Gavin's Child

He’d been perfectly happy to live in the moment, a survival strategy he’d learned in prison, where it had been all that had preserved his sanity.

Until last week he would have said he was content.

Until last week, when the possibility he had a son had changed everything. Suddenly he’d had a purpose again, a reason for giving a damn.

Had apparently being the operative word, he thought bitterly, so overcome by misery it took a minute for him to realize that the wheezing, sputtering sound he’d been hearing for the past thirty seconds was an approaching car.

He raised his head just in time to see Annie drive up in her ancient Honda. Shock and relief made his head swim. He straightened, anyway. By the time she’d shut off the engine, set the hand brake and climbed out of the car, he had himself under control.

Or at least that’s what he thought—until he saw her undisguised wariness.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

She was still in the same clothes she’d had on last night.

He didn’t want to think about the implication of that. Nor did he want to consider why her hair was mussed, her blouse partially unbuttoned, her baby-smooth skin pale with exhaustion. He took a step closer. “Where the hell have you been?”

She stiffened and lifted her chin, as if she were part of the Royal Family and he was an uncouth peasant. “None of your business.” Stooping down, she reached in and grabbed a grocery bag from the passenger seat, bumped the car door shut with her hip and started along the walkway toward the porch.

Her attitude didn’t do jack for his temper. “The hell it’s not.” He caught up with her at the stairs, which they went up shoulder to shoulder. “We had a deal, Annie—an agreement to talk.”

She shoved the grocery bag into his arms, freeing her hands to work the key in the lock. “I said noon.” She opened the door, snatched back the bag and looked pointedly at him. “It’s not quite five-thirty, Gavin. I’m going to bed. Come back later.”

The door banged shut in his face.

Stunned, he stood there a moment, then nearly ripped off the knob in his haste to get the door open. One quick glance revealed Annie wasn’t in her bedroom. By the time that registered, he was already at the kitchen archway, where he gave a quick look around, this being the part of the house he hadn’t been in last night.

Not that there was much to see. To his immediate left were floor-to-ceiling shelves that served as the pantry and a small Formica table with two chairs and a high chair grouped around it. Straight ahead, beneath a bank of windows that overlooked the tiny backyard, was the sink, centered in a section of painted white cabinets topped by eight feet of pale yellow countertop. The door to the service porch was to the right.

The refrigerator was to his immediate right, followed by another, shorter stretch of yellow counter that made a left turn to accommodate the stove. A little further along the same wall was the door to the bathroom.

All in all, it was like the rest of the house: spotlessly clean but rather worn. By far the most outstanding thing in the room was Annie, who was poised in front of the shelves to his left.

“It must’ve been a real hot date,” he said caustically.

Up on tiptoe to put a box of crackers away, she stiffened, shoved the box into place and sank back down. She turned to the table, delved into the grocery sack and pulled out a half gallon of milk. “Look. I was at work. Okay? I stayed longer than usual because someone was late.” She crossed toward him to open the ancient fridge.

Just as a precaution—he’d had it up to the eyeballs with her fondness for abbreviated conversations—he planted his arms on either side of the archway. “Yeah, right.” He wasn’t exactly sure why he couldn’t let it go. Most likely because it was nothing less than she deserved, after the scare she’d given him. It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with the fact that she looked as if she’d just climbed out of somebody’s bed. “Unless I’m mistaken, your degree is in art appreciation. What were you doing, Annie—cataloging the paintings on somebody’s ceiling?”

She gave him a long look, gently shut the refrigerator, then marched over, unhooked the receiver on the wall phone, punched in a number and shoved it at him. “Ask whomever answers if I work there.” She ducked under the cord and scooted past him.

“Hey, wait a minute! Where do you think you’re going?”

“I told you,” she said, her voice muffled as she disappeared into her bedroom. “To bed. I have four hours before I have to get Sam. We can talk then.”

Her door swung shut at the same time an impatient female voice snarled into the phone. “Palomino Grill.”

“Who the hell is this?” he demanded.

“The Queen of Sheba—whodya think?” This startling pronouncement was punctuated by a violent crashing sound, followed by the distinctive buzz of the dial tone.

Gavin jerked the receiver away from his ear. He’d been hung up on. Lips pursed tightly, he glared at the bedroom door and cursed. After a moment, however, he grudgingly reached out, pressed redial and waited.

