The Mother Of His Child

“You expect me to believe that? Come off it—what’s the name of the game?”

Through the pain and confusion that was surging through her, Marnie felt the stirrings of anger. She scrubbed at her wet cheeks with the napkins that she still seemed to be clutching, sat up straighter and looked right at him. “There’s something very wrong with this scene. I’m not on trial here!”

With a deadly quietness, he said, “Then why are you here?”

And how could she answer that? When she herself didn’t know the answer. Hadn’t gotten any further in her planning than to drive past the Huntingdons’ house and to ask a few innocent questions of people who’d never link her with a child adopted all those years ago. And finally her mind made the connection that had been glaringly obvious ever since she’d collided with Calvin Huntingdon. “She…she looks like me,” she stumbled. “My daughter…she looks like me.”

Some of the tension eased from her body. A smile spread slowly over her face, a smile of such wonderment and joy that the depths of her irises were as translucent as the sea, and her soft, vulnerable mouth as gently curved as a new moon. Her daughter bore the marks of her true mother; was, in a very real way, her own flesh.

He said harshly, “Very touching. Are you an actress, Marnie Carstairs? Or do you just watch too many soap operas?”

Her jaw dropped. In a burst of antagonism, she snapped, “Do you treat her like this? My daughter? Doubting everything she says? Jeering at all her emotions? Because if so, then you’re not fit to be her father.”

“She’s not your daughter! You gave up that right a long time ago.”

“She’ll always be my daughter,” Marnie cried. “No one on earth can convince me otherwise—and certainly not you.”

“So what about the father?” he lashed. “Where’s he? Or are you saving him up for another day?”

“He’s none of your business.”

“Get real. Why have you turned up in Burnham thirteen years after the fact? What are you after—money? Is that it?”

To her own surprise, Marnie started to laugh. A ragged laugh, but a laugh nevertheless. “Right on—I’m after your money. Give me a million bucks or else I’ll turn up on your doorstep and raise hell.” Her voice rose. “How dare you? You don’t know the first thing about me and you dare accuse me—”

“I know you gave up your child nearly thirteen years ago. It seems to me I know rather a lot about you, Miss Carstairs.”

Marnie had gone too far for discretion. “She duped me, my mother. I thought I was going to marry my cousin Randall and all three of us would live together—me, Randall and the baby. Oh, God, it’s such a long story and I was such a stupid little fool to trust her, but—”

“I’m sure it’s a long story,” he interrupted smoothly. “After all, you’ve had a long time to come up with it, haven’t you? But oddly enough, it’s not a story I want to hear. Just answer me one question. Why did you come here today?”

“You know what?” Marnie retorted with deliberate provocation, flags of temper reddening her cheeks, her breasts heaving under her wet sweater. “I don’t like you, Calvin Huntingdon.”

“You don’t have to like me. And I don’t go by Calvin. The name’s Cal.”

“Oh, sure,” she said rudely. “So we’re on a first-name basis. Isn’t that just ducky?”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I’m beginning to realize where my daughter comes by her temper. And her red hair.”

“My hair isn’t red,” Marnie snapped childishly. “It’s auburn. Which is quite different.” The storm of emotion in her breast craving release, she gave him a narrow-eyed scrutiny. “And you just blew it—because you didn’t have the slightest intention of telling me one single thing about her, did you, Mr. Huntingdon?”

“No, I wasn’t going to tell you anything,” he said savagely. “But there’s something about you—you sure know how to get under my skin. So why don’t I go for broke and tell you something else I’ve discovered in the past few minutes? She’ll be beautiful, my daughter. Quite extraordinarily beautiful.”

Marnie wasn’t often struck speechless; she worked, after all, as a librarian in a junior high school where repartee was part of her strategy for keeping the lid on her students. But right now she couldn’t think of one word to say. To her intense dismay, she felt a blush creep up her cheeks all the way to her hairline. To her equally intense dismay, his compliment—for compliment it was—gave her a thrill of pleasure deep down in that place she never allowed a man to go.

Cal banged his fist on the steering wheel. “I don’t believe I just said that.”

Finding her voice, Marnie said shrewishly, “Your wife would be most impressed,” and tried to keep her mind off both his wife and his profile, which was every bit as attractive as the rest of him. His nose had a little bump in it, and his chin—well, arrogant would be one word to describe that hard line of bone. Arrogant. Masculine in the extreme. Sexy.

Sexy? A man’s jaw? What was the matter with her?

A married man, moreover. Who—the ultimate irony—happened to be the father of her child.

The jaw she had just been admiring tightened ominously. “Let’s leave my wife out of this and get back to the essentials. Why you’re here. What you want from me.”

“Oh,” she said gently, “what I want is something I’m not going to get. That’s very clear.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. What is it?”

“Compassion, Cal. Simple compassion. That’s all.”

She had, she saw, taken him by surprise. She didn’t know Cal Huntingdon very well, but she was sure it wasn’t often that he was knocked off balance. Especially by a woman. He said flatly, “Compassion has to be earned.”

“Then I’ll tell you why I’m here. I wanted to see the house where my daughter lives. I’d hoped to ask a few questions of the locals, find out what you’re like. You and your wife. To see—” her voice shook in spite of herself “—if my child is happy.”

“And that’s all?”

She hated him for so openly doubting her. “Do you honestly believe I’d turn up on your doorstep without a word of warning?” she flared. “Oh, hello, I happen to be your daughter’s biological mother and I was just passing by and thought I’d drop in. For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know if she realizes she’s adopted! What kind of woman do you think I am?”

“I’d have to have the brains of Einstein to answer that.”

“Does she know? That she’s adopted?” Marnie whispered, twisting her hands painfully in her lap as she waited for him to sneer at her again, to deny her information that was crushingly important to her.

“Look at me, Marnie.” There was a note in his voice new to her. She raised her head and saw, momentarily, something that was perhaps compassion. He said quietly, “Yes, she knows she’s adopted. We were truthful with her about that from the start. We thought it best in the long run.”

Marnie blinked back another flood of tears. “Do you see what that means?” she blundered. “It means that—even if minimally—she knows I exist.”

“You and the man who fathered her.”

Two tears dripped on her clasped fingers. Refusing to acknowledge them, Marnie said steadily, “That’s right.”

He said evenly, “There’s one thing you haven’t asked me.”

“Is she happy?”

“I didn’t mean that. You haven’t asked me her name. The name we gave our daughter.”

More tears welled up on her lashes. She’d been afraid to ask. “So what did you call her, Cal?”

“Katrina. Katrina Elizabeth. She goes by Kit.”

Suddenly, it was all too much for Marnie. Desperate to be alone, she fumbled for the door handle. Blinded by tears, sobs strangling her breathing, she yanked on the catch. Cal caught her by the shoulder. Frantically, she twisted free of him. “Let go! I can’t take any more of this.”

And then the door was open and she was tumbling to the ground, her feet splashing in a puddle, the wind snarling her hair. She slammed the door shut and lunged for her own car, scrambling into her seat and instinctively jamming down the lock button on her side and the passenger side. It was a two-door car. She was safe. Only then did Marnie bow her head onto the steering wheel and begin to weep, sobbing as though there was no tomorrow.

Dimly, Marnie realized someone was banging on the window. Had been for some time. She looked up, blinking through her wet lashes. The rain had lessened, pattering softly on the windshield. Cal was rapping on the glass with his fist. He was very wet. He must have been standing there the whole time, watching her sob her heart out.

Invading her privacy.