Daddy by Accident

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Scowling, he flipped open his wallet and extracted the receipt she'd requested. "One receipt," he said, dropping it between them on the seat.

  "Thank you."

  "Welcome." He replaced his wallet before starting the engine. Now where? he thought. His proud little damsel had gotten herself out on a limb so thin the first wisp of breeze could snap it in two. She'd fall face first, too, before she'd ask for help. But like it or not, she was going to get it.

  * * *

  Seven

  « ^ »

  Stacy watched the digital display on the dashboard clock tick off another minute. Sixteen had already passed since they'd left the Budget Motel, mostly in silence. At first, Stacy had tried small talk about the weather, Boyd's work, the heavier-than-usual Sunday traffic. Boyd had replied politely, in monosyllables, as though preoccupied. Finally she'd given up. After all, it was his truck, his rules.

  Instinct told her that Boyd MacAuley wasn't the kind of man to impose his will on anyone. So why, suddenly, was he trying to take over her life? Frowning, Stacy shifted her gaze just enough so that she could study him through half-closed eyes. Boyd MacAuley, doctor turned carpenter, she thought. A loner with a heart of gold hidden behind a lot of walls. A formidable combination. An impressive man.

  He made her nervous, and yet he made her feel safe. A stranger in the ways society counted relationships, yet she felt as though she'd known him forever. As though she could trust him implicitly. Could count on his steady strength and quiet reliability.

  Yet, she was suddenly afraid to be alone with him. Not in the way she'd been afraid of Len, she knew, but in ways that were perhaps more dangerous. Ways that she couldn't control. Ways that had her feeling bursts of excitement whenever she thought of kissing him again.

  Mistake, Stacy. Don't think about that. And for heaven's sake, do not, repeat, do not start weaving a romantic fantasy around two kisses and a hungry look in solemn charcoal eyes.

  "Are you okay?" Boyd's deep voice was burred with a rough male concern that she found utterly endearing.

  "Fine. Just a little sleepy." She was used to frequent naps in the hospital. That, too, would have to change when she landed a job. Tomorrow, she thought firmly. Even if she ended up flipping hamburgers.

  "If it gets too cold in here, let me know and I'll turn down the AC."

  "No, the cool air feels good."

  Boyd spared her a quick look before returning his attention to the road ahead. Closing her eyes, she gave in to the weariness dragging her down. Only when the truck slowed, then changed direction did she open her eyes again.

  Blinking away the fog in her brain, she sat up straighter and looked around. They were on a street in a neighborhood she'd never seen before, near the Columbia, she realized after a moment. On a bluff of some kind, with the river slipping quietly past below. It was quieter here, more small town than big city.

  "Where are we?" she asked when Boyd slowed for an intersection.

  "Mill Works Ridge."

  He checked the traffic, then turned onto a tree-lined street that appeared to parallel the river. On the left was a park with a children's playground. On the right was a row of pretty frame bungalows. Though she could see a similarity in basic structure, each house had its own personality and charm. Stacy decided she would be happy living in any of them, and then dismissed the thought with a small sigh. It would be a long time before she could afford anything more than a small apartment.

  "There used to be a mill where the River Watch shopping center is now," Boyd continued when he noticed her looking around. Her eyes, when she brought her gaze to his, were clear green in the sunshine, framed by lashes tipped with pure gold. "Old Chester Waverly built about two dozen houses along this street for some of his employees. Only six are left now."

  Waverly? Stacy frowned, trying to remember where she'd heard that name before. From Prudy, she realized after a moment's concentration. When they'd been talking about Boyd's wife.

  She was a Waverly.

  Biting her lip, she sneaked a suspicious look in Boyd's direction. "I don't see any apartment houses," she said when he turned his head her way. Behind the aviator sunglasses, his eyebrows were drawn into a bold vee, and his jaw was bronzed steel, textured by the hint of a beard.

  "This neighborhood's zoned single family."

  "Does one of those houses happen to be yours?"

  "It does."

  Stacy drew a breath against the quick fluttering of her heart. "Is that where we're headed?"

  "It is." One corner of his mouth flattened, and she thought she detected a faint wash of added color along the defined line of his cheek.

  She frowned and looked down at her hands. "Funny, I don't remember accepting your gracious invitation to visit."

  He glanced her way again, his eyes crinkling behind the dark lenses. "Don't expect four stars." He hesitated, scowled. "Three might even be a stretch."

  Stacy fought a grin. He was having second thoughts about galloping full speed to her rescue, and now he was trying hard to figure out what to do next with the destitute widow. Poor Boyd, she thought. More generous than he wanted to be. And about the best man she'd ever known.

  "Sorry, three stars is my downside limit," she said, watching him shift his gaze her way. "You'll just have to take me back to the motel."

  Boyd saw the laughter sparkling like river water in her eyes and felt something tear inside him. Damn woman had been slammed around hard by an army of trouble, and yet she could still laugh. He, pathetic excuse for a man that he was, hadn't laughed in years. Really laughed. Hell, no, he'd been feeling too damned sorry for himself for that, he thought, returning his gaze to the road ahead.

