The Would-Be Mommy

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “A good deed.”

  “What’s that?”

  Ian laughed. “Mr. Hard Nose.”

  “Mr. Been in L.A. so long I can tell the gangs apart by their tattoos,” Pierre countered. “People in Safe Harbor have it easy. Big deal, she has to take care of a baby for a few days. It’s a story, man.”

  “I promised her.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Cross me and I can find a thousand ways to make your life miserable while I’m in town.”

  “Threats, threats.” Despite his grumbling, Pierre was clearly acquiescing. This wasn’t that big a story.

  In truth, Ian wasn’t sure why he felt determined to help Jennifer. Guilt? Attraction? Curiosity?

  Her remark had jolted him. This isn’t a game. There are real people’s futures at stake. Real people’s futures were at stake in Baghdad, too. And Rome, and Beijing and other places he’d covered. But until now he’d never provoked a turn of events through his own needling.

  Still, the young woman—Sunny—would have left the baby somewhere. At least the video had guided her to this cushy hospital and softhearted Jennifer Serra.

  He didn’t owe anybody anything. Drop off the furniture, bid the lady sayonara and go toss back a few cold beers. That was the ticket. Yet his spirits sank at the prospect of sitting in yet another bar like a hundred others around the globe, except for the California smokeless air and transfat-free taco chips.

  Why was he worrying about this stuff, anyway? Must be due to the approach next month of his thirty-fifth birthday. That made a man stop and take stock. For about five minutes, Ian hoped.

  The car pulled to the curb in front of a stucco building. Through the compact’s window, Jennifer waved at the van to halt behind her.

  “Nice place,” Pierre muttered.

  Ian noted a planter overflowing with petunias and, in a nearby unit, a greenhouse window filled with herbs. “Cozy,” he agreed.

  “Typical Orange County.” The camera operator made the name sound like an insult.

  “Where exactly do you live?” Although they worked together whenever Ian was in L.A., he didn’t know Pierre all that well.

  “A den of iniquity in Hollywood.”

  “Sounds charming.” Ian pushed open his door.

  “The rats like it.”

  “You have pet rats?”

  The man chuckled. “Okay, no rats. But no greenhouse windows, either.”

  Jennifer awaited them on the sidewalk, the baby tucked into a stroller and her foot tapping impatiently. She wasted no time heading into her two-story unit, where, naturally, the baby furniture went upstairs, into an empty bedroom.

  Ian and Pierre hauled in the changing table, crib and bureau. How could one little kid require this much stuff? At least it had all been assembled prior to being put on display. If not, Ian conceded, he’d probably have felt obligated to put them together.

  At last they wedged their final load—a chest of baby clothes, shoes, toys and books—into a corner of the bedroom. According to Ian’s watch, it was only a little past nine.

  “Still early enough to keep my pressing engagement,” Pierre said as they descended.

  “You have a pressing engagement?”

  “I always have a pressing engagement,” he replied coolly. “How about you?”

  “Only to file my story.” While it might be Friday night here, morning was dawning on the other side of the globe, and viewers of the baby-surrender video would be eager for more details.

  On the living-room couch, Jennifer sat feeding the baby a bottle. Idly, Ian noted the colorful decor: lemony walls, red-checked curtains and a splash of green from hanging plants. Plus, of course, the blue-and-pink portable bassinet and baby gear strewn across the coffee table.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Jennifer nodded wearily. “I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

  “No problem. You sure you’re fine by yourself?” He had no idea where this surge of protectiveness came from.

  Tendrils of her once-artful hairstyle straggled down her cheeks as she nodded, and then she paused. “Oh!”

  The single syllable froze him in the doorway. “Yes?”

  From her pocket, she produced a set of keys. “If I leave my car on the street, I’ll get a ticket. Would you mind moving it? The parking space is in the carport around back, with my unit number.”

  The exhaustion in Jennifer’s voice tugged at Ian. She’d worked hard today, and she no doubt faced a wakeful night due to his meddling. “No problem.”

