If she wasn’t careful, she might fall in love

Had already fallen.

Oh, damn.

Until now she hadn’t dared picture a future with Connor, but now her imagination drifted there. Morning after morning, awakening in his arms…the small rituals of eating breakfast, going to work, reading to the children as a couple…

Was she a complete fool? That kind of security didn’t come to women like her. Not in a world full of Harmon Hardisons and Luther Allens—righteous, judgmental people who mattered to Connor.

There wasn’t going to be a happy ending. No Just Married sign on the back of his cool red sedan. No baby with Connor’s thick hair and her violet eyes.

Abruptly Yvonne sat up.

What had she done?

Dear Reader,

When I first met Yvonne while telling the story of Jenni and Ethan, I knew that someday she’d insist on taking center stage. But I had no idea she was going to do so with such spirit.

As for Connor, I didn’t realize that the seemingly staid physician guarded a secret, and had a big surprise in store, as well. Writing this book was as much a voyage of discovery for me as for him.

Even after more than seventy novels, I still don’t know how characters spring to life. I’m just grateful that they do. Take Biker Mike. Until I met the little guy in a motel room, I was clueless about the strength of his personality.

Characters change, too. If you’ve read the previous DOWNHOME DOCTORS books, you’ll recall Beau as a real pain in the neck. When it came to dealing with his own family, however, he revealed unexpected facets.

If this is your first visit to Downhome, the book stands by itself, so don’t worry. And I hope you’re intrigued enough to want to find out what happens to Sonja Vega, the ob-gyn who’s going to arrive next. In fact, she’s already had a prickly encounter with the man who’s going to be her hero, but she doesn’t know it yet.

I’d better get back to work. I can hear my characters demanding attention.

Happy reading!

P.S. Please e-mail me at jdiamondfriends@aol.com and visit my Web site at www.jacquelinediamond.com.

Dad by Default

Jacqueline Diamond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my cousin Suzanne, who shares my memories of Granny

Books by Jacqueline Diamond

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

913—THE IMPROPERLY PREGNANT PRINCESS

962—DIAGNOSIS: EXPECTING BOSS’S BABY

971—PRESCRIPTION: MARRY HER IMMEDIATELY

978—PROGNOSIS: A BABY? MAYBE

1046—THE BABY’S BODYGUARD

1075—THE BABY SCHEME

1094—THE POLICE CHIEF’S LADY *

1101—NINE-MONTH SURPRISE *

1109—A FAMILY AT LAST *

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

Yvonne Johnson hated Connor Hardison, M.D., on sight. No, she hated him before she saw him, before she met him, before the Monday morning in August when he walked into the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic, stretching his broad shoulders and flashing his precision-cut dimple.

Glowing reports from his earlier visit merely intensified Yvonne’s wrath. She hated him all the more when her fellow nurse, Winifred Waters, an outspoken black woman who practically worshipped the clinic’s obstetrician, declared the newcomer “Ninety-nine percent as handsome as Dr. Rankin.”

She hated him when Dr. Jenni Forrest, the family practitioner whom Yvonne assisted and who was about to go on a year’s maternity leave, remarked, “If I weren’t eight months pregnant and didn’t have the most fabulous husband in the world, I’d be tempted.”

Yvonne had good reason to hate Connor Hardison. According to what she’d heard, he probably didn’t hold a high opinion of her, either. However, he’d had no choice about which nurse he inherited when he accepted the position in Downhome, Tennessee, and neither did she.

On the morning of his arrival, Yvonne lingered in the nurses’ lounge, listening to the cheerful voices of her fellow workers greeting him in the hallway. They all sounded thrilled that their community, which struggled to find enough doctors for its growing population, had snagged a respected family practitioner to fill in for Jenni and possibly stay on after she returned.

There was no point in trying to switch assignments with Winifred. When Yvonne suggested doing so, Estelle Fellows, the clinic’s nurse practitioner and business manager, had insisted that Dr. Hardison required someone familiar with Jenni’s patients.

Yvonne was weighing her remaining options—which amounted to none, since she was a single mom with a two-year-old daughter—when Winifred found her. “You going to hide till the cows come home, girl?”

“I hate crowds,” Yvonne muttered. “I’ll wait till the fuss dies down.”

“Well, you better get your tail out there, because he’s about to hang a picture of the two doctors Allen in the hall opposite the lunchroom,” Winifred reported. “I figure that’ll wreck your appetite permanently, and you’re skinny enough as it is.”

“He’s doing what?” Yvonne didn’t stick around for a reply.

A photo of Dorothy and Luther Allen used to occupy that very spot. The sixtyish husband-wife physician team had staffed the clinic until two years ago, when they’d suddenly announced their retirement. During the six months following their departure, until Jenni’s arrival, Estelle and Yvonne had handled routine cases and referred other patients to the nearest large town, Mill Valley.

During that period, Yvonne had removed the picture and shredded it.

She held no grudge against Dorothy Allen. In fact, she felt bad about what the older woman must have endured.

Almost as bad as she felt about what she herself had gone through. For the past two years, Yvonne had suffered the scorn of numerous residents and relatives for having a baby out of wedlock and refusing to identify the father.

His name was Dr. Luther Allen.

To herself, Yvonne didn’t try to excuse her conduct. Coming from a family that created an emotional void in her didn’t justify seeking a father figure in a coworker. Nor did being a naive small-town girl in her early twenties justify sleeping with another woman’s husband.

She understood why Dorothy Allen, when she’d learned the facts, had insisted the couple move away. The indefensible part was Luther’s conduct.

He’d threatened to sue Yvonne for custody if she sought child support, even though he clearly cared nothing for his daughter. Furthermore, if she breathed a word in public about his paternity, he’d vowed to portray her as a conniving tramp. They both knew people would take his word over hers.

All his loving declarations, along with the attention that she’d craved, were revealed as manipulations. He’d left her feeling used and cheap. Also remorseful and angry.

What hurt worse was that Yvonne could never trust a man again. Much as she might long for an intimate bond, the cost of betrayal had proved too high.

The one shining compensation was Bethany. Her bright, eager daughter had no idea that life involved anything other than love and acceptance, and Yvonne meant to keep it that way.

She had shared the truth about the affair with only a handful of people: Winifred, Jenni and, eventually, the two newer doctors at the clinic, Will Rankin and pediatrician Chris McRay, as she came to trust them. Estelle had undoubtedly figured it out, although her twenty-year-old daughter, Patsy, the receptionist, apparently hadn’t. Beyond that, Yvonne had entrusted the story solely to her cousin and best friend Lindsay, who babysat Bethany.

Now she had to deal with Connor Hardison.

Luther used to refer to the young doctor, whom he’d mentored, as the son he’d never had. Moreover, Hardison was known for his rigid moral standards. Heaven help her when he discovered the secret of the father’s identity, which seemed inevitable.

That didn’t mean she intended to let him make her existence any more miserable than necessary. No one had ever accused Yvonne of timidity.

When she barreled out of the lounge, a couple of quick steps carried her to the small knot of people in the hall. The other doctors had departed, leaving behind Estelle, Patsy and Dr. Hardison. He was positioning a painting against the wall, looking so determined she half expected him to pull out a hammer and install the darn thing himself.

“Hold on!” Yvonne ordered.

Wearing a puzzled expression, her new boss turned in response.

Although she’d previously glimpsed the man from a distance, she wasn’t prepared for his sheer physical impact. It didn’t emanate from his gray eyes, despite the tantalizing hint of darkness in their depths, nor from his quietly assured stance.

It was the tension that radiated, the sense that he barely held in check a restless sexual energy. Hurriedly, Yvonne dismissed the notion. She couldn’t possibly be sensing what ran through Hardison’s subconscious, nor did she want to.

Instead, she focused on his height. Despite the chunky heels adding an inch to her five-foot-eight frame, she had to look up to meet his gaze. They’d be cheek to cheek if they ever danced—an event about as likely as space aliens landing in Downhome and ordering crêpe suzettes at the Café Montreal.

“You don’t like the painting?” he asked.

When Yvonne forced herself to look directly at the images, faces popped out in heightened realism. The artist had captured Dorothy’s air of motherly calm, while Luther’s smarmy smile had morphed into fatherly benevolence.

Her stomach clenched. She couldn’t bear to face this thing whenever she passed by. Still, Hardison himself must have commissioned the large work and probably paid a high price.

“I think it’s perfect.” Patsy eased closer to the doctor.

Estelle frowned at the possessive gesture. “We have patients waiting.”

Patsy gave her chin-length brown hair a defiant shake.

“Now!” added her mother.

“Well, all right.” Making no secret of her irritation, Patsy stalked past the records room toward the front counter.

Hardison stood balancing the picture against the wall, watching curiously. Realizing her outburst required an explanation, Yvonne improvised. “Hanging a picture in the middle of the hall seems odd. Why not put it in your office?”

“There used to be a photo of them in this spot,” he replied doggedly. “As a matter of fact, Luther asked me to send it to him. Any idea where it went?”

Estelle saved Yvonne the trouble of manufacturing an excuse. “It disappeared a few years ago while we were having the office painted. The workmen must have mislaid it.”

“Well, the Allens deserve more recognition than hiding their portrait in my office,” Hardison responded. “Any other suggestions?”

Since “dump it” wasn’t likely to go over well, Yvonne compromised. “How about the waiting room?” She rarely went out there.

