"What's this, Daddy?"
"A shark.” He pressed the phone closer to his ear. “Hello? Treet Miller here."
"Does it bite?” Caroline persisted, forcing his face downward again with her chubby little hands.
"Hold on one sec,” he instructed his mystery caller. Laughing, Treet kissed Caroline's nose. “Only if you bite first,” he whispered. The official sounding voice in his ear snagged his attention.
"Mr. Miller? This is Wade Collins. I'm the administrator for County Central Hospital. I need to meet with you about a serious matter concerning your daughter."
Treet's eyes narrowed. He stiffened in the chair. “What about her?” he demanded, silently signaling his bodyguard, Brutal, with a snap of his fingers. If this was a threat, it wouldn't be the first Treet had received, but when it involved Caroline he didn't take chances.
When the big, burly black man reached his side, Treet shifted Caroline into his massive arms. Caroline opened her mouth to protest, but immediately clamped it shut as Treet put a finger to his lips. She regarded him with dark eyes as if she sensed his sudden urgency, one arm linked trustingly around Brutal's thick neck.
"I'd prefer to talk to you in person,” Mr. Collins stated.
"And I'd prefer that you didn't bull crap me.” Anger hardened Treet's voice. “So whatever you have to share with me will have to be over the phone—if you have anything to share, that is."
Silence. Treet counted his heartbeats as he waited, and forced himself to smile at Caroline.
Her gaze remained pensive and unwavering. She was nobody's fool, Treet thought with a surge of pride.
"Very well."
Mr. Collins cleared his throat, and the agitated sound sent a shiver of premonition skirting along Treet's spine. He stifled the urge to hang up.
"I don't guess there's an easy way to say this."
"Just get to the da—” Treet's angry gaze collided with the bodyguard's. Brutal had been after him to clean up his language. He gritted his teeth and amended his words in deference to his listening daughter. “Just get to the point."
"You currently have custody of Caroline Nicole Windsor, correct?"
"Incorrect. It's Caroline Nicole Miller. Miss Windsor granted me full custody."
"She's not your daughter."
For a full thirty seconds Treet couldn't speak, and in those tension-fraught thirty seconds he thought of every nasty name he could remember from childhood and beyond, then directed them at his agent, Todd Hall.
Unfortunately, the unlucky agent was in Australia at the moment. But he'd have to come back to Hollywood eventually, and when he did Treet planned to tear him a new—
"I know this is going to sound like something straight from the headlines, Mr. Miller, but there was a mix-up at the hospital the day your daughter was born,” Mr. Collins, apparently oblivious to Treet's boiling fury, continued. “Your daughter went home with someone else."
Treet nearly dropped the phone. “Excuse me?"
"Your daughter—your real daughter—went home with someone else. It took us two weeks to track you down.” When the silence stretched again, the administrator prompted, “Mr. Miller? Are you there?"
"Yes.” Treet closed his eyes, reeling from the news. Caroline wasn't Caroline? Caroline wasn't Cheyenne's daughter?
When he opened his eyes and focused on Caroline, she blew him a kiss and grinned as if to reassure him. A wrenching pain grabbed his heart as another, more staggering thought occurred to him.
"What—” He cleared the hoarseness from his voice. “What does all this mean?” He couldn't give her up. Not a chance. She had changed his life, brought out the good that had been hiding in his soul.
She was his light.
When his friends called his house, they heard Caroline's sweet, piping little voice on the announcement.
His video library overflowed with cartoons and Disney movies. He had watched the Lion King fifty-five times, and could recite the dialogue by heart.
Caroline's little pink princess robe hung on a hook in the bathroom next to his own. There was a doll in every room of the house, and jelly stains on the kitchen counters that his housekeeper declared would never come out.
"Well, we'll have to get this straightened out. We have an excellent counselor here at the hospital that can help the two of you figure out the best way to work through this."
"The two of us?"
