Daddy By Design?: Daddy By Design? / Her Perfect Wife

“Cooper is what I wrote down. And this next part is serious. Miss Reeves said to tell you that Mr. Cooper said his life needed to be saved. Does that mean anything to you?”

Cinda barely covered her gasp. Trey Cooper was calling in his favor. “Uh, maybe. Give me his number, and I’ll try him right now, okay?”

“That’s a good idea. I just hope it’s not too late. He could be dead by now. But anyway, here it is.” He finally read her the telephone number.

Maddeningly, Cinda’s fingers didn’t want to work in concert with her brain. She was too excited, too nervous. She had to ask Papa Rick three times to repeat the numbers to her, but finally she got them in the correct sequence. Relief coursed through her. Short-lived relief.

“Wait a minute,” Papa Rick said. “Trey Cooper. That name sounds familiar. This isn’t the nice young man who was stuck in the elevator with you last January, is it? The one you told us about?”

Oh sure, now his mind clears. “Yes. But don’t tell Mother Cavanaugh, all right? I don’t want her jumping to any conclusions that would have her taking to her bed for a week and making your life unbearable.”

“Oh. I see your point, although I can’t vouch for our Miss Reeves. No doubt, she’ll tattle. But anyway, good luck, dear. I’ll let you go so you can call your young man.”

“He’s not my young man.”

“Well, go see that he is. Goodbye. And kiss that baby for me.”

“I will. And I love you. Goodbye, Papa Rick.”

Cinda disconnected the call, then stared at the paper towel she held and on which she’d scrawled the phone number with the Atlanta area code. Her heart and her mind were singing. Trey Cooper had called her. And his life needed to be saved. Oh, happy day.

Then she sobered. Surely, he didn’t mean that literally. So this could only be a good thing, right? A social call, as in “how are you doing, I meant to call you before now.”

That had to be it. She eyed the phone still in her other hand…then the phone number. The phone…the number. Then the kitchen clock. It wasn’t even nine yet. She could call right now. Cinda took a deep breath for courage, swallowed her heart back down into her chest, and began dialing Trey Cooper’s number. Right then, she couldn’t have said if she wanted him to be home or not. After all, this could be a good thing—or it could be opening a Pandora’s box of emotions best left unexplored. She just didn’t know which.

Somehow, though, the number was dialed and the phone at the other end was ringing. Hearing it, Cinda was seized by a sudden spate of panic that shrieked at her to hang up. Her hand tightened on the phone—

STARTLED AWAKE, Trey grabbed his phone off the hook on the second ring and put it to his ear. “Hello?” No one said anything. “Hello?” He listened. “I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there. You might as well say something.”

“Oh. Trey, is that you? This is Cinda Cooper—I mean Cavanaugh. Cinda Cavanaugh.”

Trey sat bolt upright on his couch, where he’d been about half asleep as the TV blared some mindless nonsense. “Cinda?” Had he heard her right? Had she really said Cooper? Surely not. That was just wistful thinking on his part. “Hi. I didn’t think you were going to call me back.”

“I’m sure you didn’t, but I just now got your message. By a very roundabout way, too.”

“Really?” He grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. The sudden quiet was a blessing. “Been away from the house?”

“It’s an apartment, actually. In New York. But yes I have been away. In fact, I’m back in Atlanta now.”

Excitement quickened in him. “Are you serious? You’re here in Atlanta? Just visiting, or what?”

“Or what. I moved back here a few months ago, into my old house. The same one I lived in before.”

“Before what?”

“The yaks.”

“Oh, hell. Right. But, hey, this is great. If I’d known you were in town, I’d have come by to see the baby. How is she?”

“Asleep, blessedly. But she’s fine. Absolutely beautiful, of course, and the smartest child in the world. Just ask her mother.”

Trey chuckled. Then he was silent, gathering his thoughts as he ran a hand through his hair. “So, how are you doing, Cinda? I mean really.”

“I’m good. You?”

“I’m good.” He wasn’t. He’d been a wreck since he’d called her and hadn’t received a call back. He’d put himself through hell with all the reasons why she might not be going to call him back. In none of the scenarios had he come off well. In none of them, either, had he assigned such a simple reason as she simply no longer lived at that number.

