Marta Perry - Promise Forever

“I can’t run a business that way, especially not now.” His dismissal was quick. “Sammy can come to Baltimore to get to know me.”

Fear flared and had to be extinguished. “Sammy isn’t a package, to be sent back and forth when you have time for him. If you want to be his father, you have to realize that. You getting acquainted with him needs to happen here, where he feels safe.”

His eyes narrowed. “Suppose I just start legal action. You can’t keep me from my son.”

The thought of facing a phalanx of ruthless Winchester lawyers made her quake, but she held her voice steady. “And have our private quarrel splashed all over the papers? I don’t think you’d like that. And I don’t think a family court judge would look favorably on a father who won’t take a few weeks to get acquainted with his son.”

Something that might have been surprise flickered in his eyes. “You’ve grown up, Miranda.”

“I’ve had to.”

“What you ask is impossible. You must know that.”

It wouldn’t have been impossible for the man he’d been at twenty-one, but she couldn’t say that, and maybe it wasn’t even true. Maybe she hadn’t really known the man she’d married.

She had to say the hard thing and end this now, before it damaged Sammy. Tyler’s sense of duty to the child he’d fathered had brought him here, but his sense of duty to the company would take him away again.

“If you can’t get away from your business for something this important, maybe you’re not meant to be a father.”

Tyler didn’t answer. He couldn’t. She had known all along how this would turn out, but still pain clenched her very soul. She turned away.

He grasped her arm, pulling her around to face him. At his touch, her treacherous heart faltered. She forced herself to look at him, her gaze tangling with his. Her breath caught in her throat, and for an instant she thought his eyes darkened.

“I know a challenge when I hear one, Miranda.” His voice lowered to a baritone rumble. “I’ve managed too many business deals not to know when someone’s making an offer they think I won’t accept.”

“I don’t—”

His grip tightened. His intense gaze was implacable. “Get a room ready for me. I’m moving in tomorrow.”

This was certainly a far cry from the elegance of the Dalton Resort Hotel. Tyler tossed his suitcase onto the patchwork quilt that adorned the four-poster bed in the room to which Miranda had shown him. He glanced around, wondering if he’d made a hasty decision the previous night. Did he really propose to run Winchester Industries from this small room on an island in the middle of nowhere?

He strode to the east window and snapped up the shade, letting sunlight stream across wide, uneven floorboards dotted with oval hooked rugs. Someone had put a milk-glass vase filled with dried flowers on the battered, rice-carved bureau, and the faint aroma seemed a ghost of last summer’s flowers.

Well, there was a phone jack, at least. With that, something to use for a desk and enough electrical outlets, he ought to be able to make this work if he wanted to.

Maybe that was the question. Did he want to do this? He frowned at what seemed to be a kitchen garden. The small patch of lawn, crisscrossed with clotheslines, couldn’t be intended for the use of guests. Beyond it was some sort of shed, then the pale green-gold of the marsh grasses. A white heron stood, knee-deep, waiting motionless for something.

Tyler assessed his options, trying to weigh them as if this were any business deal that had come up unexpectedly. In a business deal, the first step would be to research what was being offered. He grimaced. Miranda wasn’t exactly offering him anything. As for research—well, he didn’t need a DNA test to confirm what he knew in his bones. Sammy was his son.

He could stay. That meant subjecting himself to the uncertain welcome of Miranda’s family and trying to figure out how to be a father under Miranda’s no doubt critical gaze. Then, assuming he could gain Sammy’s acceptance, he’d face the tricky task of working out long-distance custody arrangements between Baltimore and Caldwell Cove and he’d commit himself to being a significant part of Sammy’s life for—well, forever.

He shoved the window up, letting the breeze that bent the marsh grasses billow the ruffled curtains. The alternative was to leave. Go back to Baltimore, take up life as it had been. He could afford generous child support, the best schools, anything material his son needed. He could satisfy his conscience without getting emotionally involved.

“Is everything all right?” Miranda paused in the doorway, clutching an armload of white towels against the front of a green T-shirt with a dolphin emblazoned on it.

No, Miranda, nothing’s been all right since that photo of Sammy landed on my desk. Miranda was undoubtedly talking about the room, not his inner struggle.

“Fine.”

“You looked as if you might be having second thoughts about this, now that you’ve seen the accommodations.” She put the towels on the edge of the bureau.

“The accommodations are fine.”

“If you want to change your mind—”

“I don’t,” he said shortly, trying to ignore the fact that he’d been thinking just that. He’d better concentrate on the room instead of noticing how well those faded jeans fit her slim figure. “I need something to use for a desk. A table would work, if you have one to spare. If not, I’ll go out and buy one.”

“No need. I’ll find something.”

She shoved a strand of hair from her eyes. He found himself thinking that its color was nearer mahogany than auburn and then told himself that it didn’t matter in the least what color Miranda’s hair was. She vanished before he could say anything, her quick footsteps receding down the hallway.

All right, he needed some rules if he were actually going to stay here. The first one had to be no staring at Miranda. And the second one better be no remembering the past.

He heard her coming before he could decide on rule three. Something thumped against the wall. He reached the door to see Miranda backing toward him, holding one end of a rectangular oak table. Her mother, wearing a dolphin T-shirt also, wrestled with the other end. He sprang to help them.

“Mrs. Caldwell, let me take that.”

Sallie Caldwell surrendered her grip, giving him a smile too like her daughter’s for comfort. “I’m afraid the table doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, but Miranda said that didn’t matter.”

Miranda had probably said that if he didn’t like it he could lump it.

“It’ll work.” He guided the heavy table through the doorway, finding it necessary to remind himself again not to let his gaze linger on Miranda’s face. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, either from exertion or because she had indeed said what he imagined.

Miranda helped him position the makeshift desk near the window. Then, as if she thought she’d spent enough time in his company for one day, she retreated to the doorway where her mother waited.

“If there’s anything else you need, just let us know.” Sallie Caldwell put her arm around her daughter’s waist with easy affection as she smiled at him. She had Miranda’s bronze hair, streaked with gray.

“I will.” He tried without success to imagine his mother letting gray appear in her hair or wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt.

“We’ll try to make you comfortable while you’re here.”

They all knew there was nothing comfortable about any of this. Still, he sensed that Miranda’s mother meant what she said. There was no artifice about her—just the same unselfconscious natural beauty her daughter had.

“Thank you, Mrs. Caldwell. The room will work just fine.”