Babies and a Blue-eyed Man

by Myrna Mackenzie

  Following Rachel inside, he looked around the kitchen. It was ten times more spotless than he had left it this morning. There was a tablecloth on the table, an aroma in the air that made him realize he really was ravenous and Rachel bustling about the kitchen as though she belonged here.

  But of course she didn’t. Even now she was moving back toward the door.

  “Eat?” Zach said to Rachel.

  She shook her head, placing one hand on the door frame as she turned. “No, Zach, I have to go home for now. I’ll see you in the morning, Sam.” Her voice was soft, her eyes uncertain. Quickly she bent down, giving the twins the hugs they wanted and smiling at Annie.

  “You made a fine cake,” she said gently. “Your daddy will be proud.”

  Then she was gone, like a wisp of wind that came through and disappeared so fast you wondered if it had even happened.

  “I’ll be right back, Annie. Keep your eye on Janey and Zach, all right? We’ll eat in just a minute.”

  Pushing out the door, he called to Rachel just as she was stepping down off the porch.

  “Let me walk you to your car,” he said.

  Rachel turned, and Sam stood above her on the porch, looking down into her upturned face. She bit her lip, and he could see that she didn’t really want him there with her.

  Still, she nodded, and Sam fell into step beside her. He breathed in the scent of her, soap and baby powder and woman. It curled around him, making him aware of her nearness. Glancing to the side, he couldn’t help but notice the gap in her blouse where the button was missing, or ignore the satin spot of vulnerable skin exposed to his gaze.

  “Thank you—for the flowers, Sam. You really don’t need to do that anymore, though, you know. I don’t run out on my employers without proper notice.”

  So she thought he was still trying to bribe her. Well—why was he still sending her flowers? Maybe because they suited her, because she liked them so much, because she was right and he did want something from her? Sam nipped that thought in the bud. Darn it, what difference did it make why he was sending the damn flowers, anyway? He just was.

  When a man sent a woman flowers on a regular basis, it usually meant something. The thought fluttered in like a red flag. He grimaced. His circumstances couldn’t be called usual, but still...

  Stopping by the car, he tried to turn his thoughts from the direction they were headed. “You need a new blouse,” he chastised, the words slipping gruffly from his lips.

  Instantly she looked down and slid her palm over the skin already turning a pale pink.

  “Because of this?” She managed a laugh even though her skin was rosy. “All I need is a button and a needle and thread. This blouse is fine.”

  Sam frowned down at the garment in question, at the slender hand holding the edges in place.

  “It’s got paint on it, and heaven knows what else. Those little boogers of mine really took advantage of you, didn’t they?”

  Rachel stuck her chin in the air. “They did not. They’re absolute little sweethearts, and I encouraged them to be messy and noisy and to play their hearts out.”

  Rocking back on his heels, Sam leveled his gaze at her and grinned. “Rachel Allyn, are you spoiling my children?”

  She tucked her hands into her hip pockets and leaned forward, looking directly at him. Her left brow was raised in a challenge.

  “I made them eat peas with their lunch,” she announced sternly.

  “Well, then,” he drawled. “I guess that shoots the spoiling theory to pieces. I hate peas.”

  “You wouldn’t. Not the way I make them.”

  A low chuckle escaped Sam. “Rachel, I’m not an eighteen-month-old kid, I’ll beg you to remember. And you’re never going to talk me into eating peas.”

  She shrugged, the lift of her shoulders almost spreading her blouse again. “You’re worse than any child I’ve ever met, Sam.”

  Sam managed to keep his eyes off her chest, but just barely. And it was obvious that Rachel could tell which way his thoughts had turned.

  She pulled her hands from her pockets and crossed them over her chest. “I want to thank you—for not making a stink because Annie called you at work.”

  “Make a stink? Rachel, Annie’s my child. I’m just glad that you suggested that she call. She can call—you can call anytime it’s necessary.”

  Rachel tilted her head to the side. “Yes, well, I’m just glad that it consoled her a bit. She seemed a little brighter afterward. I thought you’d want to know that her day wasn’t completely awful.”