Suddenly Trey realized there was a silence between them. He opened his mouth to say something, but Cinda beat him to it.

“Well, this is certainly awkward,” she said.

“I know. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Especially after what we shared together in that stupid elevator—for which I’m eternally grateful, by the way.”

“Oh really? Why is that?”

“Because otherwise I never would have met you.” Trey applauded his boldness, on the one hand. But on the other, he wanted to kick himself. He held his breath, wondering just how old a man had to be before he no longer felt like a fool just for calling a woman and saying what he really felt.

“Well.”

Trey died inside…fourteen times, to be exact.

Finally she saved him. “That’s certainly a nice thing to say. You’re being very charming, you know.”

He exhaled, fully expecting his heart and lungs to whoosh out along with his relief. But boldness had brought him this far. So, ever one to keep crashing onward, even if it was into brick walls, he decided to try again. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It might be.” Her tone of voice was clearly teasing. “You see, I’m very susceptible to charming Southern men and have to watch myself around them.”

“And yet, now that you are in Atlanta, you’re surrounded by them.”

She hesitated a moment. “Not so many as you’d think.”

“Really?” Encouraged to know that she wasn’t inundated with men, Trey’s heart stepped out onto the romantic-risk-taking high-dive and took the plunge. “Good. Because I have a proposition for you.”

“Is this the part where I save your life?”

“Pretty much. If you’re willing, that is.”

“As long as it doesn’t include a stalled elevator, I probably am.”

“I can guarantee there are no elevators, stuck or otherwise, involved. In fact, I’m not even sure there’s a building in Southwood with an elevator.”

“Southwood?”

“My hometown. Just west of here.”

“That’s right. Now I remember. I’m still trying to figure out why I’ve never heard of it, though, if it’s that close to Atlanta.”

“No reason why you should have. We didn’t produce any Confederate generals or Olympic medalists. Just a dusty little town planning a big celebration.”

“I see. Of what?”

“My high-school class reunion. Our tenth, even though it was actually twelve years ago.”

“I wish I could say that made sense.”

“So do I, but that’s Southwood for you. It’s a long story.”

“Let me guess. You need a date, right?”

“Worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it. I need a wife and a child.”

Silence ensued. Trey held his breath, not knowing if he should say something to assure her he wasn’t joking, or if he should just wait and see what her reaction would be.

“You’re not going to tell me this is some sort of crazy scavenger hunt, are you?” she said a moment later.

Trey grinned. “No. But you may wish that before I’m done here.”

“Wow. Sounds really intriguing. Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Trey exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. “Intrigue may not be the half of it. And I don’t like asking you this over the phone, but—”

“But your life needs to be saved and I owe you, right?”

“Yes and no. Yes my life needs to be saved. And no I don’t feel that you owe me. I meant this to be—I just thought maybe—Oh, hell, never mind, Cinda. Look, I’m sorry. Forget it. This didn’t sound so nuts to me the other day when I called you with this idea of mine. But now, hearing it out loud and asking you, or trying to ask you, well, it sounds stupid. Just never mind. I’m sorry I bothered you. I can go by my—”

“Wait, Trey. Give me a chance here. I didn’t say no, did I? Just tell me what’s going on, and we’ll go from there.”

Hope bloomed in his heart. “You sure?”

She chuckled. “I think I am. Maybe.”

“An open mind. That’s a good beginning. So, here’s the deal…” Trey launched into his predicament, hitting the highlights, as if there were any, of his upcoming reunion weekend and what role he needed her and Chelsi to play. He worked hard to make it sound sane and logical when, in fact, it was neither. He didn’t tell her about Rocco Diamante, though, thinking there was no reason to needlessly scare her. If the man showed up and made trouble, Trey would call his friend, the police chief, and then get Cinda, the baby, and his mother out of town. But, still, the longer he talked, the more he was convinced Cinda would not only say no, but she would probably also hang up on him and change her phone number.

But finally, he was through telling his tale. “So, what do you think? You don’t have to say yes, Cinda. Seriously. No harm, no foul. Because I think it’s a crazy plan, and it’s my plan.” She didn’t say anything. Trey sighed. “You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

“No. I probably should, but I don’t. You know what? It sounds fun and crazy. And maybe that’s exactly what I need right now. So…yes, Trey Cooper, I’ll do it. Well, we’ll do it—Chelsi and I.”

