Lisa Jackson's the Abandoned Box Set (47 page)

“I hope I don't see my picture on the front page,” Dallas said, and the treachery on the photographer's face was replaced by a glimmer of fear as he slid into his Ford and took off.

“Bastards. Every last one of them,” Dallas growled, his eyes narrowing on the silver car as it roared down the lane.

“Just tell me about the baby.” Chandra couldn't worry about the reporter or his sidekick. All that mattered was J.D.—her J.D.

Dallas shoved his hands into his pockets of his jeans. “That's why I stopped by,” he said, and Chandra felt a jab of disappointment. There was a little part of her that
wanted him to have come to visit her on his own. “I talked to Williams, and it's just a matter of days—possibly tomorrow or the day after—whenever Social Services decides to get their act together.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, knowing that soon it would all be over. But she hadn't lost. Not yet.

“Maybe it won't be so bad,” Dallas said. “As I said, I'll try to arrange it so you can still visit with the baby—”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, and, without thinking, she flung her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She felt his arms wrap around her, hold her snug against him for a heartbeat, and for a second she felt as breathless as she had that night by the river. Her heart thundered as his hands moved slowly up her rib cage. But he stopped, pushed her slowly away from him, and when she lifted her eyes to his, she saw his features harden.

He held her at arm's length and dug his fingers into her shoulders. “Look, Chandra, you don't have to thank me, okay? You don't have to do anything to show your appreciation.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that just because I'm helping you with the baby doesn't mean that there's anything else between us. You're not obligated to show your appreciation.”

“Well, that's a relief,” she shot back. Did he really think that she would stoop so low as to manipulate him and play with his emotions? “And here I thought I'd have to do something like go to bed with you just to get you on my side.”

He sucked in a quick breath at her sarcasm. His eyes flashed, and he looked as if he'd been slapped.

“That is what you were insinuating, wasn't it? Well, let me tell you something,
Doctor,
I
don't
sleep with men to get what I want. Ever.”

He lifted a skeptical eyebrow and she couldn't help
ramming her point home. “You know, I thought you were different, that you weren't the typical egomaniac M.D. who thinks he's God's gift to women. But it turns out that you're just like all the rest—misconstruing motives, thinking women are coming on to you. All I wanted to do was say thanks.”

“Then just say it.”

“I did.” She shoved her hair from her eyes and planted her hands firmly on her hips. “Now, if you'll excuse me—and even if you won't—I've got work to do.” In a cloud of dust and anger, she stormed to the barn, furious with herself and outraged with him.

Once inside, she climbed the loft ladder, kicked down a couple of bales of hay, then hopped to the floor. Finding her pocket knife, she slit the twine, snapped her knife closed and grabbed a pitchfork. She began tossing loose hay into the manger, throwing her back into her work, filling her nostrils with the scent of sweat, horses, dung and dried grass.

Max, snorting expectantly, wandered back to his stall, tentatively nudging his nose into the fresh hay.

A shadow from the open door fell across the floor. Chandra stiffened and turned, facing O'Rourke again. He looked as he did the first night she'd seen him, unapproachable and deadly serious. “I thought you were leaving,” she said, throwing another forkful of hay into the manger.

“And I thought we should clear the air.”

“About what?”

“Us.”

“Us,” she threw back at him. “What ‘us'? I'm just
using
you, remember?” She plunged her pitchfork into the loose hay again and threw the bleached strands into the next manger. Brandy, a chestnut mare, ambled inside, her white blaze visible as she sniffed the feeding trough.

Before Chandra knew what was happening, Dallas had closed the distance between them. He grabbed her shoulders with hands made of steel. Spinning her around, he forced her to face the conflicting emotions shading his eyes. “I don't think you're purposely trying to
use
me,” he said fiercely.

“What a relief,” she shot back, her voice dripping sarcasm.

“But what I do think is that, whether you like it or not, you see me as a link to the baby. You're so desperate to be a part of that child's life that you'll manipulate anyone to get what you want.”

