The Baby Chase. Jennifer Greene
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sure do, cutie.”
She pushed open the door and climbed out, but for a few moments she poked her head inside the darkened car and just looked at him. She’d been smiling before then. Smiling in a distracting, mischievous way that made him unsure how much she was putting him on and how much she was telling him straight.
But suddenly she wasn’t smiling. This strange, warm, intense look shone from her eyes, making his pulse chug with alarm. For one horrifying moment, he was scared she was going to throw her arms around him again—and for damn sure, it was alarm that was chugging through his pulse, not anticipation.
“I know you don’t believe this,” she murmured, “but I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself. Get some sleep yourself, Gabe. And for sure don’t waste your time worrying about me.”
Not worry about her? Gabe watched her sprint toward the red Ciera—she dropped her backpack, picked it up, stubbed her toe when she almost tripped—and then finally made it into her car, which, he noted without surprise, wasn’t locked. She didn’t lock her door. She believed in love and white knights. As far as Gabe could tell, she really believed that right would prevail and nothing could hurt her.
And he wasn’t supposed to worry about her?
Rebecca parked the rented Ford Taurus in the only spare spot she could find in three blocks, then gulped a breath as she peered out the window. It was incredibly warmer in Los Angeles than in the bitter March winds she’d left in Minnesota that morning. But she was really unfamiliar with this part of the city. Late-afternoon sun glinted on the Randolph Street sign. She was on the correct street. There was no way to park any closer to 12970, but she could walk the few blocks.
The neighborhood, though, left a tad to be desired. A cluster of tattooed skinheads were monopolizing one corner. Kids of all ages were hanging out in doorways. Graffiti spray-painted on all walled surfaces offered a free sex education. A man lay sprawled on the sidewalk, either dead or dead drunk; garbage spilled and reeked from rusty containers, and if she wasn’t mistaken, this street was sort of owned by the Tigre gang…judging from the tough young fellas sporting that tag on their bandannas and Ts.
Boy, are you a long way from home, Toto. Gulping hard again, Rebecca stepped out of the car and locked it up tight, thinking that she’d written about scenes like this a zillion times…but never directly experienced one before. Through all the nuisance travel arrangements it took to get here, from the flight to L.A. to getting maps and renting a car, she’d considered that Gabe would probably have an eensy stroke if he knew she was here.
But then, Gabe had no reason to guess that she’d memorized Tammy Diller’s address before giving him the letter…or that she’d be up at first light, putting travel plans in motion.
A hispanic boy—maybe twelve?—whistled when she walked past. He’d make a tempting father, she thought objectively. Not the child. Gabe. It was relatively more comforting to concentrate on Gabe than to have a heart attack over the blank-eyed guy flicking open his switchblade just off to her left.
Gabe was patient, principled, protective. Outstanding father qualities. No fortune hunter—or skinhead—would ever get near his daughter. As far as she could tell, Gabe didn’t give a rat’s tail about money, wasn’t swayed by anyone with it—or without it. He’d teach a son or daughter the right values. She couldn’t imagine him losing his temper. The only thing she’d ever caught annoying him was…well…her.
That kiss had lingered hard in her mind. It had been a lonely kiss. Hungry. Hot. Sexy. She’d always loved the idea of being blown away by a man’s kisses, but it had never happened to her. Of course, the vast majority of her experience had been kissing frogs—fellas with their minds more on her family’s money than on her—or nice guys who seemed to prefer their bathwater tepid. Not hot. Not risky. Not dangerous.
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