The Marriage Agreement. Christine Rimmer

a curse—and told himself to relax. To take it easy. Not to overreact. He had been the one who called it off.

      And until he confronted Tory and got the truth from her, he still couldn’t be sure that the dark-haired child was his. She might be a neighbor’s girl, or the daughter of a friend. She could even be Tory’s, by some other guy….

      No.

      He couldn’t believe that. She would have had to hook up with that guy too soon after Marsh had left town. She wouldn’t have done that. She had loved him too much….

      Marsh shook his head.

      She had loved him too much.

      Was that simple truth—or male ego talking?

      Damn hard to say.

      So just cool it, he told himself. Chill. Settle down.

      But there was no damn way he would leave this nice, well-to-do neighborhood now. No way he was waiting until later to call.

      He started the car again, nosed away from the curb and turned left at the corner. He parked right in front of the house. Then he got out of the car and strode up that sloping front walk.

      Tory stood at the closed door to the hall bathroom. “Kimmy?”

      “Please. I’m going to the bathroom.”

      “Well, speed it up. We have to get back to the shop. I told Lisa I would only be gone half an hour, tops.” Lisa was one of Tory’s two clerk/floral designers.

      “Mama. Can I please have a little privacy?”

      “Get a move on.”

      “I’m trying.”

      Right then the doorbell rang.

      Kim yelled, “If that’s Alicia, tell her—”

      “Just finish your business, young lady—and don’t forget to wash your hands.” Tory headed for the front door to the sound of the toilet flushing behind her.

      She came around the corner to the entryway—and saw Marsh’s face through the glass in the top of her front door.

      Oh, God.