  Concern resonated in her voice. Sam felt gratitude growing like a flower deep within him. Thank goodness Rachel had come to him. He raised one hand, nearly touched her cheek, then stopped.

  “I already knew that, Rachel. I did. This is the first day in a long string of days that I haven’t worried about my children. I knew you’d do whatever it took to get them through without me. I trust you with my babies. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along. I know you’ll look out for them come what may. And I’m incredibly thankful.”

  He took one step closer, placed his hands on the shining red roof of her car, framing her body with his own. She tilted her head back farther, accommodating his height as she leaned back against the door of the car.

  “I didn’t do anything special.”

  But Sam knew that was wrong. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched a bright strand of her hair. Lightly, gently, he let the dark web of silk slide against his palm. The warmth of her breath caressed the back of his hand and sent sudden heat coursing through his blood.

  “You did do something special, Rachel. You’re here.” And sliding his hand up, he threaded his fingers through her hair, pulling her closer. He tilted his head and brought his mouth down to cover hers.

  She was warm cream, soft, the petals of her lips feeding him. With a groan, Sam dragged her closer. He felt her slender hands crawl to his shoulders and he was lost.

  Her heartbeat became his, he wanted to wrap her up inside himself and hold her there. He wanted to peel that plain white cotton blouse off her shoulders and trail his lips down the length of her body.

  Rachel shifted against him, her legs moved against his. He licked at her lips, slid his wide palms down her back and over the softness of curves that filled his hand.

  “Sam,” she said as he kissed his way across the silk of her cheek, nipping at the sensitive flesh beneath her ear.

  Her shiver fired him, and he started to lift her higher against him. Her hands fluttering against his chest made him wild with want.

  “Sam, no.” He froze, realizing that she was pushing against him, not pulling him closer.

  Harsh reality sizzled through the sky like lightning. He’d nearly been on top of her, ready to take her, with his children in the house behind him and the woman herself struggling against him.

  Pushing away, he stepped back, leaving her standing there, bracing herself against the car.

  He could almost see her pulling herself together. The deep breaths, the shaky hands. When she managed a tremulous smile, he cursed himself. What did he expect? Twice in his life he’d managed to read a woman wrong in a major way: once, years ago, when he’d thought he and Rachel were becoming friends, and then again, when he’d read love in Donna’s eyes where there’d been none. But this time—this time, there was no question of reading the woman wrong. She was his employee, for God’s sake. And a reluctant employee, at that. He’d practically dragged her from her old job and into this new one. He had no business pushing this kind of intimacy on her.

  “I—I’m sorry, Sam, I just—” She held her hands out, palms up, searching for words as she attempted to make light of the fact that he’d been all over her a moment ago.

  Sam swung around, holding up one hand. “You’re sorry? When we both know this was my fault? I’m the one to apologize. This was—a mistake. A big mistake, and I’m incredibly sorry for doing what I should never have done. But you don’t have
to worry. I won’t let my appreciation get the best of me again.”

  He watched as Rachel collected the remaining tattered strands of her dignity and wrapped herself in them. She opened her eyes wide and stared at him dead-on, even though her cheeks were flushed with rose.

  “I was apologizing, Sam, because we both know that I wasn’t exactly a passive participant in that kiss. But—you’re right. It was a big mistake. If you want to express your appreciation, I think the flowers will do. They are beautiful.”

  “And not nearly as overwhelming as a man bending you back over his arm, I’d guess,” he said, still kicking at himself.

  So she took the flowers as a gesture of thanks, did she? Well, good, because that was a better reason than he could come up with. He certainly hadn’t sent them because their softness reminded him of her. Or because he couldn’t stop thinking of lying down with her on a bed of grass and crimson flowers.

  Damn.

  “I didn’t mean to spoil your first day on the job, Rachel,” he said quietly.

  “Me, either,” she agreed. “So maybe we should both just forget this ever happened.”

