Synopsis | Reviews | Excerpt
A stalker has Summer
Warren desperate. So she quits her job, changes apartments, and assumes a new
identity . . . as a surrogate mother. Yet when the stalker finds her again, she
has no choice but to seek protection from the babies’ biological father.
Craig
Braddack doesn’t know what to think of the leather-clad, motorcycle-riding hot
mama that shows up on his doorstep demanding that he protect her and his twins.
While he’s suspicious of her story, his fierce protective instincts for his
children kick into overdrive when the stalker returns.
Craig
tells himself that his desire for Summer is just chemistry . . . albeit
sizzling chemistry. And he wishes he could trust her . . . if only she hadn’t
lied to him. Twice. But it will take more than trust to keep Summer and his
babies alive. They must work together to out the stalker . . . or die trying.
Coming soon!
Chapter One
OF ALL THE
mornings for some idiot to roar up his driveway.
Craig Braddack
had been awake thirty-six hours straight, and he’d anticipated a good ten hours
of sleep. Undisturbed. Negotiating the last kinks out of the Taiwan-Singapore
contracts vital to keeping his company profitable had used up the last of his
energy and patience. Yet from the sound of the revving motor below, he now had
to deal with some motorcycle maniac lost in his driveway.
Welcome back
to LA. Apparently, living in the suburbs no longer guaranteed a peaceful
morning.
Tossing off
the tangled sheet, he yanked on a pair of jeans. Without bothering with shirt
or shoes, he charged downstairs and flung open the double-wide front door.
Whatever invective he’d been about to hurl died in his throat.
He’d expected
a punk kid skidding doughnuts on his manicured lawn, not a fantasy woman in
black leather, climbing off a motorcycle. But she was real—no fantasy conjured
up from a mind lacking sleep. From her booted heels, trim ankles and legs that
angled all the way up to curvy hips, she was dressed to drive a man wild.
Although she wore a helmet, there could be no doubt of her gender, not with the
leather clinging seductively to her lithe curves. Nothing lithe about her
chest, though. Her breasts were high and firm, swelling out of a low-scooped
neckline.
She removed
her helmet, and a lion’s mane of waist-length curly red hair tumbled down her
back and sprang around her face, framing bright green eyes, a pert nose and hot
red lips. At any moment, he expected her to break into song and dance and a
striptease.
Only it wasn’t
his birthday.
She smiled at
him, a smooth, sexy smile that tied his stomach in knots and reminded him it
had been too long since he’d been with a woman. Of course, hot-blooded redheads
in black leather weren’t his type, no matter how seductive. His preference ran
to blondes, short, sophisticated blondes who had graduated from Radcliffe or
Stanford and who never reminded him of his wife. Linda had been a redhead.
He threaded his
fingers through his hair, in no mood for adolescent pranks or for memories that
caused so much pain. "What do you want?”
He’d used a
tone that quelled his employees, but she advanced like a stalking lioness,
never breaking stride. She didn’t stop until she stood so close he caught a
whiff of vanilla. The delicate scent seemed so at odds with the rest of her
that he studied her more closely. If he hadn’t seen uncertainty flicker across
her face before she straightened her spine, planted her fists on trim hips and
stared him squarely in the eye, he’d have thought her invulnerable. "Answer me,
woman. What do you want?”
"Is that any
way to greet your wife?” she asked, her voice a throaty purr.
He cocked a
brow. "Wife? My wife is dead.”
She ignored
his quizzical expression. "Do I look dead? I’m wife number two.”
A shudder
ripped through him, and he fought the strong urge to run like hell. If she washis wife—the one he’d wed by proxy—she was the last person he wanted to see.
His fingers
tightened on the doorjamb while he dredged the specifics of their bargain from
his memory. Their contract was straightforward. Strictly business. He paid
expenses. If she delivered, he’d honor the balance. Although he couldn’t recall
the small print, her showing up on his doorstep damned sure wasn’t part of
their agreement.
Their
arrangement, if successful, wouldn’t end for another eight months. Still, he
preferred to forget their marriage. When he thought of the woman at all, he
pictured her as faceless, colorless, shapeless. Imagining her seductive curves
hugged by sexy black leather or envisioning her brilliant green eyes meeting
his with a sassy expression had never crossed his mind.
He scowled.
Better keep to business.
To deal with
her, he’d have to find out if she really was his wife. He studied her
vivid features, telling himself to tread warily. Purposely, he let his gaze
drift over her. The slight shifting of her weight indicated she wasn’t as cool
and calm as she first appeared, but with a determined look she kept her chin
high.
What was she
up to? How had she found him? She must already want more money.
He had opened
his mouth to tell her to leave when she leaned closer, her breasts inches from
his chest, the scent of leather enticing him. "I am your wife, and I’m feeling
fine, thank you. And very much alive.”
Indulging in a
look at the enticing shadow of a deep cleft between her breasts, he cleared his
throat. "I can see that”
He hadn’t
expected her to blush. She hadn’t seemed the type. Nor did he expect to find
the blush so attractive. He was bleary-eyed tired, but he’d have to be dead not
to respond to her combination of overt sensuality and blushing naiveté. But
something was wrong. Her innocent demeanor contrasted too vividly with her bold
and sexy outfit.
"Stay right there,”
he ordered, backing away but leaving the door open to keep an eye on her.
Fleeing as much to search for the file on his "wife” as to hide his
all-too-obvious physical reaction to her, he strode into the den. Still groggy
but with morose foreboding, he recalled a picture somewhere.
Dean,
Atherson, and Jackson were nothing if not thorough. His attorneys had checked
the woman’s background before he’d consented to the proxy marriage. Craig had a
picture of his wife in the file, and he didn’t remember a red bombshell but a
dull brunette. With a muttered curse, he stalked into his home office, jerked
open the door that hid his storage cabinet and seized a handful of folders.
He flung aside
the superfluous files in search of the one he wanted. Smith, Temple,
Warren...
Got it.
As he
returned, he reached into the folder then scowled at a fuzzy photo of a, sure
enough, mousy brunette. He squinted in frustration as he compared the blurred
features to the vibrant woman who’d entered his foyer with the boldness of a
vamp.
She carried a
duffel slung over her shoulder and headed blithely toward the den, her hips
swaying seductively in tight black leather. Where was she going? Seething with
mounting irritation at his limited options, he approached her, glancing at the
picture he held and then back to her. She did resemble the woman he’d
married.
"Just a
minute.” He wasn’t president and sole owner of an up-and-coming international
corporation for nothing. He might not have seen his family in a while, but as a
Braddack, he knew how to make executive questions sound like a threat. Gritting
his teeth, he pointed, his finger stopping just short of the recess between her
heaving breasts. "Just what in hell do you think you’re doing?”
She started at
the leashed violence in his tone then cocked her chin at a jaunty angle. "I’m
moving in.”
"What!”
Then again,
his twin brothers Max and Ford had often teased him he wasn’t cut of executive
material.
"Don’t yell at
me.”
She glared at
him as if she had every right to live with him. If he hadn’t been so annoyed,
he might have admired her for standing up to him like one of the Braddack
brothers. Because no one else did, not his vice presidents, nor his salesmen.
Certainly not a slip of a female.
Yet, instead
of retreating, she stretched to her full height, squared her shoulders and
advanced to stand toe-to-toe with him. "Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not healthy
to upset a pregnant woman?”
