Nothing But Trouble Could Come From Kissing Flynn. Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Copyright

Nothing But Trouble Could Come From Kissing Flynn.

A woman as sane as she was—and the whole world knew Molly Weston was practical and hopelessly straitlaced—simply had more brains than to hurl herself off a cliff without a parachute.

But Flynn tempted her. As no man ever had. It was those eyes. It was that simmering, electric thing that shimmered in the air between them. It was that daredevil zest for life that captivated her, made crazy ideas come to her mind—like the thought that she’d regret it forever if she never made love with him.

He read her decision in her eyes. That slow, wicked grin of his faded. His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth, the playfulness disappearing from his expression.

Her hand rose higher, until her fingers were bare, naked inches from touching him. Her heart was suddenly pounding, pounding.

Until she heard the bellowing wail of a baby.

Dear Reader,

Where do you read Silhouette Desire? Sitting in your favorite chair? How about standing in line at the market or swinging in the sunporch hammock? Or do you hold out the entire day, waiting for all your distractions to dissolve around you, only to open a Desire novel once you’re in a relaxing bath or resting against your softest pillow...? Wherever you indulge in Silhouette Desire, we know you do so with anticipation, and that’s why we bring you the absolute best in romance fiction.

This month, look forward to talented Jennifer Greene’s A Baby in His In-Box, where a sexy tutor gives March’s MAN OF THE MONTH private lessons on sudden fatherhood. And in the second adorable tale of Elizabeth Bevarly’s BLAME IT ON BOB series, Beauty and the Brain, a lady discovers she’s still starry-eyed over her secret high school crush. Next, Susan Crosby takes readers on The Great Wife Search in Bride Candidate #9.

And don’t miss a single kiss delivered by these delactable men: a roguish rancher in Amy J. Fetzer’s The Unlikely Bodyguard; the strong, silent corporate hunk in the latest book in the RIGHT BRIDE, WRONG GROOM series, Switched at the Altar, by Metsy Hingle; and Eileen Wilks’s mouth watering honorable Texas hero in Just a Little Bit Pregnant.

So, no matter where you read, I know what you’ll be reading—all six of March’s irresistible Silhouette Desire love stories!

Regards,

Melissa Senate

Senior Editor

Silhouette Desire

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A Baby in his In-Box

Jennifer Greene

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JENNIFER GREENE

lives near Lake Michigan with her husband and two children. Before writing full-time, she worked as a teacher and a personnel manager. Michigan State University honored her as an “outstanding woman graduate” for her work with women on campus.

Ms. Greene has written more than fifty category romances, for which she has won numerous awards, including two RITA awards from the Romance Writers of America in the Best Short Contemporary Books category, and a Career Achievement award from Romantic Times magazine.

One

“What the hell is this?”

Flynn McGannon had just hung up the phone when the whirlwind barreled into his office. “What’s what?”

“You know exactly what.” The whirlwind slapped a clipped set of papers on his desk. She pointed a royal finger at the offending documents, then at him. “There are words for men like you—starting with lazy and irresponsible. If I didn’t believe you were eventually trainable, I swear I’d fire you.”

Flynn didn’t glance at the papers. He’d bet bookies odds they were boring. His accountant, on the other hand, both kidnapped and ransomed his interest even when she wasn’t breathing hard—and at the moment Molly Weston was breathing smoke. Thoughtfully he scratched his chin. “Don’t you think firing me will be a little tricky? Considering that I own the company and you’re the employee?”

“If you think that’s a relevant argument, you’ve got another think coming. You’re not going to own anything if you don’t shape up. You’ll be in court with the IRS—and they’d be justified in throwing the book at you. Now, I know you hate numbers, but this is ridiculous. You call these scraps of paper a serious effort at keeping records?”

Truth to tell, he did. Flynn had never needed an accountant when he was poor. Who’d have guessed that his software programs would take off like lightning in the marketplace? For him, the work was fun—pure playtime—or he’d never have done it. The gold he seemed to be hauling in for the last three years was a total accident.

The other three accountants he’d tried before Molly Weston had been total accidents, too. Two guys. One woman. All three of them had quit on him in a disgusted huff, puffing out the door in their pin-stripe suits and their starched spines.

Six months ago, Molly had started out as starched as the rest of them. She’d also started out soft-voiced and sweet and so shy she was intimidated by her own shadow.

Flynn took personal credit for ruining her.

Her pale pink fingertip located a sheet with a bunch of statistics—one of her favorite things in life—and started stabbing it. “You call this a record of expenses? What is this eight hundred dollars for lunch?” she snarled at him.

“Well, actually, it wasn’t for lunch. It was for that special ergonomic chair for Ralph, because he’s got that bad knee? Only I sort of misplaced the receipt, and I knew that’d tick you off, so I thought it’d be easier to...”

“You didn’t think.” She immediately corrected him.

Since he’d heard parts of this harangue before, Flynn cocked his moccasined feet on the desk and concentrated his attention on studying her. She was pacing. To effectively pace in his office, she needed to kick the basketball out of the way and manuever around the putting green by the windows.

Initially Molly had been appalled at the whole place—but especially his office. Personally Flynn thought the plush red carpet, teak cabinets and slab of lapus lazuli desk looked appropriately expensive and executive. Obviously he’d had to add personal touches, like the basketball hoop over the door and the putting green by the far windows. His office chair was almost as good as a mistress—eleven controls, programmed and willing to massage any part of the body on command. It couldn’t compete with a woman’s hands, but a guy couldn’t have everything in a work setting.

Molly wasn’t much on vibrating chairs. Her approval rating on his customary working attire of historic jeans and moccasins wasn’t much higher. There was no real reason why the staff of five couldn’t work stark naked if they chose. Clients came from across the globe, but impromptu visits to the office were rare.

The whole staff, including himself, were creative nerds who holed up in front of their keyboards and worked whatever hours they pleased. Flynn didn’t care about any of their life-styles or clothes as long as they did their jobs.

Molly, though, was addicted to formality. She liked suits—preferably navy, black or gray, but on a real wild day she’d go for herringbone. Today she was in Priss Mode. Navy skirt, navy heels, a crisp white blouse with a neat little pin choking her at the collar. Her hair was brownish-gold, the color of rich dark tea, expertly cut just short of her shoulders in a pageboy style. Even when she was pacing around, thwacking papers, threatening his cherished body parts, agitated enough to make her hair tumble and bounce...the instant she paused, her hair fell right back into its customary smooth, silky style. Flynn figured her hair didn’t have the nerve to stay mussed.

Her eyes were brown, too, but not tea brown. More melted-chocolate brown. Soft. Emotive. Those huge eyes mirrored her vulnerability, Flynn had always thought. The oval face had more of those hopelessly vulnerable features—feathered brows, delicate cheekbones and an itsybitsy mouth that was damn near shaped perfectly—if a man had his mind on kissing her.

Flynn invariably had his mind on kissing her lately. Aw, hell. He had his mind on tussling with her between cool, smooth sheets on a nice, hard mattress. He’d gamble his Lotus she was wearing a good-girl white bra under that crisp linen blouse. He hadn’t gotten far enough to find out. Yet.

“Are you listening to me?” she demanded.

“Uh-huh. You want to know why there’s extra money in that account. And where the paperwork is to explain where it came from. I’m trying to remember,” he assured her.

