Susan Andersen - Hot & Bothered

“What subtle threat? I haven’t said one freaking word that could remotely be construed as a threa—”

“But now that you’ve gotten what you wanted,” she said right over the top of him, surprised to find she was all but quivering with fury, “funny thing. I haven’t seen you make any effort to spend so much as five minutes with Esme since I introduced the two of you.”

John stared at the passion in Victoria’s face and felt his heart pound in his chest. This was the woman he remembered, with her electric eyes and intense fervency. The cool and reserved socialite he’d been dealing with since entering the Hamilton mansion annoyed the hell out of him, but he almost wished she’d come back. At least she didn’t confuse him so much, and God knew she was a whole lot easier to hold at arm’s length. This woman he wanted to throw down on the desk and have the kind of red-hot head-banging sex he remembered from six years ago.

She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat and he realized he’d been staring at her too long without responding to her accusation. Before he could say a word she’d whipped around on her expensively shod heels and he watched her hair bell out then settle back into place as she stalked from the room. The door closed behind her and he threw himself back into his chair. Swearing, he rammed his fingers through his hair and ground the heels of both hands into his scorched eyes.

What the hell was he doing here? He knew nothing about being a parent. Less than nothing. The truth was, just the thought of it scared the bejesus out of him.

And wasn’t that one for the books? In the ordinary run of events he wasn’t a man prone to fears. The day after graduating high school he’d forged his old man’s signature so he could join the Marines and he’d spent the next fifteen years in every hellhole and hot spot in the world. It wasn’t that he’d never been afraid, of course—only a fool went up against trigger-happy terrorists armed with the latest in automatic weaponry without a healthy dose of fear to keep him cautious. But he’d learned to take in stride the kind of things that would probably start the average guy’s bowels to churning.

Wasn’t it a hell of a note, then, that a tiny peanut of a girl with a mess of hair and big dark eyes should be the one to strike terror in his soul?

He’d deliberately stayed out late last night and had left before breakfast this morning in order to avoid running into Esme. Not that curiosity wasn’t gnawing at him like a rat on cheese. He wanted to know everything about her—what kind of toys did she like, which vegetables did she hate, did she like to be read to? Or maybe five-year-olds read for themselves—what did he know about such matters? He’d like to discover the answer to that, too. But the voice in his head that had kept him one step ahead of his father’s fists, one dodge away from bullets sprayed by captors of the political hostages he’d been sent to retrieve over the years, whispered warnings to keep his distance.

He should probably head back to Denver and let Victoria get back to her well-structured life. Hell, let her raise little Esme any way she saw fit; she was obviously an excellent mother.

He, on the other hand, knew bugger-all about being a father.

But much as the idea appealed to him, he knew he wasn’t going to do it. Not yet at any rate. Gert had the office running with the precision of a German-made engine, and he’d caught up on all of the cases requiring his attention in Denver. Then, too, he still had a number of people to contact here.

Besides—his jaw stiffened—there wasn’t a female born who could make him tuck tail and run. Not some little bit of a thing less than three feet tall and not her leggy mother, either.

Tori probably hadn’t meant it as such, but she’d issued him a challenge. She’d all but accused him of being too chickenshit to get to know his daughter. And, fine, he’d admit it—that was exactly how he’d behaved. Didn’t mean he couldn’t do better, though.

It might take a little time for him to gird his loins. But John Miglionni didn’t run from any challenge.

“HERE, SWEETHEART.” VICTORIA stooped to untuck a narrow ruffle that had bunched beneath the strap of Esme’s backpack. Glancing into her daughter’s dark eyes, she smiled at the excitement shining there. She smoothed the hem of the little retro flower-power tank top over Esme’s cotton shorts, then brushed back a stray tendril of baby-fine hair that had escaped the little girl’s fat braids. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Uh-huh.” Esme fidgeted away from her mother’s fussing fingers. “I’m tidy, Mummy,” she said impatiently. “When’s Rebecca gonna be here? I been waiting forever.”

“Or at least five minutes, anyhow.” Victoria struggled to keep her amusement to herself. She heard footsteps coming up the steps of the portico and patted Esme’s arm. “There. That’s probably Rebecca and her mum now.”

Instead of the expected knock, however, the big mahogany door simply opened, bringing a wash of sunlight into the house. Then the door clicked closed and there stood John. A fierce scowl marred his brow, but the instant he saw Tori and Esme in the foyer, it disappeared. His eyes were slow to lose their storminess and remained watchful, but the glower was immediately replaced by a courteous curve of his lips.

The insincerity of that smile irritated Victoria no end. Good Lord, he seemed more like a soldier to her now than he had six years ago when he’d still actually been one. Back then, at least, he’d never hesitated to exhibit emotion, and his expression had always been open. These days she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Hullo, Mr. Miglondoanni!”

Victoria’s heart clutched at the bright expectancy in her daughter’s face as she stared up all unknowing at the man who’d fathered her. But she managed to say calmly, “It’s Miglionni, sweetie.”

“It’s a mouthful either way, especially when the mouth trying to pronounce it belongs to such a dainty little thing.” He smiled down at Esme, and this time genuine humor warmed his eyes. “Instead of trying to wrap your lips around all those syllables, why don’t you just call me—” with a quick glance at Victoria, he cleared his throat “—John. That would probably be simplest.”

“’Kay.”

He dropped to a crouch in front of her and reached out long, tanned fingers to the braided and bespeckled doll that peeked over Esme’s shoulder from her backpack. “Who is this? Your sister?”

“No, silly. That’s my American Girl doll. Her name is Molly Mack-’n-tire.”

“She’s very cute.” He hesitated, clearing his throat again as patent uncertainty dimmed the usual lady-killer wattage of his charm. “Nearly as cute as you,” he added and gave her a small, crooked grin so diffidently sweet it made Victoria blink.

“Oh, you.” Esme giggled in delight and gave him a flirtatious poke with one soft little finger. It didn’t cause so much as a dimple in the soft cloth stretched across his hard chest. “Do you like her Route 66 frock?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s very, uh…blue.”

“Yes, lovely, isn’t it? It’s new. Mummy sent away for it on the inner net.”

“Internet, Esme.”

“Uh-huh.” The little girl didn’t spare her so much as a glance. Her bright-eyed gaze was locked firmly on Rocket. “I have a playdate with Rebecca Chilworth. She and her mummy are s’posed to pick me up, but they’re late. Rebecca’s my best friend, you know. Fiona Smyth was my best friend, but now that I live in the States, Rebecca is. Her and my mummies usta know each other a long time ago. Do you have a best friend?”

“Yes, I have two.” He looked a little dazed, but added gamely, “Their names are Cooper and Zach. We were in the Marines together.”