A Mother's Day: Nobody's ChildBaby on the WayA Daddy for Her Daughters

by Emilie Richards

  Everything about Naomi tonight just seemed to have jumped up and yelled, “Hey, look at me! Do I look fabulous or what?” Because she did look fabulous. Extremely fabulous. In fact, she looked much too fabulous for Sloan’s comfort and peace of mind.

  But then, that was good, right? he asked himself. Because not only was it going to be a joy to gaze at her from the other side of the table, but now he could finally understand his attraction to her. Underneath all the sweat and sweat suit he’d seen of her so far, there was a woman. A womanly woman. Obviously, somehow, he’d known that all along, and that was why he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since their initial meeting.

  Because he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since their initial meeting. No, she had pretty much consumed his thoughts—both conscious and unconscious—for the last month. And now he understood that that was because Naomi Carmichael was, quite clearly, a womanly—unforgettable—woman. A womanly woman who, he had to admit, seemed all the more feminine now because, over the past four weeks, he had seen her looking, well, not particularly feminine. Not especially womanly.

  Tonight, though, she was most definitely womanly. And then some. Before now, he would have considered her a handsome woman with classic, elegant features. But tonight, through God alone knew what magic, she had become a raven-haired beauty. To put it mildly. And, tonight, he had her all to himself, on his own turf, where anything might happen. Anything at all.

  Well, well, well.

  When he realized how long he had been gazing at her without making an effort to attract her attention, Sloan rose from the table where the hostess had seated him and began to approach the front entrance where Naomi stood. But she must have sensed his motion—or perhaps she had just sensed him—because, immediately, she turned her head toward him. She smiled when she saw him, but he could tell right away that she was nervous. Maybe even as nervous as he was himself.

  And then he wondered why he was nervous. Sloan Sullivan was never nervous. Never. Especially around women. And Naomi, in particular, was a woman he shouldn’t be nervous around. Because, hey, they were only friends, right? And they were only here to talk basketball. And they were only going to have dinner. Dinner and a little conversation. To discuss the strategy for the Lady Razorbacks in their upcoming tournament. Why should that make him feel nervous?

  Oh, sure, Sullivan. Basketball. Strategy. Riiight.

  That was why he had gone to such lengths to ensure that she would meet him here tonight, he told himself. That was why he had taken two hours to get ready beforehand. That was why he had insisted to the hostess that she seat them at a table well away from the main traffic area, where the lighting was low and romantic. And that was why, before he’d left home tonight, he had impulsively tucked a condom into his wallet.

  That last action still had him wondering at himself. How on earth could he be anticipating—even subconsciously—that things between himself and Naomi would go anywhere beyond the dinner and conversation stage tonight? Or any other night, for that matter? She had four children, he reminded himself. She wasn’t his type. Nor was she the type to go for some casual sexual encounter. Therefore that last little accessory he had added to his person tonight would be in no way necessary. In spite of that, he had packed it, anyway.

  Just in case.

  Wishful thinking? he wondered now. And if so, just what was he wishing for? Because he wasn’t the kind of man to take advantage of a woman just to quell some physical urge. And even if he was, he wouldn’t take advantage of a nice woman like Naomi Carmichael. And that, he reminded himself, was precisely what she was. A nice woman. She was what his grandfather Sullivan had always termed, “The other kind of girl. The kind you marry.”

  So just what, exactly, was Sloan thinking?

  He pushed his troubling thoughts away for now, promised himself he wouldn’t think, and focused instead on the vision of loveliness who approached him. She seemed to grow more nervous with every step she took toward him, which was only fair, Sloan had to conclude, because he grew more nervous with every step she took toward him, too.

  “You look absolutely edible…uh, incredible,” he quickly corrected himself as she came to a halt in front of him.