“The patients would like that,” the nurse practitioner agreed. “The older folks mention the Luthers quite often.”

He mulled the suggestion. A stubborn man, Yvonne thought. Or perhaps simply devoted to his mentors.

“Good idea. We can find an appropriate spot later.” To her relief, Hardison lowered the frame to the carpet. “After hours. I appreciate your input, both of you. Don’t mean to make a federal case of this.”

When Estelle went about her duties, Yvonne seized the chance to make herself scarce, as well. “I’ll get the charts ready. Actually, I’m running late.” Although Hardison’s patients wouldn’t begin arriving for a short while, she and Winifred also took turns assisting Dr. McRay.

“One more thing.” His low voice held her.

She gazed somewhere to the left of his face. His regard was simply too disconcerting. “Something I can do for you?”

“I noticed you cut your hair.” His smile revealed the devastating dimple Winifred had described. “I like it.”

A month ago, she’d chopped her silver-blond locks to collar-length with spiky bangs angling from the crown. But what did that have to do with him? “I didn’t realize you knew who I was, let alone kept track of my hairstyle.”

“You’re hard to miss, despite your best efforts,” he assured her dryly. “I saw you dodging out of sight when I visited last spring.”

Well, that was embarrassing. “I don’t have much time to exercise. Dodging keeps me in shape.”

He ignored the weak attempt at a joke. “Out of curiosity, why the trim? Your old style was striking.”

Too striking for comfort. The discovery that she’d drawn Dr. Hardison’s attention merely emphasized the point.

At least he showed more discretion than the influx of workmen building a shopping center and housing development on Downhome’s outskirts. Whenever they’d spotted her on the street, her long silver-blond tresses had brought wolf whistles, providing yet more fuel for the town’s gossips.

If there was anything Yvonne loathed, it was wagging tongues. But she didn’t care to discuss the matter with this man.

“They were having a special at the Snip ’N’ Curl,” Yvonne quipped. “Half price for fallen women.”

The quirk of an eyebrow acknowledged the challenge behind her remark. She hadn’t meant to lob the ball into his court. On the other hand, they might as well get the subject out in the open, especially since it was number two on her why-I-hate-Connor list.

“I wondered if…what you’d heard,” he responded thoughtfully. “My comments weren’t meant personally.”

“You mean your comments to the school board? Why would I take them personally?” She heard the bite in her tone.

The previous year, the board of the Mill Valley-Downhome Consolidated School District had considered integrating its programs for teen mothers into regular classes. Debate had surged about a proposal for an on-campus nursery.

At a trustee’s request, Connor had spoken during the public hearing. For some reason, his status as a physician seemed to give his opinions extra weight. According to the weekly Gazette, he’d supported encouraging the young women to pursue academic courses but had opposed bringing babies onto campus. He’d contended their presence made unwed motherhood appear desirable.

When the board had rejected the nursery proposal, Downhome busybodies had made sure to mention the matter to Yvonne. She’d been steaming ever since.

“I’m sorry if I gave offense, but I had to tell the truth, as I saw it,” he said. “We’re both professionals. I hope we can get along.”

“Fine.” Yvonne consulted her watch. “May I get those charts ready now, Doctor?”

“Of course.”

Turning, she nearly tripped over the painting. Only a quick sidestep and Hardison’s hand on her arm prevented a stumble. Nevertheless, she came so close she registered the sophisticated scent of his cologne.

“Sorry,” Yvonne muttered. “I guess I ought to practice more dodging.”

When he released her, his touch left a trace of warmth. “I don’t want to delay you, but I just remembered something else I meant to ask.”

“Shoot.” She tried to sound friendly. As he’d pointed out, they did have to work together.

“I need to rent a place around here. Any suggestions?”

“I wouldn’t recommend my area on Garden Street. The roosters across the street crow at dawn, seven days a week. They’re worse than car alarms.” Plus she had an obnoxious landlady and a pain-in-the-neck upstairs neighbor. “And the area smells like farm animals, probably because there’s a barnyard across the street.”

“That can’t be healthy for your daughter.” Catching her frown, Connor amended, “However, I suppose it’s none of my business.”

She declined comment. “Dr. McRay used to rent the unit over Pepe’s Italian Diner. You might try there.”

“I paid a visit. It’s too small. Everyone suggests a house, but I’m not keen on yardwork.” He shrugged. “For the present, I’ll keep commuting, although a twenty-four-mile round-trip isn’t my idea of fun.”

“This is a tough town for rentals.” Besides, if he found living here too inconvenient, maybe he’d leave. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Yvonne whisked past him. With their first encounter out of the way, things ought to proceed smoothly, she reflected.

At least until he learned about Bethany’s parentage. Hopefully that wouldn’t happen for quite a while.

CONNOR WASN’T SURE why he’d mentioned his quest for an apartment. His nurse’s job didn’t include serving as a leasing agent. Also, judging by her attitude, she’d prefer that he rent a place on the far side of the moon.

He’d heard rumors before accepting the job. Her man-hating was legendary, according to the nurses at Mill Valley Doctors Circle, where he’d worked the previous four years.

The fact that some jerk left her pregnant hardly explained her resentment toward all members of the male gender. Also, his former colleagues hadn’t understood why she protected the lowlife by keeping his identity secret. They’d talked about Yvonne a lot. With her violet eyes, white-blonde hair and fashion-model figure, she fascinated people.

Count him out, Connor mused as he lugged the portrait down the hall. He planned to leave Nurse Johnson strictly in the business segment of his brain.

Around the corner, he passed a row of examining rooms. From within came the familiar murmur of voices. Except for the layout, he might as well be back at Doctors Circle, at least physically.

However, he’d loathed the new management team, who pressured staff to cut corners and hurry the patients. The last straw had been when the administrator began urging doctors to make referrals to other facilities owned by the same investment group regardless of client convenience, cost or—Connor suspected—quality.

By comparison, putting up with a nurse whose tongue could inflict septic wounds didn’t seem so bad.

At the end of the row, he reached his office. As Estelle had explained earlier, they’d converted the space—formerly designated for in-service training—to accommodate a fourth physician.

Although Estelle had offered the option of taking over Jenni’s office during her leave, he suspected he’d feel like a trespasser. Also, due to the strong possibility that he’d remain after Dr. Forrest’s return, better to settle in now.

Entering, Connor regarded his new home. Patsy, as she’d made a point of telling him, had stowed the files and reference materials he’d sent ahead. That left considerable empty space, which the metal file cabinet and computer didn’t exactly soften.

He lacked so much as a personal photo for the desk. His ex-wife, Margo, had split five years ago, which meant they’d been divorced longer than they’d been married. The only further entanglement had been a brief and ill-considered affair on the rebound, and a handful of dates that had gone nowhere.

Maybe Yvonne was right. He ought to hang the painting in here.

He regarded the Allens’ wise, slightly wrinkled faces with affection. Old family friends who’d mentored him through medical school, the couple had encouraged Connor to locate in this region after his divorce. For the two years during which they’d worked a dozen miles apart, Luther Allen had sponsored him into a service club and taught him to play golf. Connor held a special place in his heart for Dorothy, who had helped fill the void left by the loss of his own mother. Her compassion and quiet dignity served as a model of the qualities he sought in a woman.

The Allens had moved back to North Carolina to be near their grown daughter and grandchildren. Last year, while visiting his father and stepmother nearby, he’d been shocked when Dorothy had confided that her husband’s infidelity had nearly destroyed their marriage.

During a midlife crisis, Luther had slept with a predatory woman in Downhome, she’d explained. The discovery of his betrayal had led to their abrupt decision to retire.

Time and reconciliation were healing the wounds. However, Connor knew Dorothy still bore the scars and probably always would.

He preferred to remain in the dark about the woman’s identity in case he ran into her as a patient. He didn’t want bias affecting his professional response.

Of course, Luther shouldn’t have yielded to temptation. Still, since he was a pediatrician, his mistress obviously hadn’t been anyone he was treating. And Dorothy had taken some of the blame on herself, referring to a marital relationship that wasn’t what it used to be.

Counseling was helping to bring the two of them closer, she’d said. Thank goodness for that.

Through the window, a ray of August light slid between the blinds and gleamed on a nail protruding from the wall. A perfect place to hang the portrait, he decided.

After a bit of a struggle to position the frame, Connor stood back. The picture brought depth to the room, and as a benefit, no one was likely to inquire about who’d painted it.

Some oddball, of course. One of those unstable artistic types. A guy who’d spent far too many afternoons taking art classes when he ought to have been devoting every moment to his medical studies.

The problem, Margo had told Connor, was that anyone viewing his paintings recognized instantly that art wasn’t merely a sideline. Painting not only excited him, it brought out an entirely different personality—a reckless, sensual side that would have horrified his father.

Connor loved medicine and cared about his patients. Yet sometimes his longing to be alone with canvas and paints became an almost physical torment.

Which brought him back to Yvonne. That tantalizing mixture of the ethereal and the earthly made him long to paint her.

In the nude.

He didn’t realize he’d groaned aloud until the noise rang in his ears. Hoping no one had overheard, he straightened the nametag on his white coat and squared his shoulders.

So much for the whacko who spent his free hours so immersed in composition and brushes and color that he sometimes forgot to eat. With a feat of mental control familiar from long use, he transformed back into the sturdy, capable and always reliable Dr. Connor Hardison.

Speaking of which, it was time to get this show on the road. The first patient should be prepped by now.

