Bringing Up Baby Page 2

“In the hospital.”

  “Hospital!” Concern for Mike swept away the last of her fear. “Why?”

  “He complained of chest pains last night at home. I took him in for a series of tests. We don’t have the results, but I’m afraid it’s his heart.” Colin unfastened his tool belt and deposited it in the dusty hall before entering the dining alcove and sitting at the round oak table.

  “Poor Mike.” She refilled the mugs and slid into a chair across from him. In the open plan kitcbendining-family room, Colin seemed to fill the space, consuming all the oxygen until she struggled for breath.

  Get a grip, she warned herself. Good-looking as Colin was, he was only a man, for Pete’s sake. And Aunt Bessie had warned her how good-looking men could turn a girl’s head and make her take leave of her senses. She shifted her gaze to the azalea bushes, wilting in the September heat outside her kitchen window, and turned her thoughts to Mike.

  “Is there anything I can do for your father?”

  “Thanks, but not for now. In a few days, when he’s feeling better, he might enjoy some company.” He bit into a cookie and lifted his eyebrows in approval. “And some cookies.”

  His megawatt smile almost blew her off her chair and derailed her train of thought. She fumbled for conversation to fill the uncomfortable void. “Do you live in the area?”

  “Moved back last week.”

  “Back?”

  “’From Tallahassee. I closed my office there. I was planning to open one here right away, but with Dad in the hospital—” he shrugged his broad shoulders “—the office will have to wait a while.”

  She studied his strong square hands as he rolled the coffee mug between his palms. His well-manicured nails and uncallused fingers revealed hands unmarked by manual labor. “Office? For a carpenter?”

  He smiled again, sending her blood singing. “I’m an architect—but a carpenter, too. Dad put a hammer and saw in my hands as soon as I was old enough to walk. I suppose you’re concerned about your house?”

  Baby Amanda would be arriving in a few hours, and she had no idea what to do with her. Her body had turned on her, reacting to the man across from her like a teenager caught in a hormonal tsunami. A hiatus in her remodeling plans was the least of her worries. “No, not really—”

  “You’re not canceling the work?”

  “It can wait until Mike’s better.”

  A stillness descended on him, and he stared out the bay window at the back lawn. The only sounds in the room were the tick of an old-fashioned day clock and the hiss of her own breathing.

  When he turned to face her, pain clouded his eyes. “Dad’s working days may be over. If his ticker’s bad, he’ll have to take life easy.”

  “I’m sorry. That will be hard for him.”

  Colin nodded. “He’s conscientious and proud. And he’s worried about you—asked me to finish this job for him.”

  The thought of Colin O’Reilly in her house for the next several months threw her further into panic. Would she grow accustomed to him or would he continue to unsettle her, distracting her from her work? Baby Amanda would be distraction enough.

  “I don’t know, Mr. O’Reilly—”

  “Colin.”

  She was drowning in the liquid steel of his eyes. Her thoughts whirled; her mind wouldn’t focus. “You see, I’m expecting a baby.”

  His gaze flickered to her flat stomach. “Congratulations.”

  “But I’m getting rid of it.”

  His jaw hardened. “I see.”

  “No, it’s not what you—” The doorbell chimed. “Good Lord, she’s here already.”

  “Heaven save me from crazy women,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

  She leaped up, knocked over the ladder-back chair, scurried up the hall and flung open the front door.

  A matronly woman stood on the front porch with an infant car seat in her arms. “Mrs. Donovan, here’s your baby, all safe and sound.”

  Big brown eyes stared at her from beneath the turned-up brim of a pink hat. Chubby arms and legs protruded from a pink sunsuit and flailed the air. The matron shoved the carrier into Devon’s arms, and she clutched it awkwardly, terrified of dropping the wiggling bundle. Her initial admiration of the cuddly child hardened into a knot of unadulterated panic deep in her gut.

  “Her diapers and formula are here.” The woman plunked a large bag at Devon’s feet. “The van will arrive shortly with the rest of her things.”

