A Daddy For Christmas: Yuletide Baby Surprise / Maybe This Christmas...? / The Sheriff's Doorstep Baby

“Would you like a photo of me with the baby on your phone?” Mari leaned closer to the stroller, sweeping back the cover so baby Issa’s face was in clear view. “I’ll put on my best princess smile.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t even know how to work the camera on that new phone our kids gave us for our fiftieth anniversary.” She elbowed her husband. “We just use our old Polaroid, isn’t that right, Nils?”

“I’m getting it out, Meg, hold on a minute.” He fished around inside his man-purse.

Mari extended her arm. “Meg, why don’t you get in the photo, too?”

“Oh, yes, thank you. The grandkids will love it.” She fluffed her bobbed gray hair with her fingers then leaned in to smile while her husband’s old Polaroid spit out picture after picture. “Now you and your husband lean in to pose for one with your daughter.”

Daughter? Rowan jolted, the fun of the moment suddenly taking on a different spin. He liked kids and he sure as hell wanted Mari, but the notion of a pretend marriage? That threatened to give him hives. He swallowed down the bite of bile over the family he’d wrecked so many years ago and pretended for the moment life could be normal for him. He kneeled beside Mari and the baby, forcing his face into the requisite smile. He was a good actor.

He’d had lots of practice.

The couple finished their photo shoot, doling out thanks and leaving an extra Polaroid shot behind for them. The image developed in front of him, blurry shapes coming into focus, much like his thoughts, his need to have Mari.

Rowan sank back into his chair as the waitress brought their food. Once she left, he asked Mari, “Why didn’t you tell that couple the truth about us, about yourself? It was the perfect opening.”

“There were so many people around. If I had, they would have been mobbed out of the photo. When the official story about us fostering the baby hits the news in the morning, they’ll realize their photo of a princess is real and they’ll have a great story to tell their grandchildren. We still get what we want and they get their cool story.”

“That was nice of you to do for them.” He draped a napkin over his knee. “I know how much you hate the notoriety of being royalty.”

She twisted her napkin between her fingers before dropping it on her lap. “I’m not an awful person.”

Had he hurt her feelings? He’d never imagined this boldly confident woman might be insecure. “I never said you were. I think your research is admirable.”

“Really? I seem to recall a particular magazine interview where you accused me of trying to sabotage your work. In fact, when I came into your suite with the room-service cart, you accused me of espionage.”

“My word choices may have been a bit harsh. The stakes were high.” And yeah, he liked seeing her riled up with fire in her eyes. “My work world just doesn’t give me the luxury of the time you have in yours.”

“I simply prefer life to be on my terms when possible. So much in this world is beyond anyone’s control.”

Her eyes took on a faraway look that made him burn to reel her back into the moment, to finish the thought out loud so he could keep learning more about what made this woman tick. But she’d already distanced herself from him, deep in thought, looking off down the road at the musicians.

He needed those insights if he expected to get a second kiss—and more from her. But he was beginning to realize that if he wanted more, he was going to have to pony up some confidences of his own. An uncomfortable prospect.

As he looked at Mari swaying absently in time with the music, her lithe body at ease and graceful, he knew having her would be well worth any cost.

Five (#ua6dbc09c-95e4-5d9c-9465-2418d338e34f)

Mari soaked in the sound of street music mellowing the warm evening air. The steady beat of the bougarabou drum with the players’ jangling bracelets enriching the percussion reminded her of childhood days. Back when her parents were still together and she lived in Africa full-time, other than visits to the States to see her maternal grandparents.

Those first seven years of her life had been idyllic—or so she’d thought. She hadn’t known anything about the painful undercurrents already rippling through her parents’ marriage. She hadn’t sensed the tension in their voices over royal pressures and her mother’s homesickness.

For a genius, she’d missed all the obvious signs. But then, she’d never had the same skill reading people that she had for reading data. She’d barely registered that her mother was traveling to Atlanta more and more frequently. Her first clue had come near the end when she’d overheard her mom talking about buying a home in the States during their Christmas vacation. They wouldn’t be staying with her grandparents any longer during U.S. visits. They would have their own place, not a room with family. Her parents had officially split up and filed for divorce over the holidays.

Christmas music never sounded quite the same to her again, on either continent.

