Staring down at his white-knuckled hand, he waited for the feelings of relief. Back to work! Reprieve from the ‘burbs!
He kept waiting.
Molly drew his gaze as she made a quick, jerky movement toward the baby. She picked up Daisy Ann and held her tightly. The baby smiled.
Weaver’s insides gave another sharp twist. Shouldn’t he be glad to leave this? “I’ll be back, of course. Probably tomorrow.” But just temporarily.
Eventually none of this, neither Molly nor Daisy, would be his.
“We’ll be here,” she said, her voice quiet.
He spun away, anxious to get going. Then something—something beyond his control-made him turn back. His hand reached toward Daisy, stroked her plump cheek. He didn’t let himself touch Molly.
But the unreadable look in her silver eyes haunted him.
Just after 6:00 a.m., Weaver unlocked the front door. Immediately, the house’s familiar smell filled his nose and cleared his head. His tension ebbed away and he repressed an impulse to call out, “I’m home.”
The emergency meeting had been hastily assembled in Los Angeles for Weaver’s convenience. They’d been forced to pick another team for the Czech job since he was tied up. Though not his first choice, Sonia and Harry were well trained and had all the background he’d gathered.
He could’ve spent the rest of the night in L.A., but after the meeting broke, he’d driven south.
Clink. Clatter. Clank. Patch rushed down the hallway to greet him. “Sh, boy, sh.” Weaver patted the dog. He’d actually taken a hotel room, but he’d suddenly detested its cold temperature and empty closet.
And no matter what, the room couldn’t smell like ho—here—a soothing combination of Daisy’s powder and Molly’s perfume.
And it hadn’t held the two females he couldn’t get off his mind.
Ignoring the urge to look in on them, he went to his room, threw off his clothes and pulled on sweatpants. God, he needed sleep. After some z’s, the entire evening would fall into perspective: the barbecue boring, the meeting vital, Daisy Ann an encumbrance, Molly undesirable.
Just a little sleep. He flopped on the bed and closed his eyes. Molly’s scent filled his head, Daisy’s laugh his ears.
Sleep, he commanded himself.
Molly again. Then Daisy—
Daisy’s very real whimper.
Good. Nothing like a middle-of-the-night baby cry for a little perspective.
He jumped out of bed, eager to reach the baby before Molly awoke and he had to face her, too.
On her back in her crib, Daisy Ann blinked up at him. He changed her diaper. Then he pulled up her blanket, preparing to leave her again. Hesitating, he peered into her face. The baby didn’t look sleepy. As a matter of fact, she looked as if she didn’t want to be alone. As if she’d work herself up into a sleepshattering wail if he left her that way.
And the wail would wake Molly, which would wake his libido, which would kibosh the whole perspective thing. “Sh,” he said quietly. “Daisy Ann, sh.”
She made tiny baby grunts as he picked her up, then cradled her against his chest. He tiptoed out the door and down the hall to the living room-the farthest point in the house from the office Molly used as a bedroom. “Sh,” he said one more time, against the baby’s soft hair. “Let’s not wake up Molly.”
Jingle-clank. Patch’s collar rattled metallically as Weaver slid onto the couch. The dog moved from his sleeping spot by the fireplace to crowd Weaver’s legs. He reached a hand down and rubbed the dog’s ears. “Hey, friend. You and Daisy both looking for a little company this morning?”
The baby gazed solemnly up at him, not a trace of drowsiness in her eyes. Her forehead creased, she wriggled, and then gave a bored grumble. Weaver shifted, snuggling her more comfortably in the crook of his elbow. “You need a bedtime story, little girl?”
Daisy quieted, smiled up at him. When he didn’t say any more, her forehead creased again, deeper this time, and her grumbles became more plaintive.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Weaver protested softly, glancing down the dark hall. “We don’t want to wake anybody, remember?”
When his voice subsided, Daisy wriggled more, groused louder. Patch whimpered and shifted restlessly.
“Okay, okay.” He gently tapped the baby’s nose. “I’ll keep talking.” With a contented groan, Patch flopped back down, his chin on Weaver’s bare feet.