“You wouldn’t have to remember if you’d just keep reasonable records from the start! My God, you’re as tough to reform as a career criminal. I’ve set up an entire system to make this easy for you. I know perfectly well that you’re deathly allergic to concepts like organization. But I can’t help you if you won’t even try to come half-way, Flynn.”

“Yes, Molly.” Even her voice aroused him. There was nothing unique in her accent—they were both immigrants to Kalamazoo, but he’d fled from Detroit and she hailed from Traverse City country, so her speech patterns were as Michigan-based as his. But there was something liquid in her voice tone. Something pure female. Something that went down as easy as honey—even when she was mopping the floor with him.

“I’m serious, you jerk. You’re inviting problems with the IRS, and there’s no excuse for it. Your business is perfectly sound, for heaven’s sake. It isn’t that complicated to express that on paper. The rest of the staff has come around like troopers. And then there’s you. What exactly is so hard with keeping some simple, basic records?”

“Honestly. I just forget—”

Oops. Forgetting was a mortal sin in her eyes—which you’d think he’d know by now. She was off again, wheeling around his desk, throwing out her right hand, then her left, in gestures to punctuate her lecture about being disgusted with him.

Flynn had been terrified she’d quit like the others—for a while. But Molly claimed quitting would make her feel guilty. If she quit, he’d have to hire someone else. That someone else would be stuck handling his idiocy. As she put it, the buck stopped with her. She was going to shape him up or die trying.

He really was trying to shape up, but Molly’s standards were rigidly exacting. About work. The two times he’d stolen a kiss from her...well. He hadn’t managed to peel off any of those immaculate linen blouses, or find out if that slim, shapely fanny was as sexy as it looked without the zealously prissy skirt. But he’d discovered something fascinating.

Man, could she kiss.

It wasn’t Flynn’s fault he couldn’t forget. She kissed like a man’s wildest erotic fantasy. Those lips molded under his as if nature had created that soft, red mouth just for him.

Molly had a bank vault of principles she never bent on. It wasn’t as if she abandoned those values, more like there was a deep emotional current running under those first locked doors.

That current could drag a man under, if he weren’t careful. At thirty-four, Flynn had never been caught by the marriage trap, but life would be no fun at all if a man were too careful.

“You’re not paying attention to me,” Molly accused him.

“Believe me, I am. Weston, you have the best set of legs in the Midwest, and probably the whole damn country. And that’s an objective opinion from a leg connoisseur.”

“McGannon!” The first day he met her, he’d thought scarlet was her natural skin color—she’d been that flushed and nervous through the whole job interview. Now, it took more effort to make a blush bloom on her cheeks, but this was a good one, a full-fledged rose. The blush was old news, but the mischievous sparkle in her eyes was a noticeably gutsy addition.

Ms. Wholesome-Weston definitely wasn’t as prim and proper as she used to be. That sparkle in her eyes, in fact, inspired him to swing his legs off the desk.

“No,” she said firmly.

“Exactly what are you saying ‘no’ to?” He stood up.

“Get that look out of your eyes, McGannon. Right now.”

He advanced a step. She not only failed to look intimidated, but she also parked two slim fists on her delectably shaped hips. Flynn could still remember how she skittered and jumped if he looked at her crossways in those first days. He’d been bluntly honest with her—she’d never last a week if she couldn’t stand up to him. In six months, she’d come a long way.

But not as far as he’d like her to. “You’ve got the same look in your eyes,” he pointed out.

“I do not.”

Yeah, she did. And that unholy sparkle in her eyes only upped in wattage when he took another step toward her. And another.

“Back off. Or you’ll have a shiner so fast it’ll make your head spin, buster.”

“Nah. You wouldn’t give me a shiner unless I earned it. And there isn’t a prayer we’d be doing this if I wasn’t sure we both liked it. All you have to do is say no and I’ll behave. I swear.”

She didn’t say no. But when she was backed up against the plush red carpeted wall, she reverted to her favorite defense. Logic. “I like this job and I don’t want to lose it.”

“That makes two of us. You’ve made yourself so totally indispensable that I’d be lost with you. I’m not joking. I mean it. I told you the day you hired on that I’m an insensitive clod—but I learn. If I do one thing to make you uncomfortable, all you have to do is say so.”

“It’s not that simple, and you know it. People comingling where they work is never a good idea. Someone gets hurt, and then someone ends up out of a job.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. If both people are honest with each other and play by the same rules.”

“You couldn’t define ‘rule’ with a big print dictionary, Flynn. You like anarchy. Everybody doesn’t. Some people can’t just hop into bed and have everything be the same the next morning.”

“Actually I wasn’t thinking about hopping into bed. Well, not much anyway. But I do respect that you’re real strong on that rings and commitment sort of thing....” He motioned with a hand, indicating his unfamiliarity with those alien concepts. “Really, all I had in mind was a kiss. To see if the last one was some kind of aberration.”

“Aberration?”

“Yeah. You put my knickers in the twist the last time we tried this. And I don’t wear knickers. Somehow what I assumed would be a little innocent mischief turned into spontaneous combustion. I wasn’t expecting it, and to tell you the truth, I hope you won’t do it again. You may not believe this, but I’ve been around a few blocks in life—”

“I believe it.”

“—So I’m definitely not used to falling in love on a first kiss. I’m figuring you must have caught me at a weak moment. When my blood sugar was low, or I was catching a fever, something like that. But the thing is, I can’t get that last power-punched kiss off my mind. Maybe if we did it again, and the kiss turned out tepid and dull, we could both quit this nonsense and go back to working like normal.”

“Flynn...”

Flynn used the word “love” easily, Molly knew. He’d claimed to be in love with her before—her, hot peppers, a crunchy-leaf autumn day, toasted almonds, a staff member who solved a tough problem and any puppy with floppy ears. That was just yesterday. Flynn was an upbeat, boisterously effusive man. “Love” was just a word he used on a daily basis. Molly knew perfectly well he didn’t mean it seriously.

But he was standing right in front of her by then. It was a butter-soft fall day, with blinds drawn to shutter out the bright mid-afternoon October sun beating in the windows this early in the afternoon. His computer screen was flashing, his fax noisily spewing out paper, the door to his office wide-open. Molly was aware of the sun, the office textures and noises, yet all she really noticed right then was him.

She was no shrimp at five foot five, yet he towered over her by a good six inches. Flynn always looked more like the wild warriors in his Scottish ancestry than anyone respectably civilized. His eyes were as piercing as blue lasers, his shoulders beam-broad, his thick, unruly hair the color of dark cinnamon and never looked brushed. His clothes were disgraceful the same way—jeans with holes, a long-sleeved black T-shirt with a threadbare neck—the man had money to burn, yet couldn’t seem to spare a dime to dress conventionally. Doing anything conventional never seemed to occur to Flynn.

He stood there. Within pouncing distance. But he didn’t move—and wouldn’t, Molly guessed. Flynn was an unpredictable, amoral, immoral rascal, but he never crossed a certain line. Once she’d made a teasing comment about sexual harassment, and startling her completely, he’d sobered faster than a judge and sat down with her for the next three hours. He’d listened, but Molly could see he honestly didn’t get it. That he had power. That he was a boss. He seemed to think of his owning the company as accidental, and unfailingly treated the staff as if they were a team of all equal players, with his vote weighing no more than anyone else’s. Flynn’s management style didn’t fit in any rule book she knew, but sexual harassment never even crossed her mind in a teasing way once she knew him. His code of behavior around women was crystal-clear.