This time a different voice answered. It was a man’s, and it was far more congenial. “Palomino Grill.”

Gavin straightened. “‘Morning. I’m trying to locate Annelise Cantrell. Is she there?”

“Annie? Heck, no. You want Annie, you gotta get up early.” The man chuckled at his own joke. “Call back—or better yet, come in anytime from six in the evening to two in the a.m. ‘Course, you’ll have to wait till Monday, ‘cuz she’s off for the weekend. Too bad, too—she’s one fine little filly.”

Gavin’s voice reflected his shock. “No kidding.”

“Nope. Wouldn’t dare kid. The boss lady doesn’t allow it.”

“Well…thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

Gavin slowly replaced the receiver and walked into the other room. Feeling as if the world had just taken a spin in the wrong direction, he sank onto the couch, staring blindly at the closed door to Annie’s room.

A waitress? Hell. She was chock-full of surprises. First the kid. Then the run-down house. Now this.

Well, what did you expect? She’s her father’s daughter, isn’t she?

Max had been a master of the unexpected, too, he reminded himself acidly. It had been one of the crucial little personality traits of his late father-in-law’s that Gavin hadn’t fully appreciated until it had been too late to protect himself.

Still, even knowing what he now did about Max, Gavin had never dreamed that the old man would fail to provide for his only child. After all, she’d been the light of Max’s life, the epitome of his success, his perfect, beautiful, golden girl. Nothing had been too good for her: not the fancy Eastern schools, the designer clothes, the holidays spent skiing in Gstaad or sunning on the beaches of Tahiti or St. Tropez.

God knew, the old man had wanted more for her than him. Gavin might have been smart enough to work his way up the ranks to become a foreman at Kinnaird Construction, might have been good enough to be considered a trusted advisor, but he’d always known that Max aspired for more than a hardworking, dirt-under-thefingernails construction worker for his high-class daughter.

Only Annie hadn’t agreed…

And this was how she’d paid for it.

He lurched to his feet. Dammit. The past was past. Like Annie had said last night, there was no going back. He’d done what he’d had to, what he’d believed at the time was best for both of them.

She was the one who’d chosen this path. She should have told him she was pregnant, told him about the boy. Like he’d said to her last night, if he’d known, it would’ve changed everything. At the very least he would’ve found some way to provide for her and their child.

Instead, she’d chosen to keep it a secret. To cheat him out of two and a half precious years of his son’s life. A son who clearly needed him, he thought soberly, looking around. Although the children’s books and toys neatly stacked on the shelves of the inexpensive entertainment center appeared to be new and of good quality, everything else in the room was well-worn, bordering on shabby.

He thought about that as he walked into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

He was still thinking about it three hours and forty-nine minutes later, when the bedroom door opened and Annie padded out. Her face was flushed with sleep, her hair a tangled cloud of silver gilt that spilled over her shoulders and down her back.

She was naked except for a pale yellow cotton-knit camisole and a pair of matching bikini panties.

She skidded to a halt when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”

He returned her stare, furious at the spurt of heat that surged through his blood, the sudden stirring in his loins. “I’m waiting for that talk.”

Her eyes widened as she registered the mug clutched in his hand, the proprietary way he was slouched on her sofa with his stocking feet propped on the coffee table.

He nodded toward the archway. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.”

“How…nice,” she murmured. “Why don’t you make yourself at home?”

He settled more firmly into the sofa. “I intend to.”

Alarm mixed with the wariness on her face. After a telling silence, she dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “What does that mean?”

He raised the mug and calmly took a sip of coffee before he answered. “It means,” he said coolly, “that I’ve come to a decision about what’s best for our son.”

She went very still. “And what’s that, Gavin?”

“Simple.” His gaze never wavered from her face. “I’m moving in.”

Three

The room seemed to tilt beneath Annie’s feet. “You’re not serious.”

Gavin set down his mug, settled back and linked his hands across his lean, hard middle. “Oh, yes, I am.”

The way he said it made her skin prickle. He sounded exactly like the old Gavin, the one who’d always gotten whatever he went after.

Yet this—this was unthinkable. “But the house is so small. There’s no spare room…” She raked her hair away from her face, verbally grasping at straws while she struggled to clear her sleep-fogged mind.

