Her Secret, His Child

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "Once, maybe. I got lucky."

  The sidewalks were rapidly emptying, but Ian seemed in no particular hurry. Instead, he put his books on the hood and leaned a hard hip against the MG's frame. Settling in, Carly decided, glancing Scanlon's way. Sensing her gaze, he shifted his to meet it questioningly.

  "Ian is the starting quarterback for the Wolves.'"

  One eyebrow lifting lazily, Scanlon studied the boy thoughtfully. "What are you, six-one, one ninety?"

  "One ninety-five. Ten pounds lighter than your playing weight, right?"

  Mitch nodded. The kid knew how to make points, but then, so did he. "Tell me, son, what's your read on the team's problems?"

  Ian's delight at being asked was readily apparent. "We have a lousy team," he declared heatedly. "Half the guys can't cut it, and the ones who can don't give a sh—pardon me, Dr. Alderson—don't care if we win or not."

  "Including the quarterback?" Mitch kept his tone friendly.

  Ian reddened. "Yeah, well, what's the use of busting your butt for nothing?"

  "A little thing called pride, maybe?"

  Carly drew a quick breath as Ian dropped his gaze. "Maybe in the beginning, yeah. But I got tired of spending all day Sunday in a whirlpool working out the soreness while the rest of the guys were off partying with the chicks."

  "Guess I can't blame you for that."

  Ian worried a stone with the toe of his expensive sneakers. Carly was about to suggest that he might be late for class when the boy suddenly lifted his head and looked at her. "How's Tracy doing with her genetics paper?"

  Carly's hand tightened on the wheel. "Last I heard, she was planning to dump her word processor into the pool and run away from home."

  Ian grinned. "Tell her I said hi, okay?"

  "Yes, of course," she said with deliberate coolness. At the same time she made a point of looking at her watch. "One minute to the bell."

  "Yeah, right." Straightening, Ian said a quick goodbye and headed down the street at a long-legged trot.

  "At least he's honest," Mitch said, watching the boy's feet pound the pavement.

  "Ian's father was the quarterback of the only Wolves team to win a conference championship. Ian had his heart set on attending the University of Washington, but Ian Senior insisted on Bradenton. I tried to talk him out of it, but he's pretty bull-headed."

  "What about the kid's mother?" He shifted, his gaze finding hers again.

  "She's—how shall I put it?—extremely impressed with Ian Senior's ability to sign checks."

  Mitch watched frustration fill her eyes and wondered if she got as deeply involved with all of Bradenton's students. Or had Ian Senior's generosity with the old checkbook included the college endowment fund?

  "Sounds like he's interested in your daughter."

  "I hope not," she replied sharply, feeling her stomach knot at the thought of Ian and Tracy together.

  "You don't like him?"

  She took a slow breath. "As a matter of fact, I do, but I know his reputation. He's as slick as they come when it comes to the coeds."

  "Maybe that reputation has been exaggerated. Happens that way sometimes."

  "Perhaps, but I don't care to risk my daughter's happiness just to find out."

  He lifted his hand and flipped down the silky shirt collar that had blown against her neck. Carly drew a slow breath but didn't retreat.

  "Must be tough, being both mom and dad."

  "I manage." Carly kept her chin high and her expression controlled. It hurt to discuss Tracy with him.

  "You must have been very young when you had her."

  "I was old enough." She reached for the key, only to find her hand trapped in his. She tried to pull free, but his grip tightened.

  "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

  "Sorry for what?"

  His thumb moved gently against her wrist. "For making you so uncomfortable whenever I'm around, for one thing." Her frown had his eyes crinkling behind the glasses, but his mouth stayed somber. "But mostly for asking questions I had no business asking. God knows I've dodged enough of them myself to know how deep idle curiosity can cut."

  "Yes, I imagine you do." Carly drew a slow breath. His hand was warm against hers. She tried to draw away, only to find her back pressed hard against the door.

  He grinned at her. "Going somewhere?"

  "To my office—as soon as you let go of my hand."

  "Only if you let me make amends by taking you to dinner tonight."