He’d never tried that first kiss, never made any sort of move, until she’d invited it. He never intruded anywhere near a woman’s principles or choices.

Unless she were willing.

And let him know she was willing.

Those damn blue eyes of his were waiting. A kiss simmered between them like an untasted stew, the scent tantalizing, the hunger aroused by the possibilities.

Molly mused that she’d heard him call himself homely once.

Possibly he even believed it—heaven knew, his clothes reflected a total blindness or lack of perception about his physical appearance. Technically the blunt chin and craggy nose and broad-planed bones fit no classic claim to handsomeness... but he was still the sexiest man she knew. Those blue eyes could caress a woman before he’d even touched her; the mouth could tempt a nun to jettison her vows and jump him. The problem with Flynn—one of many—was that he loved everything about being a man, and it showed. He couldn’t seem to help being dangerous. That compelling, earthy sexuality was downright impossible to ignore, and God knew, she’d tried.

“You stalling, Ms. Weston?” he murmured.

“Yes.”

“You thinking about it? Whether you want me to kiss you or whether you want to knock my block off?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to let me know before November what you decide?”

Maybe she needed that whole month, Molly thought desperately. Her decision should have been cut and dried, but somehow it wasn’t. Six months ago, if anyone suggested she could conceivably fall in love with a man like Flynn McGannon, she’d have checked herself into a funny farm for immediate shock treatments.

He was a bellower. A man who expressed both humor and temper at the same roaring volume. He worked like a slave, played like a glutton, intimidated strangers and clients both with his booming voice and unpredictable moods—and then invariably acted confounded why anybody would be afraid of him.

Molly knew precisely why she was.

He was too sexy for her. Too sexy, too self-centered, too dare-the-world wild, too everything that she wasn’t. She wanted a husband, children, a family. Not an affair with a man who was bluntly honest about his terror of wedding rings. Flynn loved risk. She honestly hated it. He saw every day as a free-wheeling adventure. She was a list-maker.

Nothing could come from kissing him but trouble. Heartache. A woman as sane as she was—and the whole world knew Molly Weston was practical and hopelessly straitlaced—simply had more brains than to hurl herself off a cliff without a parachute.

But he tempted her. Like no man ever had. It was those eyes. It was that nasty, simmering, electric thing that shimmered in the air between them. It was that daredevil zest for life that captivated her, and made crazy ideas fester in her mind—like that she’d regret it forever if she never made love with him. Like that she might only have this one chance. Like that maybe everyone should have the right, just once in life, to do something foolish and impulsive....

She heard sudden commotion from outside his office. A door slamming. Voices raised. Pandemonium wasn’t uncommon in the workday at McGannon’s, but something registered in her mind as off-kilter. Still, she couldn’t look away from the heat in Flynn’s gaze. Didn’t want to.

He wanted her. Maybe Flynn desired a couple hundred women—possibly even in the same day—but the whole sensation was new to Molly. She’d never felt washed in the warm liquid gaze of a man’s desire, bold, nakedly honest, dangerous, magnetic. She’d never figured out how the patooties she’d ever stirred his interest. Most men pegged her accurately and swiftly—she was a conventional woman, a picture-straightener, an obsessive list-maker, attractive enough but in a nice way. Everyone knew she was nice, for Pete’s sake. It was probably going to be on her epitaph.

Not him. He looked at her like she was Christie Brinkley who’d just popped in to strip for him. Or like she was a succulent choice bit of lobster and he’d just come off a week’s fast. She knew that was all nuts—but something went haywire in her perceptions around Flynn. Never mind what was real. How he made her feel was painfully real enough.

She’d been falling in love with him for months now. Denying it. Making excuses—calling it hormones, calling it PMS, calling it an affection that had naturally developed from working with a fascinating man every day. She’d been calling it every word under the sun but the one she was afraid was true.

Her hand lifted. Fingers already curving to the shape of his neck.

He saw. That slow, wicked grin of his faded. His face almost turned grave—and Flynn rarely took anything in life too seriously. His gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth, the playfulness disappearing from his expression. This kiss would be different, she sensed.

The other ones really hadn’t been without a parachute. But this one might be.

Still her hand raised higher, until her fingers were bare, naked inches from touching him. Her heart was suddenly pounding, pounding.

Until she heard the bellowing wail of a baby.

Molly stepped back, startled, just as a woman barreled into Flynn’s office. And not just a woman, but a baby— a pumpkin-shaped squirt of maybe a year old, who was squirming in every direction and announcing loudly to the world that he was unhappy. The woman was flustered and distraught, trying to juggle the eel of a baby and baby gear and a flapping purse.

“Flynn, damn you. No one wanted to even let me see you...I practically had to battle past a nutcase in a bathrobe at the front desk—”

Molly froze for a second. Flynn whirled around. Bailey shot in just behind the woman, his face flushed like a brick—and yes, he was wearing a bathrobe over his clothes. Bailey was one of Flynn’s brilliant creative nerds; very sweet, just a little goofy. When he had a creative challenge inspiring him, he wore his lucky robe. No one paid attention, not even Molly anymore. Bailey never voluntarily met the public, because nerves brought out his stutter—and he was stuttering painfully, trying to explain to Flynn how the lady had barged past him.

Molly heard that conversation, but she wasn’t really listening. The intrusion was just so bizarre.

The woman dropped a diaper bag on the carpet. Then she plunked down the baby with the same kind of exasperated attitude. The baby, let free, quit bellowing and squirming and promptly took off on all fours.

“What on earth... ?” Flynn reached behind him to yank the blinds open further. Cheerful sunlight instantly poured in, but didn’t seem to illuminate anything that was going on. Flynn wasn’t easily thrown by any brand or flavor of surprises. His bushy eyebrows lifted in question, but initially his expression showed more intrigue than concern over the mystery woman’s arrival.

Molly didn’t catch the lady’s face until she straightened back up. Golden hair billowed around her shoulders then. A red sweater hugged a top-heavy bust; poured-on jeans showed off several miles of slim legs. Her face might have been strikingly pretty, if there hadn’t been huge shadows under the eyes and drawn lines around the mouth.

“Don’t you ‘What on earth’ me, Flynn McGannon. And don’t even try claiming not to recognize me.” Either fury or nerves made her voice shrill. Molly could see the skilled effort with makeup, but it didn’t conceal the pallor of her skin or the exhausted dark eyes.

“I didn’t claim anything. But I honestly don’t know...” Flynn was frowning now, studying her hard.

“Virginie,” she snapped. “Tuscon. The Silver Buckle. Add up thirteen months—the age of your son—and the nine months I carried him, and maybe that night’ll come back to you. You were with some party. I was with some party. But the only party that mattered was the one that ended up back at my place. Chivas was your drink that night, as I recall. Unfortunately, I recall more than that. You were a hell of a lover, you cretin. But no man’s worth the price you cost me.”

