A Daddy For Christmas. Alison Roberts

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      Rowan pointed to the nearby café with blue tables and fresh fish. “What about there?”

      “Perfect, I’ll be able to see royal watchers coming.”

      “Although your fan club seems to have taken a break.” He wheeled the stroller toward the restaurant where the waitress instructed them to seat themselves. Issa still slept hard, sucking on a fist and looking too cute for words in a red Christmas sleeper.

      Mari laughed, the scarf sliding down off her head, hanging loosely around her neck. “Funny how I couldn’t escape photo-happy sorts at the hotel—” she tugged at either end of the silky scarf “—and yet now no one seems to notice me when some notoriety could serve some good.”

      “Issa’s photo has already been released to law enforcement. If nothing comes of it by tomorrow morning, the story will break about our involvement and add an extra push. For now, anyway, the baby and I make good camouflage for you to savor your dinner.”

      “Mama-flage,” she said as he held out her chair for her.

      “Nice! I’m enjoying your sense of humor more and more.” And he was enjoying a lot more about her as well this evening. He caught the sweet floral scent on her neck as he eased her chair into place.

      His mind filled with images of her wearing only perfume and an assortment of the colorful beads from the marketplace. Damn, and now he would be awake all night thinking about the lithe figure she hid under her shapeless suits.

      Mari glanced back at him, peering over her sunglasses, her amber eyes reflecting the setting sun. “Is something the matter?”

      “Of course not.” He took his seat across from her, his foot firmly on the stroller even knowing there were a half-dozen highly trained bodyguards stationed anonymously around them. She might not use them, but he’d made sure to hire a crew for the safety of both Mari and Issa.

      The waitress brought glasses and a pitcher of fruit juice—guava and mango—not showing the least sign of recognizing the royal customer she served. This was a good dry run for when they would announce their joint custody publicly.

      “What a cute baby,” the waitress cooed without even looking at them. “I just love her little red Christmas outfit. She looks like an adorable elf.” She toyed with toes in tiny green booties.

      “Thank you,” Mari said, then mouthed at Rowan, “Mama-flage.”

      After they’d placed their order for swordfish with cachupa—a mixture of corn and beans—Mari leaned back in her chair, appearing far more relaxed than the woman who’d taken refuge in his suite the night before. She eased the sunglasses up to rest on top of her head.

      “You look like you’ve had a couple of servings of grogue.” Grogue was a sugar cane liquor drunk with honey that flowed freely here.

      “No alcohol for me tonight, thank you.” She lifted a hand. “My turn to watch the baby.”

      “I don’t mind taking the night shift if you’re not comfortable.”

      She raised a delicately arched dark eyebrow. “Somewhere in the world, a couple dozen new moms just swooned and they don’t know why.”

      “I’m just trying to be helpful. You have the heavier presentation load.”

      She stirred sugar into her coffee. “Are you trying to coerce me into kissing you again?”

      “As I recall, I kissed you and you didn’t object.”

      She set her spoon down with a decisive clink. “Well, you shouldn’t count on doing it again.”

      “Request duly noted,” he replied, not daunted in the least. He saw the speeding of her pulse, the flush of awareness along her dusky skin.

      He started to reach for her, just to brush his knuckles along that pulse under the pretense of brushing something aside—except a movement just out of the corner of his eye snagged his attention. Alert, he turned to see an older touristy-looking couple moving toward them.

      Mari sat back abruptly, her hand fluttering to her throat. Rowan assessed the pair. Trouble could come in any form, at any age. The bodyguards’ attention ramped up as they stalked along the perimeter, closing the circle of protection. Mari reached for her sunglasses. Rowan didn’t see any signs of concealed weapons, but he slid his hand inside his jacket, resting his palm on his 9 mm, just in case.

      The elderly husband, wearing a camera and a man-purse over his shoulder, stopped beside Mari.

      “Excuse us, but would you mind answering a question?” he asked with a thick New Jersey accent.

      Was their cover busted? If so, did it really matter that they went public a few hours early? Not for him or the baby, but because he didn’t want Mari upset, bolting away from the press, terrified, like the night before.

      She tipped her head regally, her shoulders braced as she placed the sunglasses on the table. “Go ahead.”

      The wife angled in eagerly. “Are the two of you from around here?”

      Rowan’s mouth twitched. Not busted at all. “Not from the island, ma’am. We both live on the mainland.”

      “Oh, all right, I see.” She furrowed her brow. “Maybe you can still help me. Where’s the Kwanzaa celebration?”

      Mari’s eyes went wide with surprise, then a hint of humor glinted before her face went politely neutral. “Ma’am, that’s an American tradition.”

      “Oh, I didn’t realize.” Her forehead furrowed as she adjusted her fanny pack. “I just didn’t expect so much Christmas celebration.”

      Mari glanced at the children finishing up their nativity play and accepting donations for their church. “Africa has a varied cultural and religious heritage. How much of each you find depends on which portion of the continent you’re visiting. This area was settled by the Portuguese,” she explained patiently, “which accounts for the larger influence of Christian traditions than you might find in other regions.”

      “Thank you for being so patient in explaining.” The wife pulled out a travel guide and passed it to her husband, her eyes staying on Mari. “You look very familiar, dear. Have I seen you somewhere before?”

      Pausing for a second, Mari eyed them, then said, “People say I look like the Princess Mariama Mandara. Sometimes I even let folks believe that.”

      She winked, grinning mischievously.

      The older woman laughed. “What a wicked thing to do, young lady. But then I imagine people deserve what they get if they like to sneak photos for the internet.”

      “Would you like a photo of me with the baby on your phone?” Mari leaned closer to the stroller, sweeping back the cover so baby Issa’s face was in clear view. “I’ll put on my best princess smile.”

      “Oh, I wouldn’t even know how to work the camera on that new phone our kids gave us for our fiftieth anniversary.” She elbowed her husband. “We just use our old Polaroid, isn’t that right, Nils?”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