Anna DeStefano - All-American Father

“She’s got the money to pay for what she took.” The girl had flashed an impressive wad of cash in a snotty attempt to keep Bailey from calling the cops. “Why not let her square things, then leave her parents to deal with the rest?”

And let me get to Margo’s Bistro before I lose the new job that might spring me from this dump, if I can get enough hours there.

“The money’s not the point,” the man actually had the nerve to say, when bottom line was his native language. “If I let one of these miscreants off, they’ll be all over this place, taking me for everything I’m worth.”

As if there was a gang of upper-middle-class hell-raisers looking to supplement their allowances by pilfering from the resident Scrooge!

Larry Drayton stocked the cheapest inventory he could get away with selling, trading on his prime location as the only convenience store on the main drag that led from their affluent bedroom community to the interstate linking them to the Golden Gate. He was downright rude to customers, inflexible on principle with his hourly employees and did a nimble tightrope dance around the regulations of his trade that would bite him in the butt one day.

Bailey had checked the expiry date on the Trojan condoms she’d reclaimed from the kid. If their under-aged klepto was planning a party, Bailey had done her and the girl’s parents a favor. Evidently, it had been ten years since Scrooge last stocked prophylactics.

“I’m going to grab my things,” she murmured.

Scott Fletcher had wandered in a few minutes ago—a half hour late for his shift. She was free to go, as soon as Daddy showed.

What kind of parent took an hour and a half to get himself to the scene of his child’s crime?

When Bailey entered the office, the pop-princess wanna-be rearranged her worried features into a scowl. The kid’s attempt at tough came off lonely and scared, the combination weakening Bailey’s determination to not get involved.

She didn’t have time for involved. But neither did this blond angel’s parents, evidently.

“You know—” she slipped into Scrooge’s chair “—if your guy can’t spring for the rubbers, you might want to consider trading up.”

The girl—Leslie, Bailey had heard her say to the cop when she’d recited her dad’s cell number—looked shocked, a split second before she rebounded with a sneer.

“Like there’s just one guy.”

“Well, if you’re going to tag-team it,” Bailey smart-assed back, “I’d suggest you shoplift at the Wal-Mart. Prehistoric condoms are a bad deal, even when they’re free.”

The kid’s forehead scrunched in confusion, morphing her toughness into the kind of adorable she shouldn’t be in such a hurry to outgrow. Bailey plucked the discarded condoms from the desk and tossed them over. The girl snatched the box one-handed.

Nice reflexes.

Hopefully, her mind was just as quick.

“Condoms have expiration dates for a reason,” Bailey explained. “They tend to break after they’ve been sitting for too long.”

More scrunching, then an image of what breaking meant must have flashed through the girl’s mind. Cheeks reddening, she glanced down at the pre-Y2K date on the box, then slapped the condoms to the desk.

“Oh…” Looking younger by the second, she clenched her hands in her lap. “I—”

“Leslie Marie Cavenaugh!” a masculine voice boomed from the doorway.

The kid’s face drained of color, turning mutinous at the same time. Crossing her arms, she sank farther into the acid-green chair.

Bailey barely noticed.

Daddy was six-four and then some, with the kind of broad shoulders and trim waist that did dangerous things to a woman’s fantasies. His pricey suit screamed money and privilege, but the hands braced on his hips looked as tough as ever, and his nose had been broken more than once.

Bailey had seen the first break from the sidelines. He’d thrown the winning touchdown pass at Western’s 1995 state championship game, and the opposing defensive end had taken exception.

Just looking at him brought the past flooding back.

“Derrick Cavenaugh.”

It took a few seconds to realize she’d said his name out loud. Several seconds more to register that he hadn’t recognized her in return.

And why on earth should he?

Western High’s “Most Likely to Succeed” blinked down at her, a washed-up valedictorian, without a flicker of recognition for the woman who’d worshiped him from afar, when she hadn’t been much older than his daughter.

SHRUGGING OFF the admiring glances of women was nothing new. Derrick was a large man who, whether he wanted to or not, enjoyed the even larger public persona that came with having been a pro football prospect. Even after his NFL dreams tanked, compliments of a near-crippling back injury, the Mighty DC still got noticed.

While married to Amanda, random female attention never tempted him to do more than look back. Since she left him for his ex-best friend, Rodney Canton, life had been too raw for Derrick to give a damn.

Until roughly sixty seconds ago.

The pixie-like woman sitting behind the shabby desk had devoured him with her eyes before he’d made it through the door. When she’d whispered his name in that husky voice, every muscle below his waist had clenched with the instinct to get closer. Soft, curly chestnut hair held back with a rubber band, a heart-shaped face completely devoid of makeup, she’d looked both familiar and different at the same time.

Though different from what was anyone’s guess, since as far as he knew, they’d never met.

He’d bet his Reynolds-Allied bonus she wouldn’t make five-two stick in heels, and his tastes usually veered toward leggy blondes with mischief in their eyes. The woman now looking everywhere but at him had the air of someone too harried to give mischief a second glance.

So why did he have the urge to get her on her feet to see if the waist half-hidden behind the desk was really as tiny as he imagined it would be?

“Dad!” His mortified preteen glanced between him and the stranger he’d been gaping at.

Sinking into the agony of watching his oldest daughter spiral into a dark place he couldn’t protect her from, Derrick gave his fear and anger free rein.

“Get your butt in the car.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “There’s no chance of talking the shop owner out of pressing charges, but the cop said you’re sprung until you go before the judge. Do yourself a favor and work up the necessary enthusiasm to say you’re sorry on the way out the door.”

Before a year ago, he’d never said anything harsher than boo to his children. They’d been daddy’s girls from birth. So eager to please, just like Amanda. He’d eaten up every smile and I love you, Daddy, not for a second realizing how elusive that kind of adoration could be—in both daughters and wives.

“I already said I’m sorry,” Leslie mumbled. “Two hours ago, when that cop called you.”

Her scowl trembled, then she tightened that traitorous lower lip that turned Derrick’s heart to mush every time she fought not to cry. Staring down at the stiletto boots she’d shown up in a week ago, with no explanation of where they’d come from, she slinked out of the office like a shadow of the good kid he knew still lurked inside.

“She’s crying out for attention.”

Derrick whirled on the woman who’d finally risen to her feet.

“Excuse me?”

Judgment and disapproval had replaced her blatant admiration. She tucked the hem of her T-shirt into well-worn jeans no woman should look that spectacular in. Then she and the waist that was even tinier than he’d envisioned stepped around the desk.