"What's your name, son?"
"Paul John Frazier."
Morgan filed that away. An all but infallible memory had been one of the few innate skills he'd brought to his job. That and a face that tended to look a whole lot better on camera than it did in his mirror.
"When you're ready to send out that tape, give me a call and I'll give you some names."
Paul John turned bright pink from the point of his cleft chin to the lobes of his ears. "I'll do that, Mr. Paxton. And thanks."
Morgan gave him a hard look. If the boy thought he'd just lucked into a free kick up the ladder, he was dead wrong.
"I'm just planning to give you names, kid. If you get your start, you'll get it on your own merit."
"Yeah, sure. I understand. And I won't let you down, I promise."
Morgan stifled a sigh. "Just worry about yourself, okay?"
"Okay." Paul John grinned, shifted his feet and nodded. "Well, uh, enjoy your vacation."
"Thanks. I intend to give it my best shot."
The cabbie backed down the steps to the walk, Morgan's card still clutched in his hand. Lord, had he ever been that green? He didn't need to search for the answer. He'd been worse. Much worse. He'd gone into broadcasting with only his raw craving to succeed and an ignorant confidence in his own ability to bluff backing him up.
"If you need a ride to the airport, just ask for me when you call in," the kid said earnestly.
"I'll keep that in mind."
The sound of the young man's footsteps receded behind Morgan as he shoved his wallet into his back pocket and retrieved the flowers from under his arm. The half-open buds were already drooping. Dumb idea, buying them at a kiosk at the airport, he thought as he heaved a sigh of disgust. What did an airport florist care about attracting repeat business anyway?
He heard the cab's engine start and glanced back to return the cabbie's farewell wave. Eyes squinting against the sun, he watched the yellow sedan roll to a stop at the corner, then turn right and disappear behind the solid white barrier of the first house in the row.
Squaring his shoulders, he turned to face the blue door again. As he did, he felt his heart pounding and his palms growing icy. Scowling, he jabbed a long finger at the bell and kept it there. He heard a muted chiming through the door, repeated over and over.
"Hell," he muttered, dropping his hand. Now what?
Sit on the doorstep like a damned orphan, waiting for Raine to invite him in from the cold?
The image was far too apt to be anything but distinctly annoying. Not bloody likely, he told himself as he descended the steps and headed for the back of the house. Over the years he'd learned a thing or two about getting into places where he wasn't particularly welcome, but he preferred to do his breaking and entering in as much privacy as possible.
As he neared the rear of the house, he heard the sound of high-pitched giggling, followed by a childish squeal. Somebody's kids were playing nearby, he thought as he approached the gate built into a privet hedge that bordered the back part of the lawn.
The closer he got to the backyard, the louder the squeals seemed. He wasn't much of a kid person. Never had been, except with Mike. And even then he'd been mostly thumbs with the boy until Mike had started walking. From there his son had gone straight to running.
Energetic, the pediatrician had said initially.
The hyperactive bit came later. After Raine had all but worn herself out trying to keep the boy safe. Along with Morgan's fair coloring and gold-brown eyes, Mike had inherited his father's restless spirit. Tell the boy "no" and Mike considered it a challenge. Tell him "yes" and he considered it permission to push for more.
The gate was closed, latched on the inside. Before flipping it open, he stopped and surveyed the scene in front of him with hungry eyes. From what he could see he'd dropped smack-dab in the middle of a typical pool party—except the pool was only six feet wide and a foot deep, with cartoon characters stenciled onto the bright blue interior. It had been placed in the dense, cool shade of a huge sugar maple, and presently contained three little girls, all chattering and giggling at once.
Seated around the pool in mismatched sun loungers were three females in various forms of beach attire. His gaze skimmed the group until he found Raine.
Gloriously tanned, as though just back from a lazy vacation in the South Pacific, she wore a baggy shirt the color of lime sherbet with a scoop neck that had slipped over one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of a yellow bathing suit Her tanned legs were bare and sleek and shiny with a coat of suntan oil, and her toes had been painted a bright green to match the shirt.
