Those Baby Blues Read online

  Treet took another wobbly step, shaking off Brutal's sympathetic touch on his shoulder. He made it to the chair opposite Miss Charmaine's, hopefully without giving himself away. When he was seated, the counselor's rather chiding voice reminded him that he and Miss Charmaine were not alone in the room.

  Amazingly, he'd nearly forgotten.

  "Mr. Miller, I don't think there's any need for a bodyguard,” Mrs. Shoreshire said dryly. “I hardly think you're in danger from either myself or Miss Charmaine."

  Treet wasn't at all certain about the latter, if the jut of Miss Charmaine's chin and the frost in her eyes were any indication of her present mood. He glanced at her hands, noting the way she dug her nails into the leather arms as if to hold back a scream. She had an artist's fingers, long, slim, and beautiful.

  Spotting Treet's barely perceptible nod, Brutal grumbled and backed from the room, leaving Treet alone to wonder why in the hell Miss Charmaine was mad at him. And if he knew his bodyguard and friend, Brutal would have his ear pressed to the door wondering the same damned thing.

  Mrs. Shoreshire, a petite, middle-aged woman with short, iron-gray hair, clasped her hands in front of her and began her speech. “First, I want to apologize on behalf of County Central for this tragedy."

  "My daughter isn't a tragedy," Treet growled at the same instant Miss Charmaine did the same, using nearly the exact same words.

  "Sam isn't a tragedy!"

  Unruffled, Mrs. Shoreshire gave her head an impatient shake, glancing from Treet's angry face to Miss Charmaine's equally furious one. “What I meant was, the tragedy that brings us here today."

  "Are you implying that it would have been better if we hadn't found out?” Treet asked succulently. He was beginning to think this meeting was a bad idea, because the counselor seemed to be saying all the wrong things. Things that pissed him off.

  "No, Mr. Miller, I wasn't implying—"

  "Sounded like it to me,” Miss Charmaine cut in with a challenging jut of her chin. She stared squarely at Mrs. Shoreshire in a gutsy way that ignited instant admiration in Treet. This woman was a fighter ... like his Caroline.

  "I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot,” the counselor said. “Let's start over. We're all here today with Caroline and Samantha's best interests at heart. Am I correct?"

  Treet nodded. Miss Charmaine, he saw, reluctantly followed suit.

  "We are all aware the hospital made a grave mistake, although how it could happen with the security they use these days is beyond me."

  From the corner of his eye, Treet saw Miss Charmaine's mouth open, then close, as if she changed her mind about what she wanted to say. The odd action aroused his curiosity, but he kept silent as Mrs. Shoreshire continued.

  "Regardless of how or why, it happened, and now we have to decide the best course of action. You may or may not be aware that you are both within your legal right to immediately reclaim your biological child."

  "I don't think so,” Treet said softly, yet distinctly.

  "Over my dead body."

  At her low-voiced, yet violent statement, Treet angled a brow and looked at her. She glared right back as if he were the enemy. Maybe she was confused. Maybe she thought he had something to do with the switch four years ago. Her obvious paranoia and unjust hostility reminded him of Cheyenne, and that wasn't a pleasant thought.

  "Miss Charmaine, I know how you must feel, and you too, Mr. Miller."

  "Do you?” Miss Charmaine challenged, her voice brittle, her eyes glittery with tears. “How could you possibly know? Has this ever happened to you?"

  "No, but—"

  "Then you don't know. Samantha's my daughter. I don't care who her biological parents are. I'm not going to just hand her over—especially to him!"

  Treet straightened in his chair, bristling at her implied insult. “Just what the hell do you mean by that? I don't even know you."

  "But I know you, and my daughter—"

  "You mean, my daughter?” Treet cut in angrily, goaded into recklessness.

  "No, she's mine! I'll fight you every inch of the way, and I'll win. No court will give a man like you custody of a small child."

  Animosity crackled between them, heating the air.

  Eyes narrowed, Treet said softly, “I have custody of my daughter, so apparently you're wrong.” He waited a heartbeat, then added, “And I don't intend to give up Caroline, either."