Connor went out the door. His alter ego stayed behind.

After hours, it would be waiting.

Chapter Two

The twelve-mile stretch of highway between Mill Valley and Downhome traversed thick stands of pine trees and stretches of aromatic dairy farms. In summer, a motorist could enjoy the soothing sight of cattle grazing in the fields and, in the woods, glimpse the occasional deer or flash of a blue jay.

Except in the rain. Then thick sheets of gray obscured the landscape and fallen branches transformed the road into an obstacle course.

Day after day, it rained. On Wednesday, Connor destroyed a tire in a sinkhole and arrived so late he threw the entire day’s schedule off.

By Friday—Jenni’s last full day on the job—he was desperate to move closer to the clinic. She’d promised to cover the half-day office hours on Saturday. After that, Connor would take over the whole shebang. In addition to treating patients, he’d be responsible for weekly visits to the nursing home and frequent on-call duty, which meant driving twenty-four miles round trip at a moment’s notice.

One of the requirements at the Home Boulevard Medical Clinic was that all doctors, regardless of specialty, handle urgent-care cases in rotation. Although the fire department transported emergency patients to Mill Valley Medical Center or arranged an airlift to Nashville, that left plenty of cuts, infections and other problems that couldn’t wait for regular hours.

Several evenings that first week, Connor had stayed late in Downhome to check out residential prospects. Most of the apartments, he discovered, lay in a run-down area in the southeast sector of town that included Garden Street. Yvonne’s description had, if anything, been understated.

The vacancies turned out to be small and noisy places. In one, a noxious odor had permeated the walls. To reach another, he’d had to sidestep broken beer bottles on the front walk. Chickens had run in the yard, and on the north side of the road, a ramshackle barnyard had echoed with the bleating and grunting of penned animals.

Against his preferences, Connor had toured three rental houses. One lay four miles outside town along a dirt road, another suffered from mold and the third was a rabbit warren of tiny, dark rooms. While he didn’t demand architectural distinction, he required a space suitable for a studio.

That Friday, the boom of thunder and steady thrum of rain made the mood at the clinic unusually melancholy. A banner reading Farewell Jenni added a wistful note.

Connor’s schedule included a number of patients with chronic problems, several of whom had tactlessly demanded second opinions from Dr. Forrest. Although he understood that change was particularly stressful for older folks, by midday Connor’s geniality began to fray.

As she’d done all week, Yvonne took care of business briskly and efficiently. Perhaps a bit too briskly. Her ironic tone while saying “Yes, Doctor” and “Right away, Doctor” grew irksome.

“Don’t worry,” Chris McRay confided over sandwiches in the lunchroom. “She treated me like a case of chicken pox for the first few months I was here.”

“What changed her mind?”

“My sunny personality, I guess,” his companion joked. That might be true. Everyone liked the outgoing pediatrician, who played the kazoo and blew soap bubbles at his young patients to put them at ease.

“I’m not exactly a sunny personality,” Connor admitted.

“You do seem on the serious side.” Chris downed a handful of peanuts before continuing. “Maybe you intimidate her. You might try relaxing your shoulders.”

“My shoulders?” They didn’t feel particularly stiff.

“You tend to hunch them when she’s around,” the pediatrician noted. “I thought maybe you were expecting a karate chop.”

“More or less.” Ruefully, he added, “I wouldn’t say she finds me intimidating. Annoying, possibly.”

“It’ll pass.” Chris peered into his lunch sack and happily drew out a brownie that his new wife, Karen, the director of the local nursing home, had probably baked. Lucky guy.

Connor couldn’t picture Yvonne taking such pains to please a man. Especially not with a young daughter to care for.

Idly, he wondered if she were dating anyone. With her vivacious, if explosive, temperament and unusual beauty, she ought to have a swarm of admirers.

Well, they weren’t going to include him. He and his nurse shared about as much in common as a volcano and a sheet of ice. Which of them might be in danger of melting Connor didn’t care to speculate on.

After lunch, he went to see if the part-time radiologist had readied a report. While passing the nurses’ lounge, he heard Yvonne’s tense voice from inside, where she was obviously talking on the phone.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be home alone. No, I am not late getting back from school. For heaven’s sake, you called me at work. I’m twenty-six years old, remember?”

Her mother must suffer from memory loss. Ashamed of eavesdropping, Connor hurried along.

In the lab, the report showed no sign of the problem he’d feared. Pleased, he notified the patient of the good news.

Passing the lounge on the way back, he heard Yvonne say, “Dad, surely there must be another adult-care service…don’t start on me!”

She must have hung up. The next thing Connor knew, she came charging into the hall. Barreling about the premises seemed to be a habit with her. She stopped inches from a collision.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

“It’s my fault. I ought to have known better than to block your path.”

Outside, lightning flared, making the illumination flicker.

Yvonne glared at the fixtures. “If we lose the electricity, I’m going to scream!”

Thanks to falling branches and, sometimes, entire trees, storms presented an ongoing threat of power failure. Perhaps one of these days the town would spring for a generator at the clinic or, better yet, bury the lines. Today, luckily, the lights stayed on.

“I hope your mom’s okay.” Realizing he ought to explain, Connor added, “I couldn’t avoid overhearing.”

Yvonne didn’t seem to mind. “Everybody knows, anyway. My mom has early-onset Alzheimer’s. She’s cranky and so is Dad. When he decides to vent, I’m the designated target.”

“Who takes care of her?”

“He does except when he’s at work. Unfortunately, the service they use hasn’t been terribly reliable. He claims I ought to help more, but I can’t leave my job to run over there. For Pete’s sake, they live in Mill Valley.”

Connor could only guess at the strain on an already over-burdened single mom. No wonder faint shadows showed beneath those unusual eyes.

Whoever had fathered her baby should have stuck around to help, or at least have provided financial support. That made him wonder what had happened. Was the man simply a jerk, or had she sent him away? The gossips contended she’d hooked up with someone passing through town.

He didn’t usually listen to rumors. Too bad she’d been such a popular subject with the nurses at his old office.

“Aren’t there other relatives in the area?” he asked.

“On my mom’s side, there’s just my cousin Lindsay.” Yvonne tucked a wedge of shaggy hair behind one ear. “As for my dad’s side, there’s only my great-uncle Beau. You’ve met him?”

“Luther Allen had introduced us several years ago. I understand he’s the town patriarch.” An earlier Beauregard Johnson had founded Downhome in the late 1800s and Beau was the longest-serving member of the city council.

“Patriarch? Please don’t call him that. He’s insufferable enough already,” Yvonne grumbled.

“Proud, maybe, but that’s understandable. Given his age and the fact that he’s on the council, I think he deserves our respect.” When her eyes narrowed, Connor realized his comment must sound like criticism. Perhaps it was.

“You’ll get a chance to respect him to your heart’s content this afternoon. He managed to break both wrists two weeks ago, and he’s due for a checkup.” Wrinkling her nose, she added, “I’ll ask Winifred to prep him.”

“Why?”

“He considers me a disgrace,” she answered tightly. “You two ought to get along fine.”

Although the crack bothered Connor, he decided to treat it lightly. “Ah, a zinger at last. I was beginning to miss them.” Before she could respond, he changed the subject. “How did he break his wrists?”

“At the grocery store.” Mr. Johnson owned the Tulip Tree Market, the closest thing to a supermarket in the central part of town. “He lost his balance while stocking the shelves.”

“How’s he making do? I hope he doesn’t live alone.” The man must be close to eighty and, as Connor recalled, had never married.

“Dad says he found someone to live in till his arms heal. I hope he’s paying double, because I’m sure she earns it.” After a challenging glare, the nurse marched off.

Despite her prickliness, they’d managed to spend five minutes having an almost civil conversation, Connor mused. And he’d learned some interesting facts. Given the description of Yvonne’s father and great-uncle, he could see that she’d inherited her temper.

The family appeared to be suffering stress from several angles, with Yvonne bearing the brunt. She’d apparently chosen isolation as a defensive strategy.

Connor saw the wisdom in that. He’d taken a similar route with his father.

About an hour later, he came across Beau’s chart outside Examining Room A. The top sheet, marked in Winifred’s bold handwriting, listed satisfactory blood pressure and a slight drop in weight, which wasn’t a good sign in a man as old as Mr. Johnson.

Connor flipped a page. The wrist breaks, both clean, had been X-rayed and the wrists put in casts by an orthopedic specialist at Mill Valley Medical Center. Borderline indications of osteoporosis, for which Beau took medication to build bone density, weren’t expected to prevent healing. Still, full recovery from a wrist fracture could be tricky because of the joint’s multiple bones and ligaments.

The casts wouldn’t come off for another three weeks, when Beau should return to the specialist. Today’s exam was precautionary.

Connor knocked before entering.

On the edge of the examining table loomed Beau Johnson, his rounded back and piercing gaze reminiscent of a hawk. His face seemed thinner than Connor recalled, and the long strand of white hair combed across his pate was slipping toward the front.

Nearby, a young woman in denim overalls and a flowered blouse perched on a chair, her expression wary. She identified herself as Kitty Baker, the care provider.

After exchanging pleasantries, Connor indicated the cast-bound wrists. “We’ll have to skip shaking hands, I’m afraid, Mr. Johnson.”

The old fellow cackled. “Glad you joined the clinic, Doc. Jenni does well enough for a female, but I prefer men.”