"Hasn’t anyone
told you it’s not healthy for a pregnant woman to ride a motorcycle?” he
countered, his gut gripping tight at the unnecessary risks she’d taken.
"Especially when you’re carrying my children.”
"I may be
carrying your babies, but that doesn’t mean you can run my life.”
That did it.
Fury rose up to choke him. Even worse, he could no longer deny she was his
wife. He would have cheerfully sold a chunk of his soul to avoid having had to
use a surrogate. Having a choice wasn’t one of his options.
Ever since
he’d decided to hire a surrogate, he’d worried over his lack of control during
the pregnancy. If the surrogate chose to drink herself into a stupor, take up
skydiving or experiment with drugs while carrying his children, he had no right
to stop her. So he’d had his attorney select the best candidate and done his
damnedest not to think about the dangers. And he hadn’t breathed one word of
his decision to his family—because he hadn’t wanted to hear their arguments. He
didn’t want to see their pity. He didn’t want drama.
He’d wanted
peace.
Now she had
the nerve to show up here and throw the fact that he couldn’t protect his
babies in his face.
Every muscle
coiled into a tight spring of tension. "If you don’t like my tone, I suggest
you leave before I do something worse.”
"Like what?” A
defiant challenge angled across full lips that he found all too inviting.
His mouth
watered, and he suddenly recognized the baffling cauldron of emotion bubbling
inside him wasn’t just anger. Sure, he was vexed, annoyed and outraged by her
audacity—but he was also turned on.
He ought to
kiss her senseless. Unbidden images of tasting her lush lips taunted him,
tantalized him almost enough to make him pursue her. Almost.
The fantasy
couldn’t quite quell his need to shake some sense into her. Instead, he
clenched his fists in an effort to override his masculine reaction to her
stirring old memories better left alone.
At the
uncomfortable feeling in his gut, the sudden need to send her away almost
overwhelmed him. Grasping the duffel, he tossed it from the foyer onto the
front porch. "You aren’t moving in. That wasn’t part of our agreement.”
With a new
wariness in her eyes, she planted her hand on one hip and edged toward the
kitchen. "Our agreement is going to change.”
What game was
she playing? Her apprehension was genuine enough even if she was careful to
conceal it behind a thick layer of outward composure. The contradiction between
her sassy words and the troubled look in her eyes made him wonder if she had
something to hide.
He sensed
reminding her of their legally binding contract would make no difference in her
demented decision to live with him. She obviously wasn’t a businesswoman and
probably didn’t understand the agreement she’d signed. Driven by frustration
and forced to shift position to block her from gaining farther access into his
home, he didn’t bother to mask his irritation. "Why is that?”
"Since I’ve
agreed to serve as a surrogate mother and bear your twins, I’ve done a lot of
research.”
He caught the
tension and a hint of desperation in her tone and momentarily regretted his
unwillingness to at least listen to her story. "What kind of research?”
"How to make
babies.”
At her saucy
suggestiveness, he whistled and allowed his features to soften for a moment.
"Most girls learn that before their teens.”
He might not
like the fact he’d gone from angry to interested in the space of a heartbeat,
but now that he’d recognized his own response to her, he could deal with
it—even if he was enjoying their confrontation too damn much. But would his
plan work? He grinned, hoping blatant sexual suggestions would scare her into
running right out the door and leaving him in peace.
Deliberately,
he lowered his voice to a murmur. "If you’re not sure how babies are made, I’d
be willing to instruct you.”
Her eyes
widened, and her soft intake of air revealed she wasn’t as sophisticated as she
appeared. She looked down and studied her hands for a moment, then replied as
if she’d never hesitated. "I’m not talking about sex. I’m talking about
pregnancy. Did you know a fetus recognizes its parents’ voices while still in
the womb?”
She was one
stubborn woman. He ought to pick her up, throw her over his shoulder and
carry her out the front door. Yet the idea of running his hands along her
curves was all too appealing.
Inadvertently,
he stepped back. His mouth tightened in a grim line. "The point being?”
As if knowing
the farther she advanced, the harder it would be for him to kick her out, she
stepped closer to the kitchen. "I can’t grow the twins for you like peas in a
pod and then just hand them over.”
Her frosty
words doused his seduction attempts as effectively as an icy shower. A warning
shiver prickled down his spine, chilling him to the bone. "If you think for one
moment you can change our contract and keep my kids, you have a shock coming.
That’s why I insisted on marrying my surrogate. Those babies are mine,
genetically and legally.”
"You
misunderstand.”
"Explain
yourself.”
"You have to
bond with your babies.”
"Lady—”
"My name is
Bianca.”
"I don’t
think—”
"Just talk to
your babies. The softer you make your tone, the better.” She cocked her head at
a saucy angle while the underlying sincerity of her expression captivated him
and threw him off balance at the same time. "Perhaps you can sing?”
He couldn’t
have heard her right. Confusion filtered through his wariness, and he gulped.
"Sing?”
"Since I’m
moving in here, you’ll be close enough for your children to become accustomed
to your voice. If you sing to them, you can bond while they’re still in the
womb.”
"That’s
ridiculous.”
"I know it’s
early in the pregnancy. But the babies will sense your tone. They feel
vibrations.” Without warning, she took his hand and placed it over her womb.
He went
completely still. The warmth of the life inside her radiated through the
leather into his palm, filling him with unexpected wonder and banishing the chill.
His babies were there. His children.
He’d never
thought of the surrogate in terms of living, warm flesh. Her surprise move had
robbed him of his emotional detachment, and he could no longer keep his
accustomed and comfortable distance. He wanted to hate feeling this way. He
didn’t want to feel at all. It had been a long time since he’d allowed anyone
to penetrate the echoes of the past and the wall he’d built around himself. But
these were his babies. She was the woman who would bear his children.
Reeling with
the knowledge that she wasn’t simply a womb for hire but an individual with
needs and desires and thoughts that could affect him and his children in the
most profound ways, he fought down surging panic. By coming here, she’d
personalized a service that was supposed to have been anonymous. She’d
shattered his illusion of control. Suddenly, he felt as if he’d been caught in
a nightmare from which he couldn’t awaken.
He strode into
the kitchen, aimed for the sink and turned on the faucet. With a springy
bounce, she followed and stood watching. Ignoring her, he waited for the water
to turn colder.
Leaning
against the far counter, she wore a look of faint bemusement. "What are you
doing?”
He didn’t
answer. When the spray numbed his fingers, he splashed his face, praying he’d
awaken his sluggish mind to deal with her abrupt invasion into his life. He’d
hoped he’d never have to meet her. He hadn’t wanted to see her face, hear her
voice, or worse, breathe her enticing scent. He sure as hell didn’t want to
touch her stomach, know details about her pregnancy, or consider if it would be
hard for her to give up the babies.
He’d intended
to remain aloof. In his mind, this was just one more business deal. Now she
wanted them to live together. She wanted him to sing, damn her.
She chuckled,
the low contralto pleasant to his ears. "You’ll get used to me.”
"That remains
to be seen.” Thoughts racing, he splashed his face with icy water then dried
with a clean dish towel. He didn’t want her here in Linda’s house. He didn’t
want to get used to her. Yet she carried his and Linda’s children in her womb,
and he couldn’t shake the certainty that his wishes were now irrelevant. Why
couldn’t this Bianca Warren surrogate go back to wherever she’d come from and
let him retreat to his comfortable bubble of isolation?
