Rumors: The McCaffertys: The McCaffertys: ThorneThe McCaffertys: Matt

by Lisa Jackson

“I want to dip. I don’t want it on the top.” Her little face was screwed up in a scowl as she glared at her basket. The other twin was sucking like crazy, trying to draw the too thick milk shake up her straw.

  “It don’t come,” she complained.

  “Just try harder.”

  “I am!”

  “I don’t like it,” the first one insisted and Thorne seeing no other answer, took her hot dog, put it in his basket, then placed his cheeseburger in her basket and switched them. He handed her an opened packet of ketchup.

  “You do it any way you want. Now—” he took the milk shake from the other girl’s hands and opening in the lid, used the straw to swirl the chocolatey goo “—that should help,” he said, replacing the lid and straw. “If it doesn’t work, just give it a little time, it’ll melt.”

  “Where’s Mommy?” number one asked as she plopped a French fry into a pool of ketchup that she’d created.

  “In the car making a call.”

  “Is she coming back?”

  “I think so,” he said and winked. The pixies tore into their food, pulling off the buns and squeezing more mustard and ketchup onto their hot dogs than was necessary but Thorne, not used to being around children of any age, decided to let them do what they wanted. By the time Nicole returned, they had condiments on their faces, hands, clothes and even in their hair.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Minor emergency—nothing serious. I handled it. Oh, what happened?” she asked, eyeing her daughters.

  “They ate.”

  “Didn’t they give you bibs?” Her eyes fell to the tray where two plastic bibs were tucked.

  “Didn’t see ’em.”

  Sighing, she wiped one face, then the other before finally turning her attention to her own dinner. “You have a lot to learn,” she said, biting into her hamburger.

  “That’s why I need a nanny.”

  “Or two,” she said.

  “As I mentioned, I was hoping you could help me out in that department.”

  “How?”

  “Either you or your sitter might be able to give me the names of people who would be interested in a part-time or full-time job taking care of the baby. At least until Randi’s on her feet and able to care for him.”

  “It’s a possibility,” she said, touching a napkin to the corner of her lips, then automatically wiping a smudge from one of her daughter’s cheeks.

  “Don’t!” the little girl cried.

  “Oh, Molly, don’t be such a grump.” Nicole was undeterred and soon, despite much cringing and grumbling, the little girl’s face was condiment-free and they were all digging into their food again.

  Thorne watched Nicole with her daughters, how she joked with them and played with them even when she was disciplining them. She didn’t raise her voice, always paid attention when they spoke and pointed out their mistakes with a wink and a smile. It didn’t always work. The precocious one challenged her mother and the shier little girl sometimes didn’t speak and offered Nicole a cold shoulder, but throughout the meal one thing was clear—Nicole Sanders Stevenson, M.D., was one helluva mother.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t looking for a woman who could raise children. Hell, he wasn’t even looking for a woman period.

  Yet, for a reason he couldn’t name he still carried that damned ring his father had given him in his pocket.

  Chapter 12

  Thorne had never felt so awkward in his life. He’d just fed the baby and burped him and heard soft little sighs against his shoulder as he walked from the den to the living room and wondered how the hell he was going to get J.R. into his crib without waking him. The baby, bright-eyed and healthy, seemed the most content while being held, which was a worry.

  A natural athlete, Thorne had been able to handle a wet football, rope a calf, ride a horse, or crack a baseball over the fence, but when it came to holding, feeding, burping and diapering a tiny infant, he was all thumbs.

  Not that his brothers were any better at it. Matt had spent his life on the ranch and had dealt with everything from newly hatched chicks to orphaned lambs and foals who were rejected by the mares that gave them birth. He’d helped bring litters of puppies and kittens into this world. But when it came to helpless human babies, he, too, seemed out of place and incompetent. Slade was the worst. Although fascinated beyond belief with the baby, he seemed terrified to hold J.R. That part was downright ridiculous in Thorne’s estimation, though Matt was amused that his daredevil of a brother was frightened of the infant.

  J.R.’s eyes blinked open.

