by JJ Knight
“Is it safe to say that her hair won’t ever be black?” he asks.
I’m still looking at his face, so it takes a moment to register his question. “Black?”
“Yes. It won’t turn from blond to black, right?”
He lets go and tugs his phone out of his breast pocket.
Right. His list of potential mothers.
The chill that follows the withdrawal of his attention makes me shiver. “I don’t think so. Her hair will stay fair and never go much darker than medium brown. If it were going to be black, it would have shown up that way by now.”
He nods, scrolling down his list. “Given that my hair is so dark, that should eliminate quite a few more.”
I’ve recovered from his touch now and sit up straight. “Not necessarily. Recessive genes can show up anytime. My parents both had dark hair and brown eyes.”
He looks at me again, this time focused on my eyes. “They are almost green. Are you sure you aren’t adopted?”
Anger flushes through me. “You don’t say things like that!” I whisper harshly. “I got my hair and eyes from my grandmother!”
He holds up a hand. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to offend your tender sensibilities.” He laughs. “Growing up, I was desperately hoping I would turn out to be adopted.”
As soon as those words are out, his face darkens, as if he is angry he said it. “Never mind. I’m sure a simple test will clear me of all this.”
But I’m too angry now to let any of this go. “Maybe if you didn’t sleep with every woman that came within striking distance of your snakebite, you wouldn’t be in this predicament at all!”
He drops the phone back in his pocket. He’s comfortable now, as if my disdain is what he expected and he’s back in his element. “Careful, now, or I’ll bite you next.”
“As if!” I groan as soon as I’ve said it. I sound like a teenager.
Thankfully, a woman in pink scrubs comes out and calls for Grace. I stand up in a huff, then get hold of my composure and smooth my skirt, one hand still on the baby’s back.
Inside the hall, we turn to a scale on a small table. “Place the baby here,” the nurse instructs. She’s mid-fifties and rather no-nonsense.
I tug Grace from the wrap and place her gently in the curve of the scale.
“Fourteen pounds, two ounces,” the woman announces. She picks Grace up and stretches her out on a small counter next to a measuring tape. “And twenty-two inches. All good.”
She slides the tape around Grace’s head and marks down the measurement. “Perfect.”
We move on to a room and I rewrap the baby. Dell hands the mostly empty clipboard to the nurse and settles in a chair near the exam table.
The woman closes the door and frowns at the paper. “So what are we here for?” she asks.
“To assess the infant’s overall health and do a DNA test,” Dell says. “We need to establish paternity.”
The nurse snaps to me. Great, now she thinks I’m the mother that Dell is questioning. “I’m just here to help,” I say. “The mother is unknown.”
“So no vaccine records, birth information, nothing?” the woman asks.
“Not a clue,” Dell says. “The heartless beast left the baby at my door.”
The nurse bites her lower lip. “I may have to call social services on this,” she says.
Now Dell stands up, towering over the woman. “I’ll call social services myself once we’ve concluded the test. This isn’t the time or the place to involve outsiders.”
The nurse takes a step back. “I’ll bring in the doctor.”
“Thank you,” Dell says curtly. He settles back in the chair.
When the door is closed, he glances over at me. “What are you so smug about?”
“Being friendly is going to get you a lot further than being Dell Brant,” I say. Grace has fallen back asleep in my arms. “If she thinks this child is in any danger, she’s obligated to call the hotline.”
Dell leans his head against the wall. It’s an amusing pose due to a school of silly painted fish behind him. I have to stifle a giggle.
“Are you obligated to call?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Anyone in contact with children like we are is supposed to report anything suspicious.”
“Have you already done so?” His voice is hard-edged.
“No,” I say. “I’m curious to see if the baby is yours.”
Now he frowns. “Is that the reason you’ve stayed? Morbid curiosity?”
I sense the subtle power shift. “There is that, certainly. But mainly I’m here because you asked for my help.”