  “Also, Dr. Rayburn insisted I take some of the leftovers from the reception,” she added. “If you could bring those in, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “Glad to.” He caught the keys in midair and stepped outside.

  “Man, hurry it up, will you?” Pierre growled.

  “I think I’ll stick around awhile,” he said as they went down the walkway. “You go on without me.”

  “You sure?”

  “Might get a few more quotes for my story.” That made a convincing explanation. It could turn out to be the truth, if Jennifer agreed. Mostly, though, he wanted to make sure she got settled properly.

  “You’ll have to walk back to your car,” Pierre warned.

  Right. He’d left it at the hospital. “Only a mile,” Ian pointed out. In most places in the world, people thought nothing of hiking that distance.

  “See you Monday. Or sooner, if anything breaks.”

  “You bet.”

  Jennifer’s car started easily, and Ian found the parking space with no trouble. From the trunk, he removed two large caterer’s boxes that, judging by the weight, held enough food for a small village. The scents of cheese and bacon reminded him that he’d forgotten to eat earlier.

  He hoped she planned to share.

  Swinging down a pathway through the landscaped courtyard, Ian registered the low chatter of TV sets, an aria from La Bohème soaring out of an upstairs window and, from somewhere, a burst of male and female laughter. The sweet scent of jasmine drifted to him on a mild September breeze. For a fleeting moment, he imagined himself living in a refuge like this, returning home each night to comfortable furniture and a familiar, welcoming smile….

  If he reacted this way to turning thirty-five, he shuddered to think what tricks his mind might play at forty. Nope, his imagination didn’t stretch that far.

  After a sharp knock, he let himself into Jennifer’s unit. She hadn’t moved from the couch, where she and the baby appeared on the verge of falling asleep.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” He hefted the boxes. “Would you like me to tuck these in the fridge?”

  “Actually, I’m starving.” Gently, she lifted the infant and positioned her in the bassinet. “I was too busy to eat earlier.”

  “I missed dinner myself.” As a consequence of an unpredictable schedule and frequent shifts of time zone, Ian rarely kept track of meals.

  “You realize those are fighting words to a woman?” Jennifer teased. “I can’t let a man leave my home hungry.” So she had a domestic side. That was hard to resist in his present mood.

  When she lifted one of the white boxes from his hands, Ian registered that she just reached his shoulder. The perfect height for dancing, not that they were ever likely to. Or for gathering close and kissing, which seemed even less likely. Damn it.

  He followed her into an airy kitchen enlivened by a yellow-and-white-checked tablecloth and a gleaming wood floor. He set his box beside hers on the counter. “Did you decorate this place yourself?”

  “Every stroke of paint and stick of furniture.” She lifted blue plates from a cabinet. “I grew up in dingy rentals. Until I was over eighteen, I didn’t realize you could buy cookware any place but Goodwill.”

  He’d assumed she came from a posh environment like the one where she worked. “Making up for lost time?”

  “With a vengeance.” She opened catering boxes to reveal hors d’oeuvres ranging from egg rolls to meatballs, plus the quich
es and bacon-wrapped shrimp he’d spotted previously. “I could heat this if you like.”

  “Cold is fine with me.” If he’d been finicky about food, he wouldn’t have lasted long at his job. “Do you have any cayenne pepper?”

  “You like your food spicy, I take it.”

  “Kind of an addiction.”

  Jennifer fetched a small shaker from the spice rack. “Wine?” she asked as he heaped up a plate. “I have an open bottle of merlot.”

  “Perfect. Thanks.” Ian couldn’t recall the last time he’d eaten a leisurely meal in a woman’s kitchen. Not since he last visited his sister.

  “You live in L.A.?” Jennifer asked as she set down his glass. Beneath a hanging lamp, the wine glowed in the leaded, hand-cut crystal.

  “Me?” Sometimes Ian forgot that he didn’t have nomad printed on his forehead. “I don’t exactly live anywhere. My news agency is based in Brussels.” In case her geography was vague, he added, “That’s in Belgium.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Some people assume it’s in the Netherlands or France.”

