by Marta Perry
From him. The realization pierced his anger. Protecting was his job, had been since the moment he put on a shield. Assist, protect, defend—the military police code. Nobody needed protecting from him, not unless they’d broken the law.
“You admit it, then? That you’re Emilie’s father?”
He leaned toward her, resisting the urge to charge around the desk. It was better, much better, to keep the barricade be-tween them.
“I’m not admitting a thing. I want to know what brought you here. Or who.”
Something that might have been hope died in her deep-blue eyes. “I told you. The baby’s mother said you were the father.”
“You also told me she’s dead. That makes it pretty convenient to come here with this trumped-up claim.”
“Trumped up?” Anger crackled around her. “I certainly didn’t make this up. Why would I?”
“You tell me.” It was astonishing that his voice was so calm, given the way his mind darted this way and that, trying to make sense of this.
One thing he was sure of—the baby wasn’t his. His jaw tightened until it felt about to break. He’d decided a long time ago he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, and he didn’t take chances.
“That’s ridiculous.” Even her hair seemed to spark with anger, as if touching it might shock him. “I came here because I know you’re Emilie’s father.”
His life practically flashed before his eyes as she repeated those words. Everything he’d worked for, the respect he’d enjoyed in the two years since his return—all of it would vanish when her accusation exploded. If the story got out, it wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t true. By the time it had spread up one side of Main Street and down the other, all the denials in the world wouldn’t make it go away.
Those Donovans have always been trouble, that’s what people would say. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong,” he said flatly. “I don’t know who that child’s parents are, but you’re not going to get anything out of claiming I’m her father except to cause me a lot of grief.”
The idea startled her—he could see it in her eyes. “I didn’t come here to create a scandal.” She stroked the baby’s back, her mouth suddenly vulnerable as she looked at the child.
“Good.” He almost believed she meant it, and the thought cut through his anger to some rational part of his mind. He had to start thinking, not reacting. He went around the desk and leaned against it, trying for an ease he didn’t feel. “Then why did you come?”
She thought he was capitulating, he could tell. A smile lit her face that almost took his breath away. A man would do a lot for a smile like that.
“All I want is your signature on a parental rights termination so the adoption can go through. Once I have that, Emilie and I will walk out of your life for good.”
“That’s all?”
She nodded. “You’ll never see us again.”
“And if I don’t sign?”
Her arms tightened around the baby. “I’ve taken care of Emilie since the day she was born. Her mother wanted me to adopt her. Why would you want to stand in the way?”
They were right where they’d started, and she wouldn’t like his answer.
“I don’t.” He leaned forward, bridged the gap between them and touched the baby’s cheek. It earned him a smile. “She’s a cute kid. But she’s not mine.”
She turned away abruptly, bending to slide the baby into the stroller. Emilie fussed for an instant, until Anne put a stuffed toy in front of her.
When she straightened, her eyes were chips of blue ice. “I’m not trying to trap you into anything.”
“I’d like to believe that, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m still not her father.”
She gave an impatient shrug. “I’ve told you the mother named you.”
“You haven’t even told me who she is. Or how you fit into this story.” He was finally starting to think like a cop. It was about time. “Look.” He tried to find the words that would gain him some cooperation. “I believe I’m not this child’s father. You believe I am. Seems to me, two reasonable adults can sit down and get everything out in the open. How do you expect me to react when an accusation like this comes out of nowhere?”
He could see her assess his words from every angle.
“All right,” she said finally. “You know what my interest is. I want to adopt Emilie.”
There had to be a lot more to the story than that, but he’d settle for the bare bones at the moment. “And the mother? Who was she? What happened to her?”
He gripped the edge of the desk behind him. He probably shouldn’t fire questions at her, but he couldn’t help it.
She frowned. Maybe she was editing her words. “Her mother’s name was Tina Mallory. Now do you remember her?”
The name landed unpleasantly between them. Tina Mallory. He wanted to be able to say he’d never heard of her, but he couldn’t, because the name echoed with some faint familiarity. He’d heard it before, but where? And how much of his sense of recognition did Anne Morden guess?
“How am I supposed to have known her?”
“She lived here in Bedford Creek at one time.”
In Bedford Creek. If she’d lived here, why didn’t he remember her? “I’m afraid it still doesn’t ring any bells.”
That was only half-right. It rang a bell; he just didn’t know why.
“Doesn’t the police chief know everyone in a town this small?” Her eyebrows arched.
Before he could come up with an answer, the telephone rang, and seconds later Wanda Clay bellowed, “Chief! Call for you.”
Anne’s silky black hair brushed her shoulders as she glanced toward the door.
He reached for the phone. “Excuse me. I have to do the job the town pays me for.”
He picked up the receiver, turned away from her. It was a much-needed respite. He let Mrs. Bennett’s complaint about her neighbors drift through his mind. He didn’t need to listen, often as he’d heard the same story. What he did need to do was think. He had to find some way to put off Anne Morden until he figured out who Tina Mallory was.
