Major Dad

by Shelley Cooper

  He turned to the older woman. "You don't have to leave, you know. Haven and I would be more than happy to have you stay." Although how he would preserve his sanity sharing a bedroom with Haven was anyone's guess.

  "Yes, child, I do have to leave. You and Haven have to build a life together, and you'll do it better without me underfoot. I'm giving you fair warning, though." Her eyes and voice turned fierce, protective. "You hurt my girl, you'll answer to me."

  What was it about Haven that brought out the protective instinct in everyone? he wondered. Not that she needed protecting. Brady had never met a more self-sufficient woman.

  Still, he couldn't deny that he felt the urge to protect her, too. Truth was, he suddenly realized, he hadn't married her to shield Anna from harm. He could have achieved that purpose adequately without marriage. No, he hadn't married Haven to protect Anna. He'd married Haven to protect her from the Zieglars.

  "Believe me," he said, "the last thing I want to do is cause Haven any pain."

  Josephine nodded. "See that you don't."

  Her smile returned then, and she led the way back downstairs. As he followed her into the den, where Haven and Anna played with the kittens he'd found, Brady wondered who was going to protect him.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  This was torture, sheer torture, Haven thought as she pounded her pillow and laid her head in the indentation. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep, but her brain kept ticking away. She couldn't take much more of this. If she didn't fall asleep soon, she was going to lose what little was left of a mind that insisted on playing images of entwined bodies like a screen at an adult movie theater.

  Never in all her life—except for a brief period in her early teens, which she discounted as a normal part of the growing-up process—had she obsessed about sex. Yet from the minute her head had hit the pillow at eleven o'clock until now, three hours later, all she'd been able to think about was making love. Specifically, making love with Brady. Why?

  Because it was her wedding night, even if her marriage was one of convenience and destined to be short-lived. And because the object of her fantasies was asleep in the room across the hall. He was so close she could swear she heard him breathing.

  The thought of Brady's body all tangled up in the pink-and-white striped sheets adorning the brass bed in her guest bedroom should have brought a smile to her lips. If there was anyone who would be out of place in that bastion of femininity, it was her brand-new husband.

  Instead of making her laugh, however, whenever she pictured his long limbs spread across the mattress, a throbbing heat gathered in her abdomen. Did he sleep in the nude? she wondered, then flung one arm across her closed eyes and groaned when the heat in her lower body intensified.

  If only he hadn't kissed her. With one soul-shattering kiss, he'd awakened a passion in her she hadn't known existed. A passion only he could slake.

  For just a moment, she indulged herself in the fantasy that she could be the one woman to reach Brady's heart, to make him open up to her. With gentle love and patient understanding, she would take away all the pain and disillusion. Together, they would build a life filled with passion and love.

  And pigs might fly.

  With a sigh, she opened her eyes and stared up at the shadows flitting across her ceiling. So many conflicting emotions had ebbed and flowed through her body since meeting Brady Ross she was beginning to feel like an electronic transmitter that had gone on the blink. Added to the mix were her fears for Anne and her guilt at deceiving Josephine. Haven no longer knew what was right or wrong or which way was up. She didn't even know how she was going to survive the next five weeks until the hearing—or until the DNA test results were in and Brady could get his lawsuit heard, whichever came first—with Brady living under the same roof.

  "One day at a time," she murmured. "I'll take it one day, one minute, one second, at a time."

  Nine hundred interminable seconds later, Haven tossed back her covers and sat up. Obviously, sleep wasn't going to come any time soon. She might as well do something productive. What she needed was something brainless, something that would keep her hands busy while at the same time occupying her mind so that it wouldn't be distracted by any more unwanted thoughts.

  As she slipped silently down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen, she knew just what she was going to do. She was going to bake a cake.

  * * *

  It was quite possible, Brady thought, that before this farce of a marriage was over, he would go stark raving mad.

