Daddy By Surprise. Pat Warren

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      Chapter One

      If there was one thing Molly Shipman hated it was arriving anywhere late. The kitchen clock indicated that she had exactly seven minutes to get to her appointment with Della Bailey, her friend, Trisha’s, mother and the owner of a roomy duplex on a quiet residential street in south Scottsdale. She’d gotten up at six just so she wouldn’t have to rush. Of course, if she hadn’t dripped orange juice on her blouse, necessitating a change, or broken a nail opening the coffee can, she’d have had time to spare. As it was, she had to fly.

      Stuffing the last bite of toast in her mouth, she grabbed her large canvas bag before racing down the outside stairs of her apartment building. She unlocked the door of her eight-year-old Honda and got in, wondering why she ever bothered to lock it. Nobody but the truly desperate would steal old battered Bessie.

      Sending up a silent prayer, Molly turned the key in the ignition and breathed a sigh of relief when the tired old engine wheezed into life. Just two more paychecks and she’d have enough saved to take old Bess in for a much-needed tune-up.

      Whipping out of the parking lot, she turned onto Thomas and headed east. If only this rental would turn out to be perfect, or nearly perfect, Molly mused. According to Trisha, who waitressed alongside Molly at the Pan Handle Café, the recently vacated house with an upper and a lower apartment had just had a face-lift consisting of fresh paint and new carpeting. Mrs. Bailey, who lived next door and used the income from several such homes to supplement her Social Security, always kept up her properties.

      The mid-April sun was already quite warm as Molly made a right turn, her mind racing. Since learning that her apartment building was converting to condos, she’d given notice and been searching for a place not too far from her job because old Bess couldn’t be counted on for long daily trips. Good rentals at reasonable rates were hard to find and the lower unit sounded ideal. She was sick of the three flights of stairs she’d had to climb several times a day for the past three years. Molly hoped no one else had spotted the For Rent sign and beaten her to the punch. Reminders of the early bird getting the worm buzzed through her anxious thoughts.

      A quick glance at her watch told Molly she was only a few minutes late as she swung onto Cactus Lane. As she completed the turn, a noisy Harley came zooming around the bend behind her. The driver wasn’t wearing a helmet, she noticed in the rearview mirror, his dark hair shifting in a soft morning breeze.

      Slowing, she turned into the drive of number 9430 where, thankfully, the sign was still in the lawn. The two-story stucco house with its southwestern style, red-tiled roof was set back from the street leaving room for a small lawn and several old cottonwood trees that provided much-needed shade. Mrs. Bailey was waiting on the porch and raised her hand in a wave. Molly turned off the engine and got out. But before she could take a step, the Harley pulled in alongside the Honda, blocking her path.

      Unhurriedly, the rider dismounted and engaged his kickstand. Arizona sunshine reflected in his mirrored sunglasses before he took them off, tucking one stem inside the opening of his white knit shirt. Molly found herself staring into the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

      He didn’t look like her idea of a biker, she thought, dressed conservatively as he was in clean jeans and very white Nikes. His square chin—sporting a deep dimple—looked as if it had been carved from granite, hinting at a stubborn streak. His gaze was every bit as measuring as hers. An unexpected sensual pull lasted mere seconds yet took her completely by surprise. Why was this man following her? Molly wondered, her pulse slightly erratic.

      “Do I know you?” she asked, though she doubted very much she’d have forgotten this man.

      His smile softened his hard image, his teeth gleaming white against his tan face. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he answered, holding out his hand. “Devin Gray.”

      From the corner of her eye, Molly noticed Mrs. Bailey shuffling her feet impatiently. But she could hardly ignore the man’s offer to shake hands. “Molly Shipman,” she said, noticing that her fingers barely touched his skin before her hand was engulfed by his. Oddly fascinated, she stared at the contrasts, pale to tan, small to large, soft to hard.

      He was the first to break away as he nodded toward the house. “I’m here about the rental. You, too?”

      Molly swallowed around a dry throat and took a step back. “Yes.” Did she want to share a house with a ruggedly handsome biker? she wondered. However, she might have no choice in the matter, she realized as he fell in step beside her on the walk to the porch.

      “Hello, dear,” Mrs. Bailey greeted Molly. “It’s good to see you,” she told the older woman, then stood aside as the newcomer introduced himself.

      Della Bailey patted her short hair, which was dyed a becoming ash blond, and smiled at both young people. “I hate to rush you two, but I’m being picked up shortly by a friend. We’re going to the Indian reservation casino to play bingo.”

      Molly knew Mrs. Bailey since she often came into the café to visit her daughter. She also knew that the widow had two passions: bingo and kids. A retired schoolteacher, she baby-sat several neighborhood children after school.

      “We wouldn’t want to hold you up,” Devin said, opening the screen door for the short little woman to lead the way into the lower apartment. He watched Molly Shipman walk past, her eyes avoiding his. She seemed a little nervous and he wondered why.

      “As you can see, this unit’s unfurnished,” Della began, showing them through a good-sized living room, one large bedroom and an old-fashioned kitchen with wooden cupboards. The smell of fresh paint was evident.

      Not bad, Molly thought, checking out the living room with its tiny corner fireplace. She’d have to get rid of the heavy drapes, get something light and airy. She strolled on, admiring the cozy window seat in the bedroom, the bright blue carpeting, the sunny kitchen where her plants would thrive. Yes, it would do nicely. Best of all, no stairs to climb. As soon as Trisha had told her about the place, she’d hoped she’d like the lower. “I have my own furniture,” she said, opening the refrigerator, pleased at how spotless it was. When she looked up, she noticed that Devin Gray was studying her far more than the apartment, which brought a frown to her face. СКАЧАТЬ