The Water Baby

by Roz Denny Fox

  Temple took two steps, then stopped. “What kind of hospital is this? If that woman’s a nurse, why isn’t she dressed like one? She looks like a…” His gaze bored through Daisy, but he let his sentence hang.

  Dr Rankin brought him up short. “Mr. Wyatt. If Becca is your daughter, you owe Daisy Sloan for saving her life. I wouldn’t be too critical of her clothing.”

  “What do you mean, if?” the younger man snapped. He pulled a slender leather case from his inside pocket and reeled out an accordion row of pictures. “See? Rebecca most certainly is my daughter.”

  Wyatt’s attitude ticked Daisy off, even though she was impressed that he carried so many pictures of his child. Even at that, she seriously doubted it made him a better human being. She found herself hugging Becca closer. “I’m a shrimper by trade,” Daisy informed Wyatt with a touch of pride. “I own a trawler that I contract to a larger fleet. Sorry if I don’t meet your dress code. You’ll have to take my wardrobe up with Daniel Coletti. He docked behind me the day I fished Becca from the sea, and he was nice enough to go by my house and pack me a bag. Guess he plumb overlooked my gold lamé. I’ve been playing catch-as-catch-can ever since.” Breaking off, she crooned to the girl who’d begun to whimper again. “Hush, my water baby.”

  Temple leveled her one last stare before Dr. Rankin firmly ushered him out the door.

  Daisy stuck her tongue out at his broad back. She was fully aware that it was a childish thing to do, yet she was surprised to find her grip on Becca not quite steady. It was Wyatt’s eyes. They were clear and blue as the Texas sky on a summer day, but below the surface they simmered dangerously, like an approaching hurricane.

  Oh, she’d met his type before. Men who conquered worlds—and women. After all, both her sisters had married corporate sharks. Daisy wasn’t impressed by men like Temple Wyatt. All she could think was, Poor Becca. When parents were handed out, this kid really drew deuces.

  Drained from crying, Becca fell back into a restless sleep. Little sniffles escaped her tiny body every so often. Daisy was reluctant to lay her down. With one hand, she smoothed matted curls off the flushed, tearstained cheeks. Something like a lead sinker settled in her stomach. It wasn’t right that so small a child be a pawn in her parents’ games. Who would hold Becca and dry her tears if she was sent back to San Francisco with the resort czar?

  Daisy tried to tell herself that everything would be hunky dory. No doubt Becca would have the best money could buy. Nannies by the score. Round-the-clock nurses. But what about love? Daisy sighed. Maybe the kind of love she believed in was nothing more than a pipe dream, like her sisters claimed.

  She shook herself out of an uncharacteristic gloom. Both Violet and Jasmine had long poked fun at her ideals. They maintained that the best way to choose a life partner was based on preset criteria. In college they made “perfect husband” attribute lists—”rich” was at the top—and only dated men who fit the bill. Were their marriages as hollow as they seemed? Daisy rose from the rocking chair and placed Becca in the crib. Strangely her arms felt empty. She shivered, missing the child’s warmth.

  The door opened and a student nurse tiptoed in. “Oh, good,” she said, “the kiddo’s asleep. Dr. Rankin wants you in his office for a conference. I’ll stay and buzz you if Becca wakes up.”

  “A conference? With me?” Daisy pulled at the tank top, which remained molded to her breasts from Becca’s hot little body.

  The nurse smiled dreamily. “Lucky you. Dr. Rankin’s with the most gorgeous man ever to set foot on the island. I wish he wanted a conference with me.”

  Daisy pursed her lips. So Temple Wyatt was still here? Her first thought was that she wasn’t dressed to go through the lobby. Now Daisy took perverse delight in knowing her rumpled appearance would annoy Mr. Three-Piece-Suit.

  She took her time getting there, too. After a cursory knock, she popped into the chief of staff’s office.

  Both men rose.

  In spite of Daisy’s resolve to shake up Wyatt, she feared she was the one who’d been shaken. He was too good-looking, too masculine, too…everything. She sank silently into the nearest chair. The next instant she hardened her resolve; he was, after all, only a man.

  To equalize power, she resorted to her usual method for dealing with obnoxious dock workers—she deliberately visualized Temple Wyatt wearing Donald Duck shorts beneath his sharply creased Italian wool trousers. She smothered a laugh.

