Her Secret, His Child

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  "Take my word for it, Scanlon, you'll be in for the biggest fight of your life, trying your damnedest not to fall in love with her for her own good," Jess had said with that smug look on his face. "Only it won't work, not if she's the right one, so you might as well save yourself a lot of sleepless nights and enjoy the ride."

  Easy for Jess to say, with a wife like Hazel snuggling up against him every night and a house full of kids climbing all over him when he came home after work.

  Leaning forward, he touched his toes and felt the tight muscles of his back give centimeter by centimeter until almost all of the tension was gone. Crutch walking was harder on the back than most people knew. Hard on the ego, too, he thought, straightening slowly.

  No sob stuff, he'd warned Scotty.

  Agreed. But people will want to know how you're doing, Mitch. It's the flip side of the cheers.

  Scowling, he tossed off the sheet and stared at his legs. He'd almost gotten used to the scrawny look of his body from mid-thigh down. Maybe that was why he'd let himself forget how repulsive he could be to a woman.

  In spite of the pep talk he'd given himself after Carly had left the pool, he still wasn't all that sure she could handle every aspect of his handicap. He'd seen the way her eyes had slid away from his legs only a few minutes ago.

  Hell, maybe she should have caught him struggling into his braces when she'd walked in. Given her a good look at just how helpless he really was. And given him a chance to watch her reaction.

  It might almost have been worth the slam to his ego to find out now if she couldn't deal with the daily struggles and indignities he'd been forced to accept as part of his life. Put the poor smitten bastard out of his misery.

  Knowing he shouldn't, he took a deep breath and put every scrap of concentration he could muster into making those wasted muscles move. Fists clenched and teeth bared, he stared at his feet. Move, damn you. Move.

  Please.

  By the time he gave up and dragged his legs to the edge of the bed, he was drenched with the sweat of failure.

  * * *

  "This is pretty much the final proposal, subject to your approval, Madame Prez." Grinning like a Cheshire kitten, Marca handed Carly the sheaf of papers she'd just taken from her briefcase.

  Carly scanned the neatly typed pages, clicking off points in her mind. Marca was meticulously and totally professional. Her hopes climbed higher.

  "The press conference is all set to go?"

  "Friday at three."

  Carly nibbled her lower lip. The rest of the plan was pretty straightforward—a gala for the alumni to meet the new coaching staff, a virtual blizzard of press releases, even local TV spots to hype the exciting new look of the Wolves.

  "What's this about new uniforms?"

  "New coach, new uniforms. It's a psychological thing."

  "It's also more than we can afford." Carly ran a line through that paragraph, drawing a dramatic sigh from its author.

  "Okay, I'll give you that, but no way will I compromise on the T-shirts."

  "Now Marce—"

  "Trust me on this, okay? At the first game we'll give them away free with every ticket purchase, and then, when the team starts to win, we'll sell them at a huge profit." Her eyes gleamed with excitement. "Whoever invented logos should be enshrined in the advertising hall of fame as an authentic genius. Not only are jackets and shirts and hats free advertising, but the licensing fees are pure gravy."

  It was all part of the public relations game, Carly reminded herself, reading on, just as the faculty teas and trustee stroking were part of hers.

  "I had no idea TV time was so expensive," she murmured, glancing up.

  Marca shrugged. "Local time costs peanuts compared to network air, which is why that ten-minute interview with Scott Bendix this morning was twenty-four karat."

  Carly initialed the proposal before returning it to Marca's open case. "You know, Marce, I really think this might work."

  "You bet it will. I checked with the public information office downstairs before I came up, and they were already swamped with calls from the media wanting interviews with Mitch. I'm thinking about holding the conference in the stadium. That way we can show off our new look at the same time."

  "Sounds okay." Carly was about to ask Marca if she wanted to grab some lunch and conversation when Sandy buzzed.

  "Yes, Sandy?"

  "Please tell Marca that Mr. Scanlon is here to take her to lunch."

  Carly shot a glance at Marca's guileless face before murmuring an assent and hanging up. "Your lunch date is here."

