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SAM FACED THE WINDOW overlooking the rear parking lot of the hotel, waiting. He glanced at his watch again for the fifth time. She would be arriving any moment now. He scowled.
A sleek, black, foreign sports car pulled into the parking lot, and he watched its slow progress across the asphalt. Instinct told him it was her.
The car slid into the parking slot two floors below. He held his breath, a part of him hoping she wouldn’t come. Seconds later she slipped from the car.
She looked cool, despite the hot August evening, her white linen suit unrumpled even in the sweltering heat. Her rich dark hair was pulled back and fancily secured so it hung halfway down her back. There was no denying where Mel’s beauty came from—her birth mother.
He stepped away from the window when she turned and headed toward the luxury hotel. Rebecca Martinson may be intelligent, a hot-shot lawyer, according to the report the investigator provided him with, and beyond beautiful, but he knew her type all too well. According to the investigator, Mel’s birth mother had a pedigree to rival royalty.
Rebecca Martinson’s father was a State Supreme Court Justice, her grandfather had been a United States Senator, brutally assassinated. As for Mel’s maternal grandmother, she was simply one more cardiologist in a long line of top medical practitioners in the country.
As painful as the subject was, he couldn’t help wondering about Mel’s biological father. The investigator had been evasive in his answers on that score, and had provided nothing by way of solid information. Was Mel’s natural father the son of a servant the mighty Martinson family had been ashamed of? Or was he someone high on the “A” list anxious to avoid scandal? Or was it something as simple as the fact that Rebecca hadn’t been more than a child herself?
A knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. She wanted to talk. His gut said she wanted something. He could feel it just as sure as he could feel the cool breezes from the plains where he grew up, and it filled him with a deep sense of dread.
She knocked again, and he opened the door. Standing in the hallway, she was no longer the self-assured attorney he’d first glimpsed. Now she was nervous, almost as nervous as he was about this meeting.
“Hi,” she said quietly when she stepped into the room.
“I’d offer you a drink, Ms. Martinson, but this isn’t a social call. What do you want?”
He knew he was being hard, but dammit, he didn’t like feeling threatened. And Rebecca Martinson was a threat of the worst possible kind. She didn’t have a legal right to demand squat. Emotionally, well, that was an entirely different situation.
She set her purse on the cream sofa, and he couldn’t help noticing how her hands trembled. She started to remove her lightweight linen blazer, then changed her mind and pulled it back around her, shoving her hands in the side pockets.
She cleared her throat, her gaze darting around the suite. He remained by the closed door and crossed his arms over his chest. He wasn’t going to make this easy for her, whatever the hell it was she wanted from him.
“Mr. Winslow, I would like the chance to get to know my dau—to get to know Melanie.”
Anger, pure and hot, flared through him. He should have expected something like this. His visit had more than likely stirred some dormant maternal instinct. Well, she could forget it. He wasn’t going to risk losing his daughter to appease the woman who’d given her up in the first place.
“I don’t think so, Ms. Martinson.” He swung around and opened the door. “You can leave now.”
“Hear me out. Please.”
The pleading in her voice startled him. God, she even sounded like Mel.
He slammed the door, and she flinched. Good, let her be frightened. Because if she so much as tried to take his daughter away from him, he’d hunt her down and…
“I just want a chance to meet her and get to know her.” Her voice was whisper soft, not at all the forceful personality he’d encountered in his two previous conversations with her.
“No.” Cold and blunt, but the point was the same. No way in hell, lady.
Dark, finely arched brows drew together in a sleek line over bright-green eyes. “What harm can there possibly be in me at least meeting her?”
“What harm?” he roared. “Lady, are you nuts?”
“Obviously,” she muttered, and turned away.
He strode across the room until he was standing directly in front of her, giving her no choice but to look up at him. A small power play, but he wasn’t above using his own physical advantages at a time like this. He simply had too much to lose.
“Do you know what kind of shock it’d give her? What do I say? ‘Mel, this is your birth mother. She wants to get to know you,”’ he said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “No!”