  He shot her a dark look before returning to his seat. “How is Rebecca?” he asked, thrusting out his chin enough to loosen a silk tie patterned in muted blue shades that matched his eyes.

  Daisy was surprised by the depth of concern in his voice. “As well as can be expected,” she said evenly, “considering how upset she was. She’s dozing again. But she rarely sleeps long. I need to get back. What is it you want from me?”

  Wyatt stood and rubbed the back of his neck as he paced the width of the room, struggling to articulate what was on his mind. Dr. Rankin had sung the praises of this blond woman with the strange dark eyes. Temple wondered how much, if any, of this praise was true.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Daisy, Mr. Wyatt believes his ex-wife and daughter were with a Brazilian hotelier by the name of Domingo DeVaca. He claims that, as far as he knows, DeVaca’s business dealings are, er, were on the up and up.”

  Wyatt turned and impaled Daisy with pain-filled eyes. “If you were close enough to pull Rebecca from the water, you must have been close enough to see or hear more than you reported.” He grabbed a wrinkled newspaper from the edge of the doctor’s desk and shook it. “This story you fed the authorities is vague at best. I want the truth, Miss Sloan.” Anguish made his eyes turn to flint.

  Daisy rose and faced him across the desk. “What are you saying? That I lied? Why would I, for goodness sake? I told the police everything I know.”

  “A million dollars is a lot of reward.”

  Daisy pulled back, aghast. The amount stole her breath—and so did the accusation.

  Dr. Rankin leapt to his feet. “Wait a minute. If I’d known what you were about, Wyatt, I’d never have asked Daisy here. Her honesty is above reproach!”

  Daisy flashed the doctor a look of gratitude.

  Temple snorted. “Come on. I heard what that TV woman said to you about the money.”

  Daisy clenched her fists. “You think I saved that precious child’s life for a reward?”

  “If you saved her.”

  “Has anyone ever told you how contemptible you are?” Daisy almost choked on her anger.

  But the man in the designer suit wasn’t giving an inch. “My ex-wife and I may have had our differences. But shallow vain gold-digger that she was, Miranda would never have placed Rebecca in danger. I think you know exactly what happened out there, Miss Sloan. And I’m asking questions until I get the truth.”

  Daisy reached behind her for the doorknob. She tucked a corkscrew curl behind her ear with the other hand. “I don’t know,” she said coldly. “You can believe me or not. I’ve heard, however, that people who ask too many questions around Rum Row sometimes flat-out disappear. Now excuse me, I’m going back to Becca. She panics if she wakes up and I’m not in the room.”

  “Are you threatening me, Miss Sloan?” Wyatt stiffened a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed. A row of even white teeth made his tan seem darker.

  “Why, no. That wasn’t my intent.” Daisy drew in a breath. “But now that you mention it, for all I know, you could have blown that yacht yourself.”

  Temple’s smile froze. “Try that tack and I’ll sue you for slander.” Who in blazes did this person think she was dealing with? He hadn’t made it to the top of the international-resort business by bending to pressure.

  Daisy yanked open the door. “So sue me. All you’ll get is a twenty-year-old trawler. Frankly I can’t see you busting your butt hauling in shrimp nets.” All at once she gave a guilty flush. She’d forgotten the Sloan family home on the West Bay. It also bel
onged to her—and to the bank.

  Wyatt saw and misread her guilty expression. He cut off her exit by trapping her against the wall, an arm on either side of her. Dr. Rankin was watching with wary eyes. “In that article, you told the police you were shrimping alone,” he said with silky softness. “If the work is so butt-busting, why don’t you have help?”

  Daisy didn’t like the way he was invading her space. She flattened her back against the wall, only to jump when her head accidentally brushed his hand. “I…I…” Looking directly into the bottomless blue eyes left her breathless. She glanced away to break the hold he had on her senses. “I do have a helper—a college student. Aubrey Bonner’s son, Loren. He was sick that week.” Darn, she was babbling. For pity’s sake, she didn’t owe this jerk any explanations! Deliberately she opened her eyes and glared back. “Feel free to check, Wyatt. Now if you don’t mind, I’m outta here.”