Weaver shook his head. “Oh, man. This is the life. Sandwiched between a hot-breathed dog and an insomniac infant.”
Daisy gurgled. Patch let out a wet sigh that misted Weaver’s toes.
“Pleasant,” he said, afraid to stop talking. “But no lullabies,” he murmured. “I’ll spare us all that pain.”
Patch sighed again, obviously relieved.
“What can I talk about?” He looked deeply into the baby’s eyes. “Spying? Nah, top secret. The military? Four words. Steer clear of leathernecks.”
He rested his head against the couch. “What next? I don’t know anything about ballet, or Barbies, or anything else a girl needs to know.” Grimacing, he opened his eyes. “Men.” He shifted Daisy Ann so she had a better view of his face. “I suppose I could tell you about men.”
Moving silently down the dark hall on bare feet, Molly paused at Weaver’s words. A large shot of laughter bubbled inside her, mixed with her relief that he was back already, and safe. A little smile played over her lips. Weaver Reed on men? At the arched entry to the living room she sank to the oriental hall runner.
Now this was something worth waking up for.
7
Weaver leaned back against the couch, keeping his voice low and soothing. Daisy Ann gazed at him, trust in her eyes.
“Men.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. The baby squirmed. “Let’s see.” Talking again quieted her immediately. “There’s always the basics. Don’t meet a blind date in a private place. Don’t go anywhere with a man unless you have cab fare in your pocket. And don’t dance too close. That’s not just a stiff zipper he’s got there, you know.”
Patch snorted his impatience over Weaver’s feet.
He slanted a look at the dog. “Okay, you’re right. Dear Abby can tell her all that stuff. But she wants me to keep talking. I’m no sage.”
Gaze glued to his face, Daisy Ann ignored his doubts and nestled her little body in the crook of his arm. Her weight against his chest seemed to ease the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He breathed deeply, easily. Deeper and easier than he had in a long time.
What if…He couldn’t quite formulate the thought, though his arms cuddled her possessively. Maybe…
Daisy Ann blew a frivolous spit bubble, and the innocence of the act clawed at his gut. He couldn’t risk a maybe when it came to Daisy Ann. “Now, listen, Daisy. There’s one thing about men I am sure about. There’s a segment of the male gender, I don’t know, maybe twenty percent of us, who are capable of breaking your heart.”
She blew another bubble that popped, dissolved. Didn’t seem to concern her.
“Just like that, Daisy. Bubble today, gone tomorrow. We just can’t do the family thing.”
She reached out for his nose, squeezed in retaliation.
He pried her starfish fingers off. “It’s nothing personal. It’s not that your blue eyes and baby hands aren’t the cutest I’ve ever seen and all that.”
She smiled, gurgled.
He tried ignoring the flirtation. “What am I doing?” he asked himself. “I’m supposed to be talking about men in general, not me in particular. But…”
His silence bothered her again. She grumbled in protest.
“But you’re not really mine,” Weaver said, the words leaking out.
Her movements stilled.
“I feel responsible for you, don’t get me wrong, but I feel responsible for you getting the very best.”
Her hand reached toward him again, patted his chin, his mouth.
“We Reeds have had the worst. Your dad, me, your mom
even. Never had good luck when it comes to family. And look at you. Lost both your folks in one fell swoop.”
Instead of listening, Daisy let her fingers swoop over to grab his ear. He leaned forward to accommodate her.
She gripped tightly.
“Let me go, Daisy.” But Weaver said the words without any conviction. He inhaled, breathing in her powder scent, the fragrance of the golden baby shampoo he’d seen Molly spread over the little girl’s scalp the afternoon before. “Let me go, Daisy.”
Her other hand came up and twined in the short hairs at his temple. She wasn’t about to let him get away.
“Honey,” Weaver said. “What do you want from me?” He swallowed to lubricate his hoarse voice.
She hung on silently.