  Shifting restlessly in the brass bed, he folded his arms beneath his head and gazed at the ceiling. If he concentrated hard enough and the limbs of the tree outside his window bent just so in the breeze, he could swear the shadows on the ceiling formed the outline of a woman's face. Haven's face.

  Groaning, he closed his eyes. He needed sleep. Badly. Given his current state of mind, however, he had about as much chance of getting it as he did of being struck by lightning where he lay.

  Never before had he had any problems sleeping, not even when his bed had been a hard dirt floor. Maybe that was it. Maybe the unaccustomed softness of the mattress was what had kept him awake for going on four hours now. Or maybe the room was just too blasted feminine to give any self-respecting male a peaceful night's rest.

  He grimaced. Yeah, right. He could lie to himself all he wanted, but it still wouldn't change the truth. The reason for his insomnia had nothing to do with the softness of the mattress or the femininity of the room's decor. It could be summed up in three short words: Haven Adams Ross.

  What brainiac had dreamed up this cockamamie marriage idea anyway? What Einstein had thought marriage and cohabitation the perfect solution to their dilemma?

  He groaned again when the answer came to him. It had been him. All the way. He had only himself to blame for his current, miserable, aroused state. He never should have insisted that they marry, and he most certainly never should have moved into her home.

  Unfortunately, here he was, married, and here he would stay, until his daughter's future was assured. And Haven Adams Ross, his wife, was asleep in the room across the hall.

  How could she sleep?

  Muttering an oath, Brady tossed the covers aside and sat up. Sliding his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked around the ruffle-bedecked room and decided that this was no place for a man to spend his wedding night.

  He knew where he wanted to be: in the room across the hall. More specifically, in Haven's bed. With Haven. He wanted to feel her in his arms, to taste every inch of her. He wanted to bury himself inside her and take them both to a place where nothing mattered but the moment. Barring that, he just wanted to hold her while she slept.

  Which shot to hell his theory that it was his more than three years of abstinence ruling his arousal.

  This was not good. Nowhere were his developing feelings for Haven included in the plans he'd made. It had taken Charles Ross a full year to break down the defenses he'd erected to protect himself from further pain. It had taken his daughter and Haven Adams just six days to breach those same defenses. Anna's breach he could accept. She was his child; he had a responsibility to give her whatever she demanded from him.

  But Haven—if he allowed his feelings for her to deepen and grow, and if she returned them—would make a whole different set of demands. Demands impossible for him to meet.

  He was a man at a crossroads who should be trying to determine what his future held, instead of obsessing over a beautiful woman. He didn't need to take a course in psychology to realize that he was also a man who, after too many abandonments, had made a habit of sidestepping all personal involvement. Even Charles's death, involuntary though it had been, had felt like another abandonment and had served to underscore that he did best when he had few emotional ties. With the exception of Anna and the Lorings, Brady had no intention of breaking a habit that had served him so well over the years. Not even for a woman as alluring as
his temporary wife. The biggest favor he could do both Haven and himself was to stay out of her way.

  He rubbed his palm along the stubble on his cheeks while he tried to figure, at a minimum, how much time he'd have to consciously find a way to keep his distance. Excluding the hours she spent at the center, time they would both spend with Anna, and sleep—if he could ever get any—that left roughly three hours a day that he'd have to spend alone in her company. Considering his three years plus of imprisonment, three hours a day was a snap of the fingers. A cinch. No problem at all.

  The only snag was, when he was being held prisoner he hadn't had the added torture of being attracted to his captors. Erotic images flashed through his mind again. Did she wear frilly, lacy things to bed? Or did she favor flannel or, better still, nothing at all?

  Yes, Brady thought grimly as his arousal made itself painfully felt, he was well on his way to losing his mind. Otherwise, why would he imagine he smelled a cake baking at three o'clock in the morning? He crinkled his nose and took a deep, appreciative sniff. His stomach rumbled. Chocolate cake, if he wasn't mistaken.

  Barefoot, he crossed the room and carefully opened the door. Across the hallway, the door to Haven's bedroom stood ajar.

