Secret Baby Santos

by Barbara Mccauley

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He sat down beside her on the bed. “I thought maybe you were in here.”

  It was Nick! Maggie could barely breathe. He’d actually seen her? And recognized her? His thigh nudged hers and her pulse turned erratic as a New York taxi driver.

  “You did?” Because she couldn’t draw air into her lungs, her words had a soft, breathless quality to them.

  He slipped an arm behind her. “I heard you wanted to see me.”

  “Well, I...ah, yes, actually.” How clever she was. How professional. Sophisticated, she thought with disgust.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your party,” she said, reaching for her bag that had spilled over somewhere on the floor. Why hadn’t he turned the light on? And why didn’t she suggest that he do so now?

  Because she liked it, she realized. Sitting on a bed in the dark with Nick, with champagne buzzing in her head and the masculine scent of his aftershave deep in her lungs.

  “They moved the party to the suite across the hall. There’s a football game on and that TV is bigger.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice strained, “I guess bigger is better.”

  He laughed, and the rich, deep sound of it was like velvet stroking her skin. His finger traced a hot, electric trail up her arm to her shoulders where he threaded his fingers through the ends of her curly hair. “You let your hair grow. I like it.”

  He noticed her hair? Nick Santos, who hadn’t seen her in at least seven years, had really noticed her hair? The buzz in her head increased with his nearness, with his touch. When his hand skimmed up her back, she trembled. “Thank you.”

  “Relax,” he said softly, and she felt his breath on her ear. “I realize it’s been a while, but you don’t have to be so nervous.”

  There was a roughness to his voice, a sensual quality that sent shivers up her spine. “I’m not nervous,” she lied. “But I know how busy you are and I thought that...well, that maybe we should, uh, get started.”

  He chuckled quietly, then touched her cheek with his fingertips. “You always did make me laugh.”

  She wasn’t sure how to take that. Did he mean, laugh, like laugh at her, or laugh, like she said something funny. But he couldn’t mean that. She’d never said more than hello to him.

  And when his lips closed over hers, when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down on the bed, every thought she’d ever had flew out of her head.

  She’d been kissed twice in her life before. Once in the tenth grade by Kevin Hatcher, and once by Brian Whitman, who’d sat next to her in an American history course in her second year of college. But neither kiss had tasted like champagne and pure, unadulterated lust, neither kiss had turned her upside down and inside out. Those other kisses would be like comparing a spark to a raging inferno.

  His arms tightened around her, and she melted into that inferno, let herself be swept up in the roaring flames, despite the voice from somewhere deep inside her that told her she shouldn’t be doing this.

  “Nick,” she gasped softly when he moved over her jaw and blazed kisses down her neck, “I don’t think—”

  “Good—” he nipped at the corner of her ear, then found a soft sensitive spot behind her lobe “—don’t think. It feels so much better when you don’t think.”

  He was right. So incredibly right. It felt wonderful. Like nothing she’d ever experienced, and was certain she’d never experience again. How many years had this been her fantasy? Why should she deny herself this? She was an adult. Twenty-four. Wasn’t it time she found out what it was really like to be with a man? And this wasn’t just any man. This was Nick.

  She heard a soft moan and was startled to realize it came from her. His hands were everywhere now, on her breasts, her leg, pushing her skirt up and sliding up her thigh. Her skin burned everywhere he touched and when he stroked between her legs, caressed her gently, she felt an ache she’d never known before, a desperate need for him to be closer still.

  “You’re different,” he murmured between kisses.

  He was right. She was different. From the first moment he’d kissed her, she was no longer shy little Maggie Smith. She felt like a woman for the first time in her life—a sexy, sensuous woman. She pulled his mouth back to hers, moaned when he unbuttoned her blouse and slipped his hand inside to cup her breast. When he pushed the cotton fabric aside and teased her hardened nipples with his thumb she moaned again, then cried out a moment later when his mouth replaced his thumb.