  Miss Charmaine's eyes widened. Her jaw dropped, then snapped shut. “You don't?” she squeaked, the anger fading from her eyes.

  "Please, at least hear—"

  They both ignored Mrs. Shoreshire.

  "No, I don't."

  "Then ... then I can keep Samantha?"

  "If I can keep Caroline."

  Silence fell in the small office. Mrs. Shoreshire blew out an exasperated breath and drummed her fingers on the desk to get their attention. “Please, at least listen to me before you make such a hasty decision! If you both decide to keep the daughters you have, then you will have to legally adopt them."

  "Fine."

  "Okay.” Treet tore his gaze away from Miss Charmaine's. Her beautiful eyes were almost hypnotizing in their intensity. That she loved her daughter—his daughter—he had no doubt. The realization made him feel oddly warm all over. But then, it was an emotion he understood, because he loved Caroline every bit as much.

  "I see that you both think you have your mind set on this decision.” Mrs. Shoreshire sounded resigned. “But I'm going to give you my counsel anyway.

  "Right now you probably feel as if you could leave this office and forget the entire episode ever happened. But you won't, and you can't.” She had their attention now. “When you leave here, Miss Charmaine, you'll start asking yourself little things. What color is Caroline's hair? Does she look like me? Is she happy? Well fed? Cared for? In a safe environment? Will she find out later that I didn't want her, and hate me for it? Will the knowledge ruin her life?’”

  Miss Charmaine inhaled sharply at the counselor's blunt words. Tears shimmered in her eyes. Watching her, Treet felt an unexplained anger toward the counselor. Before he realized it, he found himself saying, “She's playing on your guilt, hoping you'll change your mind."

  "Am I?” Mrs. Shoreshire asked, pinning him with a glacial stare. “And what about you, Mr. Miller? Aren't you curious at all about Samantha, your own flesh and blood? Can you truly walk out of this room and never wonder about Samantha again?"

  Treet sighed inwardly. He hated to admit it, but the old battle-ax had a point; it would drive him insane, more than either woman could ever imagine.

  He settled his ankle onto his knee and said, “I guess you have a brilliant plan?"

  "Maybe not brilliant, but something to consider. It won't cost you anything to listen.” She focused on Miss Charmaine, who still looked as if she would burst into tears any moment. “Miss Charmaine? Are you willing to hear my suggestion?"

  "If you're willing to accept the possibility that I may not agree,” Miss Charmaine answered in a decidedly wobbly voice.

  Treet resisted the urge to reach out and touch her—anywhere. He hadn't felt the need to connect with another person besides Caroline in so long the urge surprised him. After Cheyenne, he found it hard not to be suspicious of women. It wasn't an episode in his life he cared to repeat. In fact, he preferred not to think about it at all.

  "Fair enough. My advice is this; get together, the both of you, with Samantha and Caroline. Go some place private—” she slanted a reproving look Treet's way as if he were solely responsible for the paparazzi frenzy surrounding the mere mention of his name, “—away from the media. Spend quality time together as if you were a family. In fact, the friendlier you appear to each other in front of the children, the more relaxed and safe they'll feel."

  "You mean ... tell them?” Miss Charmaine asked faintly. Her knuckles had turned white where she gripped the chair.

  "Not right away, and maybe not ever. That would depend on your final decision. All I'
m asking is that you at least get to know your biological daughters, see them, appease your curiosity about where they live and how they live and assure yourselves that you can live with your decision.” She paused a moment to let the information sink in, then added, “I'll be honest with you. This hospital doesn't need the publicity should this get out, and with Mr. Miller's background, it would be especially damaging."

  Treet flashed her a humorless smile most of his fans would not have recognized. “You lost me. Tell me again why I should be concerned about the hospital's reputation? In fact,” he continued softly, “what makes you think my lawyers aren't waiting outside that door right now, preparing to sue the pants off the hospital?"

  "Because our security watched you enter the building, and we know you and your bodyguard came alone,” Mrs. Shoreshire admitted candidly.

  To Treet's surprise, Miss Charmaine came to her defense.