Ms. Baker frowned. She probably took plenty of ribbing from the old fellow at home.

After examining Beau and finding no undue pain or swelling, Connor leaned against the counter and regarded the patient assessingly. He was especially concerned about the weight loss for someone with thinning bones. The man might not be taking in enough calcium. “Do the casts make it hard to eat?”

“Nope. That ortho doctor left my fingers free.” Beau wiggled his digits to demonstrate. “Problem is, I got this country bumpkin cooking for me. Ever eat grits, Doc? Pig food.”

Although Connor also disliked the bland cooked-wheat dish, he saw no point in adding to Ms. Baker’s discomfiture. “Some people enjoy them.”

“And she burned the bacon this morning. What kind of fool can’t cook bacon?” The elderly man gave a disdainful sniff.

“You insisted I go fetch your slippers!” protested his aide. “I didn’t think it would burn that fast.”

While Connor suspected Kitty had a tough job, anyone working with the elderly ought to know better than to leave a pan untended on the stove. Still, he suspected good home aides were as difficult to find in Downhome as in Mill Valley.

“Go on, blame me!” Beau flared. “I suppose it’s my fault I’m old and ugly.”

“You got the ugly part right!”

Connor mulled how best to intervene. The woman’s comment was inappropriate, yet he understood how the client’s insults had alienated her.

Part of the trouble might be due to the injuries. Despite the normal exam results, Connor was also concerned about hidden trauma from the fall. Even when seniors recovered physically, they sometimes became fearful or depressed, which they expressed as anger.

“Having an aide around can be awkward,” he ventured. “However…”

“I wouldn’t need a stranger in the house if my kin treated me right!” A quaver rippled through Beau’s voice.

“You don’t get along with your relatives?” He wanted to learn Mr. Johnson’s perspective.

“There’s just my nephew and his family, and I hardly ever see them. They ain’t offered to do a darn thing for me!” Connor suspected the elderly man knew how to speak grammatically, but the colorful verbal style obviously suited him.

“You may have to be the one to reach out.” Still, it might not make much difference, considering Beau’s well-established antagonism toward Yvonne. And, of course, the pressing problems imposed by her mother’s illness.

The man nodded. “Mebbe you’re right.” Gaining steam, he added, “In fact, I’ll do precisely that. I’m going to demand they do the right thing and take care of me. I’m firing Miss Useless here as of five o’clock today.”

Kitty gave a start. “What?”

Connor’s jaw dropped. “Wait a minute.” He hadn’t intended to spark such an abrupt change.

Beau charged onward. “She don’t provide no personal attention. No loving care.”

“Mr. Johnson, someone has to cook and clean for you,” Connor insisted.

“I got a housekeeping service and Pepe can send over food from the diner. Speaking of Pepe, that fellow’s smart. Did you know he used to lease his upstairs apartment to Doc McRay?”

“I’m aware of that.” Connor could scarcely follow the fellow’s rapid shifts of topic.

Beau steamrollered on. “Winifred tells me you ain’t found a new place to stay yet. I’ve been considering renting out my top floor. Got this great big space going to waste. Now, if I could put a doctor in there, I’d feel safe if any problems showed up.”

What a zany notion. Connor spread his hands to stem the flow of words. “I prefer to live alone. And frankly, I’m already scheduled for as much on-call duty as I can handle.”

His patient ignored the objection. “If you step out the front door of this clinic and look to your left, you’ll see my house right past the Café Montreal. Can’t get any more convenient than that!”

This discussion must stop. “Mr. Johnson, I’m not going to replace your aide.”

“You mixed up my meaning.” Beau cleared his throat. “I ain’t asking you to help unless I fall down or something. Truth is, I could use the rent, and having you around would make me feel a whole lot safer. My third floor’s big enough to practice your golf swing. There’s a bedroom and bath, and you can use the kitchen much as you like. Don’t have to cook for me, neither, though I bet you wouldn’t burn any bacon.”

Ms. Baker managed to break into the stream of words. “Are you really firing me?”

“Not till the end of the day,” Beau retorted.

Near tears, she let fly. “Well, I hate working for you! And any fool can tell the doctor doesn’t want to rent your attic. It’s hot as Hades up there.” To Connor, she added, “Somebody put in a skylight. What’s the use of that?”

“The temperature’s fine if you open the windows,” Beau countered.

Connor couldn’t believe the coincidence. “A skylight?” A flood of natural light was exactly what an artist required.

“My sister-in-law, Virginie—” Beau pronounced the name Ver-Ginny “—put it in so she could dabble in watercolors. She and my brother Manley used to live there when they was alive.” He eased to his feet, leaning on the doctor briefly. “Kitty, you going to earn the rest of your day’s pay or what?”

Unhappily, she went to his assistance. Connor took one more stab at changing his mind. “Mr. Johnson, if you’re having trouble getting down from an examining table, you can’t dispense with Ms. Baker’s services.”

“Normal furniture ain’t this high,” came the prompt rejoinder. “I can get in and out of bed and I can walk to the store just fine. Speaking of walking, stroll over to my house after work, doc. The doors ain’t locked, so if I’m not home, let yourself in and go on up.”

Judging by the old fellow’s stare, he’d keep badgering till he got his way. “If I get a chance.”

“It’s private and quiet except when that bohemian woman hires some annoying folksinger at the café,” Beau assured him. “Well, missy, you going to open the door or stand around with your finger in your nose?”

Connor’s sympathies went to the about-to-be-jobless Ms. Baker. “I didn’t mean to get you fired.”

She made a face. “I only accepted the job because my folks said it was my Christian duty. I used to feel sorry for Mr. Johnson. Not anymore!”

The elderly man scowled. “I ain’t no charity case.” To Connor, he added, “Don’t forget to stop by.”

“I’ll do my best.” Connor moved back to let his patient pass. Without meaning to, he added, “How interesting that there’s a studio. Painting’s my hobby.”

“Being an old crank is my hobby,” Beau replied in a surprisingly cheerful tone.

Connor felt a twinge of appreciation for the curmudgeon. Renting was out of the question, though.

He’d pay a visit to keep the peace, and that would be the end of it.

AT THE NURSES’ STATION, Winifred was shaking her head. “That great-uncle of yours fired his aide,” she told Yvonne. “Don’t know what he’s going to do now.”

Great. More family problems. “Sometimes I think we Johnsons are genetically programmed to tick people off.”

“He seems to like Dr. Hardison, though. I heard that old man cackling to beat the band.”

“Well, of course,” Yvonne grumbled. “They have a lot in common. Disliking me, for one thing.”

The older nurse tapped her fingers on the counter. “I’m not so sure, girl. Doc Connor’s got a way of following you with his eyes.”

The disclosure gave Yvonne an odd, shivery sensation. “You’re probably misinterpreting it.”

“I never misinterpret the way a man looks at a woman.” Winifred promptly changed the subject. “You know, my daughter Freda and her crew clean for Mr. Johnson. She thinks he’s lonely.”

“Then why’d he fire his aide?”

“I don’t imagine he’s lonely for her sort of company.” With that enigmatic comment, the other woman got busy calling in a prescription over the phone.

Yvonne put her great-uncle promptly out of her thoughts. Dismissing Connor was a lot harder.

But she managed.

ALTHOUGH HE FELT almost guilty about going over to Beau’s house without telling Yvonne, Connor couldn’t find a casual way to raise the subject. Besides, he didn’t expect anything to result.

As Beau had indicated, he strolled out the front of the clinic after work, made a left and crossed Home Boulevard toward the park called the Green. In the weak poststorm sunshine, the three-story farmhouse wore its plainness with pride.

No one answered the bell. After ringing again and knocking, Connor decided to take Beau at his word and enter. Otherwise, he’d have to pay another visit.

The whirr of a ceiling fan greeted him in the hall. It kept the temperature pleasant despite the August heat outside.

In the living room at right, a tapestry carpet set off a wealth of antique furnishings. Connor’s ex-wife, Margo, had preferred stark modern designs, but he liked the décor.

Straight ahead lay a curving staircase. Beau kept the steps in good repair and the railing buffed, Connor saw approvingly. Proper maintenance was vital to help protect older people from falling.

He called out a few times in case the homeowner had failed to hear the door. Receiving no answer, he went upstairs, as Mr. Johnson had instructed.

On the second floor, a southern window faced Grandpap Johnson Way to the south. Beyond lay the elementary and junior-senior high schools, at opposite ends of a campus. Apparently, noisy football games didn’t bother Beau as much as folksingers at the café.

Curiosity drove Connor to peek into a nearby room. Clear plastic sheeting covered a dollhouse and an electric-train set in what had obviously once served as a playroom.

He felt a twinge of nostalgia for the all-too-brief boyhood he and his brother, Ryan, had enjoyed before their alcoholic mother deserted them and their stern father. It saddened him, in a way, that he’d probably never have kids of his own. Margo hadn’t wanted any, and as the years went by Connor had begun to doubt he possessed the right fatherly instincts.

That Beau had preserved these toys seemed odd, since he had no direct descendants. Perhaps he, too, nursed a few regrets.

Curious about the rest of the house, Connor peered into a bedroom. The furnishings included more antiques, and botanical prints on the wall. Beside the quilt-covered bed, an old-fashioned record player sat atop a shelf filled with LPs.

Embarrassed about prying, he located the attic staircase, a straight shoot into darkness. What had happened to the third-floor skylight? he wondered in disappointment.