"Yes, you and Miss Charmaine. She's the woman who has your real daughter. She's already been informed. I—I didn't tell her who you were, because I didn't want to overwhelm her further. If you've got a pen handy, I'll give you her number. You should get in touch with her within the week and set up an appointment to see our counselor. We'd like to make this as painless as possible for the children."
Treet fumbled in his shirt pocket and extracted a crayon. He stared at it. Green, Caroline's favorite color. Another pain squeezed his heart. His mind went into overdrive as he scrambled for an alternative.
Miss Charmaine. Miss. A single mother. Maybe he could work out a deal with her, get her to forget the whole crazy revelation.
Or persuade her to give him both daughters.
"Mr. Miller? Are you ready for the number?"
"Yes, I'm ready.” Treet flipped to the back of Caroline's picture book and began to scribble.
His hands shook.
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Chapter Two
At one o'clock in the afternoon, the hospital cafeteria at County Central resembled a morgue.
Hadleigh sat staring at the glass of iced tea on the table in front of her, wondering how she would survive the next thirty minutes—and the meeting thereafter.
It was so quiet she fancied she could hear the ice melting.
"You look like you're going to shatter,” Karen observed, breaking the silence. “Everything will work out, you'll see."
Hadleigh rubbed her burning eyes, unaccountably irritated by her friend's remark. “How could this mess possibly have a happy ending, Karen? Either I'll get to keep Samantha and always wonder about the ... other child, or I'll have to make the trade and start all over again with a child I don't even know."
Just saying the words sent a cold chill down her spine. She'd tried not to think about it, reminding herself that Samantha was all that mattered. She didn't know the other child, and the other child's parents didn't know Samantha. The logical thing to do would be to keep it that way. Yes, this is what she had decided. If they wouldn't give her both children, then she would fight to keep Samantha.
"It's got to be confusing,” Karen murmured sympathetically.
"That's an understatement.” Hadleigh let out a harsh breath. “I can't believe this is happening to me!” For two weeks she'd lain awake long into the night, remembering the two o'clock feedings, the many hours walking the floor with Samantha through a bout of colic.
Samantha's first step, her first words, her first birthday party. Were the other parents thinking the same things? Did their daughter—her biological daughter—feel like their own flesh and blood? And how could she not, after four years?
Across the table, Karen fidgeted. “Did you see the television movie where the babies got switched—"
"Yes,” Hadleigh fairly snapped. She grabbed her melted tea and took a gulp, her hands shaking. “I saw it, and this isn't a movie. This is real life."
"I believe the movie was based on a true story,” Karen argued. “And in the end they shared the kids."
"I don't want to share Samantha. For all I know, these people are descendants of the Manson family."
And they were raising her daughter. Hadleigh took another big swallow of her watery tea, but the dryness remained.
Karen echoed her thought. “Doesn't that bother you? Knowing your real child might be in the hands of unfit parents?"
Before Hadleigh could answer that yes, it bothered her immensely, Karen gasped, her gaze riveted to a point beyond Hadleigh's shoulder.
Her voice so faint
Hadleigh had to strain to hear, Karen whispered, “You won't believe who just walked into the cafeteria. You won't believe it. In fact, I don't believe it!"
At the moment, Hadleigh didn't care, but to pacify Karen, she cast a casual glance over her shoulder.
And froze.
Two men paused at the entrance to the cafeteria, surveying their surroundings. One she didn't recognize, a huge, monster of a man with shoulders the width of a Mack truck. He was completely bald; his skin the color of fresh ground coffee, and his arms the size of telephone poles. No doubt about it, the suit he wore had to be custom made. The man with him was understandably smaller in comparison.
Never-the-less, Treet Miller turned heads and stopped hearts.
Hers included, but not entirely because of his considerable appeal. His appearance had triggered a disturbing memory.
Treet Miller was here, at County Central Hospital.
Hanging around in a deserted cafeteria.
"Wonder what he's doing here? Oh, God, who cares? I've got to get his autograph—"
Without taking her eyes from Treet, Hadleigh grabbed Karen's arm and pushed her back into the chair with more violence than she intended. “Don't move a muscle,” she ordered in a hoarse whisper.
