Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | When the Earth Moves

When the Earth Moves
Roxanne St. Claire


Women usually wanted him for his bank account, his luxury apartment and the looks that landed a corporate lawyer in the style section. But, to Cameron McGrath's shock, Jo Ellen Tremaine wanted him simply to sign a paper. And grant her custody of a baby distantly related to Cam. Now, Cam did not want to raise any kid. But his code of honor demanded that he know more about this woman who wanted to mother a McGrath. And that meant moving into her mountain home for one week.But he'd been a fool to believe he could observe Jo…without wanting to touch, to taste, to take. Because only a bigger fool would agree to give away his own blood, no matter the betrayal….












“You Are Going To Sign That Document, Aren’t You, Cameron?”


He had no reason to deny her his signature. Surely he didn’t want the responsibility of a ten-month-old baby.

“What will happen if I don’t?”

A child’s world, and Jo’s, would collapse again. “You will.”

“What will happen if I do?”

“I’ll leave. I promise never to darken your doorstep again.”

A slow smile revealed straight white teeth. “Then I’m going to take every possible minute I’ve got.” He leaned right into her ear and whispered, “And you’d like my doorstep. You’re welcome to darken it anytime.”

Every feminine cell in her body betrayed her, dancing to attention and making her tingle. The very thought of what he was suggesting made her legs feel a little weak. Great. Just great, Jo. She hadn’t counted on having to fight herself to get what she wanted.


Dear Reader,

Thank you for choosing Silhouette Desire. As always, we have a fabulous array of stories for you to enjoy, starting with Just a Taste by Bronwyn Jameson, the latest installment in our DYNASTIES: THE ASHTONS continuity series. This tale of forbidden attraction between two romance-wary souls will leave you breathless and wanting more from this wonderful author— who will have a brand-new miniseries of her own, PRINCES OF THE OUTBACK, out later this year.

The terrific Annette Broadrick is back with another book in her CRENSHAWS OF TEXAS series. Double Identity is an engrossing page-turner about seduction and lies…you know, all that good stuff! Susan Crosby continues her BEHIND CLOSED DOORS series with Rules of Attraction, the first of three brand-new stories set in the world of very private investigations. Roxanne St. Claire brings us a fabulous McGrath brother hero caught in an unexpected situation, in When the Earth Moves. Rochelle Alers’s THE BLACKSTONES OF VIRGINIA series wraps up with Beyond Business, a story in which the Blackstone patriarch gets involved in a surprise romance with his new—and very pregnant—assistant. And last but certainly not least, the engaging Amy Jo Cousins is back this month with Sleeping Arrangements, a terms-of-the-will story not to be missed.

Here’s hoping you enjoy all six of our selections this month. And, in the months to come, look for Maureen Child’s THREE-WAY WAGER series and a brand-new installment of our infamous TEXAS CATTLEMAN’S CLUB.

Happy reading!






Melissa Jeglinski

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire




When the Earth Moves

Roxanne St. Claire










ROXANNE ST. CLAIRE


began writing romance fiction in 1999 after nearly two decades as a public relations and marketing executive. Retiring from business to pursue a lifelong dream of writing romance is one of the most rewarding accomplishments in her life. The others are her happy marriage to a real-life hero and the daily joys of raising two young children. Roxanne writes mainstream romantic suspense, contemporary romance and women’s fiction. Her work has received numerous awards, including the prestigious Heart to Heart Award, the Golden Opportunity Award and the Gateway Award. An active member of the Romance Writers of America, Roxanne lives in Florida and currently writes—and raises children—full-time. She loves to hear from readers through e-mail at roxannestc@aol.com and snail mail at P.O. Box 372909, Satellite Beach, FL 32937. Visit her Web site at www.roxannestclaire.com.


While writing this book, I had the opportunity to “meet” a group of talented, spirited writers who participated in an eHarlequin.com Writing Round Robin. The project was designed for me to teach about craft and encourage aspiring writers…but I was the one who learned, and discovered a source of constant support and friendship.

This book is dedicated to the gang in the Hood, with much love and loyalty.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Epilogue




One


Cameron McGrath never missed the first pitch of a Yankee game. He considered it low class, bad luck and downright disrespectful to a near-holy tradition. So when the receptionist announced that a woman waited in the main lobby of Futura Investments and insisted on seeing him, he swallowed a colorful curse.

“I don’t have any more appointments today, Jen.” To be certain, he flipped open his PDA and checked the calendar. Of course he wouldn’t schedule anything past six on a game night. Especially when the Yankees were playing Boston. “Who’s she with?”

“Uh, she’s alone.”

He smiled, and silently forgave the young girl’s mistake. Jen had personality and charm, and that’s why she was out front. “Did she say what company she’s with? One of our clients? Or is it some kind of sales call?”

No doubt it was. Since he’d taken over as the top attorney at Futura Investments, it seemed he spent far too little time practicing law and way too much time overseeing the legal department. He hadn’t gotten dual graduate degrees in law and business to baby-sit junior lawyers and make decisions on office equipment, although it seemed he’d done a lot of both lately.

“She’s not with any company, Mr. McGrath.” The receptionist lowered her voice. “I think this is personal. I mean—she looks like someone, like maybe she’s…she looks personal.”

Personal? Amanda? She could be relentless when ignored. It had only been a week since he’d called her— or was it two? Geez. He’d been perfectly honest from the beginning of their short relationship, but that didn’t stop any marriage-starved Manhattan woman who had her sights set on a new last name. His.

He glanced at his watch. He’d take her along to the game. At least he wouldn’t be late and she’d count it as a date. “Tell her I’ll be out in a minute. Hope she’s dressed for a game.”

Jen’s laugh sounded more like surprise than humor. “I guess it depends on what you’re playing.”

With Amanda, he’d place his bets on a short leather skirt, a skimpy but painfully expensive top, and heels as high as the Chrysler Building. He smiled. She could be relentless, all right. And sometimes that worked in everyone’s favor.

The smile was still on his face as he loosened his tie and turned the corner toward the Futura lobby, ready to greet the former model he’d met at a fund-raiser two months earlier.

But as he glanced through the glass doors of the reception area, he froze midstep and slack-jawed.

That was not Amanda.

She stood with her back to him, studying the panoramic city view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. A pair of worn, faded jeans hugged a heart-shaped backside, with one cowboy-booted foot tapping the carpet, either in impatience or to a tune that played in her head. A thick mane of reddish-brown hair covered most of her back, just about kissing the top of those sinful-looking jeans. And on her head she wore a black cowboy hat.

She looked like one long, lean, bull-riding machine.

Did he know this woman?

As he opened the lobby door, she slowly turned, tipped her hat back on her forehead and answered that question with one heart-stopping gaze. Nope. He would never have forgotten that face. Wide-set eyes the color of copper pennies, buttercream skin and a mouth that demanded hours of close scrutiny.