  Nothing could have prepared her for the sensations that rocked her body. Pleasure shot like an arrow from her breast to the most intimate part of her. She arched upward, touching him, whispering his name over and over, until clothes were gone and he was finally where she wanted him to be, where she needed him to be.

  There was no pain that she noticed, only intense, unbearable pleasure when he filled her. A pleasure that built as he moved, coiled and tightened until she shattered from the sheer force of it. And then he shattered, as well, she realized, amazed that she could do that.

  Her heart was still beating wildly when he pulled her close and tucked her tightly against him. “Stay with me, Cindy,” he whispered, kissing her softly.

  Cindy?

  Good God, he thought she was someone else.

  Humiliation stiffened her body. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She simply wanted to be swallowed up whole and never seen again. She lay like that, until she heard the soft, regular sound of his breathing, then slipped out from the bed, quietly gathered her clothes and dressed in the dark.

  She was at her car before the pain seized hold of her, halfway home before the tears started. She’d had to pull over to the side of the road and let the torrent rip through her. He’d thought she was someone else, thought he’d made love to someone else in the dark.

  Someone named Cindy.

  He’d be furious when he found out, she thought frantically. Or else he’d laugh his head off. Either way, she could never face him again. Ever.

  But if he thought she was Cindy, then he didn’t know whom he had made love to, did he? No one had known who she was. The Hawaiian man thought she was from the hotel. She’d never given her name to anyone, and Nick had never actually seen her. He didn’t know it was poor little Maggie Smith in his bed, a woman at whom he never would have looked twice.

  And he would never know, she resolved. Never.

  She went home that night and wrote her article. The editor of the newspaper was pleased enough with her work to give her more assignments, and slowly she worked her way into a permanent column in the Health section of the paper.

  Two months later, as she stared at the positive tester for pregnancy in one hand and an article about Nick’s paternity suit in the other hand, she knew she couldn’t tell him he was going to be a father. He didn’t even know he’d made love to her. How could she stand the humiliation of actually trying to prove that he had, only to have him reject her and their child, anyway? He’d wanted no part of her, and he certainly wouldn’t want any part of a child.

  Nick Santos, whom she’d loved from afar since she was thirteen years old, was the father of her child. She touched her stomach, marveling at the wonder of it all. She’d love this child with every breath, with every beat of her heart. She’d had Nick for only one night, but she’d have his child for the rest of her life. Happiness overflowed, gave her the strength to tell her parents she was pregnant and had no intention of marrying the man, gave her the determination to take control of her life, to gain the confidence she’d never had, and the resolve to let go of the past and forget Nick Santos.

  She married Richard, a journalist at the Tribune, when Drew was six months old, but they both realized it was a mistake six months later, and the divorce was friendly. She’d been offered a job in New York shortly after that, and one year later she had her own column at the Times. Her apartment was small but homey, and close to the park. When she wasn’t working and the weather permitted, she and Drew s
pent most of their time there. She was content with her life, where she’d come from, and where she was going.

  She was no longer poor little Maggie Smith. She’d learned more than a few things about life, even learned how to use makeup and what to do with her hair. The glasses had gone in the trash, she wore contacts now, and living in New York had taught her about clothes and style.

  She was a new woman, one she liked. A mother and a successful journalist. She didn’t need anything else in her life right now. Not a man, and most certainly not Nick Santos.

  “So let me get this straight.” Lucas Blackhawk leaned against the fire-engine-red toolbox and tipped the soda can to his lips. “You’re telling me that Nick Santos, ladies’ man, most dedicated bachelor west of the Mississippi, is actually having woman problems?”

  “Did I say I was having woman problems?” The wrench in Nick’s hand slipped off the exhaust bolt he’d been tightening and skidded across the concrete floor. Nick glared at Lucas. “I never said a damn thing about woman problems. Are you here to help, Blackhawk, or just drink my soda and butt into my personal life?”

  “Testy this morning, aren’t we?” Lucas took another swallow of root beer and scrubbed at his Saturday-morning beard. “So she said no, huh? Pray tell, who is this woman of such high refinement and intelligence?”

