“The FBI has no idea who took her?” she asked.
“We just finished debriefing the baby-sitter who brought her in,” Stephen Wilcox said, amazingly fresh and alert for eight in the morning after a long night with little sleep. “We’d still be searching for Amanda if the local television station hadn’t picked up her picture from the wire service and run it on the late-night news.”
“This is crazy.” Colin, with his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, studied the child as she slept. “The sitter who saw Amanda’s picture and called you has no idea who left her?”
“Not a clue,” Wilcox said. “Claimed she usually checks out her clients thoroughly, but the woman who left the baby was in a hurry. She gave what appears to be a false name, said she was leaving immediately for Europe for three weeks—and offered to pay up front in cash.”
“Wasn’t the sitter suspicious?” Devon moved away from the crib, but perched on a chair close enough to keep the baby in sight.
Wilcox nodded. “She said the client’s black-dyed hair, cheap clothes and coarse speech didn’t fit the jetset type, but the sitter’s mother is in a nursing home, and the money was too good to turn down.”
“Middle-aged, black hair, coarse speech.” Colin gave Devon a questioning look. “Sound like anyone you know?”
Devon shook her head and tore her gaze from Amanda long enough to confront Wilcox. “Can you catch this woman?”
Wilcox stood and buttoned his jacket over his conservative tie. “Don’t worry, Ms. Clarke, we’re following every lead. We’ll find her.”
Her euphoria, created by Amanda’s return, was dissipating rapidly in the morning light. Whoever had taken the baby was roaming free, perhaps even now waiting for a chance to snatch the child again. She forced a smile and a thank-you as Wilcox departed, while her thoughts wheeled with concern for Amanda’s safety. She gasped in surprise as Colin encircled her waist from behind and nuzzled the back of her neck with kisses.
“No time for daydreams—or something even more pleasant.” A mixture of suggestion and regret filled his voice. “Christmas will be here tomorrow.”
“Good Lord.” She broke from his embrace. “The interview! I forgot all about it. We’ll never be ready in time.”
“No problem. Dad and Betsy are unpacking decorations in the living room as we speak. And I’m off to find a tree.”
They hadn’t discussed what they would say to Sara Davis, the house wasn’t decorated, she hadn’t done the Christmas baking she’d planned for the show and she had no idea what she or Amanda would wear. She waited for panic to overtake her, but those responsibilities faded in importance when compared with Amanda’s perilous situation. The interview—and her career—would have to take a back seat until Amanda’s safety was assured.
“Everything will be fine.” Colin pulled her against him, and the love shining in his eyes almost broke her resolve. He lowered his lips to hers, and for a brief moment, all care and pain receded as the warmth of his arms enfolded her.
But when he disappeared out the door, she rejected the traitorous longings of her heart and body and raced upstairs to her desk. After locating attorney John St. Clair’s card, she called to Betsy to keep an eye on Amanda, then closed the door and picked up the telephone.
DEVON SMOOTHED the full-length, red-plaid taffeta skirt and adjusted the lace-edged cuffs of her silk blouse. Sara Davis’s makeup artist had just applied a final touch of translucent powder to her face and tucked a holly sprig, tied with a red velvet ribbon, in her hair.
Sara, a tall, willowy blonde with bouffant, lacquered hair nodded her approval. “You have great visual appeal, Mrs. Donovan. And the house looks fantastic. I’ll go over the final checklist with my director, and we’ll begin shooting in about fifteen minutes.”
Devon took a deep breath to calm the hyperactive butterflies dive-bombing in her stomach and prayed she hadn’t forgotten something. Yesterday, with help from Mike and Betsy, she had banked every mantel and windowsill with pine boughs and waxy green magnolia leaves centered by tall bayberry candles. They had twined greenery and red velvet ribbon along the banister in the hall and around the front entrance. With assistance from Betty Crocker and the Pillsbury Doughboy, she’d hastily baked and decorated Christmas cakes and cookies, filling the house with delectable aromas of cinnamon and sugar that blended with the sharp scent of pine boughs.