And, he noticed with a bit of surprise, not a speck of makeup. He’d never even seen Amanda without makeup—or at least the remnants of it.

“Mr. McGrath?” She took a few quick strides toward him, the sound of her boot heels on the marble floor echoing the beat of his increased pulse rate.

“I’m Cam McGrath.” He extended a hand in greeting. “Can I…” Help? No, help was not on the list of things he wanted to do to and for her.

“Jo Ellen Tremaine.” Her handshake was solid, but her gaze held a question, a sense of anticipation. Was he supposed to recognize her name? Was she opposing counsel on a Futura case? He was drawing a blank. Or maybe that was because his brain cells had shut down in deference to an alternative organ.

He forced himself to focus on her face, but she hoisted a tote bag over her shoulder, the action pulling her shirt a little to the side and revealing the translucent skin of her throat and collarbone.

“I know you’re off to a meeting,” she said. “So I won’t take but a second of your time.”

“No problem. It’s nothing urgent.” Had he just told her the Yankees and Red Sox were not urgent? He had to get a grip. Pretty women could be found on every street in New York. They just didn’t generally dress for the rodeo. “What can I do for you?”

She glanced toward Jen, who hadn’t missed one second of the brief interplay. “Could I speak with you privately?”

He weighed his options. Spend some time talking to this gorgeous cowgirl. Be late for the Yankees. Cowgirl. Yankees.

“My office is right down the hall.” He tilted his head toward the door in invitation.

She took off her hat and shook out her hair, causing some silky strands to fall over her shoulders. His gaze dropped to her pale-blue button-down shirt, complete with silver snaps.

Yeehaw.

Holding the door, he managed a good long look at the fitted back pockets of her jeans again. The Yankees would play at home eighty-one times this season. A jaw-dropping version of Dale Evans would only appear in his office once. He had definitely made the right choice.

“Can I offer you something to drink, Ms. Tremaine?” he asked as they entered his office and he closed the door.

“You can call me Jo. And unless you have an ice-cold Bud on tap, I’m fine.”

He chuckled a little. “Wouldn’t you know it? My office tap is out.” He suddenly remembered the six-pack of Amber Bock in his refrigerator at home. Intended for Saturday’s softball game, but easily replaced. “Or we could go somewhere else.”

“No, thanks.” She stood in the middle of the room, her gaze direct and unwavering. “This won’t take that long. I hope.”

He heard an infinitesimal catch in her voice, something only a lawyer trained to sniff out half-truths and cover-ups would notice.

He gestured toward the sofa in the sitting area of his office. “Please. Have a seat.”

She folded herself into one of the chairs, her faded denim and black boots looking oddly out of place on the chrome-and-leather divan he’d had designed when he took over the massive corner office.

“Are you from around here…Jo?” The name suited her. She wasn’t feminine. Womanly, oh, yeah. But nothing fluttered in her movements, not her fingers, not her eyelashes. Jo. He liked it.

“I’m from Sierra Springs, California.”

He inched back in surprise.

“Have you heard of it?” She sounded like she expected him to say yes.

“I can’t say that I have, but you’ve come a long way. Is Sierra Springs near the Silicon Valley?” They had clients out there, several of them. This had to be related to Futura somehow.

She shook her head, smoothing her jeans with one long, slow stroke of her hands, a whisper of a cynical smile tipping her lips. “Not that valley. Sierra Springs is on the border between California and Nevada, a hundred miles from Sacramento, in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains.”

His knowledge of the area geography was scarce, at best. No clients that he could think of. No potential investments. Not much of anything but the Ponderosa Ranch and some second-class gambling in Reno. “Pretty quiet up there, I bet.”

“It was. Until the earth shook us down to our boots and rattled our brains into scrambled eggs.”

“The earth?” He zipped through a mental hard drive. What was she talking about? “Oh, yes.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at her. “I have heard of Sierra Springs. There was an earthquake there a few months ago. A big one.”

She nodded. “Five point six. And some nasty aftershocks.”

This was definitely a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Five point six, whoa. That is major. Did it affect—were you hit hard?”

His gaze traveled over those jean-clad legs again, hoping against hope that whatever her business they wouldn’t be adversaries. He’d very much prefer to counsel her. Among other things.

She shrugged. “I lost some…people.”

Staff? Family? Whoever, he had no doubt that her loss was at the root of this unorthodox meeting.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He seemed to recall five people died at one site. An apartment building. And then the image of a firefighter carrying a one-year-old from a hellhole of debris flashed in his mind. Of course—the baby found in the rubble. The story had been on every news station for days.

Did she own the building? Did Futura? Surely he’d have been briefed on that kind of potential lawsuit if they did.

“So, what do you do in Sierra Springs?” With some witnesses, the most innocuous questions cut right to the truth. He half imagined she’d say she roped horses and cattle, but more likely, she was another lawyer. They just dressed differently in California.

“I do body work.”

His pulse kicked up again. “Excuse me?”

“Car repairs. Wrecks.”

“You’re a mechanic?”

“I’m a collision repair expert.” A little light danced in her bronze-brown eyes as she narrowed them. “I own my own body shop.”

“Really.” So she wasn’t a rodeo queen or a lawyer. She pounded steel for a living.

Without thinking, his gaze slid back to her hands, long and slender and not a grease stain on them. And free of any jewelry—not even a single gold band. “Well you’ve certainly piqued my curiosity, Ms.—Jo. What brings you to New York?”

“You.”

His body tightened with a low, natural response to the single raspy word.

“Me?” Okay. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if that mouth is damn near edible. “How’s that?”

“I need you to sign a paper.”

Legal alarms sounded in the back of his head. “What kind of a paper?”

“It’s called a Petition of Relinquishment and Consent.”

He thought for a minute, his mind skimming first-year law. “Isn’t that part of the adoption process?”

For a moment she didn’t move. The tip of her tongue peeked through her unadorned lips and dampened them. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you need my signature?”

“I’m in the process of adopting a baby. And she is a…distant relative of yours.”

He leaned forward as though she pulled him on a string. “A relative of mine?”

“She’s your…your niece.”

He shook his head. “I don’t have a niece. I have two brothers and neither one has children.” Unease trickled through his veins, but he dismissed it. If Colin or Quinn had fathered a baby, he’d know it. They had no secrets, nothing they didn’t share with one another. Could this be a ploy for money? A hoax? “I think you’ve made a mistake. Who is the child?”

“There’s no mistake,” she insisted. “She’s definitely your niece.”

“I’m utterly certain I don’t have a niece.”

She raised one beautifully shaped brow. “Don’t be utterly anything until you’ve heard the facts.”

