Charlotte Douglas - Verdict - Daddy

“How’s your dad?” Blake asked.

Her affection for her father was evident in her smile. “He’s in California now, representing Brad Tyler.”

“The movie star who shot his wife?”

“Who allegedly shot his wife,” she corrected with a grin.

“And your mom?”

“Same as always.” Her love for her mother tempered her voice, reminding Blake how, in his solitary existence as a child, he’d envied the closely knit Mason family. “Except now she has grandkids, as well as the four of us to keep up with.”

“Any of them yours?”

At the pained expression that flitted across her face, he wished he could snatch the question back, but Marissa recovered quickly. “Suze has two boys, Wally has twin girls, and Jake and his wife are expecting in the spring.” She leaned forward, lessening the distance between them. “You’ll have to come to dinner one night. Mom would love to see you.”

“You’re living at home?”

“Hard to find a place of my own during tourist season. Besides, I want to make sure Dad and I are compatible working together before I make a permanent move.”

A wave of disappointment washed over him at the possibility of her leaving Dolphin Bay again. “So how’s it working out?”

“Better than I thought. I was afraid he’d treat me as if I were still a child, but he’s pretty much given me free rein. I choose my own cases, although we consult with each other often.”

She raised one feathery eyebrow and skewered him with a searching, green-eyed glance. “You didn’t terrorize my receptionist just to catch up on my family. Besides, at what I charge for an hour’s consultation, you’ll want to cut to the chase.”

He spread his hands palms upward in a gesture of apology. “I’m sorry if I frightened your receptionist, but I’m desperate, Marissa. You’re the only one I could think of who can help me.”

She leaned back in her chair, her laser gaze still locked on his face. “You’re in trouble with the law? Have you been arrested?”

Blake shook his head. “No—at least not yet.”

Only the slightest flicker of surprise etched her features before she regained her composure. “You’ve committed a crime?”

“Not exactly.”

Her puzzled expression created a tiny line crinkling the smooth skin between her eyebrows, and his fingers itched with an unexpected urge to reach over and smooth it away.

“Then what do you want from me?” she asked.

A crazy idea, he thought again, but he was committed now. He might as well tell her. “I want you to help me with a baby.”

Marissa’s hazel eyes widened in shock, and a deep flaming crimson worked its way from the deep vee of her white silk blouse to her cheeks.

“Help you with a baby?” Her voice had a strange, strangled quality.

Oh, God, he thought with a groan, she’s taken this all wrong.

“It’s not like it sounds,” he insisted.

Marissa took a deep breath, and her weak smile seemed forced. “If it is, it’s the most bizarre proposition I’ve ever received.”

“I already have a baby,” he blurted.

“You’re married?”

He couldn’t tell if her expression showed more surprise or disappointment. “No.”

This time her frown was unmistakable. “I see.”

He shifted in his chair in frustration. His clumsy explanations were only muddying the waters. “Agnes Whitcomb has the baby.”

This time Marissa’s face reflected shocked disbelief. Her eyes grew rounder and her jaw dropped. “You had a baby with Agnes Whitcomb?”

“No! Agnes is taking care of the baby while I’m here.” The absurdity of her assumption made him bite back the urge to laugh. Dear sweet Agnes, a spinster who had baby-sat almost every kid in town, was approaching fifty-nine, long past childbearing age. “Maybe I’d better start at the beginning.”

Marissa looked skeptical. “I don’t need the details of your affair.”

“I didn’t have an affair—”

“Your love life, then.”

“I don’t have a love life, either.” Damn. He shouldn’t have admitted that, but she’d caught him by surprise.

She cocked that feathery eyebrow again in a manner that made him realize anew how attractive she’d become. “Then how did you end up with a baby?”

He squirmed as if he were on the witness seat. Marissa had certainly learned how to grill someone effectively with pointed questions. He was glad she was on his side—or, at least, he hoped she would be when she learned the whole story.

“Someone left the baby on my front porch,” he explained. “This morning.”

Marissa reeled back in her chair as if she’d been slapped. “Someone deserted a baby? On your doorstep? You’re kidding!”

Blake pushed his fingers through his hair. “Wish I were. I stepped out just after dawn for the newspaper. A wicker laundry basket was in front of my door. Looked like it was filled with towels. I thought someone had left laundry by mistake. Then I heard a little whimper, and the towels moved.”

“The child wasn’t visible?”

He shook his head. “My next thought was that I’d been snookered by someone dumping a litter of kittens. That’s the last thing Rambo and I need.”

“Rambo?”

“My dog. He’s a golden retriever, and he doesn’t like cats. I peeled back a layer of towels—”

“It’s a wonder the baby could breathe,” Marissa muttered indignantly. “That’s no way to treat a child. Were there any signs of physical abuse?”

“None. The most beautiful and perfect little baby girl looked up at me with big blue eyes and smiled.” He felt his heart soften into Silly Putty at the memory. “She had a note pinned to her dress. It said, ‘Please look after my baby. I know she’ll like living with you. I can tell by the yellow roses growing around your door.”’

Marissa shook her head. “The law is supposed to prevent that sort of thing.”

“What law?” Blake needed to know the legality of his situation. That’s why he’d come to Marissa.

“Desperate women were abandoning newborns in Dumpsters. The state passed a statute a few years ago that guaranteed that if the mothers would leave the children at a hospital, doctor’s office, or fire station, no charges would be filed, no questions asked.”

“Really?” That piece of legal information pleased him. Maybe the problem left on his doorstep wasn’t as big as he’d thought.

“Just last week,” Marissa said, “a man dropped off an hour-old infant at a Tampa fire station. The baby’s up for adoption now.”

“She isn’t a newborn.”

Marissa frowned, an expression that did nothing to diminish her prettiness. “And since I assume your house is neither a fire station, doctor’s office, or a hospital, that law wouldn’t apply in this case anyway. How old is she?”

“I know nothing about babies,” Blake said, “so I took her right away to Agnes. She lives next door.”

Marissa’s eyes lighted. “You bought the old Thompson place?”

“Six years ago.”

“I always loved that old bungalow. Built in the twenties, wasn’t it?”

Blake nodded. “Agnes estimates Annie is about three months old.”

“Annie? The note gave her name?”

“No name. But with her bright red curls, blue eyes, and the fact that she’s an orphan—” he shrugged, feeling sheepish again “—I decided to call her Annie.”

An ironic smile quirked a delectable corner of Marissa’s mouth. “Maybe you should rename Rambo Sandy.”

Blake felt panic setting in again. “I can’t keep the baby.”

“You’re not the family type?” Marissa asked. “Or you don’t like children?”

“I’m single, I live alone, and I know nothing about infants. Never been around one. That’s why I hightailed her over to Agnes first thing. And why I want to hire you.”