  He nodded, opening the door of her car for her as she climbed inside. “It never should have happened. We’ll forget it completely,” he said.

  Like hell, Rachel Allyn, he thought as she drove away in her little red car. If she thought he was ever going to forget the feel of her body locked to his, or the passion that had gotten him in its grip, then she must have a pretty high opinion of his self-control.

  And Sam knew for a fact that Rachel had never had a high opinion of him at all.

  Chapter Five

  The road was a strip of black charcoal Rachel tried to burn up beneath her wheels, as she raced on in an attempt to avoid her thoughts. If she could just get far enough away, if she could just move fast enough, then she’d be able to forget that she’d been kissing Sam Grayson just a few moments ago.

  She would forget that it had been wonderful. Heady. She could hide from the fact that she wanted more.

  That did it. Rachel hit the main part of town and pulled over into the grocery store parking lot. She needed normal. She needed sane. She needed safe everyday activity.

  Climbing from the car and rounding up a grocery cart, she pushed her way mindlessly to the store. Her lips were still tingling, her body was still throbbing. How could she have done what she’d done?

  Only a short time ago she’d been calmly reflecting on the fact that she needed to be careful not to let the children become too dependent on her. Now it appeared that she was the one who needed watching.

  Rachel tossed groceries into her cart, paying little attention to what she was doing.

  How could she have followed Sam’s lead so easily? And she couldn’t even blame the man, damn him. Sam had been going through a lot, he’d been betrayed by his wife, he was half-crazed with worry about his kids. It was only natural that all that pent-up emotion would explode sometime, some way.

  A picture of herself with her arms fastened around Sam’s neck flickered into Rachel’s mind, and she swung around the corner recklessly, nearly knocking over a display of canned goods.

  She should have stopped things sooner—but she hadn’t. She almost hadn’t been able to find the words to call a halt at all. Only a distant memory of dancing in Sam’s arms while he married another woman had brought her to her senses. Because the truth was that right now Sam was just as wounded as his kids. In time, he’d heal. And in spite of his protests to the contrary, he might even marry again. He was, after all, a healthy male. He would need a woman, and in time, he’d see the benefits of marriage both for him and for his children. Like Annie, the change wouldn’t take place overnight, but it would happen. And when it did—when it did—

  Rachel gave up all pretense of shopping. She pushed her cart blindly toward the registers, not wanting to finish her thoughts.

  They barged in, anyway. When Sam finally went looking for a wife, the past was going to repeat itself. She would once again watch Sam dance away with another woman.

  Rachel stopped dead in her tracks. She looked down in her cart at the three dozen cans of green beans and ten heads of lettuce. The man was clearly turning her into a brainless twit.

  “Get a grip, Rachel,” she muttered to herself. So what if Sam had broken her heart when she was just fifteen by telling his Donna that Rachel Allyn was just a poor and poverty-stricken kid and needed help, not gossip? If she had once adored him while he had only seen her as a kid to be pitied while he chose someone more to his tastes, she’d gotten over that. And if she had lost herself in Sam’s arms tonight, it wasn’t that big a deal.

  After all, she wasn’t fifteen anymore. She knew the consequences of reading too much into a situation, and she knew that right now Sam saw her as a savior for his children. His gratitude was—temporarily—overcoming his common sense and letting the physical bleed into their relationship. As long as she was crystal clear on what had happened when Sam had touched her, she could be smart. Sam was, undeniably, a handsome, virile man, and there was no point in beating up on herself for getting lost in his kisses. What woman wouldn’t?

  None of this was going to matter in the long run. Right now Sam was under a lot of stress, not in control of his emotions, and she was just going through a phase, banishing an old crush. But all that would change. Life would return to normal, and someday they’d both probably look back on this day with a little amazement and a lot of laughs at how carried away they’d been.

  Someday she’d feel that same fire and flame in the arms of her husband. So this day didn’t matter, not at all.

  “Hey, Rachel.” The cashier stared at her cart as she rolled up next to the register. “Looks like you’re planning on eating a lot of salad.”