Colin had secured the Florida pine in the corner by the fireplace and draped it with multiple strings of tiny white lights. Together they’d added handmade Victorian decorations of lace and velvet. She’d worked until the wee hours of the morning to prepare the house for Sara Davis’s cameras, and when she finally fell across her bed to sleep, she’d been so exhausted she hadn’t known whether Colin slept beside her or not.
He hadn’t been there when she awakened a few hours ago, and she hadn’t seen him all morning, although she’d heard him calling through the house to his dad and Betsy, who scurried to help with lastminute details.
Surrounded by the sights and smells of Christmas and with carols played by hand bells drifting through the rooms from the sound system, Devon swallowed hard to clear the knot in her throat. She was moving through a perfect fantasy of family, companionship, happiness and love, the life she’d dreamed of when she’d celebrated solitary Christmases with Aunt Bessie. And like all dreams, this one wouldn’t last. As soon as the Davis interview was finished and Colin discovered her plans for Amanda, she would find herself alone again.
Betsy popped her head into the bedroom, breaking into Devon’s daydreams. “Someone named John St. Clair to see you. I told him you were busy, but he insists it’s urgent. I put him in the dining room.”
With a rustle of her taffeta skirt, Devon followed Betsy downstairs.
“Where’s Colin?” Devon asked.
Betsy shrugged. “Last time I saw him, he was out in the garage, arranging tools on the workbench.”
“Tell him Sara wants to begin in fifteen minutes,” Devon said. “I’ll get rid of St. Clair.”
She stepped over cables the size of her wrist that snaked through the hall and into the living room, where Sara’s crew had set up their cameras, lights and huge umbrella-shaped reflectors. In the dining room, St. Clair paced before the windows.
“What is it?” she asked.
The young attorney straightened the knot of his silk tie and squared his shoulders. “I apologize for interrupting. I tried to cal—”
“We’ve disconnected the phones so they won’t ring during filming.” Her heart fluttered with a curious mixture of anticipation and dread. “Have you found a family?”
He nodded. “The Watsons. Exactly what you wanted. Mother and father and two siblings. They want to meet with you and the baby as soon as possible. Is day after tomorrow at ten o’clock all right?”
Events were moving too fast. Although she’d accepted the fact that she couldn’t keep Amanda, the thought of losing her within days stabbed her with a pain so intense she grabbed the back of a dining chair for support.
“They want to take the child immediately,” St. Clair explained, “before she forms an attachment.”
Too late. She pictured the expression on Amanda’s face whenever she entered the baby’s field of vision. When the child was kidnapped, Devon had experienced what life without Amanda would be like and knew she’d formed a deep and lasting attachment of her own.
I have to get hold of myself. If I didn’t love the child so much, I wouldn’t be giving her up. It’s her safety, not my feelings that matter here.
“Day after tomorrow will be fine.” She forced the painful words through wooden lips.
“I’ll notify the Watsons,” he said.
When she turned to accompany him to the door, she encountered Colin on the dining-room threshold, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded across his chest. The smoldering fury in his eyes warned her that he’d overheard her instructions to the lawyer.
“I’ll show myself out.” St. C
lair took in Colin’s expression and hastened from the room.
Her heart sank as she faced Colin. “I can explain—”
“Don’t bother.” The outrage revealed by his cold, measured tone matched the anger in his eyes. “What you’re doing is perfectly clear.”
She’d expected this reaction, had prepared herself for losing both him and the child, but she hadn’t anticipated the depth of agony those losses would bring. He would leave her anyway, but he had to understand she wasn’t like Felicia.
“I did it for—” she began.
Sara Davis stepped into the dining room. “Show time, Mr. and Mrs. Donovan. Let’s get started.”
At Sara’s appearance, all emotion disappeared from Colin’s face, and with a coolness that froze Devon’s heart, he motioned her to precede him through the maze of cables and light stands into the living room.