  “If you’re not going to help,” Nick growled, “get the hell out of here. I’m busy.”

  “I’m helping.” Nick reached into a drawer in the toolbox and handed Nick a half-inch wrench. “Just tell me who she is, Nick. I won’t laugh at you, I promise.”

  Nick grabbed the wrench and knelt back down beside the motorcycle. He knew damn well that Lucas wouldn’t leave him alone until he found out the name of the mysterious woman. “Margaret Smith,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What’s that you say?” Lucas cupped his ear and leaned closer. “Ingrid Whit?”

  “Margaret Smith,” Nick snapped back as he settled the wrench on the bolt again. “Maggie Smith.”

  If he hadn’t been so annoyed, Nick would have enjoyed the blank look on Lucas’s face.

  “Maggie Smith?” Lucas repeated, wrinkling his brow. “You mean, quiet-as-a-mouse, never-lookedanyone-in-the-eye, big glasses and curly red hair Maggie Smith?”

  “The same.” Only definitely not the same, Nick thought.

  Lucas gave a snort of laughter. “Well, no wonder she turned you down, Santos. You asked out a woman with an IQ higher than her shoe size.”

  The wrench slipped off the bolt again and flew out of his hands. Eyes narrowed, Nick straightened and snatched a rag from his back pocket. “Don’t you have a ranch and a wife to go home to, Blackhawk? A pregnant wife?”

  “My foreman has a handle on the ranch and besides, Julianna is cranky this morning. Our boys had a soccer game going on in her belly all night. I thought she needed some time alone.”

  “I need some time alone. Get the hell out of here.”

  Lucas grinned and settled back comfortably against the toolbox. “So other than her apparent good sense and keen judgment, why’d Maggie turn you down?”

  Nick ground his teeth together. He’d spent the entire night trying to figure it out. He had a good sense of humor, dammit. Women liked that. He wasn’t hard to look at. He’d been told he could be charming.

  She was a writer, maybe writer types went for those sensitive guys. Thoughtful, reflective men who read poetry and smoked pipes and sat on top of mountains pondering the universe. Poetry wasn’t his thing, he’d take a good cigar over a pipe anyday, and he’d sure as hell rather climb the damn mountain than sit on it.

  So maybe he wasn’t her type, he admitted grudgingly. But she didn’t have to be so narrow-minded, he thought with irritation. If she never tried praline-pecanchocolate-peanut-butter ice cream, how would she know if she liked it or not? She just needed to give it a try and take the plunge, expand her horizons.

  Somewhere around 3:00 a.m. he decided that those horizons were going to include him. When that skyscraper of green bean cans had fallen on her, he’d saved her from injury and possible concussion. It was his duty, his responsibility to save her from a life of boredom and monotony, as well. For her own good, of course.

  Her rejection might have wounded his pride a little, but Nick Santos always bounced back. He always had, he always would. Nothing ever got to Nick Santos that a long motorcycle ride and a cold beer wouldn’t cure.

  Nick bent and scooped up the wrenches he’d dropped, then turned to Lucas and shrugged. “She’s more delicate than most women. I came on a little strong, that’s all.”

  “Nick Santos come on strong?” The surprise was phony, but the grin real. “No.”

  That did it. “Get out of here, Blackhawk, before I cram one wrench down your throat and the other—”

  “Excuse me.”

  Both men turned at the sound of the sultry voice. Maggie stood in the doorway of the converted warehouse that was now Nick’s shop, her hands on her son’s shoulders.

  Four

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time. You said to stop by.”

  He simply couldn’t find the words to answer her. The outside morning light struck her from behind, lighting up her thick auburn hair like gold fire. She wore it loose, and it fell over the shoulders of her forest-green sweater, a color that matched her eyes. She was positively dazzling.

  Lucas was staring, as well, Nick noted with irritation. In fact, if his jaw fell open any wider, it would hit the bottom drawer of the toolbox. “Maggie? Maggie Smith?”

  “Hello, Lucas.” Maggie smiled. “I’m surprised you remember me.”

