was late.” She crossed toward him to open the ancient fridge.
Just as a precaution—he’d had it up to the eyeballs with her fondness for abbreviated conversations—he planted his arms on either side of the archway. “Yeah, right.” He wasn’t exactly sure why he couldn’t let it go. Most likely because it was nothing less than she deserved, after the scare she’d given him. It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she looked as if she’d just climbed out of somebody’s bed. “Unless I’m mistaken, your degree is in art appreciation. What were you doing, Annie—cataloging the paintings on somebody’s ceiling?”
She gave him a long look, gently shut the refrigerator, then marched over, unhooked the receiver on the wall phone, punched in a number and shoved it at him. “Ask whomever answers if I work there.” She ducked under the cord and scooted past him.
“Hey, wait a minute! Where do you think you’re going?”
“I told you,” she said, her voice muffled as she disappeared into her bedroom. “To bed. I have four hours before I have to get Sam. We can talk then.”
Her door swung shut at the same time an impatient female voice snarled into the phone. “Palomino Grill.”
“Who the hell is this?” he demanded.
“The Queen of Sheba—whodya think?” This startling pronouncement was punctuated by a violent crashing sound, followed by the distinctive buzz of the dial tone.
Gavin jerked the receiver away from his ear. He’d been hung up on. Lips pursed tightly, he glared at the bedroom door and cursed. After a moment, however, he grudgingly reached out, pressed redial and waited.
This time a different voice answered. It was a man’s, and it was far more congenial. “Palomino Grill.”
Gavin straightened. “‘Morning. I’m trying to locate Annelise Cantrell. Is she there?”
“Annie? Heck, no. You want Annie, you gotta get up early.” The man chuckled at his own joke. “Call back—or better yet, come in anytime from six in the evening to two in the a.m. ‘Course, you’ll have to wait till Monday, ‘cuz she’s off for the weekend. Too bad, too—she’s one fine little filly.”
Gavin’s voice reflected his shock. “No kidding.”
“Nope. Wouldn’t dare kid. The boss lady doesn’t allow it.”
“Well…thanks.”
“Sure thing.”
Gavin slowly replaced the receiver and walked into the other room. Feeling as if the world had just taken a spin in the wrong direction, he sank onto the couch, staring blindly at the closed door to Annie’s room.
A waitress? Hell. She was chock-full of surprises. First the kid. Then the run-down house. Now this.
Well, what did you expect? She’s her father’s daughter, isn’t she?
Max had been a master of the unexpected, too, he reminded himself acidly. It had been one of the crucial little personality traits of his late father-in-law’s that Gavin hadn’t fully appreciated until it had been too late to protect himself.
Still, even knowing what he now did about Max, Gavin had never dreamed that the old man would fail to provide for his only child. After all, she’d been the light of Max’s life, the epitome of his success, his perfect, beautiful, golden girl. Nothing had been too good for her: not the fancy Eastern schools, the designer clothes, the holidays spent skiing in Gstaad or sunning on the beaches of Tahiti or St. Tropez.
God knew, the old man had wanted more for her than him. Gavin might have been smart enough to work his way up the ranks to become a foreman at Kinnaird Construction, might have been good enough to be considered a trusted advisor, but he’d always known that Max aspired for more than a hardworking, dirt-under-thefingernails construction worker for his high-class daughter.
Only Annie hadn’t agreed…
And this was how she’d paid for it.
He lurched to his feet. Dammit. The past was past. Like Annie had said last night, there was no going back. He’d done what he’d had to, what he’d believed at the time was best for both of them.
She was the one who’d chosen this path. She should have told him she was pregnant, told him about the boy. Like he’d said to her last night, if he’d known, it would’ve changed everything. At the very least he would’ve found some way to provide for her and their child.
Instead, she’d chosen to keep it a secret. To cheat him out of two and a half precious years of his son’s life. A son who clearly needed him, he thought soberly, looking around. Although the children’s books and toys neatly stacked on the shelves of the inexpensive entertainment center appeared to be new and of good quality, everything else in the room was well-worn, bordering on shabby.
He thought about that as he walked into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.
He was still thinking about it three hours and forty-nine minutes later, when the bedroom door opened and Annie padded out. Her face was flushed with sleep, her hair a tangled cloud of silver gilt that spilled over her shoulders and down her back.
She was naked except for a pale yellow cotton-knit camisole and a pair of matching bikini panties.
She skidded to a halt when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”
He returned her stare, furious at the spurt of heat that surged through his blood, the sudden stirring in his loins. “I’m waiting for that talk.”
Her eyes widened as she registered the mug clutched in his hand, the proprietary way he was slouched on her sofa with his stocking feet propped on the coffee table.
He nodded toward the archway. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.”
“How…nice,” she murmured. “Why don’t you make yourself at home?”
He settled more firmly into the sofa. “I intend to.”
Alarm mixed with the wariness on her face. After a telling silence, she dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “What does that mean?”
He raised the mug and calmly took a sip of coffee before he answered. “It means,” he said coolly, “that I’ve come to a decision about what’s best for our son.”
She went very still. “And what’s that, Gavin?”
“Simple.” His gaze never wavered from her face. “I’m moving in.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath Annie’s feet. “You’re not serious.”
Gavin set down his mug, settled back and linked his hands across his lean, hard middle. “Oh, yes, I am.”
The way he said it made her skin prickle. He sounded exactly like the old Gavin, the one who’d always gotten whatever he went after.
Yet this—this was unthinkable. “But the house is so small. There’s no spare room…” She raked her hair away from her face, verbally grasping at straws while she struggled to clear her sleep-fogged mind.
His gaze followed the movement of her hand, up, then down, and the strong, masculine line of his mouth flattened out. Before she could divine his intention, he reached toward the rocker, snagged the shirt draped across