Terry McLaughlin - Maybe, Baby

Jenna punished her hair with another series of short-tempered strokes. “I don’t like the way he looks at her.”

Will met her gaze in the mirror. “How does he look at her?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I think I do.” He sat up and shifted to the edge of the mattress. Last summer, before Jenna had agreed to marry him, they’d had a talk about the kinds of looks men and women gave each other. And then he’d kissed her and asked her to take a good, long look at him.

“All I saw tonight,” he said, “was two old friends getting together for the first time in several months.”

Jenna tapped the brush against her hand. “That wasn’t a completely friendly look I saw him giving her.”

Will shrugged. “Maybe he’s not feeling all that friendly about getting sent clear out here to fetch her back.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Jenna set the brush down and turned to face him. “And she’s not going back.”

“Seems to me that’s up to her to decide.”

“If it’s up to her to decide, then he wasted his time coming out here.”

Will stared at his wife’s mulish expression and hoped he wouldn’t end up adding another trouble to his list of things to worry over tonight. “She’ll have to leave eventually, you know.”

“She doesn’t want to.”

“Has she discussed that with you?”

“Not in so many words.”

“ Jenna .” Will stood and reached for her hand. “She can’t stay here forever.”

He waited patiently, and after a few seconds she surrendered to his silent request and turned to enclose her slim, pale fingers in his big, rough hand.

“She likes it here.” Jenna’s voice grew soft and wavery. “And she’s been happy here.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Means she’ll come back for visits now and again.”

Jenna stroked her thumb over a scar on his knuckle. “I don’t want her to go, Will.”

“I know you don’t, darlin’.”

“She’ll take that sweet baby girl with her, and I won’t get to see her grow up.”

“You’ll have a couple more babies to love in a few months.”

“They won’t be Ashley.”

“No, they won’t.” He pulled her from her chair to wrap his arms around her waist and hug her close, and her gown quivered and shimmered and hinted at the womanly curves beneath the silk. “They’ll probably sleep for more than an hour at a time and keep the milk they drink in their bellies, where it belongs. No fun at all.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he breathed in the scents of her shampoo and soap and creams. They brought to mind a meadow lush with wildflowers, a woman warmed in the summer sun.

“It won’t be the same around here without her.”

“No, I don’t suppose it will,” he said. “It’ll be a whole lot quieter and cleaner, that’s for sure.”

He guided her down, down to their soft bed, and he shifted over her to press a gentle kiss to the spot behind one ear, right where he’d watched her dab on some of that perfume he’d told her he liked so well.

Her pulse stuttered beneath his lips. “You’ll miss her, too.”

“I s’pose I will.”

He skimmed his fingers across her shoulder, pushing the silk aside. “I have an idea or two about how we can keep those worries of ours off our minds for a while.”

She lifted her arms to circle his neck. “You do, do you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m surprised you can’t tell just by looking at me how friendly I’m feeling right now.”

“Are you flirting with me, Will Winterhawk?”

He took one of her hands and pressed it to his bare chest. “I’m fluttering for you, Jenna. Just for you. Seems I always am.”

BURKE OPENED HIS EYES to a tomblike blackness so oppressive it threatened to suffocate him. Somewhere beyond the boundaries of the dark a siren wailed its dirge. Suffering. Disaster. Death.

No. Something much, much worse.

The baby .

He groaned and curled into the stiff, creaky mattress and pulled a pillow over his head, tempted for a moment to press it against his nose and mouth until he slipped into oblivion.

Waaa- uh- uh- waaa .

Damn Greenberg for throwing the tantrums and pitching the ultimatums that had set him on the road to this frozen wasteland. Damn Fitz for handing him a map and waving goodbye. Damn Nora for being here in the first place.

And damn his sorry, aching, icicled self for letting them all maneuver him into a mess like this. Again.

He was a perfectly good associate pro—No, he was a bloody terrific associate producer. So terrific he’d already turned down a few offers to trade up. Greenberg’s little empire would go down in flames without Burke there to douse the stray sparks, and Fitz would be quite put out.

Yes, quite. The actor was far more capable than he let on, but he’d invested years in cultivating his image of carefree, casual success. He wouldn’t appreciate being caught out doing something as prosaic as paperwork.

Burke Elliot, enabler. Even the amateurs had roles to play in Hollywood, and he played his as well as any actor in the city. But he preferred to play it at his desk, in his tidy bungalow, with outlets for his office equipment and a phone with more than one line.

With a functional thermostat and a private bath.

He shoved a foot against the iron rail at the end of the too-short mattress and realized he couldn’t feel his toes.

Frostbite, most likely. How tidy of nature to provide a natural anesthetic in case some backwoods carnivore decided to nibble on one’s extremities.

Waaa. Waaa- uh- waaa .

“God.” He rolled to his back and tugged a sloppy tangle of quilts around his chin, staring blindly at a wood plank ceiling he knew was festooned with solidified drips of resinous matter and ghostly tatters of cobwebs. The country style had so much natural charm to offer, if one knew where to look.

The baby wailed again, from the direction of the open room that served as entry, parlor, dining area and kitchen. One more minute, and he’d go out there, to see if Nora needed any help.

And what kind of assistance would he offer her? Feed the baby? Change its nappy? Ship it to a boarding school?

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, grimacing at the freeze-dried nubbin that was his nose. Ashley . The baby’s name was Ashley. He didn’t wish to be on more familiar terms with the child than necessary, but Nora seemed to require his active admiration and involvement.

Part of any producer’s job, after all: making nice with the talent. And he valued his friendship with the actress enough to make more of an effort.

There. Silence.

Perhaps they’d both frozen to death.

He borrowed a few of Greenberg’s nastiest swearwords as he tossed off the covers and reached for his glasses, and then swung his bare feet to the scratchy wool rug covering a portion of the wood floor. Tugging a sweater over his head, he made his way down the short hall to the front room, where a tropical wave of stove-heated air washed away his goose bumps.

Nora, swathed in her high-necked gown and a shawl-like wrap, rocked in the tall chair beside the stove and crooned an off-key tune in a slightly hoarse voice. She made a gorgeous Madonna, a Renaissance vision of ripe curves beneath the flowing folds of the soft fabric, of perfect features against pale skin. Her dreamy, ethereal expression as she stared at the child in her arms was as peaceful, as compelling as a timeless work of art. Her black hair tumbled and waved about her shoulders, thick and lustrous and practically begging a man to bury his fingers in its silky strands.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Where had that last terrifying thought come from? He knew he wasn’t sleepwalking through a nightmare—he was all too aware of the needlelike tingling in his toes as the blood began to circulate through them.