  A thousand questions surged through Devon’s head. “But when do I feed her? How—”

  The woman started down the steps and called over her shoulder, “My instructions were to deliver the child. The rest is up to you.”

  “Wait—”

  But the woman continued to her car, climbed in and sped away, leaving Devon standing on the porch with Amanda wriggling in the carrier in her arms. She headed back into the house and bumped into Colin in the front hallway.

  He nodded toward the child. “That was fast work.”

  “You have no idea,” Devon said, scowling at him.

  When he leaned over the child, his face softened. “She’s a sweetheart.”

  Devon studied the plump, dimpled face. Amanda stared back at her with round eyes, screwed her tiny features into a scowl, opened her toothless mouth and screamed in a frantic, high-pitched howl.

  Remembering Gramma Donovan’s advice in the column she’d just finished, Devon lowered her lips to the baby’s ear and crooned, “It’s all right, kiddo, Devon will take care of you.”

  Small fists grabbed her hair and yanked, bringing tears to her eyes. The more Devon murmured, the harder Amanda pulled on her hair and the louder the baby’s howls crescendoed, echoing across the empty rooms. Through the captured strands of hair pulled taut across her eyes, she spotted Colin, who had followed her down the hall.

  “Don’t just stand there,” she cried. “Make her turn me loose.”

  Colin bit back a laugh at the panic on Devon’s face and gently pried the tiny fingers from her hair. Devon Clarke was one surprise after another. When his father had described her as a single woman and a writer, Colin had pictured an unattractive spinster quite a bit older.

  The sight of her lithe, trim body clad in shorts that revealed long, supple legs and a damp, clinging shirt that left nothing to his imagination had been a very pleasant shock. And her pixie face had almost defrosted the glacier Felicia had made of his heart.

  Those pools of gold-flecked green filled with terror as she juggled the crying baby in her arms and dodged the waving fists that continued to grab for her hair.

  “Here,” he said, “give her to me.”

  Without hesitation, Devon thrust the baby at him. “Take her into the kitchen, out of this dust.”

  He removed the child from its carrier, and she snuggled into the crook of his arm, hiccupped and grew quiet, assessing him with smiling eyes. The tug on his heartstrings brought moisture to his eyes, and he cursed Felicia again for her change of heart, her refusal to consider having children. For years he’d longed for a child of his own to fit as naturally in his arms as this small stranger did.

  Devon tucked the car seat under one arm, hefted the large bag over her shoulder and led the way back through the kitchen into the adjoining sitting area. She piled the baby’s belongings on the kitchen counter.

  Colin settled into a bentwood chair by the fireplace and began to rock. The baby’s eyes drooped and fluttered before closing altogether.

  Devon nestled into the corner of the sofa and curled her long legs beneath her. “How did you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Make her stop crying.”

  He couldn’t decide who was more appealing—the child in his arms or the woman who stared at him with wide eyes in a heart-shaped face. “You don’t have much experience with babies, do you?”

  “Absolutely zip.”

  He shifted Amanda’s weight and continued rocking. “Babies rely on nonverbal clues for communication. The tension in your
body relayed your uneasiness. When babies are afraid, they cry to let you know it.”

  Her eyes never left the baby’s face, and he could read a latent fascination through her apprehension.

  “So when you took her,” Devon said, “she relaxed because you did. How do you know so much about babies? Do you have children of your own?”

  He repressed the pain that pierced him at her question and shook his head. “I come from a big family with four younger brothers and sisters. Seemed like there was always a baby in the house.”

  The rocking motion of the chair and the weight of the small, warm body eased some of the bitterness that had gripped him since his divorce. The homey atmosphere of the big kitchen, the child clutched against his heart and the beautiful woman across from him—this had been his dream, a dream Felicia had shattered with her selfishness.

  “What am I going to do with her?” Devon asked.

  “She’ll need feeding before long.” He slipped a finger beneath the elastic of her plastic pants. “And changing.”