Much to his amazement she didn’t back down or cower. Frustration flashed in her eyes and, if he wasn’t fighting for his daughter’s life, he might have found her gumption just a little stimulating.
“You don’t have to tell her who I am. You could tell her I’m an old friend. She doesn’t even have to know I’m the one who’s donated the bone marrow.”
Bracing his hands on his hips, he continued to scowl at her. “And just how long do you plan on ‘visiting’?” he asked against his better judgment.
She pulled in a deep breath and stepped away. “I’ve arranged for a month-long leave of absence.”
“A month?” A few days, maybe, if that’s what it took to get what Mel needed. But a month? No way could he have this woman living under the same roof with his daughter. He shook his head.
“Look Mr. Winslow. A month isn’t all that long to ask for. I’ve lost—”
“Don’t tell me what you’ve lost,” he thundered. “You made the decision to give her up for adoption. And believe me, if Mel didn’t need you for physiological reasons, you would have gone blissfully through life without knowing her.”
“Haven’t you ever done something you’ve regretted?” she asked. “She’s your daughter, I just want—”
“A chance to right some cosmic wrong?” he retorted. “Forget it.”
She let out a stream of breath and closed her eyes momentarily. In that instant she reminded him so much of Mel. The way her long, dark lashes fanned her cheeks, the stream of breath that ruffled bangs and spoke loud and clear of dramatic frustration.
She opened her eyes and gave him a direct stare. “Please, Mr. Winslow. There’s no other way I know how to ask.”
The pleading note in her voice ripped through him, and he felt himself begin to soften. He’d have to be pretty convincing where Mel was concerned. How could he just bring a strange woman into their home and pretend they were old friends?
“All I’m asking for is a month to get to know her. I don’t want to upset her. I’m willing for her to never know who I really am. Won’t you agree? Please, Mr. Winslow.”
Sam strode to the window and stared into the horizon. He wanted to tell her to get out—to leave and forget he’d ever contacted her. But he couldn’t. No matter how much he detested her manipulative tactics, for Mel he couldn’t afford the luxury of telling Rebecca Martinson to go straight to hell.
“One month in exchange for bone marrow?”
Rebecca expelled a rush of breath. She was getting through to him. As cold and heartless as he made it sound, that was exactly what she wanted. “Yes,” she said, not bothering to tell him that even if he’d refused she would have checked into the hospital immediately to begin the extraction process.
“One month,” he repeated and turned to face her. He strode across the room until he was towering over her again. “My daughter knows she’s adopted, Ms. Martinson.” His soft voice belied the fury burning in his dark eyes. “God help us both if she finds out who you really are.”
“FLIGHT 473, nonstop to Denver will commence boarding in five minutes.”
Rebecca checked her watch for the fourth time in as many minutes. She opened her shoulder bag and retrieved the airline ticket delivered to her last night. She double-checked the flight number—473. A few hours to Denver, then a commuter to a place called Minot, North Dakota. From what Sam had told her, he lived in a small town with a population of less than five hundred. Her condo complex was more populous.
She looked at the overhead monitor and bit her lip. Their flight was due for take off in less than thirty minutes, and Sam Winslow still hadn’t shown.
Turning to face the electronic doors, she watched as people flooded into the terminal at LAX. Not one of them was Sam. She sighed. How difficult could it be to spot one taller-than-average, better-looking-than-any-man-had-a-right-to-be guy with a permanent frown creasing his brow?
In this crowd, impossible.
She turned and headed toward the bank of phones intending to call his hotel. Maybe he’d overslept. If he wasn’t familiar with the layout of the airport, he could even have gotten lost. She reached for the pay phone when she spotted him, walking toward her at a brisk pace. Her pulse rate picked up speed.
Pulling in a deep breath, she told herself to calm down. Her rocketing heartbeat had nothing to do with the way Sam’s rich sable hair curled just right at his nape or the fact that he had the sexiest bedroom eyes she’d ever seen in her adult life. The purpose of this trip had nothing to do with Sam Winslow and everything to do with her daughter. And besides, more than likely he was a married man!
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, ushering her toward the metal detector without pause. “The rental car had to be dropped off.”
