Janet Evanovich - Thanksgiving

The moment Pat opened the door and saw Megan, he knew he was a goner. Everything about her seemed softened. The flame – red hair was now burnished copper, the ivory skin more golden. She wore a black vest that laced down the front and the scoop – necked, shirred white blouse of a colonial working girl. The costume enhanced the elegant slope of her neck and shoulders and the luscious swell of her breasts.

He’d liked the way she looked in his kitchen, but he was overwhelmed by the sight of her in his rocking chair. She was the most provocative creature he’d ever encountered. Patrick, he warned himself, she’s not the sort to mess with. This was a woman with strong convictions, intense emotions, and morals. Dammit. She had “hands off” written all over her.

He walked over to her and pushed a long, silky strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to continue touching her until his hands had memorized every square inch of satiny skin.

She looked at him drowsily. “I think my arm is dead.”

“Your arm?” he said thickly.

“From holding the baby. I can’t feel my fingers any more.”

Pat dragged himself back to reality. Here he was, ready to do the caveman thing and drag her off to bed, and she was pinned to the chair by a twenty – two – pound baby. He was losing it. His elevator wasn’t going all the way to the top these days. Residency had been too long. He was suffering from social deprivation. He carefully took the baby from her and laid him down on the plump two – cushion couch that served as a room divider.

Megan stood and stretched, rubbing life back into her arm. “Did you find Tilly?”

“No. Her apartment was locked, and she didn’t list any relatives on her medical history. I’ve talked to her neighbors, been to the train station, the bus station, called the airport. She’s vanished.” Pat set a paper bag on the floor by the fireplace. “I brought us some burgers.”

He stoked the embers and added an armful of logs while Megan arranged the fries and shakes and cheeseburgers on the huge brick hearth.

“I can’t believe she did this,” he said. “She seemed like such a nice kid, and I know she loves this baby.”

Megan sat Indian fashion on a red braid rug and took a bite of her cheeseburger. “She must have been desperate.”

“No one should ever be that desperate,” he said angrily. “This kid is going to become a ward of the state. What the hell was she thinking?”

Megan swallowed, but the cheeseburger felt stuck in her throat. “What do you mean, he’ll become a ward of the state? Tilly said she’d only be gone a couple of weeks.”

“I can’t keep this child. I have to turn him over to the authorities.”

“Why? Why?”

Oh, boy, Pat thought. He’d seen that look before. It happened shortly after childbirth. As a pediatrician he had a healthy respect for the protective instincts accompanying motherhood, and after two hours of exposure to Timmy Coogan, Megan had obviously caught adoptive hormonal maternalitis. He suspected his chances of prying the kid away from her were zip. He chewed his French fries while he weighed his options.

“He’s just a baby, for goodness’ sake,” she argued. “It isn’t as if we found him sleeping in a dumpster. Tilly asked us to take care of him for a little while.”

“Us?”

“You. You have to take care of him.”

He lounged back on one elbow. “She thought we were married.”

Megan felt the blush rise up her neck. The tone of his voice made her uncomfortable. It was a bedroom voice, velvet – edged and suggestive. She slurped her chocolate milk shake and wondered what she was getting into. Patrick Hunter looked like the wolf about to eat the gingerbread man.

“Forget it,” she said. “This is one gingerbread man who’s going to make it to old age.”

“You want to run that by me again?”

She stuffed her empty wrappers into the bag. “No. It would be embarrassing. I’m going home.”

He followed her to the kitchen. “Hold on. You can’t leave me alone with the baby.”

“Sure, I can.”

“I’ll turn him over to the state.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“I have no choice. I work all day. What would I do with him?”

“You could get a baby – sitter.”

Gotcha, Pat thought. He’d gotten her back in his kitchen. Back in his rocking chair. And who knew where they’d go from the rocking chair?

“Okay. I’ll let you baby – sit, but only if you agree to have supper with us every night. I think it’s important for a family to be together at the dinner table.”

Megan smiled triumphantly and wrapped her cape around her shoulders. “Deal!”

She whisked out the front door and headed for her car, parked by Merchants Square. She’d walked less than a block when she stopped short and gasped. Patrick Hunter had manipulated her! That no – good, irresistible skunk had wheedled her into taking care of the baby!