Only as he approached the top did Connor notice the closed door. That explained the gloom.

The door opened inward, releasing a wash of golden clarity. Pent-up heat blasted him in the face.

Connor stood at the edge of an enormous, empty room in which Leonardo da Vinci could have staged the entire Last Supper without crowding. To one side, a large industrial sink was perfect for washing out brushes.

Despite the advent of dusk, the lingering illumination made Connor long to grab a brush and set to work. He scarcely noticed the wooden floor’s roughness or the accumulation of spiderwebs festooning the rafters.

The heat did register, forcefully. However, he’d be willing to give up deep breathing for this.

Recalling Beau’s comment, Connor yanked open a couple of windows. Cross-ventilation brought the scents of fresh-baked croissants and quiche, and dropped the temperature to a bearable range.

Turning, Connor drank in the expanse. This was close to heaven.

Surely he couldn’t be seriously considering renting here. Cautiously, he reviewed the objections.

For one thing, the apartment belonged to a patient. Still, since practically everyone in Downhome might require his services, he’d have to overlook the fact one way or another.

Also, he didn’t want to get sucked into Beau’s personal problems. A proper lease and a firm discussion ought to make the terms absolutely clear.

There was one further danger. Renting a place so close at hand and so perfect for an artist might tempt Connor to short-change his duties. He’d never had a space like this, where a man could spend days on end painting, like an alcoholic on a binge.

On the other hand, the location directly across from the clinic would save hours of driving. As for the prospect of losing control, no one exercised a tighter grip on his impulses than he did.

Belatedly, he wondered how Yvonne might feel about his living in her great-uncle’s house. She could hardly object, though, when the two of them didn’t appear to be on speaking terms.

She would never even see the place. Never stretch her slender figure on Connor’s couch and gaze up with those violet eyes. Never tempt him to paint her frost-colored hair and satiny skin…

Sans clothing, of course.

In spite of his better judgment, Connor once again longed for just such an opportunity. Fortunately, fantasies rarely came true.

Finding this place was enough of a marvel. Determined to be practical, he went to inspect the bedroom and bath, which proved to be small but adequate.

He could hardly wait to sign the lease.

Chapter Three

The day of Jenni’s departure marked the end of an era, Yvonne reflected on Saturday morning. Although she’d still see Dr. Forrest around, life wouldn’t be the same.

Yvonne had felt safe at the clinic since Jenni had arrived. Now she’d be on her own.

That wasn’t the scariest part, though. That moment came when she passed Connor Hardison’s office and felt a quiver of disappointment at realizing he was off today.

She actually missed the man? Impossible.

Why had she confided in him yesterday about her family issues? For a few minutes, she’d felt almost friendly.

Any truce between them was purely temporary. When he found out about Luther, she’d be lucky if he didn’t try to get her fired.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” Jenni observed as they prepared to close the clinic at midday.

“I did.” Yvonne sighed.

Because of her girth, Jenni had to give a sideways hug. “You aren’t losing me.” She patted her bulge. “Maybe I ought to say, you aren’t losing us.”

Yvonne didn’t feel that way, but she saw no point in quibbling. “I’ll be happy to drop off anything you leave behind.”

“Thanks. But Ethan can stop by.” Jenni’s husband, the police chief, worked around the corner. “If I’m allowed a word of advice, you might like Connor if you give him half a chance.”

Whether she liked the man or not made no difference. “He’s going to find out.”

Jenni didn’t ask what Yvonne was referring to. It was obvious. “Then maybe he’ll stop hero-worshipping that scumbag.”

“I wish it were that simple.” She hadn’t forgotten Connor’s public remarks about out-of-wedlock mothers setting a bad example. “Beneath the doctor-knows-best facade lurks a mentality to the right of Genghis Khan.”

“Patsy seems to think he’s cute.”

“Patsy leads a very sheltered existence.”

Yvonne’s cell phone rang. Exiting into the rear parking area so Jenni could finish locking up, she answered. “Johnson.”

“Your great-uncle called. He needs your help around the house,” her father said without preamble.

“Says who?” She couldn’t believe Beau had asked for her by name after ignoring her these past few years.

“Don’t smart-mouth me!”

She switched from flippancy to logic. “Dad, I can’t. I’ve got a job and a baby to take care of.”

Unfortunately, logic didn’t work, either. With Yvonne’s relatives, it rarely did. “Someone has to keep an eye on things. That’s what family members do, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“If he wants a slave to wait on him hand and foot, he shouldn’t have fired his caretaker!”

“A little assistance in the mornings and evenings isn’t a lot to ask.” The statement sounded like a quote from his uncle. “The poor man’s alone in the world. Besides, you work right across the street.”

Yvonne figured she’d only start a fight if she noted how Beau had joined the chorus of condemning voices while she was pregnant. Better to focus on the present. “He expects me to drop by twice a day on top of everything else I have to do?”

“He suggested you move in for a month,” came the unexpected response.

Her father had to be kidding. On second thought, the suggestion dovetailed with what she believed to be her great-uncle’s real agenda: to have her at his beck and call.

“He’s lost his mind.” Yvonne slid into her battered sedan. “You saw what he was like when we took presents last Christmas. He ignored Bethany and me except to complain when she fussed a little. Now he expects us to live with him?”

Dad heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I suspect taking a fall made him confront his mortality. Maybe it finally sank in that the two of you are the last members of the Johnson clan.”

“Then why didn’t he call me personally?”

“Give him a break! He’s an old man.”

“And a crab of the first order.” Yvonne had endured too much to sympathize. “What he wants is my unpaid servitude.” She started the engine. She’d promised to collect her daughter by twelve-thirty, which was fast approaching.

“Bethany deserves to know her heritage. Technically, the house is half mine, and someday it’ll be hers.” A brief pause preceded the comment, “You remember the playroom? It hasn’t changed.”

“He mentioned that?”

“He sure did.”

Yvonne had often wished Bethany could enjoy the kind of happy afternoons she’d spent with her grandparents. However, while Beau might dangle that possibility as an enticement, he wasn’t a sweetheart like his late brother. Once he got his way, she had no doubt his attitude would deteriorate into the usual insults and bad temper.

“I don’t trust him. The answer is no.”

“He broke both wrists!”

“If he breaks both ankles, as well, maybe I’ll reconsider.” Realizing how callous that sounded, she added, “I’m sorry, Dad. If it were you or Mom, of course I’d pitch in. Your uncle’s a different story.”

“Tell him yourself. I’ve got my hands full.” After a clipped goodbye, her dad hung up.

Fine. She’d do it, but not right now. Better to wait until she was in a less contentious mood.

She swung by her cousin’s house in a tree-shaded residential area. Lindsay, whose husband was away serving in the marines, had to hurry to deliver three-year-old Christine to a birthday party, so they didn’t get a chance to chat. Instead, they arranged to meet for pizza on Sunday evening.

On the drive home, Bethany babbled nonstop. She was picking up new words and combining them into short sentences, Yvonne noted with pleasure. Lindsay did a good job of teaching, and being around Christine proved stimulating.

They passed a man walking a terrier in Jackson Park. “Go wee-wee,” the little girl piped up.

“We’ll be home in a minute.” Although still diapered, Bethany had begun to show an interest in potty training.

“No, dog!”

Seeing the terrier doing his business against a tree, Yvonne laughed at the mistake. The toddler’s company always restored her good humor.

It lasted until they arrived home.

Two fire trucks and a police car lined Garden Street. As Yvonne approached, uniformed men hauled a table and chairs from the building where she lived.

Anxiously, she parked a few doors down. What was going on here?

Among the furniture strewn across the lawn she spotted her couch and bureau, both dripping wet. Were all her possessions ruined? Even though most came from thrift stores, she couldn’t afford replacements.

Her mood didn’t improve when she recognized her landlady, chamber of commerce director Hedy Greenwald, talking with a fire captain. The woman never missed a chance to treat Yvonne rudely, citing a reverence for high morals. Too bad her view of morality didn’t include living by the Golden Rule.

Hedy had only agreed to rent a unit to her after the town’s minister had intervened on Yvonne’s behalf. Also because it offered opportunities for prying, including unscheduled visits on weak excuses.

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied!” were the first words out of Hedy’s mouth.

Yvonne paused with Bethany on her hip. “Care to clue me in?”

“You had to keep complaining about Leon!” the woman exclaimed, referring to the obnoxious upstairs neighbor.

“Everyone complains about him. What has he done?” Angrily, Hedy related that she’d posted an eviction notice. For the fire captain’s benefit, she implied she had done it at Yvonne’s insistence, but the entire building knew Leon was two months late with his rent.

Furious, the tenant had trashed his unit and left the water running in the bathroom when he’d departed. Intentionally or not, he’d wrecked Yvonne’s unit as well as his own.

Repairs would take several weeks. “I suppose I’m obligated to hold the place for you. Considering the new carpeting and fixtures, the rent will increase, of course,” the landlady concluded with a note of triumph.

“I can’t afford that!” Licensed practical nurses didn’t earn large incomes.

“That’s your problem.” Hedy smirked.

“You own the building. Don’t you have some obligations?” Even as she spoke, Yvonne recognized the futility. “Most of my stuff is ruined.”

“I’m not responsible for the damage to your possessions. If you carry renter’s insurance, I suggest you put in a claim.” Hedy undoubtedly suspected the truth—that Yvonne couldn’t afford a policy.

