Instead, disbelief held her motionless.
* * *
FROM THE FAR side of the pickup, Marshall couldn’t see what was happening, but he heard the panic in Franca’s voice, followed by Axel’s deadly threat. Seizing his flashlight from his car, the only item at hand that might serve as a weapon, he circled the truck.
Before him, Franca stood in Axel’s path, her face ashen. Another step and Marshall spotted the shaking child with a knife to her throat. Didn’t that bastard understand how easily his hand could slip?
Fury roared in Marshall’s ears. Only an awareness of how vulnerable they all were held him in check.
“You’re frightening the child,” he said.
Axel bared his teeth, his neck swiveling as he took in this new arrival. “What the hell are you gonna do about it?”
“The police are on their way.” As if to underscore Franca’s words, a siren wailed in the distance.
“You’re going back to jail.” Since that didn’t appear to penetrate the jerk’s thick head, Marshall added, “Any idea how prisoners treat an inmate who hurts children?”
When Axel’s hand tightened on the knife hilt, Marshall’s chest ached. Then the man lowered the knife. “I ain’t hurting her.”
“Give her to me,” Franca commanded.
Stay out of it! But it would be counterproductive to engage in a side argument. Instead, Marshall moved slowly to stand between her and Axel. “This isn’t our fight. Just release Jazz.”
The man shoved the girl forward. “I don’t care about the damn kid anyway.” Marshall scooped her up. She huddled against him, shivering.
Holding Jazz and using his body to block any attempt at Franca, Marshall registered Axel glaring toward the law-office window. He half expected the man to try to crash through it, not that that would work outside of the movies. Why didn’t he flee? Though, if the man had more sense, he wouldn’t be in such a mess in the first place.
A police cruiser swept into the lot, lights flashing. Not far behind followed a second cruiser, then a beige sedan with Hank at the wheel.
“I didn’t do nothing!” At a command from the officers, Axel set the knife on the ground and raised his hands.
As the officers secured the scene, Marshall carried Jazz to Franca. When he tried to set the little girl on her feet, however, she clung to him.
“You saved me, Marshall.” She hiccuped.
“It’s a daddy’s job to protect his family,” he told her. When he glanced up, he could have sworn tears glittered in Franca’s eyes.
After that, they were kept busy providing statements. The female officer who’d been at Bridget’s apartment a few days ago spoke to her briefly, disappeared around the building and returned with a small metal box. “Magnetic GPS case.”
“That’s how he tracked my car!” Bridget said. “That must be what his buddy was doing near the women’s shelter.”
“Are you okay?” Franca asked.
Bridget stroked Jazz’s dark hair. “Yeah, but I’m not proud of myself. You’re the one who stayed out here and risked your life. You really are her mom.” She regarded Marshall admiringly. “And I’m glad she’ll have you for a dad.”
“Daddies protect their families,” Jazz repeated.
“They sure do,” Marshall said.
He still wasn’t sure where he stood with Franca. He only knew that, after today, he felt as if Jazz was his daughter, too.
* * *
IT WAS LATE afternoon before they arrived home, picking up take-out roast chicken with vegetables and salad on their way. After dinner, Marshall volunteered to bake cupcakes with Jazz.
“Might as well use some of this cake mix.” He indicated the row of boxes in the pantry.
“Chocolate!” Jazz peered at the display eagerly, then tempered her demand with, “Or some other kind.”
Her old defiance had vanished, although Franca expected it to crop up occasionally. Children didn’t transform into angels in a single day.
“Chocolate it is.” Marshall removed their paper plates from the table. “Franca, you can be our taste tester.”
“That means I get to eat whatever you bake,” she told Jazz.
“Cool,” the little girl said.
Franca took a seat at the island. She kept reliving the earlier scene, trembling at the memory of how close she and Jazz had come to serious injury or death. Yet the sight of Marshall moving easily about the kitchen reassured her.
His courage and strength had saved them, despite Axel’s loud claims to police that he’d never intended to harm anyone. Moreover, much as she might question Marshall’s stern approach to discipline, she had to admit that she’d overindulged the little girl. Otherwise, Jazz might not have ignored her command to stay inside.
Sipping a cup of tea, Franca watched Marshall with fresh eyes as he tied aprons around himself and Jazz. She listened as he patiently cautioned about the hot oven and the importance of washing their hands. Just like a father.
If only doubt didn’t still nag inside her. Could she really trust him completely?
He brought a stool so the four-year-old could reach the counter. After they’d cracked the eggs and stirred in the dry mix and water, he helped her position the hand mixer. Although Franca considered the child too young to handle the device, she resisted the urge to intervene.
Jazz held the mixer fairly steady for a few minutes. When her hand wobbled, Marshall praised her and gently took charge of the mixer to finish the job. The girl beamed with pride.
As they lined cupcake pans with fluted papers, she peppered him with questions. “Will you teach the baby to bake, too?”
“Not for a few years,” Marshall said. “By then, you might be big enough to teach her. Or him.”
“I’ll be the big sister, right?”
“You bet.”