  “I do mind,” he said, loud enough to stop her. “Your story is too pat. It’s got too many holes. Considering what I’ve heard about this town’s history, all of you could be in cahoots to bilk me.” His angry eyes connected with those of the doctor. Abruptly Temple straightened away from Daisy and returned to his seat. Getting into a shouting match with a woman wasn’t his style.

  “Miranda tried taking me to the cleaners repeatedly,” he said curtly. “I don’t bilk easily. As I said, Rebecca’s pediatrician is flying in from San Francisco. Until Dr. Davis arrives, a member of my flight crew will sit outside Rebecca’s door. So don’t get any cute ideas about going underground with her, Miss Sloan. I’ll not release one dime of that reward until I have her safe at home.”

  “I’ll tell you what you can do with your reward,” Daisy sputtered. “Shove it. I don’t want one penny of your stupid money.”

  Dr. Rankin threw his pencil down on the desk. Normally soft-spoken, he roared, “Call in a hundred consultants. That child’s in shock. I’m telling you, Wyatt— tear her away from Daisy and you’ll only prolong her problems.”

  Sitting back, Dr. Rankin took a calming breath and steepled his fingers. “We know enough about shock to know that whatever the victim selects as an anchor must remain steady. For some reason, Becca has made Daisy her bridge between this world and the world she’s retreated into. Remove Daisy, and your daughter may never come back from the other side.”

  Wyatt swallowed hard, and Daisy stifled a protest. Dr. Rankin had never been quite so blunt about her role. Daisy didn’t know if she wanted to be anyone’s anchor. Especially not anyone of paramount importance to a man like Temple Wyatt. She’d planned to march upstairs, collect her belongings and leave Wyatt to handle his daughter’s terror however he saw fit. Now she had to do some hard thinking. Bestowing a final troubled gaze on Wyatt’s disbelieving features, Daisy left the room, slammed the door—and pinched herself hard, so she’d start breathing again.

  The minute she stepped off the elevator, Daisy heard Becca screaming. Fully expecting to encounter resistance at the door, she was relieved to see that Wyatt’s guard hadn’t arrived yet.

  “Thank goodness you’re back,” the young nurse cried, gathering her things to rush away.

  Daisy acknowledged her with a bare nod. She already had Becca’s arms wound too tightly around her neck. “Oh, my water baby,” she murmured. “Your daddy’s here to take you home.” She felt the little body relax, but knew it was because of tone, not what she’d said.

  Trying to be optimistic about the inevitable, Daisy reached for a hairbrush and sat in the rocker, Becca in her lap. “Let’s make you beautiful for that San Francisco doctor, shall we?” She smiled into the vacant blue eyes. “Who’s to say you won’t recognize him and come out of this slump?” But her voice wobbled.

  Becca liked having her hair brushed. She sat quietly and let Daisy secure it in a long ponytail with a pretty bow that one of the night nurses had given her. Everyone on staff had taken an interest in trying to spark awareness in the child. That was another reason Daisy could kick Temple Wyatt for his rude unfounded allegations.

  Fortunately Becca’s father only appeared once more that day—when he stuck his head inside to announce that his guard was in place.

  Less than an hour later, though, Wyatt’s great California pediatrician swept into Becca’s room with a reluctant nurse in tow.

  Becca was in the middle of eating.

  Daisy didn’t like anything about the new doctor. It was hard enough to get the kid to eat, and this evening the dietitian had sent tuna noodle casserole, which Becca seemed to enjoy. At least she did until Dr. God of the Brooks Brothers suit and salon-styled hair made the mistake of ordering Daisy to leave the room.

  She started to, but Becca went wild. The meal tray flew, drenching both Daisy and the child in milk and noodles. The visiting doctor wrested Becca away as he instructed Daisy to clean up the mess.

  “Clean it up yourself,” she snapped. “You caused the problem.” Snatching a towel, she scrubbed at the stains on her shirt as she stalked out. It didn’t help her disposition to be stopped by the guard and then practically bowled over by Temple Wyatt himself.

  “What’s going on in there?” Temple grabbed a fistful of Daisy’s shirt.

  She twisted free. “Ask your marvelous consultant. He has all the finesse of a Kentucky mule.”