He could
almost hear his brothers laughing their asses off. They’d told him repeatedly
that he couldn’t live in a bubble. That despite his grief he couldn’t hide from
life. And when their sympathy had turned to nagging, Craig had shut them out.
Just because Max and Ford had found happiness didn’t mean that he could.
He might not
have been happy, but he sure as hell had kept his life simple—until now.
As long as she
carried his children, he had few alternatives. He couldn’t risk alienating her.
Despite all his precautions, he had no wish to fight over the children in
court. Even worse, she could disappear, and he’d never again see her or his
children. She could be as demanding as she liked, and as if she’d held a gun to
his head, he’d be compelled to put up with her. Unless he convinced her to
leave, he was stuck with a woman whom he found too damned sexy, and if he
guessed right, in trouble up to her pretty little neck.
AS CRAIG
BRADDACK reared back and shut off the faucet, Bianca took an involuntary step
back but fought her immediate reaction to pivot and run. He raked fingers
through his black hair while he scowled at her with grim determination. Not
even a few stray water droplets spiking his lashes could soften his sharp
cheekbones, arrogant jaw or the muscle flexing in his neck. Doing her best to
ignore his chest, bronzed and bare except for a light dusting of hair, she kept
her gaze locked with his. But when he hooked a thumb in his jeans, diverting
her attention to the top button that remained unfastened, her mouth went dry.
Her gaze
skimmed his features, noting the fatigue in dark eyes that glittered icily. His
stubbornly squared chin portrayed the force of his personality, and only the
full, sensuous lips hinted at any emotion but raw anger burning just below the
surface.
As he tried to
steamroller her with his harsh look, she refused to let his turbulent
expression squash her determination. She’d blown the first impression big time.
While the
disguise had been useful, the black leather clothing had been a mistake. He’d
jumped to the wrong conclusion about her principles. She shouldn’t blame him
for thinking she sought to take advantage of him by moving in, since that’s
exactly what she was doing. But in this case, keeping the babies safe justified
her outrageous, uncharacteristic and blatantly sexy behavior.
The black
leather had made her feel deceptive and out-of-her-l eague sexy. If she’d had
another even half-decent choice, she would have taken it. However, she was out
of options. Desperation had driven her to masquerade as a tease, and the ruse
had worked. Although the heat in his eyes at the sight of her biker outfit made
her wonder if she’d be safer on her own.
But alone, she
was vulnerable. She told herself she would have insisted on living with Craig
even if he’d had a live-in girlfriend. Yet she’d done her homework. The
secretaries at Dean, Atherson, and Jackson gossiped incessantly. Collecting
information about him without attracting notice hadn’t been difficult. He
didn’t have a girlfriend, dating only occasionally since his wife’s death.
A month ago, a
glimpse of him walking through the office hallway had transfixed her. She’d
found herself attuned to every remark she heard about him. But it wasn’t his
dark good looks or his moderate wealth or his house in a good neighborhood that
drew her. That he’d lost his wife so young tugged at her heart. That he
intended to raise the children alone had amazed and fascinated her. That he was
so obviously available and handsome to boot made her distinctly uncomfortable,
but she had more important things to dwell on than her attraction to Craig.
"You can’t
live here.” His tone was cold, commanding.
Survival was
her first priority. He had to let her stay. But she couldn’t tell him she had
nowhere else to go, so instead, she ignored the churning in her stomach and
summoned a sweet smile. "Please, don’t use that holier-than-thou tone. You
don’t want to scare your children, do you?”
All but
snarling with temper, he folded his arms across his chest "You’re pregnant all
of one month. My children aren’t developed enough to have ears yet.” He took a
deep breath, his chest expanding.
Slowly, he
expelled the air and spoke in a more reasonable tone. "Your moving in here
isn’t part of our agreement. It’s not as if you don’t have a place to live.
With the funds I’m supplying to see you through this pregnancy, you could rent
a penthouse apartment.”
In the face of
his bleak gray eyes, the cheery kitchen mocked her. If only she could tell him
she needed his protection instead of misleading him. But she didn’t dare. No
matter how contemptible her little act, it was necessary to convince him to
take her in.
Anger toward
the stalker choked her. He’d disrupted her life for the second time, forcing
her to lie through her teeth, steal a motorcycle and become adept at disguises
to visit her grandmother. She’d had to drop her night classes at the law school
she attended, and she could ill afford the expense to retake them.
How far would
she have to go to stay alive? Sexy hadn’t worked. Perhaps it was time for
tears.
It wasn’t hard
to squeeze a few out, not after her day. With her life once again in danger,
she’d been forced to abandon her car. To flee, she’d taken the only other
transportation available—the motorcycle. After she produced the motorcycle’s
ignition key and claimed the bike was hers, the officer had let her off with a
warning not to ride in the park. That had been the least of her worries. She’d
had to get away. Fast.
Thankful for
the high school boyfriend who had taught her how to ride a motorcycle, she’d
driven straight to the bus station. She’d checked the saddlebags, hoping for a
clue to her stalker’s identity. Instead, she’d found and appropriated the
too-tight black leather clothes and helmet, retrieved her duffel from a locker
where she’d also had the forethought to stash cash for emergencies. Even
disguised in the flaming red wig, she hadn’t dared to return to her apartment.
Until today,
she’d thought her fortune had changed and that she’d eluded the stalker who’d
persisted in pursuing her for months. In her former identity, she was supposed
to have been safe. She had changed apartments and job, disguised her appearance
and avoided her former hangouts.
Now, her cover
blown, she sniffled and tried to appear helpless in the face of Craig’s
daunting anger. He had to buy her act. Didn’t he have a heart behind that bare
chest? A soul beneath those hard eyes?
The diamond
edge in his gaze never lost its sharpness. Playing on his sympathy was a waste
of time. The story about bonding with his babies was easier to believe than the
truth—and he hadn’t bought the story. Nor was he buying her tears. Time for
another change in tactics.
From across
the kitchen, he glared at her with suspicion. She hiccuped. "I don’t feel so
good.”
Suiting action
to words, she slid down the slick cabinet onto the ceramic tile. Three full
strides carried him to her. With leashed power, he gathered her into his arms,
lifting her as easily as if she were a child. Off balance, she let out a cry
and threw her arms around his neck.
His laughter
didn’t curtail his stormy expression. "So, have I finally got you where you
want to be?”
He’d asked his
question in a manner as playful as a kid holding his first puppy. Then she glanced
into eyes as darkly gray as thunderclouds on a stormy day, and her throat
tightened. His warm breath fanned her neck, and suddenly she realized he wasn’t
angry with her. A languid smile curving his lips, he’d dropped his gaze to her
mouth and looked as if he was planning a gourmet meal. Did he think she owed
him a little something if he agreed to let her stay? Another shiver racked her
despite the heat of his bare shoulder against her cheek.
How had she
gotten herself into such a mess? All she needed was a place to hide. She
wouldn’t get in his way. Why couldn’t he compromise? Why was he holding her so
close, and why was she suddenly so aware of the heat of his hand on her hip?
"Put me down.”
A teasing
smile played across his lips, yet his eyes remained hard, hinting of ulterior
motives. "I don’t think so. You look pale, unsteady. I can’t take a chance on
your keeling over and injuring my children.”
Obviously, he
had no concerns for her welfare. But then what had she expected? Going
in, she’d known Craig Braddack’s reputation—tough, uncompromising, adamantly
single since his wife’s death. What she hadn’t expected was her own reaction to
his proximity, a nameless, silvery excitement that tensed every muscle and
scattered her senses.