  "She's right. If the media gets wind of this, we won't have a choice about telling them the truth. I don't want to put Samantha through it."

  It was on the tip of Treet's tongue to ask why she hadn't included Caroline, but then he realized how hypocritical he'd sound. Like him, she had probably been trying to ignore her instincts concerning her real daughter in favor of the one she'd loved and raised for four years. He of all people understood her angst, the torn emotion, the unavoidable guilt, and yes, the growing curiosity. These same emotions had bombarded him since the phone call two weeks ago.

  Mrs. Shoreshire was giving them a chance to satisfy that curiosity, but at what cost? Would either of them be capable of walking away once they'd gotten to know their real daughters?

  One true fact kept emerging in Treet's mind; he knew his life would be horribly empty without Caroline. It was one of the reasons he'd hired a full-time nanny, so that he could take her with him on location and keep Caroline with him as much as possible.

  He also knew that Mrs. Shoreshire was right—he would never be able to pretend he didn't know the truth.

  "Are we willing to give it a shot, then?” Without waiting for their response, Mrs. Shoreshire stood, signaling the conclusion of the meeting. She indicated a document on the desk. “If you'll just sign this statement saying that I explained the legal ramifications and gave you counsel to the best of my ability, then we're through here."

  Slowly, Treet rose. Beside him, Miss Charmaine stood as well. He couldn't help noticing how pale she looked, just like he couldn't help noticing that one of the buttons of her blouse had come undone. The third one from the top. It gaped just enough to give him a glimpse of mystery and shadow.

  Mustering his willpower, he looked away; he'd been successfully sued for less, as Brutal constantly reminded him.

  After skimming the brief document, he signed his name and stood aside, watching as Miss Charmaine took her time reading before she picked up the pen. So that's where Caroline came by her caution, he mused, his gaze drifting to her curvy bottom revealed by the stretch of her skirt as she bent over the desk.

  Heat flared in his groin, instant and surprising. No doubt about it; Miss Charmaine not only intrigued him, she appealed to his dormant libido. An interesting twist to an otherwise nerve-racking day.

  She turned abruptly, nearly catching him in the act of ogling her. Treet backed up and almost stumbled over his chair, an uncharacteristically clumsy move for him.

  Their eyes met, locked.

  A tingle of awareness raced down his spine. Treet found himself saying, “Would you like to have dinner? We should talk about how to approach this—this—"

  "Straight-from-the-headlines adventure?"

  And then she smiled. Her almond eyes tipped up, just like Caroline's. Of course, it was what one might call a ‘ghost’ of a smile, rather sad and frightened.

  But it was enough of a smile to make Treet go weak in the knees again, and this time it had nothing to do with nerves or fear of losing Caroline.

  "Yes, I guess we'll have to talk."

  Well, she could have sounded a tiny bit more pleased and a little less resigned, Treet grumbled to himself as he led the way to the office door.

  It came open all too easily beneath his hand.

  Brutal grabbed the door jam on the way down, catching himself before he fell across the threshold. He didn't look a bit embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping. “You read that document first, didn't you, boss?” he demanded.

  "Believe it or not, Brutal, I can read,” Treet drawled. He thought he heard the ghost of a chuckle behind him to go with that ghost of a smile, but he couldn't be sure.

  Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

  * * * *

  The limo seemed to have every luxury with the exception of a bathroom. At least, there wasn't a bathroom that Hadleigh could see.

  A long time ago in high school, her prom date had picked her up in a rented limo. She'd been uncomfortable then, and she was uncomfortable now.

  A roomy station wagon was more her style. Okay, so maybe she'd take a Park Avenue if someone gave it to her, and she certainly enjoyed the stylish Intrepid she owned, but anything bigger seemed like a waste of space and money.

  "Do you need to call someone and let them know you'll be late?"

  Hadleigh gave a start, glancing at the compact cell phone in his hand before she shook her head. She deliberately avoided eye contact. Looking into his baby blues was paramount to looking into the sun; beautiful and blinding.

  Dangerous and unsettling.

  "No, thanks. Karen volunteered to pick her up from pre-school."

  "Karen ... the girl that was with you in the cafeteria?"

