Книга - Claiming His Love-Child

Claiming His Love-Child
Sandra Marton


He can't get that one night out of his head…And when Cullen O'Connell sees Marissa again, he discovers that one night of passion has created more than a memory….She's pregnant with his love-child!Cullen offers a marriage of convenience to claim his baby. Marissa has no choice but to accept.But can a marriage born of duty turn into love…?









“Then why did you come here today?”


He smiled, and she knew she would remember the chill of that smile forever.

“I came to tell you what happens next,” he said softly.

“What—what happens next?”

Cullen nodded. He’d thought about this a thousand times…. Like it or not, the child growing in Marissa Perez’s womb was his. Like it or not, he was responsible not just for its conception but for its life. Like it or not, by late last night he could think of only one appropriate plan of action.

“What happens next,” he said slowly, his eyes on Marissa’s face, “is that you’re going to become my wife.”


Dear Reader,

Welcome to the exciting world of the O’Connells. Keir, Cullen and Sean are sexy, exciting men. Their sisters, Fallon, Megan and Brianna, are strong, independent women. What do they all have in common? They’re all going to risk everything to find everlasting love.

Claiming His Love-Child is Cullen’s story. He’s a handsome, successful bachelor. He’s watched Keir find a woman and fall head over heels in love. He’s just seen Fallon marry the man of her dreams. But would he ever trade his freedom for a wedding ring? No way, Cullen says…but life has a way of surprising us.

After a night of searing passion, Cullen O’Connell can’t forget Marissa. But when the top lawyer tracks her down, he’s in for a shock…she’s pregnant! If Cullen wants to claim his love-child, he reckons there’s only one thing to do—offer Marissa marriage. But will she accept?

I think their story will grab you by the heart. That’s what it did to me as I wrote it.

With love,









Claiming His Love-Child

Sandra Marton















CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN




CHAPTER ONE


July, the coast of Sicily

MEMORIES of the woman and the long, hot night she’d spent in his arms were demons that haunted Cullen O’Connell’s waking and sleeping hours.

He didn’t like it. What was she doing in his head? The sex had been great. Okay, incredible, but sex was all it was. She was bright and beautiful, but he hardly knew her. Outside the context of the night they’d spent together, she meant nothing to him.

Cullen had no reason to think about her, especially now.

He was in Italy to celebrate his sister’s marriage with the rest of his family. The past few days had been great. Whether they were partying or just sitting around talking, Cullen had never found better company than his brothers. Add his three sisters to the mix, things only got better. Toss in his mother and stepfather for good measure, you had a gathering of the O’Connell clan that would put any other party to shame.

As for the setting—most people would call it idyllic. Castello Lucchesi stood on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean with Mount Etna, trailing ribbons of fire, as a backdrop.

The perfect setting for the perfect party. Cullen’s mouth thinned. Then, why was he so restless? Why was he thinking about a woman he barely knew? Why this increasing desire to head home to Boston?

Too much togetherness?

Maybe.

Cullen sighed, undid the jet studs at the collar and cuffs of his frilled white shirt, rolled the sleeves back on his tanned, muscled forearms and stared out over the sea. He’d already discarded the jacket of his tux, left it draped over one of the little white folding chairs in the garden of the castello.

It had never happened before. Well, there was a first time for everything.

Maybe it was the occasion making him feel edgy. This was the third O’Connell wedding in two years. First his mother’s, then his brother Keir’s, and now his sister Fallon had tied the knot.

Or the noose, Cullen thought as he went up the winding steps that led to the crenellated watchtower overlooking the castle and the Mediterranean.

What was it about weddings that made women weep and men want to run for the hills?

At least this one had been unusual. The high cliff, the blue sea, the magnificent castle…

Cullen smiled.

And that game of touch football yesterday, on the beach below the castle. The Shirts—Megan, Briana and Fallon—had come within one touchdown of trouncing the skins—Sean and Cullen, with Keir and Fallon’s groom, Stefano, spelling each other.

Meg had protested. “No fair. That’s four to three.”

“It isn’t,” Cullen had insisted. “The four of us don’t play at the same time. And you’re a fine one to talk about what’s fair, considering that you darned near fractured three of my ribs with that elbow of yours.”

“Yeah,” Bree said, poking out her chin, “but that only means you’ve always got a fresh player with unbroken ribs on the field.”

“Well, you’ve got a cheering section building your morale,” Cullen had retaliated.

They’d all looked at Keir’s pregnant wife, Cassie, sitting on the sidelines. Cassie had grinned, pumped both fists in the air and yelled, Yea, which was exactly the distraction Meg needed to shout “Fumble,” scoop up the ball and charge across the goal line.

“Cheater!” Cullen had yelled, and his sisters said, yeah, right, and so what? All was fair in love, war and football.