He carried her
out of the kitchen and up a sweeping flight of stairs without breathing hard.
Taking the opportunity to study him, she realized he looked different up close.
In his lawyer’s office dressed in a suit and tie, with his hair combed, he’d
appeared more civilized. Right now, from the slashing line of his mouth to the
tensing muscle of his jaw, he reminded her of a savage.
As he carried
her up the stairs, his shoulders rippling into a mountain of chest muscles,
panic clutched her. Somehow she’d lost control of the situation. "Where are you
taking me?”
"To bed.” His
eyes gleamed with a brief flash of amusement that she found irritating and
insulting. And undeniably intriguing.
She’d made a
fine mess of her situation. And Craig seemed more than willing to take advantage.
Her heart
pounded so hard that her ribs ached. "This isn’t funny.”
"Funny isn’t
what I have in mind.”
She didn’t
need to ask what he did have in mind. The searing intensity in his eyes made
her want to hide. Heat curled in her stomach.
From his teasing
tone, he’d figured out she was perfectly fine. He’d turned the tables on her,
using her excuse of an illness to keep her in his arms. "Let me go.”
He raised an
eyebrow. "You’ll leave?”
Damn him for
calling her bluff.
"I can’t.”
"Well then,
why shouldn’t we enjoy ourselves?” He eyed her speculatively. "It’s not as if
we have to worry you’ll become pregnant.”
She didn’t
laugh at his humor. Unable to decide whether he was trying to intimidate her
into leaving or really meant to take her to bed, she opted to let an
uncomfortable silence express her indignation.
The twinkle in
his eyes indicated he might be playing games. Yet she was all too aware of his
thumb caressing her hip, his bold gaze lingering on her mouth and the maddening
hint of arrogance in his tone that revealed he was aware of her reaction to
him.
While she had
no idea how she’d allowed the situation to veer so far out of control, she
wouldn’t be reduced to trading her body for a place to stay. She had to stop
him before they reached the upper hallway and his bedroom. After a glance
through the window behind him, she broke the taut silence by uttering the first
thing she could think of to distract him. "There’s a policeman in your
driveway.”
"Uh-huh.” He
looked at her as though she’d just escaped the insane asylum.
She shrugged.
"Fine. Don’t believe me.”
As he turned
at the top of the stairs, she peered again through the floor-to-ceiling windows
of the two-story foyer. A police car, blue lights flashing, still stood in the
driveway.
At least he’d
have to put her down.
For once, she
wished she’d been lying about the cop. Dealing with Craig’s amorous advances
was preferable to answering a policeman’s questions. Through the foyer window,
she watched a uniformed officer ring the front bell. At the chime, she
stiffened, and Craig turned.
She wriggled
in an effort to make him put her down. "Have you forgotten I can walk?”
Ignoring her
struggle except for a slight tightening of his arms, he shook his head. "I
don’t know when to believe you.”
"I don’t lie,”
she protested, wishing she spoke the truth, wishing the masculine scent of him
didn’t intensify her rapid breathing.
He shot her a
cool, calculating look. "Really? Something tells me otherwise. There’s a cop at
my front door, and suddenly you’re squirming. Keeping you from running seems
like a very good idea.”
She twisted,
but for all the good her struggling did, his arms might have been carved of
granite. "But—”
"I’ve never
had a police officer come looking for me. Instinct tells me he wants to speak to
you.” Finally, he put her down but kept a firm grip on her arm as they walked
down the stairs and through the foyer.
Craig opened
the door. "Come in.”
A young,
blue-eyed, blond-haired officer stepped inside. He grinned when he caught sight
of her. "Sorry to disturb your day—”
"It’s already
been more than disturbed,” Craig muttered while she fought not to fidget.
"Is the bike
out front yours, sir?”
Craig’s gray
eyes drilled her with a piercing stare. "I believe the vehicle belongs to my
wife.”
The tension in
Craig’s hand radiated disapproval up her arm, and she swallowed hard. She’d
intended to ditch the bike or hide it in his garage. In retrospect, she
shouldn’t have taken it. But she’d been running for her life. Returning to her
car had been out of the question. What could she say?
"Is that true,
ma’am? Do you own that bike?”
"Not exactly.”
A sinking sensation roiled deep in her stomach as she suspected her limited
knowledge of the law wasn’t enough to save her. But she couldn’t let them lock
her up—not with her grandmother depending on Bianca’s visits.
Craig raised
his eyes to the ceiling in disgust at her evasive reply. "What’s the problem,
Officer?”
"I know you
leave the country often, sir. I didn’t know you were back. When I saw a strange
vehicle outside, I thought a robbery might be in progress. So I ran a make on
the plates.”
Craig gripped
her tightly. "And?”
"The bike’s
stolen.”
Chapter Two
THE COP’S
STATEMENT hit Craig like a sucker punch to the jaw. He’d suspected Bianca had
secrets, perhaps a few unpaid parking tickets, but he hadn’t guessed the
surrogate so carefully screened by his attorneys could be a thief. Reeling, he
backed away, hoping the distance between them would help him understand. It
didn’t.
As he waited
for her explanation, a denial, an excuse, the remaining heat where she’d
cuddled against his chest slowly cooled. His temper didn’t.
She remained
silent, her face pale. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, either, but stared at a spot
in the vicinity of his left shoulder.
"I’m afraid
I’ll have to ask you to come downtown, ma’am,” the officer told her.
Unwilling to
let her out of sight after this new revelation, Craig reached into his pocket
for his car keys. "I’ll drive her.”
"If you
gentlemen will excuse me, I’d like to change.” Bianca gestured to her black
leather but directed her words at the cop. "My husband enjoys these kinds of
games, but I should wear something more appropriate to court.”
More likely
she was going to jail.
And that
outfit had been strictly her idea. The conniving little witch was making him
sound like some kind of pervert. He conveniently ignored the fact that he’d
been alternately wildly furious and rashly attracted to her since she climbed
off that bike. And that he’d never again inhale the scent of leather without thinking
of her.
She retrieved
her duffel and walked past him with as much dignity as a woman dressed in black
leather could muster. Her eyes still avoided his, and her bottom lip trembled.
Yet she lifted
her chin defiantly. "While you calm down, dear, I’ll change in the guest room.”
Was that a
not-so-subtle reminder that he needed at least to don a shirt? A hint that
she’d moved in? Or her way of telling him she didn’t intend to share his room?
For now.
Conflicting
emotions stirred inside him, and compassion rose to the surface. What was it
about her that made him want to help her and protect her? Her courage? The
vulnerability she tried to hide? Or maybe he was rationalizing away the truth.
While she carried his children, he didn’t have a choice. Bianca had already
caused him more problems in the past hour than his first wife had during their
five-year marriage. Were the memories of the terrible accident and the aching
loss finally beginning to fade?
Of one thing
he was certain. If Bianca lived here, he could afford to be patient because
eventually he’d make love to her. As his thoughts kept cartwheeling, he clapped
a hand on his forehead. He must be crazy.
The birth
mother of his children was a motorcycle mama. A thief. Even thinking of taking
her to bed was out of the question. The shock of meeting Bianca Warren must
have fried his brain.
He had to get
his act together. Pull some strings. Luckily, although his business profits had
slipped during the years since he’d lost his wife, he was getting his company back
on track. Besides, there wasn’t a judge in town who didn’t owe him a favor.