  Uh-oh.

  Within seconds he started to put up a fuss and Thorne tried not to panic. “You’re all right,” he said, wondering how it was that mothers seemed to have some kind of natural rhythm while holding and swaying slightly as they held a child. He’d seen that same natural reaction through the glass window of the hospital when Nicole had cradled and fed the baby.

  He tried to sway, felt like an ass and the baby started crying in earnest, wailing and turning red in the face. “Now, it’s okay,” Thorne reassured the child when he had no idea whatsoever was wrong with him. “Hang in there.”

  Juanita’s footsteps echoed down the stairs. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said to Thorne’s utter relief.

  A second later she appeared. “He is tired.”

  “He was asleep.”

  “Then why didn’t you put him in his cuna?”

  “Because I couldn’t get to his cuna,” Thorne said, emphasizing the Spanish word, “without waking him up.”

  “But you woke him up anyway.” She lifted a graying eyebrow as the baby cried louder than Thorne thought was possible.

  “Believe me, I wasn’t trying to.”

  “Here, let me have him. Come on, little one,” she said softly, prying him from Thorne’s stiff fingers. She began to murmur softly in Spanish as she carried the infant from the room and to Thorne’s mortification the baby started to quiet. Within minutes silence prevailed and Juanita, walking softly, returned.

  “How do you do that?”

  “Practice,” she said and smiled.

  “Maybe I need lessons.”

  “Dios, all you brothers do. And probably Señorita Randi as well. How is she going to take care of the baby, write her columns, finish her book and get well?” She shook her head as she headed to the kitchen.

  “There is no book,” Thorne said, following her down the hallway. “Remember, that was always just her dream. Nothing ever came of it.”

  “But she said that she would write one. I believed it. She will be rich and famous one day. You will see.” She scrounged in the refrigerator, muttered something under her breath and reached inside where she found a package, opened it and looked at Harold who lay on a rag rug near the back door. “I saved this soup bone for you,” she told him as the crippled dog climbed to his feet and wagged his tail. “But you take it outside.” She tossed the bone to the dog and looked over her shoulder at Thorne. “There is a book.”

  “I hope so,” Thorne said, but nearly dismissed the idea. Randi had talked about writing the Great American Novel ever since she was fifteen. To his knowledge she hadn’t written the first sentence much less a chapter or two. There was nothing to it, he told himself, but made a mental note to mention Randi’s pipe dream to Striker. Why not? It certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  * * *

  Nicole climbed out of the bathtub and stepped into her robe. The twins were asleep, the house quiet. Cinching the belt, she padded to the kitchen and heated a cup of cocoa. Patches, curled on a cushion of one of the café chairs at the table, opened one eye and yawned, showing off needle-sharp teeth before resting his chin on his paws again. The microwave dinged and Nicole picked up her cup to carry into the living room where a fire still burned in the grate. Scarlet coals glowed brightly and the fire popped and hissed.

  Sipping from her cup, Nicole settled into a corner of her love seat and flipped through a parenting magazine. She�
�d just started reading an article on a toddler’s stages of life when she noticed the column—advice for the single parent, written by R. J. McKay. Why it caught her eye, she didn’t know, but she began reading the text and an eerie sensation crawled up her spine. It was written with a light hand and ironic style that was identical to that in the columns she’d read by Randi McCafferty. But no one had ever mentioned that Randi had expanded her column from newspapers to magazines. Not that it wasn’t common.

  She sipped her cocoa and started rereading the article when she heard a vehicle ease down the street. The engine slowed, then died in front of her house and when she twisted to peek through the blinds she spied Thorne striding up her front walk.

  Her pulse leaped at the sight of him and then she remembered that she was wearing only her robe. On her feet in an instant, she started for the bedroom just as she heard the doorbell ring.

  “Damn.” She hesitated then walked back to the door and swung it open. Wind ruffled his hair and billowed her skirt as it swept into the room. “Well, Mr. McCafferty, this is a surprise.”

  A cocksure smile stretched across his lips as his gaze traveled the length of her. “A good one, I hope.”

