The Would-Be Mommy Page 6

  “It might not be accurate in a baby this young,” the doctor said. “Their ear canals can be rather wet.”

  “Her temp was over 100,” Lori advised. “I took it under the armpit.”

  “This will be more accurate.” Samantha inserted the thermometer.

  The baby squawked. “You’re hurting her!” Jennifer protested.

  “Calm down, Mommy. She’s fine.”

  “What’s a normal temperature for a newborn?” Ian asked.

  “Under the armpit, which is a cooler part of the body, normal would be 97.5 to 99.5. This way, anything under 100.2 is normal.” When the thermometer beeped, Samantha withdrew it. “Right at 100. She’s fine.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lori said. “A few minutes ago, her temp was high and she felt hot.”

  “Infants can get feverish if they’re overly bundled.” After washing her hands, the doctor peered into the baby’s throat, ears and nose. “I don’t see any sign of infection.”

  The little creature had calmed. “She seems a lot happier,” Ian observed. “I guess I would be, too, if you took that thing out of my…never mind.”

  Jennifer burst into a free, shimmering laugh. “Ian!”

  “Relieved that she’s okay?” he asked.

  She pressed a hand to her heart. “It was worse than being sick myself. She’s so helpless.”

  Could she have bonded with the little one in such a short period? Ian didn’t see how. But it will make a great story.

  Samantha covered the baby lightly. “Not that I’m criticizing, Lori, but I think she was simply uncomfortable. As a nurse, you should know that.”

  “I work with moms, not babies,” Lori grumbled.

  “You took care of your little sisters.”

  “Not until they were cranky toddlers. Mom hogged the cute newborns for herself.”

  “No wonder you don’t want kids,” Samantha observed wryly.

  “None of this belongs in your article,” Jennifer told Ian.

  He held up his hands in surrender. “I promise.”

  “Want to hold her now?” Samantha asked.

  “Oh, yes! Please.” Jennifer reached out eagerly. This time when Ian took out his camera no one objected.

  As Jennifer gathered the infant close, Rosalie gazed upward with what Ian, through the lens, could have sworn was devotion. What a great shot. As for the tug inside his chest, well, he’d never claimed to be entirely without emotions.

  “Keep a close watch on her for the next twenty-four hours. Of course, I’m sure you planned to do that, anyway,” Samantha said. “Call me if you have any concerns.”

  “I’d be happy to help you,” Lori added. “Even though I screwed up, I really am good with kids.”

  “Oh, I have in-house help today.” Jennifer regarded Ian mischievously. “You’re game for changing diapers, right?”

  He captured her expression on camera, less for the Internet than because he found her so engaging. “I’m a fast learner.” Still, he hoped she was joking.

  “Oh! I nearly forgot. Is everybody up for shopping this afternoon at Brides and Maids?” Lori asked. “You don’t have to spend every minute with this reporter—excuse me, with Ian—do you, Jennifer?”

  The PR director gave her friend an apologetic shrug. “Not today. I did promise.”

  “Today’s the only day Esther’s available, and she is the matron of honor.”

  “Any reason I can’t tag along?” Ian asked.

  “You’re kidding, right? A guy in a bridal shop?” Lori’s face scrunched. “Everybody’ll think you’re the groom. Oh, what the hell. But you can’t write about it.”

  “No problem.”

  After agreeing on a time, the little group dispersed. Ian photographed Jennifer strapping the baby into her car seat, even for a mere half-block drive.

  Ian wondered if she was really thinking about keeping the baby. If so, the public would love it.

  Entering Jennifer’s condo a few minutes later, he noticed details that had escaped him before. A vase of silk flowers on an end table. An arched mirror on one wall, surrounded by small framed prints. He didn’t see any family photographs, though.

  “I’ll be happy to e-mail you my best shots,” he said as she sank onto the couch, cuddling the baby.

  “That would be wonderful.” Slowly, she added, “I’ll pass them along to her adoptive parents. I’m sure they’ll appreciate my documenting this part of her life.”

  She sounded sad. Or perhaps simply tired. “You should catch a nap.”