No matter how
badly his lawyers had misled him in their search for a suitable surrogate to
bear his children, his kids would not lack for fresh air and sunshine
while she went to jail. Not if he had anything to say about it.
Planning on
speaking to her, he bounded up the stairs three at a time but hesitated outside
the guest room door. Bianca was talking, her voice low. "Gran, I may not be
able to visit today. I’ve got to go downtown to the courthouse.”
Ashamed that
he’d been reduced to eavesdropping on her phone call, he strode down the hall
and to his bedroom, kicked off his jeans and changed into business attire. He
knotted his tie with automatic precision while his thoughts raced. At least
today was a weekday, and he stood a chance of arranging her release. He combed
his hair and wondered which judge was sitting on the bench.
After
returning downstairs, Craig gave the officer a soft drink while they waited for
Bianca. At the click of a high heel, the cop glanced up and choked.
Craig patted
the man on the back then pivoted to look up. "Bianca?”
"Yes.” The
same throaty voice answered, but that was all he recognized, except for the
incredibly long legs shown off by silk hose and heels. Shocked wide awake, he
stared.
The red mane
of lioness hair was gone, replaced by a smooth, sophisticated honey gold ending
just below her elegant diamond-studded earrings. She’d replaced the hot-red
lipstick with a more natural color, exchanged the black leather for a soft
gray-and-cream pin-striped power suit. Cream-colored lace peeked out of the vee
of the jacket suitable for any attorney to wear to court. A delicate gold chain
hung around her regal neck, an antique locket resting in the hollow of her
throat.
She must have
sensed his astonishment. Her mouth turned up in a haunting smile. With the
serenity of a celebrity about to take her bow after a stellar performance, she
offered him the crook of her arm. "This outfit will be more appropriate.”
BIANCA DIDN’T
HAVE to read minds to know Craig Braddack’s famous temper was about to explode
in her direction. The tense grip on her arm as he dragged her out of the
courthouse and down the steps into the sunshine amid the five-o’clock crowd on
the city sidewalks never eased.
"That was some
story you told the judge.”
"I told the
truth.”
"Yeah, right.”
She winced at
his sarcastic tone. When the judge remanded her to her husband’s custody,
Craig’s mouth had puckered as if he’d been chewing a bitter pill. Without
glancing at her, he’d accepted the responsibility with a stiff nod. She
couldn’t blame him for his disgust at having to take charge of a criminal, for
feeling used and betrayed. No doubt if he could now choose another surrogate,
he would do so—and to keep the babies safe, she’d gladly give them up. But that
wasn’t possible.
If the babies
were to survive, they had to remain inside her. And she needed his assistance
to stay alive.
So where was
the relief she’d expected to feel at attaining Craig’s help? Convinced that
accepting his leashed anger and ill-concealed censure was easier than telling
him the truth, she endured the anxiety and tension in silence. Still, the irony
of her situation mocked her.
If only she
could run. But she couldn’t leave Gran. So she was stuck with Craig Braddack
and he with her.
His expression
cold and accusing, he turned to her at the foot of the courthouse steps. "Did
you really expect Judge Thordale to believe your grandmother bought that stolen
motorcycle?”
"Gran’s a
little senile,” she lied. The woman who’d raised her was shrewd and as sharp as
a Stanford graduate. Fortunately, her grandmother was also skillful at
extemporizing, claiming mental gymnastics put a bit of excitement in an
otherwise dull existence. More importantly, she’d know what to say if any cops
arrived at the nursing home to ask questions. Even better, Garden Grove, the
town where Gran lived, had a different police department than Santa Del Ray.
"Let’s pay
your grandmother a visit.”
"Why?”
Craig didn’t
reply. Instead, he tightened his grip on her as if he feared she’d escape. He
led her through the crowd, and her thoughts churned. Gran was good, but could
she fool his acute perceptiveness? Bianca had already learned Craig was adept
at reading people. From his skeptical glances, she could clearly see shehadn’t allayed his suspicions.
She and Gran
would have to stay on guard, or he’d trip them up. She frowned. Since Bianca
hadn’t had time to fully explain that the stalker had found her again, would
Gran pick up her cues?
At least
Bianca no longer had to worry about going to jail.
Because she
had no prior record and because Craig had supported the judge’s last campaign,
she was now a free woman. Sort of. For a split second, she had the crazy urge
to turn and thank him for standing beside her in court. Then she risked a
glance at Craig’s hard face and wondered if she’d have been better off in jail.
A muscle
flexed in his jaw, and she canceled her absurd notion. Dressed in a suit and
tie, he looked every inch the calm, cultured businessman, but the tight grip of
his long fingers on her arm betrayed the fury seething beneath the controlled
surface.
Nothing was
going the way she’d planned. She was supposed to be holed up at home,
comfortably curled on a sofa with a good book and munching on carrot sticks—not
hiding from a killer. Instead, she was stuck with a keeper who didn’t trust
her, a husband who resented her, and a soon-to-swell belly. While her lies were
tame compared to the truth, they were necessary to keep her safe.
If she died,
so would the precious lives inside her. Even if it meant lying and stealing,
the babies had to come first. Craig might not approve of her methods, but she
had to protect his children. Nonetheless, the unsettling image of his probable
reaction when she finally told him the truth had her trembling.
He marched her
along the busy street, and she hurried to match his long stride, heels clicking
madly to keep up. Men and women chattered as they exited office buildings. The
crowds overflowed the sidewalks and spilled into the streets. As the throng
rushed home to loved ones, Bianca imagined hearts brimming with happiness,
welcoming hugs and home-cooked meals.
In contrast,
what probably awaited her was a lecture—that is, if he deigned to break his furious
silence.
After waiting
for the light on the corner to turn green, Bianca and Craig stepped off the
curb to cross Granville, a busy four-way intersection. From her right, a white
Mercedes raced through a red light.
The crowd
scattered. A woman screamed. Brakes screeching, the car skidded and fishtailed
her way.
No.
Her heart
hammered. Her blood iced. He couldn’t be after her again, not twice in one day.
Bianca froze.
Craig’s
fingers tightened on her upper arm, jerked her aside. Out of harm’s way. The car
passed so close she could have touched the chrome bumper. At Craig’s fierce
tug, she crashed into him and would have crumpled if he hadn’t cradled her
against his chest.
She clung to
him, unable to stop the shudders that racked her. They could have been killed.
Was no place safe?
"Get the
license number,” she gasped.
Brakes
squealed, and the sound of metal crunching drew her attention. She couldn’t
see. Around them, people panicked, a dog barked, a child cried. A bicyclist
rode by as if nothing unusual had happened.
"Sorry. Too
many people are in the way.”
He stroked her
back, comforting her. She should chase after the car, write down the license
number. But she didn’t want to give up the protective strength of his arms. For
the first time in a long while, someone was worried about her, and relaxing
against his broad chest felt undeniably good.
His former
fury had been replaced by tight white lines of concern at the corners of his
mouth. "Are you all right?”
Shaking, she
nodded, leaning against the solid strength of him to remain upright on wobbly
legs. Would this never end?
He led her to
the corner bus stop and carefully lowered her to a bench, his tone gentle.
"You’re pale. Put your head between your knees.”
He nudged her
head down, his warm hand cradling her neck with a tenderness she’d never
suspected in him. She took deep, calming breaths until the lightheadedness
ceased.
