Jennifer Greene - A Baby In His In-Box

When she spun around, Flynn lurched toward her. “Wait a minute. For God’s sake, you can’t just walk out of here—”

“Watch me.”

Molly couldn’t seem to unfreeze. The whole scene was just so unreal. The frantic-faced woman and the whole yelling match couldn’t have taken five minutes. She stormed back out of the office as fast as she’d stormed in.

Flynn hiked after her. Molly had never seen his complexion turn that ashen gray before. She heard his booming voice from the hall, fading as the two of them reached the front doors. There wasn’t another sound in the entire office—not because Flynn’s handful of staff weren’t there, but likely because everyone had been listening as intently to the whole scene no differently than she had.

It took a few seconds before Molly could seem to gather her wits. And another second before she abruptly realized that the infamous “Virginie” had left a package behind her.

The baby had been padding around on all fours, fanny in the air, crawling at cruising speeds that could probably earn him a ticket on the freeway.

Temporarily, though, the baby was nowhere in sight.

And no one seemed to give a damn.

Two

Molly hustled out of Flynn’s office in search of the baby.

Initially real worry never occurred to her—she figured she’d have heard the sound of the baby crying if he’d been in trouble, and there were other adults around besides. She just wanted to find him. It wasn’t the safest environment in town for a crawling toddler to be running around loose.

Flynn’s office opened into the circular area that the staff called Brainstorming Central. Undoubtedly the original architect had designed a normal office space with walls and doors, but Flynn had predictably obliterated all that logical construction long since.

The virtual reality booth was an intrinsic part of the “think tank,” but she poked her head in there—and found no baby. In the middle of Brainstorming Central was a table the size of a small country. Recliner chairs tipped back as far as beds. The ceiling was lavishly decorated with posters—cartoon characters, wilderness scenes, rock stars, bad jokes, saintly inspirational quotes. Molly first thought that decorating the ceiling was loony, but after six months of working with the lunatic staff, she’d discovered she was too fond of all of them to take exception to their eccentric office decor ideas.

She whipped around the circumference of the table, bent over to spot any miniature bodies, checking chairs and any possible hiding spot. Still, she caught no sight or sound of the mite.

Her pulse was charging, her heart clanging nerves. She told herself she was naturally concerned about the missing Dylan, but that was only a partial truth. She’d been rattled long before realizing the baby had disappeared. The whole bizarre scene with Dylan’s mother had acid jumping in her stomach...and worse than that, her mind kept doing instant replays of the embrace she’d almost invited from Flynn.

A lump clogged her throat as she sprinted out of Brainstorming Central toward the break rooms. All right. Embrace was a pale word for what she’d been inviting from Flynn. She’d wanted to make love with him. Could have, might have, wanted to—if they hadn’t been interrupted at that precise moment.

Thoughts spun in her mind like whirling dervishes in a high wind. Darn it, was that baby really his? And had Flynn really slept with that woman—a woman he barely seemed to recognize?

Molly had been so positive she knew him. His impulsiveness and unpredictability were part of what made him an exciting, dynamic man, and yes, those character traits made her uneasy, too. Maybe he was wild, but she’d never known him to do anything seriously irresponsible. She’d believed he had a good heart. And now...

Now you aren’t sure of anything, duckie. Except that there’s a baby loose and someone has to find the little one before he gets hurt.

She flipped the light switch in the bathroom and peered in—no baby. She closed that door and charged into the first break room. Since none of Flynn’s staff—besides herself—had even a remote concept of normal work hours, the back room contained bunk beds, a stereo and TV entertainment center. It wasn’t unusual to find someone crashing in there any hour of the day, but Molly peered under beds and around comers and closets. No bodies surfaced, large or small.

Still, those whirling-dervish thoughts kept hurling through her mind. Had he really had a one-night stand with someone he didn’t know, didn’t value, just a fling between the sheets to satisfy an itch—was that all sex meant to Flynn? And yeah, Molly knew she was just a teensy bit rigid...aw hell, her dad used to say she’d strangle on a principle before giving an inch, but that didn’t stop the sick-dread feeling from churning in her stomach. All the times Flynn had playfully tried to seduce her, she’d thought she was special to him. She’d thought they were building something special between them. She’d really thought...

Quit thinking, you dimwit. Find the baby.

She pedaled into the second break room, and immediately spotted a body—just not the size body she was searching for.

Like everyone else at McGannon’s, Simone Akumi was a character. She was Flynn’s chief programmer, and stood a regal six feet, with a face the color of dark mahogany and austere features that reflected her personality. Her IQ scored off the map, but she had a tough time talking to lesser mortals. Typically she was garbed in a long, flowing African print—with a headset parked on her wiry white hair. The headset meant she was working, and only someone with a death wish interrupted Simone when she was concentrating. Molly rapidly scanned the room before trying to catch her attention.

Glass doors led outside to a patio and rolling sweep of lawn—Flynn had been known to have staff meetings picnic-style on the grass. But on a crisp October day, thankfully the doors were safely closed, so the baby couldn’t escape that way. Past the counter table was a double-size refrigerator—anything could be in there, from mystery meat to sushi to pizza to a quart jar of maraschino cherries. Three coffeemakers were simultaneously bubbling on the sink counter. Everyone was violently fussy—and possessive—about their favorite brands. Simone just turned around to pour a mug when Molly frantically motioned for her to lift one ear cup.

“Did you see it? A baby anywhere around here?”

“If you’re referring to that small hellion of a Caucasian traveling on all fours—good Lord, is it really Flynn’s?” Simone, for once, didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

But Molly had no time to chat. “I don’t know. I just know it disappeared when everyone was talking—”

“Well, the last I saw it, it was trailing after Bailey. Poor tyke. Clearly it’s too young to have developed any sort of judgment in people. And Bailey looked petrified.” Simone adjusted her headphones back in place. From her expression, she was back to concentrating on work before Molly had even spun around.

With her heart thudding, she clipped double-speed into the work area shared by all the programmers. Maybe she hadn’t been really that worried about the baby before, but darn it, Bailey was even more absentminded than Simone, and the programming office was the most dangerous place for a little one. Computers and printers and modems created an incessant nerve-racking clatter. Phones and cords and all kinds of electronic equipment were too easily reachable by small fingers.

Ralph’s cubicle was first—and he was there, ensconced in his orange throne chair that wincingly clashed with the red carpet. He was twenty-four, typically working barefoot, with a plaid shirt buttoned nerd-style to the throat, and a long, straggly blond ponytail swinging behind him. He was pounding at two keyboards—pretty much simultaneously—and since Ralph wouldn’t likely notice a tornado when he was working, there was little point in grilling him.