This mollifies him. We sit in silence, listening to the sounds in the hall. Handwashing. Murmured greetings. At one point, a child’s lusty scream pierces the quiet.
Dell’s eyebrows lift.
“A shot,” I say, and he nods, relaxing.
When the doctor steps in, Dell’s entire demeanor changes. He stands to shake the woman’s hand. “Thank you so much for helping us today,” he says to her. “I’m so anxious to confirm that this child is my daughter.”
This is an entirely different Dell. I guess he took my lecture to heart.
“Let’s see this little darling,” the doctor says. She turns to me. “I’m Lilluth.”
Lilluth is in her sixties with a cotton-candy head of gray hair, and a grandmotherly expression usually only seen in children’s books. I adore her instantly.
“Arianna,” I say, sliding the wrap around to release the baby. “I run the Del Gato Child Spa down the street.”
“Ah, yes, I see many of your wee clients,” she says. “I hear lovely things about your business.”
“Thank you for getting her in so quickly,” I say carefully. I want to place a little distance between myself and the situation since she knows me. “Mr. Brant came in quite concerned about the proper steps to take once the child was left in his care.”
“You are good to help,” Lilluth says. She takes the baby from me and holds her in the crook of her arms. “Nice weight. Good skin tone. Let’s wake you up now,” she says. “I want to hear that healthy cry!”
She lays the baby on the exam table. “Wake up!” she says, then asks, “Is Grace her name?”
“It’s what we’re calling her,” Dell says. “For my grandmother. We weren’t given any paperwork.”
“So we don’t know if she has her immunizations or a confirmation of her age,” Lilluth says. “Let’s take a look.”
Grace opens her eyes sleepily, then closes them again. Lilluth pulls on her legs, opening her knees and checking her hips and ankles. Then she slips the disc of her stethoscope inside the frilly outfit to listen to her heart and lungs.
“All seems well,” Lilluth says. She plucks gently at Grace’s cheeks until Grace is more fully awake. “Let’s look at those gums!” she says.
The baby finally gives a hearty cry and Lilluth examines her mouth. “Three to four months for sure,” she says.
I nod. I thought so too.
“She’s right in the center of the growth chart for three months, which we would expect with no sign of teeth erupting.” Lilluth straightens. “I’m tempted to inoculate her since she’d be due for a second set anyway.” She glances at Dell. “Are you on board with that?”
“If your professional opinion says it is in her best interest, then yes,” Dell says.
Lilluth picks up the baby and places her on her shoulder. “So let’s talk about the DNA test.”
“How quickly can we get results?” Dell asks.
“Three days,” Lilluth says. “But since today is Wednesday already, you’re looking at Monday before we’ll get back to you.”
“There is no way to speed the process up?” Dell asks.
“I think there are one-day clinics around, and some of the home kits will get you results the next day,” Lilluth says. “But you want a court-admissible test. Ours will be one you can take to a judge to establish custody.”
�
��But if I could know in a day, I can call the child agency if she isn’t mine,” Dell says.
Lilluth pats Grace on the rump. She’s asleep again. “I don’t think I would rush this process if I were you,” she says kindly. “Once the baby is in the system, it’s a lot harder to get her back.”
Dell stares at the ceiling a moment, then says, “Let’s go ahead and do yours. I can decide about the other later.”
Lilluth nods. “Here you go,” she says, passing the baby to Dell. I can see in her sly smile that this is on purpose.
Dell handles her well, holding her gently and angled toward him. She doesn’t wake.
Lilluth smiles with satisfaction. “She looks good on you.” She pushes up from the stool. “I’ll send the nurse in with the vaccinations and the DNA swabs.” She pats Dell’s arm. “Good luck to you.” Then to the baby, “I hope to see your pretty face again soon.”
When she’s gone, Dell says, “I like her.”
“She doesn’t take many new patients,” I say. “But she had a cancellation. Lucky for us.”
