The Black Sheep's Baby. Kathleen Creighton
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breath and then a sound, not words, just a mutter of denial and rejection.
Oh, yes, and rejection was plain in his face, too. But that much she’d expected. For the rest, well, what had she expected?
Someone younger, for one thing. According to Emily’s birth certificate Eric Lanagan was twenty-eight—barely two years younger than Devon. Based on the way he’d been behaving—ignoring the court’s order, running away—she’d pictured him as some arrogant, irresponsible kid.
She hadn’t expected him to have so much presence—and presence wasn’t an easy thing to manage in tousled hair and bare feet, in pajama bottoms and a bathrobe hanging open—a flannel bathrobe, moreover, that was almost the twin of the one she herself was wearing.
She hadn’t expected a face with so many hard edges and sharp angles. Bathed in the warm yellow light of the open refrigerator, it still appeared pale as chalk, shadowed and gaunt.
She hadn’t expected him to look as if he’d just confronted a ghost.
Her next thought was that he looked instead like a man who wanted very much to strike her down where she stood—and might well have done so, but for the baby in his arms.
She gulped involuntarily and, eyeing the baby sideways as if it were a possibly dangerous wild animal, plunged into breathless explanations. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I came in late last night. In the storm. Your parents—” She was talking too quickly; her voice kept bumping up against her galloping heart.
My God, what was that all about? Devon O’Rourke didn’t scare easily, and besides, this was the man who’d befriended her sister, the man Susan had named as the father of her child. In spite of the harshness of his features, except for that brief flash of anger in his eyes, he didn’t look at all like someone capable of violence. In fact, there was something about him that was almost…oh, good heavens, the word sweet was the one that came most insistently to mind, with that endearing distraction, the juxtaposition of a fuzzy pink head and tiny waving fist against a naked, hard-muscled masculine chest. Her heart gave another horrifying lurch.
She could be in no danger here—not from this man—not right this minute, anyway.
Was she? He was coming toward her. Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t help it—she backed into the open refrigerator.
“I didn’t ask you how you got here. I asked who the hell you are.” His hand shot out, narrowly bypassing her head, and to her utter dismay, she flinched. He noticed it, too, and lifted one disdainful eyebrow, lending the half smile he gave her a devilish slant.
“You trying to warm things up in there?” he asked dryly as he plucked a bottle of formula from the refrigerator.
Feeling incredibly foolish, Devon ducked sideways to get out of the way while he closed the refrigerator door—and felt even more foolish when the toaster popped up just then and made her jump again. At the same moment, the coffeemaker launched burping and gurgling into its incongruously merry finale.
Never more glad to have something to do, she turned to the task of assembling a plate for her toast, a spoon for the preserves and a mug for the coffee. And all the while her unwelcome companion worked right alongside her, so close she had to be careful not to bump elbows with him as he ran tap water into a bottle warmer, plugged it in next to the toaster and plunked the bottle of formula into it.
Neither of them spoke a word, at least not to each other. The baby made impatient snorting, snuffling noises, which Devon was sure were a prelude to something much more disruptive. Eric responded with something that was probably meant to be a croon but in Devon’s opinion more resembled the ratchety sound a tiger makes when it purrs. If she’d hoped to use the interlude of activity to gain back a measure of her normal confidence and self-control, that sound alone would have made it an uphill battle. She felt the strain of it in her spine, her temples, the back of her jaw.
After she’d poured herself a cupful of strong black coffee and taken a testing sip, she leaned back against the counter and watched sideways through the steam as the man lifted the bottle from the warmer and, expertly juggling the baby, squirted a few drops of formula on his wrist to test its temperature. She couldn’t help but notice that his hands, though large, were sensitive looking, with long-boned agile fingers, and that not even the boyish lock of nut-brown hair that had fallen across his forehead did much to soften his hawkish profile.
“You must be Eric,” she said after a long silence, and was pleased with her cool, friendly tone. “And this is Emily?”
“Okay, so you know who we are.” Still intent on what he was doing, it was a moment or two before he cocked that sardonic half smile once more in her direction. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
Eric was fairly proud of the way he’d handled the situation so far. Especially considering the shock it had given him to walk into the kitchen expecting to find his mom up early and making breakfast, the way he remembered her doing most all the mornings of his growing up. And instead seeing…her. Like coming face-to-face with a damn ghost.
It was all he could do to make himself look at the woman. He kept his eyes on the little one instead, and found himself smiling way down inside the way he always did when he watched her eat and listened to her make those hardworking squeaky drinking sounds. He felt himself go calm and quiet, and didn’t look up when the woman told him, in her brisk lawyer’s voice, what he’d already guessed.
“I’m an attorney. I represent Gerald and Barbara O’Rourke, Emily’s grandparents. I have a court—”
“I know what you are.” He was able to keep it low, but couldn’t quite manage soft. The words grated between his teeth like he was chewing on glass. “Now you tell me who you are, or I swear you’re gonna be out that door, blizzard or no blizzard.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be leaving right away, Eric.” Now her voice was just as hard-edged as his. “Not unless that baby goes with me. I have a court order—” A gasp interrupted her, and both of them jerked like guilty children toward the sound.
Eric’s heart gave an exultant leap. For there was Lucy, coming through the kitchen doorway, wearing a look he remembered well—the look of a mama bear charging to the aid of her cub.
Chapter 3
Before his mother could say a word, Eric sang out with false cheer, “Hey, Mom!” He motioned her into the room with a savage little jerk of his head. “Say hello to the viper you let into your house last night.”
Then he got out of her way while his mother swept past them both, her house shoes making sandy noises on the linoleum floor. When she reached the table she halted and rounded on them, fired up and vibrating like some kind of self-contained energy source. And, darned if Eric even remembered that old yellow bathrobe she was wearing, the one that had made her seem to the little boy he’d been like a tiny broken-off piece of sunshine.
“What’s this?” she rasped in that rusty-file voice of hers, glaring at her houseguest. “Devon? Something about you taking Emily? What’s this about a court order?”
The lawyer’s mouth popped open, but Eric, who was beginning to enjoy himself, got there first. “That’s right, Ma.” He lifted the bottle and squinted at what was left in it before placing it on the counter, then shifted the little one to his shoulder. “This lady has chased me—” he said that in a crooning tone as he patted “—all the way from L.A. She means—ah, there you go, darlin’—to take Emily, here, away from me.”
Beside him, Devon carefully put down the piece of toast she’d been holding and dusted crumbs from her hands, like someone preparing to do battle. Folding her arms across her chest, she turned her head toward him and said in a low, even tone, “I wouldn’t have had to chase you if you hadn’t skipped town. You do know I could have sent marshals to arrest you and bring you back by force?”
His mother heard that, and exclaimed, “Arrest you?” She glared, outraged, at Devon, then glanced wildly toward the back porch door.