Bringing Up Baby Read online

  The child needed a bath to cleanse away the stench of smoke, but Devon decided to feed her first. A search of the carryall revealed she’d used the last of the formula the night before. Amanda whimpered with hunger.

  She slung the baby over her shoulder. The sudden sensation of moist warmth reminded her she’d forgotten Amanda’s plastic pants. She returned the child to the crib and began the clumsy diapering process all over again.

  Amanda howled at the added delay, and Devon hurried with her into the kitchen. “Hang on, kiddo. Maybe there’s some formula here someplace.”

  A search of the kitchen failed to turn up infant formula, but she discovered oatmeal, applesauce and canned evaporated milk, ingredients straight out of Gramma Donovan’s journals.

  She pulled the high chair out from the corner, strapped the baby in and rolled up the too-long sleeves of Colin’s work shirt. Amanda’s chubby face crumpled with distress as Devon dumped water and oatmeal into a bowl and shoved it in the microwave.

  “Never fear, kiddo,” she assured the child with feigned calm. “It’s Amanda Donovan to the rescue.”

  COLIN ENTERED THE HOUSE silently, not wanting to awaken his sleeping guests. He eased down the hallway to the open door of the guest room and noted the empty bed and crib at the same time he heard voices in the kitchen.

  He paused, remembering how he had paced the hallway the night before while Amanda screamed. He’d mustered every ounce of self-restraint to keep from opening the door and offering help. Devon had to learn that if she allowed her natural instincts to guide her, she could handle Amanda herself. But those natural instincts had taken forever to kick in. He had slid to the floor, waiting, and had finally fallen asleep.

  When he awakened, Amanda was quiet, but light still glinted beneath the door. Stiff from sleeping crouched against the baseboard, he rose and opened the door a crack. Like a blow beneath the belt, the sight before him drove the breath from his body. More beautiful than a Renaissance Madonna, Devon cradled the slumbering baby in her arms, while the bedside lamp cast a nimbus of light around her gilded curls. Her head tilted toward the child, and golden lashes curled across the silky pinkness of her cheek. The baby nestled against the curve of her breasts, visible through the thin fabric of his old work shirt, and the grace of Devon’s slender legs, extended before her and crossed demurely at the ankles, sent his blood galloping.

  He stood for what seemed like hours, drinking in the beauty before him like a thirsty man consumes water, until his conscience prodded him. Devon needed sleep, true rest in a real bed. He lifted Amanda and placed her in the crib, then gathered Devon in his arms.

  She stirred and snuggled deeper in his embrace with a sigh. He froze where he stood, fearful he’d awakened her, afraid he’d succumb to the desire to lower his lips to her rosy ones and kiss her senseless. Then common sense washed over him like a cascade of icy rain. Why hadn’t he left her asleep in the chair? She could take care of herself, and he’d already learned the hard way the pain that came from caring for a woman. He’d been a fool to risk that fleeting kiss, to feel the compelling warmth of her smooth forehead beneath his lips. The sensation had left him yearning for more, and only with difficulty had he quit her room and returned to his cold, lonely bed.

  Standing in the doorway, remembering the night before, he struggled with the emotions that still battled within him until a piercing shriek and loud crash from the kitchen propelled him down the hall.

  He stopped abruptly in the doorway, astonished by the scene before him. His mother’s kitchen, always immaculate, looked like a war zone. Amanda, covered with a thick paste, sat in the high chair beside the kitchen table, pounding the tray with a spoon and giggling with delight. Milk poured from an overturned can and puddled on the tabletop, while the refrigerator door stood ajar. Globs of runny oatmeal covered the room like a shelling from heavy artillery.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” he demanded.

  With a gasp, Devon rose from behind the table with her hands filled with shards of oatmeal-coated glass. “Breakfast?”

  “Where did you learn to cook—demolition school?”

