Daddy With A Badge. Paula Riggs Detmer

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      He’d been eleven when one of the other workers had gotten drunk and taunted him with the details of his birth. Rosaria had managed to soothe his hurt, but after that, pride had driven him to be the best at anything he tried.

      As the eldest he’d always felt a responsibility to take care of the little ones. Maybe because he’d been adopted, he’d felt that responsibility more deeply than most.

      After all that Enrique and Rosaria had done for him, he’d had no choice. So he’d swallowed the hate, along with his pride, taken the money and left. His face had been raw from the fresh bruises, and one eye had been swollen completely shut. Every time he’d moved, the splintered ends of his ribs ground together and breathing was agony. But he’d been determined to walk to the bus with his head high and his back straight.

      With sweat pouring down his face and his stomach cramping with nausea, he’d finally made it on to the bus without passing out. He’d gotten as far as San Francisco before the pain of sitting for hours sent him in search of a bed. For a week he stayed holed up in a seedy hotel in the Tenderloin, living on junk food and aspirin while his body healed.

      On the first day he was able to take a deep breath without passing out, he’d taken a cab to the nearest Army recruiter and enlisted. He’d been in boot camp when Danni graduated from high school, in Beirut when she’d graduated from Oregon State, slogging his way through the Treasury’s own version of boot camp when she’d married Fabrizio. By the time her daughter had been born, he was no longer in love with the princess of Mancini Vineyards.

      “Guess she’s still puking her guts out, huh?” Gresham commented as he wandered into the hall from the living room, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand. Even though he’d removed his suit coat and loosened his tie, he still looked like a damn ad for twelve-year-old scotch.

      Rafe shot him a sour look. “You learn how to talk that way at Dartmouth, did you?”

      “Nah, that came straight from summer camp. Guys in my cabin took turns grossing each other out. I took grand champion three years running.” Looking smugly pleased with himself, Gresham propped a shoulder against the opposite wall and sipped.

      Still on the sunny side of thirty, with a trust fund in seven figures and serious political clout, Seth Aaron Gresham IV had the same lack of respect for rank that had caused Rafe no end of grief in his first few shaky years—until Linc Slocum had kicked his butt. For his sins—and according to Linc, they were legend—the suits in the big building had tasked him with whipping this particular high profile, gung-ho youngster into shape.

      It was almost enough to drive a teetotaler like himself to drink, Rafe thought, corralling his chronic restlessness with more difficulty than usual.

      “Question comes to mind why a guy famous for never losing his cool looks ready to explode because one pretty little woman has locked herself in the can.”

      Rafe shot him a sour look “You ever been around a pregnant woman?”

      “Not my bag, actually. In fact, I tend to break out in a sweat the minute a woman gets that nesting gleam in her eyes.”

      Rafe checked his watch. Her ten minutes were nearly up. “I was six when my mom had my oldest brother. Mostly I remember feeling scared for nine months ’cause she was either hanging over the toilet or bursting into tears.”

      Seth took a sip, flexed his shoulders. “Guess I should be grateful I’m the last of three. Came along when my sister was almost nine.”

      Probably never slept three in a bed with at least one brother who peed the bed either. “Important thing to remember, a pregnant woman needs special handling. Last thing we need is a witness who falls apart on the stand. Tends to make juries do unpredictable things.”

      Provided they had a defendant and a solid enough case to take in front of a jury.

      “Dr. Fabrizio seems pretty darn stable to me. Took the worst a lot calmer than most.”

      Rafe snorted. “Oh yeah, that sprint to the can looked real calm.”

      Gresham offered a reluctant grin. “She did look a little green at that.” His grin changed to a frown. “Morning sickness, right?”

      “Probably.”

      On the other hand he’d also seen burly, hard-eyed men toss their cookies after an emotional hit like the one he’d just given her. Laying it on her cold had been a tactical error, he realized now. Guilt bunched into a sick ball in his belly. Much as he hated to admit it, he had a strong feeling he’d rushed things because he wanted to spend as little time as possible in her presence.

      “What now?” Gresham asked.

      “We ask our questions, give her a list of contact numbers, and catch the red-eye back to D.C.”

      Gresham started to say more, but the sudden click of the bathroom lock had his gaze slicing toward the door. As she emerged and walked toward him, Danni gave them a quick smile designed to reassure. Instead, Rafe felt a jolt of alarm. Instead of queasy, she now looked truly ill. Her lips were pale, her hair damp around her face, and her eyes seemed glazed.

      “Sorry about that.” Despite her wan appearance, her tone was brisk, one professional to another. He recognized her need to retain her dignity at all costs.

      “No problem.” Rafe straightened and dropped his arms. Without the power suit and fancy high heels she seemed more like the mischievous hoyden with the metal grin and bubbling laugh who’d stolen his heart years before she’d blossomed into a beauty.

      “Feel better now?” Gresham asked while watching her warily, as though expecting her to upchuck onto his shiny hand-sown Italian loafers.

      Her too-pale lips curved. “Fine. I appreciate you being so patient.”

      Oh yeah, she was fine all right, Rafe thought, narrowing his gaze. If fine meant looking wrung-out and hollow-eyed. Despite her bedraggled appearance, however, she still managed to project enough sex appeal to have him shoring up walls he’d once considered impenetrable.

      “Aren’t you too far along to still be having morning sickness?” he asked more curtly than he’d intended.

      “Actually morning is the only time I don’t get queasy.” She forced a laugh. “Luke says it’s not all that unusual for a woman to have morning sickness through the second trimester.”

      In a deliberate effort to reassure her he broke his own rule and combined the personal with the professional “You probably don’t remember, but Mom had to be hospitalized for dehydration while she was carrying Carlos.”

      Her mouth turned up at the corners. Damn, but she still had the most kissable lips he’d ever seen. “Actually I do remember, but only because while she was gone, I had to fix dinner three nights in a row before Papa got fed up with canned soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and took us all out to Napoli Gardens.”

      “Canned soup and grilled cheese would have been a treat compared to the stuff I managed to throw together for the kids and me while she was gone,” he said with a smile of his own. “I still hate rice and beans.”

      Her eyes twinkled, and he grieved for that besotted boy who’d believed in fairy-tale endings. “Don’t tell Aunt Gina, but I feel the same about red sauce.”

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