Somehow they’d all ended up in the pool, laughing and ducking each other under the water. Well, all except Stefano and Fallon, who’d wandered off alone, gazing into each other’s eyes. And Keir and Cassie had stayed on the sidelines, too, with Keir hovering over his wife as if she were made of crystal.

Cullen leaned out of the tower’s embrasure, which still bore the warmth of the sun that was only now starting to lower in the sky.

The last few days had been fun. The evenings, too. Lots of good food and vino, and plenty of time for Stefano to get to know them and them to get to know him. It had all been great…except for those unwanted flashes of memory. The X-rated images, captured forever in his head.

Marissa, whispering his name. Clinging to him. Moving beneath him, taking him deep, so deep, inside her…

“Hell,” Cullen muttered. It was pretty sad when a grown man could turn himself on by thinking back to something that had happened two months ago.

Exhaustion could explain it. He’d flown in Friday, straight from a week of twelve-hour days spent between his office and the courtroom. Combine that with jet lag, a Sicilian heat so oppressive you could almost feel it melting your bones, toss in worry about Fallon’s accident and the scars left on her lovely face, and he had every right to be a basket case.

At least he wasn’t worried about Fallon anymore. His sister was so happy, so beautiful, so cherished by her new husband that it was a joy to see.

As for all this stuff about a woman he hardly knew…There was no point in trying to figure it out. What he needed was a breather. A real one. A true break in routine. The case back home was done with; he had nothing urgent on his agenda. He could change his flight, go to Nantucket instead of Boston, provision his boat, take her out to sea for a few days. Or fly to his cabin in Vail. The Rockies were spectacular in the summer; he’d always meant to do some hiking but he hadn’t found the time. Well, he’d find it now, pick up some stuff and backpack.

Or he could go to Madrid. Or London. He hadn’t been there in a while. He could go to Maui, or the Virgin Islands.

He could go to Berkeley.

Cullen blinked. Berkeley, California? His alma mater, the place where he’d taken his law degree? It was an okay place but it wasn’t exactly one of the world’s premier vacation spots.

Yes, but Marissa Perez was there.

Back to square one. Man, he definitely needed a change! Sure, she was in Berkeley. So what? He’d spent a couple of evenings with her. Okay. A weekend.

And he’d spent one night, or most of it, with her in his bed.

Maybe the best thing was to let the images come instead of fighting them. Lessen their impact by letting them wash over him, like a wave hitting the beach far below the tower.

Simply put, Marissa Perez had been spectacular in the sack.

He’d never had a better time in bed, and that was saying a lot. Only a foolish man lied to himself and Cullen had never been a fool. It was simple honesty to admit he was a man who had a knack for getting it on with the opposite sex. Truth was, that knack had brought him more than his fair share of women who were beautiful and exciting and bright and great between the sheets.

For all of that, he’d never enjoyed sex with any of them as much as he had with Marissa.

Cullen scowled and turned his back to the sea.

Out of bed had been another story.

Oh, the lady was beautiful. Exciting. And bright. But she was as prickly as the cactus plants that grew on the sides of these Sicilian roads, as sullen as Mount Etna looming over the sea. She made him uncomfortable, for God’s sake, and why would a man put up with a woman who did that?

Hold a door open for her, she gave you a look that said she was perfectly capable of opening it herself. Start to pull out her chair at a restaurant, she grabbed it first. Try to talk to her about anything but the law and the topic you were going to present over Alumni Weekend and she took you straight back to it, reminded you, though politely, that she was here only because she’d been chosen to be your liaison during your couple of days on campus.

Cullen’s mouth hardened.

The lady had an attitude. She’d done her best to make it clear dealing with him was a chore she hadn’t wanted but despite or maybe because of it, there’d been an almost instantaneous flash of heat between them, right from the minute she picked him up at the airport. Then, on Saturday night, she’d been making some stiff little good-night speech in the car outside his hotel when all at once the rush of words had stopped, she’d looked at him and he’d reached for her…

And changed things by taking her to bed.

No more haughty intellectual talk about torts and precedents. No more stiff insistence on proving her independence. Not during that long, hot night together. She’d said other words, instead, gone pliant in his arms, uttered soft cries of pleasure as he touched her, tasted her, filled her…

“Got to tell you, bro, a man looks like that, his thoughts are probably X-rated.”

Cullen looked down. Sean was climbing the watchtower steps. He took a deep breath, forced those last images from his mind and smiled at his kid brother.

“Pathetic,” he said lazily, “that all you can think of is sex.”

“The point is, what were you thinking of, Cull? From the expression on your face, she must be amazing.”

“She is,” Cullen said, deadpan. “I was admiring the volcano.”

“Etna?” Sean nodded. “Quite a lady, all right, but I’m not buying it. Only a geologist would get that glint in his eye over a volcano.”

“Vulcanologist, and is that why you came up here? To take notes on the volcano?”

“I came to escape our sisters. Meg and Bree are back to sobbing into their handkerchiefs, and now Ma and Cassie have joined in.”

