The Baby Came C.O.D.

by Marie Ferrarella

  Evan sighed. The last thing he wanted was a scene, or to have Libby crying. But she couldn't stay here, either. Claire was still ill and besides needing her rest, she could still infect Libby.

  He picked Libby up, holding her against him. She squirmed, then gave up.

  "And she's going to continue to be your mama, but right now, she needs her rest, okay?" He could feel the indeci¬sion warring within the young body. Evan threw in what he hoped was his ace. It had worked before. "And I need your help with Rachel."

  In the dim light, Claire could just about see Libby pout¬ing over his shoulder as Evan carried her daughter out.

  "Okay, I guess. But you tell me as soon as Mama's rested and better. Deal?"

  "Deal," he promised.

  "What did she mean?" Claire asked suddenly, hoarsely calling after Evan as Libby's words registered. "That I did it?"

  Evan stopped in the doorway. Nothing pleased him more than telling her this. "You got the account. Congratula¬tions."

  "That's nice," Claire murmured, and then slipped away again.

  She thought she heard someone laugh, but couldn't be sure.

  She dreamed it, knew she dreamed it. After all, it was a dream for her, to get the Aesthetic Athletics account. That had been lost to her because she had gotten sick tending to Evan.

  Everything happened for a reason. She just didn't un¬derstand this one yet.

  Didn't understand, either, why she and Evan were cele¬brating. Dancing somewhere high above, surrounded by clouds, with sunshine streaming through, bathing them both.

  Sunshine had to be the reason she felt so warm in his arms. So aglow.

  And then they weren't dancing anymore. They were kiss¬ing, holding each other tightly as if that were all that counted in the world. His kisses grew more ardent, more passionate.

  She could feel the floodgates quaking, threatening to break within her. Threatening to flood her, not with water, but with emotions. Emotions she had struggled so hard to lock away after Jack had deserted her.

  Emotions only hurt you.

  But they didn't hurt now. They felt good. Wonderful.

  Evan felt wonderful.

  And her body felt like a rare violin, being played after having been kept in a dark case for so many years. It hummed.

  There were angels watching them. No, not angels, Rachel and Libby, standing beside a mirror image of the two of them. Except that the mirror image was different somehow. It was her, but it wasn't her; him, but not him.

  And they were smiling. Smiling at the pair kissing in the center of a dance floor made up of clouds. Smiling at her and Evan.

  Suddenly, the girls vanished. Heat crept up her neck as she felt and watched the kiss blossom into something so powerfully potent, it made her head spin and her desire soar. He was undressing her, loving her with his hands, with his eyes, with his lips.

  Loving her...

  Claire woke up with a start, then dragged air into lungs that felt as if they had been completely depleted of oxygen.

  Her pulse was beating wildly.

  Momentarily disoriented, Claire looked around, expect¬ing to see clouds. Expecting to see Evan. There were no clouds, no mirror images, no angels. No Evan. She wasn't even in her own bed. This wasn't her bedroom; it was Evan's.

  Evan's.

  Completely conscious now, Claire looked down at her¬self, fervently hoping that what she'd dreamed hadn't been reality. That they hadn't danced, hadn't kissed.

  Hadn't...made love, she realized.

  But she wasn't nude; she was wearing pajamas.

  She didn't own pajamas....

  It took her another moment to remember that they were his and that she had put them on just before she'd collapsed in his bed.

  Claire sank back against her pillow. The red-hot, tingling sensation that had danced through her body was only now beginning to settle down. She could feel herself blushing.

  They'd made love in her dream, she and Evan. That was why she felt as if her entire body was on fire. It wasn't the fever that was to blame; it was the dream. Claire touched her forehead. It was damp and warm, but not hot.

  She wasn't delirious, just sick.

  And turned on.

  Claire drew in a few more breaths, forcing herself to calm down. She'd almost succeeded, and then negated it all by remembering the children.

  Dear heaven, she'd been lying here in bed, having sen¬sual dreams while the children were out there, with him. Who knew what they'd gone through? They were probably hungry and dirty and...