  He saw right away that his slip of the tongue—or slip of the libido…whatever—made her even more nervous than she already was. Of course, it made him more nervous, too, among other things, so they were still on equal footing—or some other body part—there. She ran her gaze over him from head to toe, silently evaluating his dark suit and white dress shirt, and the discreetly patterned Hermés silk he’d taken a full fifteen minutes to select from his eclectic—and ample—assortment of neckties. Then she nodded her head approvingly and grinned again.

  “You look pretty edible…uh, incredible, yourself,” she mimicked, smiling. “Is this the real you?”

  He narrowed his eyes in puzzlement. “The real me?” he echoed. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean is this the way you usually look?” she clarified. “Is this the type of thing you usually wear? For work and—and the rest of your life, I mean.”

  “Oh. Yes,” he said. “I guess it is. Certainly I’m dressed like this more often than I’m dressed the way I have been for practices. This is closer to the real me than the other person you’ve seen.”

  She nodded, seeming to give his response much thought. Then she gestured to her own clothing and said, “This isn’t the real me. I never dress like this. I’m far more often dressed the way I am at practices. That’s the real me,” she reiterated. “The one you’ve seen up till now. This—” with a sweeping hand, she indicated her apparel again “—is a total aberration.”

  Somehow Sloan got the impression that she really, really, really wanted to emphasize that point very, very, very strongly. So he nodded back and said, “I see. Well, both versions of you are very nice to my way of thinking.”

  The conversation stalled a bit there, and he found himself wondering what she was thinking, what she might be anticipating—even subconsciously—from the evening ahead. Had she tucked a condom into her purse, for instance? he wondered. Somehow, he thought not. Still, dressed as she was—and nervous as she was—he didn’t think she was especially focused on basketball and tournament strategies, either.

  It was going to be an interesting evening.

  He gestured toward their table, mumbled a few meaningless words, and then turned and led her in that direction. Ever the gentleman, he pulled out the chair beside the one he had been occupying himself—suddenly, he didn’t want to be sitting across from Naomi, but much rather preferred to sit beside her—then, when she was comfortable, he scooted her in. He resumed his seat, as well, then turned to her and realized he had no idea what to say. Fortunately, he was rescued from having to perform a thought process by the prompt appearance of their server, who inquired as to their drink preferences.

  When he glanced over at Naomi, he noted that she appeared to be… Hmmm… Well, the word flummoxed came to mind most readily. Because she seemed to have no idea what she was supposed to say, in spite of the straightforwardness of the question. She opened her mouth, as if she intended to order, but no words emerged, as if she couldn’t conjure what, exactly, it was that she wanted.

  So, valiantly, Sloan stepped in and told their server, “Why don’t you bring the lady a champagne cocktail?” There. That should do it. He hadn’t met a woman yet who didn’t like a champagne cocktail. “And I’ll have a JWB and water with a twist.”

  The young man made a mental note of the order, nodded obsequiously and, like a good little waitron, promptly disappeared.

  “Thank you,” Naomi said when he was gone. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten in a nice restaurant, I couldn’t remember what I like to have. Usually, when I go somewhere with friends, or even with the girls, I have a margarita, or an ice-cold bottle of Rolling Rock.” She smiled, and something inside Sloan grew warm at seeing it. “Somehow, though, that just doesn’t feel right in a
place like this.”

  He smiled back, that warm something inside him spreading now to his every extremity. Wow. That felt really, really good. “Then you’re long overdue for a night like this,” he said. And somehow, as he said it, even he got the impression that he meant something other than dinner in a nice restaurant.

  Naomi seemed to think so, too, because she reacted to the statement by blushing becomingly. She didn’t seem offended, though, Sloan noted. So maybe the two of them weren’t on exactly the same wavelength. Still, he could practically feel that little foil packet in his wallet starting to heat and hum against his chest.

  “So,” he said suddenly, hoping to quell that heating and humming—at least for now, “should I ask you how your alumni reunion is going, or do you just want to come clean and tell me you were lying about that?”

  She expelled an anxious, though good-humored, little sound. “Gee, you didn’t believe me?” she asked.

