Simply Irresistible

“But, Mommy. I can’t play with Amy for a week ‘cause we cut the hair off my Birthday Surprise Barbie, remember?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

The bottoms of Lexie’s pink cowboy boots dragged across the peach carpet as she moved toward the door. “I think Amy gots a cold,” she said.

Georgeanne, who normally kept her daughter as far away from germs as possible, recognized Lexie’s ploy for what it was: a blatant attempt to stay and eavesdrop on adult conversation. “It’s okay this one time.”

When Lexie reached the entryway she looked over her shoulder at John. “‘Bye, Mr. Wall.”

John stared at her for several drawn-out moments before a slight smile curved his mouth. “See ya, kid.”

Lexie turned her attention to her mother and, out of habit, puckered her lips.

Georgeanne kissed her and came away with the taste of Cherry Lip Smackers. “Come home in about an hour, okay?”

Lexie nodded, then walked through the door and down the two front steps. One end of her green boa dragged behind her as she strolled down the sidewalk. At the curb, she stopped, looked both ways, then dashed across the street. Georgeanne stood in the doorway and watched until Lexie entered the neighbor’s house. For a few precious seconds she avoided the confrontation ahead of her, then she took a deep breath, stepped back, and closed the door.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me about her?”

He couldn’t know. Not for certain. “Tell you what?”

“Don’t jerk me around, Georgeanne,” he warned, his scowl as stormy as a funnel cloud. “Why didn’t you tell me about Lexie a long time ago?”

She could deny it, of course. She could lie and tell him that Lexie wasn’t his child. He might believe her and leave them alone. But the stubborn set of his jaw, and the fire in his eyes, told her he wouldn’t believe her. Leaning back against the wall behind her, she folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Why would I?” she asked, unwilling to just come right out and admit everything up front.

He pointed a finger at the house across the street. “That little girl is mine,” he said. “Don’t deny it. Don’t force me to prove paternity because I will.”

A paternity test would only confirm his claim.

Georgeanne didn’t see any point in denying anything. The best she could hope for was to answer his questions and get him out of her house and, hopefully, her life. “What do you want?”

“Tell me the truth. I want to hear you say it.”

“Fine.” She shrugged, trying to appear composed, as if her admission cost her nothing. “Lexie is your biological child.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Jesus,” he whispered. “How?”

“The usual way,” she answered dryly. “I would have thought that a man of your experience would know how babies are made.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You told me you were on birth control.”

“I was.” Only apparently not long enough. “Nothing is one hundred percent.”

“Why, Georgeanne?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you tell me seven years ago?”

She shrugged again. “It was none of your business.”

“What?” he asked, incredulous, staring at her as if he couldn’t quite believe what she’d just said to him. “None of my business?”

“No.”

His hands fisted at his sides and he took several steps toward her. “You have my child, and yet you don’t think it’s my business?” He stopped less than a foot in front of her and frowned down into her face.

Even though he was a lot bigger than she was, she looked up at him unafraid. “Seven years ago I made a decision I thought was best. I still think so. And anyway, there is nothing that can be done about it now.”

One dark brow lifted up his forehead. “Really?”

“Yes. It’s too late. Lexie doesn’t know you. It’s best if you just leave and never see her again.”

He planted both of his palms on the wall beside her head. “If you believe that’s going to happen, then you’re not a very bright girl.”

She might not be afraid of John, but being so close to him was very intimidating. His wide chest and thick arms made her feel as if she were completely surrounded by testosterone and hard muscles. The smell of soap on his skin and the hint of aftershave clogged her senses. “I’m not a girl,” she said, lowering her arms to her sides. “Seven years ago I may have been very immature, but that isn’t the case any longer. I’ve changed.”

His eyes lowered deliberately, and his grin wasn’t very nice when he said, “From what I can see, you haven’t changed all that much. You still look like a real good time.”

Georgeanne fought the urge to deck him. She glanced down at herself and felt heat rush up her throat to her cheeks. The edges of her big green robe lay open to the belted waist, exposing an embarrassing amount of cleavage and the entire top of her right breast. Horrified, she quickly grabbed the edges and closed the robe.

“Leave it,” John advised. “Seeing you like that just might put me in a more forgiving mood.”

“I don’t want your forgiveness,” she said as she ducked beneath his arm. “I’m getting dressed. I think you should leave.”

“I’ll be right here,” John promised as he turned and watched her hurry down the hall. His gaze narrowed as he noticed the sway of her hips and the bottom of her robe flutter around her bare ankles. He wanted to kill her.

Moving across the living room, he pushed aside a prissy lace curtain and stared out the front window. He had a child. A daughter he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. Until the moment Georgeanne had confirmed his suspicions, he hadn’t been completely certain Lexie was his. Now he knew, and the thought of it burned a hole in his chest.

His daughter. He fought a strong urge to march across the street and bring Lexie back. He wanted to just sit and look at her. He wanted to watch her and listen to her little voice. He wanted to touch her, but he knew he wouldn’t. Earlier, he’d felt big and awkward sitting next to her, a big man who sent vulcanized rubber pucks hurling across the ice at ninety-six miles an hour and who used his body as a human steamroller.

His daughter. He had a child. His child. He felt his anger swell, and he pushed it back behind the rigid control he kept on his temper.

John turned and walked to the brick fireplace. Spread across the mantel was a series of photographs in a variety of frames. In the first, a baby girl sat on a stool with the bottom edge of her T-shirt tucked beneath her chin while she found her belly button with her chubby index finger. He studied the picture, then turned his attention to the other photos illustrating various stages of Lexie’s life.

Fascinated by the likeness of his little girl, he reached for a small picture of a toddler with big blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Her dark hair stood straight up on the top of her head like a feather duster, and her little lips were pursed as if she were about to give the photographer a kiss.

A door down the hall opened and closed. He slipped the thin-framed photograph into his pocket, then turned and waited for Georgeanne to appear. When she entered the room, he noticed that she’d pulled her hair back into a slick ponytail and had dressed in a white summer sweater. A gauzy skirt hung down to her ankles and clung to her long legs. She wore little white sandals with straps that crisscrossed up her calves. Her toenails were painted a dark purple.

“Would you care for some iced tea?” she asked as she came to stand in the middle of the room.

Under the circumstances, her hospitality surprised him. “No. No iced tea,” he said, lifting his gaze to her face. He had a lot of questions he needed answered.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” she offered, and swept her hand toward a white wicker chair covered in fluffy, frilly cushions.

“I’d rather stand.”

“Well, I’d rather not have to look up at you. Either we sit down and discuss this, or we don’t discuss it at all.”