Found: One Secret Baby

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“Great! So …” Vanessa leaned forward as if to say something terribly important. “What are you going to wear?”

The day of the opening Joey woke up with a cold. Rosalie rearranged her schedule so she could stay home from the office to take care of him, but she hated to miss the opening of her mother’s show.

When she called Vanessa to cancel, her friend insisted she could still babysit Joey. “If he’s asleep, it won’t matter, will it?”

“Yes, but there’s still the little matter of what happens if he wakes up.”

“Aaron can handle it. When I asked him about coming with me to watch Joey, he let it drop that one of the jobs he once had between acting gigs was as a nanny. He’s a pro with kids.”

Rosalie couldn’t quite picture Vanessa’s Aaron, six feet tall and two hundred pounds of solid muscle, as a nanny, but the man had a heart as big as he was, so maybe it would be okay.

“Rosie, you know you want to do this. You have to do this.”

Vanessa was right.

“Okay. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

“We’ll be there. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

Morgan walked into the crowded art gallery and realized he was in more trouble than he’d thought.

He hadn’t asked himself why he’d shown up here tonight. He was back in L.A. on business, so it had seemed reasonable to see how the paintings by Ms. Walker’s mother sold.

He should have known better. As soon as he saw Rosalie on the other side of the room in a high-necked, knee-length black dress that showed off all her curves, a hot flash of need jolted through him. Almost against his will, his eyes tracked down her shapely legs to high-heeled black sandals and those delightful toes. Since when had he ever found toes sexy?

Since when had he ever found lady lawyers sexy?

A waiter wandered by with a tray of drinks. Morgan sighed at the white wine in plastic glasses. Probably Chardonnay, and cheap Chardonnay at that. Still, better than nothing.

He took a glass and sipped it warily. He grimaced at the raw edge of the wine, but his eyes remained fixed on the unfamiliar sight of Rosalie Walker looking happy.

She wasn’t totally relaxed. A thin line between her eyebrows showed the stress of being the center of attention in a room full of strangers, but she was smiling as she chatted with an older woman in a designer gown with huge diamonds at her neck and wrist. While the smile faded after the woman walked away, Rosalie still glowed with pleasure as she surveyed the crowd that oohed and aahed over her mother’s creations.

He wanted to claim her happiness as his doing, but all he’d done was help her mother find the public she deserved, if too late for her to enjoy it in person.

Still, it looked as if Ms. Walker was enjoying it enough for both of them.

No. He could not continue to think of her as Ms. Walker when every unguarded moment brought new visions of the two of them doing impossibly erotic things with each other.

He took another glass of wine off a passing tray and wandered in her direction, but forced himself to pause and look at the paintings as he went.

His body tightened at the surprised delight in Rosalie’s eyes when she saw him, but she quickly turned away. By the time he reached her, the wary look was back.

“Why are you here?” It sounded like an accusation.

He shrugged, vaguely angry at her for being wary, and at himself for apparently bursting the bubble of her happiness.

“My friend sent me an invitation. I was in L.A., so I decided to drop by.”

“Why? You’ve seen my mother’s paintings before and, if I remember correctly, didn’t think much of them.”

“All I said was that they were middle brow art.” He took a sip of the wine. “Middle-brow art has its place.”

“But not in your collection.”

“No, not in mine, but Lillian is quite fond of it. I thought I might find her a birthday gift.”

Something in Rosalie’s face shifted at Lillian’s name.

“I hope you’re successful,” she said abruptly and walked away.

He started to go after her and explain who Lillian was, but realized it wouldn’t help him to remind Rosalie of the whole mess with Charlie.

And, of course, there was Rosalie’s bearded Aaron to take into consideration.

So, Morgan let her go. All the same, his eyes continued to drift in her direction as he wandered through the gallery, the way a compass would drift to true north on a sea-tossed sloop.

Rosalie couldn’t help but be aware of Morgan Danby watching her.

After all, she had to make a conscious effort not to watch him, an effort that became more of a challenge as the evening progressed. Even when she wasn’t looking in his direction, she could feel his eyes on her body, sending an erotic sizzle along her nerves.

Too much wine? Too much celibacy? Too much Morgan Danby.

She was wondering if she could leave yet when she remembered. Lillian was Charlie’s mother. Morgan wanted a painting for his stepmother, not a wife, fiancée, or lover. That didn’t prove the man was unattached, but the evening seemed younger and her jubilant mood returned.

She decided she owed him an apology for her earlier rudeness. If he was still here.

He was. Standing by himself in front of at a small painting of a single orchid in a sensual shade of pinkish purple. An experiment of her mother’s Rosalie had never cared for because its overt sensuality was so out of character, but it had sold for twice as much as the companion painting of a brilliant orange day lily. She scanned the room in hopes he’d move on to something else, but he seemed fascinated by that one painting. When he finally turned away, his eyes went directly to hers. Her heart stumbled at the quirk of a smile he gave her, and her face went hot.

As if on cue, they walked toward each other and met in the middle of the room.

She’d never been good at apologies, but “I’m sorry I walked off like that” came easily, as did the smile she hadn’t planned on. Maybe because he smiled back at her in a way that made the tiny pulse at the base of her throat beat double time.

