Father Formula. Muriel Jensen

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Chapter Two

      Fine, Trevyn thought as he carefully packed bulbs and reflectors into a padded cardboard box. He’d been a fool to offer to help her anyway. She was as different from what he remembered of Gusty as a negative was from a print. It had the same image but everything else about it was different.

      The woman he’d danced with the night of the costume party had been warm and funny and had looked into his eyes with a sweetness that had been missing in his life since dark memories had taken over. His mother had had it, but she’d died when he was in high school. The women he’d met in college and since had been smart, ambitious, witty and equal to anything.

      He’d appreciated them, but he hadn’t realized how appealing gentle laughter had been until he’d heard it, how completely mind-blowing it was to have a woman walk into his arms and lean her weight into him with a trust that was more instinctive than learned. Something in her had responded to something in him without any real knowledge of him.

      They’d talked about nothing important. The eye appeal of Dancer’s Beach, chocolate-covered cherries, the White Sox, Cliffside.

      He smiled with the new knowledge that her interest in the house had been part of the plan she and her sisters had concocted to find out why their aunt had left Cliffside to David. It amused him to think that when she’d met him, she’d considered him a criminal.

      He should be offended, he supposed, but considering her complete capitulation before the night was over—and the fact that it had resulted in his becoming a father—it was hard to put a bad spin on it.

      Anxiety and impatience tried to force themselves into the forefront of his mind when he thought of her helpless and alone—except for the scary guy with whom the boys had reported seeing her at the airport when they’d run away. No one knew whether he was a threat or a friend—and Trevyn couldn’t think about him as the former or he’d go insane.

      He’d called Officer Holden this morning and learned only that the verification of passengers whose luggage had gone through that particular carousel was ongoing and, so far, everyone checked out.

      Trevyn continued packing, something comforting in the handling of long-used equipment. There was nothing to do but wait.

      In the meantime, he would see what he’d gotten on the rolls of film he’d shot in Canada, then he’d concentrate on getting his studio ready in town. Photography was a high-maintenance mistress.

      He was just about to lock himself in the darkroom when he heard the lion’s head knocker pound twice against the door. He hurried through the kitchen and the living room, wondering if Dave and Athena had forgotten something.

      It was Alexis, Ferdie sitting beside her. Her arms were folded and her chin was angled defensively.

      She needed something—already. He tried not to betray his enjoyment in the fact.

      He reached a hand out to the dog, who snuffled then licked it. “Yes?” Trevyn asked.

      “I left my key on the dresser,” she said lightly, trying to convince him that she wasn’t at all uncomfortable in approaching him. “And the door locked behind me when I carried out Athena’s bag.”

      “Oh.” He nodded sympathetically.

      She waited for more.

      This was just too good.

      She drew a breath, her patience clearly strained. She asked courteously, “May I borrow yours?”

      He spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t have one.”