Found: One Secret Baby (3 page)

He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.

Was the creature purring?

“Smudge!”

The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.

The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.

“I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”

Aaron? And the cat was only familiar with one man? Morgan’s mood went sour again.

“Guys.” Both cats looked at her. “Off the sofa.”

They both jumped down and sauntered away, tails high.

“Smudge and Sylvester. Rescue cats. Brothers. Neutered.”

“Where did you set up the paintings?” he interrupted gruffly. “In your mother’s studio?”

A shadow flickered in her eyes. “You can only display one or two at a time in there. I picked out a dozen and put them in the dining room.”

She led him across the tiled entry to where she’d leaned the larger paintings on the chairs that went with the undistinguished dining table and split the smaller ones between the buffet and sideboard. He could see at once that the prospect of selling dozens of these paintings would make the art dealer’s heart pound with avaricious delight.

Rosalie stood in the archway between the entry and dining room while Morgan Danby wandered from painting to painting, occasionally picking one up to hold it to the sunlight.

With an effort, she managed not to fidget with the stress of having this man within yards of Joey’s bedroom, despite the fact that Joey himself was safely down the street on his playdate.

At least she wasn’t afraid of Mr. Danby, even if he did claim Charlie for a brother. Maybe it was because the change from suit and tie to a blue shirt that accented those killer eyes and jeans that hugged his admirable physique made him look like the proverbial guy next door.

If the guy next door was a movie star. Too bad such an attractive package was wasted on such an arrogant, and for her, dangerous man. When he’d tried to be friendly, to act like the careless charmer he appeared to be, the effect had been pretty devastating.

At the same time, the melancholy she sensed under all the charm made her want to know more about him. He’d tolerated her cats, who tried even Aaron’s patience. Mr. Danby seemed to care about his stepmother. And he’d understood how Rosalie felt about her mother’s paintings.

Reality jolted her back a step. Being physically attracted to Morgan Danby was bad enough. She didn’t dare allow herself to like the man.

Finally he picked out one of the smaller paintings, an iris in vivid purple. “This will be a good sample, and that.” He pointed to one of the larger ones, a hillside of poppies and lupins with a single scrub oak to one side. “Do you have any more with children in them?”

She shook her head. “Just the one in my office. My mother gave it to me as a Christmas gift one year. She wasn’t interested in people as subjects. She thought it was intrusive to try to show what someone ‘really’ looked like. She preferred flowers.”

“Luckily flowers sell well.”

“I’m not doing this for the money.”

He nodded absently and handed her the smaller painting. “Would you mind carrying this out to the car for me while I get the larger one?”

For a moment her body quivered with relief that he was leaving. She took the painting and followed him out to the shiny black sports car.

Mrs. Peterson across the street was making a show of raking her already perfectly manicured lawn, eyes fixed on the stranger’s expensive car.

“Nice day,” she called with a wave.

Rosalie waved back. Once Morgan clicked the car’s locks, she opened the door and bent to set the smaller painting on the passenger seat.

“How’s Joey?” Mrs. Peterson asked.

Rosalie straightened so quickly out of the car’s narrow doorway that she hit her head hard enough to make her ears ring. “He’s fine.”

Morgan’s face twisted for a moment, then went bland and cold.

She didn’t dare do anything that might lead to a conversation between him and her neighbor, so she stood there, holding her breath.

Mrs. Peterson gave her a long look. “Well, give Joey a hug for me,” before she gave up the pretense of raking and disappeared around the side of her house.

“Joey? I thought his name was Aaron.”

Ordinarily the disdain in Morgan’s voice would have annoyed Rosalie, but under the circumstances she could have kissed him for his mistake.

Relief slumped one hip against the car. Or maybe it was the idea of kissing Morgan had made her knees so wobbly.

“Mrs. Peterson gets confused,” she said.

“Humph.” He put the larger painting behind the seat, slammed the passenger door shut, and went around to the driver’s side.

She stepped away from the car. “Thank you for showing the paintings to your friend.”

“I’m an art lover, what can I say?”

His smile made her heart want to burst into sappy, sentimental songs.

This man was the enemy, she reminded herself. Even if he was a spectacularly gorgeous enemy.

“I’ll let you know what the dealer says.”

She sighed when he drove off, unsure whether it was from relief or longing.

Morgan realized too late it was a mistake to call Lillian from the condo that afternoon before he called Rosalie to report back on his visit to the art dealer.

“You’re not giving up?” his stepmother asked plaintively.

“I’ve run out of leads, and I need to get back to work.”