“I wish I could have you.” He sucked in air. “Okay, is that what you wanted to hear? Because it’s true. I wish I could have you. I wish I knew what to do with you, how to raise you, some way I could make you my little girl.”
Her hands released him, and she smiled contentedly.
“But it doesn’t mean it can happen, Daisy.”
Her happy expression didn’t falter.
“Daisy, it won’t happen.”
Her eyelashes landed to rest on her plump cheeks, and she dived back into slumber like a peaceful star falling from the sky.
Molly pulled her light robe closer and hugged her knees. To see—well, listen to, actually—Weaver admit he wanted Daisy Ann thrilled her. Last night when he’d left, Dana claimed she’d seen doubt and regret in his eyes. Molly had read something new there, too-but experience made her cautious to even name it, let alone believe in it.
Weaver had quit speaking, but she stayed hidden in the hallway, not the least bit guilty for eavesdropping and not willing to miss anything else he might say. She’d sat there in the first place, ready to be amused and entertained by Weaver’s insights into his own gender, only to hear instead his own wishes.
He wanted Daisy Ann for his little girl.
Well, who wouldn’t? The baby was a sweetheart, and Molly herself hadn’t been able to resist her charms. In Weaver’s case, Daisy was more, she was family, and she needed him.
Weaver should have realized that from the beginning!
A chill of unease raised the flesh on her arms. Of course, he didn’t seem absolutely convinced he should raise Daisy. Molly didn’t understand why, but it seemed Weaver thought loneliness to be his lot in life.
They needed to talk. Not about the two of themany lingering consideration of option four paled to ghost pallor in comparison to Weaver’s relationship with Daisy Ann. But if she approached him now, tired and vulnerable, maybe she could get him to abandon this idea of giving Daisy Ann to someone else.
Patch’s collar rattled a warning and Molly rose silently.
Weaver’s voice mumbled, “Sorry, old boy, but Daisy’s asleep, and my feet are getting there, thanks to your chin. Let’s all go back to bed.”
Back to bed? She wouldn’t sleep a wink. And if she let Weaver go, he’d have a chance to rebuild his rock-solid defenses. Weaver needed love and family in his life and she knew now was the right time to make him see that.
He just needed to confess to her that he loved Daisy Ann.
Determined to make that happen, Molly retreated to her room and then came innocently wandering from it when she spied Weaver emerging from Daisy Ann’s.
He stopped short. “Did I wake you?” he asked quietly.
She pulled tight on the belt of her robe. A pair of sweatpants rode low on Weaver’s hips. His chest was bare. Tanned, muscled and bare. His nipples, flat bronze disks, suddenly fascinated her.
“Molly?” He came forward, put a hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” His fingers gripped firmly and shook her a little.
She stepped away from his touch. “I’m fine.” Her smile wobbled a bit. She was supposed to be thinking about his home life, not her hormones! “I just woke up a little…hungry.”
Heat traveled up her neck. She hoped in the dimness he wouldn’t see it and absolutely hoped he didn’t pick up on her double entendre.
“Hungry?” His eyes narrowed and he stepped closer.
She stepped back. His home life, she told herself. You’re supposed to be working on him to admit he loves Daisy Ann. “Are there any cornflakes left? Milk?” Something cold.
His shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. In the fridge, of course.” He moved to walk past her. “G’night.”
“Good night?” The words squeaked out of her throat. She’d expected him to follow her to the kitchen.
He halted again. “It’s too early in the morning for me, Molly. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re not hun—You don’t want some cereal, too?” She congratulated herself on the quick save.
“Nah.”
What could she do? Frustrated, she watched him stride down the hallway and disappear behind his door.
“Oh, heck.”
As if sensing her distress, Patch ambled out of Daisy’s half-open door and jingled down the hall toward her. She stroked his soft head.
With a sigh, Molly headed for the kitchen and turned on the light. She didn’t really want anything to eat, of course, but she figured she better get a bowl out and make some signs of interest in it.
She stubbed her toe on the hard, cold kickplate of the refrigerator. She hopped up and down, gripping her sore toe in one hand. Darn it all, Weaver’s heart would be just as hard and cold by morning. No way could she give up him now, when he was vulnerable.