As her fright
eased, a sour taste rose up into her mouth. Surely the attacker in the park
hadn’t already found her? How could he have picked up her trail when she hadn’t
returned to her apartment or her car? Hadn’t used a credit card or cell phone?
His spotting her on the sidewalk could just have been her bad luck. But these
clothes were nothing like her normal attire. Neither was the blond wig.
Damn it! She
was supposed to have been protected and safe in this new identity.
"Do you want
something to drink?”
She shook her
head, unwilling to remain alone, hating the lie of omission this time. While he
believed the close call an accident, she knew better.
Being unable
to predict the stalker’s next move left her at a disadvantage, and she
considered telling Craig the truth. In the face of his kindness, the burden of
her secret had never weighed so heavily. But at the thought of facing the next
eight months alone, her fear spiked, thoroughly stifling her desire to confess.
"I’ll be okay.
It’s my hormones overreacting,” she lied. "Just give me a minute.”
Her nerves
really were on edge. Yet Craig’s solicitous concern revealed a side of him she hadn’t
known existed until now. Despite the fright, she liked his holding her close
and fussing over her. Knowing his hands could comfort as well as suffuse her
with heat jolted her to a painful awareness.
His concern’s
not for you but his children, the cynic in her scoffed.
Her hand moved
protectively to her stomach.
"Are you
okay?” Panic tinged his voice. "Should I find a doctor?”
"I’m all
right. The babies are fine.” Her hands trembled, and she clenched them.
"You’re
shaking.” Ignoring the dirt, he knelt on the sidewalk beside her, clasped her
cold hands and rubbed them briskly between his warm ones. She wanted to hang on
tight and never let go.
Easy. Get a
grip. I’m safe now. Surely her attacker wouldn’t try to run her
over again right away.
Dizzy, she sat
up and peered through the throng of people on the sidewalk. The white Mercedes
had jumped the curb and crashed into a brick wall. Hope surged at the
possibility her attacker might have been injured and caught.
She peered
through the crowd gathered to gawk at the Mercedes. Unharmed thanks to an air
bag, the driver was a woman!
Disappointment
haunted her.
The driver
wasn’t her stalker. There was no way her attacker in the park could have been a
woman. The motorcyclist whose bike she’d taken had broad shoulders, a flat
chest and thick arms. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he was alive and well.
Discouragement, sharp and bitter, left Bianca even shakier.
Her blood
stilled, infusing her bones with ice. The cold horror would never be
vanquished—not until the man who’d tried to kill her was caught. On the other
hand, this sidewalk incident was a simple accident. He hadn’t found her again.
I’m safe. For
the moment.
Though the
concern on Craig’s face was probably for his babies, his steady gray eyes
searched hers with compassion. Obviously, he was a man capable of deep
feelings. Powerful feelings.
All of them
for his first wife and the children she carried, she reminded herself.
"Are you sure
you’re all right?”
"It’s the
hormones. Ever since the doctors implanted the embryos, I’ve been emotional, a
normal result of pregnancy,” she lied once more, unable to discern whether he
believed her.
He didn’t
argue. Again she wished she could tell him the truth. She must be more shaken
than she’d realized to consider confiding in him. Staying hidden was crucial,
as much for her own safety as for his children’s.
After her
strength returned, he led her into the nearest coffee shop. The cheery
red-and-white-checkered country decor derided her bleak mood. Her nerves
jangled. Although she yearned for coffee, the caffeine wouldn’t be good for the
twins, so she ordered cranberry juice with a tuna sandwich.
Slowly, her
nerves settled, and she munched absently. Opposite her, Craig’s observant dark
eyes measured her every move. Clearly, he was full of questions, and just as
clearly, he wouldn’t risk upsetting her.
His scrutiny,
as if he feared she was about to break apart at any moment, made her uneasy.
"You don’t have to keep staring at me as if I’m going to fall apart. I’m
stronger than I look.”
"Sorry.”
Fearing in her
overwrought state, she might slip up, she didn’t want to answer questions about
herself. Right now, she wanted assurance she’d done the right thing by trusting
this man. He certainly seemed concerned about his babies. She brushed her
fingers over her stomach. "These children must mean a lot to you.”
He stared at
his half-eaten burger. "They mean everything to me.”
"Most men
don’t choose to raise children alone. You must have loved your wife very much.”
He nodded then
sipped his coffee, his starkly chiseled face giving away nothing.
"I don’t want
to make you uncomfortable, but I wondered, why now?” she persisted. "What made
you go ahead after all these years?”
His eyes
lowered as if to hide pain. He drained his mug and set it aside. "We always
wanted children. After Linda’s death, it just seemed right to carry on with her
wishes.”
Clearly,
sorrow washed over him as he recalled his wife. Bianca hesitated, wondering if
she dared ask her next question, then plunged ahead. "How did she die?”
He didn’t say
it, but his eyes revealed he still carried the grief with him. Bianca couldn’t
help but wonder what it would be like to have a man love her so deeply that his
gaze mirrored the intensity of his devotion. She knew a bit more about him than
she intended to admit. The fact she’d seen him before she’d keep strictly to
herself.
Craig closed
his eyes, looking totally miserable. Although his words were deceptively calm
and devoid of emotion, a faint tremor shook him. "I lost her at the beach. She
was caught in a riptide. A lifeguard and I finally pulled her out, but it was
too late.”
"I’m sorry.”
"I should have
known better than to swim with the waves cresting ten feet.” Guilt and pain
layered his razor-sharp tone. "Loving the water, Linda had insisted. I could
never refuse her.”
"You can’t
blame yourself.”
"I still feel
responsible for her death.”
And it was
obvious, he still missed her with all his heart. A fertility specialist had
removed Linda’s eggs and combined them in a laboratory with Craig’s sperm. But
Linda had died before the doctor could implant the embryos. During the four
years the embryos had been frozen Craig had been unable to forget. The babies
in Bianca’s womb were his last link to Linda. Part of her would live on through
them, the promise of better days, of all their hopes and dreams. His deceased
wife’s presence was so strong at the moment, Bianca felt as if Linda were
silently rooting her on.
"My mother
talked me into waiting to find a surrogate, believing that the grief should
pass before I made such an important decision. My brothers told me to wait.”
"You didn’t
listen.” Perhaps he thought the children would make him whole. After the
doctors at the clinic had given her background material about Craig, she’d
become curious about a single man who still wanted to have his deceased wife’s
children. Her initial intention had been to give him the children he wanted so
badly so his soul could be in peace.
"My family
thought I would meet another woman,” he continued, "and they believed I’d find
someone else to have children with, but...”
"But you never
did,” she finished for him. Her eyes brimmed, and she tried to swallow the lump
in her throat. She couldn’t help a twinge of envy. No one had ever loved her
that much.
Unlike Craig,
who had loving memories of wife and marriage, Bianca’s past had been more
rocky. Although she and Kendrick Yarlboro had enjoyed several happy years,
their relationship hadn’t lasted. In the two years since their breakup, she
hadn’t been attracted to a man beyond casual interest.
"What about
you?” he asked, a dangerous edge to his tone. "Why did you agree to bear
children for a stranger?”
"You must have
seen my profile.” She had no wish to repeat the personal reasons she’d given to
the psychologist before her application had been accepted. In the face of his
honesty, grief and pain, he deserved the truth.
Guilt kept her
silent.
The waitress
left a check, and he paid, leaving a generous tip. He made no move to leave.
Instead, he went completely still under the harsh lights, his blunt-cut black
hair gleaming. "You sure you can give up the children when the time comes?”