“You believe what that woman told you?”

He thought a moment. “Yes. I’m sure she was telling the truth.”

“Men can be so stupid when it comes to a pretty face.”

He started to say Rosalie’s face wasn’t pretty, but it was. Very pretty. Maybe beautiful. When she forgot to be wary and angry.

“If you couldn’t get anywhere with the sympathy angle, have you tried the famous Danby charm to get her to tell you where my grandchild is?”

“Lillian, there is no grandchild.”

“Without a death certificate, you can’t be sure of that.”

“But I can’t get a death certificate if I don’t know the child’s name, or when or where it may have died.” Or was born.

He sat up straighter in his chair.

Damn. Why hadn’t he realized that there could be more than one reason Márya wasn’t pregnant when she came to L.A.? The blasted lady lawyer might have tricked him after all.

“Morgan, talk to her one more time.”

He would definitely talk to Ms. Walker one more time. The sexy, scheming little …

Sexy? How could he still think of the lying lady lawyer as sexy?

“All right, Lillian.”

Luckily, the art dealer’s enthusiasm for the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother gave Morgan a perfect pretense for seeing her again. He said goodbye to his stepmother and punched in Ms. Walker’s number. A few minutes later he disconnected with a smile. An appointment for Monday afternoon was perfect.

The first thing Rosalie noticed when Morgan walked into her office on Monday afternoon was that he didn’t have the two paintings with him.

Well, that was the second thing she noticed, after taking in how good he looked in designer black jeans, white shirt, and brown suede jacket. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at him. She gestured him to a chair and sat down, expecting a report on his visit to the art gallery.

Instead she got a sucker punch to the gut.

“How many weeks’ pregnant did you say Márya Mendelev was when you first met her?”

“Three months’.”

He watched her face carefully as she answered, but it was the truth. That was what she’d said. She knew she was a bad liar, so she’d made a mental note of her exact words.

Still, her heart beat a jerky rhythm from the surprise attack she’d barely managed to deflect. What had happened to make him suspicious again?

“And she filed for protection in L.A. three months later?”

Rosalie remained frozen, afraid any move, the slightest change in facial expression, might give her away. “Approximately. I’d have to check the exact date.”

“Which means that the child could have been born in the meantime. A six-month pregnancy isn’t all that unusual.”

“It’s rare enough.” She thanked her legal training for the ability to focus on the facts, not the rush of adrenalin speeding through her system. “Rarer than a miscarriage due to a violent attack on the mother. You’re clutching at straws, Mr. Danby.”

“But if Charlie beat this woman …” Rosalie flinched. “If his attack on Ms. Mendelev resulted in the death of an unborn child, why wasn’t a police report filed?”

On firmer ground, she took a deep breath. “The assault occurred in Yosemite, on federal land. The death would be reported in the city of Merced. Ms. Mendelev and her attacker lived in rural Merced County. Even if she hadn’t been grief-stricken and justifiably frightened to death of Charlie, to whom would she report it? Feds? Police? Sheriff?”

“Wouldn’t the hospital report it to the police in Merced?” he asked with a nasty smile.

“They might have if she hadn’t lied and told them she fell.”

“The hospital believed her injuries were due to a fall?”

“Of course not. But as long as she stuck to that story, they had no option.”

He leaned forward, the nasty smile now a nasty glare. “What about you, Ms. Walker? You obviously didn’t believe her story. Why didn’t you report it to the proper authorities?”

“Márya was too afraid of Charlie.”

“Wouldn’t she have been safer with Charlie in jail?”

“Until he got out. How much do you know about family violence, Mr. Danby?”

“Too much.” His curt answer seemed to surprise even him. “But that’s beside the point. As an officer of the court, you had a duty to see the crime was reported.”

“Not if the victim and only witness refused to cooperate.”

“It was your duty to persuade her to cooperate. You practice family law. You must have dealt with domestic assault before. Why was this case any different from those?”

Rosalie had tried not to say too much about Márya’s legal situation, partly to protect her privacy, partly to deprive Morgan Danby of a potential weapon. But now she had no choice.

“I’m surprised your P.I. didn’t discover that Ms. Mendelev’s immigration status was, shall we say, uncertain. She had a student visa, but your brother persuaded her to leave school. Once she was dependent on him, he told her they’d send her to prison for being an illegal. She was terrified of police and prisons. That’s why she stayed with him for as long as she did, and why she didn’t file for a protection order until he found her again here in L.A.”

Morgan’s stomach twisted with disgust. Damn, but Charlie was scum.