Her head was slightly turned to the left as she listened to the woman next to her, her rich dark hair pulled back into a thick, curly ponytail that gleamed like softest silk in the sunshine. Wisps of the same soft curls framed a face that was perfection itself. Or close enough to make little difference to a man who'd lived on memories and one lone photograph for eighteen long months.
Standing unnoticed, he watched her speaking in animated tones to one of her friends, a petite woman with a riot of coppery curls piled atop her head and a bubbling laugh.
One of the little girls in the pool was obviously hers, with the same fiery hair. A soon-to-be older sister since the lady with the bright hair was obviously quite pregnant. The other woman in the cozy little group had hair nearly as dark and glossy as Raine's and a serene expression that reminded Morgan of a fifteenth-century Madonna painting he'd seen on one of his R and R trips to Rome.
Three pretty ladies in a row, he thought with wry amusement. His chest swelled with pride to realize that his lady was definitely the prettiest—and the sexiest. She was also more voluptuous than he remembered. Sweetly rounded in all the right places. A lush treasure for a man who considered himself anything but deserving.
"Tory, what's that in your sister's mouth?"
The oldest girl, a little creature with dark hair and eyes, glanced over at the Madonna and shrugged.
"I think it's a rock."
Even from a distance, Morgan could see the woman's exasperation. "Shelby, spit that out right this instant."
"Sit still, I'll get it," Raine insisted as the harried mother started to rise.
Morgan felt his breath catch as Raine slipped her bare legs to the side of the chair and stood up. He started to smile, then froze. He felt staggered, his breath knocked from his body as though his muscle and sinew struggled to absorb a vicious blow.
Stunned, he watched her hurry toward the pool. The sun turned her hair into a shimmering brown halo and gilded her delicate features. She was laughing, her arms already reaching for the little tiny mermaid with pudgy cheeks.
The green shirt clung softly to her body, the hem hitting her at midthigh. But it was the ripe, round belly the bright material outlined that riveted his gaze. The truth burned in his gut, nearly doubling him over. No doubt about it. His wife was very, very pregnant.
Chapter 2
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"Come on, punkin, give Auntie Raine that yucky old stone."
Like a plump little bird in a wet nest, two-year-old Shelby MacAuley obediently opened her small pink mouth to allow Raine to remove the round white stone tucked in one chubby cheek.
"Thank you very much, Miss Shelby. I will treasure this always."
Shelby giggled, then patted Raine's tummy. "Baby," she said in a firm little voice.
Raine smiled as she felt a familiar thrill run through her. After nearly two years of alternating between deepest despair and searing anger, she was suddenly alive again, waking up each morning eager to see what surprises the new day would bring. In two and a half months she would be a mother again. Whole, instead of empty. Needed.
Nothing would ever bring Michael back, but life did go on, and she'd finally come to terms with her grief. Now she was ready to rejoin the living. That felt good, so incredibly good.
Only one dark cloud marred her sunny skies.
Morgan had yet to return the divorc
e papers she'd had sent to him over three months ago. According to her attorney, it was vitally important that the divorce be finalized before she gave birth. Otherwise, Morgan would have a legal claim to custody of any or all children born during the marriage.
A wave of sadness ran through her, as familiar to her now as the sound of her own breathing in the dark. She hated the very idea of divorce, and yet she had no choice. Still, it hurt.
Her father claimed she was too stubborn to admit she'd made a mistake falling for a man who worshiped danger the way others worshiped a more traditional deity.
The fact that she'd fallen in love with the man on sight didn't mean diddly to someone as well versed in diverse cultures as Arthur Connelly. Love was simply a form of self-hypnosis. A way for civilized human beings to rationalize a primitive urge to mate. Although in Morgan's case, Arthur considered the veneer of that civilization to be whisper thin.
The man his colleagues called Pax had been a part of her life, a major chunk of her identity for over a decade, and yet in all that time, she and Morgan had actually lived together for a little less than a year. Three hundred and forty seven days, in fact. She'd counted them once in a moment of dark despair. A week or two here, a month there. Never long enough to be totally easy with one another.