“No need to apologize. I only just arrived myself,” she lied. She’d been waiting, and pacing, for over an hour.
Neither of them spoke, for which Rebecca was thankful. She didn’t know what to say. Better to suffer through the awkward silence than put her foot in her mouth, which she’d undoubtedly do, considering she had a record-setting case of nerves. Facing the toughest judge the family court had to offer never rattled her, but the presence of one tall, drop-dead-gorgeous man she knew nothing about had the ability to make her feel like a complete klutz.
He approached the metal detector and waited for her to set her carry-on and purse on the black conveyor belt. She stepped through the electronic archway toward a security guard who passed a hand-held detector over her body. Nothing beeped or screeched so she moved on to the end of the table to await the arrival of her bags.
Sam wasn’t so lucky. When he stepped through the archway, a high, piercing wail sounded. The security guard pointed him back through again. Rebecca picked up Sam’s carry-all while he removed his belt and a few trinkets from the pockets of his jeans. Finally he strode toward her, took the bag from her and silently guided her toward the loading gate and aboard the plane that would take her to her daughter.
She still couldn’t get over the initial surprise of finally being given the chance to meet the child she’d been forced to give up so long ago. Fate, she knew, played funny tricks on people, and sometimes righted the wrongs. She prayed again, like she had so many times in the past forty-eight hours, that this was her chance.
Once their bags were stored in the overhead compartment and they were comfortably seated, Rebecca turned to Sam. “Not much of a talker are you?”
He looked at her, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. The warmth of his eyes was a direct contrast to the creasing of his brows. She had no idea what went on in his mind. And she didn’t know a thing about him. Well, maybe it was time she found out. Like how his wife was going to feel about her barging into their lives.
She gave him one of her best smiles. “I don’t know anything about you.”
“There isn’t much to know.” He adjusted his seat belt then looked past her, out the window toward the tarmac.
She wasn’t about to be put off by his less-than-friendly attitude. Work. Work was always a good subject. People loved to talk about what they did for a living. “What kind of work do you do in Shelbourne, North Dakota?”
“Farming.”
“You’re a farmer?” She didn’t mean to sound so shocked. She should have guessed him to be an outdoorsy kind of guy who worked with his hands. She remembered those hands, strong, powerful. Yet, she somehow knew they could also be tender and gentle. Tender and gentle enough to bring a woman to a fever pitch.
“Not everyone has had the advantages you’ve had, Ms. Martinson.”
Ouch. Maybe his hands could be tender and gentle, but his attitude was sharper than a switchblade. “Don’t expect me to apologize because I’ve had a good life. I got K through twelve just like everyone else. Just because I—”
“I’m sorry.”
This guy could shift gears faster than a close-ratio Ferrari. “Excuse me?”
He sighed, then looked at her. The frown disappeared and he looked handsome again. “I said I was sorry. This situation is a little…tense.”
“No kidding.” She laid her hand over his strong forearm. “And you’re not helping.”
“You want me to make this easy for you?” Slowly, as if he didn’t want her to notice, he removed his arm from her grasp.
“You don’t have to make anything easy for anyone. We can’t help where we’ve come from or what we’ve had to do to get where we are. Why don’t we just accept that and go on from here, okay?”
Uh-oh. Frown’s back.
“Is that what you did, Ms. Martinson? What you had to do to get where you are today?”
She glared at him. There was nothing else for her to do. She couldn’t very well get up and walk out of an airplane taxiing down the runway. But she didn’t want to keep suffering his sarcasm for the next three and a half hours, not to mention another ninety minutes on a rock-and-tumble commuter flight.
“Look, Winslow,” she said, giving him a narrow-eyed glare as the plane lifted off. “My past is my past. Tough decisions were made that are pretty much none of your damn business. So why don’t you just pipe down and be civil. Okay?”
His expressed immediately softened, and his dark eyes filled with contrition. “Are you always this sassy?” he asked.
“Only with people who have a rotten attitude.”
“Touché,” he said, the beginning of a grin tugging his lips ever so slightly.