  She straightened, visibly shaking off her torpor. “Not yet. This little pumpkin needs a bath.”

  Ian pretended to sniff the air. “Hey, I’ve gone for weeks more fragrant than that.”

  “Well, we aren’t in the trenches. Besides, after being overheated, it’ll make her feel better.” She didn’t explain how she knew that, but he supposed it made sense. “The linen closet’s right over there. Bring a bath towel, a hand towel and a washcloth, would you?”

  He tucked away his camera and obeyed. Incredibly neat linen closet, he mused when he examined it, with the towels perfectly folded and stacked. Hard as he tried not to disturb anything, he left the contents slightly mussed.

  Arms laden with towels, he whistled his way into the kitchen.

  “Made a mess, didn’t you?” Jennifer commented from the counter, where she was setting out baby products.

  “Sorry?”

  “Whistling. A sure sign of guilt.” She jerked her head toward an open spot. “Set those here, will you?”

  He chuckled. “You must have brothers.”

  “A half brother. Eight years younger. A wild child till he joined the army. I have no idea how he survived basic training.” She spread out the bath towel.

  “Where’s the tub?” Ian could swear he’d brought in a baby-size bathtub last night. It would fit perfectly into the sink, right below the window.

  “She’s too little to sit up yet. I have to sponge-bathe her.” With great care, Jennifer lifted Rosalie from the baby carrier.

  Surely women weren’t born with all this knowledge. “How did you know she was too little for the bathtub?”

  “I looked it up on the hospital’s Web site.” She removed the infant’s sleeper and tossed it aside. “We’ve got a whole section devoted to baby care.”

  “And here I had you figured for a mythical earth mother.”

  “I’m far from that.”

  Remembering why he was here, Ian retrieved the camera. As he focused on the pair, he noticed how a filtered pool of sunlight enveloped them, giving Jennifer’s olive skin the sheen of an old master painting.

  “You’re impressive,” he told her as he framed shot after shot.

  “She’s such a sweetheart. I could swear she’s shifting to make it easier for me to wash her.” Jennifer’s eyes never left the baby. “They have personalities from the moment they’re born. Maybe even sooner.”

  Her voice caught. Startled, Ian lowered the camera. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all.” Yet there it was again, that trace of melancholy. Because she had to give up Rosalie?

  “You’re thinking of keeping her?” Ian ventured.

  “It’s what her birth mother wanted,” she conceded. “Although that isn’t realistic.”

  “True. I mean, this whole thing just fell in your lap,” he mused. “It’s not as if you were desperate for a child.”

  “How do you know what I’m desperate for?”

  The sharpness in her voice startled him. Apparently, he’d hit a nerve. “I guess I don’t know.”

  Tossing the washcloth in the sink, she began drying Rosalie. Gradually, she relaxed enough to murmur nonsense syllables to the baby.

  “Is that some kind of code?” Ian asked, hoping to restore their easy banter. “My sister used to speak that way to my nieces, until they got big enough to talk back.”

  “How old are they?”

  “Six and eight.” Guiltily, he recalled that he
’d missed their birthdays this past year. They’d popped up on his digital calendar, but he’d never gotten around to buying presents. Well, he’d make up for it at Christmas, if he wasn’t in Asia or Africa.

  The prospect of being dispatched to a war zone failed to stir the usual excitement. He’d really like to spend Christmas with family for a change.

  “You’ve been standing there staring into space for quite a while.” Jennifer lifted a fully clad Rosalie from the counter. Either she worked fast or he really had dimmed out. “Memories? Or just bored?”

  “Not bored.” She seemed to expect more, so he added, “It hit me that my sister’s kids are growing up fast. As for Anni, I can’t believe she’ll be thirty-five next month.”

  “Since she’s your twin, that means you’ll be thirty-five, too,” she pointed out. “Traumatic?”

  “Feeling my mortality,” he conceded.

  “Bullets didn’t do that?”

  “Oddly, no. Surviving a close call merely reinforced my sense of being lucky.” Ian collected the dirty linens from the counter and set them atop the washing machine in the corner.

  Jennifer yawned.

  “I’m glad you find my getting shot so tedious,” he said.