“Well,” Cullen said, grinning, “what do you expect? They’re women.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“So would I, but it would mean we’d have to go back to the terrace.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Sean winked and pulled a pair of sweating green bottles from his rear trouser pockets. Cullen clapped a hand to his heart.

“No,” he said dramatically. “It can’t be!”

“It can.”

“Beer? Honest-to-God beer?”

“Better. Ale. Irish ale. Here. Take yours before I change my mind and drink them both.”

Cullen took the bottle Sean held out. “I take back everything I ever said about you. Well, maybe not everything, but a man who can find Irish ale at a Sicilian wedding can’t be all bad.”

The brothers smiled at each other and took long, satisfying drinks of the cold ale. After a minute, Sean cleared his throat.

“Anything on your mind? Anything you want to talk about, I mean? You’ve been kind of quiet.”

Cullen looked at his brother. Yes, he thought. I want totalk about why in hell I should still be thinking about a woman I slept with one time, weeks and weeks ago…

“You bet,” he said, with a quick smile. “Let’s talk about how you snagged this ale, and what it’ll take to get us two more bottles.”

Sean laughed, as Cullen had hoped he would. The conversation turned to other things, like how weird it was to see Keir hovering over his pregnant wife.

“Who’d have believed it?” Sean said. “Big brother, talking about babies…Is that what happens when a man marries? He turns into somebody else?”

“If he marries, you mean. Hell, how’d we end up on such a depressing topic? Marriage. Children.” Cullen shuddered. “Let’s go see about the ale,” he said, and just that easily, Marissa Perez went back to being nothing more important than a memory.



HOURS later, in a jet halfway over the Atlantic, Cullen looked at the flight attendant hovering over him in the darkened comfort of the first-class cabin.

“No coffee for me, thanks,” he told her.

“No supper? No dessert? Would you like something else, Mr. O’Connell?”

Cullen shook his head. “I spent the weekend at a wedding in Sicily.”

The flight attendant grinned. “Ah. That explains it. How about some ice water?”

“That would be perfect.”

Truth was, he didn’t want the water, either, but she meant well and he had the feeling saying “yes” to something was the only way he’d convince her to leave him alone. She brought the glass, he took a perfunctory sip, then put it aside, switched off the overhead light, put his seat all the way back and closed his eyes.

Whatever had been bothering him had faded away. Talking to Sean had done it, or maybe all that goofing around in the garden. Everyone except Keir and Cassie, their mother and stepfather had ended up in the pool again. Well, Stefano and Fallon hadn’t been there, either, but nobody had expected them to be. After that, they’d all changed to dry clothes, the mood had mellowed and they’d sat around in the encroaching darkness, talking quietly, reminiscing about the past.

One by one, the O’Connells had finally drifted off to bed. All but Cullen, who, it turned out, was the only one of them who’d made arrangements to fly home that night instead of the next day.

On the way to the airport, he’d thought about the ideas that had floated through his mind earlier. Going to Nantucket instead of straight home, or to Colorado, or someplace in Europe…

Why would he do that?

Whatever had been bugging him was long gone. He’d climbed out of the back seat of Stefano’s limousine feeling relaxed and lazy, gone to the first-class check-in line, had time for a coffee prior to boarding.

He still felt relaxed. He liked flying at night. The black sky outside the cabin, the gray shadows inside, the sense that you were in a cocoon halfway between the stars and the earth.

That was how he’d felt that night after he’d taken Marissa to bed. Holding her in his arms, feeling her warm and soft against him until she’d suddenly stiffened, started to pull away.

“I have to go,” she’d said, but he’d drawn her close again, kissed her, touched her until she moaned his name and then he’d been moving above her, inside her, holding back, not letting go because she wasn’t letting go, because he had the feeling she’d never flown free before and the first time it happened, it was damn well going to be with him…

“Damn,” he said softly.

Cullen’s eyes flew open. He put his seat up, folded his arms and glowered into the darkness.

So much for feeling nice and relaxed.

This was stupid. Worse than stupid. It was senseless. Why was Marissa in his head? He hadn’t seen her since that night. She’d left his bed while he was sleeping, hadn’t shown up to take him to the airport, hadn’t answered her phone when he called. Not that morning, not any of the times he’d tried to reach her after he was home again.

He always got her answering machine.

You’ve reached Marissa Perez. Please leave a brief message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.

His last message had been brief, all right, even curt.

“It’s Cullen O’Connell,” he’d said. “You want to talk to me, you have my number.”

She’d hadn’t phoned. Not once. Her silence spoke for itself. They’d slept together, it had been fun, and that was that. No return visits, no instant replays. End of story.

Fine with him. The trouble with most women was that you couldn’t get rid of them even after you explained, politely, that it was over.