Wiggling, Bethany pointed toward the crib two firefighters were toting out of the building. A favorite teddy bear peered through the bars. “Me want Fuzzy!”

The declaration roused Yvonne from her worries. “You put three words together! Good for you, sweetie.”

Hedy made a hmphing noise. “It’s gibberish.”

Anger flared inside Yvonne. Still, if she ever unloaded, she might say things she’d regret. Ignoring the landlady, she went on addressing her daughter. “Your crib stayed nice and dry, Bethany. Aren’t we lucky?”

“Motels are expensive.” Hedy didn’t shrink from sticking in the needle. “Maybe you can rent one of those run-down trailers on the outskirts of town. I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”

Her spite broke through Yvonne’s self-control. Without making a conscious decision, she blurted, “Beau invited us to stay with him. I’m sure Bethany will love that great big house.”

“He did not! You’re making it up!” As president of the local historical society, Hedy regarded the Johnson home as an icon.

“Call him,” Yvonne retorted. “Anyway, I’m sure half the town will see us moving in.” She gave the landlady a bland smile. “Maybe we’ll invite you to tea one of these years.”

That ought to hurt. Hedy had been angling to visit the house for ages.

Turning away, Yvonne caught sight of the other woman’s lemon-sucking expression. It almost made the whole experience worthwhile.

STANDING IN THE LIVING ROOM where Grandma had once served tea and sugar cookies, Yvonne ticked off points on her fingers.

“Number one, I am not your personal maid. I will only do things that are absolutely necessary and that you can’t do unaided,” she informed Beau.

Sitting on the couch, he widened his eyes in mock innocence and made no comment.

“Number two, my other obligations take priority except in case of emergency. That includes my job and my daughter. Also, my social life, if I choose.

“Number three, you will eat whatever I cook, without complaining.

“Number four, you will address Bethany and me with respect. You will make no snide references to my past or my morals, and if you breathe one negative word to my daughter about her origins, we’re leaving. If we end up sleeping in my car, that’s okay with me.”

Well, not entirely okay. After the showdown with Hedy, Yvonne had suffered a few pangs of anxiety that her great-uncle had changed his mind. When she’d called, however, he’d accepted the news of their impending arrival with aplomb.

“What’s orjinns?” queried Bethany from the Regency-style chair where Yvonne had deposited her.

Beau’s craggy face softened. “It’s fruit I sell at the store. Orjinns and applins. If you like ’em, I got some.”

He had a sense of humor? This was news to Yvonne.

“Okay!” Bethany cried.

“She’ll need someone to cut up the fruit.” Yvonne hesitated. A carload of salvaged possessions waited to be hauled upstairs, but her great-uncle couldn’t prepare food with his damaged wrists. “You don’t happen to have a banana, do you? She could eat that on her own.”

“Sure do,” Beau replied. “Then this li’l darlin’ can help me pull the plastic off the playroom toys.”

Li’l darlin’? The evidence of goodwill toward the child he’d publicly rejected amazed Yvonne. Perhaps his fall really had shaken some sense into him. “I can’t hang around the playroom right now. Would you be willing to watch her?”

“Don’t see why not,” he said. “Ain’t got nothing else to do.”

With him keeping an eye on Bethany, Yvonne could finish a lot faster. “Call me if she needs anything. And don’t leave her alone for a minute. That plastic could suffocate her.”

He sniffed. “I ain’t no amateur, Vonnie. I babysat your dad.”

More news. “Thanks, then.”

He held out one hand to the toddler. “Let’s go get that banana. Don’t squeeze hard. I hurt my durn wrists, you see.”

“Okay.” Bethany gripped one of the large, bony fingers and toddled away beside him.

Nostalgically, Yvonne watched them go. She’d spent many happy weekends with her gentle, artistic grandma and doting grandpa. Was it possible Beau might play a similar role for her daughter?

Tenderness must skip generations in the Johnson clan. Perhaps Beau could spare a warmth for Bethany that he’d never felt for Yvonne.

In a similar manner, her grandfather had been harshly critical of her father. Grandpa had resented the fact that, after inheriting the antique store he’d spent years building up, her father had gradually lost customers to a local company that made antique replicas. Dad hadn’t had the temperament or the energy to come up with marketing ploys, or the cleverness to expand the store’s wares. Plus, he’d been simply a victim of a disadvantageous situation.

Yet the old man had spent hours playing with Yvonne when she was little. She’d sometimes wondered if her father’s harsh attitude toward her didn’t contain a bit of envy.

When she was twelve, Grandma had died of pneumonia. Two years later Manley Johnson had suffered a fatal heart attack. Grief-stricken at the loss of her grandfather, Yvonne had hoped Beau might fill the gap. However, he’d showed only impatience for a gangly, emotionally needy teenager.

Then Dad had found a job in Mill Valley and relocated the family, forcing Yvonne to switch high schools for her senior year. Her mom’s as-yet-undiagnosed Alzheimer’s disease had further complicated the picture.

That was ancient history. Annoyed at herself for dwelling on what couldn’t be changed, Yvonne went out to the car.

An hour later, she had finished reassembling the crib in the smallest of the three bedrooms. In an adjacent chamber, she heard Beau and Bethany laughing as they played with the electric train.

Yvonne hoped their bond would last. Bethany needed a father figure.

From overhead, a thump resounded. She waited, listening for further sounds, but there was no repeat. All the same, she couldn’t imagine what would make such a noise in the empty studio.

She entered the playroom. “Do you have raccoons in the attic?”

“A big one,” Beau answered gleefully. “He’s real tame, though.” He sat on a low stool, watching Bethany pull dolls from a trunk.

“See raccoon!” Bethany’s pout signaled oncoming crankiness.

Beau gave a negative shake. “No can do.”

“Yes! Now!”

“No! Not now!” the old man grumped.

To Yvonne’s eye, both her charges appeared tired. “Nap-time.”

The toddler clutched one of the dolls. “No, Mommy!”

“For you and Grandpa both.” Quickly, she added, “May she call you that?” Addressing him as Beau would be too familiar, and the child couldn’t handle a moniker like great-great uncle.

“Fine,” he answered hoarsely. “I ain’t tired, though.”

“If I say you’re tired, you’re tired,” Yvonne informed him. “Must I tuck you into bed or can you go alone?”

He assumed a sly expression. “I’ll be a good boy, Nurse Johnson, if you’ll promise to poke your nose upstairs and make sure that raccoon stays out of trouble.”

“We’d better call a trapping service,” she answered irritably. It didn’t take a genius, however, to guess that a raccoon hadn’t caused the thump. What mischief was the old coot up to? For Bethany’s sake, she’d better investigate. “Okay, I’ll check. First, however…” She swooped up the toddler and the doll.

“Stay here!” Bethany struggled.

“She don’t look tired to me,” Beau protested.

Rather than argue, Yvonne tried distraction. “You could read her a book.”

He rose in a hurry. “You bet.”

“Book!” Bethany cheered.

Once the two were settled in the nursery, Beau chose a picture book about trains. As he read in a dry voice, Yvonne watched the pair from the doorway.

The tableau formed by the gruff old man and the tiny girl in the crib brought unaccustomed tears to her eyes. Beau seemed to have been waiting for a subject on whom to lavish his affections.

Satisfied, Yvonne went to inspect the attic.

She remembered these stairs right down to the worn places in the handrail. Although she’d believed no one went up here, the doorknob at the top rotated as if newly oiled.

When she stepped inside, Yvonne inhaled the scent of lemon cleanser mingled with an unidentified chemical smell. Despite a hint of warmth, the air lacked the stifling heat she’d expected.

Puzzled, she advanced into the open.

Easels stood at angles, perhaps to catch the light throughout the day. They held paintings done in a vivid, realistic style so familiar that she must have seen the artist’s work before. Against one wall leaned several blank canvases, one of which had toppled. That probably accounted for the thump.

Near the room’s center, his back to her, a man radiated intensity as he focused on his work. Paint-daubed jeans and a blue shirt clung to a muscular body that also struck her as familiar.

From this angle he bore a disconcerting resemblance to Connor Hardison. Who on earth was this man and why was he working in Beau’s attic?

On the canvas, roughed-in male and female shapes blazed with sensuality. Yvonne could feel their body heat and the texture of the sand, and smell the suntan lotion.

A laptop computer on an adjacent table displayed the image that served as inspiration. It showed a pair of sunbathers on a beach, the man applying lotion to the woman’s bikini-clad figure as they lay sprawled in careless intimacy.

When a floorboard creaked beneath her, the painter froze. Then he laid down his brush and swung around.

It was, amazingly, Connor. He appeared as shocked as Yvonne.

The suggestiveness of his creation made her aware of him in a new way. Aware of the rough masculine texture of his cheeks and the curve where his throat disappeared into the open shirt collar. Aware of the denim clinging to his thighs and the gleam of white teeth between parted lips.

Instinctively, she toyed with a strand of hair. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” He frowned. “What about you?”

She couldn’t make sense of his statement. “You can’t live here. This is Beau’s attic.”

“He rented it to me.”

“You mean as a studio?” But that wasn’t what he’d said. “You can’t live here! This is the Johnson house!”

“You two weren’t speaking,” he answered quietly.

“We made up. Sort of.”

“Your uncle wanted a tenant. I needed a place close by and the space accommodates my hobby.”