“And what I see is a man who runs away from his emotions—a man afraid of being spontaneous because it might upset the careful balance in his life!” Breathing hard, she held the pitchfork with one hand. She didn't want to see the anger in his eyes or feel the warm pads of his fingers digging into her skin. Nor did she want the male smell of him to fill her senses.

She ripped herself free. “Look, don't feel
obligated
to do anything, all right? You don't owe me anything, and I can handle my life by myself. And that includes doing what I have to do to be close to the baby. You can walk away from this…just turn—” she pointed to the door “—and leave. That's all there is to it.”

“I wish.” He lifted his hands as if to touch her face, dropped them again, then swore under his breath. “Damn it all to hell, anyway,” he muttered before grabbing her again and pulling her roughly against him. Startled, she dropped the pitchfork and it clattered to the dusty concrete floor.

This time his lips crashed down on hers with a possessive savagery that sent one pulsating shock wave after another down her body. He breathed in her breath, his lips
moving insistently, his big hands splayed across the gentle slope of her back.

She tried to drag her mouth away, pushed with all her strength, but was unable to break the manacle of his embrace. Instead she was subjected to an elegant torment as his tongue sought entrance to her mouth and his hands moved insistently, rubbing her clothes against her skin.

She moaned softly, her head falling backward, her throat exposed. One of his hands curled in the thick strands of her hair, and he drew her head back farther still, until he could press hot, wet kisses against the curve of her shoulder.

“No…please…stop…” she whispered, hardly believing the words came from her lips.

His touch was electric, his tongue, teeth and lips nipping and creating pulses of desire that swirled deep inside.

“You don't want me to stop,” he whispered against her ear, his breath tantalizing and wet.

“Yes…no… Oh, Dallas, please…” With all her might, she coiled her strength, then pushed away from him and found to her mortification that she was panting, her heartbeat thrumming, her pulse pounding in her temples.

Running a trembling hand through her hair, she stepped backward until she ran into a post supporting the hay loft. The splintered wood pressed hard against her back. “For someone who doesn't want to get involved, you're pretty damned persistent,” she said, trying to sound haughty, and failing.

“What I want and what seems to keep happening between us aren't necessarily the same.” He, too, had trouble finding his breath. He ran a shaking hand over his lips.

“Then I guess the answer is to stay away from each other.”

“You think that's possible?” he asked, sliding her a look with his knowing blue eyes.

“Anything's possible if you want it bad enough.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

“I hope you're right, Ms. Hill,” he said as he walked to the door. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Because if you're not, we've got one helluva problem on our hands.”

D
ALLAS DRAGGED HIMSELF
out of the pool, his body heaving from the exertion, his lungs craving more air. He'd swum over a mile in less than forty-five minutes, and he was breathing hard, his heart pumping crazily.

“What're you tryin' to do, kill yourself?” the man in the next lane asked. The other swimmer ripped off his goggles and cap, letting his wet hair fall nearly to his shoulders.

“I was a little keyed up,” Dallas replied. He didn't know the man's name, wasn't really interested. He saw him here at the pool a couple of times a week and usually they swam their laps at about the same pace. Not this morning. Dallas had been wound tighter than a clock spring, his muscles tense, his attitude one notch shy of downright surly.

All because of that damned woman. He didn't know whether to hate her or to love her. She'd upset his well-ordered life, and for that, he was angry with her; but she brought out a part of him he'd kept hidden, a part that felt younger and carefree. He supposed, if he didn't love her, at least he owed her one.

He climbed to his feet, grabbed his towel and rubbed the rough terry cloth over his face, neck and shoulders. Seeing her yesterday with the reporter should have been warning enough, but no, he'd hung around and let down his guard enough to allow that louse of a photographer to snap a picture of them together. Not that it really mattered,
he supposed. The picture probably wouldn't be printed, and if it was, so what?