  Puzzled, Wyatt drew back. “Dr. Davis is here? Then why’s Rebecca throwing a fit? She adores him. Glendon and I are old friends. He’s like her uncle.”

  Daisy treated him to a mutinous expression and continued to scrub at the sticky noodles.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop that. You’re only making it worse.” Temple jerked the towel out of her hands and reached for the doorknob. “If by some remote chance you own a piece of clothing with more material in it, please go put it on. I think you should hear what Dr. Davis has to say about Rebecca’s condition.”

  Daisy struggled to keep from slugging him. This was his second snide comment about her clothing. The man was obsessed by some puritanical view about what women should wear. Daisy marveled that he even had a child. No doubt he made love with his clothes on and the lights off.

  Suddenly that notion struck her as funny. Temple Wyatt had the Ivy League look most women drooled over. Not Daisy. She didn’t care if he owned every hotel in the world. His holier-than-thou arrogance was a big turnoff. Who cared what he thought? She glared at the door that swung shut on his polished heels. Darn, but she did want to hear what Dr. Know-It-All had to say.

  She whipped around and started in, only to be stopped by the gleam in the guard’s eyes. Daisy was contemplating washing her hands of the whole mess when Dr. Maris Sandeford, a quiet pediatric resident Daisy knew and liked, came to her rescue. She offered Daisy her lab jacket.

  “Thanks, Maris, you’re a lifesaver.” Daisy pulled on the jacket and buttoned it up. Both women cast concerned glances toward the door as Becca’s screams continued.

  “I don’t care if that man is Becca’s father,” muttered the young doctor. “I can’t believe anyone who loves her would condone upsetting her like this. Scuttlebutt says he’s planning to take her back to California before she comes out of shock. Someone should stop him.”

  “Dr. Rankin, you mean?” Daisy asked absently. “Does he have that authority even if Becca’s father wants to sign her out?”

  “Dr. Rankin would need to make some corroborating statement. But in some cases the courts advocates for children, usually those instances where parents make unwise medical decisions.”

  The noise escalated. “In Becca’s case,” she murmured, “who would approach the court if not Dr. Rankin?”

  “You.” Maris’s answer was deceptively simple.

  “Me?” Daisy flinched. “Wait a minute. Who am I? A college dropout, for goodness sake, who runs a not-veryprofitable shrimp boat.”

  Her friend shrugged. “It’s an option, that’s all. We don’t know what Mr. Wyatt will do yet, do we?”

  “No,” Daisy muttered. But she knew Temple Wyatt intended to
take Becca back to San Francisco. “I should go see if I can help. Would you hunt up Dr. Rankin and tell him the consultant has arrived?” Daisy asked as the door flew open and a harried-looking Wyatt stuck his head out.

  “There you are, Miss Sloan,” he barked. “Dr. Davis is having trouble getting close enough to Rebecca to do a comprehensive exam. The nurse seems to think you might have better luck calming her.”

  “Go,” Maris whispered. “I’ll find Dr. Rankin.”

  “Hurry, please,” Daisy begged as she shook off a shiver of apprehension and walked toward the man with the disturbing eyes. Reaching him, she saw his lips compress in the tight line she’d come to associate with disapproval. “Now what’s wrong?”

  “Is that coat all you have on?” His eyes locked on the jacket hem, which barely skimmed the bottom of Daisy’s shorts.

  She flushed. When she’d buttoned the coat she hadn’t thought how it would look to the casual observer.

  The hot flare in Temple Wyatt’s normally icy eyes wasn’t the least bit casual, however. For all his city style, Temple Wyatt was no different from the lusty shrimpers who crowded the dock giving wolf whistles every afternoon when Daisy unloaded her day’s catch. Except they were more honest.

  Lifting her chin, she marched past him. It irritated Daisy that he could make her blush. If she prided herself on anything, it was her ability to ignore the cruder side of men. Any man who finally got under her skin would be funny and sensitive and romantic. So why did Wyatt’s gaze send chills chasing up and down her spine?

  Daisy blanked her mind to such unsettled feelings and, instead, reached for the sobbing child, who’d just landed a solid kick in the good doctor’s midriff.

  “Rebecca, this behavior does not become a kindergartner,” Dr. Davis said, sounding somewhat winded. “Remember at your last visit we discussed how big girls don’t throw tantrums?”