  He felt a moment's satisfaction. She hadn't been able to sleep, either.

  The light from the kitchen drew him. As he neared, his footsteps muffled by the carpet, he heard Haven humming softly to herself. It was an old tune, one that had been popular when they were kids, and it was definitely off-key. Way off-key. He grinned at the realization that she was totally tone-deaf.

  His grin died when he rounded the corner, and Haven came into full view. Her back to him, she stood on tiptoe, reaching into an open cupboard. She wore an oversize white T-shirt that fell to midthigh. A riot of auburn curls rested in tangled splendor on her shoulders. Like him, her feet were bare. Beneath the T-shirt he saw the outline of her panties and the long, long legs that seemed to go on forever. There was no outline where her bra should be.

  Suddenly, those three hours a day seemed an eternity.

  She turned, a box of confectioners' sugar in one hand. The swell of her unbound breasts beneath the thin fabric of the T-shirt was as alluring as it was unmistakable. A smudge of cake batter decorated the tip of her nose.

  Brady couldn't move, couldn't think. He couldn't do anything, because all the blood had left his brain to gather in one particular part of his anatomy. A part that throbbed and ached with unbearable intensity. Closing his eyes, he struggled for self-control. When he opened them, he found Haven staring at him, her gaze riveted to his bare chest. Had it been riveted any lower, she would have had irrefutable evidence of the direction his thoughts had turned.

  As quickly as he could in his current state, he took a seat at the kitchen's center cooking island, where two layers of chocolate cake sat cooling on a wire rack. To his relief, the countertop hid his lower anatomy from view.

  "Hi," he said gruffly.

  "Hi," she replied. "Sorry I woke you."

  She reached back to close the cupboard door, then moved to stand opposite him. Fascinated, he watched her every movement. With deft fingers, she ripped off the box top and dumped the confectioners' sugar into a stainless-steel bowl.

  "You didn't wake me." Striving for nonchalance, he asked, "What are you doing?"

  After adding a stick of butter and some vanilla to the bowl, she placed it beneath a mixer. "Making icing for the cake," she said over the whine of the blades.

  "You always do your baking at 3 a.m.?"

  "Not usually."

  He waited, but she didn't elaborate. Not that he needed her to. He knew exactly why she was down here. While it would please his ego to think that an answering desire for him was what was keeping her awake, he was fairly certain her insomnia had a far different cause.

  "Does it bother you so much?" he asked.

  She placed a cake layer on a white porcelain plate, then dipped a knife into the bowl and began icing it. "Does what bother me?"

  "Having to share Anna with me."

  The knife stilled for a moment before continuing in its circular motion. "At first, it did."

  "And now?"

  She lifted her gaze to his. "I'd rather share her with you than the Zieglars. Actually, with the Zieglars there'd be no question of sharing. They'd never let me near her."

  He felt his mouth twist. "So I was right. I am the lesser of two evils."

  She shook her head. "No, Brady," she said softly. "Even if the Zieglars weren't in the picture, I wouldn't mind sharing Anna with you. You're her father. She needs you. I think you'll be good for her. I know she'll be good for you."

  The admission was more, far more, than he'd expected. Or deserved. Gratitude, and an emotion that defied definition. warmed him.

  She'd never looked more beautiful to him than she did at that moment in her plain white T-shirt, face free of makeup, hair tousled and blue eyes weary from lack of sleep. The cake batter on her nose had been joined by a streak of icing that ran from beneath one eye to one corner of her mouth.

  Unable to resist, Brady leaned across the counter and traced his finger across her cheek.

  "Icing," he said, holding his finger out in answer to the question in her eyes.

  Gaze squarely on hers, in a motion that was deliberately sensual, be slipped his finger into his mouth and slowly licked off the icing.

  Haven's soft gasp was audible. Beneath her T-shirt, her nipples hardened. Her chest rose and fell in a rapid rhythm, as if she'd just run a mile in record time. Brady knew the feeling well. He experienced it each time he looked at her. He was experiencing it now.