“Son?” Flynn echoed blankly, and then wildly shook his head. “That isn’t possible. You said you were protected—”

“Ha. So suddenly you do remember that night—and if it isn’t just like a man to remember the part that gives him an excuse. And at the time, I was. On the pill. But I missed a couple—and before you tell me that was my fault, let me tell you that I don’t give a damn. That doesn’t make the baby any less your responsibility—”

“Look, if you’d just try to calm down...you can’t just show up out of the blue, making claims that you seem to expect me to instantly believe—”

Virginie didn’t try responding to that. She seemed on a one-track road, the words spilling out of her at cyclone speed. “Your son’s name is Dylan. And he’s all yours as of this minute. You don’t know what I’ve been through. You can’t even guess. My life’s been a nonstop nightmare from the instant this child was conceived. I was sick. Lost my job. He had colic and he doesn’t sleep and I’m about to lose my apartment and I can’t do it anymore. Right now I don’t even have a way to feed him—”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute, just slow down—”

“The hell I will. And don’t waste your breath offering me money because this isn’t about money. It’s about everything. I never figured you’d want to know you were a father, but that’s just tough. Every woman on earth isn’t cut out for motherhood. I gave it a shot—you don’t know how hard I gave it a shot—but nothing’s working out. I can’t do it anymore, and you’re responsible for this. It took me forever to find you—”

Molly had never seen Flynn lose color before. Normally when he was upset, he got noisy, not quiet. But he raked a hand through his hair and looked dead-quiet now. “Surely you realize this is impossible? You can’t just barge in here and claim I’m the father of a child. I can see you’re upset, but if you’d just calm down—”

“I’m not calming down. I’m leaving. You. With your son.”

“It’s not my son.” Flynn’s baritone could have carried to the next county. So could the blonde’s shrill soprano.

“Oh, yeah it is. I know it is. And if you’ll look back twenty-one months ago, you’ll know it is. If not, there has to be some blood test or something that’ll prove it to you—because believe me, it will.” She snatched up her tote-size purse again, but withdrew a folder from it and tossed it on his desk. Pictures spilled out. What looked like medical records, maybe a birth certificate. “I need a job. I need a place to live. I need a chance at life again, and I’m going after it The baby ruined everything I ever had. He’s your problem from this minute on.”

When she spun around, Flynn lurched toward her. “Wait a minute. For God’s sake, you can’t just walk out of here—”

“Watch me.”

Molly couldn’t seem to unfreeze. The whole scene was just so unreal. The frantic-faced woman and the whole yelling match couldn’t have taken five minutes. She stormed back out of the office as fast as she’d stormed in.

Flynn hiked after her. Molly had never seen his complexion turn that ashen gray before. She heard his booming voice from the hall, fading as the two of them reached the front doors. There wasn’t another sound in the entire office—not because Flynn’s handful of staff weren’t there, but likely because everyone had been listening as intently to the whole scene no differently than she had.

It took a few seconds before Molly could seem to gather her wits. And another second before she abruptly realized that the infamous “Virginie” had left a package behind her.

The baby had been padding around on all fours, fanny in the air, crawling at cruising speeds that could probably earn him a ticket on the freeway.

Temporarily, though, the baby was nowhere in sight.

And no one seemed to give a damn.

Two

Molly hustled out of Flynn’s office in search of the baby.

Initially real worry never occurred to her—she figured she’d have heard the sound of the baby crying if he’d been in trouble, and there were other adults around besides. She just wanted to find him. It wasn’t the safest environment in town for a crawling toddler to be running around loose.

Flynn’s office opened into the circular area that the staff called Brainstorming Central. Undoubtedly the original architect had designed a normal office space with walls and doors, but Flynn had predictably obliterated all that logical construction long since.

The virtual reality booth was an intrinsic part of the “think tank,” but she poked her head in there—and found no baby. In the middle of Brainstorming Central was a table the size of a small country. Recliner chairs tipped back as far as beds. The ceiling was lavishly decorated with posters—cartoon characters, wilderness scenes, rock stars, bad jokes, saintly inspirational quotes. Molly first thought that decorating the ceiling was loony, but after six months of working with the lunatic staff, she’d discovered she was too fond of all of them to take exception to their eccentric office decor ideas.

She whipped around the circumference of the table, bent over to spot any miniature bodies, checking chairs and any possible hiding spot. Still, she caught no sight or sound of the mite.

Her pulse was charging, her heart clanging nerves. She told herself she was naturally concerned about the missing Dylan, but that was only a partial truth. She’d been rattled long before realizing the baby had disappeared. The whole bizarre scene with Dylan’s mother had acid jumping in her stomach...and worse than that, her mind kept doing instant replays of the embrace she’d almost invited from Flynn.

A lump clogged her throat as she sprinted out of Brainstorming Central toward the break rooms. All right. Embrace was a pale word for what she’d been inviting from Flynn. She’d wanted to make love with him. Could have, might have, wanted to—if they hadn’t been interrupted at that precise moment.

Thoughts spun in her mind like whirling dervishes in a high wind. Darn it, was that baby really his? And had Flynn really slept with that woman—a woman he barely seemed to recognize?

Molly had been so positive she knew him. His impulsiveness and unpredictability were part of what made him an exciting, dynamic man, and yes, those character traits made her uneasy, too. Maybe he was wild, but she’d never known him to do anything seriously irresponsible. She’d believed he had a good heart. And now...

Now you aren’t sure of anything, duckie. Except that there’s a baby loose and someone has to find the little one before he gets hurt.

She flipped the light switch in the bathroom and peered in—no baby. She closed that door and charged into the first break room. Since none of Flynn’s staff—besides herself—had even a remote concept of normal work hours, the back room contained bunk beds, a stereo and TV entertainment center. It wasn’t unusual to find someone crashing in there any hour of the day, but Molly peered under beds and around comers and closets. No bodies surfaced, large or small.

Still, those whirling-dervish thoughts kept hurling through her mind. Had he really had a one-night stand with someone he didn’t know, didn’t value, just a fling between the sheets to satisfy an itch—was that all sex meant to Flynn? And yeah, Molly knew she was just a teensy bit rigid...aw hell, her dad used to say she’d strangle on a principle before giving an inch, but that didn’t stop the sick-dread feeling from churning in her stomach. All the times Flynn had playfully tried to seduce her, she’d thought she was special to him. She’d thought they were building something special between them. She’d really thought...

Quit thinking, you dimwit. Find the baby.

She pedaled into the second break room, and immediately spotted a body—just not the size body she was searching for.

Like everyone else at McGannon’s, Simone Akumi was a character. She was Flynn’s chief programmer, and stood a regal six feet, with a face the color of dark mahogany and austere features that reflected her personality. Her IQ scored off the map, but she had a tough time talking to lesser mortals. Typically she was garbed in a long, flowing African print—with a headset parked on her wiry white hair. The headset meant she was working, and only someone with a death wish interrupted Simone when she was concentrating. Molly rapidly scanned the room before trying to catch her attention.

Glass doors led outside to a patio and rolling sweep of lawn—Flynn had been known to have staff meetings picnic-style on the grass. But on a crisp October day, thankfully the doors were safely closed, so the baby couldn’t escape that way. Past the counter table was a double-size refrigerator—anything could be in there, from mystery meat to sushi to pizza to a quart jar of maraschino cherries. Three coffeemakers were simultaneously bubbling on the sink counter. Everyone was violently fussy—and possessive—about their favorite brands. Simone just turned around to pour a mug when Molly frantically motioned for her to lift one ear cup.