Objection sustained. “Who is the father?”

“Her father’s entirely out of the picture, and anyway, he’s not related to you. It’s her mother. Her mother is— was—a woman by the name of Katie McGrath.”

As if he had a Rolodex in his mind’s eye, he flipped through every distant McGrath cousin he could remember. No Katie. “I’ve never heard of her.”

Slowly she crossed and uncrossed her legs. “No, you wouldn’t have. You’ve never met her. But her mother is Christine McGrath.”

His gut squeezed into a knot.

“And that is your mother,” she said calmly. “So Katie is your sister. Or was. On both counts, I’m sorry to say.”

“No. I couldn’t have a—” He was speechless.

He couldn’t have a sister? Of course he could. An odd numbness began to make his arms and legs ache. He recognized the sensation. He’d first felt it when he was nine years old, the day he watched his mom climb in a station wagon and drive away, leaving a husband and three sons forever.

But he’d gotten so very, very good at making that ache go away. Sheer mind-over-body control was all it took, and if Cam was good at anything, it was control.

Her words replayed. Katie is your sister. Or was. On both counts… “Where is my—Christine McGrath?”

“I’m afraid she and Katie were both casualties in the earthquake.”

He waited for a rush of emotion, but nothing came. No surprise there. He’d killed any feelings for his mother years ago. He felt Jo’s gaze locked on him, waiting for a response. “Sorry to hear that, but I have no relationship with my mother. If this is the same woman who—I really have no connection with her whatsoever.” He wanted his point to be crystal clear.

“Then it shouldn’t be any problem whatsoever to sign this paper,” she said, pulling an envelope from her oversize handbag.

“Whoa. Wait a second, there.” He held his hand up. “I’m a lawyer. We don’t sign anything.”

“If you need proof that she was your mother, I have it. I expected you’d want to see that.”

He stared at her, trying to fit the jigsaw puzzle together. Slowly, he reached for the envelope.

“Christine McGrath left our home twenty-six years ago and moved to Wyoming,” he said, slowly opening the paper.

“No. She didn’t.” At his sharp look, she clarified, “Move to Wyoming, that is.”

According to his father, she had, and none of the McGrath boys had had reason to question him. Not that discussion of his mother’s whereabouts was dinner conversation at their house.

She squared her shoulders and regarded him with the bracing gaze of a judge about to hand down a harsh sentence. “She went to Sierra Springs twenty-six years ago, had a child named Katie and, eleven months ago, Katie had a baby. Callie McGrath.”

His throat closed up, and his fingers froze on the unopened paper. Was this possible?

“I’m going to adopt Callie, Mr. McGrath. But I can’t do that until her closest living relative signs this document and relinquishes any rights to her. I can’t spend the rest of my life worrying if you’ll show up and want custody of her.”

Want custody? Of a baby? “Sweetheart, I don’t want custody of a goldfish.”

“Great.” She stood quickly, tapped her hat back in place and nodded toward the paper in his hand. “All you have to do is sign it and you’ll never see me again. I can assure you of that.”

Part of him wanted to do just that. The part that always crushed any memories of his mother, the part that taught him years ago to have complete control over his environment, his life, his emotions.

But another part heard a nagging little voice that he really would have liked to ignore. But he couldn’t.

You’re going to heal the hurt in this family, Cam McGrath. His grandmother’s Irish lilt was as clear in his head as the first time she made her pronouncement. You’re the oldest. It’s your job. You’ll heal the hurt.

He’d forgotten that prediction. Just as he and Colin and Quinn had forgotten the hurt. Or learned to fake that they had.

But here stood a woman with the answers all of them had secretly craved for twenty-six years. The answers that might make three McGrath men finally, once and for all, close the holes that had busted wide open in their hearts so many years ago. The answers that might rid them of the memory of the day they’d crouched at a second-story window and watched their mother blow out of Pittsburgh. For Wyoming. Or California. Or somewhere.

Evidently, he had to make another choice tonight. And the recriminations could be far worse than missing the first few innings of a baseball game.

He could sign the paper and forget Jo Ellen Tremaine ever graced his office. Or he could get some answers from the cowgirl mechanic.

This could be his only chance to heal the hurt—for Gram McGrath, and for his brothers.

He would just never, ever let this woman know that’s what he was doing.

He stood and gave her a slow, lazy grin. “So, Jo. Do you like baseball, by any chance?”



Jo resisted the urge to let her jaw drop. Cameron McGrath stood a full six foot something and gazed down at her with what could only be called a glint in deep-blue eyes.

Baseball? Was he serious?

“I think it’s dull as dirt,” she replied.

The glint disappeared and the eyes narrowed to disbelieving slits, feathered with eyelashes that, she couldn’t help noticing, were just as long and thick as Katie’s had been. “Dull as dirt?”

Did he really want to discuss the merits of baseball four minutes after she told him his long-lost sister and mother had recently died and that he had a baby niece whom she planned to adopt? Could he be that cold?

Of course he could. Jo had read the letters from Katie’s mother to this man’s father. The letters he’d sent back with a scratchy “Return to Sender” note on the front. Jim McGrath had vinegar in his veins and evidently, that blood type was dominant on the McGrath side. Katie had missed the bad blood, but obviously got the traffic-stopping good looks.

This McGrath, however, had slightly different coloring from his sister. His hair was dark blond, his eyes the color of the September sky on a clear California day. He was rugged, with a shadow of beard and thick eyebrows. Still, he had the wide-set eyes, the chiseled jaw, the perfect cheekbones—features universal in beautiful people and in McGraths.

From what she could surmise under his gazillion-dollar, custom-made, three-button designer suit, he had a flawless body, too.

She forced her attention to the reason she came to New York: the envelope in his hand. “How much time do you need to read that and sign it?”

He shrugged, his gaze on her now and not the envelope. Assessing, scrutinizing. “I’m not sure. How much time do you think it’ll take to change your mind about the nation’s pastime?”

She almost laughed at how shallow he sounded. “You don’t have that much time, Mr. McGrath. I’m leaving on a red-eye at eleven-thirty.” With that piece of paper, signed, in my hand.

He made a show of looking at a sleek timepiece on his wrist. “If we’re lucky, we’ll make the bottom of the first. And—” he looked back at her and winked “—with no extra innings, you might get to see the whole game.”

Shallow and cocky. One of her least favorite combinations, no matter how well packaged. “I’m not going to any baseball games tonight. But the sooner you sign that paper, the sooner you can get to the park.”

“Not the park. The Stadium,” he corrected. “With a capital S.”

She managed a rueful smile. What would she have to do to get that petition signed?

“I’m guessing this is pretty important to you,” he finally said, leaning just close enough for her to catch a whiff of a musky, male scent.