Trey bolted to his feet, narrowly avoiding colliding with his coffee table, and paced excitedly across the carpet. “You will? You’ll be my wife?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “Well, let’s keep our heads here. I’m saying that I’ll be your wife and Chelsi will be your daughter…but only for that one weekend, of course.”

“Yeah. Of course,” Trey echoed. “One weekend. That’s all I need.”

He just wished he could be sure about that. Because he wasn’t. Not at all. And that couldn’t be good.

5

JUST AFTER NOON on the following Saturday, Cinda waited nervously for Trey’s arrival at her Atlanta home. His high-school reunion was the next weekend, the Fourth of July, so she’d invited him over to discuss the details of their ruse and to allow him and Chelsi to get acquainted. After all, it wouldn’t do to pose as a loving couple with a young baby if the baby would have nothing to do with her “father.”

But those combined reasons, while valid, weren’t the whole truth. Cinda forced herself to admit that she wanted to see Trey Cooper and couldn’t wait another week to do so. She wanted to know if he could still affect her as he had that January day in the elevator. The evidence—her never-ending thoughts of him, her incredible excitement that he had finally called, and her giddiness at the prospect of seeing him again—already pointed to the fact that he could, he would, and he did.

As if that weren’t enough to stress over, Cinda feared that she wasn’t yet ready to act on that speeding bullet of awareness between them. It could turn out that she just thought she was ready and that she’d back off when—if—things heated up between her and Trey. And if she let it get that far and then backed off? Well, it wouldn’t be fair to him. Or to herself. So here she was, not completely in touch with her emotions beyond the recognition of a confused mishmash of desire and restraint.

And none of that altered the fact that Trey was due at any moment. Cinda had already changed outfits—hers and the baby’s—no less than four times. Right now she had on a new flower-sprigged sundress, but she had yet to call it her final decision. Nor was she satisfied with Chelsi’s outfit. But her daughter wore a mutinous expression that promised a tantrum of diva proportions should her mother try yet again to poke her chubby arms and legs through one more article of complicated baby clothing.

Respecting Chelsi’s stubbornly poked-out bottom lip, Cinda dropped the dress issue and set about making everyone else in the house miserable. With Chelsi in her arms, and with Major Clovis on their heels, Cinda now flitted through every room of the two-story Southern Colonial mansion, conducting an inspection tour. She told herself she simply needed to make certain everything was cleaned and straightened. She wanted to make a good impression. Was that so awful? She stopped in the richly decorated, sunny formal living room and looked around appraisingly.

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Major Clovis said, “but we didn’t go to this much trouble for the IG’s visit back during my days in the military.”

“The IG?” Cinda asked distractedly, balancing Chelsi carefully while fluffing a throw pillow on the sofa. “What’s an IG?”

“Inspector General, ma’am.” Major Clovis put the pillow back where it had been. “A high mucketymuck with the power to make your life a living meat grinder if he found so much as one speck of dirt on the ground outside.”

Pinched by the comparison, Cinda began to feel a bit surly. “I hardly think I’m going that far. And I wouldn’t define Mr. Cooper as a mucketymuck. I just want everything to be nice for his visit.”

“I understand. I believe the barracks will pass muster, ma’am. I hired three extra maids for this major field day.”

Long ago Cinda had given up trying to get Major Clovis to call her anything except ma’am or to forego the use of military jargon. Still, as she inspected the hang of the curtains Cinda remained distracted. “What’s a major field day, again? Some sort of military maneuvers?”

“In a way of speaking.” Major Clovis reached around Cinda to shake out the folds she’d just shaken in. “It’s when everyone falls out under orders to clean an entire installation from top to bottom.”

“I see.” Cinda flitted to an end table and ran her fingers over a lampshade. She checked it for dust. There wasn’t any. “Sounds like a worthwhile thing.”

“It’s meant as a punishment, ma’am.”

Cinda faced her adjutant, who stood at ease with her hands behind her back. “Well, that’s not what we’re doing here, Major Clovis. Certainly no one is being punished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

As much put out with herself for caring so much how everything looked as she was with Major Clovis’s hovering, Cinda clung stubbornly to her defensive mood. She stood back from the gilt-framed beveled-glass mirror that hung over the fireplace and gave it the once-over. “Will you look at that? Why haven’t I ever noticed before that it’s hanging crookedly?”