  “Or in the middle of a field of sprouts?”

  “That, too.”

  She downed a bite of food before continuing. “If you don’t have a home, where do you store your personal records and stuff you want to keep?”

  “In my sister’s attic.” He dug into the meatballs. “These are great. I approve of your caterer.”

  “Finding the best vendors is part of my job.” She sipped her wine. “Where does your sister live?”

  “In Brussels. She’s married to my editor. I made the mistake of introducing them. Well, not a mistake, since they’re happy, but it’s a bit odd taking orders from my brother-in-law.” Although they didn’t always see eye to eye, he liked Viktor.

  “Older or younger sister?”

  “Same age. We’re twins.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “Not for us.”

  She chuckled. “You grew up in Europe?” The note of wonder in her voice reminded him that many people considered his upbringing exotic.

  “I was born in a very unromantic spot known as Buffalo, New York,” Ian said. “Dad was in the import-export business, so we served time in Italy, France and Shanghai.”

  Jennifer regarded him wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to travel.”

  “We lived in some beautiful places,” Ian conceded. “It was hard constantly leaving friends behind, though.” He rounded off with the obligatory disclosure, “I went to college in New York City. Columbia University. Journalism.”

  “That’s impressive,” Jennifer murmured.

  “What about you?”

  “Cal State Fullerton. Communications.”

  Ian had meant the rest of her background, not so much her alma mater. “Did you grow up around here?”

  “Palm Highlands,” she said. “Out in the desert. About the most boring place on the planet, unless you’re fascinated by biker bars, run-down diners and motels with half the lights burned out in the Vacancy sign.”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “In France and Italy?”

  “Afghanistan. Iraq. Somalia.” As he reeled off the names, Ian tried to blot the images of bombed-out buildings, the smell of smoke, the sound of wailing. Sitting in this comfortable kitchen, it was hard to recall why he’d been so eager to get back there.

  “What on earth brings you to Safe Harbor?”

  “My brother-in-law has this crazy idea that my real gift is human-interest stories.”

  “Well, you’re pushy and ingratiating,” she teased. “I suppose that counts for something.” After scooting her chair back, she went into the living room to check on the baby. On her way back, she stopped at the counter.

  “Pushy and ingratiating,” Ian repeated. “You’re blunt after a glass of wine. What happens after two glasses?”

  “I try not to find out.” She refilled her plate. “There are cheesecake bites and brownies, or didn’t you notice?”

  Amazingly, he’d missed them. “Count me in.”

  They capped off the meal with a cup of decaf. Usually Ian would have stuck to wine or something stronger, but he had a long drive ahead.

  Across from him, Jennifer stretched stocking-clad feet onto an empty chair and licked a cheesecake crumb from her finger. Nice mouth, Ian noted once again. Under other circumstances, he might consider finding out how it felt beneath his. Or perhaps, if their moods mellowed even further…

  “What comes next?” she asked.

  His body responded instinctively to the possibilities. He could almost feel her heat against him, her sweet yielding. “Next?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes widened as she caught his expression. “I didn’t mean that!”

  Ian nearly choked on his coffee. “I’m sorry.”

  A blush spread across her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

  “Hold the Heimlich. I’m fine.” He stifled his coughing with another swallow. “Repeat the question, would you? I think I’ve returned to my right mind.”

  “I meant, now that you’ve wowed your viewers on the Internet, where do you jet off to?”

  “First I have to write tonight’s story. Then I’ve got a corrupt judge to investigate. And a Hollywood scandal, which isn’t serious, but for some reason people like to read about that.”

  “You said something earlier about war zones.” An eyebrow arched skeptically. “And here I took you for just another pretty face in front of the camera.”

  That was truly what she’d thought of him? “Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Always glad to be considered pretty.” He rubbed his jaw ruefully, and noted a bristly hint of stubble. “Would a beard improve my image?”

  Her toes twitched. “No, but another round of cheesecake might. Men always look better when I’m on sugar overload.”