  Marca bounced to her feet and closed her briefcase. "Great! I'm going to brief him on the campaign and talk about the press conference. Anything else you'd like me to cover?"

  "Can't think of a thing," Carly said, reaching for her stack of phone messages.

  "Want to come along?"

  "No, publicity is your department."

  Marca collected her things, then paused to give Carly a thoughtful look. "Something's happened."

  "Pardon?"

  "You look different somehow. Softer." Her eyes grew round, and her mouth popped open. "You and Scanlon, you've made love, haven't you?"

  Carly drew a long breath and nodded. She felt her face warming—blushing at her age, she thought. What next? Borrowing his handkerchief to put under her pillow every night so she could breathe in the musky scent of his after-shave?

  "I don't know how I could have been so impulsive, Marca. All these years I've organized my life so carefully, never doing anything on the spur of the moment, never even buying so much as a pair of pantyhose with considering my options."

  She dropped her pen and pushed a shaky hand through her hair. "I keep telling myself it's just physical, some kind of irresistible chemistry between us, but, oh God, Marce, I think I'm in love with him." Agitated, she waved a hand. "Oh, I know, it's just puppy love. Sort of a delayed adolescence. Not much more than lust, really."

  Marca drew a slow breath. "Is that so bad?"

  Carly glanced around the office that had always been a part of her life. Up here in the tower, she could look down and feel distant from all the pain she'd left behind.

  "I don't know, Marca, and that's the truth. You know how I feel about affairs between faculty members."

  "C'mon, Carly. It's not against any rule I know of."

  "No, but it's not good policy either. And what about Tracy? I can't tell you how many times I've preached to her about the need for love and commitment to make sex more than a physical mating. If she finds out her mother is having an affair with—"

  "Her father?" Marca interrupted softly.

  Carly nodded, her face suddenly ice cold. "That's another problem I'm not sure I'm ready to face." Her gaze flickered to the plaster cast of a small hand on the polished desk. Tracy had been a wide-eyed kindergartner when she'd given that to her for Mother's Day. For Father's Day, Tracy had made a similar cast for her Granddaddy Alderson, the only male role model she'd known.

  Marca waited until Carly looked her way again, then asked in an understanding tone, "Do you plan to tell Mitch the truth?"

  "Oh, Marca, I don't know!" Carly cried before rising abruptly to cross to the window. Across campus the rare elephant ear magnolia was coming into bloom. Nearby, the flowering plum she'd planted to celebrate Tracy's birth was already covered with pink blossoms. She still remembered the feel of that shovel in her hands and the burn of tears against her wind-chilled cheeks. In her mind the beautiful plum would always be Tracy's tree. It had blossomed seventeen times since then, growing tall and sturdy. Like Tracy herself.

  "I never wanted Tracy to grow up without a father, but things just turned out that way. I always tried to fill in, but there were times when she missed having a daddy around to tell her how beautiful she was and how special and, oh, I don't know, do all the things fathers do with daughters."

  "Are you saying you think that Mitch would have done all those things?" Marca asked as she joined Carly at the wi
ndow.

  "A month ago I would have said absolutely not and meant it. Now I'm not so sure." She rubbed a smudge from the pane with her forefinger before adding softly, "When he talks to Tracy, even about the most inconsequential things, she glows. At first, I thought she might have a crush on him—"

  "Maybe she does," Marca said.

  "Maybe, but I'm beginning to think it's more than that," Carly sighed. "She asks his opinion about her clothes and her hair—and boys."

  There was an abrupt rap on the door an instant before it opened and Mitch came in. He'd removed the tie he'd worn for the interview, but he was still wearing his blazer and a blue-and-white striped shirt. His eyebrows lifted at the sight of the two of them sitting frozen, as though caught in some guilty act.

  "Am I interrupting something important?" he asked, glancing from one to the other. "I can wait outside if you want."

  Carly shook her head. "No, we were just finishing."

