She stared at him consideringly from big dark eyes and finally nodded again. Her gaze never wavered while he peered into her eyes and checked her reflexes. Then her small hand crept out and returned clutching a Tootsie pop.
"Nothing like a little sugar before breakfast," he said. "Well, Mom and Dad, you can take your little girl home."
Marian blinked, but didn't correct him. "Thank you," she said.
Anna waited until the doctor left. "Why did he say John was my daddy?"
"Do you think we look alike?" John asked.
She shook her head, then held still while Marian put her socks on.
"Maybe just because I'm here," John said. "That's what daddies do."
"Some daddies," Anna said.
Astonished, Marian stopped with the sweatshirt in her hand. Anna had never asked about her father before, but clearly she had thought about him.
"All real daddies," John said firmly. "The kind that count."
Oh, boy, Marian thought. What timing. She was much too tired to cope with this subject. How did you explain about a daddy who didn't even want to visit and make it not be hurtful?
But Anna startled her by announcing, "Do you want to be my daddy today?"
"Why not?" John shoved a shoe on her foot. "You hungry? How about breakfast at MacDonald's?"
"I think you're a good daddy," Anna decided.
Marian couldn't help herself. She started to laugh. "Sweetheart, you think with your tummy."
John's mouth curled into a heart-stopping grin. "Yeah, but her tummy's got good taste."
Even MacDonald's version of French toast tasted good this morning to Marian, who felt euphoric. Yesterday's loneliness and fear had been replaced by a world set right again. She thought. She hoped.
Marian stole a glance at John, who was gathering up their trash. His eyes met hers and he smiled. She could see the weariness on his face, a few more lines than he'd had yesterday, his unshaven jaw and rumpled hair, but he had never looked better to her. She smiled a little shyly, and something flickered in his eyes. Something profound—and primitive.
When they climbed out of the car at home, Emma and Jesse poured out of the house to meet them. Jesse wrapped his arms around Marian's leg and buried his face against her. Isaiah followed the children, though he waited on the porch.
When Marian came abreast of him, Jesse on her hip, she stopped. "Thank you, Isaiah. I don't know what I'd have done without you."
He shook his head. "Your biscuits are worth some baby-sitting."
"Then I'll make them tonight," she offered. "If you'll come to dinner."
"I'd be pleased to," he said in the soft drawl that contrasted with his bulk and harsh visage. "Your boy had a surprise this morning," he added. The corner of his mouth twitched. "He didn't mind me until it got light and he noticed I was a little broader than Mom."
"Oh, dear."
"But we had a chat and he decided I'd do. So long as you weren't available."
"Isaiah..."
"You two need time for a shower, change of clothes, I'll be here with the kids."
"You're a saint," Marian said fervently, and Isaiah grinned. The sight was quite startling, a flash of gleaming white teeth against his dark skin.
"Can we go swing?" Emma asked.
All three adults turned to look at her. With masterly understatement, John said, "Not today. Okay?"
"Oh, all right!" She sniffed. "I wouldn't push Anna that high again. I'm not stupid!"
"Well, good," John said ironically. "But give it a rest, okay? Play something gentle, like dolls."
She sniffed again. John lifted Jesse from Marian's arms and set him firmly down, then herded her toward the stairs. "Let's get while the getting's good."
Jesse hovered, undecided, but Anna tugged at his arm and said something that made him decide he could live without his mother for a few minutes. Then Marian reached the top of the stairs and lost sight of the children. John's hand in the middle of her back urged her on.
"Hey," she protested. "Do I need a shower that badly?"
"Nope." He stopped abruptly and turned her to face him. "I need you that badly."
A jolt of excitement rocked her. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had. Perhaps she had needed a scare to see what mattered. The raw hunger in his face mattered, and the ache in her that only he could soothe.
"No, not here," he said suddenly. "We need to talk."
Talking wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind— nor, she suspected, was it what he wanted, but words could heal where a touch couldn't. She nodded, and his hand on her upper arm drew her into his bedroom, where he closed the door behind them.
He actually let go of her then, and backed up a couple of paces. "I was stupid last week," he said abruptly. "What I offered you wasn't the life for either of us. I was...flattered." His mouth had a rueful twist. "I'm a jock at heart, I guess. The idea of being part of the Olympic Games, the Super Bowl, the NBA playoffs... I felt like a kid on Christmas morning."
"You don't have to—"
But he shook his head. "No, let me finish. The thing is, I don't really want to live in hotel rooms while Isaiah's building a business that's half mine. And I don't want to come home five, six years from now and find my daughter needs a bra and isn't interested in talking to Dad anymore. You were right, and I was wrong."
Marian couldn't bear another word. "No!" She bit her lip. "Listen to me for a minute. I'm the one who was wrong. I was...scared. I thought I'd lose you if you traveled too much. I feel so...ordinary."
"Ordinary." He laughed without any amusement at all. "Good God, Marian, don't you know how beautiful you are? I fell in love with you the minute you opened your door that first evening."
Troubled, she said, "That's not love."