The stern nurse re-enters the room and Dell instantly tenses up again. I’m not fond of the woman either.
“Sounds like we have a few items to take care of,” she says cheerfully.
“Are you going to be the one giving her the shots?” Dell asks.
“I am. Now if you’ll just lay her down here.”
Dell hesitates, but steps forward to set Grace on the exam table. She looks so small and vulnerable, spread out on the flat gray cushion covered in wrinkled paper.
His eyes meet mine. I try to convey calmness in my expression.
The nurse opens a round Band-Aid and sticks it on one finger as she pulls out a syringe. As soon as Dell sees it, his face loses color.
I stand up, alarmed at how quickly he changes. “You okay, Dell?”
He nods curtly.
“Hold the baby in place,” the nurse says. “She’ll take the first one fine, but the second one won’t be as easy.”
Dell and I glance at each other again. He presses a palm on the baby’s chest. I fold in close in case I can help.
I may have run a day care for several years and dealt with all manner of child situations. But I’ve never been a parent, and I’ve never watched a baby get stuck with a needle.
When the syringe goes in and Grace snaps awake with a blood-curdling cry, Dell and I reach for each other’s hands at the same time.
Chapter 9: Dell
“That was pretty tough,” Arianna says as we walk down the sidewalk back to our building.
I don’t answer. I’m holding the baby now. I may never let another person touch this child.
“These are the hard parts,” Arianna says, her voice insistent. She won’t stop saying the same thing over and over. “Some things just have to be done.”
Finally I stop cold, right in the middle of the sidewalk. “I’m not taking her back to that horrible nurse.”
“Maybe you can ask Lilluth to do it next time,” Arianna says.
I can only grunt. Probably it wouldn’t have gone any differently with the doctor. It’s barbaric, sticking needles in their legs. I’m not thrilled about my role in her misery, holding her down, having a cotton swab stuck in her mouth. The woman practically gagged me with it herself.
We take off again. My stride is punishing, fast and long. Arianna is keeping up well enough, though. She must do cardio in some form. Grace is still howling. She hasn’t calmed down since she got stuck. I don’t blame her.
“Shhhh, little one,” I say to her. “Nobody is going to hurt you again.” Not if I can help it. I’ll buy the damn pharmaceutical company. Force them to come up with another method to vaccinate. This is outrageous.
We’re halfway back when my ears prick. Something familiar. Something I don’t want to hear.
Arianna nudges me. “That woman is calling out to you,” she says. She points into the street.
Traffic is nose to nose, barely inching along. A black Mercedes has its back window down. Leaning out, waving madly, is none other than a woman I went out with a couple weeks ago. Camellia Walsh.
This day just keeps getting better.
“Dell, oh Dell!” she calls. “I’ve been texting you!”
I keep walking, refusing to acknowledge her.
“You ignoring her on purpose?” Arianna whispers, practically a hiss.
I don’t see any reason to answer her either. It’s obvious what I’m doing.
But Camellia is damnably persistent, and the slam of a car door is quickly confirmed to be her. She catches up and pulls at my shirt sleeve. I realize for the first time since leaving my penthouse that I’m without my suit jacket. Or tie. Damn it all.
“Dell! Couldn’t you hear me?”
Her red hair is ridiculously bright in the sun, almost lurid. Her eyelashes are like spiders fighting with every blink. What did I see in her?
Then I spot the rack. The tiny waist. The tennis-honed thighs flirting beneath the hem of her crazy short dress.
And I remember.
Arianna has taken several steps away from me, walking as if we aren’t really together. She frantically tries to tame the flapping bits of the purple wrap. She has no idea how classy she looks compared to Camellia’s fake facade.
“Dell! I’m right here!” Camellia calls.
She seems to notice the child finally and crosses in front. “Stop! Stop right here! What is that you are holding?”