They stared at each other. Both breathing fast, for some reason. She’d just climbed the stairs. What was his excuse?

How bizarre that Beau hadn’t mentioned renting the place. “He claimed you were a raccoon and sent me up to investigate.”

Connor burst out laughing. “I like that old man!” About to disagree, Yvonne recalled the tender scene in her daughter’s room. “He has a few good qualities.” She eyed the canvas. “You did the painting of the Allens, didn’t you?” That was where she’d seen the style before.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Incredible.” She indicated the pictures on the easels. “Do you always work from photographs?”

“Mostly.” His cheek, she noticed, bore a colorful smear.

His subjects were all people. No landscapes or abstracts.

Yvonne circled to examine a nearby work in progress. Charcoal lines roughed out the figure of a woman walking a small dog directly toward the viewer. Even at this incomplete stage, she could visualize the alluring sway of the lady’s hips and hear the click of the dog’s toenails on the sidewalk. “You’re brilliant.”

“That’s very flattering.” He seemed uncomfortable at being complimented.

“I don’t flatter people. It happens to be true.”

“Thanks.”

Another painting, completed and hung on the wall, showed a rear view of a partially draped female. To Yvonne, the style appeared less developed than his current work, so perhaps it stemmed from an earlier period. Yet it had a nearly three-dimensional quality lacking in the pictures derived from photos. “Was that a live model?”

A nod. “From art class.”

“You ought to use more models. They give your work extra depth.”

“It isn’t practical,” Connor replied. “Too expensive. It’s not as if I were a serious artist.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“I don’t suppose you’d…” He shook off the notion. “Never mind.”

“I’d what?” Had he nearly asked her to model? The prospect gave her a small thrill.

Even now, she felt his artistic eye examining the contours of her body as if he were touching her through the light summer dress. Her breasts tingled as she imagined his strong hands arranging her in a pose.

When he met her gaze, Yvonne caught an answering glint of hunger. He was seeing her as a woman now rather than as a model.

In the quiet room, she could hear his heart beating. Or was that her own pulse?

She wished he would…do what? Nothing she dared put into words.

Despite her reservations, she treasured the awareness of sexual allure. A man hadn’t appealed to her this strongly since…ever.

Yet he was Connor Hardison. Dr. Wrong.

He blinked as if pulling back, and cleared his throat. “So you’re doing a good deed for your great-uncle. You planning to drop by the house every night?”

Oh, right. She hadn’t explained the ticklish part. “I’m staying here for a few weeks.”

Judging by Connor’s stunned expression, that rocked him. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’d never have signed a six-month lease if I’d known.”

“Beau got the screwy idea that his family owes him something,” she explained. “It came out of nowhere.”

He gave a reluctant chuckle. “I may have accidentally reinforced that idea yesterday. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but he ended up firing his aide, and now this.”

“You must have quite a way with words.” She didn’t know whether to resent Connor’s interference or be glad he’d found her a place to stay. “He went from considering me a pariah to insisting I move in.”

“You could have said no.”

“I did, at first.” She shrugged. “My apartment suffered water damage this afternoon. I figure Bethany was better off here than at a motel. And Beau’s taken a liking to her.”

“You brought your daughter?”

His surprise annoyed Yvonne. “What should I do? Leave her in a storage locker?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” After collecting his brushes, Connor moved to the sink. “Still, holding down a job and raising a baby must be hard enough without taking on additional responsibilities. Are you sure you aren’t overdoing it?”

“I’ll manage,” she persisted. “I always have.”

“It can’t be easy.”

“Life isn’t easy.” Instinctively, she withdrew into the cynicism that had served her well these past two years.

Water swirled over the brushes. “That’s understandable. In an unplanned pregnancy, adoption is usually in the child’s best interest. And the mother’s, too.” He’d transformed without warning from the sexy painter into the stuffy doctor Yvonne knew and disliked

It was almost as if there were two different Connors. She suspected this control freak was the real him and the other a temporary aberration.

“Let’s get something straight.” She planted herself where he couldn’t avoid her stare. “At the clinic, you’re Dr. Hardison and I say ‘Yes, Doctor,’ and ‘No, Doctor.’ At home, you’re the raccoon who rents an attic from my pain-in-the-neck great-uncle. Got that?”

“No problem.” Losing his grip on one of the brushes, Connor accidentally flipped it. It flew to the floor, splattering soapy water across his shirt en route. He grabbed a roll of paper towels and blotted the mess. “By the way, that remark about adoption didn’t come out the way I’d intended.”

“Glad to hear it.”

Connor’s cell phone rang. Clearly irked, he pulled it from his shirt pocket. “I should have turned the thing off, since I’m not on call.”

“There could be an emergency,” she conceded.

He angled away as he flipped it open. “Dr. Hardison…I’m sorry, who?” His forehead furrowed. “Well, sure I remember her. What’s this about?”

It sounded personal. Yvonne started for the exit.

His last few remarks had confirmed her original negative impression. She couldn’t believe she’d actually been attracted to the man. She of all people understood how dangerous passion could be with a man who held power over her.

She would bury that moment of weakness in the same dark pit that had claimed her innocence. Like his mentor, Connor Hardison must never, never be trusted.

As she crossed the room, she heard him say, “Yes, I’m free…I don’t understand why you won’t just tell me…I’m sorry to hear that.”

Definitely an intriguing call, especially given the reference to “her.” However, his private life was none of her business.

And she meant to keep it that way.

Chapter Four

After dinner, as he drove toward the motel where he’d arranged to meet the mysterious caller, Connor replayed what had happened between him and Yvonne.

With her creamy skin and expressive face, he was now certain she would make a superb model. He’d become so fascinated that admiration had shifted into fierce arousal. And she’d noticed.

He had to be careful. That sort of involvement was highly inappropriate.

The problem was that she’d surprised him in the midst of painting. Normally, he only indulged his creative side when free from observation—or, he supposed, temptation. Like the Mr. Hyde who had dwelled in a secret compartment of Dr. Jekyll’s brain, the artist persona defied rational behavior.

Upon snapping out of his daze, Connor had overreacted by blurting a remark about adoption. Although in his opinion it was the best course for most single mothers, he’d deserved the rebuke.

While he regretted giving offense, Connor wasn’t sorry about putting distance between Yvonne and himself. He only wished he’d pulled away sooner.

He’d have to use caution during the next month. Keep the attic door locked. Put on his mental armor before he ventured to the kitchen.

He felt like a teenager again, and not in a good way.

In those days, he’d confined his efforts to sketchbooks and watercolors, hiding them in a drawer whenever Dad came home. His stepmother, Louise, a self-effacing woman who seemed dazzled by her luck in marrying the great Harmon Hardison, M.D., had left Connor alone. In retrospect, he presumed he’d intimidated her.

Too bad he didn’t have that effect on Yvonne.

Yet she’d praised his work. She’d brought up the subject of models as if it were the most natural thing in the world. What harm would it have done if he’d gone ahead and asked her?

No. Bad idea.

Connor had learned the hard way that his instincts could carry him off the deep end. He had a weakness for unpredictable—his father would say unstable—women.

That notion brought him back to the man he was about to meet, a fellow named Sam Delaney. He’d conveyed the sad news of Barbara Kinsey’s death and, oddly, had mentioned a legacy.

Barb Kinsey wasn’t the sort of person who left a legacy. Debts, more likely.

Connor and Barb had shared a brief, tempestuous affair in Nashville after his divorce had become final. His next-door neighbor in a small apartment building, she’d worked at a dress shop and spent her free time partying.

At her invitation, he’d dropped by a gathering, sampled the snacks and enjoyed her sharp sense of humor. On impulse, he’d invited her to go dancing at a country-music club. That evening, he’d rediscovered the sense of freedom he’d misplaced during a marriage burdened by his-and-hers grueling schedules.

Lovemaking had been frequent and exciting. At first, he’d relished the spontaneity and sense of fun. He hadn’t counted on Barb’s expectation that he’d spend every spare moment accompanying her to events or simply hanging out. He’d had to put aside his painting. When he began showing up at the hospital with bags under his eyes, he’d realized the situation had to change.

Connor had suggested putting on the brakes. He must have come across as critical or rejecting to Barb, who’d responded with anger. After a few days of alternate pouting and demands, she’d shut him out completely.

He’d e-mailed, suggesting they meet to discuss their differences. She’d sent a message in return that she planned to move to Atlanta. She’d cleaned out her apartment that same afternoon and departed before he’d had a chance to say goodbye.

Abandonment. Betrayal. He’d endured it before, on a far larger scale, when his mother had disappeared.

Connor didn’t try to chase after Barb. They’d been a mismatch from the start, he’d realized, and he tried to take comfort in discovering their incompatibility before the relationship went any further.

He’d heard nothing more until today. The news that Barb had died in a traffic accident saddened him. Despite their differences, he remembered her fondly.

That didn’t change his uncertainty about why this stranger had insisted on meeting in person. He hoped the man wasn’t going to request money on some pretext. Actually, Sam had come across as a guy performing an unpleasant duty, which was why Connor had agreed to see him.

Spotting the Landlocked Mariner restaurant, Connor hit his turn signal. Either the adjacent inn bore the same name or it was simply called Motel, because that was all the sign said.

In the lingering twilight, he noticed a man in a black jacket, hair skinned into a ponytail, leaning against a post in front of the office. Feeling overdressed in a suit, Connor halted next to a pickup. The contrast between his sleek, color-shifting dark red sedan and the rust-streaked green truck made his car seem overdressed, too.