  Dimly, he heard the knife she was using clatter to the floor as, helpless to obey anything but the elemental impulses in control of his brain, he rose and purposefully strode around the counter. She gasped again, much louder this time, when he stood directly in front of her, and she saw the way his arousal strained against the fabric of his pajamas.

  The ache in Brady's groin intensified. He didn't care that he was courting danger. He didn't care that his actions were in direct opposition to his decision to stay away from her. Nothing, short of the sprinkler system turning on or an earthquake, could stop him from kissing her.

  Slowly, his arms slid around her waist. She seemed to melt at his touch, her body becoming soft and pliant as he pulled her toward him. Reaching up a hand, not in resistance but to brace herself, she splayed her fingers against his bare chest. Their touch made his blood surge wildly, and he crushed her to him until he felt the hard nubs of her nipples boring into his skin. The rigidness of his arousal came to a rest in the soft hollow between her legs.

  Her eyes widened at the intimate contact before growing slumberous with desire. Lids drifting closed, she tilted her head back, allowing him full access to a tantalizing length of throat.

  Starting with the hollow at the base of her neck and moving upward, Brady planted teasing little kisses over every inch of exposed skin. The soft little sighs of pleasure she made went straight to his head. When he reached the line of her jaw, he followed it to one ear. Taking a lobe gently between his teeth, he nibbled.

  She smelled like cocoa and felt like sin. "I want to kiss you, Haven," he murmured in a husky voice that was barely above a whisper. "Really kiss you."

  "Yes." The word was a sigh and an entreaty rolled into one.

  Her lips parted. Needing no further invitation, Brady captured the mouth raised expectantly to his own, and marveled that it could feel even better than it had that afternoon. She kissed him back hungrily, her arms curling around his neck while her agile tongue tangled with his in slow, delicious strokes.

  Brady felt as if he'd been torched. He struggled to breathe, but his lungs wouldn't cooperate. They refused to allow him to inhale anything but short, shallow breaths. Against his chest, he felt Haven's heart beating an irregular rhythm. The roaring in his ears told him his heart was keeping the same rhythm.

  Making a low, hungry sound, he d
eepened the kiss. While his mouth continued to plunder hers, one hand moved to cup her bottom. Blatantly, deliberately, he rubbed his aching erection against the juncture of her thighs, eliciting a low moan from her throat. His heart threatened to burst from his chest when she moved her hips in an answering motion, her body arching against his.

  Lord, she felt good. Brady couldn't remember wanting any woman the way he wanted Haven at that moment. Just kissing her made him ready to explode.

  His movements urgent, he shoved her T-shirt out of the way to slide his hand up the smooth skin of her back, skin so hot to the touch it burned. When his fingers grazed the side of her breast, she shifted in his arms, giving him easy access to the object he so eagerly sought.

  Her breast was small and fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. Cupping its weight, he brushed the pad of his thumb across her hard nipple, and took delight in the way his touch made her tremble.

  He wanted to make love to her with a desperation that was soul shaking. He ached to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs to her bed; to strip the clothes from their bodies and ease his hardness inside her. The only thing holding him back was the tiny grain of self-preservation that still remained in his consciousness.

  This would not be a casual coupling. At least, not on his part. He wouldn't be able to indulge his need and walk away, unscathed, when it was over. In the cold light of day, he would regret his actions. And so, too, he knew, would Haven.

  It had been a long, stressful week for both of them. Their defenses were down. Neither one of them was thinking clearly. Hell, he could barely think at all. And to top it all off, they were exhausted.

  "No, don't," she protested when he lifted his mouth.

  It took every ounce of willpower he possessed, but after pressing his lips briefly, chastely, to her forehead, he set her away from him.

  "Go to bed, Haven," he said in a strangled voice.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. "What?" She looked dazed.

  "Go to bed." He knew he sounded angry, but frustration tended to put a little harshness in a man's voice.