So, he’d
finally asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. She couldn’t blame him
for believing her a thief, for doubting her intentions. Yet she wanted to hate
him for questioning whether she’d already changed her mind, wanted to despise
him for thinking her so weak in character. Still, she couldn’t hate him when shewas the one who’d lied from the beginning and maintained the lie now.
At least this
time, she could answer without hesitation. "You and Linda are the parents. I’m
just the babysitter.”
His majestic
gray eyes bored into hers. "You’re a lot more than a babysitter. You’ll lose
your figure, go through the pain of childbirth.”
She grinned.
"Not to mention morning sickness, heartburn and waddling like a duck.”
He returned
her grin, then with a puzzled expression, he furrowed his high forehead, arched
his ebony brows and shoved his fingers through his hair. "What I’m paying you
doesn’t seem enough.”
She hadn’t
agreed to be a surrogate for the money, but he would never believe that. Did he
think she’d tracked him down to extract more money from him? If he was that
cynical, he’d never believe how much she’d wanted children and that she’d given
up hope of finding a man she wanted to marry in order to have them.
Even if she
couldn’t raise his kids, having them was her chance to do something good, to
bring life into the world. She didn’t expect a man to understand. Her motives
were difficult to put into words. Her own mother hadn’t lived to raise her, but
Bianca had always been grateful for her ultimate gift of life. Now she had her
turn to pass the gift on.
Looking into
his harsh features, she could never adequately explain such an abstract
concept. Instead, she spoke of specifics. "Your terms are more than generous.
But I’d prefer you take me in. I want to live with you. It’ll be better for
your babies.”
She held her
breath. If he booted her out now, she had nowhere to hide—and she and his unborn
twins were as good as dead.
His lips
curved into a wry smile that made him look carefree and boyish. "Bonding?”
She chuckled.
"Bonding.”
AFTER THEIR
MEAL in the café, Craig escorted Bianca to his car, gratified to see color had
returned to her cheeks. In one fell swoop, he’d almost lost his children, and
he told himself that his concern for Bianca was secondary. However, fear for
her safety had heightened his curiosity. He now had more questions than before.
Who was she?
Why was she so frightened?
Bianca slipped
into disguises with a practiced nonchalance, playing her roles with an
adeptness he found alluring and all the more fascinating for her lack of
perfection that allowed him glimpses of her true character. Recalling her in
the provocative black leather and wild red hair had him wondering what she’d
have done if he’d walked right up to her and kissed her full lips. Oddly, he
found the demure suit and blond hair just as intriguing. What was happening to
him? How had he let a liar and thief slip past his normal barriers?
When he held
her trembling in his arms, his concern had been every bit as much for her
welfare as the babies. That in itself told him how close she was to forcing him
to look at how he’d been deceiving himself. Taking her to bed once or twice
wouldn’t be enough. Even if he could handle a one-nighter, she was too complex
for a simple fling. Even if she wasn’t, taking her to bed was too risky when he
had so much to lose. He had to keep the babies’ welfare firmly in the forefront
of his mind.
If only she
looked pregnant, he would have had an easier time containing his response to
her. His mind and his body had never been at odds like this. Why was he having
visions of her taking off his clothes, the two of them rolling naked across tangled
sheets? She was at best a liar. And a thief.
Yet he’d
discerned a hint of vulnerability he couldn’t banish. Perhaps deceit wasn’t a
normal part of her life.
While he knew
little of the hormonal changes due to pregnancy, he wasn’t completely ignorant.
Pregnant women ate pickles and yearned for fresh strawberries; they didn’t
steal motorcycles. She couldn’t be the innocent she wanted him to believe.
In court, she
hadn’t been as relaxed as she’d pretended. When the judge had agreed not to
send her to jail, relief had washed across her tensed features. Although he
suspected she wasn’t pleased to find herself in his custody, she hadn’t
protested. She might not be a career criminal, but he’d bet everything he owned
she was hiding something.
But what?
There was nothing suspicious in her file. She’d left him with only one lead,
and he couldn’t afford not to follow up.
He started the
car. "I think we should talk to your grandmother.”
Her fingers
tightened around her purse, but her demeanor remained calm. She met his gaze
with a curious hint of amusement. "Why?”
He admired her
courage in the face of his resolve, but he had every intention of finding
answers. If she wouldn’t reply to his questions, then perhaps her family would.
Sensing she didn’t want him to meet her grandmother, he kept his tone
reasonable, wondering how she’d avoid agreeing to his suggestion. Bianca had
many weapons in her arsenal, and she was good at employing them all. He didn’t
know if she’d use sex, tears or an argument, and that intrigued him.
"You told the
court your grandmother gave you a hot bike. Don’t you think you should talk
with her about it?”
"Turn down
Parson onto Fourth. She’s at the Jarrod Home on Sunberry.”
Surprise left
him speechless. He hadn’t thought she’d so easily give in to his request.
Bianca’s impetuous audacity amazed him. She was as unpredictable as an August
rainstorm and twice as arousing. What was she up to?
She seemed
almost too eager to bring him to her grandmother in Garden Grove, and he
couldn’t understand why. Perhaps lack of sleep was causing his uncharacteristic
inability to solve the mystery engulfing her. If she had something to hide, and
she must, with all her evasive maneuvers, why would she want him near the one
person who could prove her deceit?
Not for one
moment did he believe she’d moved into his home so he could bond with his
children. Nor did he think she was out to catch a husband. He’d dated too many
woman who sized up the Braddack fortune and calculated his net worth not to
recognize someone who wasn’t motivated by greed.
So why was she
bearing his children? What did she want from him? Why did she show up when he
was just getting the business back on into the black? The short drive wasn’t
long enough to figure out the answers—not when he wasn’t sure of the right
questions.
The Jarrod
Home looked more like a hotel than an assisted living center. Inside, the
spacious foyer boasted a waterfall, and the pattering of the water echoed
soothingly. The scent from a tray of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies wafted
into the air. Hallways of rich emerald carpet and flamingo pink tile led them
past card and bingo rooms and a whirlpool and exercise area.
Seeing his
interest, Bianca commented, "Gran likes it here. She has her own apartment.
Meals are served if she doesn’t feel like cooking. Jarrod’s arranges shopping
and trips to the doctor, so though she can’t drive anymore, she doesn’t have to
relinquish her freedom.”
Her knowledge
of the facility impressed him. Obviously, she cared about her grandmother.
They paused in
the hall, waiting for a woman with a walker to turn toward the elevator. Potted
palms in ceramic containers lined this corridor, giving the home the atmosphere
of a luxury hotel.
A
bleached-blond man in his late twenties and wearing white tennis shorts ambled
toward them, a tennis racquet in his hand. "Hi, Bianca. Almost didn’t recognize
you. Nice hair color.”
"Thanks,
Fred.” Apparently, the man was accustomed to Bianca’s disguises. "Craig
Braddack, I’d like you to meet Fred Hardcastle.”
Fred shook
hands with Craig, but his gaze focused on Bianca. "Gran’s acting feisty.”
Bianca
chuckled. "Did she beat you again?”
Fred winked.
"Does her good when I let her win now and then. But that’s not it.”
"I give up.
What’s she done this time?”
Fred shook his
head and grinned, showing off his white teeth against his tan as he passed by.
"I’m not spoiling her surprise.”
The cheerful
man left Craig with an image of friendly concern. Not exactly the sterile and
depressing picture he’d expected. If the rest of the staff were as upbeat and
sympathetic as Fred, the residents were well cared for.