Bottom line, she and Morgan were scarcely more than strangers who'd had a passionate affair, resulting in the creation of a wonderful little boy. Once Mike was gone, they'd had little in common to hold them together. No, truth to tell, they weren't dissolving a marriage so much as a partnership. And a rational, emotionally tough woman did not get all teary-eyed over the end of a business association.
"Uh, Raine, I think you have company," her quixotic redheaded friend and neighbor Prudy Randolph said quietly from her spot nearest the hedge.
Raine glanced behind her to see her friend gazing toward the side gate. As she followed Prudy's line of sight, she expected to see a stranger standing there, someone looking for directions, perhaps, or an electric company employee searching for a meter to read.
It took her an eternity to realize the man staring at her from the other side of her hedge wasn't another figment of her overactive imagination, but instead, solid flesh and bone.
He looked worn-out, drained of that marvelous animal vitality that lit up the television screen, his angular face pale beneath the layered bronze of his skin. Only the golden eyes between thick blond lashes were alive, raking her with a simmering anger that was in vivid contrast to the deeply etched lines of weariness.
Raine uttered her husband's name in a breathless tone that seemed to echo like a shout in the sudden stillness that surrounded her. Sights and sounds faded. Her mouth went dry and her heart thundered.
"Why's that big man staring at you like that, Auntie Raine?" Tory MacAuley asked with a child's utter lack of subtlety.
"He's … surprised that I'm pregnant," she answered with a truth that sounded simple—and was anything but.
"Why? Because you're not married."
But I am, she started to say, then realized that what little was left of her marriage existed only on paper. And that, too, was about to end.
"Tory, give Auntie Raine a chance to catch her breath," Stacy MacAuley murmured to her daughter.
"But Mom—"
"Help me gather up the toys," Stacy ordered gently as she rose to her feet. "It's time for Shelby's nap."
"Same goes for Chloe," Prudy Randolph said, smiling at the pint-size replica of herself happily slapping the water with fat little hands. "Case promised to take us out to Tony's for an early dinner."
Raine turned to glare at them. "Some support system you two are, bailing out on a friend in her moment of need," she muttered in a low tone.
"I thought you said he would be happy to have his freedom," Stacy murmured as she lifted a protesting Shelby from the pool.
"So?"
"So he doesn't look happy." Stacy wrapped her daughter in a towel before dropping a kiss onto her damp curls.
"Trust me, it's only jet lag. Morgan's very susceptible."
"Uh-huh."
"That has got to be one of the most interesting men I've ever seen," Prudy murmured, her voice tinged with purely female awe as she struggled to extricate herself from the sagging webbing of the lounge chair.
"Not to mention extremely intimidating, masculinity-wise," Stacy chimed in as she rubbed Shelby dry.
"Awesome," Prudy contributed. "I love my husband dearly, but I suddenly have this wild urge to preen."
"Behave yourself, Prudence," Stacy muttered, grinning as she adjusted the strap of her bikini top. "The man's a big-time TV star and you're a lowly nurse."
"Charge nurse to you, Mrs. Dr. MacAuley. Presently on maternity leave, thank goodness."
"Hush, both of you," Raine ordered in a low voice, suddenly terribly aware of her bare legs and tumbled hair.
In every one of her imagined scenarios of this reunion, she'd been impeccably dressed in a power suit in a subdued color, complemented by Italian pumps and pearls. Instead of sodden kids and panting females surrounding her and Morgan, she'd pictured the dingy walls of a dreary domestic courtroom and a judge in a black robe, perched high above them like a disapproving crow.
Morgan at least was dressed in his usual attire for traveling, or so she assumed from the wide expanse of khaki shirt visible over the arching top of the cedar gate. Whenever she pictured Morgan, she almost always saw him in that same shirt with the sleeves rolled tight against his biceps, comfortably worn jeans and boots scarred by dirt and wear.
As he reached over to open the gate, longing swept through her, an irrational kind of wishing that their marriage had been real. But it hadn't been—and that, as the man said, was that.
