Dad by Default

“Life isn’t easy.” Instinctively, she withdrew into the cynicism that had served her well these past two years.

Water swirled over the brushes. “That’s understandable. In an unplanned pregnancy, adoption is usually in the child’s best interest. And the mother’s, too.” He’d transformed without warning from the sexy painter into the stuffy doctor Yvonne knew and disliked

It was almost as if there were two different Connors. She suspected this control freak was the real him and the other a temporary aberration.

“Let’s get something straight.” She planted herself where he couldn’t avoid her stare. “At the clinic, you’re Dr. Hardison and I say ‘Yes, Doctor,’ and ‘No, Doctor.’ At home, you’re the raccoon who rents an attic from my pain-in-the-neck great-uncle. Got that?”

“No problem.” Losing his grip on one of the brushes, Connor accidentally flipped it. It flew to the floor, splattering soapy water across his shirt en route. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and blotted the mess. “By the way, that remark about adoption didn’t come out the way I’d intended.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Connor’s cell phone rang. Clearly irked, he pulled it from his shirt pocket. “I should have turned the thing off, since I’m not on call.”

“There could be an emergency,” she conceded.

He angled away as he flipped it open. “Dr. Hardison…I’m sorry, who?” His forehead furrowed. “Well, sure I remember her. What’s this about?”

It sounded personal. Yvonne started for the exit.

His last few remarks had confirmed her original negative impression. She couldn’t believe she’d actually been attracted to the man. She of all people understood how dangerous passion could be with a man who held power over her.

She would bury that moment of weakness in the same dark pit that had claimed her innocence. Like his mentor, Connor Hardison must never, never be trusted.

As she crossed the room, she heard him say, “Yes, I’m free…I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me…I’m sorry to hear that.”

Definitely an intriguing call, especially given the reference to “her.” However, his private life was none of her business.

And she meant to keep it that way.

Chapter Four

After dinner, as he drove toward the motel where he’d arranged to meet the mysterious caller, Connor replayed what had happened between him and Yvonne.

With her creamy skin and expressive face, he was now certain she would make a superb model. He’d become so fascinated that admiration had shifted into fierce arousal. And she’d noticed.

He had to be careful. That sort of involvement was highly inappropriate.

The problem was that she’d surprised him in the midst of painting. Normally, he only indulged his creative side when free from observation—or, he supposed, temptation. Like the Mr. Hyde who had dwelled in a secret compartment of Dr. Jekyll’s brain, the artist persona defied rational behavior.

Upon snapping out of his daze, Connor had overreacted by blurting a remark about adoption. Although in his opinion it was the best course for most single mothers, he’d deserved the rebuke.

While he regretted giving offense, Connor wasn’t sorry about putting distance between Yvonne and himself. He only wished he’d pulled away sooner.

He’d have to use caution during the next month. Keep the attic door locked. Put on his mental armor before he ventured to the kitchen.

He felt like a teenager again, and not in a good way.

In those days, he’d confined his efforts to sketchbooks and watercolors, hiding them in a drawer whenever Dad came home. His stepmother, Louise, a self-effacing woman who seemed dazzled by her luck in marrying the great Harmon Hardison, M.D., had left Connor alone. In retrospect, he presumed he’d intimidated her.

Too bad he didn’t have that effect on Yvonne.

Yet she’d praised his work. She’d brought up the subject of models as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What harm would it have done if he’d gone ahead and asked her?

No. Bad idea.

Connor had learned the hard way that his instincts could carry him off the deep end. He had a weakness for unpredictable—his father would say unstable—women.

That notion brought him back to the man he was about to meet, a fellow named Sam Delaney. He’d conveyed the sad news of Barbara Kinsey’s death and, oddly, had mentioned a legacy.

Barb Kinsey wasn’t the sort of person who left a legacy. Debts, more likely.

Connor and Barb had shared a brief, tempestuous affair in Nashville after his divorce had become final. His next-door neighbor in a small apartment building, she’d worked at a dress shop and spent her free time partying.

At her invitation, he’d dropped by a gathering, sampled the snacks and enjoyed her sharp sense of humor. On impulse, he’d invited her to go dancing at a country-music club. That evening, he’d rediscovered the sense of freedom he’d misplaced during a marriage burdened by his-and-hers grueling schedules.

Lovemaking had been frequent and exciting. At first, he’d relished the spontaneity and sense of fun. He hadn’t counted on Barb’s expectation that he’d spend every spare moment accompanying her to events or simply hanging out. He’d had to put aside his painting. When he began showing up at the hospital with bags under his eyes, he’d realized the situation had to change.

Connor had suggested putting on the brakes. He must have come across as critical or rejecting to Barb, who’d responded with anger. After a few days of alternate pouting and demands, she’d shut him out completely.

He’d e-mailed, suggesting they meet to discuss their differences. She’d sent a message in return that she planned to move to Atlanta. She’d cleaned out her apartment that same afternoon and departed before he’d had a chance to say goodbye.

Abandonment. Betrayal. He’d endured it before, on a far larger scale, when his mother had disappeared.

Connor didn’t try to chase after Barb. They’d been a mismatch from the start, he’d realized, and he tried to take comfort in discovering their incompatibility before the relationship went any further.

He’d heard nothing more until today. The news that Barb had died in a traffic accident saddened him. Despite their differences, he remembered her fondly.

That didn’t change his uncertainty about why this stranger had insisted on meeting in person. He hoped the man wasn’t going to request money on some pretext. Actually, Sam had come across as a guy performing an unpleasant duty, which was why Connor had agreed to see him.

Spotting the Landlocked Mariner restaurant, Connor hit his turn signal. Either the adjacent inn bore the same name or it was simply called Motel, because that was all the sign said.

In the lingering twilight, he noticed a man in a black jacket, hair skinned into a ponytail, leaning against a post in front of the office. Feeling overdressed in a suit, Connor halted next to a pickup. The contrast between his sleek, color-shifting dark red sedan and the rust-streaked green truck made his car seem overdressed, too.

The man’s boots scuffed across the blacktop. “Dr. Hardison? Sam Delaney.” Above the scraggly beard, several recent scars showed on his cheeks and forehead.

They shook hands. “What’s this about?”

“It’s gonna take some explaining.” On the highway, a truck roared by. “It’s kinda loud. Let’s go inside.”

Connor tensed. If this fellow meant to get him alone in a motel room, it might indicate a shakedown.

Instead, however, Delaney ambled toward the restaurant. That seemed safe enough.

Inside, a large central aquarium dominated the entrance-way. Beyond, in the main dining room, stuffed fish and tackle on the walls portrayed the marine theme. They veered right into the nearly empty bar, where they took a small table. Sam ordered beer, while Connor chose coffee.

Since the other man made no effort to begin, he primed the pump with a question. “Barb died in a car crash?”

Finishing a deep swallow, Sam wiped his upper lip with a sleeve. “Motorcycle.”