by Loree Lough
“No thanks,” she said, matching his firm handshake, “I’m fine.”
You most certainly are, he thought, eyes following the long, slender fingers all but hidden by his own beefy ones, to the gentle curve of her shoulder, to the graceful slope of her neck. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said, meeting her gaze as one hand indicated the chairs facing his desk and the other closed the door. He noticed as she passed that she was limping. Had she sprained her ankle? he wondered.
“So, you can be charming, I see…when you have a mind to.”
Connor supposed he had that coming but chose not to respond to it. “It’s a real sizzler out there today, isn’t it?” he asked as she sat in the wing chair nearest the door. Afraid you might need to make a quick getaway? he asked her silently, his grin a bit wider.
“Ninety-eight is unseasonably hot for June, but you know what they say about the weather in Maryland. Wait five minutes and it’ll change.”
Connor chuckled and settled into his tufted leather chair. “They say the same thing about Ireland.”
“Oh, and do they now?” she asked in a lilting brogue.
Ordinarily, first meetings, whether personal or professional, made him restless and uncomfortable, so Connor didn’t understand how she’d managed to make him feel so quickly at ease…and on his own turf yet. “When I phoned this morning, you answered, ‘The Chili Pot.’ I’m curious. What sort of establishment is that?”
She laughed softly, and he found himself unconsciously leaning forward to put himself nearer the delightful sound.
“My parents and I like to say we’re in the restaurant business,” she said lightly, “but The Chili Pot is a diner, plain and simple. Like the one in that movie, you know? It belonged to my father’s brother. Uncle Will never married. He always said I was like the daughter he’d never had, so he left it to me in his will.” She tilted her head to add, “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s been written up dozens of times over the years, and it’s been right there on Route 40 since the late fifties.”
He’d been dying to know if she was married. Thank you, he said silently as he saw his opening. “It’s just you and your parents who run the place? What does your husband do for a living? He’s not involved in the business?”
Her cheeks reddened and she stared at her hands. “I’m not…I don’t have a husband.”
She couldn’t be more than twenty-five, he thought, so why does she seem ashamed to be single?
“You’ll have to stop by some time…”
His question had unnerved her—though he didn’t know why—but she’d pulled herself together quickly. He liked that, too, because he’d had enough of women who needed to be the center of attention, who felt sorry for themselves, who said they wanted men to treat them like equals…until a tire needed changing or a bill needed paying. “Maybe I’ll just do that,” he agreed. Nothin’ could be finer than to be in Jaina’s diner, he hummed to himself.
“…to try my chili,” she finished. “The Baltimore Sun food critic called it ‘awesomely hot.’” She gave a proud little nod of her head as if to emphasize the point, her eyes widening.
Those eyes—now that’s what I’d call awesome, he decided, a smile growing on his face. Wa-a-y too much for a first meeting… Folding his hands on the desktop, Connor cleared his throat and reminded himself why he’d set up this meeting. “I don’t mean to be rude, but…”
She cocked a finely arched brow as if to say, “Again?”
“…but about this relative of mine?”
She sat up straighter and unzipped her purse. “Yes. Of course. I’m sorry. I certainly had no intention of wasting your time.” She bristled slightly, as if she, too, had forgotten for a moment why she’d come here. “You’ll find I have a tendency to ramble, but I’m not easily offended,” she said, breaking into a nervous smile. “If you catch me at it, feel free to nudge me back on track.”
What made her think they’d be together often enough for him to notice such a thing? he wondered.
She took a deep breath and plunged in. “It’s like this. A young girl came into the diner yesterday. Turns out she’s your niece. She brought her little boy with her. I thought at first he was twelve, thirteen months old, but he’s only seven months. He’s quite big for his age.”
His niece? Was that even a possibility? “Must run in the family. I’m big for my age, too.” He smiled.
And so did she. “I’m afraid we’re not talking egos, Mr. Buchanan.”
Connor laughed.