His baritone assumption held enough of a challenge to send pings of apprehension dancing down her spine. Or maybe those were pings of…something else. She’d have to be blind, deaf and neutered not to recognize the raw attractiveness of this man. But she’d have to be stupid to let that influence her.

She wasn’t neutered or stupid, only determined. Callie McGrath would not become a ward of the state, or some kind of novelty for curious, distant, icy family members. Jo Ellen might not be the model of maternal instinct, but she couldn’t resist repairing a wreck. And Katie had left one hell of a mess when she died with no will and no plan for her tiny baby.

She phrased her response carefully. “Yes, it’s important. Important that it’s done right. I don’t want any loose ends threatening to strangle me.”

A half smile tipped the corners of his lips. “I don’t want to strangle you, sweetheart. Just share a little dull-as-dirt baseball with you. And during the game—” he put a warm hand on her shoulder “—we can get to know each other a little bit.”

She heard the subtle message in the request. He was a lawyer, as he’d made sure to remind her. And he wasn’t about to hand his signature and consent to a complete stranger.

“Fair enough,” she agreed, dipping out of his touch. “But is it absolutely necessary to go to a baseball game?”

“Absolutely.” He laughed a little and inched her toward the door. “Plus you can have that beer.”

She had a feeling she’d need it.




Two


Cameron watched her climb into the back seat of a cab, admiring both her spontaneity—however reluctant—and the delicate curve of her rear end. He’d decided moments after she dropped her little bombshell exactly how he’d play this game. The only way he played anything. Cool.

First of all, she could have the wrong Christine McGrath. Or she could be some sort of con artist. Or she could be a total fruitcake.

But on the off chance she was telling the truth, he’d give her a shot. Spending the evening with her wouldn’t be a hardship. Playing it cool was easy enough, since the news of his mother’s death didn’t have the usual effect it would on most men—but then, Christine McGrath hadn’t acted like most men’s mother. And the fact that he had a surprise sister who had also perished in an act of nature was a miserable shame, but he had no control over that.

If he had known Katie even existed… An unfamiliar pressure constricted his chest. He hadn’t known. Period. He couldn’t control that, either.

And Cameron avoided anything he couldn’t control. So he’d avoid any regret that accompanied the thought that a girl, a girl who had shared at least half his gene pool, had lived and breathed and, sadly, died. As far as the baby—well, that was a no-brainer. He certainly didn’t want a child.

Of course, he had two brothers. But Quinn had just gotten married, and he and Nicole were up to their eyeballs restoring their resort in Florida. Colin was planning his wedding to Grace, and they were also consumed with their new architectural firm and huge assignment that had them living in Newport, Rhode Island. He couldn’t say for sure, but he doubted either of his brothers were thinking about children—their own or their sister’s.

And Dad? Well, James McGrath had become a loner in the last few years, retired from his construction business, the job of raising his sons complete. Should he be told of his former wife’s passing? Of her daughter’s death?

Did any of them need to know this? Was this outrageous tale even remotely possible? And why would Jo show up at his office and not a different McGrath’s?

You’ll heal the hurt, Cam McGrath.

He shifted in his seat, which brought him a little closer to the mysterious woman dressed like she owned a ranch instead of a body shop. She sat stone still, staring out the window at the streets of New York City.

She placed her hands flat on her thighs, a position he’d noticed in his office. At the same time, she took a quiet, deep breath and exhaled. She was the picture of serenity.

“So, where’d you learn to be a mechanic?”

She flashed him a vile look. “I’m not a mechanic.”

“That’s good,” he replied, placing a friendly hand on top of hers and adding an assuring pat. “I don’t trust mechanics.”

She picked up his hand and removed it from hers. “I don’t trust lawyers.”

He laughed. “But you didn’t answer my question. How does one train to be a…collision repair expert?”

“Trade school. I apprenticed in Sacramento for a while, then worked in Reno. We opened the shop about a year ago.”

We? His gaze instinctively dropped back to that unadorned left hand. “Is your husband in the same business?”

“I don’t have a husband.”

Another earthquake casualty? “Ah. I just assumed when you said ‘we’ that you meant you and your husband.”

“You assumed wrong.” This time a smile teased the corner of her lips. “The we was Katie and me. She was my business partner.”

“My sister worked in a body shop?” He couldn’t keep the surprise out of his voice.

She plucked an imaginary thread from her jeans, her smile threatening to get wider. “I can’t let you go one minute believing that.” She looked up, a hint of mirth sparkling like gold dust in her eyes. “She couldn’t bear to set a pedicured foot in the work bay, and the sound of a sander sent her running with her hands clamped over her ears.”

He wasn’t sure he liked that, either. It was unimaginable for a McGrath—male or female—to act like a sissy. “But she was your partner.”

“She was my business partner. But we had two separate businesses in the same building, under the same corporate name. Buff ‘n’ Fluff.”

A hearty laugh escaped before he could stop it. “Buff ‘n’ Fluff? What kind of business is that?”

She shrugged, as though she’d heard the question a million times before. “Auto body repair is Buff—a common term for a metal rough out. And Fluff is a beauty salon.” She feathered her own hair with two fingers, some auburn locks fluttering over her shoulder. “Fluff, like blow dry. It’s a cosmetology term. That was Katie’s end of the business.”

“She was a hairstylist,” he noted, an image of a woman slowly taking shape in his brain. An image he didn’t want to have.

“She was a cosmetologist,” Jo corrected. “Hair, face, nails. Anything related to beauty—that was her specialty.”

Cam tried to erase the vague sense of a female version of his dark-haired younger brothers, but he couldn’t. The vision had taken hold. Damn. He’d really rather not dwell on a person he’d never meet.

“So I take it you’ve never been to a professional baseball game before.”

She turned her head toward him at the sudden topic shift. “Our business sponsored the Sierra Springs Little League last year. Does that count?”

He laughed again. “No wonder you thought it was dull as dirt.” The comment still smarted. How could anyone not see the poetry in baseball? He supposed someone who banged fenders for a living might overlook the elegance of a well-turned double play. “This is a little different. This is Yankee Stadium. It’s the Mecca of all baseball.”

“If you say so,” she agreed slowly, her little bit of a Western twang delighting his ear. “Seems like a lot doesn’t happen for nine innings, then all of a sudden hell breaks loose and ten runs come in and it’s over. Then someone’s crying.”

He chuckled again, her description of a Little League game bringing back a whole bunch of memories. “Haven’t you ever heard? There’s no crying in baseball.”

“Whoever said that never saw an eight-year-old get his front end walloped with a hard ball,” she said, looking out the window again. After a second, she turned back to him, a questioning expression on her face. “Would you like to know about your mother?” she asked quietly.

He regarded her for a long time, vaguely aware that there just wasn’t enough air in the closed-in cab. Her gaze was demanding, her lips slightly parted as she waited for his response.

