Jennifer Greene - Single Dad

The back light popped on. He heard her, on the other side, undoing a dead bolt and locks. His shoulder muscles were bunched and braced even before she poked her head out.

“Josh?” Her clear-bell voice made his name sound like a question, but there didn’t seem to be any startled shock in her expression. She glanced at him, chuckled as she said, “Good grief, are you wet! Come on in, before you drown out there—” and then looked down and past him.

It wasn’t hard to guess that she was searching for another body. “Killer isn’t with me. Killer is grounded for the rest of her life,” he informed her.

“Ah.”

The twinkle of humor in her eyes disarmed him—maybe she didn’t know about his daughter’s latest shoplifting escapade? Either way, he positively wanted this encounter over quick. One horrified glance had revealed that she was in pajamas. Silky, sexy, scarlet pajamas. And the last time he’d seen her, her hair had been all piled up. Now it was down, brushed smooth, about three miles of silvery-gold taffy that swished almost to her waist. He averted his eyes, trying to look nowhere, not at her place and for sure not at her, as he dug inside his jacket for the small wrapped package. “I believe this dragon thingamabog belongs to you.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid it does.” Her soft green eyes met his. “I realized she had it about three minutes after she left the shop.”

“You know she took it? Since yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure what to do. I really didn’t want to get her into any more trouble.” She hesitated. “Look, wouldn’t you like to come in and dry off for a few minutes? I’ve got some coffee on the stove. You want a splash of brandy in it?”

“I...” He never planned on coming in, not once he realized she was dressed for bed. But the friendly offer for coffee threw him. She could have been madder than a wet hen—hell, she could have called the cops on his kid. If there was some protocol for a single dad in this situation, he just didn’t know what it was. “I never meant to take up your evening. I just wanted to give the thing back to you and apologize.”

“I understand...but you’re worried about your daughter, aren’t you? Maybe it’d help if we talked about it.”

Personally, Josh never found that talking helped much of anything. But he figured he owed her some kind of explanation for his daughter’s recent kleptomaniac streak, and he didn’t want Ariel thinking he was the kind of dad who didn’t give a damn about his kids. So gingerly he stepped inside.

She took his jacket. And he had to heel off his boots or risk tracking in mud. The next thing he knew, he had a fragile-looking china cup in his hands, filled with some kind of fancy gourmet coffee, fragrant and rich and topped off with a splash of brandy.

“Come on in the living room. More comfortable to sit in there,” she said easily.

He took a gulp of the brew as he followed her, hoping the liquor might settle his nerves. It didn’t. Guessing conservatively, he figured the chances of his being comfortable around her rivaled the odds of a federal balanced budget. There’d be colonies on Mars first.

“I’m crazy about your daughter, you know.” She curled up in the corner of the couch, and motioned him to the closest chair. Her sweep of a smile seemed honest and warm. Somehow that smile made it easier for him to talk than he’d expected.

“She’s crazy about you, too. Practically everything she’s said in the last week was a quote from you. Don’t take this wrong, okay? But I think half the problem is this attachment she’s formed to you.”

Ariel nodded thoughtfully. “I had the feeling she was really lonesome for a woman’s company.”

“I know she’s lonesome for a woman’s company. She took her mom’s leaving hard. I have two boys....”

“She told me about her brothers.”

Josh rubbed his jaw. “Nancy’s leaving, the divorce, hasn’t been easy on any of them. But Killer definitely had the hardest time with it. And still is. That’s no excuse for stealing. She knows better. But I don’t want you thinking she’s a bad kid. She’s not bad. She’s...” Well, the squirt was damn near perfect in his eyes—always had been. Yes, exasperating and exhausting and an incredibly confusing little female person, but a light in his life like nothing else. Only, how was a grown man supposed to put that in words?

“I never thought she was bad, Josh,” Ariel said gently. “In fact, I can remember shoplifting a pack of gum when I was that age.”

“Shoplifting a quarter pack of gum is a little different than taking off with something that cost—what was that dragon thing worth, anyway?”

“Around sixty dollars. But I doubt she had any understanding of its dollar value. It looked like a little thing to her. Just something pretty. And she’s of the age where she’d know about dragons from fairy tales. You know, you won’t break that chair if you sit back in it,” she murmured with amusement.

Josh wasn’t worried about breaking the chair. He was worried about him. When she didn’t immediately hustle to some back room for a robe or cover-up, it finally registered that the scarlet outfit wasn’t pajamas. Apparently it was just one of those gummy-silk things that women walked around in these days. The shirtish top was loose, oversize. Not even suggestive of bedrooms or bedroom attire, if a guy didn’t have a dirty mind.

Josh was trying to keep his mind clean. He was trying, in fact, to think like a celibate monk. Only, he’d never been a monk, and a full bottle of bleach wasn’t likely to wash the X-rated thoughts racing through his mind.

She was really something. And so was her place.

The building was a good hundred years old, he guessed. The tall-pitched ceiling had to be hell on her heating bills. The old-fashioned windows were draft suckers. A white marble—cracked marble—fireplace stood in the far corner, another drafty nightmare if it wasn’t regularly maintenanced and cared for. She probably had to worry about blinking lights with wiring this old. Josh told himself he was judging the whole thing from an objective masculine perspective, but the truth was, he wasn’t thinking about her fireplace flue.

The carpet was a pale water blue and as plushy as a sponge. The couch and chairs had sink-deep cushions, the fabric soft and that same muted blue color. One lamp had a fringed shade, and the other—the one behind her head—was Tiffany-style, with roses against a blue sky background. Piles of candles sat on her coffee table. Not unused candles, like in any normal place, but vanilla-and spice-scented candles that she obviously lit and enjoyed, because the wax had swirled and pooled in the holders. She had a crystal ball on the mantel. An honest-to-Pete crystal ball, like witches used, and it picked up all the soft colors from everywhere and reflected them right back.

Nothing was bright. Nothing was noisy. There wasn’t a football in sight, no doll carriages to trip over, no dirty dishes, no video game screeching. Every scent, texture and sound was distinctly sensual—hedonistically, worrisomely sensual—and so was she.

It wasn’t her fault, Josh kept telling himself, that she looked like a guy’s seductive fantasy of a dream lover. The long legs were probably genetic. Blond hair probably ran in her family, too. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything to sell the package. Her hair had no special style, not full of gunky hairspray. It was just so silky, so long, that any man was naturally going to imagine his hands wrapped in it. And she was wearing a gold pendant—nothing big or gaudy, but the little chunk was trapped in the shadow of her plump breasts, drawing his eyes there. Forcing his eyes to the dip of ivory flesh in the vee of her shirt...especially when she was bending right over him.