  She favored him with a sleepy smile. “I think I’ll take that nap now.” Her expression sobered. “Darn. I can’t go to sleep yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have to make sure Rosalie doesn’t spike a fever. They can come and go in babies,” she explained.

  The doctor had suggested keeping a close watch. “I can set up my netbook in the living room. If she fusses, I’ll wake you.”

  Standing in the center of the kitchen, she rocked from one foot to the other. “At this age, she might not make much noise even if she gets sick.”

  “I’ll set my watch for every half hour and feel her forehead. How’s that?”

  After a tick of hesitation, Jennifer nodded. “Thanks. If you get hungry, there are nutrition drinks in the fridge.”

  Nutrition drinks? “I never heard beer referred to that way before.”

  Her nose wrinkled. “No beer. Just diet supplements. And some leftovers from last night.”

  That sounded better. “I’ll be fine. Go rest.”

  In the living room, she tucked the baby into the bassinet. “If she doesn’t get sick, she’ll probably sleep for an hour or so. When she wakes, come upstairs and get me.”

  “Sure. Go!” If he didn’t issue orders, Ian suspected she’d hang around until she collapsed.

  “Here’s Samantha’s phone number.” She scribbled it on a pad. “If there’s a serious problem…”

  Folding his arms, he feigned a glare. “Did anyone ever mention that you’re overresponsible?”

  Apologetically, Jennifer laid a hand on his forearm. A current quivered through Ian. “I don’t mean to impose. It isn’t your job to babysit.”

  “It’s not yours, either, but you’re acting like a real mother,” Ian said. She stood so close, he could have brushed a kiss across her mouth. “You can trust me with her. Go get some rest.”

  She moved away. “Call me the instant she wakes.”

  “Count on it.”

  After Jennifer went upstairs, Ian checked on Rosalie for good measure. She was slumbering blissfully.

  He set his watch timer and opened his computer on the coffee table. While uploading pictures from the camera, he listened to the hum of a car passing on the street and the rise and fall of voices from passersby. How strange and wonderful to be writing about Jennifer and the baby for a world of readers who understood, as he was only beginning to, that beneath the tranquil surface of an ordinary California town stirred the same dreams and longings that gave meaning to people’s lives everywhere.

  Quite a human-interest story. Viktor was going to love it.

  Chapter Seven

  When Jennifer awoke, bright afternoon sunlight peeped through the cracks in the blinds, and the bedside clock display showed she’d slept for an hour and a half. She sat up with the anxious sense of having missed a key appointment.

  The baby. How could she have left her little boy so long? Where was Edward?

  Not Edward. Rosalie. Not her little boy, but Sunny’s baby girl.

  It had been a long while since she’d dreamed about the baby she’d lost. She wasn’t even certain that she had dreamed about him, but tending to Rosalie had aroused that old anguish.

  Well, she’d better go check. No telling whether Ian had kept his promise to check every half hour, or simply figured it was enough if he didn’t burn down the house.

  Impatiently, Jennifer paid a quick trip to the bathroom. By the time she finished brushing her hair and restoring her smudged makeup, the silence from downstairs had begun to worry her. She’d heard of a father who’d driven to work, forgotten about day care and left his child strapped in the car’s rear seat. What if Ian had left Rosalie alone?

  She flew to the open staircase. Below, she glimpsed a strong figure seated on the sofa. But the bassinet—empty. Where was the baby?

  “Ian!” At the bottom, seeing the warning finger pressed to his lips, she halted.

  Then she noticed the blue bulge of the cloth baby holder strapped across his chest. A cherubic creature rested blissfully against him, her eyes closed, lulled by the gentle swell of his breathing.

  “You should have called me,” Jennifer murmured, more from a sense of obligation than because she wanted to disturb this cozy scene.

  “I tried. You were sound asleep. Nice outfit, by the way.” Ian’s amused glance made her keenly aware of the silky tank top clinging to her body. She’d forgotten to put on the coordinated sweater, she realized.

  At the rumble of his voice, Rosalie stirred, but snuggled down again with a happy sigh. Ian’s long legs twitched as if he longed to stretch them. He didn’t, though.