“Did you see it? A baby anywhere around here?”

“If you’re referring to that small hellion of a Caucasian traveling on all fours—good Lord, is it really Flynn’s?” Simone, for once, didn’t seem to mind the interruption.

But Molly had no time to chat. “I don’t know. I just know it disappeared when everyone was talking—”

“Well, the last I saw it, it was trailing after Bailey. Poor tyke. Clearly it’s too young to have developed any sort of judgment in people. And Bailey looked petrified.” Simone adjusted her headphones back in place. From her expression, she was back to concentrating on work before Molly had even spun around.

With her heart thudding, she clipped double-speed into the work area shared by all the programmers. Maybe she hadn’t been really that worried about the baby before, but darn it, Bailey was even more absentminded than Simone, and the programming office was the most dangerous place for a little one. Computers and printers and modems created an incessant nerve-racking clatter. Phones and cords and all kinds of electronic equipment were too easily reachable by small fingers.

Ralph’s cubicle was first—and he was there, ensconced in his orange throne chair that wincingly clashed with the red carpet. He was twenty-four, typically working barefoot, with a plaid shirt buttoned nerd-style to the throat, and a long, straggly blond ponytail swinging behind him. He was pounding at two keyboards—pretty much simultaneously—and since Ralph wouldn’t likely notice a tornado when he was working, there was little point in grilling him.

She pelted past his work cubicle, then past Simone’s and Darren’s—Darren was working at home today—then barreled around the comer to Bailey’s. She stopped dead, her hand pressing tight to her heaving heart.

The search was over.

Bailey was on all fours, his balding head shining under the fluorescent light. Bailey might be goofy enough to wear a “lucky bathrobe” over a pin-striped shirt, but he was a brilliant man. People skills weren’t exactly his strength, but he was inspired by impossible problems, attacked every challenge with the same dour, methodical, pedantic perseverance. Molly saw his hind end before she spotted the baby. Bailey, grave as a judge, seemed to have attacked this particular problem by cornering it under his desk. Guessing from the sea of wadded-up paper littering the floor, the two of them had been playing ball.

“Bailey, for Pete’s sake, I’ve been looking everywhere for the baby—” A breath that felt as if she must have been holding it for five solid minutes whooshed out of her lungs.

“Sheesh, it’s about time someone came in and saved me.” Bailey, sounding pitifully aggrieved, scooched away from the baby as soon as he spotted her. “I’ve been having a heart attack. It crawled in here after me and then it let out this wail loud enough to curdle milk. How was I supposed to know what it wanted? I never had any kids! Flynn ran out after that woman, and I didn’t know where you were, and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do—”

“Bailey, you turkey! I don’t know anything about children, either, but I can’t believe you sat right there and let the baby eat paper!”

“Let? Let? Like I had some choice in the matter? The first thing the child did was grab some paper and start chewing. You try taking it away from him and see what happens.”

“He cries, huh?”

Bailey was more explicit. “The kid has a set of lungs like a hyena.”

Molly crouched down. The little one had a giant mouthful of paper and was extremely busy, trying to stuff in more. She obviously had to get the paper away from him, but for one stark second, she felt an emotional fist squeeze her heart tight. The scene in Flynn’s office had happened so fast and furiously that she really hadn’t caught a good look at Dylan before.

The baby had a pudgy little body and chunky legs and, oh my, a terribly homely face. The chin of a prizefighter in miniature, plain bones, a bump of a nose—Dylan just wasn’t going to be auditioning for the Gerber poster child, but Molly told herself maybe he could grow into all that character potential. That wasn’t, though, the reason her heart stopped.

The little one had exuberant bristles of auburn hair. The color of Flynn’s. Exactly the color of Flynn’s. And maybe the baby was no beauty, but the eyes... the eyes were cerulean sky blue, as bright and full of light—and mischief—as Flynn’s.

Molly’s heart just seemed to freeze. She really hadn’t wanted to believe the woman in his office. Virginie had obviously been distraught, irrational, terribly beside herself. Hardly a credible source. But the look of Dylan cast a different color on things. There was no ignoring that the likeness between the two did exist.

The baby acknowledged her closeness by lifting those heart-throbber blue eyes to her face.

“Hi there, sweetie. Dylan...”

“You’re going to take him out of here, aren’t you?” Bailey said nervously.

“If he’ll let me pick him up. But I’m not going to do anything fast and scare him. For heaven’s sake, he doesn’t know me, do you, love bug?” She kept her voice low and soft, and tried a smile. The urchin smiled back, revealing two brilliant white teeth—and a mouth chockful of drool-coated paper. “I don’t suppose you’d let me reach in there and take out that paper, would you?”

The smile vanished. The baby’s lips clamped closed faster than a vault at Fort Knox.

“Okay, okay, we’ll forget about that for a second or two. Would you like to come with me for a bit? I’ll show you my office. It’s the only normal spot in the whole place. And maybe we could come up with a cracker from the kitchen. Dylan go with Molly?”

“Dylan go with Molly,” Bailey parroted urgently.

Dylan grinned at Molly, grinned at Bailey, and then whipped his fanny in the air and took off on all fours in the opposite direction.

Molly had the fleeting thought that she only knew one other male on the planet with that kind of contrary nature.

And then she chased after the miniature redhead.

Less than a half hour passed before Molly heard knuckles rap on her office door. Sooner or later she figured Flynn would track her down—and the whereabouts of the baby. The question was just how long he was tied up talking with the child’s mother...or trying to talk with her. Molly was sitting behind her desk when Flynn turned the knob and poked his head in.

“Simone said the baby was with you?”

“Yup, safe and sound.” Or her office had seemed safe and sound until Flynn stepped in, Molly thought dryly. She’d only closed the door to keep the baby contained. Unlike all the other offices at McGannon’s, hers was a haven of normalcy. A traditional desk. File cabinets. Two sturdy chairs. Pencils sharpened to uniform points were neatly aligned in a Monet mug; a photo of her parents and two younger sisters sat on the credenza; the files on her desk were color-coded and stacked as straight as a ruler.

The orderly, tidy atmosphere changed irrevocably the instant Flynn arrived. It always did. Molly was never quite sure how he could turn a nice, quiet, peaceful day into a tornado of testosterone. The sizzle in the atmosphere was always a sudden thing, like the first crack of lightning before a storm. One instant she was a CPA, the next, she was aware of her breasts and hips, whether her hair might be messy, what she’d look like to him naked. Molly had tried to analyze the problem from a dozen different angles, but there seemed no answers—except that Flynn had the unnerving gift for making a woman feel restless. Edgy. Alive, as if someone had tickled her awake from a sound sleep.

Momentarily, though, he was the edgy one. “She’s gone,” he said. “I still can’t believe it. Nothing I said to her made any difference. She took off. Just like that.”

Molly leaned back in her office chair, watching him pace. “I was afraid she would. When she walked out of your office, she didn’t seem to be listening to anyone about anything. But I’m sure she’ll be back, Flynn. She was just terribly upset. No mother would just desert her baby like that.”

“Well, I assume she’ll be back, too. But damned if I know what I’m supposed to do in the meantime. I feel like somebody dropped a bomb in my lap—what if the kid got sick, right now, right this minute? Who’s responsible for it? I don’t even know if I have the legal right to get care for it—for God’s sake, I don’t even believe the child is mine.”