Cullen? It’s Amy. I know what you said, but I was thinking…

Cullen? It’s Jill. About what we decided the other night…

Marissa Perez took an admirable approach to sex. A man’s approach. She took what she wanted and shut the door on what she didn’t. That didn’t bother him. It didn’t bother him at all.

Why would it?

For all he gave a damn, she could have slept with a dozen men since that night with him. After all, he’d had several women in his life since that weekend. Okay, he hadn’t taken any of them to bed, but so what? He’d been working his tail off. Besides, a short break from sex was a good thing. It only heightened the pleasure in the future.

Tomorrow, he’d phone the blonde he’d met at that cocktail party last week. Or the attorney from Dunham and Busch with the red hair and the big smile. She’d come on to him like crazy.

Definitely, he’d celebrate his homecoming with a woman who’d be happy to take his calls and happy to see him. And he’d sleep with her, make love until crazy thoughts about Marissa Perez were purged from his mind. Surely, his memories of that night were skewed.

Cullen muttered a couple of raw words under his breath as he sat up and switched on his overhead light. To hell with what time it was in New York. The blonde from last week was a party animal. This hour of the night, she was probably just coming in the door.

He dug his address book and his cell phone from his pocket, tapped in her number. She answered after two rings, her voice husky with sleep.

“H’lo,” she said. “Whoever you are, you’d better be somebody I really want to talk to.”

He smiled, turned his face to the window and the night sky. “It’s Cullen O’Connell. We met last—”

“Cullen.” The sleep-roughened voice took on a purr. “I’d started to think you weren’t going to phone.”

“I had things to clear up. You know how it is.”

“No,” she said, and gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know how it is. I guess you’ll just have to show me.”

Cullen felt the tension drain away. “My pleasure,” he said, imagining her as she must look right then, sleep-tousled and sexy. “How about tonight? I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“I already have a date for tonight.”

“Break it.”

She laughed again and this time the sound was so full of promise that he felt a heaviness in his groin.

“Are you always this sure of yourself?”

He thought of Marissa, of how she’d slipped from his bed, how she’d ignored his phone calls…

“Eight o’clock,” he repeated.

“You’re an arrogant SOB, Mr. O’Connell. Luckily for you, that’s a trait I like in a man.”

“Eight,” Cullen said, and disconnected.

He put away his cell phone, sat back and thought about the evening ahead. Dinner at that French place. Drinks and dancing at the new club in SoHo. And then he’d take the blonde home, take her to bed, and exorcise the ghost of Marissa Perez forever.




CHAPTER TWO


September: Boston, Massachusetts

THE end of summer always came faster than seemed possible.

One minute the city was sweltering in the heat and the Red Sox were packing in the ever-faithful at Fenway Park. Next thing you knew, gray snow was piled on the curbs, the World Series was only a memory and the Sox hadn’t even made it to the playoffs.

Cullen stepped out of the shower, toweled off and pulled on a pair of old denim shorts.

Not that any of that had happened yet.

It was Labor Day weekend, the unofficial end of summer with the real start of fall still almost three weeks away. Cold weather was in the future, and so was the possibility, however remote, that Boston could rise from the ashes and at least win the division championship.

Cullen strolled into the kitchen and turned on the TV in time to catch the tail end of the local news. The Sox had lost a tight game yesterday; nobody had much hope they’d do any better today, said the dour-faced sportscaster.

“Wonderful,” Cullen muttered as he opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water and uncapped it.

The sports guy gave way to the weatherman. Hot and humid, the weatherman said, with his usual in-your-face good cheer. Saturday, 10:00 a.m. and the sun was blazing from a cloudless sky, the temperature was pushing ninety with no break in sight from now through Monday.

“A perfect holiday weekend,” the weather guru said as if he’d personally arranged it.

Cullen scowled and hit the off button on the remote.

“What’s so perfect about it?” he growled. It was just another weekend, longer than most, hotter than most. Long, hot, and…

And, what was he doing here?

Nobody, but nobody, stayed in town Labor Day weekend. Driving home from his office yesterday, traffic going out of the city had been bumper to bumper. He’d felt like the only person not heading off for one last taste of summer.

He should have been among them. He’d intended to be.

Cullen lifted the bottle to his lips and drank some water. He’d certainly had enough choices.

Las Vegas, for the usual O’Connell end of summer blast. Connecticut, for the barbecue Keir and Cassie were throwing because Cassie was too pregnant for the long flight to Vegas. He had invitations to house parties in the Hamptons, on the Cape, on Martha’s Vineyard and half a dozen other places, and there was always the lure of three days at Nantucket.

Instead, he was here in hot and muggy Boston for no good reason except he wasn’t in the mood to go anywhere.

Well, except, maybe Berkeley…

Berkeley? Spend Labor Day weekend on one of the campuses of the University of California?

Cullen snorted, finished off the water and dumped the empty bottle in the sink.

Back to square one. Wasn’t that the same insane thought he’d had flying home from Fallon’s wedding in July? It made no more sense now then it had made then. You thought about the West Coast, you thought about San Francisco. Or Malibu. Maybe a couple of days at Big Sur.