Worse yet, he'd let the man goad him into tracking her down in the barn and acting like some horny barbarian. God, what was happening to him?

In the shower room, he ignored the other men who were in various stages of dressing, shaving or blow-drying their hair. They joked and laughed over the whine of hair dryers and electric razors, but Dallas barely noticed. He'd never been part of that club of men who sought camaraderie in the locker room before facing the day.

He washed the chlorine from his skin and hair and, as they had for the past week, his thoughts swirled around Chandra. Chandra the camping guide. Chandra the seductress. Chandra the would-be mother. God, she was crazy for that kid; that much was obvious.

But Dallas wasn't too sure about how she felt about him. Unless her emotions were as jumbled as his. Dunking his head under the shower one final time, he twisted off the knob and tried not to think about last night, how he, after a short shift at the hospital, had gone home and fallen into bed, only to dream about her—her honey-gold hair, her laughing eyes, her luscious pink lips and her breasts, round and full with dark, sweet tips.

Suddenly embarrassed at the swelling that the thought of her always brought to mind, he turned on the faucet again, gave himself a douse of ice-cold water, then muttering obscenities under his breath, wrapped a towel around his hips and walked briskly to his locker. He changed into clothes quickly, shoved his fingers through his hair and, slinging his bag over his shoulder, strode outside.

The day echoed his mood. Gray clouds clustered over the mountaintops, threatening to explode in a deluge of late-summer rain. Well, great, let it pour. Maybe the drops from the dark sky would cool his blood. He hoped so. Ever
since he'd met Chandra Hill, it seemed he'd been battling his body, his mind telling him not to get involved, his damned body wanting nothing more than to plunge into her with a fierce possession.

He'd
never
felt this way before.
Never.
Even with Jennifer, there had been an edge of control in their lovemaking, and not once had he discovered that his passion had ruled him. But now, with Chandra, he couldn't stop thinking about making love to her over and over again.

He unlocked his truck and slipped behind the wheel. Jamming his key into the ignition, he decided that he'd be better off not seeing the lady again.

Maybe another woman… He considered the women he knew and, without even realizing the turn of his thoughts, his mind had wandered back to Chandra Hill. Yesterday's kiss…a simmering passion…

Getting to know her more intimately would either be a blessing or a curse, and he strongly suspected the latter. He shoved a tape into the player and, muttering oaths at the other drivers, he eased his truck into the snarl of traffic and turned toward the hospital.

* * *

“I
HAVE NO CHOICE
but to release him,” Dr. Williams said with a quiet authority that brooked no argument.

Chandra had caught up with him after his rounds, and they were now in his office at the hospital, he seated on one side of a glossy black desk, she on the other. Behind him, through the window, she noticed the dark clouds that hinted of a late-summer thunderstorm. The thunderheads reminded her of Dallas and the storm she often saw gathering in his eyes, but then, just about anything these days caused her to think about Dr. O'Rourke.

Or the baby. And that was why she was here. She hadn't slept a wink last night, worried about the child. She'd spent the night tossing and turning, her mind spinning
with schemes to get custody of the boy, and oftentimes, she hated to admit, those schemes also involved Dallas.

Dr. Williams was staring at her, waiting for her to say something.

“I just think it might be best for the child if he stayed here at the hospital a few more days.”

“Why? He's healthy.”

“But—”

“Really, Miss Hill, the hospital has done everything it can for the child.” Williams gave her a soft smile that was barely visible beneath his neatly trimmed red beard. “He'll stay the night, and tomorrow the caseworker from Social Services will come for him.”

“And take him where?” Chandra asked, managing not to sound frantic.

“I don't know.” Williams sat back in his chair and shook his balding head. “Her name is Marian Sedgewick, and she's coming for the baby at about eleven. I'm sure you could call her and find out more about his placement.”

The phone on the corner of his desk rang shrilly, and Chandra rose. “Thanks, Doctor,” she said.

“Anytime.” But he was already picking up the receiver.