The only one enthusiastic for the cereal was Patch. She let him slurp down the milk, followed by a dog biscuit chaser. As she shut the pantry door, her gaze fell on the big spider she’d been watching for the past couple of days. Molly, who regarded herself of the live-and-let-live yet down-with-all-flies school, had allowed the eight-legger to build an intricate, yet unobtrusive web in the corner of the kitchen window.
Lucky that Dana hadn’t spotted the bug. She despised the things, had even been known to wake Alan out of a sound sleep to kill—
Aha.
Okay, so it wasn’t the most imaginative ploy. “But desperate times and all that,” she told the chomping Patch.
It only took her a couple of seconds to retrace her steps and knock lightly on Weaver’s door.
“What do you need?” He didn’t sound the least bit sleepy, she thought gratefully.
“There’s a bug.”
“A bug?” Apparently he didn’t see the connection.
She hated being the one to make it for him. “Um, uh, men kill bugs.”
“What do women do with them?”
“It’s a big, big spider.”
Disbelief infused his voice. “You want me to kill it for you?”
She couldn’t make herself admit to it. She thought of all the women she’d be disserving if she did. “I want you to come into the kitchen,” she said truthfully.
Thank goodness he didn’t grumble. Thank goodness he didn’t quiz her on her insect fear. Instead, he just appeared in the doorway, sexy in sweatpants again—sigh—and followed her without comment to the kitchen.
Poor spider. It didn’t stand a chance. Before she could even suggest its removal to the yard, Weaver flattened it with the palm of his hand.
She made sure he washed both of them afterward.
And then he tried to get away from her again.
“Where you going?” she squeaked out once more.
He looked over one strong, heavy shoulder. “Back to bed.”
Now what? “Don’t you—are you sure you wouldn’t like some cereal?”
His eyes narrowed, as they had in the hall, as if he suspected something. But then he shrugged, poured himself a bowlful and sat down at the kitchen table.
She scooted to the place opposite him, crossed her arms over her chest, then cleared her throat. He didn’t look up. She cleared her throat again. “I thought maybe we could talk.”
His gaze flicked her way. “It’s not a good time, Mol
ly. I’m tired—”
“That’s what makes it so perfect. We’ll get to the heart of the matter right away.” Don’t scare him off. “So to speak,” she added hastily.
His hand left his bowl and reached across to grasp hers. His fingertips were cool. “My resistance is down, Molly.”
The husky note in his voice rubbed across her skin and her fingers tightened on his. “That’s the whole point,” she admitted. “I don’t want you resisting.”
“No? You’re sure?” At her nod, his grip tightened and he leaned toward her, his mouth pressing the side of her jaw. His lips cold from the milk. Her skin hot from his nearness.
For some reason she tilted her head, and his mouth, warmed now, slid down her neck. He murmured something against her flesh.
Molly stiffened. This wasn’t why she was here! Back primly straight, she pulled away and inched her chair from his proximity.
One of his eyebrows quirked up.
“Talk,” she said to the inquiring brow. She didn’t look at any other part of him. Too tempting.
“Oh, right. You said you wanted to discuss the idea.”
Molly didn’t remember those exact words, but close enough. “Right,” she said.
To start over, she cleared her throat again. “So, um, Daisy had a little trouble sleeping?”
“Mmm.” He watched her closely. “But I don’t think she’ll be up again. We have at least a few hours.” He smiled slowly.
Molly’s pulse revved. She checked the bowl between them, expecting he’d made soup from the cereal with the heat of that smile. Her insides certainly were mushy.
She cleared her throat again. “She’s sweet, isn’t she?”
The corners of his grin kicked up. “’Specially if she stays asleep for a while.”
Molly blinked. “Well, sure, that will give us time…”
“We’ll need plenty of it.” His chair scraped against the floor as he edged toward her. “And just for the record, I’m not tired at all anymore.”
Molly blinked again. “Terrific, because we…”
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