Adrianne Byrd - She's My Baby

“It’s okay. I know what you meant.” Garrick sighed and backed away. “Forgive me, but the last thing I want engraved on my tombstone is how I was a whiz at business. I want the same thing Dad has and you’ll have. Here lies a great husband and a wonderful father. I want a real legacy.”

“You’ll get those things, bro.” Orlando met his brother’s direct gaze. “I know you will…because Tamara and I have already lined up the perfect woman for you.”

Garrick groaned. “Tamara set me up with Miranda, remember?”

“Trial and error.” Orlando shrugged. “On all our parts. So what do you say?”

“Is she here tonight?” he asked, unable to keep the dread out of his voice.

“Nah. You know I wouldn’t land a sneak attack on you like that.”

Garrick’s eyes narrowed.

“All right. She was here earlier, checked you out, and gave us the okay to pass you her number.”

“I was under surveillance and you didn’t tell me?”

“Tamara told me not to. So what do you say?”

“I say you’ve been married too long and have forgotten the brothers’ allegiance.”

“Yes or no?”

Garrick weighed his options, thought about his love life that was on serious life support, and then caved. “All right…on one condition.”

“I know. I know. No gold diggers and no career women.”

Garrick smiled. “You got it.”

On Christmas morning, Leila stretched languorously in her eastern, king-size Italian bed and gave serious thought to staying put for the entire day. Why not? With Roslyn and her family in Barbados and Sam living it up in sin city, she was actually going to be alone for the holidays.

“Peace and quiet,” she moaned, curling back up against a pillow.

The phone rang.

Leila laughed as she crept an arm out toward the nightstand. “Hello?”

When no one answered, she frowned and made a concerted effort to suppress her irritation. It was Christmas, after all. Dropping the receiver back onto its cradle, she once again prepared for another flight to dreamland.

The phone rang again.

Spewing a string of curse words, Leila snatched off her night mask and grabbed the phone.

“Hello.”

The caller didn’t respond, but Leila could make out someone breathing—no, crying—on the other end.

“Who is this?” When the caller refused to speak, Leila’s sixth sense tingled to life. “Samantha?”

The caller hung up.

Leila held the phone. What kind of game was Sam playing now?

Huffing out a tired breath, Leila finally hung up the phone and climbed out of bed with all her dreams of spending the day in bed gone. Her mind was still wrapped on the strange call as she donned her robe and slipped into her favorite pair of slippers.

If she had any hopes of figuring out the new game her baby sister was playing, she would need her morning coffee—preferably a full pot.

Midway down the stairs, the sound of music caught her ear. She stopped.

Had she left the stereo on? Wait, she hadn’t listened to it last night. Her heart skipped a beat until she thought of the unlikelihood of a killer sneaking into her place only to play… “Rock-a-bye Baby.”

“Hello?” She crept down to the landing, trying to convince herself she was naming the wrong tune. As she followed the music, her confusion grew. It was coming from the kitchen.

Her usually dependable creative imagination had drawn a blank on what awaited her; but nevertheless, she put on a brave front and continued placing one foot in front of the other.

The moment she entered the kitchen, her gaze zeroed onto a frilly pink bassinette in the center of the kitchen table.

Leila blinked. When the image remained, she blinked again. It was still there and the looped music reverberated off the walls.

She rubbed her chest, certain that her heart was going to break through. “It isn’t. It can’t be.”

Her denial grew with each step while a knot tightened in the pit of her stomach. “It isn’t. It can’t be,” she repeated until she finally stopped to hover over the bassinette.

For half a heartbeat, Leila relaxed. The small, perfectly formed brown baby with rosy cheeks had to be a doll, which meant someone was playing a cruel joke. However, when the angelic child cooed softly, Leila jumped back in terror.

Who would—? When did she—? Where—?

“No. No.” She pivoted so fast she nearly tripped out of her pink slippers. Escaping the kitchen, she could only think to shout one name at the top of her lungs. “Sam!”

Leila bolted through the dining room and into the living room.

Both were empty.

“Sam!”

Swiveling, Leila tripped; but she saved herself from making a splat on the floor by dropping to her knees. Yet, adrenaline propelled her back to her feet and she was once again flying up and down the house.

Guest rooms—empty.

Bathrooms—empty.

Closets—empty.

“Sam…please. Don’t do this to me,” she begged.

Fear and anxiety knit a fine sheen of sweat across Leila’s brow, but she kept going. She reached an all-time low when she crawled on all fours to check beneath her own bed.

Samantha wasn’t there either.

Leila raked her fingers through her hair until her day-old mousse achieved the Bride of Frankenstein look and she nearly succumbed to the temptation to curl up into a ball. Then a thought occurred to her. She hadn’t checked outside. What if Sam was still out there, trying to unload her car or something?

Granted, it was far-fetched; but hope gave credence to the wild notion. Leila sprinted down the stairs, fluffy pink slippers and all; but before she reached the front door, a thin, high-pitched wail filled the house.

Leila skidded to a stop. The baby was crying. “What should I do?”

You should go check on her.

“But I don’t know how to take care of a baby.”

How hard could it be?

Leila mulled over the internal question. She was a smart woman in charge of a successful publishing company. Surely she could handle a baby.

The wail climbed a few octaves and Leila was forced to head into the kitchen. “Okay, okay. I’m here,” she soothed, rushing to the bassinette.

The baby stopped screaming…just long enough to draw a deep breath and then let it rip again.

With rattled eardrums, Leila panicked. She grabbed the bassinette by the handle and raced out of the house. So much for her being able to handle a baby.

“Sam!”

Garrick bolted upright, but was confused by what had awakened him. Yet, in the next second, a woman’s shrill voice penetrated his double-paned windows and he was out of the bed like a shot.

“Sam!”

Widening a slit in the venetian blinds, Garrick peered out to the house across the street. This was supposed to be a quiet neighborhood.

“Sam!”

Who’s Sam? His eyes lowered to the large pink basket she was carrying. A baby. Something was wrong with her baby?

Garrick turned and raced from the window. His heart lodged in his throat at all the wild possibilities. Was the baby sick, hurt, or worse?

“Sam!”

There was no snow this Christmas, but the cold December wind was an instant wake-up call against his bare chest. Yet, there was no way he was going to turn around now that he could also hear a baby screaming.

“Ma’am, ma’am. What’s wrong?”

“What?” The lady stepped back. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked him.

It hit him then that he was standing in his neighbor’s driveway in just his pajama pants. “I—I’m Garrick Grayson. Your new neighbor across the street.”

She took another step back but confusion still clouded her face. Actually, she looked every bit the part of a crazy woman with her hair standing straight on her head. Maybe this was trouble he didn’t need.