Megan opened one eye and squinted at the clock radio. Five – thirty in the morning, and some lunatic was pounding on her front door. She dragged herself out of bed and looked out her bedroom window. She was right. It was a lunatic. It was Patrick Hunter. She opened her window and yelled down at him. “If you want to live you’ll stop pounding on my front door.”

“Cranky in the morning, huh? I know how to fix that.”

She might be cranky, but she wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what he meant, and she was going to ignore it. “What are you doing here?”

He held up a blue plaid bundle for her inspection. “The baby.”

“It’s five – thirty in the morning!”

“I have to be at the hospital by six.”

Megan blinked, nodded, and slammed the window shut. She shuffled into a pair of big blue furry slippers and halfheartedly slid a blue velour robe over her long silk nightgown.

“Hospital by six,” she mumbled as she scuffed down the stairs. She flicked the light on in the foyer and unlatched the front door. “I’m not a morning person,” she explained to Pat.

He handed her the sleeping baby and retrieved two grocery bags from his car. “That was before motherhood, Mrs. Hunter.”

Mrs. Hunter, she thought. Very funny. She awkwardly held the baby in front of her as she headed for the kitchen. “I don’t remember how to hold him.”

Pat followed her. “You act like you’ve never seen a baby before.”

“Not up close. I was an only child. I was spoiled and pampered and never exposed to the sordid aspects of life… like drool and baby poo.”

He set a pile of baby clothes on the counter, deposited a gallon of milk in the refrigerator, stacked up a few jars of baby food, and slapped a hastily scribbled note on the kitchen table.

“I’ve jotted down a few helpful hints. And just in case life gets sordid…” He took a huge box of disposable diapers from the second bag and set it on the floor.

She closed her eyes and thought of an appropriate expletive. “I don’t know how to do this,” she wailed. “I can’t change a diaper!”

Pat unwrapped the baby and spread the blue plaid blanket on the floor. He removed Tim’s heavy sweater and knitted hat, leaving him in yellow terry – cloth pajamas, and sat him in the middle of the blanket. Then he rummaged through the kitchen drawers, finding two wooden spoons, a plastic measuring cup, and a medium – size saucepan. “Toys,” he told Megan, placing them on the blanket with Tim. “If you have any problems, my office number is on the paper.”

“How did you find me?”

“My receptionist. She’s lived here all her life and knows everything about everyone.”

“Did she tell you I have a job? What about my job? How am I supposed to work?”

“You only work on weekends. Today is Monday.”

“Wrong. Being a visitors’ aide is a weekend job. I’m just doing that temporarily to make money. My real job is-”

“You should have thought of all this before you begged me to let you baby – sit.” Pat bent down and kissed Tim on the top of his head. “Good – bye, Tim. Be a good guy for Mommy Hunter.” He turned to Megan and kissed her on the top of the head too. “Good – bye, Mrs. Hunter.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I hate when you do that!”

“Do what?”

“Tweak my nose or kiss the top of the head… or wherever.”

Pat looked down at her. In all honesty he wasn’t that happy about tweaking her on the nose or kissing her on top of the head, either, but he was just about foaming at the mouth to kiss her on her wherever. She’d been too sleepy and too distracted to belt her robe, and in the course of her travels about the house it had parted, exposing a tantalizing corridor of smooth skin and slinky nightgown. He had been making a supreme effort not to stare. He was afraid if he got a really good look, he might start drooling, and he knew she hated drool.

“Megan…” He studied her face, unsure of the emotions he found there. She was lovely. Already she was tying him in knots, yet he didn’t have a clue about her feelings for him. He suspected they might not be flattering. His gaze strayed to the low neckline of her pale yellow nightgown. Oh, hell, he thought, sliding his hands along her neck. It would be worth a broken nose to get a good – morning kiss.

Megan stood absolutely still at the touch of his hands, barely breathing, wondering at the sensations flooding through her, a paralyzing mixture of desire, guilt, and anger. There was something else, too, a ridiculous delusion that she actually was Mrs. Hunter.

It felt perfectly natural to be standing in her nightgown and robe, waiting for Pat to kiss her. She tipped her head toward him and instinctively parted her lips, thinking that he was really very nice in the morning. Warm and cuddly, with that endearing, teasing grin. She watched him slowly move closer and felt his lips barely skim across hers. Much better than getting tweaked on the nose, she thought dreamily. This wasn’t a boring, taken for- granted kiss. This was a friendly kiss.