Treet Miller. At County Central.
"But, Hadleigh! It's Treet Miller! Barbi and Doreen will kill me if I don't get an autograph. In fact, I'll kill myself!"
"Karen..."
"God, he's even sexier in real life!” Karen snatched up her soggy napkin and fanned herself. “I think I'm going to have a heart attack!"
"Karen...” Treet Miller, here, at County Central on the day she was supposed to meet with Samantha's parents, and on the day Samantha was born she had roomed with Cheyenne Windsor—Treet Miller's girlfriend and the mother of his baby.
The coincidence was too great. Too horribly, horrifically great. Oh, dear God!
"And look, Hadleigh! I won the bet with Doreen. She bet me that he wore tinted contacts, but I'm here to tell you those baby blues are one hundred percent authentic! I've got to get his autograph—"
"Karen!"
Karen stopped ranting abruptly and looked at her, her eyes huge in her heart-shaped face. “What?"
Hadleigh tore her gaze from Treet and leaned close. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “What color are Samantha's eyes?"
Frowning, Karen said, “Baby blue, just like—” She drew in a noisy gasp, her gaze sliding to where Treet wound his way through the deserted cafeteria. “No!"
"After I delivered Samantha, I roomed with his girlfriend, Cheyenne Windsor.” Hadleigh whispered the reminder through her constricted throat. Her friends knew the story of how Treet Miller had threatened to steal Cheyenne's baby. And Cheyenne ... Cheyenne had vowed he'd never get her.
"The supermodel.” Karen shook her head. “This is unbelievable."
"Believe it.” It was all circumstantial, of course, but Hadleigh was certain she'd hit the nail on the head. Cheyenne must have switched babies with her to keep Treet from having what he wanted, even if he didn't know he had the wrong baby. The supermodel must have pulled the switch while Hadleigh was still under sedation.
No matter what Treet's transgressions against Cheyenne, it was a rotten, devious, vengeful, horrendous stunt to pull. Because of Cheyenne, two little innocent girls’ lives were about to be turned topsy-turvy, and she and Treet would be responsible for setting things right again. A monumental task, to say the least.
Hadleigh, normally slow to anger, felt a blast of fury so potent that if she hadn't been sitting, she was convinced it would have knocked her to her knees. If Cheyenne were before her now, she would take great pleasure in pulling her masses of beautiful red hair out by the roots.
She felt Karen's hand on her arm, shaking her.
"Hadleigh, you look murderous. It's not Treet's fault, is it? I mean, if you're thinking what I'm thinking, Cheyenne made the switch to get back at Treet. God, this sounds like a frigging soap opera."
She was right—both times—but Hadleigh couldn't forget that if Treet hadn't tricked Cheyenne, then Cheyenne wouldn't have felt compelled to get revenge. It didn't excuse Cheyenne, of course, but it gave Treet his rightful portion of the blame.
And it gave Hadleigh a target for her immediate fury.
* * * *
"Boss, do you know that woman? The fox with the dark hair?"
Treet glanced at the two women sitting at a table across the room. He hesitated a second. The one Brutal described did look vaguely familiar, and she was definitely a looker, in a Meg Ryan sort of way, but he couldn't honestly say he knew her. “No, I don't. Why? Do you?"
"No, but she looks mad about something. That's twice I've caught her glaring at you.” Brutal muttered a curse beneath his breath. “Damn, I told you we should have brought Trick and Antsy with us."
Slowly, Treet's brow rose in a mocking challenge. “If they decide to pounce, I'm confident you can take care of it.” He drummed his fingers on the table, restless and tense. “I need a cigarette."
"You quit four years ago."
"And your point is? I still need a cigarette."
"Caroline hates cigarettes."
Caroline ... A vice clamped onto his heart. Somehow, someway, he had to convince Miss Charmaine to let him keep Caroline. Maybe she needed money.
The thought of buying his daughter put a nasty taste in his mouth.
"What time is it?"
"You've got a watch on."