"Love," he insisted. Still he didn't come to her, but his gaze was warm as he looked at her. "You're strong and fragile both. Your hair was slipping out of the band and I wanted to touch it. I remember you blushing. But most of all I remember how gentle you were with Emma and the way you smiled. I'd never seen a smile that sweet." His voice had become rough, and he cleared his throat. "I wanted some of that sweetness for myself."
She crossed the room into his arms, which closed tightly about her. He cradled her as she rested her cheek against his chest. "I said...terrible things," Marian mumbled into his shirt. "I knew they weren't true...not completely, but I said them anyway." She lifted her head and met his eyes, though her own were damp.
His response was quiet. "Do you remember when I said that I thought we were both partly right?"
Biting her lip, she nodded.
"I've already told you the part I think you were right about. The other part... Well, look at Emma. Does she seem unhappy to you?"
Picturing his daughter, confident, bold, sometimes saucy, Marian had to shake her head. She'd seen Emma sad—but was there any child who wasn't sad sometimes?
"I wonder," he said gently, "if you haven't projected some of your own feelings at being abandoned on to the kids. You know, there's a difference between parents who aren't always there, and ones who aren't there when they're needed."
"Like this weekend," she whispered.
"Yeah." He kissed her forehead, his mouth lingering. "Like this weekend."
Marian lifted her head so suddenly she bumped his chin. "Today's Sunday!"
"Yeah?"
"But...the game?"
"A game is exactly what it is," he said quietly. His gaze caressed her face and his hands clasping her arms were warm. "It can't compete with our children."
"You didn't quit?" she asked, disturbed.
"No." With one finger he traced her lips. "They covered for me today. And I cut a deal with the network. Which wasn't hard, given the timing. They wanted me more than I wanted them. It's a compromise for us, Marian. But I hoped..."
Right this minute, her love was so intense it was painful. "Yes," she said, her voice catching.
"Listen to me first," he said urgently. His eyes were d
ark, thundercloud grey. "I'll cover football, just like I am now. And a few of the big events. But that's all. I won't be a regular commentator. The rest of the time I'll be home. Can you live with that?"
He sounded so vulnerable, so uncertain, that her heart skipped a beat and she felt the sting of tears. "Yes. Oh, yes. I love you, John."
"Thank God," he said, and momentarily closed his eyes. "I don't think I could live without you."
"Just don't..." her voice broke.” Don't leave me.”
His arms tightened. "Never," he vowed, and then he lifted her chin. "We're a team," he said. "All of us."
"Jesse and Anna..."
"Are mine. And Emma's yours."
She drew a shaken breath. "Are you trying to make me cry?”
His mouth twisted. "No. I'm trying to make you happy."
"Happy?" Marian felt as though a hot-air balloon were swelling in her chest. She might bump the ceiling any moment. "I didn't know it was possible to be so happy."
A light flared in his eyes, and his kiss was as inevitable as morning. Passion rose like the sun, hot and golden, but tenderness rippled between them, too, in soft touches and murmured words.
With impatient hands he tugged her hair loose, tangling his fingers in it as it tumbled down over her shoulders. "You know," he said unevenly, one hand stroking down her slender neck and dipping inside her shirt, "you have a lot to learn about my job."
Marian spread her fingers on his chest, reveling in the hammer beat of his heart. "Your job?" she whispered.
"Um." He released the catch of her bra. "You should understand the game of football. Terminology, for example ..."
She began to understand. "Tackling?"
He nipped at her soft lower lip. "We'll start with holding," he said, and thoroughly demonstrated.
THE END
About The Author
Janice Kay Johnson is the author of more than seventy books for children and adults. Her first four published romance novels were coauthored with her mother Norma Tadlock Johnson, also a writer who has since published mysteries and children's books on her own. These were "sweet" romance novels, the author hastens to add; she isn't sure they'd have felt comfortable coauthoring passionate love scenes!
Janice graduated from Whitman College with a B.A. in history and then received a master's degree in library science from the University of Washington. She was a branch librarian for a public library system until she began selling her own writing.
She has written six novels for young adults and one picture book for the read-aloud crowd. ROSAMUND was the outgrowth of all those hours spent reading to her own daughters, and of her passion for growing old roses. Two more of her favorite books were historical novels WINTER OF THE RAVEN and THE ISLAND SNATCHERS which she wrote for Tor/Forge. The research was pure indulgence for someone who set out intending to be a historian.
Janice raised her two daughters in a small, rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She's an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter, and foster kittens often enliven a household that already includes a few more cats than she wants to admit to.
Janice loves writing books about both love and family — about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her Superromance novels are frequent finalists for Romance Writers of America RITA awards, and she won the 2008 RITA for Best Contemporary Series Romance for SNOWBOUND.
Also Available from Janice Kay Johnson
ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE
When Abigail McLeod landed the listing for the Irving House, a magnificent turn-of-the-century mansion with a haunted ballroom, she thought her luck had changed. Selling this house will establish her real estate agency and mean security at last for her and her four-year-old daughter. So why does something go wrong every time she shows the house? Could it have anything to do with Nate Taggart, architect and the current renter, a sexy and complex man whose mysterious attachment to the Irving House has turned into a major problem? How can she fall in love with a man she thinks she may have to kill the next time a hot prospect runs screaming from the house, especially when she knows better than to trust any man? Falling for Abigail and her delightful daughter isn’t in Nate’s plans, either. Achieving his own ends means hurting her. But can he abandon a lifelong dream for Abigail?