He leaned in enough to almost feel her warm breath near his mouth. She didn’t move.

“No.” With one finger, he tapped the shadow of a cleft in her chin. “Would you like to know where our seats are?”

She raised that gorgeously arched eyebrow again but didn’t move. “No. I’ll just be surprised.”

“Pleasantly,” he promised, backing away to give her a little breathing space. He’d made his point.

“Did you bring that envelope?” she asked.

He patted the pocket of his suit jacket. “Yep.”

“Good. I need to get to the airport in time to make my flight. And I expect to have it with me.”

And she’d made her point, as well.

This could be a very close game tonight.



When the cabbie dropped them off at a busy street corner, they stood in the shadow of a massive structure. The streets around them teemed with people and hummed with energy.

How the blazes did this happen, Jo thought with a flash of panic? Yankee Stadium wasn’t in her plan.

Ever since Mother Earth had caused a seismic shift in Jo’s priorities, her plan was to adopt the child she already loved. She’d assumed it would be simple. Callie’s father had long before relinquished parental rights, wanting to hide from the fact that he was a married weasel who made promises to Katie he’d never keep.

And for a while, everything progressed smoothly. She’d waded through a sea of endless paperwork, passed the prodding interviews, charmed the Child Services bureaucrats, restructured her shop, her home, her very life. Until Jo’s mother sat her down and broke the story of Aunt Chris’s secret life before she’d come to Sierra Springs.

Stunned and saddened, but undeterred, Jo had spent hours quite literally digging through the debris that was Christine McGrath’s life. And more hours slogging through the Internet for information on her sons, then wrestling with what was the appropriate, safest, right course of action.

In the end she was sure she knew what that was. Katie was gone, and so was the woman Jo grew up calling “Aunt” Chris. But somehow, for some reason, an infant had survived nature’s rumbling fury, and Jo was willing to do absolutely anything to be sure Callie was safe and protected and loved.

Even make a side trip to Yankee Stadium.

She stole a look at the man who’d brought her to said stadium. His preoccupation with baseball in the midst of a family crisis confirmed that Cameron McGrath was as unfeeling and uncaring as his father, who had forced his pregnant wife out of the house. A man who would be repelled by the idea of being saddled with someone else’s mistake. That’s why she picked this brother to approach with the papers. Amid news reports of his business success, she’d seen a pattern of brief romances with socialites, increasing her expectations that Cameron would be most like the man who’d cast out Christine. True, the fact that he was a lawyer unnerved her. But more important, he was the unattached McGrath brother, so he’d be the least likely to want a baby. And as the oldest, she hoped his signature would carry the most legal weight.

So far he’d done a fine imitation of unfeeling. Refusing to discuss his mother. Changing the subject. Not even asking how Callie had survived the earthquake. Dragging Jo through New York. Even flirting with her. But she sensed something under his smooth, polished surface. Something so powerful that it qualified as the polar opposite of unfeeling.

Until she knew what feelings he hid, it wouldn’t kill her to pretend to like baseball.

“This…” he interrupted her thoughts with a grand gesture toward the mountain of concrete stadium in front of them, “is the House that Ruth Built.”

Next to where they stood was a three-story-high replica of a baseball bat. She set her hat back to get a good look at it and nodded. “Mecca.”

He grinned and guided her toward one of the gates. “Don’t get me started on statistics and history. I’ll bore you to death.”

She doubted Cameron McGrath could bore her. He could probably infuriate her, he most certainly could fascinate her, and, Lord, he could surely arouse her if she gave him the chance. The man was a walking powder keg of masculine, seductive energy.

He led her toward a small crowd at one of the gates. The sensation of his hand on the small of her back sent a pool of warmth through her.

He greeted the ticket-taker, and guided her through a turnstile into the stadium. The sounds and smells of early summer evaporated as they entered what felt like the interior of a giant cement whale, replaced by a medley of foreign scents and noises. The entire place echoed with the din of raised voices and the clatter of feet on concrete. Without thinking, she took Cameron’s hand as he bounded through the labyrinth of horizontal ramps, his confident steps energized by an air of familiarity and a sense of urgency.

He paused long enough to listen to the muffled words of an announcer. “We’re up. Bottom of the first. Let’s go.”

He tugged at her hand and she had to stretch her stride to keep up with him, ignoring the vendors’ pleas for them to buy hot dogs, nachos or peanuts. She tucked her hat under her arm so it didn’t sail off in their wake, and inhaled the overpowering scent of grilled meat and onions. She hadn’t eaten all day, and the aroma made her mouth water.

But her overloaded senses obliterated the hunger. Sudden bursts of cheers and applause, flashes of blinding light and green grass through tunnels that led to the field, and the unnervingly comforting sensation of holding his hand all managed to make her a little dizzy.

Dizzy? What the heck was that all about? She hammered steel into submission for a living. She hiked mile-high mountains for fun. She was the original tough chick. How could one foray into Yankee Stadium on the arm of some maniacal fan make her dizzy? It had to be the documents that he held in his jacket pocket, the importance of her mission.

Somehow she had to get through this game and get his signature. Then she’d tear off to the airport and fly home to Callie. With her mission accomplished.

“Pray there’s no score,” he said to her as they approached a uniformed security guard. “It’s bad enough to miss the first pitch, but missing a run could kill me.”

“Cam, we were worried about you!” The guard held out his hand like a fist and Cameron knuckled it with a similar gesture.

“Eddie, my man. What’s goin’ on?”

“Three up, three down in the top of the first, and let me tell you Mussina’s slider looks friggin’ magical.” Eddie’s nasal New York accent was so thick, Jo had to concentrate to understand him.

“Who’s up?” Cameron asked.

“A-Rod.”

“Already?” He sounded crushed.

Eddie let out a disgusted snort. “Yeah, they’re screwin’ with the lineup. Loftin grounded out, and Jeter went down swingin’.” His gaze shifted to her, sweeping her up and down with obvious interest. A broad grin blared his approval. “I knew you had to have one helluva good cause to be this late, Cam.”

“Eddie, this good cause is Jo Ellen Tremaine. First timer, from California.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shot up. “California, huh? A’s or Angels?”

Hazy angels? “Excuse me?”

Cameron chuckled and put that way too familiar arm around her again. “Oakland A’s—Athletics. Or the California Angels. Who do you root for?”

“Sorry.” She made an apologetic face. “I don’t really follow the sport.”

This earned a belly laugh from Eddie and he waved a finger of warning at her. “Well, you will, or,” he pointed to Cameron, “you’ll have to kiss your new boyfriend goodbye.”

No use trying to correct him. She just shrugged as though the loss of that boyfriend wouldn’t matter any more than the loss of a game.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” Cameron urged her into a narrow opening toward the lights of the stadium.

