The Soldier and the Baby Read online

  There was no sign of triumph on his dark face. “I thought you would,” he said. “Where do I find food in this place?”

  “There isn’t much. Beans and rice. And baby formula.”

  “It’ll do,” he said in a neutral voice. “I think I’ll pass on the formula, though. Aren’t you breastfeeding?” Those embarrassingly acute eyes dropped to the direction of her chest with all the interest of a farmer checking a breeding sow.

  Carlie had already pulled the towel closely around her, and her arms were folded across her chest. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you I wasn’t Caterina, would you?” She tried one more time. She wasn’t used to lying, but fate seemed to have arranged this without consulting her.

  “No, I wouldn’t believe it. Why aren’t you nursing the baby?”

  “I’m too flat-chested.”

  She was hoping to embarrass him. Instead she felt a flush of color wash over her. She had been in the convent, surrounded only by women, since she was seventeen, and in that time she had never considered discussing her breasts with anyone, male or female.

  His eyes dropped again, considering. “Size doesn’t have anything to do with the ability to nurse.”

  Carlie blinked. In her capacity as local midwife she already knew that, but she’d doubted the overgrown ex-soldier would be as knowledgeable. However, her embarrassment had reached fever pitch by now. “I’m not going to discuss anatomy with you,” she said stiffly.

  “Good, because I’m more interested in food than your breasts right now,” he said in a cool voice. “Where the hell’s the kitchen?”

  The mortification vanished abruptly, replaced by anger. “You’ll find it if you look hard enough,” she said. “In the meantime maybe you’d let me get dressed.”

  Again his gaze swept over her body, and she realized he had absurdly long lashes in such a dark, masculine face. “Suit yourself,” he murmured. “I’ll make enough for both of us. But I wouldn’t bother with too much clothing if I were you. It’s hotter ‘n hell around here.”

  Carlie thought of the enveloping habit lying on the narrow bed. It would serve him right if she appeared in the kitchen fully garbed.

  But she wasn’t going to. It hadn’t been her idea, but the choice had been taken out of her hands. Sister Maria Carlos had already left for Brazil with the twelve other Sisters of Benevolence. Caterina Rosaria Morrissey de Mendino would go with Reilly and take her child with her.

  There was no way she was going to entrust the baby to a stranger. She would see him safely out of there, and then she would tell him the truth. And not a moment before.

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Reilly closed the door quietly behind him, shutting Caterina Morrissey and her towel-draped body away from him. She wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d known Billy for almost fifteen years, and during all that time he’d never seen him fall for anything other than a stacked, leggy blonde. He’d assumed Caterina would be cut from the same cloth—Billy had certainly never said anything to lead him to expect anything else.

  She didn’t look like the stepdaughter of a notorious Latin American dictator. She didn’t look like the pampered socialite who’d abruptly married an American army officer, run back home to San Pablo and her life of privilege when the novelty had worn off and then tried to rejoin him once she’d found out she was pregnant. The woman in the bedroom didn’t have the face of a woman used to getting her own way.

  But then, who the hell was he to know what kind of face she had? He’d been far too distracted by her body, though he was pretty sure he’d managed to disguise that fact.

  Like Billy, he’d never had a weakness for small, strong women. He preferred the large, decorative sort. The woman clutching a threadbare towel around her wet body didn’t seem like the kind who was used to having things handed to her. Maybe motherhood gave a spoiled brat character.

  Interesting thought, but it was none of his damn business. He was there for one reason, and one reason only. To take Billy’s baby home to the States, where it belonged. If Billy’s widow wanted to come along, then fine. The Morrisseys would see to her, and unless motherhood had had a miraculous effect on Caterina Mendino she would be more than happy to hand the child over to her wealthy in-laws so that she could go back to enjoying her shallow, expensive life. Her despot of a father might be dead, but a woman like Caterina Mendino always knew where to find her next meal ticket.

  Funny, though. She didn’t look like that kind of woman. She didn’t look like anything he’d been expecting. He mentally shrugged. He knew better than anyone that looks could be deceiving.

  She hadn’t realized just how thin the cloth of that enveloping towel was. He was hot, he was thirsty, and she’d stood there, glaring at him, fiercely determined to defend her child, and the water had beaded on her smooth, pale skin. He’d wanted to cross that room and lick the water from her throat.

  Even now the notion made him grin wryly. She was unexpectedly appealing. It was no wonder Billy had married her, the man who always swore it wouldn’t be fair to limit his attentions to just one woman. The woman in the other room had a subtle grace to her that was well-nigh irresistible.

  It was a good thing he’d never been a slave to his powerful libido. It would take them a good four days to get back to the plane, and that was if they were extremely lucky, the weather cooperated and she wasn’t the hothouse orchid he’d assumed she’d be.

  She didn’t look like a hothouse orchid. For all her slender bones she looked tough and strong. They might even make it out to the plane in three days.

  He hoped so. She was distracting as hell. He wasn’t interested in spoiled rich girls, in new mothers, in heiresses or in the tangled politics of San Pablo. He just wanted to get the hell out, so that he could get back to his place in Montana and get on with his new life.