DANGEROUS WATERS
Once famous for her gold medal winning triumph in the Olympic Games, Megan Lovell now wants nothing more than to belong in her hometown of Devil’s Lake. But when she plunges into the lake at twilight to rescue a man she sees thrown overboard from a boat, she jeopardizes the life she holds dear. FBI agent ‘Mac’ James McClain had been hiding from death threats here in this peaceful town. Now his enemies are hunting not only him, but also the woman who saved his life. On the run, in danger, these two battle a compelling physical attraction that scares them both. Even if they survive, what does a man who lives undercover for months at a time and has never really had a home have to offer a woman who is desperate to be part of the hometown she gave up in her quest for that Olympic gold? Perhaps it is inevitable that they end up back out on the dark waters of the lake, where their only hope of salvation is each other.
ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE
By Janice Kay Johnson
CHAPTER 1
"You'll be able to catch a glimpse of the house as soon as we go around this next bend."
Abigail McLeod was looking forward to her passengers' reactions. She deliberately hadn't prepared them, not even showing them a picture. That way the impact would be greater. Abigail was convinced that the old Irving House was perfect for the Petersons, a middle-aged couple in the market for an executive home. She had become the listing agent for the historical mansion only two days before, and she was determined to sell it herself. Having the Petersons walk into her office this morning was pure luck. Buyers who could afford the million-dollar plus price tag were few and far between.
The last curve of the narrow country road circled up and around the flank of a small grassy hill crowned with an orchard of ancient, gnarled apple trees. Wild flowers bloomed beneath them. Abigail heard Mrs. Peterson's drawn-in breath, sensed Mr. Peterson's stillness after he'd leaned sharply forward. It was the sight of the first turret that had done it, with the delicate pattern of shingles and the tiny round window high up catching the afternoon sunlight. Abigail smiled with quiet satisfaction, although she didn't take her gaze from the road. It was too easy to miss the drive, which these days was little more than two ruts that cut through the waist-high, golden-green grass of the pasture.
As soon as she'd turned her red Honda Accord into the lane, however, her own gaze stole up to the house. With its conical towers and small balconies, the intricate patterns of the fish scale shingling and the delicate gingerbread, it would to Abigail be forever evocative of princesses and dragons, of Rapunzel letting down her hair from the tower.
"It's magnificent!" Mr. Peterson murmured as the car crested the drive and the house came into full view, down to its granite-block foundation. "When was it built?"
"Eighteen ninety-one," Abigail answered matter-of-factly. "Locally it's called the Irving House. William Irving was a timber baron. His wife was English, and apparently he promised that if she married him, she wouldn't have to give up anything. Remember that Washington had only been a state for two years and the Puget Sound area was still practically a frontier. It probably sounded like the ends of the earth to a well-bred Englishwoman, but when the house was finished in 1893, she married him."
Mrs. Peterson looked enraptured with the story. "How romantic! And did they live happily ever after?"
"They had eight children," Abigail informed them. "Who fought tooth and nail over Papa's empire after he'd died. In the end two of them won. The oldest son took the timber business and the house, and another the railroad and shipping interests. A couple of the daughters married other local businessmen, and several of the children went back to England with their mother, nev
er to be heard of again. The house has been occupied by a member of the family until the old man who owned it died just recently. That partly explains why it's in such excellent condition."
"But you said it's occupied?"
A tiny frown creased Abigail's forehead, although she didn't let her tone reflect her uneasiness. "Yes, by a renter. I called to let him know we'd be coming."
Abigail couldn't entirely explain, even to herself, why she was so worried about the renter. He'd been perfectly pleasant on the telephone, informing her agreeably that he would be there, but he'd try to stay out of their way. The man couldn't help the fact that he had such an unusual voice, low and a little gravelly. Actually, it was rather sexy, bringing to Abigail's mind a fleeting but all too vivid image of the rasp of a shaven chin against softer skin.
Maybe that was the only reason she had this odd feeling about him; he'd unwittingly reminded her of her own vulnerability, something she'd as soon not think about these days. She was too busy supporting herself and her four-year-old daughter, as well as trying to be a good single mother, to waste time on romantic—or sexual—fantasies.
She suspected, however, that the small worry in the back of her mind had originated the day she'd looked over the house with the present owner, Ed Phillips, a great-nephew of the old man who had died. Standing out in front by her car, she had asked him about the signs of occupation. The unwashed breakfast dishes, the faded jeans tossed on the bed, the razor lying by the bathroom sink, had made her wonder if whoever lived in the house had expected this visit.
Ed Phillips was the area's biggest contractor, a strongly built man in his early forties who was starting to put on a little too much weight, although in his case it simply made his presence more imposing. He could be very charming, although Abigail had a feeling that charm would disappear quickly if he were crossed. She wasn't sure she liked the man, but she was very eager to sell this house for him. He'd promised to throw more business her way if she did, business she desperately needed.
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