The loud yipping of a puppy caught Dom’s attention. He watched while Mike and his cousin Bobby traded a rubber toy back and forth, which the puppy happily tried to snatch from their small hands. Pup-Pup, the dog’s name was, and he was the latest member of the household. The little mutt had wan dered into the precinct last week, and now he had a home.
Dom was at home a lot more these days. He’d transferred to a desk job while he studied for his lieutenant’s exam. What he was aiming for was to be in command of a squad of detectives instead of being in the field. He had responsibilities now, and twelve-hour, seven-days-a-week work schedules no longer fit into his life.
He checked the ribs again, then found his gaze wandering to the woman who sat on a lounge chair, fanning herself and laughing loudly at something Dom’s dad was saying to her.
Dom’s heart turned over in his chest, even though he was careful not to let his face reveal anything in case anyone was looking. Jordan Carlisle D’Annunzio, his beautiful, beloved wife. Her hair was longer, and she wore it pulled off her face with barrettes. Her cheekbones were less prominent. Her face had become round with her pregnancy. His gaze shifted to his wife’s stomach. How the hell did they do it, he wondered, not for the first time. Carry all that weight and still remain upright. It was a damned miracle, that was all.
Another miracle was the fact that Cynthia was here today. She had offered to have Mike’s birthday party at her place, complete with clowns and pony rides and catered food. But Jordan had said she preferred a more casual party for Mike, so the old lady had backed down. She sat under an umbrella, conversed politely with whoever stopped by to visit, but mostly observed all the happily chattering human beings scattered about the yard. It was a shame, Dom thought, that he hadn’t gotten hold of her years ago, before she became too set in her ways to know how to let her hair down.
Still, she was here, which made Jordan and Mike happy. And she hadn’t sniffed once.
Again, his gaze shifted to Jordan. Their nights, even now, were filled with passion, their days filled with laughter. Sometimes they fought, mostly about his cynical attitude or her insecurity, but the fights were quick and the making-up time a lot of fun.
Two nights ago, they’d been lying in bed when she’d asked him about the scar on his lip, said she’d been meaning to find out about that scar since the day she’d met him.
When he told her he had cut his lip on a can of tuna when he was a kid, she’d seemed disappointed. Hey, he’d told her, not all scars had violent histories. She’d agreed that it was so and that maybe that was an okay thing, after all. Then she’d kissed his scar and he’d kissed her belly, and they’d wound up pleasing each other. Safely, of course—after all, she was carrying his kid.
Yeah, Jordan was healthy as a horse, and he was about to become a biological father, a fact that made his chest swell, made him think all those corny my-boy-Bill kind of thoughts. Still, as fatherhood went, he didn’t know how he could love a kid any more than he loved little Mike.
Once in a while he thought of Theresa and felt sad. She had wanted a child so badly, had sacrificed her life trying to be a mother. But life didn’t always work out the way you. wanted it to, and people didn’t always behave in their own best interests.
And maybe, who could tell? Maybe Theresa was looking down on them right now from heaven and smiling her approval.
Hey, it was possible, wasn’t it? Who the hell knew?
ISBN : 978-1-4592-5883-9
THE TOUGH GUY AND THE TODDLER
Copyright © 1999 by Diane Pershing
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
“I suspect you have a lot more sensitivity than you let on,”
Letter to Reader
Books by Diane Pershing
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
Copyright
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 26