“As you’ll see when you read this—” she slipped a sheet of folded paper from her purse “—your niece was in my diner the day before yesterday, as well.” She bit her lower lip and sighed before continuing, “Since I don’t know how to preface or explain the rest, I’ll just let the note speak for itself.”
He reached across the desk to accept it, mindful of the worry lines that now creased her brow. Heart pounding, Connor slowly unfolded it. What made her so certain the girl was his niece? “You’re behaving as if this is a matter of life or death, Miss Chandelle,” he said, fighting the urge to frown. “I’m sure once we get to the bottom of this, we’ll find it isn’t all that serious.”
“Please, call me Jaina. You make me feel like a prissy etiquette teacher with your ‘Miss’ this and your ‘Miss’ that.” She took a long, slow breath before adding, “Besides, I have a feeling we’re going to be seeing a lot of one another.”
One corner of his mouth lifted as he made mental note of this second reference to their future together. His pulse also quickened in response. He’d always been drawn to tall and willowy women, with long blond hair, fair skin, pale eyes. They’d been glamour personified with their painted fingernails, made-up faces, designer suits. The reaction he seemed to be having to this petite brunette surprised him, since she was everything they weren’t and nothing like the types he thought he was attracted to.
“I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but this is a life-and-death matter—” she nodded at the note “—as you’ll soon see.”
Because she didn’t seem the type for histrionics, he decided to take her at her word. Smoothing the note on his desktop, he began to read it aloud. “‘Dear Jaina,’” he read, “‘I came to Ellicott City to meet—’”
She held a finger in the air to silence him. “Would you mind very much reading it to yourself?” Jaina smiled sheepishly. “I’m a big believer in first impressions, you see, and I don’t want you to get the idea I’m a crybaby.”
“A crybaby?” he echoed. “Why would you…?”
Heaving another deep breath, she pointed at the note and gave him a look that said, “You’ll see.”
Simultaneously, they both sat back—Buchanan to read, Jaina to watch him.
From his gruff telephone manner, she’d expected him to be much older, her parents’ age at least. Technically, Connor was Liam’s great uncle, since he was Kirstie’s mother’s brother. It was impossible however to think of this man as elderly or doddering in any way. Jaina guessed him to be in his early to mid-thirties. She hadn’t pictured him as tall or broad-shouldered, certainly not good-looking. If there had been any doubt in her mind that Connor Buchanan, Esq., was Liam’s uncle, his appearance cast it aside, for the lawyer’s eyes were the same deep shade of blue, fringed by long, dark lashes. Liam’s blond hair was several shades lighter than Buchanan’s. She didn’t know if Liam would develop an adorable cleft in his chin to match his uncle’s, but something told her that when the baby matured, a smile would produce a dimple in the very same spot on Liam’s right cheek, too.
She noticed the thick golden mustache above Buchanan’s lip quaver slightly as a deep furrow creased the space between his well-arched brows. Had he gotten to the part where Kirstie said she didn’t want a man like him raising her son? To the passage that explained why she was trying to find a home for her son in the first place? Or had the overall mood of the note caused his mouth to turn down at the corners?
Sh
e watched him run long, thick fingers through gleaming, wavy hair, listened to the frustrated sigh that rasped from his lungs. If she’d known him better, Jaina might have been able to determine whether he had angled a hand over his eyes to cut the glare from the window or to hide the threat of tears.
Her heart ached for him. The note had made her cry, and she hadn’t been related to Kirstie. The girl might have been a virtual stranger to Buchanan, but she was blood kin to him nonetheless. He must have just learned that her short time to live had convinced her to believe she must leave her helpless baby boy behind. The effect of the news was apparent on his somber face, in the slight quaking of his big hands. She resisted the urge to reach out and comfort him, say something to soothe his obvious distress. Don’t forget…this guy isn’t your friend, Jaina reminded herself. He’s the enemy, the man who’s probably going to fight to keep you from adopting Liam.
Adopting Liam?