But Berkeley? What for? Nothing but college kids and grad students, protesters and protests, do-gooders and doomsayers. Maybe that vitality was part of why he’d loved the place as a law student, but those years were a decade behind him. He was older. He’d changed. His idea of a great party involved more than take-out pizza and jugs of cheap wine. And, except for a couple of his law school profs, he didn’t have friends there anymore.

Okay. There was Marissa Perez. But he could hardly call her a friend. An acquaintance, was what she’d been. Truth was, he didn’t “know” her at all, except in the biblical sense of the word, and even if his sisters sometimes gleefully teased him about being a male chauvinist, he had to admit that sleeping with a woman wasn’t the same as knowing her.

Especially if she crept out of your bed before dawn and left you feeling as if you were the only one who’d just spent a night you’d never forget.

Damn it, this was crazy. Why waste time thinking about a woman he’d seen once and would probably never see again? He was starting to behave like one of the attorneys at his firm. Jack was a dedicated fisherman, always talking about the big one that had gotten away. That’s what this was starting to sound like. The sad story of Cullen O’Connell and The Woman Who Got Away.

Cullen opened the fridge again. It was empty except for another couple of bottles of water, a half-full container of orange juice and a lump of something that he figured had once been cheese. He made a face, picked up the lump with two fingers and dumped it into the trash.

So much for having breakfast in.

Maybe that was just as well. He’d pull on a T-shirt, put on sneakers, go down to the deli on the corner and get himself something to eat. Solve two problems at once, so to speak; silence his growling belly and do something useful, something that would end all this pointless rehashing of the weekend he’d spent with the Perez woman.

Yeah. He’d do that. Later.

Cullen opened the terrace door and stepped into the morning heat. The little garden below was quiet. Even the birds seemed to have gone elsewhere.

First he’d try thinking about that weekend in detail, concentrating not just on what had happened in bed but on all of it. A dose of cool logic would surely put an end to this nonsense. Sighing, he sank down in a canvas sling back chair, closed his eyes and turned his face to the sun.

His old Tort Law prof, Ian Hutchins, had invited him to fly out and speak to the Law Students’ Association. Cullen hadn’t much wanted to do it; he had a full caseload and what little free time he could scrounge, he’d been spending on Nantucket, working on his boat. But he liked Hutchins a lot, respected him, so he’d accepted.

A week before Speaker’s Weekend, Hutchins had phoned to make last-minute updates to their arrangements.

“I’ve asked my best student to be your liaison while you’re here,” he’d said. “Shuttle you around, answer questions—well, you remember how that works, Cullen. You were liaison for us several times while you were a student here.”

Cullen remembered it clearly. People called it a plum assignment and, in some ways, it was. The liaison networked with the speaker and drove him or her around in a car owned by the university, which invariably meant it was in a lot better shape than the student’s.

Still, it was almost always a pain-in-the-ass job. Pick up the speaker at the airport, drive him or her here, then there, laugh at inane jokes about what it had been like when the speaker was a student on campus. When Ian added that Cullen’s liaison would be a woman, he almost groaned.

“Her name,” Ian said, “is Marissa Perez. She’s a straight-A scholarship student with a brilliant mind. I’m sure you’ll enjoy her company.”

“I’m sure I will,” Cullen had said politely.

What else could he say? Not the truth, that he’d met enough brilliant female scholarship students to know what to expect. Perez would be tall and skinny with a mass of unkempt hair and thick glasses. She’d wear a shapeless black suit and clunky black shoes. And she’d either be so determined to impress him that she’d never shut up or she’d be so awestruck at being in his presence that she’d be tongue-tied.

Wrong on all counts.

The woman standing at the arrivals gate that Friday evening, holding a discreet sign with his name printed on it, was nothing like the woman he’d anticipated. Tall, yes. Lots of hair, yes. And yes, she was wearing a black suit and black shoes.

That was where the resemblance ended.

The mass of hair was a gleaming mass of ebony waves. She’d pinned it up, or tried to, but strands kept escaping, framing a face that was classically beautiful. Gray eyes, chiseled cheekbones, a lush mouth.

Perfect. And when his gaze dropped lower, the package only got better.

Yes, she was tall. But not skinny. Definitely not skinny. The businesslike cut of the black suit couldn’t disguise the soft curves of her body. Her breasts were high, her waist slender, her hips sweetly rounded, and not even the ugliest pair of sensible black shoes he’d ever seen could dim the elegance of legs so long he found himself fantasizing about how she’d look wearing nothing but a thong and thigh-high black stockings.

Cullen felt a hot tightening in his belly and a faint sense of regret. The lady was a babe but she might as well have been a bow-wow. There were unwritten rules you followed on these weekends. He did, anyway.

He never hit on the students he met, any more than he mixed business with pleasure in his professional life back home.