  Detecting a trace of amusement in his voice, she bristled on her friend's behalf. “Believe it or not, she's the most level-headed person I know. I've never seen her so ... flustered."

  "You sound shocked."

  "And you sound far too certain of your own appeal.” She watched the Beverly Hills traffic through the heavily tinted window, trying to ignore the ominous rustling sounds coming from his direction. She didn't know what he was doing, but it sounded as if he were undressing.

  "You weren't impressed."

  "Good observation."

  "At the risk of sounding conceited, may I ask why?"

  Hadleigh choked on a derisive snort and finally forced herself to look at him so that he wouldn't suspect what a liar she was. She did a double-take. He had disguised himself by stuffing his dark hair beneath a baseball cap, and gluing a thick mustache onto his upper lip. He still wore faded, butt-hugging jeans, but instead of the navy blue sweater, he now wore a checkered flannel shirt, rolled at the sleeves with the shirt tails out.

  But his most vivid, memorable feature was still exposed.

  Hadleigh stared into those baby blues and swallowed dry. “For starters, I'm a grown woman with a child, not a hormonally charged teenager. I don't have the time or the inclination to get gooey-eyed over a movie star, or any other man for that matter.” Her pompous, self-righteous announcement might have worked—if her husky voice hadn't betrayed her.

  "So you are single."

  He had long black lashes to go with his killer eyes, Hadleigh couldn't help but notice. She also noticed the satisfaction in his voice. Why he would be satisfied to learn about her single status was beyond her, and she most certainly wasn't flattered. Flirting was probably as natural as breathing for a man like Treet Miller. A habit. Perhaps even an addiction.

  Deciding the best—and safest—course of action would be to ignore his curious statement all together, she changed the subject by asking, “Does your disguise usually work?"

  Before he could answer, the glass door dividing them from the driver slid aside. The man he'd called ‘Brutal’ spoke. “Boss, you want me to go in ahead and get you a private room?"

  Treet Miller shook his head as he produced a pair of dark sunglasses from a side pocket in the limo door. “No, I'll take my chances.” He flashed her a quick, boyish glance that made her heart play leap frog with her lungs before adding, “Somet
imes I get lucky."

  "Boss, you're in a limo, for heaven's sake!"

  "Just let us out at the next block and we'll double back to the restaurant."

  Brutal's jaw went slack with disbelief. He snapped it shut and glared at Treet. “If you think I'm going to leave you, you're crazy. Don't you remember what happened last time you tried this?"

  "It was an accident."

  "Yeah, right."

  "The girl didn't mean any harm."

  "Still hurt, didn't it, boss?” Brutal taunted. “And what if this time it's your face instead of your arm?"

  "Don't be such a pessimist."

  As Hadleigh listened to their by-play, her curiosity got the best of her. “What happened?"

  "It wasn't a big deal ... until Brutal made it a big deal,” Treet groused.

  But Brutal appeared to take great satisfaction in relating the tale. “The last time he pulled this stunt, the waitress recognized him. She got all flustered and dumped hot linguini on his arm. Burned the hair clean off."

  "It grew back, and it didn't scar,” Treet added with a self-suffering sigh. “Drop it, Brutal, before I tell her what I caught you doing last Christmas."

  Brutal's coffee-colored eyes narrowed threateningly. “You start spreading that story and I'll snatch you ball-headed myself, boss, and that's a fact."

  "Then shut-up. You're scaring Miss Charmaine."

  Hadleigh bit back a smile at their bickering. The brotherly love between them was obvious. “I don't scare that easily, Mr. Miller."

  "Call me Treet."

  "I don't think—” she sucked in a sharp breath as Treet Miller, super-star and voted one of the top ten sexiest men in the world, thrust his face close and pinned her with his famous baby blues.

  The breath remained in her lungs as his fingers curled around her chin and angled her face upward. Closer to those blindingly blue eyes. She watched in helpless fascination as his mouth curved in a bone-melting smile that had sent millions of women of all ages into a swoon.

  And just as she remembered, his eyes smiled right along with it, as if he possessed delicious secrets.