  Her pulse leapt, then took on a faster rhythm. "I'm sure you can find something more exciting to do with your evening."

  "Can't think of a thing."

  He was crowding her. She didn't like it, but she found she could handle it.

  "All right," she murmured, "but I get to name the restaurant. And the college will pay."

  "No way. This is personal."

  Carly set her jaw. "No, Mr. Scanlon, it isn't."

  "You don't like me?" He folded her hand between his. His palms were muscular and rough with calluses. Strong hands, strong heart, Tilly always said.

  "It's not a question of liking or disliking, Mr. Scanlon. Only of professional ethics. You are here as a prospective employee, and therefore you are Bradenton's guest. Not mine."

  "I'm staying in your house—"

  "Not mine, remember. The college's."

  "—and sleeping in the room below yours."

  She couldn't quite master her surprise. "How did you know that?"

  "I heard you drive away about midnight, heard you come back a couple hours later. And then I heard you pacing the floor over my head. Must have something on your mind."

  She shrugged, but her gaze slid away from his. "I had too much coffee at dinner."

  "You drank decaf." He hid a smile. She was nervous and trying hard not to let on. He liked her better that way. When a guy was more vulnerable than most, he preferred to think the woman who fired his blood had a few insecurities of her own to deal with.

  "Mr. Scanlon—"

  "Don't you think it's time you started calling me Mitch?"

  Carly glanced around. The quad was empty. No one would see if she bashed the man over the head with one of his own crutches. His low chuckle had her gaze jerking back to his.

  "You know, Carly, guys like me are very sensitive to slights. Might even say we have a real problem with self-esteem."

  "In a pig's eye," she scoffed.

  He moved closer. With his free hand he removed her sunglasses, hooking them over the mirror attached to the dash.

  Without them she felt exposed. Vulnerable. Because she had a feeling it was exactly what he'd intended, she refused to snatch them back.

  "Now take my friend Dante. Keeps telling me I should get out more. Guess that makes sense, don't you think?"

  She blinked. His tone was teasing. He seemed relaxed, certainly more relaxed than she was. So why did she have this strong feeling he was telling her things he usually kept to himself?

  "Tell me something, Scanlon? Does this 'pity me' act usually work with women, or is this the first time you've tried it?"

  His grin started as a twitch of those hard lips. By the time he let her go and sat back against the worn leather upholstery, he was laughing. "Why did I think this was going to be easy?" he said, angling to look at her.

  "Exactly what do you mean by 'this'?" she said, lifting her eyebrows in the intimidating arch that was every teacher's last resort. It didn't faze him.

  "Let's just say I'm a lot closer to signing on the dotted line than I was before we climbed into this spine-crippling crate of yours."

  Carly tasted raw panic but somehow managed to keep her expression from changing. Her feelings were secondary. Bradenton was what mattered.

  "On behalf of the college, I'm pleased to hear it," she murmured with only a slight rasp of emotion in her tone. "But I do feel a certain need to remind you that you have yet to be asked to sign."

  "Obviously an oversight." His grin flashed. "We can talk ab
out that tonight over dinner."

  For an unsettling moment she thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he reached behind her for his crutches and went about the careful business of getting himself out of the car.

  "See you tonight, Caroline," he said when she reached for the key.

  "Carly," she said before thinking. "Only my mother calls me Caroline."

  "And you don't like it?"

  "I neither like it nor dislike it. I simply prefer Carly."

  "So do I. Makes you a lot more approachable."

  Carly frowned. "Seven o'clock in the parlor," she ordered, giving the key a hard twist. The engine roared to life, and she shoved the shift lever into first.

  "It's a date," he said, unable to resist a grin.

  "It's business," she corrected a split second before she roared off.

  Definitely a challenging lady, he thought as he watched the roadster zip around the corner and disappear behind a building. And definitely a woman with secrets trapped in those bright eyes.

  * * *

  Coach was tied up when Mitch rapped on his door and suggested that Mitch wait for him in the stadium proper. As Carly had warned, the stands had a half-finished look, and the smell of fresh paint hung heavy in the air. Standing alone on the fifty, Mitch drew a long breath and gazed toward the east goalpost. Stretching in front of him like a newly laid carpet, the playing field was a brilliant green, pampered into a thick, cleat-resistant turf by the two groundskeepers he'd just met.

