Though Con would have liked to turn around and head right back to the kitchen, it was too late. Stan had heard him. So he continued down the hall, beer in hand, and stopped beside his father-in-law, staring at the incriminating bed, the single head print on the feather pillow.
“I’d hoped that things had changed,” Stan said sadly, his gaze not leaving the bed.
Con wasn’t sure what Stan meant. But he was pretty damn sure he didn’t want to know. He stood silently, waiting.
“The wedding was for the boy, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t love her.”
“I care for her.”
“You’ve always cared for her, son. But she needs to be loved.”
Con stood there looking at that lonely bed and nodded. He couldn’t argue with Stan. The man was right.
“I’d hoped you’d learned to love her.”
“Don’t.” Con took a swallow of his beer. There was no point in any of them setting themselves up for disappointment
Stan shook his head. “She’s special, my Robbie. Strong as they come, but soft and warm underneath. She’ll make a good wife.”
“I know.”
They continued to stare at the bed. Con figured it was better than looking at each other. Stan had more to say.
“She deserves better than this.”
Con nodded. So far, Stan wasn’t telling him anything he hadn’t already told himself.
“Did you ask her to marry you?”
“What do you think?”
Now it was Stan’s turn to nod. “How long’s it for?”
“As long as it takes. Maybe sooner.”
“How long does she think it’s for?”
Con didn’t want to answer that. He didn’t like the answer. “Forever, maybe.”
Stan gave Con a sharp look. “I thought you were a better man than to use her like this.”
Con doubted that, but the accusation still stung. “They’re giving her a hard time down at the station, not including her in things. The guys are all married now. Their wives don’t like them hanging out with a single woman.”
Stan only grunted.
“She says she’s lonely.”
“So how’s she going to find a husband to take care of that when she’s married to you?”
Con didn’t have an answer.
“The minute she called today, I knew there was trouble,” Stan said, shaking his head. “I thought maybe you two had had a spat, figured it might take her a little while to adjust to having a man around telling her what to do. I had no idea it was this bad.”
“I don’t tell Robbie what to do.” Con wanted that clear.
“Yes, well, maybe you should. Maybe if you had to make decisions for her, you’d love her.”
Con could have told Stan that he liked Robbie just the way she was, that any man who tried to change her didn’t really love her, that pushing Robbie around would not only be futile, but wrong. Except that the information was irrelevant. All Stan really cared about was whether or not Con loved Robbie.
But Con didn’t love anybody. Stan knew that. God knows he’d tried. His birth parents had never even given him a chance. When he’d been young and naive, he’d done everything he could to please his foster parents, to love them as they’d expected him to. It had never been enough, though. They hadn’t been able to love him, not after the years of trouble he’d given them.
“I want a promise from you, son,” Stan said, as if reaching some conclusion.
Con stood silently, bracing himself to disappoint Robbie’s father again.
“I want you to stay away from her.”
What kind of request was that? “We live in the same house,” Con said, tamping down his anger.
“You seem to have managed it last night.” Stan’s tone was testy as he motioned toward his daughter’s bed and then to Con’s own unmade bed across the hall.
Con’s jaw tightened as understanding dawned. Robbie was thirty-three years old, and Stan was still worried about Con getting into her pants. Because of Stan as much as Robbie herself, Con had never even thought of Robbie in those terms. She was too special to him. But Stan had never understood that. Con was done hoping he ever would. And it was no longer any of Stan’s damn business whether or not Con had sex with his daughter.
“We’re married,” he said at last.
Stan turned, pinning Con with a glare that had been intimidating criminals for decades. “You touch her, you’ll hurt her. I want your word, boy.”
It was when he saw the despair in the older man’s eyes that Con capitulated. Stan Blair adored his only child. He was trying to protect her from the pain of a loveless marriage; sex added to the equation would only intensify the pain.
The words stuck in his throat, but he finally said, “You have it.”
Stan continued to study him doubtfully. Con thought he knew why.
During Con’s junior year in high school the foot-ball coach’s daughter had accused Con of forcing her to kiss him. The truth was Mitzy had gotten drunk at a party, thrown herself at him and been furious when he’d refused her. But the coach, a man Con had admired almost as much as he’d admired Stan, had believed otherwise. Con had been cut from the football team. And warned about the penalties for sexual assault.
“I never touched Mitzy Larson,” he said through gritted teeth.
“I know that, son.” Stan’s leathery brow was still creased. “I was just thinking about Susan. I don’t want her to know about this.” Stan motioned to Robbie’s room once more. “I don’t want her worrying.”
“Fine,” Con said, wondering if Stan was telling the truth.
Stan’s gaze fell and he seemed to study the toes of his tennis shoes. “I, uh, would rather Robbie not know I know, either. I’d like at least to salvage her pride.”
“Fine,” Con agreed again. He had no intention of talking to Robbie about sex again. Ever.
Without another word, Con turned and headed into his room. He was going to shower. Stan could wait or let himself out. It was no concern of his. All he knew was that he couldn’t shake the image of that single imprint on Robbie’s pillow.
CON WAS JUST SITTING DOWN to watch the ten o’clock news that evening when Robbie got home.