The sway melted away from her shoulders and Mari stilled in her wrought-iron seat. The wind still wound around her as they sat at the patio dining area, but her senses moved on from the music to the air of roasting meat from the kitchen and the sound of laughing children. All of it was almost strong enough to distract her from the weight of Rowan’s gaze.

Almost.

She glanced over at him self-consciously. “Why are you staring at me? I must be a mess.” She touched her hair, tucking a stray strand back into the twist, then smoothed her rumpled suit shirt and adjusted the silver scarf draped around her neck. “It’s been a long day and the breeze is strong tonight.”

Since when had she cared about her appearance for more than the sake of photos? She forced her hands back to her lap.

Rowan’s tanned face creased with his confident grin. “Your smile is radiant.” He waved a broad hand to encompass the festivities playing out around them. “The way you’re taking in everything, appreciating the joy of the smallest details, your pleasure in it all is...mesmerizing.”

His blue eyes downright twinkled like the stars in the night sky.

Was he flirting with her? She studied him suspiciously. The restaurant window behind him filled with the movement of diners and waiters, the edges blurred by the spray of fake snow. She’d always been entranced by those pretend snowy displays in the middle of a warm island Christmas.

“Joy? It’s December, Rowan. The Christmas season of joy. Of course I’m happy.” She thought fast, desperate to defer conversation about her. Talking about Rowan’s past felt a lot more comfortable than worrying about tucking in her shirt, for God’s sake. “What kind of traditions did you enjoy with your family growing up?”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze still homed in solely on Mari in spite of the festivities going on around them. “We did the regular holiday stuff like a tree, carols, lots of food.”

“What kind of food?” she asked just as Issa squirmed in the stroller.

He shrugged, adjusting the baby’s pacifier until the infant settled back to sleep. “Regular Christmas stuff.”

His ease with the baby was admirable—and heart-tugging. “Come on,” Mari persisted, “fill in the blanks for me. There are lots of ways to celebrate Christmas and regular food here isn’t the same as regular food somewhere else. Besides, I grew up with chefs. Cooking is still a fascinating mystery to me.”

He forked up a bite of swordfish. “It’s just like following the steps in a chemistry experiment.”

“Maybe in theory.” She sipped her fruit juice, the blend bursting along her taste buds with a hint of coconut, her senses hyperaware since Rowan kissed her. “Suffice it to say I’m a better scientist than a cook. But back to you. What was your favorite Christmas treat?”

He set his fork aside, his foot gently tapping the stroller back and forth. “My mom liked to decorate sugar cookies, but my brother, Dylan, and I weren’t all that into it. We ate more of the frosting than went on the cookies.”

The image wrapped around her like a comfortable blanket. “That sounds perfect. I always wanted a sibling to share moments like that with. Tell me more. Details... Trains or dump trucks? Bikes or ugly sweaters?”

“We didn’t have a lot of money, so my folks saved and tucked away gifts all year long. They always seemed a bit embarrassed that they couldn’t give us more, but we were happy. And God knows, it’s more than most of the kids I work with will ever have.”

“You sound like you had a close family. That’s a priceless gift.”

Something flickered through his eyes that she couldn’t quite identify, like gray clouds over a blue sky, but then they cleared so fast she figured she must have been mistaken. She focused on his words, more curious about this man than any she’d ever known.

“At around three-thirty on Christmas morning, Dylan and I would slip out of our bunk beds and sneak downstairs to see what Santa brought.” He shared the memory, but the gray had slipped into his tone of voice now, darkening the lightness of his story. “We would play with everything for about an hour, then put it back like we found it, even if the toy was in a box. We would tiptoe back into our room and wait for our parents to wake us up. We always pretended like we were completely surprised by the gifts.”

What was she missing here? Setting aside her napkin, she leaned closer. “Sounds like you and your brother share a special bond.”

“Shared,” he said flatly. “Dylan’s dead.”

She couldn’t hold back the gasp of shock or the empathetic stab of pain for his loss. For an awkward moment, the chorus of “Silver Bells” seemed to blare louder, the happy music at odds with this sudden revelation. “I’m so sorry, Rowan. I didn’t know that.”

“You had no reason to know. He died in a car accident when he was twenty.”

She searched for something appropriate to say. Her lack of social skills had never bothered her before now. “How old were you when he died?”

“Eighteen.” He fidgeted with her sunglasses on the table.