Molly wasn’t sure what Flynn believed. He was thrown for six. That was obvious. But she couldn’t help but be aware that he hadn’t really looked at the baby—not earlier, when Virginie had staged that scene, and not now.

Dylan was safe enough. Molly had scooped up his diaper bag from the office, a blanket from the break room, crackers and a mug of milk from the kitchen—the cracker had been bribery to con the baby into giving up his mouthful of paper. The urchin had charged around her office for a couple of minutes on all fours, and then simply curled up on the blanket...one minute a dynamo of energy, the next snoozing harder than a whipped puppy.

Flynn had to realize the baby was right there. No matter how agitatedly he was pacing around, he never even accidentally came close to that blanket. Now, though, he punched a fist into his palm. “There are things I obviously have to do immediately. Call a lawyer, for one. And find out what pediatricians are in town. And maybe I should be calling my doc, too...hell, I don’t know what kind of tests are done to prove or disprove parentage...”

“Flynn?”

“What?” He stopped hurling himself around the office long enough to look at her. She’d had some time separate from him—time to get tough, to firm up her common sense, to put any unmanageable emotions on chill until she was ready to handle them. But it was still rough seeing that devastated look in Flynn’s eyes. God knew, he responded to everything volatilely and emotionally—but nothing like this. Even if he’d brought every ounce of the problem on himself, he’d still never had that drawn white look around his eyes before.

“I think you’re right...that you need to do all those things,” she said quietly. “But I’m afraid you have a more critical priority than any of that.”

His eyebrows lifted in query. “Like what?”

“Like the baby himself, McGannon. He needs food. More diapers than were in that bag. A crib, or something to sleep in. And she put some clothes in there, but not enough to last more than a few days.”

“Molly...” Flynn threw himself in the chair opposite her desk, and focused on her with those incredibly electric blue eyes. “I can’t do any of that stuff. I’ve never been around a baby, wouldn’t have a clue what to buy or what it needs—”

“Neither have I. No, Flynn.”

“No? I didn’t ask you anything.”

“But you were going to. I took on the baby for a few minutes because someone had to—and I was glad to help. But just because I’m a female doesn’t make me a born expert in child care. I haven’t been around little ones, either. I honestly don’t know any more than you do.”

“You have to know more than I do,” Flynn muttered, and yanked a hand through his scalp. “A stone would know more than I do about babies. A leaf. A slab of concrete. I’ve got work on my desk higher than a mountain, a project halfway done, the phone’s ringing...I don’t even know how to suddenly stop an entire business for a child—”

“Flynn,” she said gently, firmly. “Look at him.”

But he wouldn’t look at the child. He just kept looking at her, with those eyes as magnetic as blue lightning. There was so much power and character in his face, more natural charisma than one man had a right to. But it was the honesty of anxiety in his expression that touched her far more now. “This isn’t your problem, Molly, I realize that,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know who else to ask for help. Not until I at least figure out what I’m supposed to do with him.”

Molly sighed. She really couldn’t imagine Bailey or Simone pinch-hitting. Not with a problem like this. “Well, he’s sleeping now. And I realize you really do need to make those phone calls and get some business squared away. He can stay here until he wakes up.”

Flynn didn’t move. Just kept looking at her with that confounded helpless expression—until Molly threw up her hands in exasperation.

“All right, all right. After that I’ll go shopping with you. I realize that’d be really hard for you to do alone, and with a baby in tow besides. But I’m warning you ahead, my advice is worthless. I don’t know anything! The best I can say is that between two adult heads, we should be able to handle picking out at least some basic baby supplies.”

Well, darn it, she thought. That was what she thought he wanted—her offering help. Yet once she suckered in that far, he still didn’t look happy. Flynn invariably bellowed and barreled into most tricky life situations, but he still hadn’t budged, and his voice turned bass-low and careful.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you. You’re not looking at me the same way, talking to me the same way. She really upset you.”

“Maybe you’d better call her Virginie instead of ‘she.’ If she’s the mother of your child, I think it might be appropriate for you to remember her name.”

“I’m not a father,” he said quietly, clearly.

“Look at the baby,” she said again.

But he didn’t. “No matter what she said...no matter what you think...I’ve never been careless with a woman. Not once. Not ever. There are reasons why I’ve stayed unattached, reasons why I never wanted to be a father. I’m not saying I’ve been a saint, Molly, but I never knowingly risked a child. I’m asking you to believe me.”

Molly fussed with her pencils on the desk. “Actually she blurted out rather clearly that she’d skipped some birth control pills—”

“I heard what she said. I heard every damn word she said. But that has nothing to do with your believing me.”

“McGannon...” Molly felt all tangled up, unsure what was so important to him, what he wanted her to say. “Look, trying to talk right now is nuts. You need to scoot. I don’t have a clue how long a baby naps, but every minute is borrowed time. Get whatever business cleared away that you can.”

He seemed inclined to argue—but didn’t. Once he peeled out of that chair and left, Molly pressed two fingers to her temples, her gaze instinctively honing on the sleeping baby.

She’d seen Flynn thrown plenty of times. He ranted and raved as a life-style, but that was just because he was boisterously emotional by nature. At a gut level, he thrived on challenges. The more impossible the problem, the more it revved his personal engines.

But not this one. Any man would be shook up to have a baby suddenly thrown into his life, Molly realized, but Flynn...there was something more. His face had gone cold, his voice stone-harsh when he’d said there were reasons why he never wanted to be a father. Something painful had to be behind that She wished she knew what. The damn man could flirt all day and then some...but Flynn never revealed anything personal about himself, had never admitted anything painful to her before. For Flynn to express that kind of gut honesty was a vulnerable measure that he was seriously shook up.

But so was she. Shook up—from the inside out. Her pulse was still rattling. She’d been falling hard and deep for him—painfully hard, dangerously deeply. And she had no idea before that moment that Flynn was stone-set against being a father. How could she love a man who didn’t want children, didn’t love babies, couldn’t even look at that adorable homely face snoozing on the carpet?

She didn’t know him. The echo bleated in her soul. He’d bamboozled her hormones...and yes, she’d known he was wild and impulsive and full of the devil. The charm that made him downright irresistible as a lover never meant he was serious husband material. But she’d still never imagined that Flynn would pick up a strange woman for a one-night stand...that maybe he’d seduced dozens of women the same way he turned the charm on her. Making love to him would have been a land mine for Molly. For Flynn, sex could just be another three-letter word like fun.

And in the meantime, there seemed to be a snoozing baby on her carpet that no one seemed to love—or want. Molly could too easily see herself getting roped into caretaking the little one. She recognized that Flynn honestly needed some help—some immediate help—but he had to have family, she told herself. Friends. Someone. She couldn’t let this be her problem.

Her heart went out to the child.

But only for the baby’s sake. Not for Flynn’s.

Three

“Flynn, that diaper package says Newborn. I think you need a size for a much bigger baby.”

“You mean diapers come in different sizes? Oh. Oh, my God. You have to be kidding me. This is almost as intimidating as the aisle with the women’s stockings and trying to figure out what all those egg shapes mean.” However pitiful his joke, it earned him a roll of the eyes from Molly. They were making progress, Flynn thought. At least she was speaking to him again—even if the atmospheric temperature between them still hovered between freezing and subzero. “So, what’d you think? Toddler size?”