  “That depends,” she teased, unable to stop herself.

  “On?”

  “You, of course.”

  He didn’t wait. In half a heartbeat he crossed the threshold, his arms were around her and his cold lips found hers. Icy wind swirled around them and just before she closed her eyes and he kicked the door shut, she saw the first few snowflakes fall from the night-dark heavens.

  But the snowfall was instantly forgotten. The pressure of his lips was insistent and her heart went wild, pounding out of control, thundering in her ears.

  Warmth invaded her limbs and desire slowly uncoiled deep within her. He backed her against the foyer’s wall and she willingly complied, winding her arms around his neck, parting her lips, thrilling to the cool, welcome touch of his skin against hers. He smelled of the outdoors—pine laced with the traces of some musky cologne. His body was hard, tense muscles strong as they pressed intimately against hers. This was a mistake. She knew it, but couldn’t resist the sweet seduction of his touch, the tingle his lips evoked.

  His hands found her belt and as if he had all the time in the world he continued to kiss her as he loosened the knot. His tongue touched hers, flicking and tasting, causing her head to swim. She could barely breathe as her robe parted and with cold, callused fingers he lifted one breast in his hand. Her nipple puckered expectantly and deep inside she turned liquid.

  “Oh, Nicole,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. Desire was throbbing through her and emotions she didn’t pause to understand raced through her mind. “We’re alone?” His voice was low and husky.

  “No.” She shook her head and had trouble finding her voice. Lust pulsed through her veins. “The twins are here.”

  “Asleep?”

  She nodded as his fingers scraped along the front lapel of her robe, touching her skin so lightly she wanted to scream. “It’s…it’s all right,” she said though she wasn’t thinking clearly, couldn’t concentrate on anything but the want of him.

  “Good.” He kissed her again and reaching down, placed an arm beneath her knees and lifted her from her feet. As if she were nearly weightless he carried her down the short hallway past the girls’ room to her bedroom—a private sanctuary where, heretofore, no man had ever been allowed to enter.

  Somehow he managed to close and lock the door before placing her on the bed. Beneath her old hand-pieced quilt, the mattress sagged under their combined weight. “Wh-what’s got into you?” she asked as he pushed the robe off her shoulders.

  He stopped, his hands unmoving for a second as his silvery gaze found hers. “You, Doctor.” He leaned forward and kissed her slowly on the lips. “You’ve gotten into me and I can’t seem to do anything about it but this.”

  “Would you want to?” she asked and smiled.

  “No.” He parted the robe and took both her breasts in his hands. Holding them together he kissed the tops of each before guiding her fingers to his shirt. She needed no further instruction and began to remove his jacket, sweater and jeans while he never stopped kissing her, touching her, or causing her blood to heat and the yearning deep within her most private of regions to become ever more insistent.

  Don’t do this, that nagging little voice in her head screamed, but she ignored it.

  His fingers tangled in her hair, then moved down her back, kneading and probing. His body molded to hers. He tasted of salt and desire and she wanted him as she’d never wanted another man.

  Only he could satisfy her.

  Only he could send her soaring to heights she’d only imagined. She kissed him and dug her fingers into his shoulders.

  Anxious, strident muscles rubbed against her softer, yielding flesh. His tongue found and rimmed the hollow of her throat before seeking darker, deeper clefts that made her bite her lip to keep from screaming out. Intimate spasms erupted deep inside before he came to her, parting her legs, kissing her and holding her close. She arched upward, wanting more, needing release. “Thorne—” she whispered when she thought she’d go mad with desire “—Thorne, for the love of—oh, oooh.”

  With one forceful thrust he began to make love to her then and didn’t stop. As her breathing became shallow and her body sheened with a layer of perspiration, he kissed her, loved her. Over and over he claimed her until the first streaks of daylight pierced through the window shades and she, exhausted, still holding him close, finally drifted off.