  She had to get up and get to them. They needed her. Evan needed her.

  Summoning her strength, Claire stumbled out of bed and made her way into the hall as best she could. The process was much too slow to satisfy her. Claire had to stop and hold on to the walls and then the doorjamb to steady her¬self.

  Each time, the room rippled like a mirage in the blazing desert sun.

  She finally made it into the hallway and inched her way along the walls. When she stopped concentrating on getting her balance, she realized that she was listening to Evan's voice.

  He was reading something out loud. A story.

  Bracing herself as she moved, Claire drew closer to the sound of his voice. The door was open, and she peered into the room.

  He was sitting on a chair with Libby on his lap. The bed was turned down and waiting for her. Evan was patiently reading a story to Libby out of her favorite book.

  He must have gone and gotten it from her room, Claire realized.

  "...and the Prince and Cinderella lived happily ever af¬ter." Evan closed the book and then looked at Libby ex¬pectantly.

  Libby wriggled in his lap. "More, please," she begged.

  This was beginning to be a familiar pattern, but he was up to it.

  "No, you've got to make good on your promise. You said one more story and then you'd go to bed. I read the story, now you have to go to bed." He set her down on the floor.

  The sigh was bigger than Libby. She pouted, but saw no way out. "Okay, I guess."

  Evan pulled back the covers for her, waiting for her to get in. "You bet okay. You want to grow up to be big and strong and pretty just like your mother, don't you?"

  Libby scrambled into the bed. "Mama's beautiful, not pretty," she corrected loyally.

  Evan tucked the blanket around her and smiled, thinking of Claire. "Yes, she is."

  Libby studied him with the same intensity that scientists examine microbes under a microscope. "You like my mama?"

  He'd discovered in the past few days that not much got by Libby. Since they were alone, he saw no reason to deny it. "Yes, she's a very nice lady."

  She thought he liked her more than just nice. "She's like Cinderella, isn't she?"

  Evan pretended to look surprised. "You mean she sews clothes for mice?"

  He got the reaction he was after. Libby covered her mouth and giggled. "No, silly. I mean she works real hard. All the time." She exaggerated the word on purpose.

  He could see where Libby could draw the comparison. "Yes, she certainly does."

  Encouraged by his agreement, Libby continued spinning her childlike web. "She needs a prince to marry her."

  Evan could just hear what Claire would have to say about that comment. Claire had made it very clear that she was doing fine on her own. No princes for her. Which was a damn shame. Not that he was the prince type, but he wouldn't mind trying to take care of her once in a while. He discovered that he rather liked the feeling of caring for someone.

  "I don't think your mother needs anything. She's a very independent lady."

  It was what, Claire thought, she had striven for. What she would have wanted to hear someone say of her. So why did hearing it from Evan's lips make her feel so empty?

  Libby still liked the idea of a prince. And so did Mama— she was sure of it. "Mama says everybody needs some¬body, no matter who they are."

  He paused, looking down at the little girl. He wondered if there was a hidden message
in all this, or if he was just hoping there was. "Your mama is a very wise lady."

  He was about to leave. Libby stopped him dead with her next question. "Will you be her prince?"

  Evan laughed. Now, there was a role he wasn't qualified for. "I'm not anybody's idea of a prince."

  Libby sat up. "You are mine," she told him enthusias¬tically. Momentum grew in her voice. "And Rachel's."

  It was a simple fantasy and simple words, coming from a four-year-old. He had no idea why they should touch him so much. But they did.

  "Rachel's too young to think or have an opinion," he told her softly. He tried to make her lie back, but she was like a spring that refused to stay in position.

  "No, she's not. She thinks just like I do." Rachel was going to grow up just like her, Libby thought confidently. She just knew it.

  Evan knew better than to argue with Libby. Diplomacy was what was called for here. "Well, she's asleep right now, and so should you be."

  Libby wanted to rub her eyes, but she clenched her hands into small fists on either side of her. Rubbing her eyes would make him think she was tired.