Amused as Franca was by this exchange, she wasn’t sure they should let Jazz assume the baby was a sure thing. The week’s events had pushed the pregnancy to the back of her mind. Now, she touched her palm to her midsection, and her abdomen felt larger and firmer than she recalled. She was, she realized, entering the ninth week. According to the material Dr. Franco had provided, Baby Bright was an inch long, its hands meeting over the heart.
Would there truly be a new baby to hold and love? No use worrying about it now. They’d had enough scares for today.
With Marshall’s help, Jazz began spooning batter into the papers. “Are you the baby’s daddy?” she asked.
“Yes.”
The child stared up at him. “Are you my daddy, too?”
“I want to be,” Marshall said. “And watch that spoon. You’re dripping.”
“Oops.”
He reached for a paper towel. “Allow me to demonstrate the fine art of mopping up.”
“What’s demonstrate?”
“It means to show. As in, let me demonstrate how to hug.” Putting down the towel, he gathered her against him. Jazz giggled.
Franca’s heart squeezed. Was it possible they could bond into a family?
“Can I live in your house?” Jazz asked. “If I promise no more tantrums?”
Marshall finished cleaning the spilled batter. “None?”
“Mostly none.”
He planted a kiss atop her head. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. I wasn’t so perfect myself when I was a kid. But I figured you weren’t happy here.”
“Yes, I am,” Jazz said.
“Why were you so determined to go home?”
“I thought you’d kick me out,” she said.
“Why would I do that?”
“’Cause I’m bad a lot.”
“Not bad. Just naughty. You can learn to do better, like I did.”
Jazz clutched her hands together. “And you might take my toys.”
“Wow, I’d have to be a mean guy to do that.” Opening the oven, Marshall slid in the trays of cupcakes. “You were making a preemptive strike? That means you pushed me away before I could do it to yo
u.”
The little girl nodded.
“I wouldn’t throw you out over a few tantrums,” Marshall said as he set the timer. “Or for any reason, because, remember, daddies protect their families. Good daddies do.”
“Unfortunately, not all men are good,” Franca said. Bridget had described how Jazz’s father had sent them packing when the child was a toddler, only allowing them to throw a few items into a suitcase. Afterward, Bridget and Jazz dropped in and out of shelters and friends’ homes, often with little notice. Jazz must have had to leave toys behind more than once.
“So can I stay?” she asked.
Marshall’s eyes met Franca’s. How could she respond? She wanted for them to stay, too, yet a long-term commitment meant relying on Marshall to have truly changed from the rigid man she’d known years ago. Despite all the promising signs, how could she be sure?
“The grown-ups will talk about this later,” he told Jazz. “Please don’t worry, okay?”
“Okay.”
While the cupcakes were baking, Jazz climbed into Marshall’s lap and he read one of her favorite picture books. Then the three of them enjoyed the chocolate treats, barely cooled long enough to hold icing.
Marshall stored the remainder in a plastic container. “We can have them for breakfast,” Jazz announced.
“We’ll eat cereal and fruit for breakfast,” Marshall corrected. “And save our cupcakes for dessert tomorrow night.”
She folded her arms. “I want another one now.”
“You’ve had three. Any more and you’ll be sick.”
Jazz grabbed her half-full glass of milk. “Give me another cupcake!”
For a frozen moment, both adults regarded her indecisively. Aware that the child must be exhausted, Franca had an impulse to spring to her defense before Marshall could react. But he was right.
She closed her hand over Jazz’s on the glass. “You’ve had a rough day, but if this is how you repay Marshall for baking with you, why should he ever agree to make cupcakes again?”
“You’re mean!” Jazz replied.
Marshall sat down across from them. “No, she’s a mommy who loves you and wants what’s best for you. She also deserves your respect. We would never call you names and you shouldn’t call us mean or bad either.”
Jazz heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Boy, you’re both saying the same stuff. I give up.”
Franca’s gaze connected with Marshall’s. “That’s because we’re a team,” she said.
Astonishingly, she realized it was true.
* * *
HE HAD TO win over Franca, Marshall reflected as they descended the stairs after tucking Jazz into bed. He yearned to be both her husband and Jazz’s father. But if he said or did the wrong thing, he might drive her away.
I nearly sent you back to your crazy father and his ditzy wife. His mother’s words, almost forgotten in the rush of the day’s events, popped into his mind. Jolted, he missed his footing and had to grab the banister.
“Are you okay?” Behind him, Franca touched his shoulder in concern. “Confronting an armed man is a traumatic experience. It must be catching up with you.”
“Among other things.” Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he gestured toward the living room. “Mind joining me in here? There’s something I want to share.”
“Of course.”
Early-evening light drifted through the front windows, augmented by the glow of etched-glass lamps. Marshall had furnished the room elegantly but comfortably with armchairs and a sofa grouped around a patterned rug.
He chose the couch. Franca perched on a chair.
From habit, he sought to phrase his thoughts cautiously. Oh, to hell with caution. He’d lay everything out and if she rejected him, at least he’d done his best.
“I ran into my mother today,” he began.
“Where?”
“At Nick’s.” Don’t stop to explain the details. “She vented about what a little monster I used to be and how they had to crack down on me.”
“How cruel,” Franca said. “I can’t imagine you were ever difficult.”
