The Baby Came C.O.D.

by Marie Ferrarella

  The latter, he forced himself to acknowledge, was right up Devin's alley. As a private investigator specializing in missing persons, his brother would know how to go about locating this "mystery woman" who was making these false accusations.

  But he didn't like having to ask Devin for anything. It wasn't that Devin would refuse him, or even act as if he were being put out—it was just that Evan prided himself on being able to handle anything that came his way, no matter what.

  "No matter what" had lusty lungs and was in the process of sucking out every bit of oxygen within the car and turning it into noise. Evan rolled down the window, hoping the street traffic would cut into the wailing and neutralize it

  All his adult life, Evan had gone out of his way to prove how much more responsible he was than Devin. Devin had always been the reckless one, the one who seemed to be without a serious thought. The one his parents had despaired would never amount to anything, not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he didn't apply himself.

  Evan's mouth curved in a self-deprecating smile. So why was he the one who was being accused of fathering an unwanted child?

  Sometimes, the world made no sense.

  The open window didn't help. Rachel's cries just rose to the challenge, increasing Evan's feeling of helplessness. The entrance to his development had never looked so good. Not that there were any ready solutions there, but at least be would be out of the crammed confines of the car. His ears were beginning to ring.

  "We're here, we're here," he told Rachel, trying to calm her down.

  The wailing continued a minute longer, then, as if intrigued by the sound of his voice, Rachel stopped as abruptly as she had started. He felt like rejoicing at the temporary reprieve. It was funny how so little could suddenly mean so much.

  "Opera," he murmured, "you should definitely consider a career in opera."

  Evan turned into his driveway, not even bothering to use the automatic garage-door opener.

  He'd no sooner pulled up his hand brake and turned off the engine than he was laid siege to. Not by the child inside the car, but by the child outside. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her approaching at ten o'clock. A bouncy four- year-old who was bound and determined, since he'd moved in next door to her and her mother three months ago, to learn everything there was to know about him. He'd already discovered that short, one-word replies did not discourage her. They just led her to ask more questions.

  Please, not now, he thought.

  "Hi!"

  Standing on her toes, Elizabeth Jean Walker hooked her fingers on his open window, all ten of them. Since she was forever eating some candy or other, Evan could just envi-sion what her sticky prints were doing to the highly polished shine on his car.

  "You have a baby!" Libby's eyes were huge as she looked past him to the wiggling baby in the car seat "I didn't know you had a baby!"

  "I don't. It's not mine." He put his hand on the latch, then looked at Libby expectantly. "Would you mind stepping back? I need to get out of the car."

  Libby danced backward on the points of her toes, her eyes still riveted to the baby. She was pirouetting this week. It went along with her current choice of career—ballerina. Last week, when she had wanted to be a cowhand, she had galloped everywhere she went. "If it's not yours, did you steal it?" There was breathless excitement in each word.

  He was glad someone was getting enjoyment out of this. "No, someone gave it to me." Evan got out and slammed his door.

  Without a trace of self-consciousness, Libby stuck with him like a shadow as he rounded the hood to the passenger side. "You mean, like a present?"

  Where was this kid's mother? Didn't she know better than to let her little girl run around, harassing neighbors? "No, not exactly."

  He stared down at Rachel. Should he take her out of the car seat, or carry her into the house in the seat? He decided on the latter. He didn't want drool on his expensive jacket.

  Libby cocked her head, watching him think his problem through. "Whatcha gonna do with the baby?"

  "I don't know." He bit off the answer. Evan didn't like feeling as if he was lost, but he still hadn't a clue what to do. There had to be someone he could call, a baby-sitting service that dealt in emergencies. Something. He had a meeting to go to, damn it. He didn't have time to stay home and play surrogate father to someone else's child.

  Libby wiggled in front of him for a better view of the baby. Swallowing an oath he knew was inappropriate for Libby to hear, he placed both hands on her shoulders and firmly moved her out of his way.

  She looked up at him, a sunny expression on her pale face. "Do you need help?"

