Hot Streak

“Thank you,” Molly said, her blue-eyed gaze veiled through half-lowered lashes. His powerful body was enhanced somehow by the stark simplicity of his white shirt and navy slacks. Larger than life, striking, he resembled some modern-day pagan god.

“Your servant, ma'am,” Carey replied, the gentleness of his tone a contrast to the breadth of his shoulders, the primitive strength of his body. “I left the conference room,” he went on, his dark eyes trained on Molly, “because I caught sight of a man I'd met once at Cannes. He shouldn't have been in Minneapolis.” He hadn't moved, his stance as controlled as his quiet voice. “It's beyond his normal venue, so I panicked and came to check on Carrie.”

Molly sighed. “I don't want to know this, do I?” Too much had happened in the last few days, too much public attention and rude questioning, too much upheaval in her life. Carey had brought his world with him when he'd reentered her life, and the turmoil and adjustments were peaking today.

“Nothing happened.” His voice was reassuring, but he still hadn't moved and his posture betrayed his uneasiness.

“Was the man French? From Cannes?” A morbid curiosity overcame her fatigue and weariness. “Was he a reporter?”

“No.”

“No? That's it?”

“Allen's going to be here any minute, along with Carrie and Lucy. Could we discuss this-” he paused and half smiled “tonight?” He'd need time to explain all the intricacies of his relationship to Egon. Time to decide what to reveal and what to omit. And most of all, time to determine whether he should explain the threat to Carrie. When she didn't protest, he walked over and touched her hand where it rested, small and pale, on the chair arm. “I love you, Honeybear,” he murmured, squatting beside her chair so he could look into her eyes. “More than anything… and today's our baby's birthday. Give me a smile now, and I promise to zap all those reporters before evening for my Honeybear.”

She smiled then, despite herself. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” And he meant it. He'd given orders to his security chief: No matter how many men it took, he wanted the entire block cleared by evening. When Molly looked out the window, any window, she was not to see a single reporter.

His security chief Matt Black had said, “You know they can file assault charges if we come on too strong.”

“Let them,” Carey replied, “we'll be gone early in the morning. All I need from you is one quiet night. Do what you have to do.”

But before Molly could inquire further, Carrie and Lucy came running into the room, both dressed in party dresses.

“Mom, Mom,” Carrie excitedly exclaimed, the jonquil ribbon in her hair bobbing as she bounced from one foot to the other, “you'll never guess what happened. Some men tried to get into the apartment, but we wouldn't let them in because you've always said, ‘Never let strangers in.' And Mom, when we saw them through the peephole they were gruesome, I mean, all funny-looking like this.” She pressed her cheeks back and stretched her mouth into a grimace. “So we ran away down the backstairs and rang the burglar alarms and fire alarms. And then the police came, and then Carey came. And we never saw the bad men again, even though they came down the basement looking for us.”

Molly's fingers had tightened perceptibly over the chair arms as her daughter's recital unfolded.

“Carey told the police,” Carrie went on, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “he's got a brother-in-law-”

“Ex-brother-in-law,” Carey swiftly interjected.

Carrie took a much needed breath. “Ex-brother-in-law who likes to play jokes.”

Molly's gaze quickly swung to Carey. “Jokes?” she murmured with a cool skepticism.

“It's Egon,” Carey offered, as if the name alone was explanation.

“Connected with the man from Cannes?” Molly inquired in a tone that was a trifle too soft.

“Sort of.”

“Carey Fersten, is this dangerous?” she asked.

“No,” he quickly replied, his glance sliding sideways toward the girls.

“The policemen shook hands with Carey-er-Daddy,” his daughter amended with a smile, “afterward. They know his wife.”

“Ex-wife,” he carefully amended.

“And everyone was friends,” Lucy added.

Molly's eyebrows rose. “How nice.”

“Look-” Carey began to say, only to be interrupted by a crashing sound from the vicinity of the hallway.

Allen stood holding two packages while the remainder of those he'd been carrying were scattered in colorful disarray at his feet.

“For me!” Carrie squealed.

At which point Jess came puffing up the stairs from the garden entrance ladened with more presents.

“Mom, Mom! Look at all my presents!” Carrie danced and hopped in delight, her eyes filled with joy. “Wow, wow, wow, wow!”

It was impossible not to share in her daughter's elation, impossible not to marvel at the pride and doting affection in Carey's expression. After all the years of Bart's blatant indifference as a father, a warm pleasure filled her heart. Maybe the reporters weren't so far wrong when they chose bizarre terms like love nest and love child. Carrie was their love child, conceived in love and adored. And with Carey in her home, busy with the girls and Allen and Jess in picking up the packages, his teasing making the girls giggle and laugh, maybe it was a love nest, indeed.

And a second later he was beside her, reaching for her hands and pulling her up from her chair into the curve of his arm. “I'll never be able to thank you enough for giving me Carrie,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her cheek, “if I live into the fifth millennium.”

“I'm happy you're her father,” Molly said, lacing her arm around his waist.

“Not as much as I,” Carey murmured, feeling complete and whole for the first time in his life.

“Can I open them now?” Carrie screamed, disturbing her parents' idyllic moment. Carey turned with an immediate, “Yes,” while Molly simultaneously answered, “After you blow out your candles.”

“Yes, after you blow out your candles,” Carey amended with a wide smile. “Now let's get this special nine- year-old's birthday show on the road.” With a quick squeeze he released Molly. “Come on, Mom, our birthday girl's impatient.”

Allen and Jess politely attempted to excuse themselves in the event they were intruding, but were coaxed to stay. The candles were lit on the cake, Happy Birthday was sung with boisterous cheer, and nine candles were blown out with a pinch to grow an inch.

After a consenting nod from her mother, wrappings were feverishly torn off and Carrie squealed, oohed, and aahed as she opened her presents. Carey had been calling orders into New York for days, not to mention the shopping he'd had Allen handle for him here in town. She received enough frilly dresses and play clothes to open a store, red cowboy boots with her initials embossed on the sides, a string of miniature pearls and tiny pearl earrings in an unusual golden shade (to match her hair, her dad smilingly remarked). There was also a baby doll from France with real hair, complete with doll wardrobe in its own matched set of Hermиs luggage.

“Are you too grown up for baby dolls?” Carey inquired with an indulgent smile.

“Nope,” Carrie replied, cradling the lifelike doll against her flushed cheek. “I've always wanted a brother or sister.”

The portable compact disc machine with earphones was greeted with an ecstatic cry of delight, and the carrying case with a dozen discs was quickly perused. “How did you know all the cool bands, Dad?” Carrie asked.

“Even us old folks know one or two hot tunes, sweetheart,” Carey replied, his hand covering Molly's on the lace-covered table, his dark eyes filled with delight. Last week he'd controlled his impulse to bring in a band from L.A. for her birthday, knowing Molly preferred a smaller celebration.

Molly had bought Carrie the canopy bed she'd always wanted, complete with ruffled buttercup-yellow bedcover. She'd slipped a picture of it into a card saying: Delivery tomorrow, Happy Birthday from Mom.

“Oh, Mom!” The swoon in her voice was reflected in her expression. “Thanks, thanks, thanks. It's exactly the