  She was right—the kitchen wasn’t hard to find. The food supply was pretty damn pathetic. Red beans, rice, a hunk of hard cheese wrapped in a damp cloth and canisters of formula. He picked one up. It weighed a ton, and he cursed beneath his breath. Why the hell couldn’t she have nursed her own baby? It would have made life a hell of a lot easier.

  She probably didn’t want to ruin her small, perfect breasts. The cotton terry of the huge towel had been thin, worn. He had seen the shape of her quite clearly the moment she’d walked into the room, and he’d found himself momentarily envying the baby. Apparently there was no need. That baby wouldn’t get to taste those breasts any more than he would.

  Still, there was no harm in a little fantasy, as long as he remembered that was what it was. He could dream all he wanted about Caterina Morrissey’s breasts. He just wasn’t going to touch.

  * * *

  If there was one thing Carlie was unused to, it was men. Tall men. Men with dark, arresting faces, bold eyes and a lethal, unconscious grace. Not to mention the gun he carried. It was no wonder she was unnerved.

  She wasn’t used to swearing. The words hell and damn had held a more literal meaning for her during the past nine years—they weren’t used for punctuation.

  And she certainly wasn’t used to the clothes Caterina had brought with her to the Convent of Our Lady of Repose.

  She stuffed the habit under the bed, squashing her instinctive guilt as she did so. Caterina’s clothes still lay in the drawers, and Carlie searched through them in growing dismay.

  Most of them, of course, were maternity clothes. Caterina had been a wealthy young woman, spoiled, self-absorbed, who possessed only the finest in clothing. Unfortunately most of that clothing was provocative, flimsy and huge on Carlie’s smaller frame.

  There was no bra that came even close to fitting her, so she had no choice but to dispense with one entirely. The silk shirts were fuchsia and turquoise, dangerously bright colors, and the pants were all miles too long. Fortunately her own wardrobe came equipped with a number of fine cotton knit camisoles, and she could take a pair of scissors to the jeans and make
herself cutoffs. When she finished she couldn’t bring herself to look down at her body.

  It had been so long since she’d worn jeans. So long since her arms and throat and head had been bare. She felt naked, exposed, vulnerable.

  And blessedly cool.

  She walked barefoot across the stone floor to look down at Timothy. He was sleeping still, worn-out from the night before, and she pulled the thin cotton coverlet over his little body, brushing her hand against his wispy blond hair. He had no father or mother, no one to love him and care for him.

  No one but her. Caterina, her once-pretty face flushed with the fever that had ravaged her body, had clung to her hand during the last hours. “Take care of my baby,” she’d whispered.

  And Carlie had promised. She wasn’t about to go back on that deathbed vow. Timothy was hers now, and she wouldn’t relinquish him until she was convinced she was doing the best thing for him.

  She left the door open so that she could hear him as she made her way down the empty corridor to the kitchen. She could smell the food, and her empty stomach churned in sudden longing, her hunger overriding her nervousness.

  Reilly was sitting at the table, eating slowly, steadily, his gun in front of him, close at hand. There was another place set across from him, a plate full of food and a mug of steaming liquid. She paused in the doorway, feeling faint.

  “Coffee?” she whispered. “I used up the last of it two weeks ago.”

  “I brought some with me.”

  She moved slowly across the room, forgetting her exposed legs, forgetting her bare arms, forgetting everything but the food waiting for her. “What is it?”

  “What you had. Beans and rice and cheese.”

  “Then why does it smell so good?”

  “I can cook.”

  She paused by the side of the table, staring at him curiously, her self-consciousness evaporating beneath his impassive gaze. He was barely aware that she was female, a fact that brought her nothing but relief. It was hard enough being around a man like this. It would be even worse if he was aware of her as a woman.

  “Not very many men can cook,” she murmured.

  “You just haven’t met the right men, lady.”

  Lady, she thought. In her entire life no one had called her lady. Certainly no one had spoken to her in that drawling, cynical tone.

  “I suppose not,” she said, taking the seat opposite him. The coffee was hot, black and strong. She took a deep, scalding sip and felt courage race through her bones.

  He’d already finished his meal, and he leaned back in the straight-backed chair that used to be reserved for Reverend Mother Ignacia and watched her. She was too hungry to be self-conscious at first, but gradually the coffee and the good food began to take effect.

  “You’re a cool one, aren’t you?” he drawled.

  She jerked her head up. “Why do you say that?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t have expected any less. Given your jet-set life-style.”

  Treacherous ground, Carlie thought, reaching for her coffee. “Just how much do you know about me?”

  “Not much. I never was one to read gossip columns, and you’re a minor celebrity. Hell, I don’t think you even get fifteen minutes of fame.”

  “I’d prefer it that way.”

  “Really?” He sounded disbelieving. “Don’t you have any questions to ask me?”

  “About what?”

  His smile was far from pleasant. “Why, about the death of your husband? Don’t you care what happened to Billy? Or do you believe there’s no use crying over spilt milk?”