  "I'm not sleepy. Really I'm not," she insisted. And then she raised hopeful eyes to his face. "Will you stay here till I fall asleep?"

  He was tired, and there were things he still had to do. He'd hooked up with his office and should have been work¬ing on something for the past hour instead of sitting here and reading to Libby.

  Evan nodded at the light switch. "How about if I leave the light on again?"

  She didn't want the light. Lights didn't make monsters go away. Only grown-ups did. "No, stay. Please?"

  There was an urgency in her voice he couldn't force himself to ignore. For some reason, she didn't want to be alone. It had been a long time ago, but he could vaguely remember being afraid of the dark.

  "All right. But you have to promise you'll try very hard to fall asleep quickly."

  She nodded her head vigorously. "I promise." She eyed the storybook on the chair. "I fall asleep faster if Mama reads to me."

  He should have seen this one coming a mile away.

  "Con artist." He laughed, shaking his head. "Libby, I think you're going to go all the way and become president someday."

  She took the comment in stride, as her due. Presidents were important people who were in history books and got to talk on TV. It might be a nice job to have. She looked at him. "If I do, will you come and read to me, Mr. Q.?"

  "Only if you don't call me Mr. Q. It makes me feel like a character on 'Star Trek.'"

  "What's that?"

  He couldn't believe she didn't know. "And here I thought your mother taught you everything. Libby, you're in for a treat. Tomorrow night, we're watching TV to¬gether."

  "All right!" Scrambling forward, she hugged him, then scooted back under her covers. "What do you want me to call you?"

  "How about 'Evan'?"

  "Evan," she repeated with approval. "Will you come and read to me when I'm president, Evan?" she asked him again.

  "You bet." Making himself comfortable on the bed, he picked up the book and began to read out loud.

  Claire slipped slowly back into Evan's bedroom, a be¬mused smile on her lips.

  And she had been worried....

  He had begun to think that Libby was never going to fall asleep. It had taken another story and a half before Libby's eyes finally closed. His jaw felt tight from reading.

  The wealth of patience he'd found within himself sur¬prised Evan. As did the discovery of other feelings that were steadily coming to the forefront. Feelings he would have said only a short while ago that he didn't have, that he wasn't capable of. And most definitely, that he didn't need.

  Feelings of love and attachment.

  Oh, he cared about his own family. There wasn't any¬thing he wouldn't do for his mother and for his sisters, Paige and Krystle. And yes, even for Devin. It wasn't so much that he'd actually disliked Devin when they were growing up as that he felt he was living in his brother's shadow. Outgoing, gregarious, Devin always managed to charm everyone he met. Everyone loved Devin. When they met Evan, who was more introverted and shy, they were surprised at the difference. And sometimes vocal about it.

  Evan told himself he didn't need those kinds of things, that he could do without the friendships and the admiration, and that what mattered in life was success. He'd said it so often and so forcefully, he'd almost managed to fool him¬self.

  Until now.

  Until he'd been forced to take care of a chatterbox, a baby and a woman who was getting under his skin so far and so deep, there was a danger that he'd have to have her surgically removed before he could go on with his life.

  What was his life, anyway? he wondered ruefully as he walked down the hall. Deadlines, presentations, facts, fig¬ures, a computer screen, people in meetings whose faces he didn't remember and a six-figure income.

  Somehow, that didn't seem to add up to very much when measured in terms of what Claire had. Love. She and Libby were a unit. A unit that was calling to him, showing him what he was missing.

  He wanted that unit in his own life. As part of his own life.

  Evan stopped before the room where Rachel lay, hope¬fully sleeping. He debated checking on her, knowing that there was a fifty-fifty chance he would wake her if he opened the door. It was safer just to walk on and assume the best.

  He decided to risk it.

  Cracking the door slightly, he slowly pushed it open a fraction of an inch at a time. The odds, for once, were with him and the right fifty was in his corner. Rachel remained sleeping.