The man’s boots scuffed across the blacktop. “Dr. Hardison? Sam Delaney.” Above the scraggly beard, several recent scars showed on his cheeks and forehead.

They shook hands. “What’s this about?”

“It’s gonna take some explaining.” On the highway, a truck roared by. “It’s kinda loud. Let’s go inside.”

Connor tensed. If this fellow meant to get him alone in a motel room, it might indicate a shakedown.

Instead, however, Delaney ambled toward the restaurant. That seemed safe enough.

Inside, a large central aquarium dominated the entrance-way. Beyond, in the main dining room, stuffed fish and tackle on the walls portrayed the marine theme. They veered right into the nearly empty bar, where they took a small table. Sam ordered beer, while Connor chose coffee.

Since the other man made no effort to begin, he primed the pump with a question. “Barb died in a car crash?”

Finishing a deep swallow, Sam wiped his upper lip with a sleeve. “Motorcycle.”

That might explain the scars. “She was riding with you?”

“I was riding with her, matter of fact. Car came outta nowhere. She swerved, we hit a ditch, and wham.”

“How long ago?”

“’Bout a month.”

A few more questions elicited the information that the couple had lived together for three years in Atlanta, where Delaney worked as a mechanic. Gradually, he grew more talkative.

“I told her she ought to call you. She wasn’t that kind of person, though. Too independent. I guess you figured that out.”

“She ought to have called me about what?”

“That’s the thing.” Sam scooped a pretzel from a plastic basket on the table and popped it into his mouth.

Why didn’t the man stop beating around the bush? “You mentioned a legacy.”

“Yeah. See…” Sam chewed and swallowed. “His name’s Mike.”

Connor was losing patience. “Whose name is Mike?”

“Your son.” A mouthful of pretzels cut off further discussion.

Connor’s ears rang. Your son.

Impossible. He had no children. “I don’t know what she told you, but I’m afraid you’ve been misled.”

From inside his jacket, Sam produced a wrinkled document, which he handed to Connor. It was a certified birth certificate from Fulton County, Georgia.

A boy named Michael Hardison had been born to Barbara Kinsey in September, nearly five years ago. That would be seven months after she left Nashville.

Connor was listed as the father. Plus, she’d given the child his last name.

Still, it was unthinkable. Kids didn’t appear out of nowhere, especially not in Connor’s well-ordered life.

A DNA test ought to clear this up.

He folded the document and pocketed it. “Where is the boy? With his grandparents?” Barb’s mother resided in New Orleans, he recalled.

Sam took another swig of beer to wash down the pretzel binge. “I called the old lady, believe me. Paulette’s watched the boy before, but she didn’t want the responsibility. Got some new boyfriend and no job. Barb tell you she grew up bouncing between her mom and her two aunts?”

Now that he mentioned it, yes, she had. Obviously, Mrs. Kinsey—or whatever name she used—wasn’t suitable to raise a child.

“He must have other family.” Connor gathered that the man expected him to handle some legalities. “Am I supposed to sign papers?”

“You do whatever you think best, Doc.” Sam sat back, apparently relieved now that he’d unloaded his news. “You married?”

“No, I’m not.”

“That makes it easier. Might be tough explaining to a wife about bringing home a son.”

Bringing home? The man expected Connor to…

For a few heartbeats, his mind refused to function. He’d organized his life carefully. This couldn’t be true.

During his few affairs, Connor had always protected himself and his lover. He was, after all, a doctor

Except for a few occasions with Barb, added an inner voice. During a picnic at the lake, they’d rowed a boat into a secluded inlet and made love. Also, once in his car, she’d tempted him into a tryst that might have landed them both in jail had they been caught.

He must have been out of his mind.

“I guess this comes as a shock, huh?” Delaney made a sympathetic noise. “Believe me, I like the kid. I’d keep Mike myself, but the social workers wouldn’t let me. They wanted me to hand him over like he was public property, which is why I hightailed it up here.”

Social workers getting their hands on Connor’s son? That didn’t compute. “Where is he now?”

“Right over at the motel.”

Reality hit with a clunk. “You left a four-year-old alone?”

“He’s watching TV. Can’t get into no trouble that way, right?”

The physician side of Connor sprang into action. He had to assume charge until a suitable home could be found for Barb’s little boy, whoever the father turned out to be. “We’re going there. Now!”

Delaney finished his beer while Connor settled the bill.

At the motel, a key admitted them to room 12. A cartoon blared in the darkened chamber. Connor made out a small shape on the bed, watching.

When Sam switched on the light, the child buried his face in his arms. “Ow!”

“Hey, cowboy.” Snaring the remote, the mechanic muted the TV.

“Don’t call me a cowboy. I’m Biker Mike.” Indeed, the boy wore a black leather jacket just like Sam’s.

Finally, the kid lifted his face. When Connor got a good look, recognition jolted through him.

The freckled cheeks and snub nose could have belonged to his brother, Ryan, as a child. Both had the same slightly pointed chin and springy hair with a cowlick, too, except that instead of dark brown the color was chestnut, like Barb’s.

The smoky gray eyes matched Connor’s.

Biker Mike didn’t require a DNA test. The boy’s appearance, coupled with the birth certificate, erased all doubt of his paternity.

Connor had a son.

“Can we go home now?” Mike begged.

The pleading nearly made Connor say yes, until he realized the request was aimed at the other man. Home meant Atlanta.

Delaney changed the channel to a boxing match, still without sound. “I guess I shoulda explained why we came here.”

Mike had no idea what was going on? Oh, great.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell him.” Connor hated to rebuke Sam, who appeared to be doing his best under difficult circumstances. Still, after three years as the boy’s unofficial stepfather, he ought to have developed some sensitivity.

“Sorry.” The man regarded him hopefully. “Go ahead, Doc. You tell him.”

In his practice, Connor often had to give people painful news. He devoted as much time as they required to listening and answering questions, and made referrals as indicated.

Tonight, nobody wanted Dr. Hardison’s professional wisdom. As for handling the fallout, he was on his own. No guidelines, no referrals.

He sat on the bed. “My name’s Connor.”

Mike glared. “Are you a social worker?”

“No, I’m a doctor.”

“I’m not sick.”

“Good. Then I won’t have to give you a shot.” Reminded of an important point, Connor addressed Sam. “Did you bring his medical records?”

“Yeah, everything’s in there.” The man indicated a large duffel bag.

The luggage struck Connor as the type bikers used. “You didn’t…” Although it was too late to make a difference, he cared about the answer. “Tell me you didn’t bring him from Atlanta on a motorcycle.”

“Vroom! Vroom!” Mike twisted a pair of invisible handle-bars.

“No, it got totaled. I borrowed that truck you parked next to.” Delaney clicked off the TV. “Hey, Biker? Connor’s a good guy. He’s, uh, he’s your real dad, so go easy on him, okay?”

A part of Connor wanted to deny the relationship. It still didn’t seem real, and obviously, he couldn’t raise the child. No sense in building up an attachment—or arousing antagonism—for a temporary situation.

On the other hand, the truth was the truth.

“Sorry, Mike. You’re stuck with me.” He braced for the reaction.

“Papa Sam!” Scuttling across the bed, the boy flung his small body at the man who’d brought him. “I’ll carry out the trash every day, I promise. I won’t watch cartoons when you’re hung over, either. Please, let’s go home!”

Connor’s heart ached. The little guy had lost his mother and now he was losing his father figure. Under other circumstances, trying to keep them together might almost have been worth it.

Except…the man had left a preschooler unsupervised in a motel room. He also apparently drank a lot.

“Sorry. Can’t do it.” Delaney hugged the boy. “You’re lucky. I never met my real father. Your dad’s one terrific guy. You’ll see.”

The vote of confidence gave Connor a guilty pang. He wondered if Yvonne had felt as blindsided by her pregnancy as he did by this discovery. At least she’d had a few months warning before someone had laid a child in her arms.

Right now, he had to comfort a little boy on the brink of tears. Connor crouched beside him. “You’ll like my big old house.”

“Yeah, doctors have big houses.” Sam’s words carried a note of envy.

“Actually, I rent the top floor,” Connor admitted. “My landlord’s a funny old guy, and I work across the street.”

Mike chewed on his lip.

What else could he offer by way of inducement? He remembered the playroom. “We’ve got an electric train and a bunch of other toys.”

“How about a motorbike?”

“Afraid not. Just a car.” Searching for another inducement, he said, “I’ve got a whole drawer full of suckers in my office, all flavors. What’s your favorite?”

“Licorice.” Mike eyed him dubiously.

Connor was losing on all counts. “I meant fruit flavors, but I’ll buy you licorice at the store. What else do you eat?”

“Peanut butter and jelly.”

“We can do that.” Clearly, he needed more bargaining chips. “I’ve got a TV and a computer. A DVD player, too.”

The boy folded his arms. “Sam, tell him to blow it out his ear.”

Delaney made a clucking noise. “Bad attitude, fella.”

Connor decided to drop the buddy-buddy stuff. It wasn’t working anyway. “I’m afraid we don’t have a choice, Mike. Sometimes things happen that even grown-ups can’t change.”

“Yeah,” Sam seconded. “Since I’m not really your dad, those social workers would snatch you away and put me in jail if I tried to keep you. No kidding. Dr. Hardison’s doing us a favor.”

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