Mindful of her daughter on her hip, she reached up on tiptoes to straighten the mirror’s edge.

“Here. Allow me, ma’am.” Major Clovis leaped to help, essentially swinging the mirror’s position back to where it had been a moment ago. She then stood back with Cinda to inspect their counterproductive handiwork. “There. Good as new.”

Assessing the frame, tilting her head this way and that, Cinda frowned, “I suppose.” She then focused on Major Clovis. “Mr. Cooper will be staying for lunch. Has Marta prepared the menu I requested?”

Major Clovis executed a sharp nod of military precision. “Yes, ma’am. I told her she’d be court-martialed if she failed to please.”

Already hating herself for asking, Cinda eyed her aide. “How exactly did you say that to her since you don’t speak Spanish?”

The beginnings of a smug little grin became a self-satisfied pursing of the major’s lips. “I know a few words, ma’am. But I believe my exact word this time was muerte.”

Cinda could only stare without blinking. “Dead? You told her she’d be killed, didn’t you?”

“At sunrise.” The major’s light gray eyes swam with feigned innocence. “Was that too much, ma’am?”

“If it explains the shrieking commotion I heard last night, yes it was.”

“I wasn’t aware of any such—”

The front doorbell rang, playing a melodious tune. A least, it was supposed to play a melodious tune. Cinda directed an exasperated how-could-you look the major’s way. Obviously the woman had reprogrammed the door chimes. To wit, a very patriotic and rousing rendition of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic” rang out through the house.

Over the booming tune, which had baby Chelsi blinking rapidly and screwing up her face as if she weren’t sure if she was supposed to cry, Major Clovis said, “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am. Your guest appears to have arrived.”

My guest. The full implication of those words ran through Cinda, weakening her knees. Forgetting all else, she shot a hand out to stop her assistant from leaving. “Wait. Bring him to me in the family room. And not in chains or with his head on a platter, do you understand?”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.” The wiry woman, dressed in olive-drab belted slacks, a light green button-down blouse and sensible shoes, then performed a sharp about-face and, marching in time to the music, headed for the front door.

In a complete fluster, Cinda walked rapidly toward the back of the house to the family room. She pinched her cheeks to bring more color to them and smoothed a hand through her hair. She pulled a thick lock of it into her view, studied it, and wanted to groan. Just as she’d feared. It looked dull, like dirty dishwater. What had happened to the blondeness? To the highlights? She hated her hair. It just hung there straight. It had no body. Could it be more stringy and lifeless?

Great. Well, if she couldn’t be gorgeous, she could at least be gracious.

Once in the family room, Cinda sat on the sofa and perched her daughter next to her so she could give her a final going-over. Chelsi’s dark-blond hair stood up at right angles from her head. The child looked like a little blue-eyed baby monkey. When had that happened? Horrified, Cinda quickly moistened her fingers by dabbing them against her tongue. Then, utilizing a time-honored mothering technique, she applied her wet fingertips to Chelsi’s hair and tried to fashion attractive feather-soft curls out of the dandelion fluff that was the baby’s hair.

Cinda just wanted the darling little dumpling to shine. Was that so awful? It was to Chelsi, who had not been consulted. This latest act of her mother’s was apparently the last straw for the little girl. As if totally over it with the demands of feminine vanity, she stiffened and began screaming her protest.

ALL TREY HAD DONE was push the doorbell. But now, standing outside the impressive and intimidating red-brick Southern Colonial mansion that reposed in a neighborhood of such magnificence that Cinda’s house actually seemed small by comparison, he stood stiffly at attention. Four years of military training were hard to overcome. So was the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

But if Trey thought that tune had given him a terrifying flashback of boot camp proportions, it was nothing compared to the woman who opened the door. Tall, slender, with short hair the color of steel, and dressed in an approximation of an army uniform, she eyed him like the lowly enlisted man he’d been. “Yes?”

Trey told himself that this feeling that he’d strayed onto top-secret, off-limits property was ridiculous. He forced a smile and put his best mannerly foot forward. “Hi. I’m Trey Cooper. Mrs. Cavanaugh is expecting me…ma’am.”