Jaina felt a bit fickle even considering such a thing. Skip had warned her about getting emotionally involved. In all likelihood, he’d said, in a few weeks, when the paperwork had been filed and processed, she’d be forced to give him up. She couldn’t have admitted it to her best buddy because he’d diagnose her certifiable if he knew she’d fallen this much in love with the child after just one night.
Buchanan’s yellow pages ad said he specialized in criminal and divorce law. Did he know enough about adoption to represent himself? Or would he hire a colleague who specialized in that area?
She’d made the decision earlier to keep Liam—at least, she’d decided to try—despite her conversation with Skip. “Babies of this age require special care,” he’d said. “The couple I’d normally place him with already has more than enough to handle.” Somewhere across town, Skip was pushing through the paperwork that would allow Jaina to keep Liam until a more permanent arrangement could be made.
Preferably with a relative.
Handsome as he was, the man on the other side of the massive mahogany desk must have a dark and devious side. How else could he have decided to help that conscienceless doctor who’d made all the newspapers? “Birds of a feather,” said the sages. Should a man like Buchanan be allowed to adopt a defenseless seven-month-old baby, just because he was blood kin? You’ll learn soon enough, little Liam, she thought, that you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your relatives.
She hadn’t realized how intently she’d been studying him until he looked up from the note. He’d been visibly moved by the news, as evidenced by his inability to focus, the slight quaver of his lower lip and hard set of his jaw. But then, lawyers had to be good actors to convince juries to cast their votes in favor of their clients, didn’t they?
Buchanan cleared his throat. “It appears the two of us are facing a quandary,” he said, his voice fraught with emotion.
“Quandary?” She uncrossed her legs and planted both feet flat on the floor. “I’m afraid I don’t—”
“Says here that Kirstie…that my niece provided you with her son’s birth certificate.”
He seemed disturbed by his reaction to the letter and compensated for it by jutting out his chin and adjusting the knot of his already straight tie. He swallowed—to hide the tremor in his voice?—and held up both hands as if surrendering, then closed his eyes.
Well, he’s not praying, she told herself, not a man like him. Jaina chalked up his behavior to some caveman-type attempt at regaining control of the situation.
“I don’t suppose you brought it with you?” he asked, looking directly at her.
A second ago, he looked for all the world like a little boy lost. Yet, with nothing more than a minor adjustment of his posture, he’d assumed a composed and professional demeanor. “The birth certificate, you mean? As a matter of fact, I did,” she said, a bit taken aback by his chameleonlike behavior. Jaina withdrew the envelope from her purse and handed it to him. “I haven’t had a chance to photocopy it, so I’d appreciate it if you’d…”
He emptied the contents onto his desktop, the little-boy-lost expression returning to his face as he studied the photograph of his niece. Drawing his generous mouth into a thin, taut line, Buchanan abruptly stood. There was nothing to do but….
She watched him turn next to the birth certificate and holding it, he strode from the office. She wondered where he’d taken the official document…and why.
Glancing around the room, Jaina found herself strangely comforted by the bloodred hues of the Persian rug, the deep greens and pale creams in the plaid draperies, the masculine scent of a caramel-colored leather couch and matching wing chairs, the burnished gleam of mahogany.
It was a gray day, the kind that promised refreshing showers, but so far, nature had not delivered any such respite from the early-summer heat. The afternoon’s bleakness filtered through the many-paned window behind Buchanan’s desk, shrouding the room with a dreary light. Jaina took the liberty of turning on the green-globed floor lamp behind his highbacked armchair. Immediately, the room glowed with diffused iridescence. The heavy bronze figurines on the mantel, the legal volumes that filled the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves, even the bust of Julius Caesar on the credenza, took on a faint and pleasant verdant hue.
The light also gleamed from a brass picture frame on his desk. Jaina crept closer to get a better look. “Kirstie’s mother,” she whispered, heart beating in time to the mechanical tick-tock of the carriage clock. If not for the hair-style and vibrantly colored shirt reminiscent of the late seventies, the young woman could have been Kirstie herself.