"Hello, Morgan," she said as he came toward her, his long-legged stride just shy of a predator's swagger. A lion on the prowl, eyes gleaming and dangerous. He'd looked very much the same striding across campus on the morning they'd met. Late for a talk he'd been scheduled to give to a group of would-be investigative journalists, he'd stopped to ask her the way to the lecture hall. She remembered how her stomach had taken a fast roller-coaster ride.
It was the same now, only worse.
She hated the way her blood seemed to sing through her veins and her senses sharpened. Just being in Morgan's presence unnerved her.
It wasn't just a matter of his size. At six-two he wasn't the tallest man she'd known, nor the brawniest, though she had no doubt he could hold his own against bigger men in a brawl. More steely than pumped, his muscles were the product of good genes and hard work with a generous measure of brutally tough army conditioning thrown in.
The most private of men when he wasn't on the air, she'd never known him to raise his voice or deliberately court attention. He didn't have to. Morgan Paxton could command the attention of an entire room of powerful people by simply showing up.
"This is a surprise," she said when he stopped a few feet from her, his booted feet braced wide. One side of his mouth quirked as he deliberately lowered his burning gaze to her protruding stomach.
"You might say that, yeah." The soft drawl that had become as familiar to the world as the unruly mane of sun-streaked hair was suddenly edged with a harder twang, one of the few remnants of the impoverished childhood Morgan never discussed.
She took a hold of her wildly careening emotions and forced a cool smile. "When did you get in?"
"From the looks of … things, not soon enough."
Raine felt heat scorch her cheeks. But before she could reply, Morgan had shifted his attention to the two women hovering behind her.
"Hi, I'm Pax, Raine's husband."
"Ex-husband," she corrected.
Morgan glanced at Raine over the top of Prudy's coppery curls. "Not yet, honey," he drawled, his gaze flickering to her briefly before he extended his hand to Stacy first, and then Prudy who had finally managed to extricate her very pregnant body from the low chair.
Raine realized that both women had i
ntroduced themselves and their kids and were now chatting with Morgan like old friends.
"Was Desert Storm really as slick as it seemed on TV?" she heard Stacy ask in an uncharacteristically rushed voice.
Raine nearly groaned. Her next-door neighbor could handle a classroom of wild kindergartners with unruffled serenity. She ran her household the same way, managing to juggle the demands of her husband Boyd's long hours as a trauma surgeon and the needs of their two energetic daughters with aplomb. Raine knew for a fact that Stacy was wildly in love with Boyd, and yet, it had only taken Morgan a scant two sentences to have her giggling like a schoolgirl.
"No war is slick, Stacy," he said with a quiet conviction that spoke far more eloquently than the simple words. "Or as sanitary as it appeared on film."
"Did you really capture a bunch of Iraqi soldiers single-handedly?" Raine heard the awe in Prudy's voice and wanted to throttle her usually levelheaded friend.
"Naw, the poor sods were looking for someone to put them out of their misery. Darn near begged me and my cameraman to take their weapons off their hands."
Prudy laughed. "I have to admit I was glued to my TV set the whole time."
"Me, too," Stacy admitted as she slanted Raine a worried look. Should we leave? her dark eyes telegraphed.
Raine allowed herself a tiny nod, which Stacy returned. "Speaking of war, I'd best put this wet little soldier down for her nap before she starts hollering bloody murder."
Stacy shifted her towel-swaddled daughter to the other hip, eliciting a faint protest from the sleepy-eyed little girl.
"Oh, Mommy, girls can't be soldiers," Tory piped up, her gaze darting between her mother's face and Morgan's.
"Says who?" Stacy demanded, arching her eyebrows.
"Lance says." Tory craned her neck to give Morgan a sober look. Her wet ponytail bobbed wildly, and she threatened to overbalance backward. "Lance is a dork."
Morgan's mouth slanted. "Lance is also wrong, sweetheart," he said, crouching down to the four-year-old's level. "I've met quite a few terrific lady soldiers."
Baby by Design Page 3
