She was ballsy. John didn’t remember that about her. The Georgeanne he remembered was a chatty tease. “Fine,” he said, and sat on the couch rather than the chair he didn’t trust to hold him. “What have you told Lexie about me?”
She took the wicker chair. “Why, nothing,” she drawled with her Texas accent not quite as heavy as he remembered.
“She has never asked about her father?”
“Oh, that.” Georgeanne sat back on the floral cushions and crossed one leg over the other. “She thinks you died when she was a baby.”
John was irritated by her answer, but he wasn’t surprised. “Really? How did I die?”
“Your F-16 was shot down over Iraq.”
“During the Gulf War?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “You were a very brave soldier. When Uncle Sam called for the finest fighter pilots, he phoned you first.”
“I’m Canadian.”
She shrugged. “Anthony was a Texan.”
“Anthony? Who the hell is Anthony?”
“You are. I made you up. I’ve always liked the name Tony for a man.”
Not only had she lied about his auspicious demise and his occupation, but she’d changed his name as well. John felt this temper flare, and he leaned forward and placed his forearms on his knees. “What about pictures of this nonexistent man? Has Lexie asked to see pictures?”
“Of course. But all the pictures of you were burned up in a house fire.”
“How unfortunate.” He frowned.
Her smile brightened. “Isn’t it, though?”
Seeing her smile tugged at his anger. “What happens when she finds out that your maiden name is Howard? She’ll know you lied.”
“By then she’ll probably be in her teens. I’ll confess that Tony and I were never actually married, although we were very much in love.”
“You have it all worked out then.”
“Yes.”
“Why all the lies? Did you think I wouldn’t help you?”
Georgeanne looked in his eyes for a few moments before she said, “Frankly, John, I didn’t think you would want to know or that you would care. I didn’t know you and you didn’t know me. But you did make your feelings for me abundantly clear the morning you dumped me at the airport without a backward glance.”
John didn’t quite remember things that way. “I bought you a ticket home.”
“You didn’t bother to ask me if I wanted to go home.”
“I did you a favor.”
“You did yourself a favor.” Georgeanne looked down at her lap and gathered the gauzy material between her fingers. So much time had passed that remembering that day shouldn’t have had the power to hurt, but it did. “You couldn’t get rid of me fast enough. We had sex that one night and then-”
“We had a lot of sex that one night,” he interrupted. “A lot of down-and-dirty, no-holds-barred, hot, sweaty sex.”
Georgeanne’s fingers stilled and she glanced up him. For the first time she noticed the fire in his eyes. He was angry and trying his best to antagonize her. Georgeanne couldn’t allow herself to be baited, not when she needed to remain calm and keep her head clear. “If you say so.”
“I know so, and so do you.” He leaned forward a little and said slowly, “Then because I didn’t declare undying love the next morning, you kept my child from me. You got back at me real good, didn’t you?”
“My decision had nothing to do with retaliation.” Georgeanne thought back on the day she’d realized that she was pregnant. After she’d recovered from the shock and fear, she’d felt blessed. She’d felt as if she’d been given a gift. Lexie was the only family that Georgeanne had, and she wasn’t willing to share her daughter. Not even with John. Especially not John. “Lexie is mine.”
“You weren’t alone in my bed that night, Georgeanne,” John said as he stood. “If you think I’m going to walk away now that I’ve found out about her, then you’re crazy.”
Georgeanne rose also. “I expect you to leave and forget about us.”
“You’re dreaming. Either we come to an agreement we both can live with, or I’ll have my lawyer contact you.”
He was bluffing. He had to be. John Kowalsky was a sports figure. A hockey star. “I don’t believe you. I don’t think you really want people to know about Lexie. That kind of publicity could potentially harm your image.”
“You’re wrong. I don’t give a good goddamn about publicity,” he said as he came to stand very close to her. “I’m not exactly a poster boy for the Moral Majority, so I doubt one little girl could do any damage to my less-than- clean image.” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. “I’m leaving town tomorrow afternoon, but I’ll be back by Wednesday.” He pulled out a business card. “Call the bottom number on the card. I never answer the phone, even if I’m at home. My answering machine will pick up, so leave a message, and I’ll get right back to you. I’m also giving you my address,” he said as he wrote on the back, then he took her hand in his and placed the pen and business card in her palm. “If you don’t want to call me, write. Either way, if I don’t hear from you by Thursday, one of my lawyers will contact you Friday.”
Georgeanne stared down at the card in her hand. His name had been printed in bold black letters. Beneath his name three different telephone numbers were listed. On the back of the card, he’d written his address. “Forget about Lexie. I won’t share her with you.”
“Call by Thursday,” he warned, and then he was gone.
John shifted his forest green Range Rover into high gear and merged onto the 405. Wind from the open window ruffled the sides of his hair but did little to cool his chaotic mind. He flexed the cramps from his fingers, then eased his grip on the steering wheel.
Lexie. His daughter. A little six-year-old who wore more makeup than Tammy Faye Bakker and who wanted a cat, a dog, and pig. He lifted his right hip and reached into his back pocket. Retrieving the picture of Lexie he’d stolen, he propped it on the dashboard. Her big blue eyes stared back at him above her puckered pink lips. He thought of the kiss she’d given her mother, then he returned his gaze to the road.
Whenever he’d thought of having a child, he’d thought of a boy. He didn’t know why. Maybe because of Toby, the son he’d lost, but he’d always pictured himself the father of a rowdy boy. He’d imagined junior league hockey games, cap pistols, and Tonka trucks. He’d always envisioned dirty fingernails, holey jeans, and scabby knees.
What did he know of little girls? What did little girls do?
He stole another glance at the photograph as he drove the Range Rover across the 520. Little girls wore green boas and pink cowboy boots and cut the hair off their Barbies. A little girl chattered and giggled and kissed her mother good-bye with sweetly pursed lips.
He’d missed so much. He’d missed her birth, her first steps, and her first words. She was a part of him. The same genes and chromosomes that made him were a part of her. She was a part of his family, and he’d had a right to know about her. Yet Georgeanne had decided that he hadn’t needed to know, and he could not separate the bitterness of that deed from the person responsible. Georgeanne had made the decision to keep his child’s existence from him, and he knew that he could never forgive her. For the first time in several years, he craved a bottle of Crown Royal, one shot glass, no ice to pollute the smooth whiskey. He blamed Georgeanne for the craving, because almost as much as he hated what she’d done, he hated what she made him feel.
How could he want to place his hands around her throat and squeeze, yet at the same time want to slip his hands lower and fill his palms with her breasts? Harsh laughter rumbled within his chest. When he’d had her against the wall, he was surprised that she hadn’t noticed his physical reaction. A reaction he’d been unable to control.
Where Georgeanne was concerned, he obviously had no control over his body. Seven years ago he hadn’t
