The Water Baby

by Roz Denny Fox

  “There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, hoping to prolong his stay. “I wouldn’t mind company.” She held her breath. Could he tell how disturbed she felt by his presence—yet how much she craved it?

  Temple hesitated. In the moonlight, her eyes were large. Dark like velvet. Soft. Needy. Not for the quick release provided by a lover but the comfort of a friend. He didn’t know if he could offer it, if he could be a friend. Frankly that kind of relationship required a whole lot more from a man than being a lover did. And he’d vowed after Miranda had drained him dry of honest emotions that needy women were strictly off-limits.

  He’d meant it, too. Still did. But everything changed when Rebecca started out of a sound sleep with a heartwrenching sob, and Daisy Sloan focused all her attention on his child. The vulnerability left her eyes to be replaced immediately by a generous dose of tenderness. Even someone as jaded as Temple recognized love when he saw it.

  As his daughter relaxed again and curled into Daisy’s slender arms, he felt himself giving in.

  “Coffee. Two cups coming right up,” he said in a gravelly voice that barely disguised how deeply he’d been shaken.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “SHE’S DOZED OFF AGAIN,” Daisy murmured as Temple returned with two steaming mugs. “Let me slide her off my lap onto the swing seat. I don’t want to risk spilling hot coffee on her.”

  He smiled, passed Daisy a mug, then set the one he carried for himself on the porch rail. “Would it be all right if I held her? It’s not as if I need the added caffeine before I turn in.”

  “It’s decaff,” she said, starting to rise. “But sure. Go ahead. She’s your daughter.”

  “Stay.” Temple placed a hand on Daisy’s shoulder. “There’s plenty of room, and I’ll need you if she spooks again.”

  A sensation of heat stole into her body from beneath his palm, trapping Daisy where she hovered. Her mind scrambled to find a valid excuse to leave. After a moment’s tug-of-war within, she sank back with a sigh.

  Temple picked up the quilted bundle with care. He grew still when the swing creaked. But when Rebecca didn’t stir, he eased back, although he continued to hold his breath. When all remained silent except for the occasional chirp of a cricket, he released it. “I wish I could understand what’s going on with her.” He shrugged, careful not to disturb his sleeping daughter. “I stopped by the medical-school library today after visiting the police and the Coast Guard. The librarian found some articles explaining shock.”

  “What a good idea.” Daisy sipped her coffee and waited for him to say what he’d discovered. She felt an unaccountable easing of her mood; this explained, at least, how he’d spent the afternoon.

  “You think so?” His tone sounded gloomy. “If anything, I’m more confused. With shock, so much is waitand-see. And no two cases are the same. As far as I could tell, one that involved a boating accident off the coast of Southern Cal in the late eighties bore some similarity to Rebecca’s. The child, a boy of three, spent several hours in the sea. Eventually he was diagnosed with retrograde amnesia. Only three, and he’d lost his past!”

  He looked so distressed that Daisy reached over and took his hand in hers. “Don’t,” she chided gently. “Dr. Rankin didn’t call it amnesia.” She balked at telling him that Becca’s team had bandied about terms like retrograde amnesia, aphasia, and Broca’s amnesia. But why add to a father’s worry when the doctors couldn’t agree? “Dr. Rankin called it a temporary disorder brought on by trauma,” she said firmly.

  “She doesn’t remember anything. What’s that if not amnesia?”

  Daisy pursed her lips. “Temporary. Concentrate on that word.”

  “You’re right. Thanks,” he mumbled. “No sense looking for trouble. Tomorrow morning I’ll sit down and talk with Dr. Rankin. Meanwhile, let’s find another subject to pass the time, shall we?”

  She nodded and released his hand to curl in the corner of the swing. Setting her mug aside, she took a tube of lotion out of her shorts pocket. “Well,” she said as she uncapped the tube and squeezed a generous portion onto her palm, “we could discuss the resort you want to build on Galveston.”

  Temple breathed in the provocative scent of magnolias. At least now he knew why the air surrounding her always smelled like a courtyard in the French Quarter. At first it seemed a small thing to watch her smooth the lotion onto each finger. But when Temple suddenly experienced a not-so-subtle tightening below his belt, the trivial act took on new significance.

