An Unexpected Christmas Baby

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Tamara decided her best efforts would be spent poring over files instead. To begin with, eight years’ worth of Flint Collins’s investments transactions.

  First, though, she’d suggested to her father that someone get Collins to sign that noncompete clause and let him know he wasn’t on the brink of being fired. Half an hour later she received a call from him, saying that Collins had just come out of Bill Coniff’s office and that Coniff had the signed form in his possession. Smiling as she hung up, she was satisfied with her day’s work.

  And happier than she should be to know that the man she’d so recently met was no longer worrying about being gainfully employed. Flint Collins had enough to deal with at the moment.

  She couldn’t go soft on him, though. That was how a lot of white-collar criminals succeeded in their fraudulent efforts. By charming those around them, winning the trust of those they were cheating.

  At the same time, the guy was human, not yet proved guilty of anything other than wanting to branch out on his own, and deserving of some compassion on the day he’d buried his mother.

  She looked away from the computer screen in her compact new office on the third floor of the building her father owned. She had a feeling it had been a big storage closet of some kind prior to being hastily converted for her. Howard knew better than to lay down the red carpet for a paid consultant he supposedly didn’t know other than by reputation.

  At least the room was private.

  She’d had worse in the two years she’d been on the road.

  A window would have been nice.

  Oh, God... That baby...

  Glancing at the time in the corner of her computer screen, she picked up the phone. She’d left one message for Mallory. But it was five o’clock now. Most of the children would have been picked up. And Flint Collins would be calling, if he hadn’t already.

  She needed to speak with her friend.

  “I was about to call you,” Mallory said when she answered. “I got your message, and I have one from Mr. Collins, too. He needs to speak with me by tomorrow afternoon, he said.”

  She’d given him a deadline to talk to her father. Not that he had to have day care arranged before letting his bosses know that he’d just become a father. Of sorts.

  “So you haven’t spoken with him?”

  “No, your message said I should talk to you first.”

  Tamara nodded. She thought she’d asked that but couldn’t be sure. She’d been a bit off her mark when she’d made the call, having come directly from Flint Collins’s office.

  Where she’d had a newborn baby snuggled against her chest.

  A chill swept through her and her insides started to quake again. Until she focused on the computer screen. The rows of numbers she’d been studying.

  It was all about focus.

  When she could feel the bands around her chest loosening, she told Mallory about Flint Collins suddenly finding himself the sole caregiver of a newborn baby. She didn’t include the personal details. That was for him to share, or not, as he chose. His personal situation wasn’t why she was calling.

  “I held the baby, Mal,” she said in the very next breath. “I was in his office and I didn’t know she was there. I heard her cry and saw that he was just standing there, in front of her carrier. Maybe he was rocking it or something, I don’t know. But without thinking I went right up and unstrapped her and picked her up.”

  The silence on the other end of the line wasn’t a surprise. Mallory’s calm tone when she said, “What happened next?” was different than Tamara had expected.

  Only a handful of people knew the true extent of her struggles, how close she’d come to thinking she’d never have another happy moment. Mallory was one of them.

  Because Mallory had been there, too, a few years before. They’d met in a small counseling group designed solely for young mothers who’d lost a baby.

  “I started to unravel,” she admitted. “Not as quickly as I would’ve expected, but I was working and it took a while for that barrier to break down.”

  She could feel the bands tightening around her lungs again. Her entire chest. Her ribs. Physical manifestations of the panic she fought, less often now, but still regularly enough that she’d stayed in touch with her support group.

  “So, basically, you held it together.”

  “On the surface.”

  Their psychiatrist had offered them all medications, individually, of course. She and Mallory had preferred not to depend on drugs and opted to fight the battle on their own. And because neither one of them had ever remotely considered actually taking her own life—on the contrary, they’d both been in possession of enough equilibrium to maintain careers—they’d been left to their decisions without undue pressure.

  “And what about now? How do you feel?”

  They were supposed to be talking about Flint. And that...needy little child.

  “Like I want a glass of wine and a jet to someplace far, far away.” She had to be honest. It was the only way to succeed on her personal survival mission. “I’ve got the jitters, my hands are sweaty on and off.”

  She’d had hot and cold flashes, too, but didn’t mention them. They didn’t have anything to do with the infant. Although, come to think of it, both had happened in the presence of Flint Collins. During the first, though, they’d been in Bill Coniff’s office and she hadn’t known Flint was a new dad. She’d thought she had the flu, but no other symptoms had developed.

  She was so busy convincing herself that the hot and cold flashes, something new in her panic world, had nothing to do with the baby, that she’d walked herself right into another mental trap. Were the flashes because of Flint? Because of how incredibly attractive he was? Like, Hollywood ad attractive?

  Was she physically reacting to him? As in being inordinately turned on?

  No. Tamara shook her head. Don’t borrow trouble, she told herself.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked when she realized Mallory hadn’t responded to her list of symptoms.