  A wash of color flooded her face. “I care. I just...that is…I—”

  “He died in a car accident,” Reilly said in his cool, emotionless voice. “He was in D.C. visiting his parents. As a matter of fact, he’d gone to tell them they were about to become grandparents, and to prepare for a daughter-in-law. Unfortunately he always drove like a bat out of hell, and this time the roads were too icy. He slammed into a concrete wall and that was it.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh,” he echoed, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I was lucky to be near enough to make it to the hospital before he died. He asked me to make sure his kid was safe. You know anything about deathbed promises?”

  The memory of Caterina’s dark, fevered eyes still burned a hole in Carlie’s brain. “A bit,” she said faintly.

  “Then you’ll know that I’m bringing the baby back. And if you behave yourself, do as I say, then you’ll get to the States as well. But if I have to choose between you and the kid, the kid wins.”

  “As it should be,” she said.

  A flash of surprise lightened his eyes for a moment. “I imagine you’ll find life in Washington to your liking,” he said. “There are lots of parties, shopping, that sort of thing.”

  “What makes you think I’d stay in Washington?”

  “That’s up to you. But that’s where the baby stays. With his grandparents.”

  “You think his grandparents have precedent over his mother?”

  “I think you’ll probably be ready to get on with your life. You’re young enough, used to parties and having a good time. Why would you want a baby holding you back?”

  “If you don’t know, Mr. Reilly, I’m not about to explain it to you,” she said in a furious voice.

  “You might be marginally safer from your father’s enemies in Washington, as well,” he added in a noncommittal voice.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know as well as I do that you’re in danger, no matter where you go. People have long memories, and not very fond feelings for your stepfather.”

  “What makes you think Hector Mendino’s enemies are interested in me? Wasn’t killing him enough?”

  “Not for a true fanatic. They’ll be after you, and they’ll be after your kid.”

  She stared at him, aghast. “And that’s what you’re taking me back to?”

  “You think you’re safer here?”

  “No.”

  “As long as you’re with me, no one will get to you.”

  For some odd reason she had no doubt of that, but she fought against such implicit, uncomfortable trust. “You aren’t troubled by false modesty, are you?” Her voice was unexpectedly caustic, and she knew she should apologize, be meek, be humble, be accepting. It was one thing with Mother Ignacia and the sisters, another with this arrogant …Her mind shied away from the rude word that had popped into her head. What was wrong with her? But the man would try the patience of a saint and she knew, despite her best efforts, that she was no saint.

  “I know my job,” he said, his voice noncommittal. “Once you’re in the Capital District the professionals can take over. I’m not interested in playing hero anymore. I’ve done my time. I told you, this is just one last favor for an old friend. I’ll see you and the kid safely to the States, and then I’m gone. You’ll never have to see me again. Understood?”

  “Understood,” she said, wondering why the notion of never seeing this man again should both relieve and disturb her. She’d met him less than an hour ago, she knew next to nothing about him, and he made her nervous.

  She jerked her head up at the soft cry echoing down the corridor, a sound so faint most people wouldn’t have heard it. He turned at the same time, caught by the same distant sound. “The baby’s awake,” he said.

  “I know,” she said. “You have good hearing.”

  “It comes with being a soldier. So do you.”

  “It comes with being a mother.” It was amazing how easily the lie tripped off her tongue. A sin, one of many, and all so very easy.

  He nodded. “I’ll find some place to bed down. We’ll be out of here by first light.”

  “I’ll need to pack some supplies...”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “But you don’t know what the baby needs...”

  “Lady, I’ve got a total of twelve nieces and nephews, ranging from two months to twenty-three years, an
d I helped raise my brothers and sisters. I know about babies.”

  She believed him. At that moment she was ready to believe he knew about everything. Except who and what she was.

  She nodded, rising. “I trust you.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she wanted to call them back.

  She’d never thought she would trust a man again, especially one who had been a soldier. But this time she had no choice. Not for her own sake. But for Timothy’s.

  He didn’t seem surprised. He simply nodded, leaning back in his chair and looking at her, as the faint thread of sound grew louder as the baby decided he was tired of waiting. “Smart of you,” he murmured.

  It was no wonder women chose to live peaceful lives cloistered away from men, Carlie thought as she rushed back toward the baby’s room. She’d forgotten, or perhaps never realized, how vastly irritating men could be.

  To be sure, they had their uses. Reilly would have no trouble shooting that gun he carried, and he would see them safely out of San Pablo, she had no doubt. He could also cook, and he came equipped with coffee. Things could be worse.

  He also came equipped with an attitude, and presumptions, and a condescending manner that made her want to use those very words that he dropped so casually into his conversation. And the fact that he was huge and undeniably good-looking didn’t help matters. Particularly since he was probably all too aware of how his size affected people.

  No, she didn’t like him. But she didn’t have to like him to trust him. By the time she reached Timothy he was wailing with unrestrained fury, and she scooped him up, holding him against her breast and murmuring soft reassurances.

  “You’ll never grow up to be a pig, will you, sweetie?” she cooed.

  And Timothy, settling down into a watery snuffle, socked her in the eye with his tiny fist.

  * * *

  Reilly drained the last of his coffee. He’d given up cigarettes more than ten years ago, and there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t miss them. But right now had to be the ultimate. He would have killed for a cigarette.