"Oh. Right.” Treet glanced at the Mickey Mouse watch Caroline had proudly presented to him on his thirty-fourth birthday and saw that it was fifteen minutes past one.
"Don't worry, boss. I'll cry if I have to, get down on my knees and beg the woman to let us keep Caroline. When she sees a big man like me sobbing like a baby, she's sure to—"
"Be quiet, they're coming over."
"Who?” Brutal straightened in a hurry. He pasted a mean look on his broad face and flexed his massive arms—as if his sheer size wasn't enough. “You want me to scare ‘em off, boss?"
"They probably just want an autograph."
Brutal wasn't convinced. “Or a piece of your shirt or a wad of your hair torn out by the roots. You can't be too careful, boss. Women go crazy when they see you. You have to remember that."
Sometimes Treet wished he could forget. “Just be cool, okay? I don't want to make a scene. It's almost time for the meeting."
The two women reached their table. Treet launched his for-fans-only smile, his gaze lingering with mild curiosity on the dark haired woman hovering behind the blonde. His heart gave a funny leap at her chilly look. Apparently she wasn't a fan of his.
"God, it is you, isn't it?” the blonde gushed. “Treet Miller!"
The dark-haired woman rolled her eyes, folded her arms, and turned her back to them. Then, to Treet's astonishment, she began to tap her foot. “Come on, Karen. Get your autograph and let's go."
"Yes, can I have it? Your autograph, I mean?"
Treet took the pen she offered and quickly signed his name across a napkin. He handed it to Karen, glancing up just as the other woman turned around again. Her frosty green eyes resembled one of those packaged lime Popsicle sticks Caroline had an addiction for.
On impulse, Treet reached for another napkin. He poised the pen over the paper and stared straight at the mystery woman. “And your name is?” he inquired softly.
Green eyes glimmered with something that looked surprisingly like contempt as they swept over him. “None of your business.” Grabbing Karen's arm, she urged her forward toward the exit door.
Brutal nudged him in the side. “I don't think you're her type, boss, if you know what I mean."
He started to agree, watching her slim hips rock from side to side with an appreciation he hadn't felt in months. Finally, he shook his head. “I think you're wrong about that."
"I don't think so, boss. I ain't never seen a woman turn away from you, not unless she likes her own kind better.” Brutal st
ood and stretched. “We'd better get going."
Reluctantly, Treet rose from the chair and pushed Frosty from his mind. He'd sobbed his heart out before millions of viewers in the movie, Too Late, and he'd walked buck naked into the ocean during a poignant suicide scene in the blockbuster flick, Trouble in Paradise, yet he knew these challenges would pale in comparison to what he was about to face.
His knees were literally trembling—and it wasn't an act.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Three
Caroline's mother.
She was seated in front of the counselor's desk, profile slightly turned in his direction, a short, uneven swathe of dark hair hooked over her ear.
And it was her exposed ear that Treet noticed first. Not usually the first thing he noticed about a woman, but this time he did. He stared, transfixed, by that ear.
It was shaped exactly like Caroline's ear: small, dainty, like a fragile sea shell one might stumble across on the beach. He'd traced that shape many times, trying to remember Cheyenne's ears ... and failing.
Now the puzzle was solved.
He stopped so quickly in the doorway that Brutal ran into him with a grunt. If Treet harbored any lingering doubt about the authenticity of the bizarre story, it was quickly fading.
And then the fox from the cafeteria turned to look at him.
The breath Treet had been holding whooshed out of his lungs in a burning hiss. Yes, he'd looked at her in the cafeteria when Brutal drew his attention, but that was before he knew who she was—Caroline's biological mother. Then he'd been looking at her as a man looks at an attractive woman. Now other details came under his scrutiny, details that might otherwise go unnoticed at the first, appreciative glance.
Like the shape of her green eyes.
Caroline's eyes were brown—a rich, chocolate brown that danced with merry lights or grew somber and fathomless, depending on her mood—but they were almond shaped like this woman's. In fact, when Caroline smiled, they tipped up at the corners in an adorable gamine way that never failed to make Treet smile.
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