He’d been so sure Ms. Walker had lied to him, still wasn’t one thousand percent certain she hadn’t, but she was a better lawyer than he’d given her credit for. She’d have convinced any jury in the world beyond a reasonable doubt that Márya Mendelev had miscarried after one of Charlie’s beatings. If he wasn’t convinced, it was because his doubts weren’t reasonable. Or because he dreaded telling Lillian.

Ms. Walker’s rigid posture showed how much his accusatory tone must have angered her. He wanted to apologize, but wasn’t sure how.

Hell, he wanted to do a lot more than apologize. He wanted to bring back the smile she’d greeted him with. He wanted to watch those bare toes wiggle in her sandals.

He was in deep trouble here.

“Are we finished, Mr. Danby?” Rosalie’s anger added an extra degree of chill to the words.

“There’s still the matter of your mother’s paintings.”

She’d forgotten about them. “You don’t have them with you.”

He smiled, but she ignored the illusion of interest in his eyes. He wouldn’t fool her again.

“They’ve been sold,” he told her.

“What?”

“A woman came into the gallery while I was showing them to my friend, fell in love with them, and insisted on buying them both.”

Rosalie ignored the little burst of pleasure at the idea of a total stranger loving her mother’s work and leaned back to give him an icy stare.

“Neither you nor your friend were authorized to sell them.”

“We explained that to the lady. My friend agreed to hold them for her until you can sign the appropriate contracts.”

“What if I don’t want to sell them?”

“Then you’re a more spiteful person than I thought,” Danby replied. “Why deny this woman the pictures she wants, and yourself the pleasure of sharing your mother’s work, because you don’t like me?”

He had a point.

“How much did they sell for?” When he told her, she gave a low whistle. Selling even a few paintings at those prices would make a nice addition to Joey’s college fund. “I assume you have the contracts with you?”

A few minutes later Rosalie had made Morgan’s friend the representative for the sale of her mother’s paintings and committed herself to delivering two dozen more to the gallery by the end of the week. Once the paperwork was done, she stood and held out her hand.

“Thank you for helping me find new homes for my mother’s work. I hope you have a safe trip back to …”

“Boston.” He stood too, and took her hand in his.

“Goodbye, Mr. Danby.”

He smiled and released her hand slowly. A sensuous tingle crept up her arm.

“It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Walker.”

She started to say it hadn’t, to echo what he’d said when they first met, but she couldn’t. How sad was that?

She watched him walk out the door, and out of her life, with a mixture of profound relief and regret. She looked down. The picture of Joey on her computer monitor beamed up at her, reminding her of what really mattered. There were other men, although few with the magnetism of Morgan Danby, but there was only one Joey.

Rosalie took the promised paintings to the gallery the next Saturday, but daily life soon pushed them out of her mind. When an engraved envelope arrived in her office mail three weeks later, she didn’t know what it was at first. The return address reminded her. It was an invitation to the opening of her mother’s show.

Her heart danced at idea of seeing others celebrate, and love, her mother’s work. Then she groaned at the thought of having to get dressed up after a long day at work, drive all the way to Beverly Hills, and try to find a place to park.

After a moment, she realized she couldn’t go in any case. The opening was next Thursday. Jill, the teenage neighbor who sometimes took care of Joey, wasn’t allowed to babysit on school nights. Her parents might have made an exception, but the opening didn’t start until eight and, with the drive, it would be past eleven before Rosalie got home.

She put the envelope on her desk and turned back to the rest of her mail.

“What’s this?” Vanessa picked up the envelope after she set the sandwich she’d bought for Rosalie on the desk a couple of hours later.

“An invitation to the opening of that show of my mother’s paintings I told you about.”

“Beverly Hills!” Vanessa sat down and took the invitation out to read it. “Sounds fancy. What are you going to wear?”

“Can’t go.” Rosalie shrugged at her friend’s shocked expression. “No one to watch Joey.”

“Rosie, you’ve got to go. You can’t miss your mom’s big moment. There must be someone who can watch Joey.”

Rosalie shook her head.

“What about that older lady across the street?”

“Mrs. Peterson’s in Omaha visiting the grandchildren.” Rosalie took a drink of coffee.

Vanessa reread the invitation. “This thing starts at eight. Won’t Joey be asleep by then?”

Rosalie almost choked on her coffee. “Asleep or awake, I am
not
leaving him alone!”

“Hey, calm down. I may not be Ms. Maternal here, but I’d never suggest anything like that. Give me some credit. What I was thinking was maybe I could watch him for you.”

“You?”

“He’d be asleep.”