  What he needed right now was for Mary Poppins to come flying down out of the sky. "Yes, I need help." He began working the tangled straps that he'd buckled so hap-hazardly before while Rachel waved her feet at him, kicking his wrist. "Lots of help. I—"

  He looked up, determined to send Libby on her way, but she was already gone.

  Well, at least that much had gone right in his life, he thought The last thing he needed was for Libby to chatter on endlessly in his ear as he struggled to deal with his very real problem.

  He should have made a more forceful attempt to talk Alma into helping, he thought, annoyed with himself for giving in so quickly. After all, she was a woman and they had a built-in knack for this sort of thing.

  Heaven knew, he didn't.

  The baby gurgled happily when he swung her out of the car. "Yeah, you can laugh. You don't have your career riding on a meeting this afternoon. Who are you, anyway?"

  Rachel answered him by blowing more bubbles.

  Evan carried the car seat up to his front door, then tried to do a balancing act while he fished out the keys he'd automatically shoved into his pocket when he'd gotten out of the car.

  Through with blowing bubbles, Rachel began to fuss again, trying to eat her foot. All in all, this was not turning out to be one of his better days.

  Claire Walker had been staring at the same design on her computer screen for the past ten minutes. Today, apparently, her creative juices had decided to take a hike. No pun intended, she mused, since she was trying to work on a logo for a prominent firm that manufactured athletic equipment.

  Nothing was going on in her brain except a mild, familiar form of panic. The kind that always overtook her when she came up empty.

  Since she'd come into the small guest bedroom that doubled as her office over an hour ago, she'd gotten up every few minutes, procrastinating. She'd even dusted the shelves.

  Dusted, for pity's sake, something she absolutely abhorred and did only when the dust motes got large enough to put saddles on and ride. She was that desperate to get away from her work.

  Nothing was materializing in her brain.

  It was time, she decided, to take a temporary reprieve. A real one. Maybe what she needed was to take the morning off. The afternoon had to get better. The only way it would be worse was if she was suddenly possessed to clean out her refrigerator.

  Her fingers flying for the first time that day, she pressed a combination of keys and shut her computer down. Things would look different when she opened it up again later, she promised herself.

  The house reverberated as the front door was slammed shut. Hurricane Libby, she thought fondly.

  "Mama, Mama, come quick!"

  Claire smiled to herself. She was accustomed to Libby's "come quick" calls. "Come quick" could mean anything from a call urging her to see a praying mantis, to watching a funny cartoon on television, to seeing a mother bird feeding her babies in the nest they'd discovered out front in their pine tree. Claire had learned very quickly that no matter what pitch the cry was delivered in, it wasn't about anything earthshaking.

  Life was very exciting for a four-going-on-five-year-old.

  Claire stepped out into the hallway. "What is it this time, Lib?"

  Libby, her blond curls bouncing around her head like so many yellow springs in motion, lost no time in finding her. "T
he man next door needs help."

  Claire's brow furrowed. Well, this was definitely a different sort of "come quick" than she was anticipating. He was actually asking for her help? She and the very attractive, very mysterious man next door hadn't even really exchanged any words. She'd said hello a few times, and he had just nodded in response. Not even a "hi." If it weren't for the fact that the mail carrier had delivered a letter to her house intended for him, she wouldn't have even known his name.

  Since he'd moved in, she'd seen him only a handful of times, usually on his way to his car early in the morning or returning to the house late in the evening. She never saw him do anything mundane, like mow his grass or take out his garbage. He had a gardener for the former, and as for the latter, Claire doubted that he ate or did very much living at home. Disposal of garbage might be a moot point—he probably didn't have any.

  Placing an anchoring hand on Libby's shoulder, Claire held her in place. "What do you mean, 'help'?"

  Claire couldn't visualize Mr. Quartermain asking for any, much less asking it of her or using Libby as a messenger. Libby didn't lie, but something wasn't right here.

  Impatience hummed through the tiny body. "I asked him, and he said he needs help, lots of it."