"How long has
your grandmother lived here?”
"A few years.
Fred’s the athletic director. Gran says the women go to his clinics just to
ogle his legs.” They took an elevator up, and after a short walk down another
hall, Bianca stopped at a door decorated with a silver star, knocked and called
out, "Gran.”
"Coming,
dear.”
Craig angled
himself to one side, positioning himself to observe Bianca’s face as the door
opened. Instead of some secret signal, her eyes lit with joy, and she smiled
with genuine warmth. She hugged the short and rounded woman, who appeared to be
in her late seventies. Just as eccentric as her granddaughter, Gran wore jeans
and a t-shirt, her thin hair dyed electric blue.
Bianca leaned
back from the embrace and examined the older woman. "I like your hair, Gran.”
Her grandmother beamed and fluffed out a curl. "Really? I thought this look
might be a little young for me.”
"Naw. You
don’t look a day over fifty.”
"What are you
wearing, child?” She surveyed Bianca’s pin-striped suit. "Did someone die?”
"I had a
business appointment,” Bianca explained.
Craig
swallowed a grin as he wondered what her grandmother would have said about
black leather. He suspected Gran would approve—especially if she had bought
Bianca that bike.
Gran peered
around Bianca. "Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Bianca’s lips
turned up in an easy grin. "Gran, I’d like you to meet my friend, Craig
Braddack. He wants to ask about the motorcycle you bought me.”
Gran fumbled
for her pink-tinted John Lennon glasses and led them into a spotless den
decorated in soft whites, aqua and peach. "Well, I don’t know much about
motorbikes. I paid two hundred dollars for it. Do you suppose that was too much?”
Craig took an
overstuffed wing chair. Gran seated herself on the matching couch, pulled a
Siamese cat into her lap and scratched it between the ears while Bianca paced.
"Where did you
buy the bike, ma’am?” Craig asked while Bianca tossed her hair back from her
face and gave him a warning look as if she expected he’d cross-examine the
woman like a hostile witness.
"I always shop
at the mall.”
AT GRAN’S
CURT, matter-of-fact reply, Craig restrained his astonishment. No mall he’d
ever been to sold motorcycles. Had the old woman been conned? Or was he being
set up? Bianca had called Gran from his home. She’d had time to warn her that
the bike was stolen. Was he too suspicious? Was Gran who she appeared—merely a
dotty old lady with eccentric hair?
"Jarrod’s bus
provides daily trips to the mall,” Bianca reminded him.
"Did you get a
title?” Craig asked, determined to learn the real story.
Gran looked
bewildered. "I didn’t buy any books. My eyes aren’t what they used to be.”
Craig choked
on a chuckle.
Eyes twinkling
Bianca took a seat on the couch. "Gran, he means did you get
a... receipt for the bike?”
Gran shook her
head and, with a girlish gesture, twisted her finger in her blue hair. "That’s
why I got a good deal. The salesman told me September is a special month for
sales—like a flea market. Bought it—as is, where is.” She beamed with pride at
remembering the correct terminology. "Didn’t it run good?”
There could be
no doubting Bianca’s love for her grandmother as she patted Gran’s hand. "The
motor ran just fine.” Bianca turned to him. "Is there anything else you need?”
He felt like a
heel, trying to trip up the grandmother to catch Bianca in a lie. Yet she was
hiding something; he sensed it by the challenging glint in her too-green eyes.
He turned back to the elderly woman. "Just one more question, please. When did
you buy the bike?”
Bianca crossed
her legs, and her foot bounced nervously, the heel of her shoe slipping off one
elegant foot. He fought down a twinge of desire.
"Let me see.
Fred brought me a chicken dinner that day. I think it was Friday. No, Friday is
fish day.” Gran scratched her neck. Her eyes widened. "Sorry. I can’t remember.
Is it important?”
Bianca stood
and leaned over to embrace her grandmother. "No. It’s not important.”
Craig had difficulty
keeping his gaze off Bianca’s long, lean legs. She didn’t seem to notice, but
he thought her grandmother did, because behind Bianca’s back, she gave him the
thumbs-up signal.
"Thanks for
your help, Gran. We’ve got to go.” Bianca kissed the woman’s cheek. "I’ll be in
touch.”
As Craig drove
home, Bianca lay back against the headrest. Her face still looked tired, but
the tension had eased from her shoulders.
"You seem
especially close to your grandmother.”
"I am.”
She spoke
reluctantly, and he wondered if his suspicions were running rampant. She’d told
him precious little about her family, even less about her past. She hadn’t
mentioned friends, either. The way she avoided his questions told him not to
trust her.
Wanting to do
something normal to ground him in reality, Craig pulled over at an ice-cream
stand along the beach. The sun had set, and the first stars glittered in the
night sky, adding to his strangely restless mood. Lack of sleep and the
surprises of the day, not the woman beside him, had caused a tautness to hum
through him.
From the
moment she woke him this morning, the day had held a fast-forward quality, and
he suddenly ached for the peace of a moonlit stroll on a beach with a pretty
woman at his side.
"So you grew
up with your grandmother?”
"Gran raised
me. It wasn’t easy for her, burying a son. She treated me like a daughter—a
hellion, she called me.”
He chuckled,
picturing Bianca as a mischievous ten-year-old. "Now you causing trouble—thatI don’t find hard to believe.” He spotted a place where the cliffs broke.
Moonlight illuminated a path down to the Pacific. "How about an ice cream cone
and a walk?”
"Sure. I need
the calcium.”
Ten minutes
later, she was licking chocolate off her lips while he tried to think of
something besides the shape of her mouth. Besides kissing her.
Other couples
strolled along the shore. Several people walked their dogs. Someone rode a
skateboard with a sail attached down the beach—typical Southern California,
September craziness.
To avoid
bumping her, Craig unclipped his cell phone from his belt and reattached it to
his other side. Bianca slipped off her heels. As they strolled side by side, he
recalled the softness of her breasts pressing against him when she’d clung to
him earlier. He recalled the feel of her in his arms, the scent of vanilla, the
tender way she’d placed his hand over her womb, and he ached to—
Stop it.
What the hell
was wrong with him? The woman had secrets that might be vital to the welfare of
his children. Instead of thinking about romance, he should be grilling her.
"Where’s the
rest of your family?”
"Gran and her
brother are the only family I have.”
"And your
parents?”
"My parents
died in a train crash when I was ten.”
"What about
brothers and sisters?”
"Just me.”
Craig might
have been avoiding his brothers for a while, but he couldn’t imagine growing up
without them. They were close. Despite the fact that he’d isolated himself he
could pick up his cell and his brothers would be there for him. And if they
could have taken the pain of his losing Linda from him, they would have born it
gladly.
"My
grandparents were the only family I had left—except for Gran’s useless younger
brother, Bob.”
"Useless?”
"Bob only came
around when he needed money for liquor. He was famous for ranting about some
missing stock that Gran said couldn’t possibly exist.”
"So you lived
with your grandparents?”
"Yes. Two
years after my parents’ train accident, Grandfather died of emphysema, leaving
Gran to take care of me alone. Gran never once complained, scrubbing floors to
earn the money to raise me. She’d come home and prepare my favorite foods, and
at night, she’d sew doll clothes for my collection.”
Bianca
stumbled over a rock. He reached out to prevent her from falling.
A rifle shot
cracked the air.