Betsy appeared with Amanda, who immediately stretched out her arms toward Devon and smacked her lips in an attempt to speak. “Ma-ma-ma-ma.”
Devon’s heart reeled at the sound, and she reached for the child, whose arms clasped her neck in a ferocious hug.
“It’s easy to see she’s crazy about her mother,” Sara observed.
“The two are inseparable, isn’t that right, dear?” Colin, dressed in new jeans, a plaid shirt and a red pullover sweater, settled on the sofa and extended his long legs. The gray in his eyes glinted like ice water.
As Devon occupied the sofa beside him with Amanda wiggling on her lap, she flinched at the trace of bitterness in his voice.
“Both of you relax,” Sara said with a smile obviously intended to put them at ease, “and we’ll just have a nice chat while the camera’s rolling. Don’t worry if things seem out of sequence or if you have to repeat something. Everything will be carefully edited.”
The world-famous talk-show host, elegant in a Dior suit the color of spun gold, sat in the wing chair opposite them and crossed her long, slender legs to exhibit sheer stockings dusted with golden glitter that matched her designer outfit.
“The first thing our viewers will want to know,” she stated in her silky trademark voice, “is that your baby is safe and sound. The country was devastated by the news of her kidnapping.”
Amanda turned in Devon’s lap and patted her cheek, and tears welled in Devon’s eyes at the memory of Amanda’s disappearance. Colin shifted toward her and placed an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close.
“We’re grateful to the media and the FBI,” he said, “for their help in returning our daughter to us. The days she was gone were the worst of our lives.”
“I can understand,” Sara said. “She’s a real sweetheart.”
On the monitor, Devon watched the camera zoom in on Amanda, dressed in dark green velvet with a white bertha collar, white tights and black patent Mary Jane shoes. She’d tugged her green velvet headband with its matching bow over one eye and sat sucking contentedly on three fingers of her left hand. Instinctively, Devon tightened her grip on the child and thrust away thoughts of the upcoming adoption.
“Your baby is only seven months old,” Sara observed, “but you’ve been writing your column for years. How did you learn so much about babies?”
Under the hot glare of the lights, Devon’s mind went blank and a trickle of perspiration slithered down her spine.
“My wife is a voracious reader,” Colin said, jumping in to fill the silence. “She wanted to learn all she could about child care before having children of our own.”
Devon held her breath, fearing he would reveal the secret of Gramma’s journals.
“And,” he continued, “she’s an astute observer of human behavior.”
Devon let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then tensed again at his next words.
“Since the baby came—” he fixed Devon with an ambiguous grin “—you could say she’s followed the trial-and-error method, learning firsthand what works and what doesn’t.”
Sara leaned forward, interest flashing in her sapphire eyes. “And how did your theories stand up under practical application?”
Anxiety set in again as Devon recalled the frustrations of changing diapers, disastrous feedings and futile attempts to quiet a fretting Amanda. But she couldn’t admit those failures on network television. The syndicate, which paid her to convince readers how simple motherhood could be, would fire her.
Amanda wiggled on her lap, and the waterproof covering of her disposable diaper crinkled. Devon hugged the child for coming to her rescue. “There is one bit of advice I’ve reconsidered, and that’s the use of disposable diapers. Whenever possible, mothers should use washable ones, but I can’t deny the times when the convenience of disposables outweighs all other factors.”
“Spoken like a true pragmatist.” Colin patted her shoulder and beamed at her with another ambiguous smile.
If he was implying her decision to place Amanda in a safe home was strictly practical, he’d better think again. She reminded herself that his anger grew out of his disappointment and suppressed the desire to wipe the smug grin off his face. Such antisocial behavior might be desirable on “Geraldo,” but neither Sara nor the syndicate would approve.
“Let’s back up a bit,” Sara said. “Tell me how you two met.”