  He drew a deep breath to keep from laughing. Applesauce dripped from her hair and coated one feathery brow, cereal spotted her shirt, and her wide eyes reflected the vacant look of a shell-shock victim. She stared at him with a stunned expression that failed to register a response to his sarcasm.

  “You have to teach the kid that breakfast is to be eaten, not annihilated.” He pulled out a chair, wiped a blob of oatmeal from the seat and guided her to it.

  “I had no idea it would be this hard,” she muttered as she dropped the glass fragments on the table and rubbed her sticky hands on her shirt.

  “A plastic bowl makes cleanup easier.” He wet paper towels and began dabbing glass and cereal from the floor.

  “Any other advice, Dr. Speck?” She spoke with more energy now, as if coming out of shock.

  “Yeah, the baby needs a bath.”

  She groaned and laid her head on the table, seemingly oblivious to the puddle of milk beneath her cheek.

  He tried to put himself in her place. He’d grown up observing his brothers and sisters learning to eat solid food, but for someone who’d never experienced the messy and chaotic process, the first time could be traumatic. His memories induced sympathy. “Did you have any breakfast?”

  Her only reply was a swift shake of her head that created eddies in the spilt milk.

  He placed his hand on her shoulder and felt the warmth of her fragile body pulse beneath his palm. “Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll tackle this mess and fix us both some breakfast.”

  She lifted her head and pushed her hair off her forehead. Warmth flashed in her eyes and her lips lifted in a half smile. “Thanks.”

  Memories of her in his arms almost convinced him to reach out for her and kiss her again. He quelled his rebellious impulses and gritted his teeth. “My robe is hanging in the upstairs bathroom. That’ll have to do until we figure out what to do about your clothes.”

  She smiled again, then stumbled with weariness as she left the room. Watching, he ached with tenderness toward her. Between instant motherhood and the house fire, she’d been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. His sympathetic feelings dissipated when his glance fell on the bulletin board. Felicia’s glacial gaze skewered him, reminding him of the capriciousness of women.

  Amanda’s chortle of delight interrupted his thoughts. She banged her spoon on the tray and stretched her hand toward him, opening and closing chubby fingers. No treachery there.

  He cleaned her face gently. “One of the first lessons you have to learn, sweetheart, is that things are seldom as they seem.”

  WHEN DEVON ENTERED the kitchen after her shower, the room had regained its former order. In her high chair, Amanda played happily with a piece of dry toast, and the aroma of bacon and freshly squeezed orange juice filled the air, making Devon’s mouth water.

  She welcomed the smells that distracted her from Colin’s scent arising from his robe, triggered by the warmth of her body. Standing at the stove with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, snug jeans slung low on his hips and grasping a spatula as easily as if it were hammer or saw, he radiated the easy grace of a man whose identity remained unthreatened by socalled female tasks. She attributed her admiration to the fact that Sara Davis and her television audience would love him.

  “Hungry?” His disarming grin made her breath catch.

  She slipped into a chair at the newly scrubbed table. “Always, and especially if someone else is cooking.”

  “Tsk-tsk.” He slid two puffy, golden slices of French toast onto her plate and handed her the syrup jug. “Is that any way for the famous Amanda Donovan to talk?”

  Her conscience winced. “Amanda Donovan is a myth. I found that out last night.”

  “And you’ve decided to confess your true identity to the world?” He filled his plate and sat across from her.

  She lowered
her eyes and dug into her breakfast. “I can’t.

  “Why not? A few well-chosen words would clear up the whole mess. For a writer, words should be easy.”

  She looked up to find him staring at her with granite eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Convince me.” He bit into a piece of toast and chewed slowly without diverting his forceful gaze.

  She fidgeted beneath his scrutiny. “Amanda Donovan is an icon, a role model to millions of readers. Her advice gives them a sense of confidence, security. Taking that away is like telling a little kid there’s no Santa Claus.”

  His eyes narrowed, telling her he wasn’t persuaded. “They’re adults. They’ll cope.”