“We’ll take care of it, Mrs. Bennett, I promise.” A few more soothing phrases, and he hung up.
Anne looked as if she wanted to tap her foot with impatience. “Now can we discuss this?”
The phone rang again, giving him the perfect excuse. “Not without interruption, as you can see. Where are you staying?”
She stiffened. “I hadn’t intended to be here that long. Why can’t we finish this now?”
“Because I have a job to do.” His mind twisted around obstacles. He’d also better run a check on Anne Morden before he did another thing. He at least had to make sure she was who she claimed to be. “How about getting together this evening?”
“This evening?” She made it sound like an eternity. “It’s a three-hour drive back to Philadelphia, and Emilie’s tired already.”
He was tempted to say Take it or leave it, but now was not the time for ultimatums. It might come to that, but not if he could make her see she was wrong.
“Look, this is too important to rush. Why don’t you plan to stay over?”
“I’d like to get home tonight.”
Her tone had softened a little. At least she was considering his suggestion.
“Isn’t this more important?” He pushed the advantage.
She looked at the baby, then back at him, and nodded slowly. “It’s worth staying, if I can get this cleared up once and for all.”
Mitch took a piece of notepaper from the desk and scribbled an address on it. “The Willows is a bed-and-breakfast. Kate Cavendish will take good care of you.”
He considered it a minor triumph when she accepted the paper.
“All right.” Maybe she’d anticipated all along that this wouldn’t be settled
in a hurry. “If that’s what it takes, Emilie and I will stay over. When can I expect to see you?”
He glanced at his watch, reviewing all he’d need to accomplish. “Say between six and seven?”
She nodded hesitantly, as if wary of agreeing to anything he said. “I’ll see you then.”
He didn’t breathe until she and the baby were gone. Then it felt as if he hadn’t breathed the whole time she’d been there. Well, the news she’d brought would rattle anyone.
Just how much stock could he put in what Anne Morden said? He leaned back in his chair, considering.
It didn’t take much effort to picture her sitting across from him. Cool composure—that was the first thing he’d noticed about her. She’d reminded him of every smart, savvy attorney he’d ever locked horns with, except that she was beautiful. Hair as silky and black as a ripple of satin, skin like creamy porcelain, eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Beautiful. Also way out of his class, with her designer clothes and superior air.
Well, beautiful or not, Ms. Anne Morden had to be checked out. He hoped he could find some ammunition with which to defend himself, before she blew his life apart.
He reached for the phone.
Chapter 2
Anne put a light blanket over Emilie, who slept soundly in the crib Mrs. Cavendish had installed in the bedroom of the suite. Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble for a friend of Chief Donovan’s. No one else was staying at the bed-and-breakfast now, and Mrs. Cavendish—Kate, she’d insisted Anne call her—had given them a bedroom with an adjoining sitting room on the second floor of the rambling Victorian house.
The rooms were country quaint, furnished with mismatched antiques that looked as if they’d always sat just where they did now. The quilt on the brass bed appeared to be handmade, and dried flowers filled the pottery basin on the oak washstand. A ghost of last summer’s fragrance wafted from them.
She would have enjoyed the place in any other circumstances; it might have been a welcome retreat. But not when her baby’s future was at stake.
She had to get herself under control before her next unsettling meeting with Mitch Donovan. This afternoon—well, this afternoon she could have done better, couldn’t she?
Her stomach still clenched with tension when she pictured Donovan’s frowning face. She still felt the power with which he’d rejected her words.
She shouldn’t have been surprised. A man in his position had a lot to lose. The chief of police in a small town couldn’t afford a scandal.
The sitting room window overlooked the street, which wound its way uphill from the river in a series of jogs. Bedford Creek was dwarfed by the mountain ridges that hemmed it in. What did people in this village think of their police chief? And what would they think of him if they knew he’d had an affair with a young girl, leaving her pregnant?
They might close ranks against the stranger who brought such an accusation. A chill shivered down her spine.
If Mitch Donovan persisted in his denials, what option did she have? Making the whole business public would only hurt all three of them. But if she didn’t get his signature on the document, she’d live in constant fear.
What was she going to do? Panic shot through her. She pressed her hands against the wide windowsill, trying to force the fear down.
Turn to the Lord, child. She could practically hear Helen’s warm, rich voice say the words, and her fear ebbed a little at the thought of her friend.
Helen Wells had introduced her to the Lord, just as simply as if she were introducing one friend to another. Until Anne walked into the Faith House shelter Helen ran, looking for a client who’d missed a hearing, religion had been nothing but form. It had been a ritual her parents had insisted on twice a year—the times when everyone went to the appropriate church, wearing the appropriate clothing.
They’d have found nothing appropriate about Faith House or its director, Helen Wells—the tall, elegant woman’s embracing warmth for everyone who crossed her threshold was outside their experience. But Anne had found a friend there, and a faith she’d never expected to encounter. Helen’s wisdom had sustained her faith through the difficult season of her husband’s death.