She nodded to Eddie, who continued to grin and shake his head, then she turned to face the sea of green in front of her.

It looked like a vast, luxurious emerald carpet textured with symmetrical patterns, bordered in red-brown dirt and surrounded by thousands and thousands of people cheering, hollering, eating, drinking and laughing. She’d been in baseball parks before, but this place had a mix of playfulness, attitude and superiority. Sort of like the man who’d brought her here.

Still holding her hand, Cameron tugged her down a few steps, into a row of box seats not far from the Yankee dugout. First base was close enough that she could see specks of red clay covering the canvas bag. A shower of greetings came at them, and Cameron responded with a series of “Hey” and “How ya doin’?” that included high-fives and more knuckle tapping.

They settled into seats and he dropped a casual arm around her, leaning close to her ear. “You do know who A-Rod is, don’t you?”

“Yes.” The name sounded more like a tool than a person, but he didn’t need to know that.

Suddenly a hollow whack propelled the entire stadium to its feet, including her, as Cameron pulled her from her seat and she instinctively squinted up into the blinding lights.

Then everyone moaned and sat down. By the time Jo saw a player in the outfield throw in the ball, they were seated again, too. Cameron’s arm took up permanent residence around her shoulders, the distinctive, delicious scent of him overpowering the smell of popcorn and humanity around her.

“You want that beer?” he asked.

She leaned back enough to make sure he could see her warning look. “This isn’t a date.”

He grinned and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “Fake it for me, okay? I got a reputation from one end of the Bronx to the other.”

“I bet you do.”

His gaze locked on hers, way too warm and friendly for the situation they were in. “A good reputation,” he assured her. “As a gentleman who would buy a lady anything she wants at the ballpark.”

What she wanted was the paper in his pocket. Signed. “I’ll have whatever you have.”

Another smack of the ball against the bat stole his attention and they were up again. This time the hit was a success, landing the player on second base. Maybe she should at least try to follow the game.

She sat back down, but Cameron remained standing and whistled at a vendor. Peanuts flew at them, followed by the arrival of two foaming plastic cups. More jokes and pronouncements were tossed around among the people who all seemed to know one another, and before Jo really knew what was happening, it was the fourth inning and she’d had half a beer and three-quarters of a bag of peanuts. And she finally understood what a balk was.

But she didn’t feel any closer to success.

Cameron talked about his team with a mesmerizing passion, his movements spare, his expressions intense. His whole body somehow managed to stay practically pressed to her side, the metal arm of the seat the only thing preventing her from feeling the steel of his muscles, the warmth of his substantial frame.

She couldn’t help sneaking glances at him while he watched the game. Nor could she help noticing that he did the same. Only there was nothing sneaky about his gazes. He looked at her—a lot, and with great interest— and every time he did, an unwanted response sparked through her whole body.

She tried to keep the conversation light and act as if she didn’t notice the undercurrent of tension and attraction between them. For whatever reason, he’d brought her with him. And she would play his game until she got what she wanted.

“How did you become such a Yankee fan?” she asked. “Don’t they have a baseball team in Pittsburgh?”

He froze middrink of beer, obviously surprised by the question. They hadn’t discussed where he’d grown up.

“NewYork is my home now,” he said simply, then took his sip. “I went to college and law school at Fordham about ten minutes from here, and I got my MBA at Columbia. I live, breathe, eat and root for NewYork City.”

“I know,” she said quietly, earning another surprised glance. But she didn’t know why he’d virtually abandoned the home of his youth.

“I’m at a distinct disadvantage,” he softly announced, so close to her ear that her stomach dipped at the vibrations his voice caused. “You seem to know a lot more about me than I know about you.”

He had a right to some information about her, she reminded herself. No harm in that. “I live and work in Sierra Springs. I’m thirty years old, own my own home and run a body shop in town.” How personal did he want to get?

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Very personal. “No.”

“Ever been married?”

She supposed it was a legitimate question, considering the pending adoption. “Briefly.”

“What happened?”

“He wanted to move to L.A.”

“And you couldn’t work that little detail out?” He looked dubious, and she swallowed before answering with the truth.

“He wanted to move to L.A. with another woman.”

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh. She shrugged. “Stuff happens.”

“Sure does. How long were you married?”

A collective cheer from the crowd threatened to drown out her response, but he actually stayed seated and waited to hear her answer.

“I was married for about a year,” she told him. “I was only twenty-two.” She really hadn’t expected to have to give him too much personal information, figuring he’d want to know about his sister and mother. And maybe Callie.

She was willing to give Cameron McGrath everything he wanted, any pictures, information—including the letters from his mother to his father—if he would sign the paper. She had documentation right there in her bag. That, and a toothbrush, comb and a change of underwear, was all she’d packed for her one-day round-trip to New York. She had no intention of staying one minute longer than she needed to. The next meeting with Child Services was the following week, and she planned to be prepared.

“No children?” he asked, still on the ancient history of her marriage.

“Just the one I plan on adopting.”

Oh Lord, what if her worst nightmare came true? What if he suddenly decided he should raise Callie? The thought seemed preposterous from a man who admitted he didn’t want the responsibility of a fish, but more preposterous things had happened in the past few months. The law would be on his side, even though his lifestyle didn’t exactly welcome a child. Unless he planned to bring a stroller into Yankee Stadium. How could she subtly remind him of that?

“You’ve never been married,” she stated simply.

“Never have, never will.”

Relief made her fingers tingle. “You seem sure of that.”

A half smile tipped his lips. “Some things are a safe bet, Jo.”

“And marriage isn’t one of them?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” He took another sip of his beer, then set the cup back on the ground. “What’s a safe bet is that I’ll never get married.”

Welcome news, in this case. But how could he be so sure? “Why is that?”

He looked at her the same way he had when she didn’t know who played shortstop. “I think you know enough about my personal history to answer that yourself.”

She frowned. What was she missing here? “Do you mean because of your parents?”

“Not my parents,” he corrected quickly. “My mother. She sort of soured me on lifelong relationships.”

His mother? She’d been forced to leave and had tried for years to rekindle a relationship with her husband and sons. They’d shunned her. Was it possible…he didn’t know that?

The crowd roared again, but he surprised her by pulling her a little closer and pointing toward the field. “Now just look at that, sweetheart,” he said with an easy chuckle, his gaze focused on the field. “Tell me there’s anything dull about that brilliant pickoff.”

What was brilliant was his change-of-subject technique. But that was fine. She didn’t want to delve into his past if he didn’t. The less said about it, the better. However, she didn’t want him to go too far off topic.

“I need to get to Kennedy by ten-thirty at the latest,” she reminded him.