  “No? Well, what then?” Extending a bare foot, she nudged his thigh.

  The tightness increased. “I…uh…” he stammered. “Uh, tell me about those old Victorian homes on Broadway,” he blurted, feeling his words tumble out too fast. “I might go with that style.” Shifting Rebecca so he faced Daisy, Temple said in a more deliberate tone, “Are they open for tours?”

  His gaze strayed to her toes, which rested by his leg. Why hadn’t he noticed before that she wore polish on her toenails? When he first met Miranda, she’d painted hers, too. A habit she’d quit during pregnancy. That made him remember how much she’d hated being pregnant. She’d hated the time he spent on business, too. Maybe he should have worked harder on his marriage. But that was past. Too late and best forgotten.

  Now if he could stop thinking about Daisy’s toes… He moved abruptly on the bench seat and made the old swing shudder. Bare feet were not the topic under discussion. What was it Daisy had said about those old homes?

  “Are you listening to me?” she demanded, pausing to recap the tube of lotion. “I said you should make time to tour Moody Mansion and Ashton Villa while you’re here. Those are the homes you drove by. The Bishop’s Palace is on Broadway, too. Its architect was quite famous. Nicholas Clayton.”

  “No kidding? I’ve seen his work.” Temple welcomed the new focus for his attention. “Say, if you’re a connoisseur of ‘Victorian-style architecture, you’d love my resorts in Charlotte Amalie and St. Croix.” Temple stopped speaking as Daisy’s rich laughter spread over him.

  “The farthest I’ve been from home is New Orleans. I’m quite sure I’d like any of the architecture in Charlotte Amalie and St. Croix.” She took another sip of coffee. Leaning back, she said in an amused tone, “Too bad you and Daniel didn’t hit it off. He’d love to hear about your resorts. He subscribes to three tour magazines, and he’s read everything in our library about exotic destinations.” She smiled. “He’s so sure he has to leave Galveston to see anything worth seeing. Would you mind telling him we have noteworthy old buildings here?”

  Temple frowned. “I didn’t get the feeling yesterday that you were trying to talk him into staying. Guess I was wrong.”

  She got slowly to her feet, stifling a yawn. “It’s not my place to influence him either way. You know, I’d love to spend some time badgering you about your plans for the Island, but you did say Jeb Matthews is bringing in a crew of electricians early tomorrow morning. And I’m too tired to argue about that anymore. I’ll just deduct the baby-sitting like we discussed and pay you back the rest when I can.” She yawned and covered her mouth with one hand. “Would you mind taking Becca upstairs now? Rebecca,” she hastened to correct.

  Temple didn’t want to rehash the wiring issue, either, but he was disappointed to see the evening end so soon. Not that he couldn’t have gone to the health club he’d joined yesterday. But that wouldn’t have answered a need for quiet conversation. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that men did not tend to sit around and talk. They were content to grunt in unison.

  Tonight was different. Enjoyable. Surely it wasn’t female companionship he craved. That idea shocked him. From the outset of his marriage, he and Miranda had done little in the time they had together but argue. It left bitter memories and kept him from going out of his way to date after his divorce.

  When he’d first met Daisy Sloan, Temple hadn’t even liked her. Liked her less when she stood between him and Rebecca. He certainly hadn’t expected his feelings to
change when he moved in here, he thought as he awkwardly gathered up his daughter.

  Daisy touched his arm and shook her head when he would have tried to juggle his coffee mug. Smiling, she collected both cups and indicated by a nod that she’d take them to the kitchen. Her smile and her gesture left him with an odd feeling of intimacy.

  He nodded brusquely. Lord, where was his good sense? Hadn’t he screwed up one relationship big time? He didn’t want to try for two. Besides, Daisy Sloan was a homebody, and by virtue of his business, he was anything but. What could the two of them possibly have in common?

  She brushed past him, telegraphing a second major jolt to Temple’s groin, and he was awfully afraid he knew what they had in common. Physical attraction. And not all one-sided, either. He knew it with certainty when he saw her slop coffee. Great. Just what he needed. More complications in his life.