  How sweet would it be if this child belonged to her, and a deep love united her with this man? whispered a traitorous voice inside Jennifer. Ian was exactly her type, from his lean, rangy body to the ironic tilt of his head. Not to mention the tantalizing hint of the rogue about him.

  Exactly her type, all right. The type that always let her down, or, worse, led her down the wrong path.

  She dragged herself out of her reflections. “How’s the follow-up story coming?”

  “Just e-mailed it, as a matter of fact.” Good thing she’d given him her Wi-Fi pass code. Or maybe not, depending on what he’d written.

  “Am I going to hate myself or you in the morning?” Jennifer asked.

  “You’ll love it. All sweetness and light.” He surveyed her with a sparkle of sympathy. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better,” she admitted.

  Cautiously, he stood and unstrapped the baby holder. “Can I set her in the bassinet in this?”

  “I’ll take her.” Jennifer couldn’t wait to hold the little one.

  As he shifted Rosalie into her grasp, Jennifer felt his body heat form a protective circle around the three of them. Her head swam from the combined effect of his aftershave and the baby’s powdery scent.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Ian asked.

  “Naps leave me groggy.” Taking regular breaths to dissipate the wooziness, she busied herself adjusting the cloth straps.

  “I’ll do that.” He reached around her, strong hands fiddling with the Velcro. Jennifer fought the urge to rest her cheek on his chest, as Rosalie had done moments earlier. “All set?”

  She straightened and felt the tug of well-balanced weight. “Just right.”

  Ian moved away. “I’m afraid I have to leave on business. I’m sure your friends will miss me at the bridal shop, but we’ll just have to disappoint them.”

  “Business? It’s Saturday,” Jennifer protested. But she was being foolish. “I mean, of course. Now that you’ve written your story.”

  He wedged the computer inside a leather bag. “I’d be happy to come back and help you with the baby tonight. To make sure she’s okay.
I’ll be completely off duty, I promise.”

  “It won’t be much fun, I’m afraid.” But she wanted him to stay over, more than she ought to.

  “Let me worry about that.” He picked up the bag. “I’ve got an interview and then another story to write. I’m not sure what time I’ll get here. Could be seven or eight.”

  “That works for me. I’ll probably be out with my friends till dinnertime, anyway,” Jennifer said.

  With a wave, he strode out. He moved gracefully, and she noticed his enticingly slim butt. What was wrong with her? Jennifer wondered. Why so susceptible to an obviously unsuitable man?

  Yet as she hummed to soothe Rosalie, she had to admit he’d proved to be much more than the pretty-boy reporter she’d initially taken him for. But who was he deep inside?

  Temporary, that was what, Jennifer answered her own question. And she didn’t intend to forget it.

  ELEANOR WYCLIFF, EX-WIFE of corrupt federal judge Brandon Wycliff, occupied a Beverly Hills home that could double as a hotel. On their way inside, Ian and Pierre had to pass muster with a housekeeper, a security guard and Mrs. Wycliff’s personal attorney.

  “I’m so mad I could spit,” the patrician woman announced when they entered the vast living room. She stood posed by a giant fireplace, silvering hair upswept, designer pantsuit flowing.

  “For the sake of their children, my client has kept silent about her husband’s legal problems,” noted the attorney, a compactly built man with the dark tan of a tennis aficionado. Or possibly a golfer.

  “What’s changed?” Ian activated his digital recorder.

  Eleanor smacked her palm on the mantel, nearly dislodging what appeared to be a very expensive glass sculpture. “Our seventeen-year-old daughter, Libby, is an aspiring actress. I just learned that one of Brandon’s unsavory associates tried to persuade her to act in a dirty movie. My ex had no business even introducing her to such a man!”

  Unsavory associates. Porno films. A judge, already under indictment for taking bribes, who failed to protect his teenage daughter. Quite a tale.

  Ian got comfortable on a sofa bigger than the queen-size bed in his motel room. He spent the next two hours, between shrimp and lobster snacks, excellent coffee and Godiva chocolates produced by the housekeeper, probing the scandalous misconduct of the onetime judge.