I’m forced to halt or run her over. There aren’t enough four-letter words for how pissed I am that she’s seen me with Grace. I have no way of explaining her. And I don’t want to speak to this woman anyway. Despite my reputation and my absolute clarity that we were not a couple, she has insisted on seeing me again.
Our sudden jolting stop causes Grace to stop crying for a moment, her wet eyes taking in Camellia’s vivid hair.
Arianna stops as well, her face etched with uncertainty. There’s a tree between us, circled with a small wire fence. I want her to come out, not hide.
But I don’t need saving. I’ll deal with Camellia.
“It’s nothing that concerns you,” I say coldly. “Now please get out of my way.”
Camellia looks around, as if certain there has to be some explanation for the presence of the baby. She spots Arianna standing by the tree.
“You there,” she says. “Are you the mother of this child?”
Good God. “Camellia, get back in your car,” I order her.
I take a step around her and carry on with the walk. I can’t tell if Arianna has followed or not.
I know Camellia in her kitten heels will never be able to keep up with me. I can see the building two blocks down. I will get there, and I will calm this baby.
Although she’s not taken up her cries again. She has her fist in her mouth.
I can feel the way I’m jostling her as I walk. Arianna was right. I should have a wrap or carrier. I see why people use strollers. If nothing else, you can force people out of your way.
I sense someone following me. I have no idea if Camellia is showing more spunk than she did on our dates, or if it’s Arianna or a random New Yorker. I’m not particularly interested in turning around to look either. My eye is on the building.
But I’m stopped at the crosswalk and I’m not about to dodge taxis with an infant in my arms. So I wait. After a few seconds, Arianna stands next to me. “You lost her,” she says. “Shoe disaster.”
I huff a sardonic laugh. “Broken kitten heel?”
“Worse,” Arianna says. “Strap blowout.”
I turn to look then. Camellia is a block back, hopping on one shoe, one bare foot, back to the Mercedes.
The light changes and I charge across the street. Arianna keeps up easily now.
“So who was that?” she asks. “She sure tried to boss you around.”
“Just someone I used to know,” I say.
“She saw the baby. Will that be a problem?”
“I don’t
know yet.” Camellia’s warped brain is probably already trying to figure out a way to use the situation to her advantage. But she can’t know anything about Grace, and there isn’t anyone anywhere who could inform her. Even my office staff and the executives whose meetings I canceled were not told anything other than I couldn’t be there.
Still, of all people to run into. It was no coincidence. She’s probably had her driver circling my block all afternoon.
Damn.
“Can I help?”
I glance over at Arianna. The curly brown-gold hair is lit up in the early afternoon sun. She couldn’t be more different from Camellia Walsh. Or most all the women on that list of twenty-five potential mothers. Who is she? How did she end up running a day care?
“Just help me settle this child,” I say.
“Pass her over to me,” Arianna says. “Since you’ll have her until Monday, have your people buy some things. A stroller. Some sleepers. More diapers. Maybe a changing pad. Probably another blanket or two.”
We approach the front of our building. The doorman nods as we enter.
I hear what Arianna is saying, and I agree. But now I’m not so sure I want anyone in my employ to buy the baby things. I suppose I could pretend they were gifts. I won’t have the child be the subject of gossip.
We step into an elevator. “I’m not sure anyone on my staff is particularly well versed in baby gear,” I say.
“Oh, surely someone has had a baby,” Arianna says. “With as much staff as you have.”
“Perhaps I could get a personal shopper from one of the boutiques,” I say.
Arianna makes that adorable scrunchy face with her lips. “The boutiques who have personal shoppers will only have high-end fussy stuff. You need basics.”
“Where do you get that?”
“Honestly, with what we need, I’d just go straight for the superstore.” Her expression is pained, as if this is the worst suggestion ever.
“You don’t seem thrilled.”
She shifts Grace to her shoulder and pats her frilly bottom.
“Those places are a little impersonal and some of the inventory is just total crap. But we don’t want to have to drive all over Manhattan.”