  “At your service.” He transferred the platter of desserts to the table. “The truth is, covering the hospital debut was a way to kill a slow evening.”

  “Well, smack me in the ego,” she said drily.

  If he weren’t careful, he might start to like this woman more than he should, Ian mused. When in doubt, he did what he always did: got down to business. “Since I still have a story to write, is it okay if I mention that baby Rosalie is happily settled with you for the weekend? Inquiring minds will want to know.”

  “Just don’t print my address.” Jennifer polished off another brownie. “That’s my limit, by the way. Take the rest of them with you. Brain food.”

  “Dessert is brain food?”

  “Late-night energy boost,” she explained.

  Being around her provided all the energy boost Ian needed, but he had better judgment than to mention that. “I’ll take half in case you get hungry again. By the way, if my schedule permits, I might drop by the hospital next week for a follow-up on the baby.”

  “If you’re too busy, you can always send that endearing cameraman. What’s his name—Pierre? If he ever gets laid off, I hope he’ll consider a second career as a hospitality hostess. It’s a shame for all that charm to go to waste.”

  Lucky that Ian had finished his coffee or he’d have choked on it again. “You saw right through his surly facade.”

  “Right into his surly heart.”

  Digging into his pocket, he produced a business card. “Here’s my number. Call me if you find out Rosalie’s the secret love child of a movie star. Or if you need someone to run out for diapers and formula this weekend. I’m staying in L.A., but I like driving.” Although he wasn’t sure why he made the offer, he meant it.

  “If an earthquake hit right now, we probably have enough diapers and formula to last for weeks.” She glanced at the card. “What does the R in your middle initial stand for?”

  “Rascal,” he said.

  “Not Rumormonger?”

  “Robert, actually.” Getting to his feet, he did his best to brush a ridiculously large amount of crumbs into a paper napkin.

  “That gives yo
u three first names,” Jennifer observed lazily, as if feeling the effects of the wine. “Ian Robert Martin. Is your twin sister by any chance named Ina?”

  “Close. Anni.”

  “Anni Roberta Martin?”

  “You’re wicked,” he said. “No. And her last name is now DeJong.”

  “Nice to have met you, Ian Robert Martin,” Jennifer said. “The wastebasket’s under the sink.”

  As he disposed of the napkin, it occurred to him that she hadn’t provided her cell number. Then he recalled seeing it on a press release. The woman must live and breathe her work. A lot like he did. “Sleep well.”

  “I’ll try.”

  On his way out, Ian paused by the bassinet. Although Rosalie’s lids were shut, her little mouth appeared to be sucking, and she twitched. Dreaming, he thought, and wondered what babies dreamed of.

  After making sure the door locked behind him, he set out toward the hospital. He relished the cool night air and the chance to think.

  Tonight, for the space of a few hours, Ian had simply lived in the moment and enjoyed talking to a woman more than he had in years. He liked this place. He could understand how it might lure a man.

  But he doubted he’d return, except for work. Over the years, he’d seen too many reporters go off track. They’d traded promising careers and opportunities to change the world for a peaceable life and the mediocrity that came with it.

  That was not going to happen to Ian Robert Martin. For him, Safe Harbor could never be more than a temporary port.

  Chapter Four

  Twice that night, Jennifer awoke and went down the hall to the baby’s room. Each time, Rosalie drained her bottle and cuddled happily with her new, temporary mom in the borrowed rocking chair.

  What circumstances had led to this birth? Why had Sunny felt obliged to give her up? Too bad Jennifer hadn’t had a chance to talk privately with the young mother.

  At seventeen, Jennifer hadn’t been certain she’d be able to keep her own baby, but she would have tried. Had her son lived, he’d be twelve now, junior-high age. What would he be like? Would he be here, or growing up with an adoptive family?

  It was useless to agonize over the past. Equally futile to imagine, as Jennifer did in these sleepy, vulnerable moments, that she might try to adopt Rosalie. Following impulses led to disappointment and sometimes actual harm. No one knew that better than she did.