“Oh, good, just in time,” she said, kicking off her sandals before she curled up on the opposite end of the couch.
He bit back a sarcastic remark. It wasn’t her fault he’d been worried about her, or that he’d rather have had her company for dinner than eat alone. It wasn’t her fault he was strangely aware of her bare feet on the couch between them. “Tough day?” he asked.
“Not too bad.” She sounded too damn cheerful. And was that all she was going to tell him about what she’d been doing for the past twelve hours, after he’d spent the entire day thinking about her?
She reached for his cigarette, but he pushed her hand away, taking a drag himself.
“My, my, aren’t we testy?” she drawled.
The news was just coming on and Con turned up the volume. He lit a second cigarette and handed it to her before he settled back to watch. It felt good having her home.
ROBBIE WATCHED the news as intently as she always did, but instead of listening to the stories being reported, which she already knew, anyway, she concentrated on the female announcer, Megan Brandt, noting her every expression, every nuance in her voice, every tilt of her head. Now there was a woman.
“I could do that,” she finally said, leaning forward to flick the ashes off the end of her cigarette.
“I never knew you wanted to.” Con was staring at her, his gray eyes curious.
Robbie shrugged. “Sure I want to. I hadn’t planned on doing the grunt work all my life.”
“You don’t do grunt work.” He turned back to the television and Robbie breathed a sigh of relief. Another few seconds under his penetrating gaze and she was going to forget that he wasn’t supposed to have the ability to fire her blood.
“How�
��re the stitches feeling?” he asked in the middle of a story about a car chase that had resulted in the arrest of two teenagers.
“Fine.” Oh, Lord, they weren’t going to start that again, were they? “I get them out Saturday.” There, that should take the concerned look off his face. She could have told him they itched like hell, too, but she was damned if she’d discuss the condition of her breast with Con!
He nodded, his gaze on the TV again.
She turned her attention back to Megan Brandt, as well. She was going to concentrate on a dream that was feasible—to someday be the one reporting the news, not the drone collecting it. She couldn’t make it through too many more days like the one that had just passed, picturing Con’s face every time she closed her eyes, feeling his lips against hers every time she took a drink, driving herself crazy wanting to hurry home to him.
Only fools wasted their lives hoping for something they’d never have. And Robbie Blair Randolph was no fool.
CHAPTER SEVEN
HE EMPTIED his carton of milk in two swallows, never taking his eyes off Randolph’s house as the woman came outside just after dawn Friday morning. She was wearing an old pair of cutoff sweatpants and a Phoenix Suns jersey. And she had legs that reminded him of the women he drooled over in magazines. Things were looking up.
He hadn’t thought Randolph was screwing the woman all these months, although truth be told he didn’t know a lot about screwing. Not nearly as much as he’d like to. But he’d seen them move a bunch of stuff in Wednesday night. And he’d been watching the house ever since, even slept in his car just around the corner the past two nights so he could stay close. He wanted to make sure he wasn’t jumping to conclusions. And his vigilance had paid off. He’d been right. She’d moved in. They must be screwing.
This changed things of course. It would be longer than he’d originally figured before he could make his move. He’d have to work out another plan, take things real slow. Getting her out of Randolph’s house was going to be tough. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.
But he could wait. Now that he’d found a way to nail it to Randolph, to make him bleed, to hurt him so badly death would seem like a blessing, he could wait.
The woman bent down to get the newspaper on Randolph’s driveway, and for a moment all he could see was her ass, pointing right at him. Now there was an ass Randolph would miss. A lot
He could already taste victory. And it was sweeter than he’d imagined.
THE CALL CAME at seven o’clock Friday morning. Con and Robbie were in the kitchen, sharing the newspaper, a cigarette and a pot of freshly brewed coffee. He was already dressed for the yard work he’d left undone the day before, in cutoff jeans and a T-shirt. She hadn’t yet changed out of the cutoffs and jersey she’d slept in.
Robbie was in the process of reminding herself that Con was her husband in name only, that the way his chest filled that T-shirt was no business of hers, when the phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” she said, dashing into the living room. It was probably Rick. After the way she’d been ogling Con for the past half hour she hoped it was Rick. She’d told her boss to call her if he came up with anything else she could cover during the remainder of her days off.
“Mrs. Randolph?” Robbie’s stomach fluttered when she realized the person on the other end of the line was addressing her. That she was Mrs. Randolph.
“Yes?”
“This is Sandra Muldoon, from social services.”
“Yes?” she said again. Oh, God, it sounded as if Mrs. Muldoon had bad news. Had something happened to Joey? Please, let their baby be all right!
“We just received the results of the DNA testing, Mrs. Randolph.” The woman paused. Robbie’s skin went cold.
“And?” she asked, forcing her voice to remain calm. What if, after all they’d been through, they told Con that Joey wasn’t his? Whether he acknowledged it or not, Con already loved that boy. And, Robbie suspected, loved having a son. A family he could call his own.
“Mr. Randolph is the boy’s father.”