  A sudden tangle of emotions made him wish he'd put all of his weight into the uppercut he'd delivered to Wattchel's jaw. Maybe then he wouldn't be feeling like such a loser.

  "Sorry," he told her, his voice rasped by feelings he neither wanted nor could banish, "this taxi only goes one way."

  Her laugh was soft, almost sad. "At least it doesn't smash into trees."

  "Bad memories?"

  "Some."

  From the corner of his eye he saw her rub a hand over her belly, then linger caressingly. He felt his breath catch and jerked his gaze back to the road.

  "I read someplace that time tends to soften a lot of sharp edges," she murmured after a moment's silence.

  And hones others to a razor's deadliness, Boyd thought, slowing for the turn into the driveway he shared with Prudy. He parked next to Prudy's Volvo and shut off the engine.

  Glancing toward Stacy, he saw her take a quick, nervous look around before fixing her gaze on his. "Nurses do it in shifts," she said, offering a fleeting smile.

  "Pardon?"

  "The bumper sticker. On the Volvo." Her smile returned, steadier this time. "Prudy's, I assume."

  Boyd nodded. So she felt safer with him knowing that Prudy was next door. Good thing she didn't have access to his thoughts—or his dreams—he decided as he climbed from the truck.

  Stacy took a deep breath before unlatching her seat belt The day's events had taken their toll, and she moved clumsily, exhaustion hovering oppressively, like the heat of the day. She longed for a long, cold drink and a nap, yet she knew she couldn't allow herself to settle into Boyd's house for more than a short stay. Anything longer would be charity, chipping away a large chunk of her pride. As it was, she had precious little left.

  Fatigue, coupled with her weakened ankle and added bulk, made her clumsy, and she had trouble exiting the truck. Before she could find solid footing on the running board, Boyd muttered something she didn't catch.

  "Pardon?" she murmured a split second before his hands bracketed her rib cage and she found herself being lifted free of the seat. His grip was strong, his fingers warm where they splayed intimately against her body, his blunt fingertips pressing only an inch or so beneath the swell of her breasts.

  For an instant they were eye to eye. His were deep gray shot with flecks of
silver and as dark as a gathering storm. And his mouth, so close to hers, was soft enough to make her own tingle. One corner curled upward a fraction, then froze as he let her down gently. Distracted, she hadn't thought to take her weight on her good ankle, and she cried out as pain shot like a tongue of searing flame along her calf.

  Instantly she was in his arms again, pressed against the solid muscle and bone of his wide chest. His deeply tanned throat smelled of soap and a strong pulse was surging in the triangular hollow framed by the soft collar of his knit shirt. He said something about stupidity, his own mostly, and set off toward the house, his strides long and sure, his jaw suddenly hewn from granite.

  He carried her easily, his breathing scarcely changing. The temptation to nestle into his sheltering warmth was close to irresistible. And dangerous. It would be far too easy to let herself depend on his strength while hers was at such a low ebb. And far too easy to let herself care deeply about him. The word "love" floated for an instant in her consciousness, sending an electric thrill racing through her. Impossible, she protested silently. She was confusing gratitude with … affection. It was a common dynamic. Boyd had been there when she'd felt most alone and frightened, his big, rough hand holding hers tightly, his callused, muscular palm reassuring against hers. She'd felt so safe. So protected. Adored.

  She blinked. Stiffened. She was veering way too close to fantasy again. And longing. "I can walk," she protested against his well-padded shoulder.

  "Shut up." His voice approximated a growl, yet she sensed that his anger was directed inward. Frustration, she decided. She'd had enough of her own in the past to recognize the signs.

  Only six more weeks to go until Tory was born—if luck was with her. She sighed again and tried to ignore the dull ache in her right temple. The headaches that had plagued her in the hospital had lessened in frequency but not in severity. Rest and quiet, Dr. Jarrod had ordered. And no stress. He hadn't mentioned how she was to accomplish that on the forty-five cents in her wallet.

  By the time Boyd climbed the three steps to the back porch, she had herself under rigid control. He shifted, one arm tightening around her, while he managed to insert the key in the lock.

  She felt his muscles flex and tighten and thought again of the wide bronze chest pelted by dusty blond hair she'd seen through the window of the Trans Am. Odd what details the mind selects to retain, she thought as he opened the door. Like the shift and flash of emotion in devil-dark eyes when his gaze turned her way. Or the subtle shimmering tension deep within her that curled deeper with each touch of his hand, each slow, bittersweet smile that did little to erase the sadness in his eyes.

  Inside, the house was blessedly cool, a respite from the harsh glare of the sun. She had an impression of yellow walls and white appliances as he carried her through the kitchen and into the living room. Gently, and with an amazing lack of effort, he deposited her on a cushiony sofa the color of oatmeal, his hands sliding free of her body slowly, as though he were reluctant to let her go. She nearly gasped aloud at the shiver that passed through her when his work-hardened palms created a friction heat.