  “I was hoping...”

  She knew what Mallory would’ve been hoping. They’d had the discussion. Many times.

  Now they’d had the experiment Mallory had begged for and Tamara had always point-blank refused.

  She’d held a baby. It had been horrible.

  “Absolutely not.” She made her point quite clear. “Never again.”

  “Maybe because you were so convinced it was a bad thing...” Mallory, bless her heart, refused to give up.

  Tamara had nothing more to say on the subject.

  “It works, Tamara, I swear to you. If you’d just try. Give it a chance. I’m living proof, every single day. If you knew how much healthier I am... How much happier... How much stronger...”

  She’d only met Mallory after the other woman’s infant son had died, yet Tamara knew her well enough now to be certain that Mallory had always had a core of strength.

  “I get comfort from them—real, lasting comfort—knowing that little ones are on this earth, healthy and robust and happy and full of love.”

  “I know you do.” And it wasn’t that Tamara didn’t want a world filled with healthy, robust, loving babies. She did. Very much. She just couldn’t have them in her world.

  Because her heart knew the pain of four babies who hadn’t been healthy enough to make it into the world alive. She knew the pain of losing a baby that everyone had thought was healthy. It happened. Babies died. In the womb and out of it, too. She’d survived losing Ryan. Barely. She couldn’t afford the risk of another bout of that kind of pain and the residual depression.

  “I’m not you,” she said now, aware that it wasn’t what Mallory wanted to hear.

  Silence hung on the line again. But not as long this time.

  “So tell me about this guy you referred. Flint Collins? You said I should spe
ak with you first...” Her voice trailed off in midsentence and then Mallory continued. “Or was that it? It was about how you felt when you held his baby?”

  “No.” She’d had hot flashes both times she’d been with Flint. Not just because of his looks. He was confident, capable, successful—and had chosen to give up his business dream to care for a sister he hadn’t even known he had. He had a baby who desperately needed a mother. He’d be a great match for Mallory.

  She shook her head. No, he had a girlfriend. And besides...

  “I need your word that what I’m about to tell you stays between you and me. Period. No one else.”

  “Of course. I assumed everything we told each other was that way. The two of us—our conversations are like an extension of being in session, right?”

  The tone of voice... Tamara could picture the vulnerable look that would be shining from Mallory’s soft blue eyes.

  “Right,” she said. “I just... This isn’t about us and I needed to make certain...”

  “You and me, our friendship—we’re sacred,” Mallory said, her voice gaining strength.

  “Okay, good.” Tamara took the first easy breath she’d had since she’d stepped into Flint’s office. “I found out today why my mom and dad wanted me home so badly. Dad needs my help at Owens Investments. Someone’s stealing from him and he suspects it might be Flint Collins. I’m working as an efficiency expert for him as a cover so I can have access to all the company files and employees, to stick my nose anywhere I want, to see if I can find some kind of proof for Dad to take to the police.”

  “Why doesn’t he hire a detective?”

  “Because right now only his accountant knows. If word gets out that there’s something untrustworthy going on in the company, his investors will take off like birds flying south for the winter.”

  “How sure is he that Collins is his guy?”

  “The evidence is stacked against him at the moment. But it’s all hearsay and circumstantial.”

  “And he’s a new dad?”

  “I’ll let him fill you in on the details. But, Mal? Whatever he’s doing in his business life, this baby... She’s only three days old. If ever a baby needed you, it’s her. Even more so if it turns out her dad’s involved in criminal activity. I felt you had to know, in case something comes down and there’s some reflection on your business.”

  Not too long ago, a woman had showed up at Mallory’s day care claiming that one of the kids was the woman’s two-year-old son, who’d been kidnapped. Things had been rough going there for several weeks. And then the woman’s story turned out to be true. That had all taken place before Tamara had returned from Boston, but she’d heard about it over the phone.

  “No one can blame a newborn baby for anything. But I’ll be careful not to let him see the books,” she said with a chuckle.

  Tamara smiled, too. An easy smile. One that felt natural. Her breath came more easily, too. She’d known she could count on Mallory.

  And maybe, if Flint wasn’t the thief, he and Mallory could make a family for that precious baby—

  No, he had a girlfriend. Some powerful lawyer.

  Because he was hedging all his bets as a smart investor would? In case he needed a top-notch lawyer?

  She couldn’t help wondering, as she ended her call with Mallory, what that rich girlfriend, who’d apparently been responsible for a change in Flint’s spending habits, or at least his driving and vacation habits, thought of having a convict’s baby to raise?

  And then berated herself for being so catty.

  The other woman was probably perfectly wonderful. She might already be making plans for the baby’s care and Flint had just taken Mallory’s contact information to give them options.

  In any case, it was none of her business.

  Yes, she thought again. Flint Collins and his new life were absolutely none of her business. She’d simply been the one to walk in on his intense day.

  She looked back at her computer screen.

  Focus. That was all it took. Focus.