  Maybe she was being hasty in dismissing Libby's story. "Is anything wrong?"

  Slight shoulders lifted and fell in an exaggerated shrug that seemed so natural for the young. "He stole a baby."

  Claire's eyes were as huge as Libby's had been. "He did what?"

  All innocence, Libby recited, "I think he stole a baby. He said it wasn't his and he needed help with it." With her fingers wrapped firmly around her mother's hand, Libby was already dragging Claire out of the house. "C'mon, Mama, you help better than anyone."

  "You're prejudiced, but keep talking. I need the flattery."

  Libby liked it when Mama used big words when she talked to her. It meant she was almost all grown up, like Mama. "What's that mean? Pre-joo-dish?"

  "Something I'll explain to you when we have more time." Right now, she had to investigate Libby's story. Claire had to admit, curiosity was getting the better of her. Otherwise, she would have never entertained the thought of just paying Evan Quartermain a "neighborly" visit. Not when he definitely wasn't.

  As it turned out, she didn't have to go far to satisfy her curiosity. Evan was still trying to open the front door while wrestling with a car seat and an animated baby sitting in same.

  "You're right—he does have a baby." Claire's surprise could have been measured on the Richter scale. Maybe he was divorced, she thought. And his ex-wife unexpectedly had to leave town. That would explain the sudden appearance of the baby, as well as his distraught expression.

  "I told you, Mama." Now that she was certain her mother was coming, Libby released Claire's hand and made a dash for Evan's front door.

  He had the kind of reflexes that had made his college fencing master proud, but Evan was still having trouble getting his key in the lock without dropping the baby.

  "See?" Libby announced proudly, planting herself in front of Evan. "I brought help!"

  Evan blew out a breath, then turned to put the baby down on the step, ready to warn Libby to keep her distance.

  "I don't—" His words vanished as he found himself looking into the very amused, very bemused eyes of the woman next door.

  The chatterbox's mother.

  Recognition was a delayed reaction. She didn't exactly look like a mother. Barefoot and in black shorts despite the autumn bite to the weather, the petite blonde looked more like the girl's older sister than her mother. Didn't mothers usually look a little worn, a little frayed around the edges? If anyone had a right to that look, she certainly did, given that she was Libby's mother.

  But this woman was fine, and the look in her eyes was sheer amusement. At his expense. "Can I help you?" he asked coolly.

  He'd all but snapped the words out at her. No doubt about it, the man was not a contender for the Mr. Congeniality award, baby or no baby in his arms. But Claire had to struggle to hold off an attack of the giggles. She doubted if she had ever seen anyone look more uncomfortable than he did. He was holding the baby practically at arm's length, as if he feared any closer contact would make one of them self-destruct.

  He didn't like babies very much, she judged. For her part, Claire was a sucker for them, always had been. She loved the scent of them, the feel. She longed to take the baby in her arms, but refrained. No use getting worked up and mushy. After all, it wasn't like it was her baby.

  "No," she finally answered, "but I think I can help you."

  He almost said Thank God out loud as he held out the car seat to her. But she took his keys instead and, with a minimum of fuss, unlocked the door for him.

  With a sigh, he entered, still holding the car seat as if he expected the baby to begin throwing up with an eighteen- inch projectile.

  When he turned around, he narrowly avoided hitting Claire with the baby seat, but she managed to jump back in time. She nodded at the baby, seeing the resemblance. "I take it that's your daughter?" She ignored Libby tugging urgently on her sweater, knowing a contradiction hovered on the girl's lips.

  Evan really didn't feel like discussing his problem with this woman. He wasn't even going to answer, then finally said, "Supposedly."

  "'Supposedly'?" she echoed, stunned, taking another look at the fussing child. The baby certainly looked like him, right down to the wave in her hair. Just look at all that hair, she thought, longing to curl her fingers through it. She raised her eyes to Evan. This wasn't making any sense. "Who's the mother?"