He glanced at the time on the scoreboard. “That’ll be tough.”

Her heart squeezed. He couldn’t do this. He had no reason to deny her his signature. It was obvious he didn’t care about his mother, and surely he didn’t want the responsibility of a eleven-month-old baby. “You are going to sign that document, aren’t you, Cameron?”

He tightened his hold on her ever so slightly. “What will happen if I don’t?”

A child’s world, and Jo’s, would collapse again. “You will.”

“What will happen if I do?”

“I’ll leave. I can get a cab myself. I promise never to darken your doorstep again.”

A slow smile revealed straight white teeth. “Then I’m going to take every possible minute I’ve got.” He leaned right into her ear and whispered, “And you’d like my doorstep. It’s in a great part of town and professionally decorated. You’re welcome to darken it anytime.”

Every feminine cell in her body betrayed her, dancing to attention and making her tingle. The very thought of what he was suggesting made her legs feel a little weak. Great. Just great, Jo. She hadn’t counted on having to fight herself to get what she wanted.

She tried the deep-breathing technique Katie had taught her when she was in her yoga phase, but it came out like an anxious shudder, and his grin widened at the sound.

“Don’t be nervous,” he said with a soft laugh, patting her thigh just intimately enough to leave an imaginary burn mark. “We’re only down by one. And the Sox are cursed…usually. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

They both knew she wasn’t worried about the game.




Three


The seventh inning was a killer. Boston scored four runs, and the Yanks needed not one but two pitching changes. Things didn’t look good.

At the stretch, it was past nine-thirty. Cam knew they’d never see the end of the game if he was going to get Jo to the airport for an eleven-thirty flight to the West Coast.

Anyway, the Yankees were so deep into the bullpen that this one might be a goner. He still had questions. A lot of questions.

Not that he really gave a rat’s ass what happened to Christine McGrath. But his brothers had just been babies when she drove off like Thelma without Louise. They had a right to know. Especially Colin. Cam’s youngest brother had always blamed himself for their mother’s abandonment, but the little monster had been barely old enough to say his own name when she’d disappeared. He owed the information to Colin, and to Quinn.

He took Jo’s hand and squeezed it, liking any excuse to touch her. “It’s time to go,” he said softly.

Her coppery eyes lit with surprise, then she frowned. “You want to stay for the bottom of this inning, don’t you?”

It was his turn to be surprised—that she’d even make the offer. “Yeah. But I’d rather you didn’t stomp me with one of your cowboy boots for missing your flight.”

They stood, he said his goodbyes to all the box neighbors he spent so many nights with every summer, and he walked her toward the tunnel.

He heard the crack of the bat behind him, knowing by the sound of the crowd that it was a line drive. When he didn’t pause, she looked up at him expectantly.

He gave her a sly grin. “You really don’t think I’d let you be late, do you?” The announcer called a double. Double damn.

Slipping her arm through his, she rewarded him with a million-dollar smile. “Thank you, Cam.”

Aw, hell. That smile was worth missing a grand slam. “No problem. As long as you’re willing to admit the truth now.”

Her step slowed. “The truth?”

He pointed a thumb over his shoulder toward the field. “Dull as dirt?”

“Well…” She dragged out the word and squeezed his arm, the intimacy of the gesture hitting him like a blast of heat. “Your enthusiasm could be contagious.”

He laughed and pulled her closer, noting that her step seemed to lighten and her smile seemed genuine. She could sense she was getting what she came for, and that obviously made her very happy.

“You know, Jo,” he said as they left the stadium and stepped onto the streets of the Bronx, “I gotta tell you something.”

“What?”

Maybe it was the elusive, clean fragrance of her hair, or the feel of her slender arm wrapped through his. Maybe it was the odd companionship he’d felt with the first woman who didn’t try to fake that she understood baseball, but was willing to learn. He didn’t really know what the hell it was, but he felt like telling her exactly what he was thinking. “It’s too bad we had to meet under such bizarre circumstances.”

“Why’s that?” She looked up again, her lips parting slightly, her ridiculous but adorable cowboy hat casting a shadow over her delicate cheeks. “Because you think you could have made a baseball fan out of me?”

He froze in his spot, the desire to kiss her hitting him as hard as that line drive he just missed. “Yeah,” he said, taking off her hat so he could get closer. “And I could, too.”

Face to face, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he curled his arms around her waist and she did the same around his neck. Their heights were damn near perfect, he thought. Her eyes at his mouth, just a simple head tilt apart.

“You’re going to sign the paper, aren’t you?”

He nodded once. With her gazing up at him with that engaging look of gratitude on her face, he just had to dip his head about three inches…open his mouth to meet hers and…

He kissed her.

She tasted like salt and beer and mint. Her lips were warm and soft and when they opened to him, he skimmed the delicate inside flesh of her mouth with his tongue. His head buzzed with the instant pleasure, and he tensed his arms around her, angling his head to make the kiss more intense and longer.

And it lasted just long enough to start a fire in his body.

Slowly she pulled away. Her eyes were closed, but that beautiful mouth formed a smile. For some reason, that pleased him more than anything. She hadn’t yanked away and called him a jerk who’d forgotten the serious reason she’d come to him. She looked like she thoroughly enjoyed being kissed by him.

“I’ll tell you what,” she whispered, her mouth still close enough to almost feel the movements of her lips.

“What?”

“I’ll teach Callie baseball and I’ll even buy her a Yankee baseball cap. Okay?”

A million clashing emotions rushed through him, but he tamped them all down.

“You do that, sweetheart.” He slid his hands over the curves of her waist and up the sleek, tight muscles of her back.

Then she lifted her face toward him again, a victorious light in her magical eyes. “You have no idea how happy you’ve made me.”

This time she leaned into him and initiated the kiss, all that happiness translating into an instant connection between their mouths.

He slanted his head to taste more of her, cupping her face between his hands and then tunneling his fingers into her magnificent hair. He felt himself stir into hardness against her stomach, the flare of desire shooting through his veins like liquid lightning.

He had to get control or she would most definitely miss her flight. Pulling away, he stroked her lower lip with the tip of his finger, resisting the urge to slide that finger into her mouth, where his tongue had been.

“Nothing like a little baseball to warm a lady up,” he said with a smile.

She just smiled and pulled farther away, not contradicting him on the reason for her sudden light and lusty mood. She’d won her game, and they both knew that accounted for her surprising display of affection.

“Come on, sweetheart.” He tugged her toward the cab stand he knew was around the corner of the stadium. “Let’s get to the airport.”

As they reached the stand, he opened the door of the first available waiting cab. “After you.”

But she didn’t move. “No, Cam, you don’t have to go all the way to the airport. Just—” she glanced at his pocket “—sign.” She gave him a heartbreaking look. Half pleading. Half regretful. “Just sign the paper and I’ll be on my way.”