  “Should I have?” he countered easily.

  She eyed him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose it would do any good to insist I was telling the truth, would it?”

  He shook his head. “No. It wouldn’t. No more good than me telling you that I was being honest about my engagement.”

  She gaped comically. “You mean you weren’t? How shocking.”

  He grinned back. “Yes, isn’t it?”

  She expelled a soft sigh of resignation, then folded her arms in front of her on the table and leaned forward a bit, as if she were about to impart a kernel of great wisdom. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you about that,” she said softly.

  Sloan mirrored her gesture, leaning in, as well, something that brought their foreheads almost to touching. And he took heart in the fact that she didn’t pull back even the slightest bit when he crowded into her space that way. He also noticed that she smelled wonderful, of some faint, floral fragrance that was utterly tantalizing.

  “Why weren’t you honest?” he asked, just as softly.

  She shrugged a little halfheartedly. “I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t think this was a good idea.”

  “This?” he echoed. “You don’t think it’s a good idea for us to get together this way and talk strategy for the team and the upcoming tournament? What kind of coach are you anyway?”

  She met his gaze levelly, her dark lashes lowering just the slightest bit, something that lent an air of sultriness to her already seductive appearance. “Gosh, color me presumptuous,” she said, “but I just can’t quite convince myself that the reason we’re here tonight is to talk Lady Razorbacks basketball.”

  He met her gaze unflinchingly, but felt as if he were being pulled down into dangerous depths the longer he looked at her this way. “Isn’t that the reason we’re here?” he asked.

  She hesitated a moment before replying, “Is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, still focusing on her eyes. And as he did, he felt the dangerous depths rising higher around him, virtually enveloping him, making him think how he really wouldn’t mind so much drowning, as long as Naomi Carmichael was the one who was flooding him. “Why did you come tonight?” he asked further, his voice growing quiet as he posed the question.

  She hesitated only a moment before countering deftly, “Why did you?”

  He smiled. “I asked you first.”

  She smiled back. “And I asked you second.”

  Sloan studied her in silence for a moment more, then, when he heard the soft strains of one of his favorite Gershwin tunes coming from the next room, he told her, “I came to dance.”

  Her smile fell some, and she arched her dark brows in surprise. “You what?”

  “Dance,” he repeated. He tilted his head toward the music, to draw her attention to it, too. “They’re playing our song,” he said with a playful grin.

  “Our song?” she repeated. “I didn’t realize we had a song.”

  “We do now,” he told her.

  She listened intently for a moment. “‘A Foggy Day’ is our song?” she asked skeptically.

  “Well, it’s as good as any,” he said. “Come on,” he cajoled good-naturedly. “Dance with me, Naomi.”

  She looked faintly panicked in response. “But…but…but…” she began. Unfortunately, no other words except for that one—rather inelegant one—came to her aid.

  Unhampered by her unwillingness, Sloan stood with much purpose. But the moment he did, their waiter returned with their drinks, and Naomi seized on their arrival to negate his intention.

  “Our drinks,” she said with much relief. Before their server had even settled hers on the tabletop, she snatched it up, grasping it as if it were a lifeline someone had just tossed to her over the side of the Titanic. “We just got our drinks. We have to have our drinks.” She lifted her lifeline, smiled jarringly and said, “Cheers!”

  For a moment, Sloan thought about challenging her, insisting that they enjoy one dance before dinner, to whet their appetites, if nothing else. But Naomi looked so distressed, so frightened, by the prospect of even dancing, that he took pity on her.

  For now.

  Reluctantly, he seated himself again, and reached for his own drink. “Cheers,” he concurred, though with a bit less enthusiasm. Before drinking, however, he vowed, “We’ll have that dance after dinner, then, shall we?”

  And before Naomi had a chance to reply one way or the other, he lifted his drink to his mouth and sipped. Done deal, he decided. They would dance—or something—after dinner.