“I bet your wife doesn’t let you get away with that attitude.”
“I’m not married.”
“Let me guess. Your winning smile drove her away, right?” Okay, so he was right. She was sassy. But she knew all about pecking order, and she was not about to let Sam Winslow intimidate her into playing Beta to his Alpha. He might be gaining the home field advantage, but he’d learn soon enough his opponent was anything but a pushover.
This was not how Sam had planned his association with his daughter’s birth mother. In fact, since he’d walked into Rebecca’s office yesterday, not much had gone as planned…his physical reaction to her topping the list.
He’d seen the photograph of her and knew she was a beautiful woman, but he wasn’t prepared for the sleek, cat-like grace she possessed when she moved, or the way her bright-green eyes pooled when he mentioned Mel. Nor had he been prepared for the physical response that surged through his body when she’d gently laid her hand over his arm. That had been a curve ball he hadn’t seen coming.
An hour later Sam hadn’t come to terms with the way his body had reacted to Rebecca. When the flight attendant offered them a drink, Rebecca ordered a diet cola. He wanted a double bourbon—straight, but settled for coffee instead.
He thanked the attendant and gave Rebecca his full attention. She sighed, a wistful little sound that stirred his blood.
“I don’t want Mel to know you’re the one to donate the bone marrow,” he blurted. He’d been trying to find a tactful way to approach the subject. Oh well, he thought. At least it was out in the open.
She looked at him and lifted one of those dark brows in silent question.
“Mel’s not a stupid kid,” he said quietly. “A sibling or a biological parent are the most likely matches in bone marrow transplantation and she’s aware of that fact. She’s heard the rundown on the entire medical process and can easily figure it out for herself who you really are.”
Setting her diet cola on the fold-down tray, she traced squiggles in the condensation of the plastic cup with a perfectly manicured nail. “I thought we already had this discussion.”
True, he thought, but he wanted to make certain Mel was protected. “I don’t lie to my kid, but in this case it’s necessary. And, Ms. Martinson?” Sam waited until she looked at him. “Once the month is over, that’s it. You’ll never be allowed to see my daughter again.”
A PINCUSHION had fewer holes than Rebecca did in her arm. As soon as she’d checked into the hospital, they’d sent in the legalized vampires to begin the methodical torture of withdrawing vial upon vial of blood. The nurse had threatened an IV would be started before she went to sleep. Rebecca didn’t think she had a vein left for the insertion.
She continued to surf the fourteen available channels and finally landed on a local news program. While a petite blonde talked about an overturned grain truck on one of the highways, Rebecca thought about her daughter, two floors above her.
“Damn,” she muttered. She never should have promised Sam she’d wait to meet Melanie until after the girl was released from the hospital. But even her promise failed to squelch the burning desire to sneak upstairs and take a look at her.
The newscaster promised a weather report after a commercial break. Melanie was probably sleeping. There certainly was nothing on television to hold one’s interest, let alone that of a teenaged girl. Maybe she could just take a walk, stretch her legs and stroll past the room. If Melanie was awake, she’d keep going, but…
Unable to resist any longer, she reached for her cotton robe and pulled it around her. She jammed her feet into the slippers the nurse had parked neatly at the bedside. Firmly ignoring the possible repercussions, she left the private hospital room, strolled past the nurses’ station and headed for the elevator.
After a moment the doors whooshed open, and she stepped inside, pushed the button for the fifth floor and waited. Her insides churned, and her heart pounded in a heavy rhythm. Thank goodness she was in a hospital—a crash cart would easily be at hand if she arrested.
The doors slid open, and she stepped off the elevator onto the fifth floor. Now what? she wondered. She was here, her daughter was somewhere on the floor, but where? What if Sam left instructions with the nursing staff that Melanie was to have no visitors? No Rebecca Martinson visitors?
Hesitantly she headed down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. An older man, apparently a doctor, was jotting notes in a chart and giving orders to a nurse. She couldn’t just walk the halls and pray she’d be guided by some magical force to her child.
Wiping her hands on the thin material of her robe, she continued toward the nurses’ station.