  Upstairs Temple waited impatiently outside Daisy’s bedroom door while she shut off the lights below. The best thing he could do now would be to tuck Rebecca in fast and get the hell away from Daisy Sloan. Maybe this was just some phase of the moon or something. Maybe by tomorrow things would return to normal between them.

  Temple’s chest constricted as he watched her bound up the winding stairs. Please, Lord, let me get back to normal.

  “Whoee, I’m getting soft!” she exclaimed. Catching her breath, she reached for the doorknob. “I stopped to put the coffeemaker on auto pilot for morning. Look who I found under the kitchen table. Straylia.” Daisy waggled the stuffed koala bear under Temple’s nose. “Becca must have dropped him when she fell asleep at supper. Goodness, why didn’t you go on in? Asleep, that little miss weighs a ton.”

  “Rebecca,” he reminded, almost relieved to see that one bone of contention at least hadn’t disappeared. “And have you already forgotten what you said this morning?” He raised one eyebrow. “I’m waiting for permission to go through your room.”

  She flushed. “Was it only this morning? It seems so long ago.” She stepped past him and held open the door, although she refused to meet his eyes. “I imagine you had a good laugh over my little fit. You probably meet much more… worldly women in your line of work.”

  Temple recalled how Daisy had looked this morning in her white cotton nightie. And how just touching her a moment ago had made his pulse leap almost out of his skin. The last thing on his mind either time had been “worldly” women.

  Wisely he said nothing. Instead, he gave his landlady a wide berth as he carried his daughter into the alcove and placed her on the bed. It wouldn’t hurt her to sleep in her dress; she’d done it before. Clicking the rail in place, Temple smoothed her blankets. He lingered there until he felt he’d regained control of his hormones.

  When he finally left the alcove, Temple was relieved to see Daisy seated at her desk—and still fully clothed. Or, at least, as fully clothed as it was possible for her to be in her seemingly endless supply of shorts.

  Bright lights flooded the room and reflected off the brass fittings of the clipper ship on the mantel. Temple felt more at ease among the masculine bnc-a-brac in her room than he did standing next to the large four-poster. Skirting it, he walked over to take a closer look at the model.

  Daisy glanced up from Becca’s journal. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Some say she was the fastest ship in her day. Are you familiar with the Cutty Sark?”

  “You mean other than knowing it’s a damn fine whiskey?” Temple tucked his hands into his back pockets as he turned to face her, laughter lurking in his eyes.

  Daisy’s chuckle was spontaneous. “Touché. I forget that not everyone cut their teeth on salty tales of the sea like I did.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t. These models are great. Did someone you know make them?” He hoped the talented craftsman wasn’t Daniel Coletti.

  “My grandfather built them. That one with the yellow hull is a replica of a colonial merchant schooner. The Sultana out of Boston. That sleek mahogany frigate on the pedestal is the USS Constitution.”

  “Old Ironsides?” Temple crossed the room to take a closer look. “Now I see. Wow! I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the patience to build one.”

  “Nor would I. I like the ones in the bottles best, and they take even longer to assemble. Did you see the Titanic?” She got up and led the way to a lighted shelf displaying a detailed oceanliner in a glass bottle. “Gramps said this model had over 450 parts.”

  Temple stared at the ship in admiration.

  “The entire Sloan collection was much larger once. A number of valuable pieces were lost in the Great Storm. My great-grandfather had collected an enviable number of original ship figureheads, among other pieces. The only one left is downstairs in the den. From the Amanda Fenwick. She’s pretty beat up. The best of the ones he managed to save after the hurricane were donated to various museums. According to his log, he sent a museum in Boston several irreplaceable oil paintings by famous ship’s artists, as well.”

  “I’m sorry.” Temple said it because she sounded so wistful.

  “Don’t be. At least they’re permanently preserved. So much of Galveston’s early history was lost. I’m committed to helping the local historical society hang on to whatever’s left.”

  “Does that mean you’re against my building a resort here?” he said casually, taking out his handkerchief and reaching around her to wipe dust from the bottle containing the Titanic.

  Daisy snatched the square of cotton from his hand and busily polished the bottle herself. “Why would I object to us capturing more tourist dollars?”

  “At supper you didn’t seem overjoyed by the news. So is it just me personally you don’t want around?”