  Chapter 9

  Naomi couldn’t remember the last time she’d had such a wonderful meal, in such a wonderful place, with such a wonderful man. Of course, she decided as she watched Sloan surreptitiously from beneath lowered lashes—which was the way she had watched him throughout the evening—that was probably because she’d never had such a wonderful meal, in such a wonderful place, with such a wonderful man. Not until tonight, anyway.

  She sighed with much feeling as she spooned sugar into her coffee and shifted her attention to the remnants of the chocolate torte she and Sloan had shared for dessert. She really, really, really wished she could finish it. She so hated to see chocolate—especially rich, expensive chocolate—go to waste. But she was so full, she simply could not touch another bite. Between the champagne cocktail, the four—count ’em, four—dinner courses, the bottle of, very nice, Pinot Grigio and the very generous serving of torte, she feared that if she consumed one more bite of anything, she would, quite simply, explode. As it was, coffee was probably pushing it.

  But she was having such a good time, she wanted to prolong it in any way she could. The evening had been utterly magical, the kind of occasion she’d normally only fantasize about. No, actually, that wasn’t quite true. Because Naomi couldn’t have even fantasized something as nice as this. Her fantasies over the last few years had run more toward things like, oh, say…going fifteen full minutes without having to hear, “Mom! She’s looking at me again!” or “Ms. Carmichael, I just don’t understand this whole gerund thing,” or “Coach, I can’t work out today ’cause I got my period.” Yeah, fifteen minutes of uninterrupted silence, fifteen minutes totally lacking in turmoil would definitely be a fantasy in Naomi’s normal life. This evening, on the other hand…

  This evening had transcended fantasy.

  Sloan was just so… She bit back another sigh as she turned her gaze upon him again. So handsome. So sweet. So witty. So kind. So successful. So charming. So… So everything. All month long, she’d been insisting to herself that he wasn’t her type, that he was too smooth, too polished, too rich, too successful, too… Too everything. He was a prosperous big-city attorney who’d gone this long without having married, so obviously, he enjoyed his successful, metropolitan, single life-style. He was the kind of man who, she had gathered from their numerous conversations, was used to a string of high-profile, late-night, social commitments, someone who would never be satisfied with the quiet, predictable, home-and-hearth routine that Naomi so dearly embraced.

>   Nevertheless, after tonight, and thinking back on the previous evenings they had spent together, coaching the girls and sharing dinner and indulging in conversation afterward, all Naomi could think was that Sloan Sullivan was really very…

  Perfect. He was perfect. Which, of course, meant he wouldn’t be around for long. Certainly no longer than his month-long commitment to the Lady Razorbacks. Which ended, she reminded herself, tonight.

  “You owe me a dance,” he said suddenly.

  And just like that, Naomi’s warm contentment exploded into hot confusion. “Uh…what?” she said eloquently.

  He smiled. “You owe me a dance,” he repeated. “The one we didn’t get to have before dinner. We can have it now.”

  “But…but…but…”

  “Come on,” he coaxed, standing. “It’ll shake off the dinner lethargy before we have to go home.”

  Naomi stopped herself before she allowed herself to think about other ways to shake off the dinner lethargy—talk about fantasizing. Oh, sure, over the last month, she’d had one or two—hundred—instances of fleeting—or prolonged—fantasies of a questionable nature where Sloan Sullivan was concerned. Fantasies in which the two of them were…strategizing. Naked. But she’d assured herself that such fantasies were perfectly normal for a woman her age who had a healthy sex drive—even if that drive hadn’t been driven for a looong time. It was just fantasizing, that was all. Perfectly understandable, considering the circumstances and situation. As long as she didn’t insert the key—so to speak—in the ignition of her sex drive, she’d be totally and completely—

  “You know you want to,” Sloan said, jarring her back to reality. And, man, she hated it when that happened.

  “Uh,” she began again, as eloquently as before. “I, um, I, uh… What?”