Rosalie laughed. “Until he wakes up. Then what?”

“If he’s hungry I feed him. If he’s wet I change him.”

“What if he’s worse than wet?”

Vanessa grimaced. “I change him anyway?”

“Not exactly a professional babysitter attitude. Besides, you have to argue in front of the Federal Court of Appeals next Friday, don’t you? You’ll need your sleep the night before, and I may not get back until late.”

“True.” Vanessa slumped back in the chair, then sat up again with a grin. “Did you know Aaron was the oldest of six?”

“What does the size of your husband’s family have to do with anything, other than the decision the two of you have made to remain childless?”

“I’ll bet he changed a lot of diapers once upon a time. Maybe it’s like riding a bicycle, something you never forget how to do. He and I could both come over. If you’re out too late, I can nap on the couch while Aaron takes over with the kid.”

“I suspect Aaron will have to change any diapers that need it, even if you’re awake.”

“Whatever. The point is, now you can go to the opening.”

The happiness that flooded Rosalie’s heart told her how badly she wanted to be there for her mother’s big night.

“If it’s okay with Aaron, I guess it’s okay with me.”

“Great! So …” Vanessa leaned forward as if to say something terribly important. “What are you going to wear?”

The day of the opening Joey woke up with a cold. Rosalie rearranged her schedule so she could stay home from the office to take care of him, but she hated to miss the opening of her mother’s show.

When she called Vanessa to cancel, her friend insisted she could still babysit Joey. “If he’s asleep, it won’t matter, will it?”

“Yes, but there’s still the little matter of what happens if he wakes up.”

“Aaron can handle it. When I asked him about coming with me to watch Joey, he let it drop that one of the jobs he once had between acting gigs was as a nanny. He’s a pro with kids.”

Rosalie couldn’t quite picture Vanessa’s Aaron, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle, as a nanny, but the man had a heart as big as he was, so maybe it would be okay.

“Rosie, you know you want to do this. You have to do this.”

Vanessa was right.

“Okay. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

“We’ll be there. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Morgan walked into the crowded art gallery and realized he was in more trouble than he’d thought.

He hadn’t asked himself why he’d shown up here tonight. He was back in L.A. on business, so it had seemed reasonable to see how the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother sold.

He should have known better. As soon as he saw Rosalie on the other side of the room in a high-necked, knee-length black dress that showed off all her curves, a hot flash of need jolted through him. Almost against his will, his eyes tracked down her shapely legs to high-heeled black sandals and those delightful toes. Since when had he ever found toes sexy?

Since when had he ever found lady lawyers sexy?

A waiter wandered by with a tray of drinks. Morgan sighed at the white wine in plastic glasses. Probably Chardonnay, and cheap Chardonnay at that. Still, better than nothing.

He took a glass and sipped it warily. He grimaced at the raw edge of the wine, but his eyes remained fixed on the unfamiliar sight of Rosalie Walker looking happy.

She wasn’t totally relaxed. A thin line between her eyebrows showed the stress of being the center of attention in a room full of strangers, but she was smiling as she chatted with an older woman in a designer gown with huge diamonds at her neck and wrist. While the smile faded after the woman walked away, Rosalie still glowed with pleasure as she surveyed the crowd that oohed and aahed over her mother’s creations.

He wanted to claim her happiness as his doing, but all he’d done was help her mother find the public she deserved, if too late for her to enjoy it in person.

Still, it looked as if Ms. Walker was enjoying it enough for both of them.

No. He could not continue to think of her as Ms. Walker when every unguarded moment brought new visions of the two of them doing impossibly erotic things with each other.

He took another glass of wine off a passing tray and wandered in her direction, but forced himself to pause and look at the paintings as he went.

His body tightened at the surprised delight in Rosalie’s eyes when she saw him, but she quickly turned away. By the time he reached her, the wary look was back.

“Why are you here?” It sounded like an accusation.

He shrugged, vaguely angry at her for being wary, and at himself for apparently bursting the bubble of her happiness.

“My friend sent me an invitation. I was in L.A., so I decided to drop by.”

“Why? You’ve seen my mother’s paintings before and, if I remember correctly, didn’t think much of them.”

“All I said was that they were middle brow art.” He took a sip of the wine. “Middle-brow art has its place.”

“But not in your collection.”

“No, not in mine, but Lillian is quite fond of it. I thought I might find her a birthday gift.”

Something in Rosalie’s face shifted at Lillian’s name.

“I hope you’re successful,” she said abruptly and walked away.