  She shook her head. “If they find I’ve lied about parts of what I’ve told them, everything I’ve ever written becomes suspect, and Gramma’s advice is too valuable for them to discount any of it.”

  “How noble,” he said in a harsh tone. “And I suppose the quarter-million-dollar payoff for the interview has nothing to do with it?”

  She studied the firm set of his square jaw and the glint in his eyes and tried in vain to discern the reason for his cold censure. “I have to make a living. Writing the column is all I know.”

  “After a look at this kitchen earlier, I won’t argue with you on that point.”

  Amanda shrieked with laughter and pounded her tray with chubby fists.

  Devon had to swallow hard to force a bite of French toast past the knot of anxiety in her throat. His disapproval was palpable, a good indication he’d decided not to help her with the interview.

  “Leona’s on her way here with the contract.” she said. “I’ll tell her you’ve refused.”

  “But I haven’t.” He laid his fork on his plate and folded his arms across his powerful chest.

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Neither do I.”

  “But why—”

  “Evidently you’ve done a good job of bamboozling my father. He thinks you walk on water.”

  Mike. Between the baby and the house fire, she’d almost forgotten. “How is he?”

  His posture softened at her question, and worry creased his forehead. “I can’t get a straight answer from him or Dr. Packard. It’s as if his prognosis is so bad neither one of them wants to say it out loud.”

  “I’m sorry, because I’m very fond of Mike. Even if you don’t do the interview, I’d like for him to move in with me for a while. I’ll be happy to take care of him.”

  He tossed his napkin on the table and stood, raking long fingers through his thick hair. “I told you, I’m agreeing to the interview—but only for Dad’s sake.”

  “Because of the bills?” she asked.

  “No.” He propped his hips against the counter, gripped the edge and crossed his work boots in front of him. “I’d take out a loan if I had to. I’m doing this interview to keep him alive.”

  She pulled the gaping terry robe closed at her neck and fixed him with a puzzled stare. “You’re making absolutely no sense. How can the interview save him?”

  ” Because he became so agitated when I told him I wasn’t going to help you, he might have died right then and there.”

  Her spirits plummeted, not only with worry for Mike but from the knowledge Colin was helping her only through coercion. But why did that fact hurt so? She’d met him only yesterday, and the man meant nothing to her.

  Even as she tried to convince herself of her disinterest, the sight of him, enveloped in worry for his dad, made her long to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and console him. She gave herself a mental shake. He wouldn’t thank her for her comfort.

  “So what now?” she asked.

  Amanda gurgled and pitched the battered piece of toast across the kitchen.

  Colin turned from observing the baby and grinned at Devon. “Now, Ms. Amanda Donovan, it’s time for your baby’s bath,” he challenged.

  The same panicked expression she’d worn when he discovered her amid disaster in the kitchen returned, and again he struggled to stifle his sympathy for her.

  “Maybe you should bathe her,” she suggested in a breathless voice.

  “You need the practice. What if Sara Davis asks to film you bathing Amanda?”

  “Good Lord, do you think she will?” The color drained from her face.

  He shrugged. ‘’You’re the celebrity, so you know more about these things than I do.”

  “But the only living thing I’ve ever bathed besides myself is a dog I once had, and then I used a hose in the backyard.” She threw her hands outward in a gesture of despair that opened the neckline of the robe to reveal the creamy skin of her throat and the swell of her breasts.

  The painful irony of the situation taunted him. The family kitchen, a warm and intelligent woman and a charming child—all the things he’d longed for when he’d married Felicia. But they were an illusion. Amanda wasn’t his, and Devon was as career-minded and selfish as Felicia had been. Even the homey kitchen wasn’t his own.

  He averted his eyes from the creamy throat of the tousled-haired beauty before him. “I’ll gather up what you need.”

  He combed the house, collecting mild soap, washcloths and towels, and returned to the kitchen to find Devon at the sink, testing the water with her elbow.

  “I’m not totally ignorant,” she replied to his inquisitive look. “I remember Gramma’s instructions on preparing a bath.”

