Her Sister's Child

Meg had heard the dying throb of the bike’s engine a couple of minutes ago. Unnerved by the fact that he was late…unnerved by this whole situation, if she was honest…she’d gone over to the window with the deliberate aim of regaining control by getting an impression of Adam Callahan, assessing him before he had the chance to do the same to her.

He certainly wasn’t in any hurry. Wasn’t this meeting important to him, for heck’s sake? It was to her, and to her parents. Painfully important…

He folded the gloves together and wadded them into the helmet, then started to unzip his leather jacket. He left the jacket on, but let it gape loosely to reveal a plain blue shirt that fitted smoothly over his broad chest. When he started on the black leather pants, twisting to reach the side zip and making the leather stretch across his tightly muscled rear end before revealing dark gray trousers beneath, Meg felt an involuntary shiver course the length of her spine.

Her sister Cherie had wanted this man, she remembered. Had apparently loved him enough to have a child with him. It seemed totally out of character for Cherie, but if Meg had put the dates together right, the two of them must have been involved for over a year before the inevitable split. That would have to be a record. Cherie had never been able to stick to anything for very long. Not a man, not a plan, not an address.

Which was why Meg and her father had lost touch with Cherie all during those crucial months of her pregnancy. It was why they hadn’t even known about Cherie’s child until Adam Callahan’s letter to Dad in California had arrived out of the blue two weeks ago. But Cherie herself was dead…

Meg swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. Through no fault of her own, she had never really known her sister. They had gone for months or even years at a time with no contact. And for the past six months it had been too late to change that. Cherie was gone. But now, incredibly, they’d found that Cherie had a baby daughter, living with a ratbag low-life of a father, and this gave all of them a second chance.

“A chance for Dad and me to do something for Cherie’s daughter that we could never do for Cherie herself…” Meg murmured aloud, and it was almost a prayer. A prayer for it all to work out.

How would Adam Callahan take the idea? Would it come as a relief to him to give his baby over to a pair of loving grandparents? Or did Meg and her father and her new stepmom, Patty, have a battle brewing? Patty, in particular, had set her heart on this so much.

For a moment, with his leathers now bundled and locked in a black box attached near the back of the motorcycle, Adam Callahan didn’t look quite so dark and menacing. His helmet was tucked innocently under his arm. His blue shirt and dark pants were conservative and well-fitting. But then he looked up at her window, almost as if he could see into her eyes, and there was such steel-hard anger and determination in his cleanly chiselled face that, for the second time, Meg shivered.

She’d suspected all along that this man must be dangerous. He’d been a danger to Cherie. He’d apparently involved her in a near-fatal motorcycle accident with his reckless driving, and that wasn’t all.

What kind of a threat is he going to be to me? she wondered with an intuitive sense of dread.

“Get a grip, Meg!” she scolded herself aloud. “This is a business meeting, not a confrontation. Not yet, anyway. I’m a lawyer, acting for clients. Just because one of those clients happens to be my father…Oh, but maybe I should have listened to my very first instinct and not let Dad talk me into taking it on. I’m too close, too personally involved.”

Searching for an emotional anchor, she looked around the office she was so proud of. She’d been in practice for just about seven months, since passing the Pennsylvania bar exam back in early September, but her client load was building steadily and already she’d tackled a couple of cases that were really satisfying. Nothing high-profile, no fat corporate fees or sensational court appearances, just wills and real estate closings and one fairly painless divorce.

But it was the work she had wanted to do, helping ordinary people with ordinary legal issues. She knew her clients were satisfied and several of them had said so. Word was getting around.

“But can I satisfy Dad and Patty? Can I satisfy myself? I wasn’t ever planning to handle custody disputes. A case like this is completely different from what I know, and with my personal involvement…”

She heard footsteps on the stairs and knew it was Adam Callahan. Her receptionist in the outer office, Linda, had gone home half an hour ago. Maybe she shouldn’t have suggested a meeting so late in the day, but she’d wanted to give it time, and she was committed to the confrontation now.

I’m not going to mess this up with what I feel, Meg vowed silently.

Smoothing the skirt of her teal-blue suit, she went to open the door.

Not what I expected.

That was Adam’s first thought as he and the lawyer woman, Meg Jonas, shook hands and introduced themselves. Her fingers were warm and dry and fine, and her grip was like al dente spaghetti—firm without being brittle, just as a handshake should be. She offered him coffee, and her voice held a tiny thread of huskiness. Accepting automatically, although he didn’t have the slightest desire for coffee—straight scotch might have suited his mood better—Adam found himself wondering if that husky note was always there or if it was just there today, now. He felt like his own voice might come out husky, too.