He started to go after her and explain who Lillian was, but realized it wouldn’t help him to remind Rosalie of the whole mess with Charlie.

And, of course, there was Rosalie’s bearded Aaron to take into consideration.

So, Morgan let her go. All the same, his eyes continued to drift in her direction as he wandered through the gallery, the way a compass would drift to true north on a sea-tossed sloop.

Rosalie couldn’t help but be aware of Morgan Danby watching her.

After all, she had to make a conscious effort not to watch him, an effort that became more of a challenge as the evening progressed. Even when she wasn’t looking in his direction, she could feel his eyes on her body, sending an erotic sizzle along her nerves.

Too much wine? Too much celibacy? Too much Morgan Danby.

She was wondering if she could leave yet when she remembered. Lillian was Charlie’s mother. Morgan wanted a painting for his stepmother, not a wife, fiancée, or lover. That didn’t prove the man was unattached, but the evening seemed younger and her jubilant mood returned.

She decided she owed him an apology for her earlier rudeness. If he was still here.

He was. Standing by himself in front of at a small painting of a single orchid in a sensual shade of pinkish purple. An experiment of her mother’s Rosalie had never cared for because its overt sensuality was so out of character, but it had sold for twice as much as the companion painting of a brilliant orange day lily. She scanned the room in hopes he’d move on to something else, but he seemed fascinated by that one painting. When he finally turned away, his eyes went directly to hers. Her heart stumbled at the quirk of a smile he gave her, and her face went hot.

As if on cue, they walked toward each other and met in the middle of the room.

She’d never been good at apologies, but “I’m sorry I walked off like that” came easily, as did the smile she hadn’t planned on. Maybe because he smiled back at her in a way that made the tiny pulse at the base of her throat beat double time.

“No problem, Ros—, er, Ms. Walker. You’ve been under a lot of stress, I’m sure, with all these rich and famous strangers staring at something as personal as your mother’s paintings.”

Disarmed by his empathy, and by the way her body zipped to attention at the sound of his voice and the smell of his cologne, she looked down at the empty glass in her hand and nodded.

A long moment passed. She cursed herself silently for falling back into the shy little girl she usually kept hidden behind the lawyerly façade, but she still couldn’t find anything to say.

When it became clear she wasn’t going to hold up her end of the conversation, he asked, “Have you had dinner, Ms. Walker?”

“Rosalie.” She was rewarded by a smile that sent butterflies right to her core. “And, yes, we … I ate before I left home.”

A momentary frown creased his forehead before he said, “Well, I haven’t eaten. Would you like some dessert and a cup of coffee while I have a quick meal?”

The gallery was emptying out. A bored waiter wandered by and offered them the last of the wine in the bottle he held. She shook her head. She’d had enough already. Maybe more than enough, because coffee and something to eat before she drove home sounded like a good idea.

Except, the invitation had come from Morgan Danby. She should say no. He could take everything that mattered away from her.

But he didn’t know that. He wanted to give her something.

What harm could there be in taking another hour to cherish the evening’s celebration of her mother’s work? To learn more about this man before he walked out of her life. An hour she could remember and smile to herself about when she was back in her real world.

“Sure. Where were you thinking about going?”

He grinned and something twisted deep inside her. “Trust me.”

The expensive sports car the valet brought around when they stepped out of the gallery was bright red this time. The young man gave it a longing look as he handed Morgan the keys.

“I have to work tomorrow, so we can’t go far,” Rosalie cautioned in a wistful voice.

“Oh. I was thinking of a place out on the beach near Malibu. We could walk along the sand afterwards, and …”

“No,” she said with real regret as she climbed into the low-slung car.

By the time he was seated beside her, his grin was back, but he didn’t say anything.

He’d driven around the same block twice in search of a parking place before she realized where he was taking her.

“An all-night deli?” Why would a man with Morgan’s money eat at a deli, albeit a world-famous one?

“Why not? Incredible cheesecake for you, better pastrami for me than any place I’ve found in Boston.”

Why not? The words buzzed through her mind. Why not let all her responsibilities go, for once, and simply enjoy?

Even if it was the wine that made spending more time with Morgan Danby so appealing, that was only more evidence that she needed time to sober up a bit more before she drove home.

She’d worried about going to a deli dressed up the way she was, but she shouldn’t have. Half the women wore dresses fancier than hers, or designer slacks and tops that probably cost ten times as much as her off-the-rack-on-sale best black dress.

The cheesecake was perfect. And after an awkward moment or two, the conversation flowed from topic to topic, light and amusing, although afterwards she couldn’t remember exactly what they talked about.