  He crept softly into the room and then stood looking down at her. The room was quiet. If he listened, he could hear her breathing.

  There was a dim light draping the room, coming from a children's lamp Libby had helped him find in Claire's ga¬rage. Evan was amazed at how helpful Libby actually was. A wry grin curved his mouth. She probably sensed how helpless he was without her.

  He wondered if Claire could sense the same thing.

  That was off limits, he told himself. Claire was off limits. She'd been helpful to him; he couldn't repay her by drag¬ging her further into his life. What woman would want to get mixed up with a man with a baby on a permanent basis, especially since she already had a child of her own?

  A child of her own. Was Rachel his own? He didn't know; he truly didn't know. He did know that he hadn't wanted her to be. In the beginning. But now it was differ¬ent. Now he woke up in the middle of the night to her cry. Her silence woke him just as much as her cries did. He was tuned into her internal clock, had made it his.

  When he'd asked Devin to find Rachel's mother, it was in hopes that he could get her to confess that Rachel wasn't his and to take her back. Now he wanted to find her so that he could get legal custody.

  It was a startling thing to realize that a man as large as he could be held so fast by a hand as tiny as hers. Held by her hand, and by Libby's and Claire's. They had all taken a piece of him without his knowing it. A piece he knew he didn't want back.

  Not that he had anything to offer Claire that she needed. If there was ever a woman who was all together, it was her.

  "But maybe you and I can have something, hmm?" he whispered to Rachel.

  To his surprise, she opened her eyes for a moment. And then a dreamy little look passed over her face, and her eyes slid shut again.

  His heart twisted in his chest. Hearts always twisted when they were being removed. He didn't have to open Rachel's hand to know that was where his heart now re¬sided.

  Very quietly, he slipped out and closed the door behind him.

  Chapter Eleven

  "And just where do you think you're going?"

  Startled, Claire turned around in the hallway to see Evan standing behind her. She'd been so preoccupied when she left the bedroom, she hadn't heard him walking toward her.

  "Downstairs. I've got to get the turkey out of my freezer and find a way to defrost it quickly." There wasn't much hope
there. She knew the bird was rock solid. Maybe there was still one available at the supermarket. Time had strung itself out into one long chain, and she'd lost track of the days, but that was still no excuse to forget what today was.

  Claire flushed. "I forgot that today is Thanksgiving," she admitted.

  It was nice to see color back in her cheeks that wasn't associated with a fever. It was even nicer to be able to ride to her rescue.

  "The turkey's already defrosted and about one-third on its way to being baked. Some of us didn't forget," he told her loftily.

  As he had returned home from Aesthetic Athletics head¬ quarters, Evan had made up his mind to cook the meal. Feeling triumphant at securing the account for her, he'd made a quick stop at the grocery store, or as quick as it could be with two children in tow, and picked up every¬thing he remembered seeing on his mother's table during past Thanksgivings.

  Claire stared at him as if he'd just announced he was Peter Pan and about to undertake a journey to Neverland. "You're making Thanksgiving dinner?"

  "We are," he corrected. "Libby's helping." The little girl insisted on being part of everything he did. He was getting very accustomed to that. "Actually, she does a lot of ordering around." He raised an eyebrow, looking at Claire pointedly. "Can't figure out where she could have gotten that from."

  Claire hadn't progressed beyond his earlier statement. Try as she might, she couldn't picture him in the kitchen doing anything other than preparing coffee. "You're mak¬ing Thanksgiving dinner?"

  He smoothed out the furrow between her eyebrows with the tip of his finger. "I thought we just got past that. That fever must have sucked out more of your brain cells than I anticipated."

  Why was he doing this? It went far above and beyond repaying a debt he thought he owed. Caring for her, putting up with Libby, reading to Libby—it was all miles beyond the call of any duty she was certain Evan was acquainted with.

  "Don't you have a family to go to? Mother? Sisters? Your twin brother?" He'd mentioned that they all lived in southern California. Evan should have been on his way there with Rachel last night, not here with her.