Nancy Holland - Found - One Secret Baby

But this wasn’t a good time to rethink things, not while Morgan’s thousand-watt smile dazzled her, his navy blue eyes fascinated her, and the musky scent of his expensive cologne filled the air around her. Right now she needed to get the man out of her office.

She shuffled more papers around her desk. “Selfish?”

“If I were you, I’d want to celebrate my mother’s talent. Would she have turned down an opportunity like this?”

Rosalie blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way.

He pressed his advantage.

“I’d be glad to take a few of her paintings to my friend’s gallery. I’m sure he’d be happy to show them.”

“Why would he want to show the work of an amateur painter?”

“Your mother may not have sold any of her work, but she was no amateur. She must have studied art somewhere.”

She pushed the flow of pink-tinted memories away. “In college. Then after … when she first began to paint again, she took more classes.”

“Not at the local community center.” It wasn’t a question.

“No. UCLA. She was in a couple of student shows up there, but her paintings didn’t sell.”

“Too conventional for that crowd. But not for the patrons of my friend’s gallery. These paintings are exactly what they want to decorate their winter homes in Palm Springs.”

The memories swirled into a rainbow-colored dance in Rosalie’s head. Her mother would have been so thrilled by an offer like this. And the money could go into Joey’s college fund.

“I’m not sure …”

“What if I came by your house this evening to look at the other paintings you have? I could pick two or three and show them to my friend tomorrow to see what he has to say.”

“No!”

Panic pushed the word out before Rosalie could think, could even breathe. Had he guessed her secret? Was all this talk about the paintings a ploy to get inside her house? What would he do if he found out she’d lied to him?

Then she realized her sharp response and flushed face might make Morgan suspicious.

She forced her voice back to normal. “Tonight isn’t convenient.”

“What about tomorrow?”

There had to be a way to protect Joey without passing up this chance to honor her mother’s memory. Maybe …

“I could bring a few paintings to your hotel.”

Morgan shook his head. “I’d need to see more than a few. If you aren’t familiar with the art market, you might not know which ones would sell well, and this art dealer won’t want to waste his time with anything but your mother’s most saleable work.”

Her mind went into overdrive. She hated to let this incredible opportunity slip by.

She could set up a playdate for Joey. It wouldn’t be hard to hide all the toys and other signs he lived there if she kept Morgan out of the back part of the house. She’d just have to display the paintings somewhere other than the studio, which was right next to Joey’s bedroom.

She took so long weighing the pros and cons that Morgan shifted impatiently in his chair.

“Would tomorrow around lunchtime work?” she suggested.

“Eleven-thirty?”

“That would be fine.”

They stood and said goodbye with another hand shake. If this one sizzled through Rosalie’s system a little too long, stirred needs and feelings best left unfelt, she ignored it.

As soon as Morgan Danby was out the door, she let out a long breath, sat down and spun her desk chair around in a slow circle of celebration.

He’d given up trying to find Joey. She grinned at the tiny picture stuck on the computer monitor. Her little boy was safe!

When Morgan parked in front of Ms. Walker’s Spanish-style bungalow at precisely eleven-thirty the next day, his mouth lifted in an inexplicable smile, although he couldn’t have said why. The paintings weren’t worth that much money. The finder’s fee Morgan had turned down wouldn’t have paid for one day’s rental on the Porsche.

The unfamiliar need to smile certainly couldn’t have anything to do with seeing Ms. Walker again. Any woman who lived in a cozy house like this could only lead him into the kind of emotional morass he’d spent his entire adult life running away from.

The stone path to the house ran between artfully random beds of brightly colored blooms. A patch of tall, pink flowers on bare stems stood by the front door like dainty sentinels, but gave off a sweet perfume that screamed “female territory”.

He’d take that as a warning. He knocked on the door, then noticed the doorbell. Before he could decide whether to ring, the door opened.

It took him a full minute to recognize the woman on the other side as Rosalie Walker, lady lawyer. Gone were the dark-colored suits, high-necked knit tops, and sensible black heels.

In their place was a floaty dress covered with flowers that mimicked the display outside, a pair of sandals that displayed bare, oddly appealing toes, and a length of shapely leg.

The only recognizable thing was her wary expression. She’d let her dark-brown hair curl around her face, but pushed it back when she saw him as if uncertain what to do with the hand that wasn’t holding the door.

“Hello. Please come in.”

In sharp contrast to her sleekly efficient office, Ms. Walker’s living room was like something out of a country living magazine. A closer look revealed that the floral curtains and sofa covers had probably been home-made, and not recently. Worn patches marred the soft-brown carpet and the armchair she steered him away from had at least one bad spring.

“Genteel poverty” was the best description of the decor, although owning a house like this free and clear in L.A. ruled literal poverty out of the question. He would have to rethink the sugar-daddy hypothesis, though. For some reason, his mood brightened.

“I’m afraid I don’t have all the paintings ready,” she told him once he was settled on the sofa. “Can I get you something to drink while you wait? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

He could imagine what kind of ultra-feminine beverage she might consider appropriate to the occasion. “No, thank you.”

She disappeared down the hall that led toward the back of the house, but he wasn’t left alone. The two cats he’d seen in the window before, one white with black splotches, the other black on top and white underneath, crept from behind the broken armchair.

The mostly black one jumped on the sofa and sat down next to him, eyes alert, tail twitching. The inner guard, he decided, now he was past the pink sentinels outside.

The mostly white cat jumped up beside him in a more leisurely fashion. It sat very close and put one front paw, then the other, on Morgan’s thigh. Daintily it lowered its coal-black nose and sniffed his crotch.

Strangely uncomfortable at the cat’s inspection, Morgan managed not to push it away, intrigued with what it might do next. He’d never been allowed to have pets as a kid.

The initial part of the procedure complete, the animal walked its front paws up his polo shirt, claws out enough to gain some purchase, but not enough to scratch. Reaching Morgan’s face, it sniffed again, then butted its head against his cheek.

He refused to flinch, or to follow the instinct that made him want to run his hand down the animal’s sleek body.

Was the creature purring?

“Smudge!”

The cat turned to give its owner the look of someone doing his duty, then dropped its paws to the sofa cushion and assumed the same position as its comrade.

The pink on Ms. Walker’s cheeks when she rushed over made his mind wander to other ways he might make the prim lady lawyer blush.

“I hope you’re not allergic. He’s never done that before. All I can think of to explain it is that Aaron has a beard, so he’s not used to clean-shaven men.”