  Unwanted emotion churned as he trailed his gaze along the tidy row of empty seats, half now painted a gleaming orange, the other half dull and faded. Blue on orange were Bradenton's colors.

  A different team, a different uniform.

  Just thinking about the first time he'd pulled on the intimidating black-and-silver Raiders jersey gave him a hit of adrenalin almost as good as sex. It had gotten as good as it gets after that—money, headline after headline, women.

  A fast lane kind of guy, the reporters had labeled him his rookie year, everybody's idea of a winner. Oh yeah, he'd bought it all, every damn line of the hype. And then he'd spent half a lifetime trying to live up to an image he'd been dumb enough to let his good buddies in the media create for him. Arietta had called it right when she'd ripped into him for becoming a self-centered jerk.

  Lifting his gaze, he sighted along the top of the stands, checking out the bank of lights, the flag poles, the press box. The people's right to know, he thought. What a farce! How many times in how many smoky bars had he listened to some pencil jockey or other pontificating drunkenly on the media's lofty dedication to the truth?

  The truth was, guys he'd thought would stick in the bad times as well as the good had disappeared as soon as he'd stopped being salable copy. He'd spent a few lonely months nursing his bitterness until he choked on it. And then he'd started the long comeback climb, creating his own image this time. Most of the bitterness was gone now, or maybe he'd finally grown up.

  Squaring his shoulders, he made his slow, careful way along the gleaming chalk line to the sidelines. By the time he crossed the sideline marker, Coach was waiting for him by the bench, an unlit cigar clamped in the corner of his mouth.

  "Don't you ever light that thing?" Mitch asked, needing to rest a minute.

  "Doctor says they'll kill me, so I'm trying to cut down." Coach tongued the cigar to the other corner of his mouth. "What do you think of the place?"

  "Nice. Bigger than I expected."

  "Football's always been big in these parts, too. Or it used to be, before the Wolves tanked." Eyes narrowed, Coach glanced around, then jerked his head in the direction of the President's residence. "So, what did you think of the Alderson ladies?"

  "Intimidating."

  Coach chuckled. "Which one?"

  "All three." Releasing a crutch grip, Mitch lifted a hand to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead. He was used to the energy it cost to get from place to place, but he wasn't sure he would ever get used to changing his clothes a couple of times a day. "What's the story on President Alderson, anyway?"

  Coach nodded. "She grew up in the President's mansion, used to sit in on classes from the time she was in grade school. Way I heard it, she was a shy little thing, never said more than a few words to anyone until she'd known them for a long time, which is probably the reason she goes out of her way to make every student feel welcome. Don't tell her I told you so, but I know for a fact she's paying tuition out of her own pocket for one or two that ran into some hard luck along the way."

  Coach chewed on the end of the cigar. "'Course, there's some who say she got the job 'cause of who she is, too."

  Mitch knew all about gossip and the jealousy that prodded it. "What do you say?"

  "I'd say she's worked for everything she's gotten. Under all that silk and sophistication, she's as tough as they come. Had to be, considering all the cow dung she had thrown at her when she wasn't much older than Tracy."

  "Had a rough time, did she?"

  Coach glowered. "Nobody talks much about it, but a few things have slipped out over the years, bits and pieces mostly, enough so's I know it had to have been rough being pregnant in this town, without a man in sight to claim the kid as his own."

  Mitch watched one of the painters swabbing orange paint over the last seat in one of the upper sections. "Any of those bits and pieces tell you anything about the guy?"

  Instead of answering, Coach snorted a laugh. "Got it bad, haven't you?"

  Mitch shifted his gaze. The old man might have slowed up a few steps over the years, but his mind was still sharp, maybe too damn sharp.

  "Let's say she's got me wanting to turn some corners I've been avoiding for a while."