  “Then this should be a piece of cake.” He handed her the towels and soap. “I’ll watch.”

  Her forehead wrinkled as she appraised the child like an attacking general analyzing battlefield terrain. With studied movements, she spread a towel on the counter by the sink, then lifted the squirming baby from her chair, holding her at arm’s length to avoid oatmeal paste. Amanda giggled and kicked her feet when Devon laid her on the towel and removed her diaper.

  “Motherhood ought to come with a second set of arms,” Devon grumbled, struggling to keep the child from rolling off the counter.

  “It usually does,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. “They’re attached to the father.”

  “Instead of a running commentary, how about some help?” She scooped the naked child into her arms and lifted her toward the sink.

  “Wait.” He submerged a clean dish towel and spread it across the sink bottom. “This will keep her from slipping.”

  Devon eased the wiggling baby into the water, holding her tightly with both hands, while Amanda laughed and batted the water with her palms.

  “How can I bathe her when it takes both hands to keep her steady?” Frustration laced Devon’s voice.

  He moved behind her, trying to ignore the length of her slender body pressed against his, reached around and slid one of her hands around the baby’s back. “Let her rest on your forearm while you hold her beneath her armpit. Now use your free hand to wash her.”

  He was helping her support the baby, and his position drew him closer against Devon until her silky hair tickled his nose. She smelted of jasmine and sunshine, and through the terry fabric of the robe, the softness of her body stirred responses within him he thought Felicia had killed forever. He longed to bury his face in her hair, sweep her into his embrace—

  Water, splashed in his face by Amanda, jolted him from his musings, and he stepped away, leaving Devon on her own.

  He picked up a large towel and spread it across his arms. “If you’re finished, I’ll take her.”

  She lifted the dripping baby from the sink and turned toward him. The furrow of concentration between her brows, the unsure expression in her hazel eyes, and the set of her mouth with the tip of a delectable tongue visible between rosy lips made him hunger to gather her along with the sopping baby into his arms.

  The chime of the doorbell brought him to his senses.

  “I’ll get it.” Devon deposited Amanda into his outstretched arms and headed for the front of the house. “It’s probably Leona.”

  “I’ll dre
ss Amanda,” he offered, “and see if I can get her to sleep.”

  As he headed down the hallway, Leona’s voice floated through the house. “Good morning, Devon. How are things progressing?”

  “Other than the fact that I’m temporarily homeless,” Devon said in a wry tone, “and caring for a child who’s bitten me, kept me up half the night, peed on me and spat oatmeal at me, things are going great.”

  Their voices trailed away as they entered the kitchen, and when he returned to the room a few minutes later, Leona and Devon sat at the table with a sheaf of papers spread before them.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Ms. Wiggins?” he remarked.

  Leona threw him a dazzling smile. “With filming for the interview less than a month away, we can’t afford to squander time. That’s what Devon and I were discussing.”

  He noted the stack of department-store bags and boxes piled at the table’s end.

  Devon followed his glance. “Leona brought me some clothes.”

  “And Devon’s told me you’ve agreed to participate in the show.” Leona shoved a document toward him. “If you’ll just sign where I’ve checked, that will make it official.”

  His conscience rebelled at the entire notion of the deceptive interview, no matter how much money it paid, until he recalled his father, lying weak and helpless in the hospital, clutching his chest and pleading with him. “Help the girl out, Colin, for my sake.”

  With reluctance, Colin took the pen and signed. “What’s next?”

  As if afraid he’d change his mind, Leona grabbed the paper and shoved it into her attache case. “First, you need a wedding on the beach.”

  “Hold on,” he said with a growl. “I agreed to an interview, not matrimony.”

  Devon flushed. “It doesn’t have to be a real ceremony, just something for the videotape Sara wants to use on the show.”

  “Maybe I’ve missed out on the discussion,” he said, “but if the whole point of this charade is to protect Amanda Donovan’s true identity, how are you going to do that and have a video filled with wedding guests?”