Since he’d moved in, she’d seen him only a handful of times, usually on his way to his car early in the morning or returning to the house late in the evening. She never saw him do anything mundane, like mow his grass or take out his garbage. He had a gardener for the former, and as for the latter, Claire doubted that he ate or did very much living at home. Disposal of garbage might be a moot point—he probably didn’t have any.
Placing an anchoring hand on Libby’s shoulder, Claire held her in place. “What do you mean, ‘help’?”
Claire couldn’t visualize Mr. Quartermain asking for any, much less asking it of her or using Libby as a messenger. Libby didn’t lie, but something wasn’t right here.
Impatience hummed through the tiny body. “I asked him, and he said he needs help, lots of it.”
Maybe she was being hasty in dismissing Libby’s story. “Is anything wrong?”
Slight shoulders lifted and fell in an exaggerated shrug that seemed so natural for the young. “He stole a baby.”
Claire’s eyes were as huge as Libby’s had been. “He did what?”
All innocence, Libby recited, “I think he stole a baby. He said it wasn’t his and he needed help with it.” With her fingers wrapped firmly around her mother’s hand, Libby was already dragging Claire out of the house. “C’mon, Mama, you help better than anyone.”
“You’re prejudiced, but keep talking. I need the flattery.”
Libby liked it when Mama used big words when she talked to her. It meant she was almost all grown up, like Mama. “What’s that mean? Pre-joo-dish?”
“Something I’ll explain to you when we have more time.” Right now, she had to investigate Libby’s story. Claire had to admit, curiosity was getting the better of her. Otherwise, she would have never entertained the thought of just paying Evan Quartermain a “neighborly” visit. Not when he definitely wasn’t.
As it turned out, she didn’t have to go far to satisfy her curiosity. Evan was still trying to open the front door while wrestling with a car seat and an animated baby sitting in same.
“You’re right—he does have a baby.” Claire’s surprise could have been measured on the Richter scale. Maybe he was divorced, she thought. And his ex-wife unexpectedly had to leave town. That would explain the sudden appearance of the baby, as well as his distraught expression.
“I told you, Mama.” Now that she was certain her mother was coming, Libby released Claire’s hand and made a dash for Evan’s front door.
He had the kind of reflexes that had made his college fencing master proud, but Evan was still having trouble getting his key in the lock without dropping the baby.
“See?” Libby announced proudly, planting herself in front of Evan. “I brought help!”
Evan blew out a breath, then turned to put the baby down on the step, ready to warn Libby to keep her distance.
“I don’t—” His words vanished as he found himself looking into the very amused, very bemused eyes of the woman next door.
The chatterbox’s mother.
Recognition was a delayed reaction. She didn’t exactly look like a mother. Barefoot and in black shorts despite the autumn bite to the weather, the petite blonde looked more like the girl’s older sister than her mother. Didn’t mothers usually look a little worn, a little frayed around the edges? If anyone had a right to that look, she certainly did, given that she was Libby’s mother.
But this woman was fine, and the look in her eyes was sheer amusement At his expense. “Can I help you?” he asked coolly.
He’d all but snapped the words out at her. No doubt about it, the man was not a contender for the Mr. Congeniality award, baby or no baby in his arms. But Claire had to struggle to hold off an attack of the giggles. She doubted if she had ever seen anyone look more uncomfortable than he did. He was holding the baby practically at arm’s length, as if he feared any closer contact would make one of them self-destruct.
He didn’t like babies very much, she judged. For her part, Claire was a sucker for them, always had been. She loved the scent of them, the feel. She longed to take the baby in her arms, but refrained. No use getting worked up and mushy. After all, it wasn’t like it was her baby.
“No,” she finally answered, “but I think I can help you.”
He almost said Thank God out loud as he held out the car seat to her. But she took his keys instead and, with a minimum of fuss, unlocked the door for him.
With a sigh, he entered, still holding the car seat as if he expected the baby to begin throwing up with an eighteeninch projectile.
When he turned around, he narrowly avoided hitting Claire with the baby seat, but she managed to jump back in time. She nodded at the baby, seeing the resemblance. “I take it that’s your daughter?” She ignored Libby tugging urgently on her sweater, knowing a contradiction hovered on the girl’s lips.
Evan really didn’t feel like discussing his problem with this woman. He wasn’t even going to answer, then finally said, “Supposedly.”
“‘Supposedly’?” she echoed, stunned, taking another look at the fussing child. The baby certainly looked like him, right down to the wave in her hair. Just look at all that hair, she thought, longing to curl her fingers through it. She raised her eyes to Evan. This wasn’t making any sense. “Who’s the mother?”
Instead of answering, he turned his back on her, setting the baby seat down on the first available flat surface, the top of the two-tier bookcase.
“I don’t know.” As far as he knew, the child couldn’t be his. He’d always used precautions.
It took very little imagination on Claire’s part for her to see the baby seat plummeting from its perch. Was he crazy? She picked it up and thrust it back into his hands.
“If you’re not careful, she’ll fall off. And what do you mean, you don’t know?” How did he get this baby, then?
“Just what I said.” Evan stared at her, surprised, as his arms were suddenly filled with baby again. He saw where Libby got her pushiness from. “She was just left, on my doorstep, so to speak—actually, on my secretary’s desk at the office.”
He looked at his watch again. Damn it, time was growing short. Desperate—that was the only word to describe his mood—he decided to take a chance. “Look, are you any good with kids?”
Claire ran her hand along the waves and curls of her daughter’s hair, hair that was no mean feat to comb in the morning. “I haven’t broken the one I have.”
If that was a joke, he didn’t have time for humor. “Great. How would you like to earn some extra money?”
She frowned. Normally, she’d tell him what he could do with his money. Spend it on his “supposed” daughter. But this past month had been rough, and Claire was in no position to turn down work that fell into her lap. Any reasonable work, she amended for her own sake.
“Just what did you have in mind?”
There was amusement in her eyes. He didn’t have the luxury of being able to take offense.