  Pete's eyes crinkled, but his smile had an edge of warning. "She's a special lady, that's a fact. Smart, real smart, but not so's she flaunts it, you know? And sweet as they come, even if she tries to hide a damn soft heart under those plain suits she wears."

  "There's plain, and then there's plain," Mitch said, enjoying a fast private fantasy.

  Coach removed his cigar and carefully tucked it into his shirt pocket. When he was finished, he deliberately let Mitch see the rough-and-tumble of the Brooklyn streets in his eyes.

  "I wouldn't want to see her hurt, Mitch. Not by you. Not by anyone."

  Mitch acknowledged that with a nod. "Not my style."

  Coach lifted both shaggy eyebrows. "Since when?"

  Since he'd found himself with a lot of time for thinking about things that mattered, and things that didn't. "Since I got almost as smart as you," he said, jerking his head toward the locker room. "How about we finish this discussion sitting down?"

  Coach's expression cleared, and his big hand clapped Mitch hard on the back. "I've got a couple of comfortable chairs in my office, and while we're there, there's a contract I want you to take a look at."

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Carly wore black linen, to match her mood. She chose long sleeves and a high neck because the severe lines made her seem taller and more dignified and in command.

  She'd been tense and jumpy all day. Twice she'd picked up the phone, intending to cancel. Both times she'd talked herself out of it. It was important to remember that she was in control of her life and her feelings, no one else.

  Consider it a business meeting, she told herself firmly as she zipped the dress up the back and cinched the matching belt. An appointment with a prospective employee. Nothing more.

  She stepped to the mirror in the walk-in closet to put on her earrings. Just as she was fastening the last gold hoop, the phone rang. A quick glance at the clock radio had her frowning. It was nearly time for her to leave. "This is Dr. Alderson."

  "You sound like you've been running." It was Marca.

  "I don't run. It's not seemly for a person of my weighty responsibilities."

  Marca's laugh always cheered her up, no matter how low she might be.

  "Hey, I called to see if you wanted to grab something t
o eat with me tonight."

  "I'd like to, but I'm tied up." She hesitated, then added, "Scanlon and I are having dinner together."

  Marca's sudden intake of breath was clearly audible. "You're kidding!"

  "Think about it a minute. He's a guest in this house. Tracy is in this house. Doesn't it make sense to keep them apart as much as possible?"

  "I have to admit that does sound logical." There was a pause before Marca asked, "Is Gianfracco included in this business dinner?"

  "No, although I had Sandy call to invite him. It seems he's addressing a Cub Scouts meeting tonight."

  Already ajar, the door to her closet suddenly swung wider, admitting a sleepy-eyed gray tabby cat. Queen Tabitha was Tracy's cat, but most nights she preferred to sleep in Carly's bed, curled up next to her pillow. Tracy claimed her mother spoiled the hedonistic little creature. Carly preferred to think Tabby shared her taste in classical music rather than the atonal stuff Tracy adored.

  Spying Carly in front of the mirror, Tabby trotted over and rubbed against her ankles, purring loudly. Grinning, Carly reached down to rub the sensitive triangle behind the cat's ears. The portable phone crackled with static as Marca spoke again. "What's your read on Scanlon so far? Does he want the job, do you think?"

  "Yes. No. Oh, Marca, I don't know. I'm just trying to get through the next few days without falling apart."

  "Don't worry, you won't."

  "I did once."

  "You were eighteen and scared."

  "Now I'm thirty-five, and I'm still scared."

  "Of what? Scanlon?"

  "No, myself. A lot of stuff is coming up for me that I thought I'd addressed years ago."

  "Like what?"

  "Like my feelings for the father of my child. I should hate him for what he did. I do hate him, and yet…" Carly straightened, earning her a plaintive meow from Tabby.

  "Yet what?"

  "It's difficult to explain." She drew a thoughtful breath. "It's as though I have to keep reminding myself why I hate him. Does that make sense?"

  Instead of an answer, Marca remained silent, causing Carly to frown at herself in the mirror. "Carly, you're not still attracted to the man, are you?"

  "Of course I'm not!" Carly replied instantly, offended that Marca of all people would even ask such a question. "I'm just trying to make the best of a horrible situation."