His gaze followed the movement of her hand, up, then down, and the strong, masculine line of his mouth flattened out. Before she could divine his intention, he reached toward the rocker, snagged the shirt draped across the seat and tossed it at her. One black brow slashed up sardonically. “Why don’t you put that on? I wouldn’t want you to catch cold or anything.”

Like a slap in the face, the comment brought her completely awake. She grabbed for the shirt and snatched it out of the air, painfully aware not only of the brevity of her attire, but that beneath her clinging camisole, her nipples were tightly, unmistakably beaded.

Heat burned in her cheeks. At the same time a shiver went through her, although, until this moment, she hadn’t been aware she was cold. With hands that trembled, she slid her arms gratefully into the soft flannel, only to still as the sleeves tumbled over her fingertips, the shirttail drifted down her thighs, and Gavin’s scent—soap, fresh air, a hint of freshly milled wood and him—wafted around her.

Too late she realized the flannel shirt was his, the one he’d been wearing earlier over his T-shirt.

Instantly she lifted her shoulders to shrug off the garment, only to stop as she glanced up and found him watching. His expression was as cool as ever, but there was a hint of challenge in his celestial blue eyes. It suggested he fully expected her to reject his offering like the shy, timid little virgin she’d been when he married her, a woman who’d only ever known one lover.

Him.

So, Annelise? scoffed a mocking little voice in her head. That’s precisely what you are.

Yes. But she was damned if she’d broadcast the fact to him. Not after the way he’d tossed her aside like yesterday’s newspaper. Let him at least wonder, insisted her shattered pride.

She forced a smile to her lips, freed a hand and rolled up one cuff, then the other, lifted her arms and flipped her hair free of the upturned collar. “Thanks. That does feel better.” With what she hoped was the air of a woman who regularly entertained men while wearing nothing but their shirt and her underwear, she walked over, curled up in the rocker and tried to appear unfazed. “But you still can’t move in.”

His face might have been carved from stone. Except for a slight pulse visible at the base of his throat, he showed no emotion at all. “Why? Because this place is so small?” He leaned back and shrugged, dismissing her objection with an indolent gesture that made the beautifully curved muscle in his shoulders round. “So we’ll find someplace bigger.”

“No,” she said flatly. “This is my home. I’m not giving it up. And there is no more we. Remember?”

She would never forget. His words were burned on her heart, scored by a thousand tears. It’s over, Annie. You were just a pretty trophy, a way to show how far up I’d come in the world. I don’t want to see you back at Colson again.

She brought up her chin. “I wouldn’t live with you in a place the size of Buckingham Palace.”

His jaw tightened. “Yeah? Well, pardon the hell out of me, but I didn’t think your personal comfort, or mine, was the issue. I thought it was Sam’s welfare we were supposed to consider. With me here, at least he’d get to stay home at night and sleep in his own bed—not get stashed God knows where. Or don’t you care about that?”

Indignation blazed through her. “Don’t you dare speak to me about caring! You don’t have a clue what I’ve gone through to make a home for Sam these past few years.”

His blue eyes darkened. “And whose fault is that, Annie?”

“Yours,” she said flatly.

Their gazes clashed, and for a moment she was sure she’d gone too far, that he’d lash back.

Instead, after a taut silence, he was the first to look away. True, it was to glance pointedly around, his expression less than flattering as it encompassed the room and its furnishings before coming to rest on her face. But still, it was something.

“Come on. Be reasonable,” he said gruffly, his tone a fraction less chilly, a trifle more persuading than it had been before. “This is hardly the lap of luxury. I’ve got a steady job, and I’m making good money. Think of all the things we can do for our son if we pool our resources. Not to mention how much better it’ll be for him to have both of us watching out for him.”

For a moment she actually wavered. Not because he was making an effort to be reasonable. And not because of the money, either, although it would be a relief to have something left over at the end of the month to set aside for emergencies.

No, it was the last part of his statement that almost made her give in. Because the truth was that his presence would alleviate the constant fear she’d lived with since Sam’s birth, about who would take care of her little boy if something were to happen to her.

And then Gavin drummed his fingers against his thigh, and she noticed he was no longer wearing his wedding ring. Furthermore, given the even tan that bronzed his hand, it was obvious he hadn’t worn it for some time.