“Apparently I was a destructive toddler,” Marshall said. “That’s why they were so strict.”
“From everything I’ve heard, they overdid it.”
Her sympathy encouraged him. “I’ve always believed that there was something fundamentally wrong with me,” Marshall said. “That when I’m most myself, I don’t deserve to be loved.”
“That’s awful!”
“The only way I could deserve love was to be perfect,” he went on. “Now I understand where that stems from.”
“What a burden to carry.” Franca leaned forward.
Even if what he was about to say offended her, Marshall couldn’t stop. “You said once that my instincts were all wrong. Well, I may have a gift for putting my foot in my mouth, but my instincts aren’t all wrong. To raise children together, we have to find a balance between my strictness and your nurturing.” He halted, his throat tightening, awaiting her reaction.
“You’re right.” At close range, the pupils of Franca’s eyes seemed unusually large. “At Edmond’s office, Jazz defied me and ran outside. If you’d been there and ordered her to stop, she’d have obeyed.”
She understood. Finally, they’d reached common ground.
Then she averted her gaze. “What’s bothering you?” Marshall refused to let her withhold anything. They’d come too far. “Whatever it is, please trust me with it.”
Franca took a deep breath. “It isn’t really my business, but...”
“Go for it.”
“Why did you dump Belle?”
Marshall blinked. “What?”
“I never understood how you could love a woman for years and then dump her because she fell short of your expectations,” she said. “So what if she couldn’t keep up with her increased class load?”
“You believe I dropped her because she wasn’t brilliant enough?”
“That’s basically what she told me.” Franca clenched her hands in her lap.
Marshall had used her grades as an excuse to avoid hurting Belle’s feelings. Instead, by disguising the truth, he’d misled her, and consequently Franca.
“It was her idea to graduate early and move to Boston,” he said. “I realized I didn’t want her to. I wasn’t in love with her and never had been, but it would have been cruel to say that. So when she began struggling academically, it seemed the perfect reason to split. I claimed we both needed to concentrate on our studies.”
Franca swallowed. “You weren’t in love with her, ever?”
“The woman I really belonged with was you,” Marshall admitted. “Only, at that age, I wasn’t ready for such an intense relationship.”
Franca appeared to be reflecting, perhaps replaying events in light of what he’d just disclosed. “The first time I saw you, at that party, I thought you were coming over to talk to me,” she said.
“I was,” he admitted. “Then you got klutzy and I could hear my parents announcing you weren’t my type.”
“They had a lot of nerve.” Smiling, she noted, “I mean their alter egos.”
“Air people,” Marshall said. “That’s my name for those voices in our heads.”
“Air people,” Franca repeated. “I like that.”
“I’m sorry for hurting Belle,” he said. “I’m not sure she ever really loved me, either, though. How could she, when I never showed her who I was inside?”
Franca considered this for a moment. “My sister described you and Belle as a handsome couple, but shallow.”
“Your sister’s a perceptive woman. Especially the handsome part.” He sobered. Without realizing it, he’d withheld something, too. “Franca, you’re the right woman for me, but I can’t be a perfect guy. I am who I am. I’m stricter than you, with a different viewpoint on some issues. I’m willing to work things out, but we can’t sustain a relationship where I have to walk on eggshells.”
Franca sat silent as his
words sank in. Maybe he’d gone too far. He’d had no choice, though.
At last she spoke. “You told Jazz you don’t expect her to be perfect. I don’t expect that of you, either.”
Then she did something utterly unexpected. She got down on her knees and asked, “Marshall Davis, will you marry me?”
Chapter Twenty
When Marshall proposed to her weeks ago, Franca had been wary. She’d been convinced Jazz and the baby depended on her alone to shoulder the responsibility for them, and had viewed Marshall’s rigidity as a threat.
But since then he’d opened up emotionally, overcoming the restraint that had served as his survival mechanism all his life. And although he might have been unfair to Belle in some ways, he’d been young and inexperienced—and had done his best to spare her.
She loved this man. He’d let her view his scarred soul, and had accepted her despite her flaws. He’d matured into a partner Franca could count on. The confrontation with Axel had proved that.
She no longer believed he’d run out on her if she miscarried. After all, she’d been honest about her family’s history, and it hadn’t fazed him. And now he’d accepted Jazz as his child, too.
Yet his answer to her proposal was taking an awfully long time. “Marshall?”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “It’s my understanding that a proposal should be accompanied by a ring and preferably flowers.”
Was he mocking her? “I beg your pardon?”
“I love you,” he said.
“And I love you.” She’d made that clear, hadn’t she?
“Now as to this proposal business, let’s improvise.” Pushing the coffee table aside, he knelt facing her. “Since neither of us was clever enough to buy a ring, we’ll have to create our own.”
Franca’s uncertainty vanished as he reached out. Although it required a bit of scooting, soon they’d encircled each other in their arms.
His masculine scent, a hint of aftershave lotion with an undertone of surgical soap, buoyed her. How exhilarating to be sheltered and loved. “This is the best kind of ring,” she whispered.
When his lips touched hers, Franca forgot everything but her precious connection with this tender, wonderful man.
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