Not that she was under any illusion her faith was mature. God’s not finished with you yet, Helen would say, wrapping Anne in the same warm embrace she extended to every lost soul and runaway kid who wandered into her shelter. The good Lord has plenty for you to learn, girl. But you have to listen.
God could help in this situation with Donovan. She had to believe that, somehow.
But maybe believing it would be easier if she had the kind of faith Helen did.
I’m trying, Lord. You know I’m trying.
A police car came slowly down the street and pulled to the curb in front of the bed-and-breakfast. She let the curtain fall behind her, her heart giving an awkward thump. Mitch Donovan was here.
In a moment she heard footsteps in the hall beneath, heard Kate greeting him—fondly, it seemed. Well, of course. Bedford Creek was his home. Anne was the stranger here, and she had to remember that.
By the time he knocked, Anne had donned her calm, professional manner. But after she opened the door, her coolness began to unravel. He still wore the uniform that seemed almost a part of him, and his dark gaze was intent and determined.
“Chief Donovan. Come in.”
He nodded, moving through the doorway as assuredly as if he were walking into his office. The small room suddenly filled with his masculine presence.
It’s the uniform, she told herself, fingers tightening on the brass knob as she closed the door. That official uniform would rattle anyone, especially combined with the sheer rock-solid nature of the man wearing it.
“Getting settled?” His firm mouth actually curved in a smile. “I see Kate gave you her best room.”
Apparently he hoped to get this meeting off to a more pleasant start than the last one. Well, that was what she wanted, too. You need his cooperation, she reminded herself. For Emilie’s sake.
“Any friend of Mitch’s deserves the nicest one—I think that’s what she said.” Anne couldn’t help it if her tone sounded a bit dry.
He walked to the window, glanced out at the street below, then turned back to her. “Kate said you took a walk around town.”
The small talk was probably as much an effort for him as for her. She longed to burst into the crucial questions, but held them back.
Cooperate, remember? That’s how to get what you want.
“I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up some extra diapers for the baby. The pharmacist already knew I’d been to see you.” That had astonished her. “Your dispatcher must work fast.”
The source of the information had to be the dispatcher. Mitch Donovan certainly wouldn’t advertise her presence.
He grimaced. “Wanda loves to spread news. And it is a small town, except during tourist season.”
“Tourist season?”
He gestured out the window, and she moved a little reluctantly to stand next to him.
“Take a look at those mountains. Our only claim to fame.”
The sun slipped behind a thickly forested ridge, painting the sky with red. The village seemed wedged into the narrow valley, as if forced to climb the slope from the river because it couldn’t spread out. The river glinted at the valley floor, reflecting the last of the light.
“It is beautiful.”
“Plenty of people are willing to pay for this view, and the Chamber of Commerce is happy to let them.”
“I guess that explains the number of bed-and-breakfasts. And the shops.” She had noticed the assortment of small stores that lined the main street—candles, pottery, stained glass. “Bedford Creek must have an artistic population.”
“Don’t let any of the old-timers hear you say that.” The tiny lines at the corners of his eye
s crinkled as his face relaxed in the first genuine smile she’d seen. “They leave such things to outsiders.”
“Outsiders.” That seemed to echo what she’d been thinking. “You mean people like me?”
He shook his head. “They make a distinction between outsiders and visitors. Outsiders are people like the candle-makers and potters who want to turn the place into an artists’ colony. The old guard understands that, whether they approve or not. But visiting lawyers—visiting lawyers must be here for a reason.”
“So that’s why everyone I passed looked twice.”
He shrugged. “In the off-season, strangers are always news. Especially a woman and baby who come to call on the bachelor police chief.” His mouth twisted a little wryly on the words.
She’d clearly underestimated the power of the grapevine in a small town. But his apparent concern about rumors might work to her advantage.
“No one will know why I’m here from me. I promise.”
She almost put her hand out, as if to shake on it, and then changed her mind. She didn’t want friendship from the man, just cooperation. Just his signature, that was all.
“Thanks.”
He took a step closer...close enough that she could feel his warmth and smell the faint, musky aroma of shaving lotion. Her pulse thumped, startling her, and she took an impulsive step back, trying to deny the warmth that swept over her.
She must be crazy. He was tough, arrogant, controlling—everything she most disliked in a man. Even if she had been remotely interested in a relationship—which she wasn’t—it wouldn’t be with someone like him.
But her breathing had quickened, and his dark eyes were intent on hers, as if seeing something he hadn’t noticed before. She felt heat flood her cheeks.
Business, she reminded herself. She’d better get down to business. It was the only thing they had in common.
“Have you thought about signing the papers?” She knew in an instant she shouldn’t have blurted it out, but her carefully prepared speech had deserted her. In her plans for this meeting, she hadn’t considered that she might be rattled at being alone with him.