  Chapter Seven

  “Bathing your newborn baby with the umbilical cord stump still attached is fine,” the pediatrician in the video confirmed. “There is no great risk that the stump will get infected. Take care to make sure that the area is thoroughly dried.”

  Holding his sleeping sister in the crook of one arm, Flint paused his continued scouring of articles and videos on the internet—all from verified, legitimate pediatric sources and nationally recognized clinics and associations. He found this video particularly informative, considering his current dilemma.

  “It is not necessary to bathe your baby every day,” she continued. “Up to three times a week, for the first year, is fine. As long as you’re quick and thorough with diaper changes and burp cloths, you’re cleaning the critical areas often enough. Daily bathing is not recommended, since it can dry out the baby’s skin.”

  Okay. Good. He didn’t have to deal with a bath his first night. Her first night with him.

  He could have hired a nurse to help out with this transition stage, but hadn’t really even considered doing so. He’d always taken care of himself—and his mother when he could. He’d take care of Diamond, too. The baby wasn’t going to be shoved off on strangers anytime that he was available to care for her. As he’d been so many times.

  “Dodged a bullet on that one, Diamond Rose,” he said, glancing at the sleeping baby. He’d been doing that a lot, all day. Glancing at her. He’d even caught himself staring at her a time or two.

  It was just so hard to believe she was there. His flesh and blood.

  A rush of love he couldn’t have imagined swamped him. He acknowledged it. And moved on. He’d learned a long time ago to move on when it came to those kinds of emotions.

  A guy had to cope, to push forward. To accomplish.

  “It’s best to use a small plastic tub, or a kitchen sink, when bathing a newborn...”

  Clicking to open an additional browser window, he shopped for plastic tubs. Found one at the local children’s store he’d spent bundles in that weekend. How had he missed the tub aisle? He added it to the shopping list he’d made for the following day.

  And thought about Tamara Frost. Wondering what she was doing. If she had a significant other and was with him. She hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything these days.

  He wondered how she’d react if he gave in to the urge that had been nagging at him most of the evening and called her.

  Before he’d figured out his immediate plans. Before speaking with Howard as she’d instructed.

  He’d spoken with Mallory Harris and had an arrangement to meet with her the following day, time to be determined.

  First priority was Howard Owens. He’d sent off an email that afternoon, requesting an in-person meeting as soon as possible. Once he heard back, he’d schedule—or reschedule—everything else.

  He checked his email again. No response yet.

  Nothing from Stella, either, not that he’d expected anything. She’d made her feelings perfectly clear. The baby or her. His choice was in his arms, breathing against him.

  Maybe he should be missing Stella more than he was, or at least be hurting... Maybe he would at some point. There just wasn’t room enough right now. His capacity for grief was taken up with Alana Gold.

  The woman who’d taught him a long time ago that no matter how much he loved her, it wouldn’t be enough to keep her home with him. Not forever.

  Having Stella in his life had been wonderful. And yet part of him had always believed it wouldn’t last.

  Glancing at the clock, Flint figured he had another hour and fifteen minutes before he’d need to measure formula, heat, change, feed and burp again. Adjusting the baby so she was lying against him, propped in the curve of his body, and freeing enough of his
left arm to allow him to type, he clicked on the most used site on his browser’s favorite bar—the stock exchange.

  * * *

  Twelve-eleven a.m.

  One-oh-six a.m.

  One fifty-two a.m.

  Wiping the tears from her cheeks, Tamara sat up in bed. Turning on the bedside lamp she’d purchased from an antiques mall before she’d moved east, she pulled her laptop off the nightstand and flipped it open—the third time since she’d gone to bed that she’d done it.

  She’d focus. Work until she couldn’t keep her eyes open. And then she’d sleep. Until she woke up shaking again.

  The nightmares weren’t the same. But they all felt identical. Sometimes she’d be holding Ryan, feeling so incredibly happy. Complete. And then she’d wake and the devastating loss would be as fresh now as though she was feeling it for the first time.

  She didn’t completely hate that dream. Those moments holding her baby—they were almost worth waking up for.

  That night they were the other kind. The ones where she wasn’t even around children at all. She’d be someplace—sometimes she recognized it, sometimes she didn’t—and she couldn’t get out. It could be a maze. A building. A hole in the ground.

  Sometimes she’d be on a path in the dark with so many obstacles she couldn’t move.

  She’d hear a cry. Someone needing her. And she could never get to whoever it was.

  Or she’d reach the end of the path and there’d be a dead baby. Wrapped in a beautiful blanket. Always wrapped in that blanket.

  Once there’d been an empty casket.

  In the beginning she’d been inside her own womb multiple times. Trapped. Unable to get out.

  She’d had that dream again tonight. Before the 1:52 a.m. wakening. Which was why she was sitting up.

  She could take a sleeping pill. Knock herself out.

  The thought gave her comfort. Knowing she wasn’t going to do it gave her determination.