Still, as he walked toward her, he liked knowing he’d spend the next couple of days being shuttled around by a woman so easy on the eyes.

“Miss Perez?” he said, his hand extended.

“Ms. Perez,” she replied politely.

She held out her hand in return. He took it and the brush of skin against skin rocked him to his toes. ZTS, he told himself. The old O’Connell brothers’ explanation for what happened when a man met a stunning woman. Zipper Think Syndrome. He looked at the lovely face turned up to his, saw her eyes flash and had the satisfaction of knowing she’d felt the female equivalent of the same thing.

Maybe not. Maybe he’d just imagined it, because an instant later, her expression was as bland as when he’d first spotted her.

“Welcome to Berkeley, Mr. O’Connell.”

After that, it was all business. She drove him to his hotel, made polite but impersonal small talk through a standard hotel meal in a crowded dining room, shook his hand at the elevator in the lobby and said good-night.

The next morning, she picked him up at eight, chauffeured him from place to place all day and never once said anything more personal than “Would you like to have lunch now?” She was courteous and pleasant, but when he opened the restaurant door for her—something he saw irritated her—and their hands brushed, it happened again.

The rush of heat. The shock of it. And now he saw it register on her face long enough for him to know damned well it really had happened, though by the time they were seated, she was once again wearing that coolly polite mask.

He watched her order a salad and iced coffee, told the waitress he’d have the same thing, and contemplated what it would take to get that mask to slip.

Minutes later, he had the answer.

When he’d had the dubious honor of shuttling Big Names from place to place, he’d boned up on their most recent cases and on things in the news that he’d figured might interest them.

His Ms. Perez had done the same thing. He could tell from the always-positive, always-polite references she made during the course of the morning. She’d read up on his own work and reached conclusions about his stance on the work of others.

What would happen if he rocked her boat? Their salads arrived and he decided to find out.

“So,” he said, with studied nonchalance, “have you been following Sullivan versus Horowitz in Chicago?”

She looked up. “The women suing that manufacturing company for sexual discrimination? Yes. It’s fascinating.”

Cullen nodded. “What’s fascinating is it’s obvious the jury’s going to find for the plaintiffs. How the defense could allow seven women on a jury hearing a case that involves trumped-up charges of corporate discrimination I’ll never—”

Score one. Those gray eyes widened with surprise.

“Trumped up? I don’t understand, Mr. O’Connell.” Maybe it was score two, or had she simply forgotten to reciprocate on the first name thing?

“It’s Cullen. And what don’t you understand, Ms. Perez?”

“You said the charges were—”

“They’re crap,” he said pleasantly. “Shall I be more specific? It’s nonsense that a company shouldn’t have the right to hire and fire for reasonable cause. The manager of that department should never have loaded it with so many women. Not that I have anything against women, you understand.”

He smiled. She didn’t. Score three.

“Don’t you,” she said coldly, and put down her fork. Oh yeah. Definitely, the mask was starting to slip.

“The only reason you believe all that claptrap about affirmative action,” he said lazily, “is because you’re going to benefit from it. No offense intended, of course.”

That had brought a wash of color into her cheeks. It was a stunning contrast—the brush of apricot against her golden skin—and he’d sat there, enjoying the view as much as he was enjoying the knowledge that she was at war with herself.

Was she going to “yes” the honored guest to death, or tell him she thought he was an asshole?

“Hey,” he said, pushing a little harder, “you’re female, you’re Hispanic…Life’s going to be good to you, Ms. Perez.”

That did it. To his delight, what won was the truth.

“I am a lawyer, like you, or I will be once I pass the bar. And I am an American, also like you. If life is good to me, it’ll be because I’ve worked hard.” Ice clung to each syllable. “But that’s something you wouldn’t understand, Mr. O’Connell, since you never had to do a day of it in your entire, born-with-a-silver-spoon life.”

Whoa. The mask hadn’t just slipped, it had fallen off. There was real, honest-to-God, fire-breathing life inside his well-mannered, gorgeous gofer.

She sat back, breathing hard. He sat forward, smiling.

“Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

“I’ll phone Professor Hutchins. He’ll arrange for someone else to drive you around for the rest of the time you’re here.”

“Did you hear me, Ms. Perez? That was a great performance.”

“It was the truth.”

“Sorry. Wrong choice of words. Mine was the performance. Yours was the real thing. Honest. Emotional. Wouldn’t do in a courtroom, letting it all hang out like that, but a really good lawyer should have at least a couple of convictions he or she won’t compromise on.”

She glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you. Integrity, Ms. Perez. And fire in the belly. You have both. For a while, I wasn’t sure you did.”

He picked up his glass of iced coffee and took a long sip. God, he loved the look on her face. Anger. Confusion. Any other place, any other time he’d have used that old cliché, told her she was even more lovely when she was angry, but this wasn’t a date, this was what passed for a business meeting in the woolly wilds of academic jurisprudence.