  “I remember Maggie Smith.” Lucas managed the good grace to at least close his mouth. “I just don’t remember you.”

  “Thank you, I think.” She touched the top of Drew’s head. “This is my son, Drew. Drew, this is Mr. Blackhawk.”

  Lucas pushed away from the toolbox, then knelt down in front of the youngster to shake his hand. “Just call me Lucas.”

  Drew politely shook Lucas’s hand. “Nick came over for dinner last night and my mom ran over my bike and Nick says he can fix it and I can help.”

  “You don’t say?” Lucas grinned widely at Nick. “Well, you came to the right place. Nick can fix just about anything. I’ll bet he can even make it go faster. Right, Nick?”

  Nick resisted the urge to scowl at Lucas when he grinned widely at him.

  “Can you, Nick?” Drew asked. “Can you make it go faster?”

  “Sure can, pal.” Nick smiled at the boy, his annoyance with Lucas forgotten at the excited expression on Drew’s face. So what if Lucas knew he was repairing a bicycle? He was just helping the boy out. It wasn’t like he’d gone soft on kids or anything. He liked them well enough, he’d just never been around them, certainly was never expecting to have any of his own. What the hell would he know about being a parent? His own mother split the day before his tenth birthday, and the stepfather she’d left her son with spent more time in bars than the run-down apartment they’d called home.

  Besides, he’d have to get married to have kids, and why would he do a silly thing like that? He liked his life just as it was. He was doing exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, with whom he wanted.

  Well, at least until Maggie had turned up. If he was doing exactly what he wanted, with whom he wanted, they’d be somewhere alone right now, preferably his bed.

  “Wanna see my bike?” Drew asked Lucas, pulling Nick out of his fantasy. “My mom flattened it real good.”

  “Drew.” Maggie blushed. “I’m sure Lucas has things to do.”

  “Not at all.” Lucas took the boy’s hand. “Let’s go have a look.”

  They were gone before Maggie could protest. She watched her son drag Lucas out of the shop, babbling the entire time about trucks and motorcycles. Her heart skipped when she turned back to Nick. The man absolutely took her breath away.

  He’d rolled the sleeves of his deep blue flannel shirt to his elbows, revealing strong,
muscled forearms lightly sprinkled with dark hair. Faded blue jeans fit low over lean hips and long powerful legs. The boots were also well-worn, black, Western-style with a strap across the back. Everything about this man was rugged and masculine and positively sexual.

  She knew she was staring, she just couldn’t help herself. And he was staring back, with a smug, selfsatisfied smile that told her he knew exactly what she was thinking. When the portable phone on his work bench began to ring, he turned away to answer it. She breathed a sigh of relief and wandered through the shop, needing some distance from him as much as being curious about his business.

  Clean, was her first thought. The concrete floor shone, the walls had been freshly sprayed with softgray paint, sunlight poured through spotless windows that rimmed the upper half of the entire building. Motorcycles in various stages of repair lined one wall, thick tires, racing decals, shiny chrome and polished leather. Even with her inexperienced eye, she could tell they weren’t the kind that one would take out for a Sunday ride. They looked sturdier, more powerful, formidable. Not so different from the man, she thought, glancing over at Nick’s broad shoulders and tall, muscular body.

  She quickly squashed the longing that welled up inside her and forced her attention to the back half of the shop where a corner section had been converted into a spacious office with floor-to-ceiling windows. She strolled inside, caught the scent of strong coffee warming on a corner table that sat beside a desk piled high with mail and newspapers. Racing posters lined one wall, along with photos of Nick on his motorcycle. She moved close and stared at one framed shot of him airborne over a mound of dirt, a flash of yellow racing suit and flying dirt.

  “I broke my leg when I landed on that one,” he said from behind her. “Put me out of the circuit for six months.”

  “I remember.” She’d fretted over that injury, had asked for an assignment to cover the accident just so she could legitimately call the hospital and check on him. “That was in Colorado.”

  “Well, well.” He sat on the desk beside her, his knee nearly touching her leg. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a racing fan.”