  Instead of answering, he turned his back on her, setting the baby seat down on the first available flat surface, the top of the two-tier bookcase.

  "I don't know." As far as he knew, the child couldn't be his. He'd always used precautions.

  It took very little imagination on Claire's part for her to see the baby seat plummeting from its perch. Was he crazy? She picked it up and thrust it back into his hands.

  "If you're not careful, she'll fall off. And what do you mean, you don't know?" How did he get this baby, then?

  "Just what I said." Evan stared at her, surprised, as his arms were suddenly filled with baby again. He saw where Libby got her pushiness from. "She was just left, on my doorstep, so to speak—actually, on my secretary's desk at the office."

  He looked at his watch again. Damn it, time was growing short. Desperate—that was the only word to describe his mood—he decided to take a chance. "Look, are you any good with kids?"

  Claire ran her hand along the waves and curls of her daughter's hair, hair that was no mean feat to comb in the morning. "I haven't broken the one I have."

  If that was a joke, he didn't have time for humor. "Great. How would you like to earn some extra money?"

  She frowned. Normally, she'd tell him what he could do with his money. Spend it on his "supposed" daughter. But this past month had been rough, and Claire was in no po-sition to turn down work that fell into her lap. Any reasonable work, she amended for her own sake.

  "Just what did you have in mind?"

  Chapter Two

  "What I have in mind," he began, rewording her question, "is someone to take care of, um..." He was drawing a blank.

  Stunned, Evan searched his mind and realized that, for the life of him, he couldn't remember the baby's name.

  The woman's amused expression was intensifying. Muttering under his breath, he shifted baby and seat over onto his hip and he dug into his pocket. Evan had taken the note he'd found pinned to the baby's shirt with him to scrutinize later and perhaps somehow identify whoever was responsible for this dilemma he found himself in.

  Pulling it out now, he looked down, scanning it. "Rachel."

  He looked up at Claire with a mixture of hope and expectation, waiting for her to agree.

  Libby was at his side, peering at the note in his hand. Mama had taught her how to read a few words, but everything on that paper looked l
ike scribbles to her.

  "You have to write down your baby's name? Don't you know it?" Libby's face puckered as she tried to puzzle out his behavior. "Everybody knows their baby's name," she stated with the confidence of the very young. "How come you have to write it down?" Compassion, learned at her mother's knee, filled her expressive eyes as she continued looking up at him. "Doesn't your remembery work?"

  Claire affectionately passed her hand over the curls. "Memory," she corrected.

  "Memory," Libby repeated, nodding in agreement. She didn't mind being corrected. Mama had told her that was the way she learned, and she loved to learn.

  He felt as if he was being ganged up on by a gang comprised of one and two-thirds women, if he counted Rachel in on it.

  "My memory works just fine, and she's not my baby," Evan snapped. He didn't know who needed more convincing of that, his neighbor, Libby or him.

  Ingrained instincts had Claire's hand tightening on Libby's shoulder, moving the girl behind her in an age-old gesture of protectiveness.

  "You don't have to shout," Claire admonished him, raising her own voice.

  Why was she pushing her daughter behind her? Did the woman think he was going to strike her? Where the hell did she get that idea? He was just frustrated, but he wasn't a monster.

  "I am not shouting." And then, because he was, Evan lowered his voice, struggling with exasperation. "I am not shouting," he repeated. "It's just been a very trying morn-ing."

  She heard the weary note in his voice and saw the confusion in his eyes that he was trying to hide. Normally given to sympathy, Claire relented. He wasn't as certain that he had no hand in fathering this baby as he was claiming, she thought.

  "I can see that," she said quietly.

  Something within him reached out to the sympathy in her voice before he could think better of it. He didn't need sympathy; he needed a baby-sitter.

  "You know, I don't even know your name," he realized out loud.

  "I'm not surprised." After all, he'd made no attempt to talk to her the few times their paths had crossed. Quite the opposite, actually. Whenever she did see him, he'd hurried away, as if exchanging any sort of pleasantries was superfluous behavior.