Besides, she’d probably slug him if he said something so trite.

“I don’t…What do you mean, you were performing?”

“Monroe versus Allen, Ms. Perez. One of my first big corporate cases—or didn’t your research on me go back that far?”

She opened her mouth, shut it again. He could almost see her mind whirring away, sorting facts out of a mental file.

“Mr. O’Connell.” She took a breath. “Was this some kind of test?”

Cullen grinned. “You could call it that, yeah, and before you pick up that glass and toss the contents at me, how about considering that you’ve just had a taste of what you may someday face in the real world? You want to blow up when stuff like that’s tossed at you, do it here. Out there, you’ll be more effective if you keep what burns inside you. Discretion is always the better part of valor. Opposing attorneys, good ones, search for the weak spot. If they can find it, they use it.” He smiled and raised his glass of iced coffee toward her. “Am I forgiven, Ms. Perez?”

She’d hesitated. Then she’d picked up her glass and touched it to his. “It’s Marissa,” she’d said, and for the first time, she’d flashed a real smile.

Cullen got to his feet, slid open the terrace door and went back into the coolness of the living room.

The rest of the afternoon had passed quickly. They’d talked about law, about law school, about everything under the sun except what happened each time they accidentally touched each other. She’d dropped him at his hotel at five, come back for him at six, driven him to the dinner at which he’d made a speech he figured had gone over well because there’d been smiles, laughter, applause and even rapt concentration.

All he’d been able to concentrate on was Marissa, seated, as a matter of courtesy, at a table near the dais. No black suit and clunky shoes tonight. She’d worn a long silk gown in a shade of pale rose that made her eyes look like platinum stars; her hair was loose and drawn softly back from her face.

The dress was demure. She wore no makeup that he could see. And yet she was the sexiest woman imaginable, perhaps because she wasn’t only beautiful and desirable but because he knew what a fine mind was at work behind that lovely face.

Even though he figured it might kill him, he did the right thing.

He never so much as touched her elbow or her hand during the after-dinner reception and when she drove him back to his hotel for the last time, he sat squarely on his side of the car and kept his eyes on the road instead of on the curve of her thigh visible under the clinging silk of her gown.

“Thank you for everything,” he said politely, once they reached the parking lot.

“You’re welcome,” she said, just as politely, and then, so quickly it still stunned him, everything changed.

To this day, he didn’t know what had happened, only that what began as a simple handshake changed into a fevered meeting of mouths and bodies.

“Don’t go,” he’d whispered, and Marissa had trembled in his arms as she opened her mouth to the searing heat of his.

They’d gone to his room through the back entrance of the hotel because they couldn’t stop touching each other and when he undressed her, when he took her to bed…

“Oh man,” Cullen muttered, and he stripped off his shorts and headed for the shower again.



THIS time, after he toweled off, he shaved, put on a pair of khakis and a black T-shirt and reached for the telephone.

He needed a change of scene. That was a no-brainer. It was a little late to make weekend escape plans—the roads would still be crowded—but he knew all the back ways to reach the airport at Nantucket. Yeah. Maybe the best choice was the closest choice.

His cottage, and his boat.

Cullen punched in the number of the couple who took care of the cottage. The woman answered; he asked how she was, how her husband was, how the weather was…and then he heard himself tell her he’d just phoned to touch bases and no, he wouldn’t be coming out for the weekend and he hoped they’d have terrific weather and enjoy the three days, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

He hit the disconnect button, ran his hand over his face. Okay. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for a weekend of sailing. Well, what was he in the mood for? Something other than rattling around here, that was for sure.

Who to call next? Keir, to ask what time the barbecue was on? His mother, to tell her he’d be home after all? Or should he head for one of those other parties, maybe that one in Malibu? That was a better idea. His family would take one look at him, ask questions he couldn’t answer.

Hell.

Cullen grabbed his address book. He’d call the redhead he’d dated a couple of times the past month. She was pretty and lots of fun, and if he hadn’t called her in a week or two, it was because he was busy.

He hadn’t taken her to bed, either.

How come?

Perhaps this was the weekend to remedy that oversight. The lady had made it very clear she was more than ready to join him in the horizontal rumba.

Cullen smiled, thumbed open the address book, flipped to the page that had her number on it…

“Crap!”

He slammed the book shut, took a quick walk around the room and tried to figure out what in hell was going on. No sailboat. No gorgeous redhead. What did he want to do with the weekend?

The answer came without any hesitation and he acted on it that same way, not fighting it anymore, just grabbing the address book and telephone again, punching in a series of digits before he could change his mind.

“Flyaway Charters,” a cheery voice said. “How may we help you?”

“You can tell me how fast you can get me to Berkeley,” Cullen said. “Yeah, that’s right. Berkeley, California.”




CHAPTER THREE


BY THE time the chartered Learjet landed in California, Cullen had come to the conclusion he was crazy.

