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“Game?” Rosemary’s stomach flipped.

Another one of her rehearsed answers stuck in her throat. She’d made a promise not to tell Morgan Pierce about Tommy’s mother. Not until she was sure the notorious playboy was suitable to raise the baby.

As they sat on the couch, Tommy razzed his lips, spraying spittle onto her cheek. She smiled and wiped off the moisture, kissing him.

“True, there’s no reason for you to trust me right off the bat,” she said. “But I’ve got to know if you want your son to be a part of your life. His mother isn’t interested in child support or money. She wants your time.”

Morgan’s clear green eyes darkened, rivaling the black of his hair. His daredevil body, so tall and intimidating, went on alert, rough muscles clenching, wide shoulders hunching forward protectively. “She doesn’t want money? Sure."

“It’s true.” She settled a restless Tommy onto her lap. “I need to know how you feel about being a father before Tommy’s mom comes into it. Please. You have to believe me.”

Boy, she was quaking all over; she had been since Morgan had opened his door to allow them inside. A perma-blush had swallowed her right up, beating over her skin with the cadence of an army marching toward a lost cause.

He speared a gaze into her. “I’m not a patsy.”

“I can tell.”

In a burst of excellent timing, Tommy let out an “aaahhhh!” Morgan’s eyes lost their fire, slipped down to the baby on her lap, softened. So did Rosemary’s heart.

“How old is he?”

“Just over six months.” Rosemary held on tightly as Tommy leaned toward Morgan. “He’s sort of crawling now, pushing himself like a frog through water. And the other day he made this funny new face. He looked like W. C. Fields.”

“Six months.” He was obviously doing some mental arithmetic. “The summer before last.”

Rosemary held her breath, poised for him to remember. “That’s right.”

Morgan shrugged, tore his glance away from Tommy. “I did a lot of traveling back then.”

“I understand.” She’d known that this man had built a reputation on driving fast European cars and even faster women. He’d partied on Mediterranean yachts and in Swiss chalets. That’s what worried her.

“South Beach, Florida,” she said. “That’s where you met Tommy’s mother.”

The baby squealed again in a bid for Morgan’s attention. He got it.

Morgan’s gaze had gone misty, troubled. “How’s his mom doing?”

“Very well.” Rosemary took strength from images of Charise, her coworker at Darla’s Beauty Shop in Kane’s Crossing. Her friend had convinced her to come to Remington. Even though Rosemary had been wary at first, Charise had come up with the best plan they could think of.

After taking a fortifying breath, she added, “She’d do better if Tommy grew up with a daddy, though.”

The baby held out his arms to Morgan. The rugged man glanced at Rosemary in surprise.

“Do you want to hold him?” she asked.

“Ah, sure. I guess.”

Morgan inched toward her, and Rosemary handed Tommy over. She couldn’t help crossing her arms to chase away the emptiness.

The child seemed so small in such huge hands, against such a massive chest. Morgan held him like wedding china, obviously afraid Tommy would break.

“So,” Morgan smiled at her, as if he was amazed that he hadn’t dropped Tommy yet, “not to be ornery, but how can his mother be sure that he’s my son?”

Rosemary compared their black, ruffled hair, their green eyes.

There was no question.

But how could she tell Morgan that, genetics aside, if she decided the playboy wasn’t fit to be a dad, she would go to extremes to protect Tommy?




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