  Marca picked up her briefcase and her purse, then offered Carly a coaxing smile. "Sure you don't want to join us? Scanlon's buying."

  "I am?"

  Carly heard the laconic humor in his tone and had a terrible urge to run into his arms. "No, thanks. You two go ahead. I have a pile of phone calls to return."

  "Have fun," Marca said before she walked past Mitch into the outer office.

  "Meet you at the elevator," he told Marca before closing the door.

  "Something wrong?" Carly asked, glancing up in surprise.

  "You asked me that once before, remember?"

  She tapped her pen against her pursed lips. "Mm, no, I don't think I do, actually."

  He approached the desk in his deliberate way. Seeing the heated look in his eyes had her pulse rocketing. Instead of stopping on his side of the desk, he came around to her side. One by one he rid himself of his crutches, then leaned against her desk and grinned crookedly.

  "Okay, I'm ready," he said, folding his arms over his chest. She had to struggle to keep a straight face.

  "So I see. The question that comes to mind, however, is ready for what?"

  "For my attaboy kiss."

  Carly blinked. "Perhaps you might explain that further."

  "It's an accepted practice that when someone does you a favor, you thank them in some appropriate way. I broke one of my rules for you when I let myself be interviewed on the tube, and it was damn hard work, let me tell you. In return, I think I should get a reward, don't you?"

  "Aha, now I understand." Reaching out, she pulled her crystal jar of lemon drops closer and took off the lid. "Take as many as you want."

  His mouth twitched. "I can see this calls for tact and diplomacy." His hand tangled in the soft floppy bow at her throat and tugged.

  "Scanlon—"

  "You owe me, bright eyes."

  Laughing in spite of her uncertainties, she let him pull her up and into his arms. "I offered you lemon drops."

  "I want a kiss."

  "I've always said a woman should pay her debts. And if that's what you want…" She focused her gaze on his mouth and felt him shudder. She saw his eyes warm a split second before his mouth covered hers.

  The heat was instantaneous, exploding in her blood, then melting into her bones. Instinct had her clutching those wide, unyielding shoulders while her senses spun in a wild spiral.

  His mouth was warm and moist and provocative, taking hers repeatedly, as though he couldn't get enough of her. When his tongue parted her lips, she sighed in welcome, her senses swirling faster and faster.

  Mitch groaned and pulled her closer, her breasts soft against his chest. His palms flattened against her spine as desire took him to the edge of reason.

  Dimly, through the haze of her own desire, Carly heard him groan. A shiver ran through her, and then, endearingly, through him, and then he was wrenching his mouth from hers.

  Reluctant to let her go, he held her close for as long as he dared, then gently moved her to arm's length. "Talk about lousy timing," he murmured hoarsely, and she managed a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan.

  Her face was flushed, her eyes cloudy and shaded toward a smoky gray. Her lips were still slightly parted and kissed to a rosy fullness.

  "Sure you don't want to come with us?"

  "I'm sure."

  He played with a lock of hair that clung stubbornly to his fingers. "Meet me at the pool tonight," he murmured, his voice raspy with a need he could only partially hide.

  "Tracy's having a sleep over. She and her friends generally end up in the Jacuzzi before the night is over."

  He drew a deep breath. "Guess that's a no on you and me taking a midnight swim," he drawled, his grin lazy.

  "Yes, that's a definite no." She rubbed a trace of lipstick from his mouth, and he tried to bite her finger. "And you'd better get going, or Marca's going to come in here and drag you out kicking and screaming. She can be very impatient."

  "She's not the only one who has a problem with patience." He offered her a lazy smile before retrieving his crutches. "Don't worry, bright eyes. Even if she throws herself at me, I'll resist. My heart belongs only to you."

  She knew he was teasing, but for a moment the thought that he might really love her had her emotions tumbling wildly.

  "Get going," she muttered. "Some of us have work to do."

  By the time he'd closed the door behind him, she had already dialed the number she needed and was on hold. But she was thinking of him.