Because she was definitely not what he’d expected! He quickly tallied all the points of difference. Mid-twenties, when he’d assumed forties. Soft pink mouth and soft gray eyes, when he’d imagined a hard, bored face, glazed over with a well-fitting veneer of professional competence and good manners.

And pretty. He absolutely hadn’t expected her to be so pretty. Lawyers just didn’t come in packages like this, with heart-shaped faces and long dark lashes and dark hair, the color of some richly glinting rain-forest timber, waving softly around their shoulders. They weren’t neat and petite in pretty blue suits and clinging white blouses, either. And they definitely didn’t have full, bow-shaped lips perfectly painted in a subtle cinnamon-pink gloss.

Actually, her lips reminded him of someone. Someone important.

They were set firmly now, after her initial murmured greeting, but not as if the firmness came naturally. She was having to make an effort to stay calm, and he wondered why. He heard her clear her throat, saw those fine fingers tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. A moment later, the coffee was splashing untidily into the two cups she’d set out on the credenza, as if her hand wasn’t quite steady.

And for the first time in weeks he didn’t feel quite so hunted, or so despairing. There was something about this woman, something that soothed his suspicions and his bristling pain, something he instinctively wanted to respond to and trust. It was insane. It made no sense at all. But for the moment, feeling that he might actually have the upper hand, he went with that powerful gut instinct and let himself relax.

She had reached for the carton of cream now, her fine-boned hands still fluttering and distracted.

“No cream, thanks,” he told her, but she’d already splashed some into her own cup and automatically moved the carton to hover over his.

He could almost hear her thoughts churning. From inside her own head, they must be deafening because she obviously hadn’t heard what he’d said about the cream. He repeated it, and closed his hand lightly over hers just in time to stop the liquid from spilling over the tilted lip of the carton.

The moment of contact was strangely intimate. Her head whirled around to look up at him and he felt her start like a frightened animal. The feeling ran across into his own body like an electric current, and he took his hand away quickly, before something burst into flames. What was happening here?

“No cream?” she echoed, as if she’d never heard that coffee could be enjoyed that way.

“Or sugar,” he told her patiently, hiding what he’d felt as their hands touched.

“Or sugar. Right. Neither do I.”

“I guess I’m starting to understand why you became a lawyer,” he drawled. Keep it light, Adam. Keep that upper hand.

She looked at him, even more startled this time. She’d moved away from him after their electric moment of physical contact and picked up a spoon. Now she plunged it into the hot black liquid and began to stir. She stammered, “Why? I mean…”

“Because you couldn’t cut it as a waitress.” He gave a half grin, waited for a fraction of a second and got his reward.

She laughed, a delighted, delightful sound. “You got it,” she said. “It’s my secret tragedy. I can’t serve coffee.”

“And I can tell it’s blighted your whole life. Here, give it to me before the cup goes into orbit.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Most people don’t consider that black, sugarless coffee needs to be stirred quite that fast, or for quite that long.”

“Oh. Right. I’m sorry. Should I start over?”

“Stirring doesn’t actually ruin it, however.”

“No…” She smiled, then sighed, and he saw the hunted look come back into her gray eyes again.

No, hunted wasn’t the word. That was how he had felt lately. Hunted, and maybe already caught. Her eyes were more haunted. Sad. Grieving. Was she grappling with some difficult loss in her private life?

Adam, this is not your concern! he lectured himself. There’s nothing about this woman’s personal life you need to know or care about, and if she’s nervous on top of whatever else is bothering her, so much the better. Use it!

Suddenly, all his wariness and latent hostility returned in full force, swamping that weird, intuitive chemistry between them and drowning it out completely.

“Where are the Fontaines?” he growled. He ignored the green leather chair she had ushered him toward, in her private office. “Shouldn’t they be here, too? And what about Cherie? Where is she? What is this? I need some answers Ms. Jonas, and I intend to get them.”

Mistake.

Why had he lost his cool like that, within a few minutes of their greeting? Well, he knew, of course. His throat tightened as if an iron hand had gripped it. His baby. Amy was only fourteen months old, and already this was the fourth—count it, the fourth!—time he’d had to face the prospect of losing her. He had every reason in the world to blow his control, but unfortunately he couldn’t plan to win this fight on a sympathy vote. He had to keep a clear head.

The lawyer woman slid into the neat little sage-toned office chair behind her walnut desk and he placed his coffee carefully on a coaster, then leaned his splayed hands on the smooth wood of the desk for a moment, still standing.

He looked down at her. He wasn’t sorry that he appeared to tower over her from this position. He added quietly before she could reply to his initial tirade, “Your letter was very brief. And pretty short on facts. All I know is that you’re acting for Cherie’s parents, and they’re claiming custody of my daughter. I’d like to know more.”