“How we met?” Devon focused on an elegant papier-mâché angel, dressed in golden gauze and lace, that stood in the center of the mantelpiece. “We, uh, met-”
“In the hardware store,” Colin chimed in. “In the paint section. She was dressed in these cute little denim shorts and an oversize T-shirt. She looked like a teenager.”
Sara nodded with approval. “And was it love at first sight?”
“No,” Devon insisted immediately.
“Of course,” Colin said at the same time.
Amanda wriggled impatiently, and Devon set her on the rug beside the sofa.
“Well, which was it?” Sara asked with an amused grin.
Devon felt her eyes widen with alarm as she looked to Colin to rescue her and prayed that in his anger and disappointment he wouldn’t blow her cover. For a brief, shining moment, his face reflected warmth and compassion before his bland expression settled in once again.
“It was just as we said,” he explained. “I fell in love with my wife the instant I saw her, but it took a little time to convince her she felt the same about me.
Sara turned to Devon. “And how did he do that?”
Devon kept her gaze on Colin. “By showing me how much he loves children and family. And by how well be cooks.”
Sara laughed. “What woman wouldn’t love a man who can cook? And how long have you been married now?”
“Let’s see.” Colin began counting on his fingers. “It’s been five-”
“Years,” Devon broke in. “Five years last—”
“Week,” Colin interrupted. “We celebrated our anniversary just last week.”
Sara nodded. “And how does America’s most celebrated couple observe an anniversary?”
“With dinner and dancing—” Devon began.
“At the beach where we were married,” Colin finished.
Sara tapped her lips with a gold-lacquered nail. “Do you always finish each other’s sentences?”
“Not always—” Devon started to reply.
“But when you’ve been married as long as we have,” Colin said, casting Devon a look laden with double meaning, “you always know what the other is thinking.”
Devon tore her gaze away from his accusing eyes and looked to Amanda at her feet, but the child wasn’t there. A quick survey of the room revealed Amanda racing on hands and knees toward the Christmas tree in the corner.
Devon leaped from the sofa toward the child, too late to prevent Amanda from grabbing hold of the tree’s lower limb to pull herself up. Devon snatched the child into her arms and out of harm’s way just before the tree tottered precariously as if in slow motion, then fell with a resounding crash of branches and the tinkle of breaking ornamen
ts.
The last image Devon observed as the tree neared the floor was the cameraman, jumping nimbly to swing the camera to capture Sara Davis’s horrified expression just before the tree engulfed her in its decorated branches.
Colin sprang to his feet and lifted the tree off the world-famous television personality.
“Are you all right?” Devon asked her.
Sara parted the strands of tinsel that hid her eyes. “I believe this segment of our interview is finished.”
Chapter Fourteen
The greatest gift a mother and father can give their child is to love each other.
Amanda Donovan, Bringing Up Baby
Colin welcomed the cold blast of air-conditioned air as he entered his father’s kitchen and loosened his tie. He’d spent a long, frustrating day searching for office headquarters for his architectural firm, and all he’d achieved was sore ears from an overtalkative real-estate agent.
At least at home his ears would get a rest. His father had barely spoken to him since he had walked out on Devon Clarke the minute Sara Davis’s crew pulled away two weeks ago.
He discovered his dad leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at his mother’s cheerful smile among the photographs on the bulletin board.
Mike shifted his gaze to greet him with a look that boded bad news. “May God and your sainted mother forgive me, but I can see I’ve raised an imbecile.”
Colin slumped in a chair, propped his elbows on the table and raked his fingers through his hair. “Aren’t things bad enough without your sarcasm?”
“And whose fault is that?”
Colin felt the anger reddening his face. “You don’t think it’s my fault?”
His father opened a cabinet, removed a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses and sat opposite him. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking. You’re the one who rushed out of the house after the interview, speaking to the poor girl only long enough to instruct her to mail your check.”
“But—”
“You’re the one who hasn’t spoken to her in over two weeks.” Mike splashed whiskey into both glasses and slid one across the table.
Bringing Up Baby Page 17