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Just as Marca had predicted and Carly had hoped, the news that Mitch Scanlon was coming out of retirement to coach at a no-name college in Oregon had produced a media circus. Carly had never seen so many Minicams and microphones in one place in her life.

  Because of threatening rain, they'd moved the conference from the stadium to the largest classroom on campus. Every seat was filled, and the aisles were packed.

  To her astonishment, she'd discovered that Mitch truly did suffer from camera fright. She'd surprised him standing alone in one of the offices, his face gray. His eyes had been closed, and he'd been talking to himself. Psyching himself up the way he'd never had to do before a game, he'd admitted with obvious embarrassment.

  Deeply touched that he'd agreed to what was in essence an ordeal for him in order to help Bradenton, she'd proceeded to kiss him exuberantly and so thoroughly that his face had turned from ashen to flushed, and his eyes had lost all sign of fear.

  His grin had been cocky when he'd taken the stage after Marca's introduction, allowing everyone to see the extent of his disability as he'd approached the podium, dragging his dead legs a rigid thirty inches at a time while the cameras recorded every torturous inch.

  At first the questions had been stilted, even diffident, but when it became obvious that Mitch was willing to answer even the most personal questions, the reporters began clamoring for his attention, shouting and waving their arms to draw his gaze. After that, the conference became more like a party, with Mitch cracking jokes that had everyone laughing, including him.

  Carly left before the end with a lump in her throat and tears in her eyes, and was waiting for Marca and the others in the office Marca had appropriated for the occasion. Coach came in first, his seamed face alight and his eyes glowing. Scanlon followed, looking emotionally drained and physically weary—and thoroughly masculine in chinos and a pale blue shirt with a button-down collar and sleeves he'd rolled nearly to the elbow. As of two days ago, he had officially become Bradenton's head football coach with the rank of full professor and all the perks that went with that position. The contract signed in his self-assured scrawl was now on Carly's desk, along with all the other papers required of a new faculty member.

  "This calls for a celebration," Coach boomed, already stripping the cellophane from the biggest cigar Carly had ever seen.

  "Don't even think of it," Carly warned, snatching the matchbox from his hand before he'd even gotten it open.

  "Tyrant," Coach muttered, his expression mu
tinous as he looked to Scanlon for support.

  Scanlon's grin flashed, and Carly wondered if she was the only one to see the subtle signs of strain in his face. "Don't look at me, Pete," he drawled. "I'm not about to take her on when she gets that determined glint in her eyes."

  Coach scowled. "Damn it, Mitch, I thought you'd be on my side."

  "Hey, I don't want you dropping dead on me—at least, not until football season's over. You promised to help me get the hang of this coaching thing, remember?"

  Carly saw the mixed emotions on Coach's face and fought an urge to laugh. Gotcha, you old finagler, she thought as Marca came bustling in and closed the door.

  "Kudos all around, guys and gals. On a scale of one to ten, we just pulled off a twelve, publicity wise." She circled the desk, sat down in the chair and produced a magnum of champagne from someplace on the floor.

  "Somebody open that," she muttered before diving below the desk again for glasses. "Pretend these are Baccarat crystal," she said as she plunked a stack of plastic cups on the table.

  Mitch leaned against the desk and propped his crutches next to him before reaching for the champagne. Carly watched his hands expertly manipulate the cork and thought about the feel of those long, supple fingers against her breast. It had been three days and nights since they'd made love.

  He hadn't suggested another midnight swim, and she told herself she was glad. Too many things had happened too quickly, and she needed time to sort out her emotions.

  The cork came out with a satisfying pop, requiring a cheer from the assembly. Carly found herself looking into Scanlon's eyes and smiled. His gaze dipped to her mouth, and she felt a flurry of need.

  "Marca's right. You were great."

  "Talk's easy," he said with a shrug, as though he hadn't been to-the-bone terrified to make his way to the microphone. "Let's see what all those football experts asking the questions have to say after the season."

  While he poured, Marca launched into a sprightly analysis of the conference, including pithy comments on some of the more prominent attendees. When all the glasses were filled and in hand, she got to her feet and looked at Carly.