  "Stay put while I get your things," he ordered, his expression so forbidding she wondered if she'd only imagined the soft cast to his mouth. "Then we'll negotiate." He turned and strode out of the room before she could wrap her mind around a suitable answer.

  Negotiate what? she wondered with a sigh that seemed to come all the way from her toes. A deal? A loan? Your place or mine?

  His, obviously, but only for the moment, she thought with a tired grin, glancing around. She'd expected … what? Clutter? Mismatched furniture? A man's lair? Three stars might be a stretch.

  Instead, her surprised gaze took in a serene oasis of dusty blue and soothing cream, with touches of steel gray and mauve. A room bordering on classic elegance, even in so small a house. Everywhere she looked, she saw perfection—silver candlesticks so heavy and ornate they had to be antique and probably priceless, plush pile carpets, framed prints bearing flamboyant signatures and the discreetly penciled numbers of limited editions.

  A glossy, glitzy setting for a man who came home with sawdust in his hair, and one, she realized sadly, that must have been created by his wife. The ghost Prudy had mentioned once.

  Feeling awkward and out of place in a room worthy of a magazine spread, Stacy imagined Karen MacAuley as a slender woman with a graceful carriage gliding serenely through life, her blond hair in artful disarray and her blue eyes mirroring the haughty confidence that beauty and breeding inevitably bestow. A rich man's daughter. A doctor's wife. As perfect as the room she'd created. Yet, in the end, none of that mattered.

  Stacy felt a pang of sympathy for the woman she would never know. And for the lonely man who had kept her house exactly as she must have left it.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to remember the empty days and restless nights she'd spent after the doctors had gently but firmly told her that the man she'd loved and married was gone forever. As dead as if he'd been in his grave instead of imprisoned in a madness that had turned him into a potentially lethal stranger.

  Her friends had been there for her then, fellow teachers, wives of Len's brother officers. Prodding her to work through the stages of grief one by one. Supporting her when she cried, holding her when she screamed out her rage, listening with endless patience while she sorted through her memories of the golden years with Len, taking each one out like a precious gem, needing only to be polished to shine and shimmer again.

  According to Prudy, Boyd had simply closed down inside. A man paying penance for surviving by living out the remainder of his life without joy. Without love.

  Stacy frowned, sending a sudden stiletto strike into her temple. Pain exploded in one star-burst flash, before settling into an agonizing hammering. Biting her lip to keep from moaning, she fumbled in her purse for the bottle of mild painkillers Dr. Jarrod had insisted on prescribing—after she'd forced him to spend a good twenty minutes convincing her that they wouldn't have an adverse affect on Tory.

  Her vision was wavering in and out with each pulsing pain, making it difficult to concentrate on the childproof top. Frustrated and fighting a sudden nausea, she closed her eyes, hoping to clear the cottony veil, then opened them with a snap when a strong male hand closed over hers. Preoccupied, she hadn't heard Boyd returning.

  "Damn it, Stacy, why didn't you sing out for me?" His tone was gruff, but she heard the underlying panic. He was afraid for her. Squinting upward, she tried to smile but winced instead. His face paled, revealing freckles buried under the tan.

  "Are you in labor? How far apart—"

  "Headache," she whispered.

  Boyd muttered something rude, then apologized. A twist of his powerful wrist and the cap came free. Just like that, she thought sourly.

  "The … man who invented … those blasted caps … ought to be skinned alive," she declared between the sledgehammer blows bent on shattering her skull.

  Boyd read the dosage aloud, then shook out the prescribed two tablets into one broad palm. "How do you know it was a man?" he asked as he recapped the bottle before tossing it next to her on the cushion.

  "Has to be."

  He grunted and reached for her hand. Turning it palm up, he slid the pills from his palm to hers, then gently folded her fingers over the tiny white tablets. "Hold on to these while I get you some water." Trapped by the pain, Stacy let her eyes drift closed and did as she was told.

  When he returned, Boyd found her sitting perfectly still, her face chalk white with pain, her lips clamped tight. His breathing turned ragged, his fury at Luke Jarrod riding close to the surface. Damn man should never have discharged her, no matter how much pressure the damn insurance company laid on him.

  "Stacy, open your hand, honey." It took some doing to keep his anger out of his voice. Later, when he was face-to-face with Jarrod, he'd let it loose but good.

  He felt a slam in his gut when he saw how badly her fingers were shaking. She was hurti
ng big-time, but at least she wasn't having contractions. "Put these in your mouth," he ordered softly when he'd taken the pills from her.

  Obediently she parted her lips for him, her long, mink-colored lashes fluttering over eyes gone dull from the pain. Carefully he fed her the pills, watching to make sure they stayed on her tongue before he brought the glass to her lips. She drank deeply, her small hand wrapping his wrist as though to steady herself.

  "Finish it," he urged when she drew back.

  "I'll be sick," she mumbled, licking her lips. Leaving them shiny with moisture he wanted to taste.

  Boyd stifled a groan. He really was a sorry so-and-so to be thinking erotic thoughts about tongues and lips meeting and mating when Stacy was so obviously suffering.