“That’d be my best guess.”

“Okeydoke.” He scooped up all the toddler-size diaper packages on the shelf and dumped them into the cart. Darned if that didn’t win him an outright chuckle.

“McGannon, you nut, you’ve cleaned out their entire supply! You really think the baby needs quite that many?”

“Listen. Mol, as far as I can tell, this kid’s a leaker. Put anything in one end, and thirty seconds later it comes out the other. I’m not risking running out in the middle of the night...what’s next on your list?”

“Food.” Predictably Molly had a systematic list in one hand, a sharpened pencil in the other. “I’m not sure what to buy. Milk and cereal-type things are pretty obvious, but I think he only has two teeth. Whatever we get, it needs to be food that he doesn’t have to chew.”

“Marshmallows,” Flynn suggested.

“I had in mind something more nutritious,” she said dryly.

“Well, yeah. But marshmallows are a staple of life. And how about hot chocolate? That’s a good kid thing, isn’t it?”

“I’ll tell you what. You find the baby food aisle and I’ll take care of making the choices. And Flynn, for Pete’s sake! Take your keys out of the baby’s mouth!”

“You can’t be serious. You heard him when we walked in here. Until I gave him the keys, I thought he was dying. I thought someone was stabbing him in the back with a knife. I thought we were gonna be arrested for noise pollution—”

“I believe he was trying to clearly communicate that he was slightly bored. I also believe it’s possible that Dylan inherited that bellow from his father’s side of the family... but we won’t go into that again. I don’t think your keys are a good play toy—they aren’t clean.”

“Not clean? On what planet is that supposed to be relevant? You’re talking about a kid who tries to pig out on paper and carpet lint.”

“You think he’s getting hungry? We’re not even halfway through this list, and darn it! I didn’t even think of a car seat.” She started scribbling again. “You have to have a car seat for a baby this size. It’s the law.”

“Mol?”

“Hmm?” She was almost too busy penciling stuff on her list to look up.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “For coming with me. I know I’ve been making jokes, but I don’t want you to think I don’t seriously appreciate your helping me out.”

For a few seconds the ice chips seemed to melt in her eyes.

He caught a glimmer of a spring thaw...but it didn’t last. “You’d better wait until we’re done before you thank me. When you write out the check for this, you may have a stroke.”

Holy kamoly, she filled four carts before calling it quits.

Naturally Flynn had experienced the inside of a grocery store before, but never with a shopping pro. Molly zipped and zoomed down the aisles, checking things off her list, cooing to the baby and muttering about prices at the same time.

Flynn didn’t have a stroke about the amount of the check, but a full-fledged panic attack hit him when they reached the parking lot.

Night had fallen faster than a stone, temperatures dropping just as swiftly. His black Lotus had a thimble-size trunk space. There wasn’t a prayer of stuffing all the baby loot into his car. Her more sensible Taurus was parked next to his, gleaming white under the parking lot neon lights. Molly’s face looked pearl-soft in the evening shadows, but her stockinged legs and suit jacket were inadequate protection against that crisp, sharp air and she was starting to shiver.

She was also busy. As if she didn’t trust him, she took charge of Dylan, and was organizing the baby in the car seat as if she were a general attacking a strategic logistics problem. “I don’t think baby car seats are meant for sports cars, but I do believe he’s finally secure...”

Finally she lifted her head. Finally—for the first time since this whole blasted store outing began—her eyes met his, but her gaze shifted away faster than the spin of a dime. “Getting all this stuff to your place, though, is another problem entirely. Unless you’ve got another suggestion, I don’t see we have another choice... we’re just going to have to fill my trunk, and then I’ll follow you to your place.”

“I hate to ask you to do that,” Flynn said, which had to be the biggest lie he’d told in a year.

“There just is no other way. But you’d better give me your address in case I lose you in traffic.”

Like a kid scared when the lights were turned off, he didn’t want Molly to leave him. The feeling of dependence was totally alien. He’d grown up stubborn, sweating out his fears of the dark alone, working his way through school, never asking for anything from anyone. Given his background, he’d learned young to count on no one but himself, but that kind of pride and independence had dominated his whole life.

Not now. Not tonight. At the moment he had the pride of a wilted turnip. He watched Molly’s headlights in the rearview mirror, checking every few seconds to make sure he hadn’t lost her on the whole drive to his place. Once past the traffic on Westnedge, the cars thinned out. For the last half mile, suburban busyness disappeared altogether and the only lights on the road belonged to the two of them.

Flynn wasn’t anxiety-prone. He liked chaos. Hell, he’d practically built chaos into a fife-style—and was damn content with his choice. But his heart had been beating to panicked drums ever since Virginie blew into his office that afternoon.

He hadn’t stopped moving since then. He’d needed a couple of hours on the phone—to call his lawyer, to call his doctor about blood tests, and to start checking the pediatricians in town for credentials. But he barely got started on any of that before Molly showed up in his office doorway with the caterwauling minisize redhead.

His mind should have been on Dylan. And was. The problem of the baby loomed like a cyclone on his emotional horizon, but damnation, Molly was a cyclone-size problem, too. Even after intensively working together for the last six months, he couldn’t explain what she’d come to mean to him. He knew she was the marrying kind, that flirting too far with her was dangerous...he also knew that he’d been daring her, daring himself, daring the two of them toward a cliff edge of risk that wasn’t wise.

Flynn had never overvalued wisdom. He valued... life. Every day had the intrinsic capacity for adventure. There was an excitement in air, food, water—anything, everything—but only if a guy looked, only if he opened his life to risk and all the possibilities.

Maybe he and Molly were temperamentally chalk and cheese. But he’d had her regard before this. She’d liked him, he knew. She’d found something in him to respect. It went beyond hormones, beyond that nice, hot, sexual attraction firing between them with both barrels.

At least until Virginie blew into his office that afternoon.

Flynn pulled into his driveway. On cue, as he turned the key, the sidekick in the car seat next to him let out a pithy squawl. He whipped his head around. Yeah, Molly was still there, pulling up behind him. His heart could postpone that panic attack for a little while longer.

Molly popped her trunk, then stepped out of her car and took a quick, cool drink of the view. Humor flashed in her eyes as she hiked past him toward the baby. “Honestly, McGannon. I could have guessed this was your house even if I hadn’t seen the address.”

“How so?”

“It’s a castle.”

“A castle? Actually it’s pretty small—”

“Size has nothing to do with it. Only a creative-type dreamer would be drawn to this place.”

“You don’t like it?” Flynn had imagined bringing her here a dozen times.

“Oh, I like it—but I’m just chuckling because of how uniquely it suits you. And I hear our rock-star-in-training revving up the volume. I’ll get Dylan, if you just unlock the front door and start hauling things in.”

Flynn suspected she was subtly trying to suggest that he quit standing there like a dead stick. And while she unthreaded the baby from the car seat torture device, he swiftly fished into his pocket for the door key. Still, as he heaped his arms with bags to carry in, he glanced at his house.