  The girls awakened a few hours later and the bed was cold and empty, only the faint scent of sex lingering with the sweet, sensual memories of lovemaking stealing through her mind. She glanced at the bureau where the rose he’d given her had faded and died, the petals falling onto the old wood. She hadn’t thrown the flower out; couldn’t.

  She was tired, yes, but felt better than she had in years. She sang in the shower, laughed when the girls fought, dressed with a smile on her face. It was only when she was yanking a brush through her hair that she caught a glimpse of her reflection, and she noticed the curve of her lips and the sparkle in her eyes. “Oh, no,” she said, disbelieving.

  But she couldn’t deny the plain truth that stared her squarely in the face: she was, despite all her warnings to herself, falling head over heels in love with Thorne McCafferty.

  * * *

  Denver held no appeal to him. His apartment seemed as cold and empty as an ice cave and though it was clean, every surface shining, fresh towels hung over the brass towel bars, a lit fire at his fingertips, he felt no sense of homecoming. His closet was filled with suits, sport coats, slacks and three tuxedos; the view from his living room and master bedroom, a spectacular array of the lights of the city. And yet he felt as if he were in a foreign land, an alien in a penthouse that he’d called home for more years than he wanted count.

  He’d arrived in town in the morning and gone straight to the office. Somehow he’d survived four meetings before driving here where he intended to change and attend the black-tie affair hosted by Kent Williams. The dinner was for a charitable cause but the business behind the scenes was all about turning a profit. Not that he minded. Thorne was the first man to admit to being interested in making money.

  And yet…

  He poured himself a glass of Scotch and stared out the panorama of windows. Snow was falling and the lights of the city winked through the veil of flakes. He saw his own reflection in the glass, a tall man in a slightly wrinkled suit, holding a drink he didn’t want and feeling more alone than he ever had in his life.

  He’d never been one to dislike his own company; in fact, he’d silently laughed at men who needed a woman on their arms, showpieces, accessories, or even wives they adored. It had all seemed so weak and cowardly; but now, as he looked at that pale, distorted, ghostlike image of himself in the window, he imagined Nicole with him. Whether dressed in a sequined evening gown,
or a pair of jeans and tennis shoes, or a lab coat over slacks and a blouse, her image seemed perfect at his side.

  “Idiot,” he muttered and tossed back his drink. He’d go to the damned party, do his business and drive to the airport tonight. The weather service was predicting two feet of snow to be dumped on the Denver area in the next couple of days, but Thorne intended to return to Grand Hope as soon as he could escape the obligations of his position.

  There were too many pressing problems in Montana for him to tarry in this soulless suite he’d once considered home.

  Home. Ha!

  What were all the old sayings?

  Home sweet home?

  There’s no place like home?

  Home is where the heart is?

  He took one final look around the living room as he strode to the bedroom to dig out one of his tuxedos. One thing was for certain: his heart wasn’t here. Nope—it was currently residing in the hallways of St. James Hospital with the stubborn, bright, beautiful emergency room physician he’d once turned his back on—a divorced woman with two children already and no apparent desire to settle down again.

  Well, all that was about to change. Thorne was used to taking charge of a situation, of getting what he wanted, and right now as he pulled out the designer tux with the forest-green cummerbund, he wanted Dr. Nicole Stevenson. One way or another he’d have her.

  * * *

  Nicole was dead on her feet. She’d worked overtime as there was a horrible accident involving two cars and a pickup. The wreck had occurred just two miles outside the city limits of Grand Hope. An eighty-year-old man and a teenager hadn’t survived; the man’s wife and three other teenagers were fighting for their lives. All were in critical condition with head injuries, punctured lungs, cracked ribs, ruptured spleens and all manner of contusions. A middle-aged housewife and her two children that were in the pickup had survived with only minor injuries, but the ER had been a madhouse and every available doctor, nurse, aid and anesthesiologist had been called in. Only now, ten hours after the first ambulance had arrived and they’d dealt with the severely injured, were things finally settling down. The rest of the patients, a woman who had scalded herself, an eight-year-old who had slammed his finger in a car door, three flu cases and a man complaining of dizzy spells had been forced to wait.