“No.” There was no smile, no self-effacing shrug to soften the denial.
What if he was a kidnapper, after all? Maybe he was in the middle of a nasty custody battle with the child’s mother. It happened. You read about it all the time. What had she gotten herself into? Lana looked at his hands. He was wearing a plain gold wedding band. He caught her looking at him. Followed the path of her gaze. Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face.
“My mom’s been taking care of him. She fell and fractured her ankle yesterday putting up curtains in the nursery. She had to have surgery on it. She’s going to be laid up for at least six weeks.”
“Where’s the baby’s mother? Where’s your wife?” Lana asked, whispering to avoid upsetting the baby.
Dylan Van Zandt didn’t meet her eyes. He looked past her at something or someone she couldn’t see. His eyes were storm-cloud gray, she saw, bleak as the hill-country sky after a December rain. “She’s dead,” he said, not a trace of emotion evident in his words or his voice. “She died two months ago. Ten days after our son was born.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE SHOULDN’T HAVE blurted it out that way. Her eyes were as big as saucers. Her grip on Greg tightened perceptibly. For a moment he thought she was going to turn and run, taking his son with her. He saw the thought flash behind her green-gold eyes, then vanish as quickly as it came.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I…I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing you can say.” She had guts, he’d give her that. Climbing that dark stairway, confronting him with nothing but a baseball bat. He could have been some criminal. A kidnapper, a drug dealer—a wife killer.
“How did it happen?” she asked. The baby squirmed against her shoulder, as though trying to get closer. She laid her cheek against the top of his fuzzy head and swayed gently the way Dylan had seen his mother do. Greg quit squirming, and his cries trailed off to whimpers. When he didn’t answer right away she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be asking such a personal question.”
Dylan raked a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. It was a car accident. She was on her way to the hospital to visit Greg.” And to get away from me. Best leave that thought unspoken. Technically he’d been miles away when the accident occurred, but in a way he had killed Jessie, with his accusations and his lack of trust.
“How terrible.” The baby stiffened and began to howl again. “Poor little tyke.”
“Is he hungry? Would a bottle help?” He had no idea what it was the scrap of humanity he called his son wanted.
She shook her head, moved to the table and set Greg in his carrier. She took one little foot in each hand and stretched his legs out, then pushed them back against his body. She kept doing that, stretching and bending, and after a minute or so his son quit crying. He gave a hiccuping burp, answered with the same sound from his diapered end. A blissful look came over his pinched features. “Now you feel better, don’t you, little one.” She held out her hand, and Greg grabbed on to her finger as though he’d never let go. “Got rid of all that nasty gas. Yes, that’s better. I’ll bet you’re hungry, too, aren’t you, Greggy?” She looked at Dylan and almost smiled. “You did call him Greg, didn’t you?”
“Yes. He’s named for his uncle. My best friend. I…I have a bottle all ready to go.” Dylan rushed to the fridge, afraid if he hesitated Greg would start crying again. He put the small bottle of special formula in the microwave, remembering to take the nipple off. He hadn’t last night, and it had melted enough to clog the hole. Greg hadn’t been able to get anything to eat, and he’d worked himself into a frenzy before Dylan figured out what was wrong and got a new nipple. “It’ll be ready in a minute. He eats every two hours, around the clock. If he’s not screaming to beat the band, that is.”
“Such a little tummy,” Lana crooned, tickling his son there. Her hair, the color of cinnamon and nutmeg, brushed against her cheek, soft and shining. He liked the way she wore it smooth and simply cut. Her makeup was simple, too, lipstick and a little mascara, not much more. Her skin was peaches and cream, she had a nice body. He wouldn’t have been a man if he hadn’t noticed that right off. Her breasts pushed against the silky apple-green blouse she wore. Her waist was small, her hips rounded. Her voice softened, the crisp boarding-school accent she’d used before melting away into the softened vowels and dropped gs of a native Texan. “It has to be filled so you get big and strong. Then your daddy will start callin’ you Bubba and hopin’ for football scholarships to come wing-in’ your way.”
Dylan set his jaw. That’s exactly what he had fantasized when Jessie first told him she was pregnant, back when he had no doubts at all that Greg was his child. But no more. Now it was hard for him to say the words my son. He thrust the bottle at her. “Here’s his formula.”
“Don’t you want to feed him?”
“Do you want him to start crying again?”
If she was startled by the harshness in his voice, she didn’t show it. “You really are new at this, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never had anything to do with a baby this small. I’ve got two nieces and two nephews, but they were big strapping Bubba babies.” He tried for a smile and hoped he got it on straight.
“This one’s no different.” She took the bottle, then set it on the table. She picked Greg up and handed him over.
“Here, take him. Show me your stuff.”
“What?”
“Show me how you feed him.”
“I…” What the hell did she think she was doing? She had no business ordering him around like this. He was about to tell her so when he thought better of it. Greg was his sole responsibility, at least until his mom was up and around again. He set his jaw and did as she demanded, feeling big and clumsy and self-conscious. Greg stiffened as soon as Dylan touched him. His eyes snapped shut, and his face puckered into a scowl. “He’s going to start crying again.”
Lana sighed. “Here, let me show you. Like this. Loosen up.” She touched his arm lightly. He felt the warmth of her fingers through the sleeve of his shirt, felt the connection all the way to the marrow of his bones.
“I’ll drop him.” She didn’t seem to be affected by the contact.
“No, you won’t. Just pretend he’s a football and you’re a running back.”
Automatically he shifted Greg lower into the crook of his arm, curled his hand around his bottom, cradled his head. Lana laughed, a bright melodious sound that warmed his soul the way her touch had warmed his skin. Jessie had never laughed like that, at least not for a long, long time. “That’s better. I was right. You were a running back, weren’t you?”
He grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “A real hotshot on my high school team, but never better than second string in college.”
Greg started sucking on his fist. “He’s hungry. What football metaphor can you come up with to help me out there?”
“Don’t try and get the whole ten yards in one carry.” She handed him the bottle.
“What do you mean by that?”
She smiled again. “Don’t let him drink too fast. And bubble him when the bottle’s half empty, whether he wants to stop sucking or not.”
“You are good at this,” he said, relaxing a little. “How about giving me a few more lessons?” It was the depth of his need to get a handle on this baby-raising that prompted him to make such an outrageous request.
“I…”
“I’ll pay you.”
“Certainly not.”
He wished he’d kept his damned mouth