  Devon jumped to her bare feet and paced before the fireplace, running long, elegant fingers through her short curls. “That’s not what I meant. What am I going to do with her?”

  “You raise her the best you can.” He couldn’t keep the impatience from his voice. Had all women become so liberated they’d turned their backs on motherhood? “She is yours, isn’t she?”

  She stopped pacing and plopped onto the sofa with her legs stretched before her, her chin resting on her chest. “Legally, yes. Morally, I don’t know.”

  “Miss Clarke—”

  “Devon.”

  “Devon, you’re talking in riddles. Is this baby yours or not?”

  “According to Fenton J. Farnsworth, attorney-atlaw, her parents, now deceased, named me her guardian in their wills.”

  “That settles it, then.” He squelched the urge to shake some sense into her very pretty head. “They must have thought highly of you to leave you their most precious possession.”

  She leaned against the backrest and stared at the ceiling. “Her parents didn’t know me from Adam. We never met.”

  “Then how—”

  “I’m a writer. They read my weekly columns in the newspaper and liked my style.” When she turned toward him, worry clouded her eyes. “Now do you see my dilemma?”

  He nodded, then realized the warmth spreading across his sleeve was more than the baby’s body temperature. “Are there any diapers in that bag?”

  Devon unzipped the large carryall, found only cloth diapers and handed him one.

  “Uh-uh.” He stood and offered her the child. “You have to learn sometime.”

  The loud ring of the telephone saved her. “Next time, okay?”

  She thrust the diaper into his hands, rushed to the wall phone above the kitchen desk and grabbed the receiver.

  “Devon, I have terrific news.” The voice of Leona Wiggins, her agent in New York, vibrated in her ear. “I’ve just had a call from the producer of “The Sara Davis Show.’ Sara wants to do an interview with you for her Christmas special, the whole hour-long show.”

  “You know I never do interviews.”

  Leona sighed into the phone. “I’m afraid, cupcake, you don’t have a choice this time.”

  “What do you mean, this time?”

  “Your new contract with the syndicate.” Leona explained, “says you’ll do whatever interviews they request, and for the first time, they’ve insisted on this one.”

  The beginnings of a headache blossomed behind Devon’s eyes. “And if I refuse?”

  Leona’s sharp intake of breath hissed in her ear. “They’ll void your contract and sue you for everything you’re worth.”

  “Which isn’t much,” Devon said with a sharp laugh. Her syndicate salary was her only income, and she barely managed to pay her bills. She couldn’t have afforded her house without Aunt Bessie’s bequest as the modest down payment.

  “Besides,” Leona said, “I keep trying to tell you, the only way to survive in today’s market is to go multimedia. You’ve got to take the plunge sometime. Why not make it big on Sara’s show?”

  Devon gulped. “But a whole hour. What will I talk about?”

  “Babies and cooking, what else?” A long silence filled the other end of the line before Leona spoke again. “There is a slight hitch.”

  “Don’t tell me I have to come to New York.”

  Colin raised his head from diapering Amanda on the sofa and looked at her with interest. Diaper pins sprouted between his lips. She turned her back on his curiosity.

  “No need to come here,” Leona said. “Sara will bring her show to Florida. I told her about your renovations. She wants to film next month at your house.”

  “Next month! The house won’t be ready for six months, maybe more. My contractor’s in the hospital.”

  “Don’t worry about the house. Sara wants to see the project in progress, but there is another problem.’

  Devon’s stomach knotted. It had to be bad news, and between Mike’s incident, Amanda’s arrival and the syndicate contract, she’d had enough bad news to last a year. “What problem?”

  “She wants the interview to include your husband and baby.”

  “Are you crazy?” Devon sputtered softly into the phone, hoping Colin wouldn’t hear. “You know I don’t have a husband and baby. I made them up out of thin air for my column. What did you tell her?”

  “What could I tell her without blowing your image? I told her yes. Your five-year refusal to make public appearances has everyone clamoring to know more about you, driving your asking price through the roof. Even if the syndicate hadn’t insisted, the money is too good to turn down.” She named a sixfigure sum that took Devon’s breath away.