  Her hands stilled. She clutched the handkerchief to her breast. He stood so close behind her it was almost overpowering. “No, not at all.” But in trying to sound convincing, she couldn’t keep her panic from bleeding through.

  Temple lightly grasped her arms and turned her to face him. As his body absorbed her involuntary shudder, he realized how much he’d misjudged her. She didn’t object to his desire to build on the island. It had been a natural assumption, though, considering that she hadn’t defended him against Sal’s barbs. Now he looked deep into her eyes and felt her tremble beneath his touch, and an altogether different picture stenciled itself on his brain. Daisy Sloan liked him all right. Maybe too much. And that presented a greater problem.

  A problem that faded and dimmed as he bent toward her, drawn by the fullness of her lips and the defiant tilt of her chin.

  His kiss, when delivered, came as no surprise to Daisy. And yet, his lips covered hers so softly, with such unexpected tenderness, it was a total shock.

  She’d always been stingy with her kisses, even though she’d received her first one at age nine, hanging upside down on the monkey bars. Zeke McTavitt nursed a black eye and split lip for a week. But in fourth grade the word was out: Don’t try stealing kisses from Daisy Sloan. From that day on, she was very clear about what she liked and what she didn’t. And she did like being kissed by Temple Wyatt.

  His lips were firm, not sloppy wet. He didn’t attempt to swallow her whole like some others she’d kissed. He held her delicately, although there was no mistaking the effect her body had on his. His response was all male.

  Still, Daisy didn’t feel threatened. Of their own accord, her fingers tunneled into the thick hair that didn’t quite touch his collar. How many times since they’d met had she watched a shaft of sunlight play across the golden strands and wondered how they’d feel to touch? Well, now she knew. His hair felt soft. Heavenly.

  Rarely, if ever, had Temple been tempted to kiss an outdoorsy woman. They weren’t his type. Generally he chose his few casual dates from a pool of busy hotel managers. Women who had energy for little more than an occasional dinner out Women who didn’t have time for complicated relationships with single fathers. During the past six months his concern for his missing daughter had precluded even that—which didn’t mean, however, that kissin
g Daisy Sloan just now was the random act of a man too long without a woman This need to kiss her had been brewing all day All week. In truth, it had begun that first day in Dr Rankin’s office when she’d been out for blood.

  Lord, but he did like a lady with a quick comeback.

  Temple paused to catch his breath, and he felt a rush of inner warmth as he gazed down at the woman in his arms. What a contradiction Daisy Sloan was. She had both eyes closed tight like a novice Yet her lips sought his boldly and without apology

  His teasing smile battled her mouth momentarily for possession of his. Temple lost on purpose. He was impressed by the fact that she traded kisses honestly There wasn’t a shred of coyness in this woman.

  Temple liked that, too.

  Framing her face with his hands, he kissed her again. This time he fully enjoyed the feel of her firm curves nestled against his chest and thighs. Against his solid erection.

  Whoa there, old son! This was a development Temple hadn’t been angling for. He eased slowly away from Daisy until only their foreheads touched. Judging by the sheen of sweat they shared, he’d say it was past time they called a halt to this pleasant interlude. Especially as his hands had involuntarily slipped beneath the elastic of her shorts to caress her lower back. But separating proved downright painful. Temple groaned.

  Daisy abruptly opened her eyes. She stared at him for a moment, unfocused and wary.

  At first rational thought escaped her. Then she jumped back, veiling her sudden guilt with downcast lashes. Immediately she began fussing with the V neck of her T-shirt.

  The handkerchief of Temple’s that she’d been clutching tightly now lay trampled at their feet. Flustered, Daisy bent to retrieve it. She didn’t remember it falling from her hand.

  Temple knelt at the same time. Once again their bodies brushed. He would have ignored it had Daisy not flinched. Because she seemed so ill at ease, he placed what he hoped was an impersonal hand beneath her elbow and helped her stand.

  “You’ve been under a lot of stress,” he said, sounding quietly matter-of-fact. “Witnessing a terrible accident. Forced confinement. Leasing your boat out was traumatic, to say nothing of having your home invaded.” Having run out of logic, Temple carefully weighed his next words. “All that frustration had to go someplace,” he whispered, knowing exactly where it had gone.