  Rachel looked down at her pitiful, ridiculous collection of groceries and shook her head at her own foolishness. She found a grin somewhere and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m planning a lot of things, Pete,” she agreed, fishing out her cash.

  And not one of them involved Sam Grayson.

  Several days later Rachel joined Annie in the kitchen just after the twins had gone down for their midday snooze. The little girl was once again drawing. It had been her main occupation for the past few days.

  “Maybe we could frame some of your pictures and hang them up, Annie. Would you like that?”

  The little girl bunched her shoulders. She went on with her drawing. “Mommy’s—my mother’s pictures were hanging in our house,” she finally said. “Mine are not good enough.”

  Her words were like a blow to Rachel. She knew without question that someone else had once made that same statement to Annie. And there was no way in heaven that Sam would ever have hurt his little girl that way.

  “I like your pictures,” Rachel said, even though she knew that her opinion was not one that would count in this instance.

  For two seconds Annie turned to her, a slight spark of hope shining from the depths of her eyes. Then she took a deep breath, the light dimming. She turned back to her paper and stared long and hard at the crayon in her hand, as though it were some dreaded enemy.

  “If I keep trying,” she said finally, squaring her small shoulders and turning back to her picture, “I might get better.”

  And your mother might love you; she might come back. Rachel didn’t need to hear the words to know what Annie was thinking.

  This little girl looked so stoic, her shoulders pushed back bravely, her lips firm and determined, but inside, oh, inside, Rachel knew what she was feeling, what she was thinking. She knew about trying to win love that seemed unwinnable. What she didn’t know was how to help this child. She wasn’t sure if there was any way at all to open the door to Annie’s heart and heal her hurt, when the little girl was riding down the wrong road all the way.

  Rachel didn’t know much about Donna Grayson, either, but she’d bet her soul that sweet Annie could draw a million pictures, she could bleed right onto the paper and spill h
er heart out in a masterpiece that rivaled any of the world’s great artists... and it wouldn’t bring her mother back. At least it wouldn’t give Annie what she was looking for.

  Running on instinct and instinct alone, Rachel sank down onto the chair next to Annie. She slid her hand across the table, into the little girl’s line of vision. Close enough not to be ignored, but not near enough to startle.

  She didn’t know what to say. She knew she had to say something.

  “My father was a great baseball fan,” Rachel said softly. “After he left home, I played on a local team for years, hoping he’d read about me in the papers, that he’d be proud of me.”

  Silence.

  So much silence. She shouldn’t have spoken, Rachel thought. It was an intrusion into Annie’s pain, it was presumptuous. Letting that little girl know that she recognized what was happening, sharing her own experience of not feeling good enough when Annie hadn’t asked for help was wrong even if it was meant to offer solace, companionship, hope of a sort—it was—

  Annie slowly raised her head from the paper. She was biting her lip, her great blue eyes misty, hopeful.

  “Was he—did he ever get proud of you?”

  Damn. Damn, damn and double damn. What could she say? Rachel didn’t know, but she knew that Annie wouldn’t stand for a lie.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if he was proud of me,” she said slowly. “But after a while, it didn’t matter as much. Baseball wasn’t my first love, and I moved on to things that pleased me, things that I was good at and that made me happy.”

  Annie’s eyes dimmed. She frowned and sank lower in her chair. She pulled her needle-sharp little elbows into her body like a small, soft creature retreating into its shell. The answer had clearly not been the one she was seeking.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t have spoken, Rachel thought. But to watch that child sitting there day after day, trying to win her mother’s love, working to be good enough when it was plain as white paint that she was a treasure of a child already—Rachel just couldn’t do it.

  “You draw beautifully, Annie,” she said softly, and her words were no lie. It was obvious that the child had practiced and practiced. She might not be able to compete with a talented and fully grown woman, but she was miles ahead of children several years older than herself. “Your work is absolutely lovely. I mean that. I do. And just as soon as you’re done, we’re going to hang that picture. We’re going to frame it and put it dead center over the living room sofa.”