  Devon glanced back toward Colin, who had changed Amanda and now held her securely in one arm as he deftly popped the top on a can of formula, filled a bottle and settled back into the rocker to feed her. The baby’s tiny sucking noises sounded all the way across the room. The kitchen’s snug atmosphere, the big man cradling the child in his powerful arms and the desperation of her own situation gave rise to a brainstorm.

  “I have an idea, Leona, but it will take time to work it out. I’ll get back to you.”

  “I know you, Devon—”

  “No, this time I promise—”

  “You’ll turn on your answering machine and ignore my calls until Sara’s deadline passes. I’m catching the next flight to Tampa and bringing the contract with me. See you this evening.”

  “Leona, wait—”

  Dead air filled her ear, and her mind churned. Across the room, Amanda kneaded Colin’s big hand with her tiny fingers as he held her bottle.

  The sight strengthened Devon’s resolve. If she had to endure the interview, at least it would be for a good cause. She’d use her proceeds to hire a lawyer, one who could free her from Farnsworth’s blackmail threats so she could put Amanda up for adoption. The kid deserved a home with a mother and father who loved her, not someone too terrified to touch her, not a scatterbrained, single writer who often forgot to feed herself, much less a baby. But first she’d need Colin’s help.

  She crossed the room and stood before him. Her idea was risky, but worth a try. Her heart thundered in her chest, and her palms were slick with perspiration.

  He raised his head, shifting his attention from the child to her. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help hearing. Is there a problem?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “Me?” His expression turned wary.

  “Are you married?”

  A frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Not anymore.”

  Why did he have to be so damned attractive? The strong line of his jaw, the way his tanned skin crinkled around his eyes when he smiled, the indentation in his chin the size of her little finger all distracted her. Her mouth went dry as she considered what to say. She hoped he wouldn’t take her suggestion the wrong way.

 
; She squared her shoulders, drew a deep breath and looked him straight in his misty gray eyes. “Colin O’Reilly, will you be my husband?”

  Chapter Two

  A baby’s needs are simple: a safe, comfortable crib, dry clothes, digestible food, and love.

  Amanda Donovan, Bringing Up Baby

  Her proposal caught him by surprise. Colin stopped rocking and stared at her. “I’d be flattered by your offer, except for the sneaking suspicion you’re looking for a live-in baby-sitter, not a husband.”

  Devon clenched her hands in front of her, spread them wide, opened her mouth as if to say something, then dropped her hands to her sides. A pink flush suffused her flawless skin. The woman might be as crazy as a loon, but she was still damned pretty.

  “I take it that’s a no?” she finally blurted.

  “Damn straight it’s a no.” He shifted Amanda’s weight on his arm and raised the bottle to prevent her swallowing air. “I just divorced a woman that I loved when I married her. I don’t love you—I don’t even know you.”

  “But it’s not—”

  Memories of Felicia fired his temper. “You women are all alike, manipulating a man to serve your own purposes. Well, this man’s had enough. I—”

  “Will you be quiet and let me explain!” She hovered over him, her face within inches of his.

  He forced himself to think with his head instead of his heart. All women weren’t like Felicia. Where Felicia had been polished and calculating, Devon appeared casual and honest. Where Felicia had decorated their home in sterile, high-tech chrome and glass, Devon had created an atmosphere of warmth and comfort. Where Felicia would have refused to allow a baby in her house, regardless of the circumstances, Devon had opened her admittedly awkward arms to the child. No, Devon Clarke was definitely not Felicia.

  For a moment, he forgot his anger. He breathed in the scent of sunshine mixed with a hint of jasmine in her hair. Her soft lips parted, revealing even white teeth.

  “I’ll listen,” he said, knowing further involvement would be a mistake, “but the answer is still no.”

  Her hazel eyes narrowed, and she straightened and glared at him with her hands on her hips. “My proposal is strictly a business proposition.”