With the doorbell music dying out, the only sound Trey heard now was a baby crying in the background. It didn’t faze the middle-aged woman standing in front of him, though. She slowly roved her gaze up and down him. No doubt about it—this was an inspection. Trey thought of his khaki slacks and light blue knit golf shirt, neatly tucked in and belted…thank God. As he’d had a haircut only this morning, it should pass muster. When the silent woman’s gaze lowered to his feet, Trey fought a nearly overwhelming urge to look down to see if his loafers had the appropriate shine.

The woman’s gaze flicked back to his face. Trey met her eyes. She never smiled. “You’ll do. Come in.”

Exhaling as if his life had just been spared, Trey stepped over the threshold and inside the home’s grand and tiled foyer. He heard the door—one of a set made of highly polished wood—close behind him. But he forgot the intimidating woman and the crying baby as he looked around, barely biting back a low whistle of appreciation for the grandeur of Cinda’s home. He had one conclusion only. He was in over his head here.

The only house he’d ever seen that he could compare this one to was Jude Barrett’s own. Other than his boss’s place, Trey had never seen anything like this. His parents’ home, where his mother still lived, was a five-room, white wood square of a house with a screened-in front porch, big trees outside and a neglected flower bed. And his apartment here in Atlanta was a nondescript, one-bedroom, furnished box in a complex of over one hundred units skirted by concrete and parking spaces.

Trey tried to picture himself coming home here, closing a door behind him, and calling out, “Hi, honey, I’m home.” And then Cinda, smiling, would come greet him—

Someone touched his elbow. Trey jumped and whipped around. His escort was there, right at his back. But she was smiling—about like he expected a praying mantis would before it devoured its prey. The woman leaned in toward him and looked him right in the eye as she whispered, “If you hurt her, I’ll hunt you down and rip your beating heart right out of your chest, do you hear me?”

The skin on the back of Trey’s neck crawled. He swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Loud and clear.”

She stepped back. “Good. Then we understand each other.” With that, she did an about-face and began walking away. Trey put a protective hand over his heart. “Follow me,” the woman said over her shoulder. “Mrs. Cavanaugh awaits you in the family room.”

The queen has granted you an audience, peasant, was how she said it.

Feeling way off his game here but committed to the course, Trey fell in step, thinking this gray-haired character would even scare Peg the Nurse up in New York City. Down a wood-floored hallway they traveled, sweeping past the wide stairs that obviously led up to a second floor. Trey finally found himself in a room that alone had to be bigger than his mother’s entire home.

So this was what it was like to be a millionaire. The room demanded his attention. It was all windows and open spaces and white carpet and big pieces of furniture. Big paintings and sculptures, too. And flowers. Fresh ones. Everywhere. Beautiful. Colors impinged on his senses. He called them red, white and blue, but no doubt some interior decorator had fancy names for them that Trey would never be able to wrap his tongue around.

Just then, he became aware that the crying baby was close by and that the crying was subsiding into hiccups and sniffling. Trey looked around but didn’t see anyone else. Then…Cinda stood up from where she’d obviously been sitting on the other side of a big cushy beige-colored sofa.

Catching sight of her, locking gazes with her, Trey’s breath caught. He forgot his surroundings and his escort. His mouth was suddenly dry, his palms sweaty. For him, no one existed except Cinda. She filled the room with her smiling warmth and her beauty. She lit up the—

Pow! Trey was smacked hard in the middle of his back, hard enough to rock him off his feet. He tripped forward, gasping, and heard Cinda do the same. She put a hand to her mouth and looked as surprised as he was.

From Trey’s left, the austere, serious-minded woman who’d brought him this far said, “Breathe, soldier. You forgot to breathe.”

Ever dutiful, Trey breathed. In and out. In and out. And stared at his…what? Assailant? Arch-enemy? Someone to whom he’d forgotten he owed a huge amount of money? “Thanks,” he managed to croak out. “I’ll try to remember that from now on.”

“Good. It makes life a whole lot easier.” She got in his face. “And I want you to enjoy what you have left of it, son.” Leaving him with that cheery thought, the woman zipped around on her heel and marched out of the room.

Swallowing hard, Trey watched her go. He made certain that the woman was gone before he turned to Cinda and remarked, “She loves me. We’re engaged.”