For Her Son's Love

“I think she’s busy with a cleanup on aisle six,” Andrew said helpfully.

Miranda lowered her gaze and sure enough, Darcy was crouched next to a portable high chair, mopping up a waterfall of fruit punch cascading over the side of the tray.

So much for avoiding Andrew Noble.

Chapter Two

Miranda.

Andrew watched her stop and chat briefly with an elderly gentleman who sat alone at a table. She was smiling again but it wasn’t the distant, polite one she’d bestowed upon him. No. This one was natural. It momentarily transformed her entire face, softening the curve of her lips and bringing a faint blush of color to her cheeks.

He’d noticed her the first time he’d come into the diner a few days ago. And he wasn’t sure why. With her hair secured in a severe twist at the nape of her neck and not a speck of makeup on her face, she obviously wasn’t the kind of woman who tried to court attention.

In fact, it seemed as if she’d gone out of her way to avoid him.

And she was doing it again.

Which—he hated to admit—chipped at his pride a little. He wasn’t used to women running in the opposite direction when they saw him.

For crying out loud. Get over yourself, Noble.

“Excuse me.” She returned with the coffeepot and Andrew pushed his cup closer. He tried to make eye contact but she didn’t cooperate, intent on searching for something in the pocket of her apron rather than looking at him.

“Cream or sugar?” She finally glanced up, long enough for him to glimpse captivating flecks of gold in her autumn-brown eyes.

“Cream. Thank you.” It was all he could come up with. Andrew wanted to bang his head against the table. He’d had dinner with heads of state and vacationed with celebrities, but a slender waitress with soulful eyes had suddenly reduced his vocabulary to that of a three-year-old. A very shy three-year-old.

“M.J.!” Isaac poked his head out of the pass-through between the kitchen and dining room. “Where are you? The cheese on this burger is aging. I’m going to have to raise the price if it sits up here any longer.”

Andrew saw Miranda bite her lip to hold back a laugh and took advantage of the moment to draw her out. “What does the J stand for?”

Wariness instantly replaced the laughter that backlit her eyes. “Jones.”

Andrew got the impression that only the Starlight’s reputation as a friendly diner prevented her from ignoring his question.

He opened his mouth to say something—anything—else but she beat him to it. “If you need something, just get Darcy’s attention.”

On cue, the young woman who’d been sidetracked by the toddler’s spill dashed over to his table. Her eyes sparkled and her smile bordered on flirtatious. If her bleach-blond hair hadn’t been pulled back in a ponytail, Andrew was sure she would have given it one of those teasing, off-the-shoulder flips.

“Are you interested in dessert today, Mr. Noble?”

Andrew buried a sigh. That was what he was used to.

“Not today. The boss only gives me an hour for lunch.”

She giggled. “Me, too!” Her tone clearly implied that now they had something in common. Andrew looked for Miranda but she’d disappeared into the kitchen.

Fortunately, Sandra came to his rescue.

“Darcy!” She motioned the waitress over to the counter.

The waitress’s shoulders drooped but she gave Andrew an irrepressible smile. “If you need a warm-up—on your coffee, just holler.”

In spite of his overzealous waitress, Andrew lingered at the diner until the lunch crowd cleared out. Maybe it was because there wasn’t a single thing on the menu preceded by the words light or fat-free. Or because Isaac and Sandra treated him the way they did everyone else who came through the door—with down-home charm and a complete lack of pretense.

Or maybe it’s because you’re hoping to get another glimpse of Miranda Jones.

What was it about her that piqued his interest? She was pretty in an understated way, but something else about her intrigued him.

Because she didn’t write her phone number on your bill?

That brought back an unwelcome memory. A few years ago, one of the newspapers had taken his picture while he’d toured a coast guard cutter. A photographer had caught him off guard, capturing the bored expression on his face. It was a direct contrast to the adoring gaze of the officer’s daughter who’d latched on to his arm like a barnacle on the hull of the ship at the beginning of the tour. The tongue-in-cheek caption accompanying the photo had humorously noted that Andrew seemed to be more interested in the search than the rescue.

Andrew had developed a thick skin over the years when it came to the outrageous claims the gossip columns printed, but that one still bothered him. Especially because he wondered if there wasn’t some truth to it.

He did lose interest. Quickly.

Which made him a little afraid that he was that guy. The guy who couldn’t commit. Or maybe it was because he’d never met a woman who was more interested in his life than his lifestyle.

The cell phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket. He would have ignored it if Rachel’s name wasn’t the one displayed on the tiny screen. They’d grown up together and, because they were only a few years apart in age, they seemed more like siblings than cousins. Which meant he couldn’t pass up an opportunity to tease her when he answered the phone.

“This is Andrew Noble, temporary administrator of the Noble Foundation.”

“Not so temporary, I’m afraid.”

Andrew’s smile faded at the discouragement in Rachel’s voice. “What did Dr. Bingham say?”

“I… Here. Can you talk to Eli for a minute?” Rachel’s voice cracked.

“Sure.” Andrew sent up a quick, silent prayer that whatever Rachel and Eli were facing, God would give them the strength they needed to endure it.

“Andrew?” Eli’s voice shook a little, too. “Dr. Bingham diagnosed Rachel with preeclampsia. And he put her on bed rest until the baby comes.”

“Pre what?” Andrew tried to process the word and drew a blank.

“Preeclampsia. He said it’s not uncommon for a first pregnancy and because we caught it early, she and the baby should be fine.”

Should be fine.

“So what can Bingham do to cure it?” He siphoned out the concern he felt and deliberately kept his tone brisk; if there was a diagnosis, there had to be a cure. This was the twenty-first century….

“There is no cure.” Eli’s next words shot his theory all to pieces. “The only thing that takes care of it is delivering the baby, but it’s too soon. That’s why Dr. Bingham is putting Rachel on bed rest.”

Rachel and bed rest.

“I know.” Eli sighed, as if he’d read Andrew’s mind. “We’re on our way home now but Rachel wants to talk to you again.”

“Andrew?” Rachel didn’t sound at all like the take-charge woman he knew and loved. “I know you were coerced into running the Foundation but you had no idea it was going to be for more than a few days. I’m officially letting you off the hook. Mom and Dad can hire someone—”