“No problem, Ros—, er, Ms. Walker. You’ve been under a lot of stress, I’m sure, with all these rich and famous strangers staring at something as personal as your mother’s paintings.”

Disarmed by his empathy, and by the way her body zipped to attention at the sound of his voice and the smell of his cologne, she looked down at the empty glass in her hand and nodded.

A long moment passed. She cursed herself silently for falling back into the shy little girl she usually kept hidden behind the lawyerly façade, but she still couldn’t find anything to say.

When it became clear she wasn’t going to hold up her end of the conversation, he asked, “Have you had dinner, Ms. Walker?”

“Rosalie.” She was rewarded by a smile that sent butterflies right to her core. “And, yes, we … I ate before I left home.”

A momentary frown creased his forehead before he said, “Well, I haven’t eaten. Would you like some dessert and a cup of coffee while I have a quick meal?”

The gallery was emptying out. A bored waiter wandered by and offered them the last of the wine in the bottle he held. She shook her head. She’d had enough already. Maybe more than enough, because coffee and something to eat before she drove home sounded like a good idea.

Except, the invitation had come from Morgan Danby. She should say no. He could take everything that mattered away from her.

But he didn’t know that. He wanted to give her something.

What harm could there be in taking another hour to cherish the evening’s celebration of her mother’s work? To learn more about this man before he walked out of her life. An hour she could remember and smile to herself about when she was back in her real world.

“Sure. Where were you thinking about going?”

He grinned and something twisted deep inside her. “Trust me.”

The expensive sports car the valet brought around when they stepped out of the gallery was bright red this time. The young man gave it a longing look as he handed Morgan the keys.

“I have to work tomorrow, so we can’t go far,” Rosalie cautioned in a wistful voice.

“Oh. I was thinking of a place out on the beach near Malibu. We could walk along the sand afterwards, and …”

“No,” she said with real regret as she climbed into the low-slung car.

By the time he was seated beside her, his grin was back, but he didn’t say anything.

He’d driven around the same block twice in search of a parking place before she realized where he was taking her.

“An all-night deli?” Why would a man with Morgan’s money eat at a deli, albeit a world-famous one?

“Why not? Incredible cheesecake for you, better pastrami for me than any place I’ve found in Boston.”

Why not? The words buzzed through her mind. Why not let all her responsibilities go, for once, and simply enjoy?

Even if it was the wine that made spending more time with Morgan Danby so appealing, that was only more evidence that she needed time to sober up a bit more before she drove home.

She’d worried about going to a deli dressed up the way she was, but she shouldn’t have. Half the women wore dresses fancier than hers, or designer slacks and tops that probably cost ten times as much as her off-the-rack-on-sale best black dress.

The cheesecake was perfect. And after an awkward moment or two, the conversation flowed from topic to topic, light and amusing, although afterwards she couldn’t remember exactly what they talked about.

What she did remember was how happy it made her just to be with Morgan, to have him smile at her as if they shared some wonderful secret. Not that they agreed on everything they talked about, but even arguing playfully with him was a joy.

The mood shifted as they lingered over a last cup of espresso.

“Tell me about your mother,” Morgan said.

Rosalie closed her eyes and smiled. “She was a free spirit. She loved flowers.”

“No surprise there.” He chuckled.

“And she loved me.” That love had been Rosalie’s rock through everything that happened, but the simple words brought a dark shadow to Morgan’s face.

“Did she look like you?”

“She was tall, slender, fair. I look more like the women on my father’s side of the family.”

Morgan’s voice was gentle as he asked, “When did he die?”

She stared at the dark liquid in her cup. “He didn’t. The day the wheelchair arrived, he left.”

Morgan tensed, then let out a long breath. “How long was your mother ill?”

“About fifteen years. That’s pretty average for the progressive form of MS she had.”

“It must have been hard.”

Rosalie shrugged. “We got by. I had to live at home while I was in college and law school, but she made sure my studies came first. We managed pretty well, until …” She cleared the tears from her throat. “Until we didn’t. I hated it when she had to move to a care facility. She loved her flower garden so much. But she made the best of it. She made the best of everything.”

Her tone must have told him she didn’t want to go any further down that road, because he let a long silence fall.

As they’d talked, their bodies had shifted until they sat so close together their shoulders touched. Rosalie didn’t quite know when during their conversation Morgan had put his hand on her knee, perhaps to emphasize a point he was making, but the weight and warmth of it felt right, as if it belonged there. Being with him, sharing her memories with him, felt right, as if she belonged there.

Then he turned more toward her and the hand moved a few inches up her leg. Closeness became intimacy, warmth became heat, heat became need. Her face almost touching his, she became aware that they were alone in their corner of the dining room.

Something inside her melted. It had been so long since she’d allowed a man to hold her, kiss her … Her hands flowed of their own accord to his shoulders and her mind emptied of everything except the hope that he wanted to kiss her as much as she wanted to kiss him.

Morgan was mesmerized by the woman beside him and the sad story she’d told. This woman might understand the sadness that haunted him. More, she had the heart to care about that sadness. He looked into her eyes, surprised to discover the little specks of brown were gone, leaving a pure sea-green a man could drown in.