The place was no castle. It was just old. And Molly’s dreamer label miffed him. Maybe he’d impulsively fallen in love and bought the property on sight, but it had taken months of elbow grease—not dreams—to make the old white elephant livable. The core structure was stone, with a tall, shake-shingle roof and old-fashioned mullioned windows that reflected silver in the moonlight. But a gabled roof and some skinny mullioned windows hardly made it look like some prissy girl castle.

Flynn opened the double front doors, elbowed in with his packages and quickly flicked on an overhead light Molly jogged in behind him with the baby. “Maybe you’ll like it more when you see the inside,” he said defensively. “I had to have some space. I’d get claustrophobic in a city-type apartment. There’s woods out the back, and a creek. And I do a lot of work at home, so I had to renovate some things on the inside—”

“I can see.” She was busy juggling The Squirmer, but not so busy that she didn’t shoot a look around inside. Again, her eyes danced with dry humor. “I wasn’t criticizing you, Flynn. It’s a romantic house. Ideal for an unconventional dreamer.”

“I’m not a romantic.”

“Oops. Did I touch a nerve? I’ll be careful not to use any dirty words like ‘romantic’ again...the baby’s fussing. I think you’d better bring in the diapers first.”

He brought in the diapers—and all the other confounded stuff, heaping it all in the stone foyer just inside the door. On those in-and-out treks, he either caught glimpses of Molly or heard her, talking to the baby, using her nice, warm, sexy-as-sin sensual voice—not like the one she’d been using with him all afternoon.

And somehow he’d counted on her liking his place. He did. Hell, everything was perfect—at least for a guy living alone. He’d put barn beams and a skylight in the great room, bought three giant forest green couches and elled them around the man-size stone fireplace. He wasn’t much on pictures and doodads, but the media entertainment center was prime. A thick, fat white alpaca rug made a great place to lay by a roaring fire on a blizzardy night.

As he peeled off his jacket, the goods all carried in, he thought Molly’d look damn near outstanding on that white alpaca rug. Naked. Well, maybe still wearing stockings... if he was going to fantasize, he might as well go whole hog.

The fantasy died a fast death when she stepped through the arched doorway of the kitchen, still holding the baby. “Are you done bringing everything in?”

Her voice was cool enough to chill champagne. “Yeah. Everything’s out of both cars...but after all your help and the trouble I’ve put you through, I’d like to treat you to dinner.”

“Thanks, but I’d better be going. That’s quite a kitchen you’ve got in there. Every labor-saving appliance known to man and woman both.”

“You didn’t like the kitchen, either?”

“McGannon, you seem to think I’m on your case. You have a fantastic house, ultracool. Every inch of it suits you.”

“You haven’t seen the upstairs. I could give you a quick tour.”

“Maybe another time. Here you go.” She lifted Dylan and plopped the wriggling chunk into his arms. “I changed his diaper, and I put out some toddler baby food on the counter. The directions said you could microwave it but you’ll need to be careful it’s not too hot.”

She was trotting for the front door faster than a filly in a sulky race. “You’re sure you won’t stay for dinner—?”

“Positive.” She opened the front door.

“Molly, wait.” Dylan whacked him on the ear with a baby fist. Flynn heard alarm bells of anxiety clanging in his ears—and not just because the baby had given him a boxer’s whack. “I appreciate your helping me out. I owe you a big thanks.”

“No sweat. You’re welcome.”

Flynn let the baby down, since there was no holding on to the contortionist anyway. Dylan immediately quit squawking, plunked down on all fours and took off again. Molly had her hand on the doorknob, looking as primed to take off and escape from him as the kid had been. He cleared his throat. “Look, I can see you’re uncomfortable with me. I don’t know what to say, how to make that right. But you and I never had a problem communicating before—”

“And we don’t now. There’s no reason business should be different than usual tomorrow.”

“Business,” he echoed. “There wasn’t business on your mind earlier this afternoon. Or on mine. Believe me, I understand that it was Virginie’s visit that changed that...and it’s not like I’m blaming you for judging me—”

“I’m not judging you,” she said swiftly. Too swiftly. He saw her swallow hard, and finally she turned to face him. She didn’t give up her hold on that doorknob, but her voice turned soft. Molly soft. “I’m judging me, Flynn. You’re right—we were becoming close. And that was never a good idea—not for me. Everything that happened this afternoon has underlined for me that I really don’t know you.”

“You’re upset because of the baby, which God knows, I understand. But I don’t know that Dylan is mine—”

“The baby’s not the problem. At least not exactly. I hope I’d never tar anybody with a judgmental feather for making that kind of mistake. Everyone makes mistakes. And that particular one, couples have been making since the beginning of time.” She hesitated. “But if a woman like that attracted you, Flynn, you and I honestly have nothing in common. We couldn’t possibly value any of the same things.”

“You’ve lost respect—”

“Yeah, I think that’s fair to say.” Her eyes mirrored the most uncomfortable kind of honesty. “You can be a real trial to work with, McGannon. You bellow and you’re stubborn and you tend to railroad everyone in your path. But you’ve got a huge heart and an incredibly creative mind—I’ve never seen you judge anyone or fail to listen to their point of view. From the first day on the job, I admired you. Respected you. Enormously.”

Mentally Flynn dismissed those minor details about his bellowing and stubbornness. Maybe it had taken Molly a couple of months to really believe his bark was worth peanuts—and that he really hated people kowtowing to him. But she hadn’t been intimidated by him in a blue moon.

Respect was a different issue entirely. Flynn hadn’t known she felt that “enormous respect.” But he could feel the loss of it now—hear it, in her velvet-soft voice—and it hurt like a knife stab in his gut.

Instinctively he stepped toward her, wanting to reach her, touch her. He told himself the impulse wasn’t sexual—and yet he knew it was. When he’d kissed her before, all the nuisance life differences between them disappeared. The connection had always been real, honest, and hotter than fire. Something about that chemistry created a strange, alien feeling of belonging—and maybe Flynn had never understood it, but he had a dread-sinking sensation that he’d never have that feeling again. Not with anyone. Not like with Molly. And if he just kissed her...

But the look in her eyes stopped him. She didn’t back away from him. She didn’t move at all in those seconds, yet she faced him with this sudden, soft, naked vulnerability in her eyes. It was a look that said I’m a strong, tough cookie with a weakness. A weakness for you. And yeah, she’d dive under—maybe—if he kissed her. But that wasn’t the same as her willingness.

It wasn’t the same as her wanting him.

His hand fell. Then both hands jammed into his pockets, buried out of sight as if he was trying to bury that impulse to touch her. “Molly, this whole story isn’t done. There hasn’t been time to talk to you—I haven’t even had a chance to try and explain—”

She shook her head quickly, firmly. “You don’t owe me any explanations, and I’m well aware you’ve just had your life turned upside down. But so has that baby. Love him, Flynn. And honestly, I need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She latched the door closed on her way out. No slam. Not even the sound of a click. She was just gone. Faster than the light bulb switched off, and leaving him with an odd, scratchy feeling in his throat.

Abruptly, though, Flynn heard a crash. He pivoted on a heel and hightailed into the living room. The floor lamp by his leather reading chair was lying on the ground, the shade rolling and punctured. The accident could have happened by osmosis, but somehow he suspected another culprit. As a point of fact, if the baby were hurt, he was going to have to shoot himself. And how could such a tiny kid manage to topple a sturdy five-foot lamp?

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