Truly Daddy

“I’m leaving.”

“No, you’re not.”

That last was said coolly, as a colonel to a buck private. She was not used to being addressed like this. When it came to men, she was accustomed to being the one with the upper hand.

“I don’t think you can stop me, really, Mr.—”

“Boyd. Garret.”

“Mr. Boyd. As I was saying—”

“I can’t stop you. That’s what you were saying.”

His eyes had narrowed to slits. He looked dangerous and strong. Everything about him said he could stop her in an instant

“If you’ll just show me in which direction the bus station is—”

“It’s probably ten degrees below zero outside right now. You’re not exactly dressed for a hike to the bus station.” His eyes rested meaningfully on the short hem of her skirt, drifted down her leg like a touch, then rested on her flimsy shoes.

She resisted the urge to tug the skirt down and tried to hide her toes. “Call me a cab, then.”

He sighed. “You said you left him your card. In exchange for the ring.”

“Yes, but—”

“And that you left the name of your hotel and your room number on it.”

“Well, still—”

“You might find a very nasty surprise waiting for you back at that hotel. Or even back in San Diego. I think you’d better talk to the police.”

She sank back onto her chair. He was right. She hated that. When other people were right.

She watched him move to the shrieking kettle and unplug it, scooping up a telephone receiver with his other hand. He dialed a phone number—she didn’t even know that kind of phone existed anymore—and spoke quietly into it for a minute.

He came back to the table, the steaming kettle in one hand, two pottery mugs in the other. He set them down, along with pouches of gourmet hot chocolate.

“Constable Frey will be here soon. Twenty minutes to half an hour.”

That was soon? “He’s not riding his horse, is he?”

He shot her a look that branded her unbelievably stupid.

“Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” she shot back at him. She’d seen postcards of Canada’s colorful police all over Vancouver. Always dressed in beautiful, flaming red jackets with Yogi Bear kind of hats, and always - on horseback.

“They drive cars these days. Except for ceremonial purposes. Hot chocolate?” he asked. “This one’s good.”

He showed her a packet labeled white chocolate and hazelnut.

She nodded numbly and the steaming cup was set before her. Don’t ask, she commanded herself. Toni, don’t you dare ask

“Where’s your wife?” she asked.

“I’m not married.”

Not married. If she was not mistaken, that ring, sitting in the middle of his solid oak kitchen table, had started winking like a neon sign.

His voice held absolutely no invitation.

She took a sip of the hot chocolate and nearly closed her eyes with pure pleasure. A man who could make this, not married?

Toni, she told herself, it came out of a pouch. “This is delicious,” she murmured.

“My favorite flavor.”

Already something in common! Don’t ask, she commanded herself again. Toni, don’t you dare ask.

“Divorced?” she asked, looking up at him over the rim of her cup.

He looked annoyed. “I’ve never been married.”

By the tone of his voice, he never planned to be, either.

Toni, I absolutely forbid you to ask him about the baby.

“The baby?” she asked.

Fleeting sadness passed through his eyes before they were hooded from her. “My niece. Who would kill you with a look for calling her a baby. A long story,” he said curtly. “I’m just going to turn on the TV. I’ve got to catch the weather forecast for the next few days.”

He didn’t want to talk to her! Another reaction she was not at all accustomed to.

He had a small TV mounted tastefully in a cabinet above his table. Not long after he’d turned it on, a knock came at the door. He got up and stretched. He had a great-looking body, put together like a man who worked hard and physically.

Don’t ask him what he does for a living, she told herself. And this time she didn’t. She could see the weariness in him.

He went to the door, and a moment later, Toni heard another male voice.

“Hey, where’s my angel?”

“Still at Candy’s. And she’s been a devil for the past few days. I don’t suppose you know anything about French braids, do you?”

It seemed incongruous that the stern, quiet man who had just shared this table with her was now discussing French braids with such deadly seriousness. She wanted to laugh but suppressed the urge.

“Sure,” the other voice said. “It’s a kind of bread.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“What did the doc say about her being so little?”