Reality crashed down on her like the sky falling. What was she thinking? It was one thing to allow him to get acquainted with Sam. It was something else entirely to let him become an integral part of her little boy’s life. Not when she had firsthand knowledge of the transitory nature of his devotion, the flexible attitude he brought to his commitments.

And not when she knew for herself how natural it was for a child to idolize a father, to wrongly take the blame when nothing ever proved to be enough for the man.

She didn’t want that for Sam.

She shook her head. “No, Gavin. It’s out of the question.”

He gave her a long, unreadable look. “Is that your final word?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it, then.” He straightened, slid his feet to the floor, reached for his boots and pulled them on. “You can’t say I didn’t give it a try. I guess I’ll see you in court.”

She was so stunned by his apparent capitulation, it took a moment for the import of that last, quietly murmured statement to penetrate. “What?”

The smile he sent her was mocking. “What did you expect, Annie? That I’d just walk away? Think again.”

Her mouth felt as if she’d swallowed a handful of dust. “What—what do you mean?”

“I mean—” he climbed to his feet, towering over her as he stamped his heels down into his boots “—that I intend to be part of my kid’s life, no matter what. If that means I have to sue you to establish my custody rights, so be it.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “But th-that’s crazy! You’d never win.”

“Why? Because I have a record?” He shook his head, a caricature of a smile still on his face. “Forget it. Besides search for you, one of the things I did this week was talk to a lawyer. According to him, the fact that I served time doesn’t automatically make me an unfit parent. As a matter of fact, in his opinion, it isn’t nearly as big a deal as your attempt to conceal my son’s existence from me. Apparently, fathers’ rights are a pretty hot issue these days.”

Her stomach plummeted toward her ankles. “You’d do that? Drag Sam through the courts? Make him a hot issue, a bone to be fought over?” She squeezed her eyes shut, recalling the endless speculation and hounding by the Denver press that had accompanied the scandal. An ugly custody battle would be sure to revive the whole mess. She felt sick at the thought of Sam becoming the focus of such relentless scrutiny.

Gavin stared coldly at her. “Not me, Annie. You. All I want is a chance to be part of the boy’s life. But if you want a fight—fine. I’ll give you that, too. Whatever it takes.”

Panic rolled through her. She felt as if she were being driven into a tight and airless corner, while he…

He looked coolly confident, as big and unyielding as one of the Rocky Mountain peaks that dominated the western horizon.

Clearly, she’d underestimated his determination.

Just as she’d overestimated her own. Not only did she not have the money for a legal battle, she simply didn’t have the stomach for it. If it were only her, she might chance it. But when it came to Sam…

The possible price was too high. Even if she knew she would win, she simply couldn’t risk her son’s security, his happiness, his opportunity to have a normal, average home life, by making him the object of that kind of bitter fight.

And what if she lost? What if she were forced to share custody, to hand Sam over to Gavin for a day, a week, a month at a time? It wasn’t that she thought Gavin would be an unfit parent; yet even if he qualified for Father of the Year, to Sam he would still be a stranger.

There was no escaping the truth. No matter how she felt, she had to do what was best for Sam. And what would be best for Sam would be for him to get to know Gavin here, in his own familiar home, where she could be on hand to help and watch over him.

But it would only work if it was done on her terms.

She took a deep breath. Without quite knowing how she got there, she found herself on her feet, needing to meet Gavin on a more equal level when she capitulated. “All right. You win. You can move in.”

A deep, savage satisfaction lit his eyes, turning them as blue as a hot summer sky. “Good.”

She smiled faintly. “On one condition.”

Suspicion hardened his features in an instant. “What’s that?”

“Where Sam’s concerned, regarding discipline, rules, setting limits, I have the final word.”

He didn’t like it, but then, she hadn’t expected him to. His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

She sighed. “Because he’s only two and a half years old. Right now, he’s testing his boundaries, and he needs consistency. I don’t want him caught between us, getting two different sets of signals.”

He thought about it. “Okay,” he said finally, then promptly imposed a condition of his own. “That’s fine…for now. As long as we can talk about it in a month or two.”

In a month or…two? Suddenly, the enormity of what she’d agreed to slammed into her full force. She was actually going to live with Gavin again. They would eat off the same set of plates and drink from the same glasses. They would share a newspaper and shower in the same tub. His clothes would mingle with hers in the hamper.

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