Tears stung Robbie’s eyes and her body went limp. It took everything she had to remain standing, to remember that Sandra Muldoon was still on the line, to keep from running back in to Con, throwing herself in his arms and bursting into sobs of joy. They had their proof. Nothing had gone wrong with the test. The court could not contest Con’s fatherhood.
“Are you there, Mrs. Randolph?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you so much for calling. How soon can we see him?”
“Today,” the woman said crisply. “The court approved an unsupervised visit for the weekend dependent on conclusive DNA results. I’d like to bring him by within the next hour. I trust you can arrange your schedule accordingly?”
“Great!” she cried. Today! Our baby’s coming to-day! “I mean, yes, our schedule is fine!” And then more calmly, “We’ll be ready.”
SHE DROPPED the phone back in its cradle just as Con came into the room. He’d heard her holler.
“What’s up?”
Robbie hurled herself at him, her arms encircling his neck. “We get him for the whole weekend, Con!" Her eyes shone. “The tests are back. Joey’s your son!”
Con felt the shock of her words clear to the bone. And then was hit by a joy unlike he’d ever known before. The boy was his.
“He’s mine.” He needed to say it aloud.
Robbie was still hanging on to him. “Congratulations, Daddy!” she said.
He froze. Daddy. He had a son. A family. For the first time in his life he really belonged to someone.
Unfamiliar with the feelings drowning him, unsure what to do with them, Con pulled Robbie close, gazing down into her smiling face, her smiling eyes. And filled with self-hatred and despair, with selfish pride and joy, he lowered his mouth to hers.
WAVES OF PLEASURE coursed through Robbie as Con’s lips touched hers.
Yes! her heart cried. Pent-up desire flooded her, almost frightening in its intensity.
Her mouth opened to him automatically, inviting him to deepen the kiss, allowing their tongues to mate. And then, in a flash, her befuddled brain remembered what had happened that last time he’d kissed her—the distaste she’d seen in his eyes.
For a split second, wanting him so badly she hurt, she considered ignoring the memory. But not at the risk of having him reject her again. She pulled out of his arms before he came to his senses. Because come to his senses he would, and she couldn’t stand a repeat of their wedding day. Not today. Today was too perfect, too precious. Today they’d have Joey all to themselves.
“He’s going to be here in an hour,” she said, rushing over to pick up the FBI newsletter he’d left on the coffee table. She carried it to the desk he used to pay bills.
Con remained where he was, a dazed look in his eyes, and if Robbie hadn’t been having such a hard time keeping her own emotions under control, she would have run right back to him.
“Robbie, about just now, I’m—”
“Forget it, Randolph. I’m happy, too,” she inter-rupted him before he could say he was sorry a second time for kissing her. She straightened the cushions on the couch.
“He’ll be here in an hour?” Con asked. She could feel him watching her, but he’d covered himself with his cloak of control again. It was in his voice, in the stillness of his body, as he stood in the doorway.
Robbie nodded. “There’s nothing out in the kitchen he can hurt himself on, is there?” she asked. This would be a whole lot easier if Con would get busy, get away from her, give her a few minutes to recover.
She didn’t know which was worse—only imagining his kisses, or these brief incomplete tastes of them. She just knew she needed his big sexy body out of her sight.
It wasn’t to be. “Look at me,” he said.
Robbie did as he asked, praying that she appeared convincingly unaffected.
“I didn’t pull your stitches, did I?”
“No.” She forced herself to meet his gaze. If discu
ssing her breast didn’t affect him, it certainly shouldn’t affect her. Except that it did.
He studied her, frowning. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Positive. Just a little nervous,” Robbie admitted, surprised to realize that last part was true. She might not be much in the wife department, but she was going to be a mother in a little less than an hour. And that she was going to get right
Con nodded, apparently satisfied. She wasn’t sure if that was because she’d done a good job of hiding her feelings, or because he was distracted by Joey’s impending visit. Either way, she was thankful.
He went around the room picking up ashtrays— from his desk, the coffee table, an end table beside his recliner.
“Does this mean you won’t be smoking this weekend?” she asked, wishing he’d have one last cigarette before Joey arrived. She could use a puff.
“We won’t be,” he said on his way out the door.
“What do you mean we?” Robbie called after him. “I quit.”
CON FELT LIKE he was setting off for the Academy all over again. He figured they were going to find him wanting, knew they’d be right in their assessment and was determined to make it, anyway. He’d conquered the Academy. But somehow he knew that fatherhood was going to be a much bigger challenge.
“That’s everything, then,” Mrs. Muldoon said, clearly not very happy about leaving Joey in their care. “His schedule’s written out there for you—" she gestured at the papers she’d handed Robbie “—along with the name of his doctor. And his foster mother packed a couple of jars of food along with a list of things he likes and doesn’t like.”
“Thank you,” Con and Robbie said at the same time. Robbie began reading the schedule.
The social worker glanced again at the baby carrier Con held, her eyes wary as she watched the child sleeping inside. “Make certain you keep his blanket with him at all times,” she said, turning toward the door.
“This dirty rag?” Con asked, indicating the dingy scrap of white material clutched in the baby’s fist. He planned to throw the damn thing out the first chance he got. And then go out to buy his kid a real baby blanket—something blue.
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