Paula Riggs - Daddy By Accident

Stacy woke to the echo of a scream. Her own, she realized with a pounding heart and drenched skin. She felt queasy and heavy, and her ankle throbbed. Disoriented, she turned toward a glimmer of light to her left, then wished she hadn’t as the dull pain in her head took on star-burst edges.

The room’s bare white walls were shadowed. The narrow bed came equipped with side rails and was slab hard The pillow beneath her aching head was only marginally softer. Still, she was thankful that she and the baby were alive and in good hands.

In the hospital, she recalled with relief. And for the moment, safe. The image of Len sprawled on the hood flashed into her mind again, and she shuddered. The baby was what mattered, all that mattered.

Babies are surprisingly resilient, especially in utero.

She drew a breath, thinking about the man who’d spoken those words earlier. Sweet, calming, positive words from a man with sawdust in his hair and calluses on his hands. A man accustomed to taking charge, she realized now. A quiet sort of guy with smoky eyes and a raspy voice. A powerful male with raw edges, a hard, arrogant mouth with surprisingly sensitive corners, and a don’t-tread-on-me air riding those burly carpenter’s shoulders. There wasn’t a reason in the world why she should feel as though she’d known him—and trusted him—for a very long time, but she did.

Sleepy now, she let her mind linger on the image of an off-center smile and kind eyes in a deeply tanned face. Fathomless, intelligent eyes with whispers of pain still lingering m devil-dark pupils, framed by laugh lines suggesting a sense of humor.

His mouth, too, had given a hint of that same humor, a faint upward tilt at the corners of those aggressively masculine lips. More pronounced was the threat of an intensely male sensuality, the kind that had her fantasizing about lazy rain-washed afternoons spent in a man’s arms in front of a warming, pine-scented fire And when he’d smiled—once—she’d felt oddly cherished, as though he’d brushed those hard lips over hers.

Drowsy now, she brought her fingers to her lips and felt them curve into a languid smile. Ships in the night, she thought. Destined for different ports. She doubted she would see him again, but for the rest of her life she would always have a special place in her heart for a very special, rough, tough-as-nails Good Samaritan. She was still thinking about him when she drifted off.

“Oatmeal is wonderful I truly, absolutely love oatmeal. Oatmeal is my friend.”

Stacy sighed and looped another circle in the lumpy stuff beneath her spoon. She was hungry, the baby was awake and hammering on her insides with tiny fists as though she, too, were eager for breakfast, and yet, Stacy couldn’t seem to work up the courage to swallow that first mouthful.

“It’s just that it tastes like used wallpaper paste,” she muttered to the empty glass that had held eight ounces of milk only a few minutes earlier. That, at least, she’d learned to stomach during the first few weeks after she’d found out about the baby. But oatmeal?

“Definitely a challenge.”

Using her free hand, she raised the head of the bed a few inches more by pressing the button on the railing, then ran her tongue over her lips. Okay, this is for the baby, she thought as she grimly scooped up a tiny spoonful. She had it halfway to her mouth before she realized she had an audience.

Her Good Samaritan was standing just inside the door, a ragged bouquet of pink blossoms in his hands and a crooked smile on his deeply tanned face. Gone was the day’s growth of beard that had given his face an outlaw appeal. His hair, now shiny clean and neatly brushed, was an intriguing mix of gold and platinum and silver blended into a unique color she could only call dusty blond.

Unlike yesterday, he was fully clothed in a chest-hugging T-shirt of faded blue, sporting the logo of a local lumberyard, and tight jeans worn thin from the stress of hard muscle rubbing against unyielding seams.

“This is just a guess, but I have a hunch you’re not crazy about PortGen’s breakfast special,” he said, widening his smile into a truly dazzling but all-too-brief grin bracketed by engaging creases.

When she realized she was drinking in the sight of him like a parched desert nomad in sight of a spring, she quickly lowered her gaze to the spoon and shuddered. “I can’t believe there are actually people who order this stuff on purpose.”

She heard him chuckle and glanced his way again. Their gazes met, and she found herself holding her breath. More alert now, she decided that his irises weren’t merely gray, but intensely so, the color of sooty topaz shot through with silver.

It had been forever since she’d felt such an instant attraction to a man, and she’d learned since not to trust any feeling that flashed so hot and fast. Still, she couldn’t prevent her heart from skipping and her lips from curving as she feigned indignation.

“I’m starving to death, and the man is laughing,” she groused to the ceiling.

“Sorry,” he said, coming closer, adding the fresh tang of soap to the hospital mix. “I forgot myself for a moment.”

Stacy felt her spirits reviving. After months of unremitting tension and fear, it felt good to smile again, even if it did hurt to move her facial muscles. “I’ll forgive you, but only because you saved my life yesterday.”

“Nah, wearing your seat belt saved your life.”

She didn’t waste breath arguing with a man whose jaw had taken on the texture of mountain granite. Instead, she directed an inquiring look at the fluffy blooms held in an awkward, one-handed grip against his flat belly.

“The hydrangeas are beautiful.”

His eyebrows drew together and she noticed a faint scar angling across the left one in a jagged line. “Is that what they are?”

She nodded, then realized she was still holding the spoon and carefully returned it to the breakfast tray before pushing the table toward the foot of the bed. “I feel better just looking at them.”

She smiled, drawing Boyd’s gaze for an instant to her lips. Most guys he knew were suckers for the kind of impudent dimples framing her mouth. Thank the saints he was immune, he thought a smug instant before he found himself wondering if her pale, full lips would taste sweet. Like the wild berries that soaked up sugar-producing summer sunshine along the country roads.

When he felt heat climbing his neck, he frowned down at the sissy-looking flowers. He’d bought flowers for a patient before, but he’d always had the florist downstairs deliver them, and without a card.

“Maybe the nurse has a vase,” she said, reaching for the call button.

“No need. This’ll do fine,” He stuffed the flowers into her water jug before she could argue the point. Then feeling awkward and more than a little foolish, he shoved his hands into his hip pockets and took a step backward. It was time he returned to work.

“I’m glad you came by,” she said before he had a chance to get the hell out of there. “I wanted to ask you about that little girl who was so helpful and sweet. Um, Heidi, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “What can I tell you? She’s a lonely little kid with too much imagination and not enough of the good stuff parents are supposed to provide.”

“I’d like to do something to express my appreciation to her as soon as...as...” She halted and drew a breath that seemed to drain more than invigorate. “What would she like, do you think?”

One of Stacy Patterson’s smiles for starters, he thought, and then frowned. Where the hell did that come from?

“Hell if I know,” he hedged.

“I was thinking of a CD, but I have no idea what kind of music she prefers.”

“She hates country, I know that.”