Promises, Promises

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“And when they’re nervous, they cry,” he murmured.

She nodded. “At the top of their lungs.”

“Tell me about it.” He thrust a hand through hair that looked as if it had seen the motion often in recent minutes.

Gretchen’s heart melted. “It was hard on you, wasn’t it?” she said sympathetically.

“I’m not used to crying like that.”

No, she conceded, he probably wasn’t. Most females were undoubtedly putty in his hands. Truth was, if he smiled encouragingly at her, she’d be putty in his hands. She gazed at Kristen with new respect.

She moved back into the hallway, and he followed her inside. “You were holding her all wrong,” she said.

“What was wrong with the way I was holding her?”

Gretchen chuckled. “Nothing, if she was a piece of porcelain you were afraid of breaking. But she’s not a piece of porcelain. She’s a flesh-and-blood baby. You were holding her away from you, and babies like to be cuddled close. They need to feel the warmth from your skin, to hear your heartbeat and be encircled in your arms. They need reassurance that your only concern is for them alone.”

Babies weren’t the only ones who needed that reassurance. Where Marco Garibaldi was concerned, the words could have just as easily applied to Gretchen herself. What was it about him that made it impossible for her to look at him without her knees going weak? Why did he fascinate her so? In the end it didn’t really matter, since he’d plainly shown her, in both word and deed, that he would never hold her the way she was instructing him to hold Kristen.

Shoving her disturbing thoughts aside, she said, “Pick them up with authority and cuddle them close. If they still cry, usually one of three things is wrong.”

“What are the three things?”

“They’re either hungry, tired or wet.”

“How do you know which is which?”

“Process of elimination. Start with changing her. If that doesn’t work, feed her. Then, after that, if she’s still crying, put her to bed.” She held Kristen out to him. “Want to give it another try?”

He looked terrified, but he took the child in his arms. This time he cuddled her close to his heart. After a minute, when Kristen didn’t protest, he looked over at Gretchen with wonder in his eyes.

“She’s not crying.”

“No,” Gretchen said gently, feeling her heart thump, “she’s not.”

“Maybe I can do this after all.”

“I know you can.”

The expression on his face changed. “Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“She might not be crying, but this child is definitely wet.”

“Let me guess,” Gretchen said wryly. “You’ve never changed a diaper.”

He shook his head. “Not even in med school.”

“Do you have any diapers?”

“Upstairs.”

She nodded to the door. “Lead the way. Who knows? If you’re nice to me, I might even show you how to make formula.”

She hadn’t meant the words to sound so provocative, but she knew by the look Marco tossed her that they did. When he passed by her without comment and went out onto the porch, she didn’t know whether to be thankful or disappointed.

Curiosity got the better of her, and she found herself avidly studying her surroundings when she followed Marco inside his half of the duplex. To her left, the living room was furnished nicely with a leather sofa and love seat and a big-screen television. A beautiful oriental carpet in varying shades of brown sat in the middle of the floor. If the open book on an end table and the mail scattered across the surface of the coffee table were anything to go by, this was where Marco spent most of his time.