Peggy Nicholson - The Baby Bargain

“Better,” he observed huskily.

Was it? Was it really? A wave of black dismay—of echoing loss—washed over her. “Thanks,” she whispered, staring down at her dough. After a moment her hands moved again—knead, fold, turn…

“Will you help me persuade her, Dana?”

Give a little to get what you wanted, she thought, loss turning to disgust. He thought he could buy her cooperation that easily, with one gesture of tossed-off tenderness? “No, Rafe, I won’t. Zoe doesn’t need some stranger telling her what to do.” Nor, for that matter, a parent trying to shape her life according to his own lights. “What about getting her some professional counseling? I’m sure that Dr. Hancock—”

“I’m the only counselor Zoe needs, dammit! A baby will wreck her life!”

“Then if you’re all she needs,” Dana said coolly, “she doesn’t need me.”

“But, dammit—” He saw her chin tip up in warning and he shut his mouth with an effort, locked his jaw over his words. Stood rocking on his boot heels and scowling, while she patted the first ball of dough into a loaf, settled it into its greased pan and placed it on the warming shelf. She turned out another ball of risen dough, pressed out the yeasty gas, commenced kneading.

“All right,” he said grimly, “then look at it this way. You owe me this help.”

Her hands paused as she looked up. “Excuse me?”

“Your son knocked up my daughter. If you’d ridden herd on him, hadn’t let him run wild, had taught him a proper respect for girls—”

Dana threw up a floury hand. “Now, wait a minute. Your daughter is—what—two years older than Sean? And everyone knows girls are years more mature than boys. So just who seduced whom? And who should have known better?”

“At fourteen, he’s old enough to know right from wrong! Or at least, old enough to know how not to get caught. Didn’t you tell him about condoms?”

“Didn’t you tell your brilliant daughter?” she shot back.

“She knew,” he said with dangerous calm.

“Then—”

“Condoms do fail.” His gaze turned distant and bleak.

“Is that what—”

He shrugged and spun on his heel, surveyed her kitchen, swung back again. “She’s not giving me any of the gory details, and frankly—” His shrug was more of a shudder. “Frankly, I don’t want to know. Every time I think about it, I get this urge to hammer your kid into the ground like a cedar fence post.”

Dana dusted her hands and came carefully around the table. “If you ever lay so much as a finger on Sean again—” She prodded his chest with a fingertip “—I’ll have you in jail for assault, Rafe Montana. See if I don’t!”

“Assault?” He caught her wrist, trapping her hand in that gesture of threat, forefinger touching his breast. “Last night, he swung on me.”

“Yes, but who finished it?” She yanked backward, but he held her easily.

“That was a lesson he needed to learn. You don’t take on someone you can’t handle.”

“I’ll thank you not to give my son lessons!”

“Then who will?” He brought her hand down to his side, then drew it slightly behind him, a subtle tug that swayed her closer. She flattened her other hand on his chest to catch her balance—could feel his heart thudding against her palm. “You’ll teach him how to grow up a man? Not your strong point, I’d say.” His eyes roved down her face to her mouth. He smiled slowly and shook his head. “Not your strong point at all, thank God.”

She shoved his chest hard, and he let her go. “Nobody asked you for lessons, and I’m telling you again, don’t you dare—” She cut herself short as the screen door to the deck creaked.

Sean stood there, gaping at them both.

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