“Entertaining yourself?”
The sudden sound of his baritone startled her so badly that Jaina dropped the picture. Its heavy frame chipped the credenza on its way to the carpet, where it landed amid the tinkling of breaking glass. Jaina was on her knees in an instant, picking up glittering crystal-like fragments and tucking them into an upturned palm. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to… I saw the picture, and it looked so much like Kirstie that I wanted a better look. I’ll replace the frame—”
“Don’t worry. I have others,” he said, smiling gently.
She knew she was rambling but seemed powerless to stanch the flow of words. This man had the power to take Liam from her. “I’m sorry,” she said again, noticing for the first time a small dent in the mahogany. “Oh my,” she fretted, “would you look at this? I can’t believe I…that I…” She ran her fingertips over it. “I’ve refinished several antiques. And I’m pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. If you’d like, I could bring my woodworking kit over some day when you’re not busy or when you’re in court and repair the—”
Buchanan got down on one knee beside her and gently wrapped his large hands around her wrists, effectively silencing her. “Miss Chandelle…Jaina,” he said softly, calmly, “it’s all right. It’s more my fault than yours. You wouldn’t have dropped the picture if I hadn’t scared you half to death.”
His gaze fused with hers, and she thought for a moment that he intended to kiss her. Her heart pounded with fear and dread as every muscle and joint stiffened. When his head lowered and his eyes narrowed slightly, she followed his stare to the palm of her hand.
“You’ve cut yourself,” he said quietly. Slowly, their faces lifted, their eyes met. They knelt on the fringed carpet trim for a long moment, not moving, not saying a word. Buchanan stood, helped her to her feet and led her to the window. Cradling her hand in his, he turned it up to the light. “Doesn’t look too serious. Hold still now, while I…”
She watched his brow furrow with concentration and concern as he leaned in for a closer look. She hadn’t been this near a man since that horrible night. Strange, she thought, that I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, but I can’t make out a word he’s saying. Was it because she hadn’t slept last night that her head was spinning? Or because she hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours? Had the tension of this meeting caused her dizziness? Might it be the sight of her own blood, gathering in a tiny puddle in the palm of her hand, or th
e nearness of him that made her knees go weak and wobbly?
She inhaled the crisp, masculine scent of his aftershave, felt the dry heat of his warm hands wrapped around hers. Part of her knew he meant her no harm; part of her could think of nothing except the last time a man had gripped her wrists, had held her hands, had breathed minty breath into her nostrils….
Jaina closed her eyes and tried to focus on the here and now. He isn’t Bill, she chanted mentally. He won’t hurt you. He isn’t…
The pounding in her ears turned to ringing, then to gurgling, as if she’d been suddenly submerged in a pool of water. Buchanan seemed to be moving in slow motion…plucking a tiny shard of glass from her palm…dropping it into the brass wastebasket beside his desk…taking a white handkerchief from his back pants pocket…pressing it gently, gently against her wound.
“Just a little cut,” she heard him say, his voice taking on the grinding, guttural quality of an old record being played backward. “Barely a scratch. A little scrape that won’t even need iodine.”
If it wasn’t any more serious than that, why did she feel hot and cold at the same time? Why was she breathing as if she’d just run a five-minute mile? Why had her hands begun to sweat? And why was she powerless to still their trembling?
If she could find her voice, she’d tell him to let go, take a step back, give her space to breathe. He’s not Bill, she told herself. He won’t hurt you. He…
“Jaina…”
Connor Buchanan’s voice, not Bill’s. He’s close, so close. So why does he sound so far away?
By now, the room was spinning, and she reached out for something, anything, to steady herself. It was his hard, muscular forearm she grabbed onto. Should she hold on and endure his nearness, or let go and fall down?
“Ah, Jaina, you’re looking a little pale.”
The worry in his voice penetrated her frenzied fog. Was his concern genuine? She didn’t know because she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t focus on anything in the spinning, reeling room.