“And miss making out with you in the cab? Are you crazy?”

She let out a quick laugh. “I think we’ve made out enough for one night.”

She reached toward his jacket pocket, but he backed away. “Then we’ll talk.”

There went that pretty eyebrow, straight into a disbelieving arch.

He inched her into the cab. “Really,” he assured her, unable to resist checking out the backside of the body he’d been holding. “We’ll talk.”

Not that he’d mind kissing her in the back of a cab for an hour, but it was time to talk.



Kissing Cameron McGrath had been stupid. And incredible.

Okay, it had been incredibly stupid.

But Jo had been so pleased that he’d agreed to sign the paper, and so…turned on by him. She’d wanted to kiss him. And, truth be told, she wanted to kiss him again.

But she shimmied to the far side of the cab, and he left a good foot of seat between them. Maybe he did want to talk.

If he would just sign the damn consent form, she’d kiss him silly from here to Kennedy. God, it had been so long since any man turned her on like this. She’d been gun-shy for years after her marriage debacle, which had only been an ugly confirmation that her mother’s theory about men was absolutely right: they leave.

She’d kept herself too busy fixing wrecks to pay much attention to the men who came through the door of her shop. One, maybe two had caught her eye and she’d had the occasional interlude with them, but she couldn’t remember anyone who made her legs turn watery and put that twinge in her tummy.

Katie, on the other hand, had pretty much been addicted to that twinge and not only had her legs turned to water, but her brain basically disintegrated in the company of a sexy guy, too. Now, that led to some big messes, and fixing those wrecks had sucked up the rest of Jo’s personal time.

“So, where’s the father?”

His question surprised her—almost like he’d been following her train of thought. “You mean…Callie’s father?” She hated to say the baby’s name. She didn’t want him to form the least bit of an interest in knowing her. In meeting her. If he did, he’d fall in love, of course. Everyone fell in love with Callie on first sight. She was a replica of Katie, gorgeous, beguiling and downright irresistible.

“Were they married?” he asked.

She sniffed. “He was.”

“Oh.” There was a definite note of disappointment in his voice.

She gave him a tight smile. “In her defense, she didn’t know—at first.”

“And he doesn’t want to take care of his own kid?” Disappointment turned to disgust.

“He’d rather his wife and kids didn’t know about Callie. He gave up parental rights long before the baby was born.”

Cameron blew out a breath and looked out his window. “Why the hell did she mess around with a married man? Was she stupid or something?”

“No,” Jo said quickly. “She was very smart. Brilliant about some things. The business, the books. All that stuff. But…she had a weakness for smooth-talking, good-looking guys. And they, most of the time, had a weakness for her.”

He snorted softly. “You know what they say about the apple and the tree.”

Jo’s spine stiffened at the comment, and she turned to him, stabbing a single finger in his direction. “Look, you can throw your insults at Katie. After all, she’s your little sister and she was a royal pain in the butt. But you cannot—I repeat, cannot—insult Aunt Chris. That woman was a saint.”

“Aunt Chris, is it?” This time he choked a bitter laugh. “We are definitely not talking about the same Christine McGrath.”

Could she be hearing him right? He did blame Chris.

“Why was she a pain in the butt?” he asked before she could set the record straight. At her questioning look, he clarified, “Katie. You said she was a pain in the butt.”

“She was…” How could she put it? “A poor judge of character.” Because Katie longed for a man to fill the void that having no father had caused.

A spurt of guilt accompanied that thought. God, she didn’t want that to happen to Callie. But it hadn’t happened to Jo—and she’d been raised without a father. That desperation didn’t have to happen to a fatherless girl.

“Was she a—” He gave her a meaningful look, and she gave him a point for avoiding the ugly word.

“No,” Jo assured him. “She had morals. She wasn’t a loose girl. She just got involved with a married man and got pregnant. Not the first girl in history to make that mistake.”

“Were you close to her?”

“Like sisters.”

In the shadows of the cab, she thought she saw him wince at that. “How’d you meet her?”

“Chris came to Sierra Springs when I was three, almost four. She was pregnant and looking for work. Evidently, she and my mom—the only other single mother in town at the time—hit it off. Mom gave her a job at her beauty salon and they practically lived next door to each other. Chris was like my aunt, which is what I’ve always called her. And Katie was just always…there. Ever since I can remember.”

For a long time he didn’t say anything. He stared out her window, his expression pained. Jo studied his face, the heart-stopping features changing from dark to light with the passing cars. His deep-blue eyes had a faraway look, his square jaw clenched with some unspoken emotion.

Don’t think too much, Cam. Don’t change your mind.

Just sign the damn petition.

She didn’t want to push too hard, but her nerves felt frayed from waiting. “Have we talked enough yet?” She sucked in a quiet breath, and held it while she waited for his answer.

His gaze shifted from the world outside to focus on her, the hint of seduction back in his eyes as his expression relaxed. “Ready to make out?”

She almost laughed at the tease. “Will you sign that paper now?”

His lips curled up in a smile, and he moved imperceptibly closer, his now-familiar scent tickling her nose as he invaded the little bit of space between them. “You are persistent, I’ll give you that.”

“You should see me rough out a dent.”

“I’d like to,” he whispered, closing more space.

She tapped his rock-hard chest. “Sign.”

He slid his hand under her hair. “Kiss.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“Actually, it’s extortion.” He moved so close she could see the dilated pupils against his irises, even in the unlit cab.

She forced herself to turn to the window, in time to read a green-and-white highway sign as they passed it. “We’re almost at the airport.”

His gaze dropped over her face, settling on her mouth. She had to fight the urge to pull his head closer, to press her mouth against his again. Instead, she reached into his suit jacket pocket and closed her fingers around the envelope.

He must have known what she was doing, but he didn’t stop her.

“Here.” She held it out to him. “Do you need a pen?”

He didn’t take the paper, instead he dropped back against the seat with an air of defeat. “I need to read it.”

Her heart sank. “It’s long. A lot of legalese.”

“My native tongue.”

The cabbie suddenly knocked on the privacy window. “What airline?”

Oh, Lord. They’d arrived at JFK and she still didn’t have his signature.

She opened the envelope while Cameron leaned forward to talk to the cab driver. The document was short, just two pages. On the bottom of the second page was a line for his signature. Digging through her bag, she found a ballpoint pen.

“Here.” She handed both to him.

He just shook his head. “Inside. I’ll read it in the terminal.”

She had to accept that.

The cab pulled to a stop at the departures terminal. While Cameron paid for the cab, she climbed out, holding the paper.

“You don’t have any other bags?” he asked as they headed into the terminal.

“I didn’t plan on staying.”




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/roxanne-st-claire/when-the-earth-moves/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.