He’d flown 3,000 miles in six hours, gone from East coast time to Pacific coast time—something that always left him feeling vaguely disoriented—and now, as he stepped onto the tarmac, he was engulfed by air so hot and humid it made the weather he’d left behind seem like an arctic paradise.

And for what?

What in hell was he doing?

He’d never chased after a woman in his life. Well, not since the seventh grade, when he’d made a fool of himself over Trudy Gershwin, but seventh grade was long gone. He wasn’t a kid. Neither was Marissa Perez. She was history and so was the night they’d spent in bed.

History? Cullen slung the strap of his carry-on bag over his shoulder as he walked toward the terminal. That night was barely a blip in the fabric of his life. Who gave a damn why she’d slept with him, then vanished and refused to take his calls?

Trouble was, he’d reached that conclusion somewhere over the pastures and fields of the Midwest, a few hours and fifteen hundred miles too late. He’d come within a breath of telling the pilot to turn the jet around.

He’d thought about phoning his brothers. One or the other would give him good advice.

Hey, bro, Sean or Keir would say, you know what your problem is? You’ve got a bad case of ZTS.

Yes, he’d thought, I do. He’d smiled, even reached for the phone…and then he’d realized that first he’d have to tell the whole story, the weekend in California, making a fool of himself with Marissa, the infuriating months since then.

Besides, this wasn’t ZTS. He wasn’t thinking with his gonads, he simply wanted answers. Closure. The word of the day.

So he’d sat back, finished the flight and now, as he stepped into the welcome chill of the terminal, Cullen told himself he was glad he had.

Closure. Right. That’s what he wanted, what he was entitled to, and, by God, he wasn’t going home without it.

He found the rental car counter easily enough, managed a “hello” he hoped was civil and slapped the confirmation number of his reservation on the counter.

“Good afternoon, Mr. O’Connell,” the clerk said, her smile as bright as if she were about to hand him a winning lottery ticket instead of the keys to…

A four-door sedan? Cullen blinked as he read the paper she slid in front of him.

“There’s some mistake here, miss. I reserved a convertible.”

The blinding smile dimmed just a little. “I know. But this is a holiday weekend.”

“And?”

“And, it’s all we have left.”

He knew she meant he was lucky to get anything with an engine and four wheels. She was right, too, and really, what did the type of car he drove matter? He wasn’t here for a good time; he was on a safari to Egoville because, yeah, the simple truth was this was all about ego. His. The Perez babe had dented it, and he was here to set things right.

Man, acknowledging that nasty truth really put the icing on the cake.

Cullen glared, muttered something about inefficiency as he signed the papers and scooped up the keys. He started to stalk away but after a couple of steps, he rolled his eyes and turned back toward the counter.

“Sorry,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’m in a bad mood, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

The clerk’s smile softened. “It’s the weather, sir. Everybody’s edgy. What we need is a good soaking rain.”

Cullen nodded. What he needed was a good soaking for his head. If he’d done that in the first place, he’d still be back home. Since it was too late for that, he settled for buying an extra-large container of coffee, black, at a stand near the exit door. Maybe part of the problem was that he was still operating on East coast time. Pumping some caffeine through his system might help.

It didn’t.

The coffee tasted as if somebody had washed their socks in it. He dumped it in a trash bin after one sip. And the sedan was a color that could only be called bilious-green. Five minutes on the freeway toward Berkeley and Cullen knew it also had all the vitality of a sick sloth.

Not a good beginning for a trip he probably shouldn’t have made.

Cullen fell in behind an ancient truck whose sole reason for existence was to make green sedans feel like Ferraris.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

And that was the one thing he wouldn’t do with Perez. Beg. No way. He’d confront her, get in her face if that’s what it took, and he wouldn’t let her off the hook until she explained herself, but he wouldn’t let her think he was pleading for answers…

Even if he was.

Damn it, he was entitled to answers! A woman didn’t give a man the brush-off after a night like the one they’d spent. All that heat. Her little cries. The way she’d responded to him, the way she’d touched him, as if every caress was a first-time exploration. And the look on her face, the way her eyes had blurred when he took her up over the edge…

Had it all been a game? Lies, deceit, whatever a woman might call pretending she was feeling something in a man’s arms when she really wasn’t?

Cullen hit the horn, cursed, swung into the passing lane and chugged along beside the wheezing truck until he finally overtook it.

Whether she liked it or not, Marissa Perez was going to talk to him.

He had her address—she’d never given it to him but he’d found it easily by using her phone number to do a reverse search on the Internet. Another exit…yes, there it was.

Cullen took the ramp and wound through half a dozen streets in a neighborhood he remembered from his own graduate days. It was still the same: a little shabby around the edges but, all in all, safe and pleasant. He’d wondered what kind of area she lived in, whether it was okay or dangerous or what.

He hadn’t liked imagining her in a rundown house on a dark street. Not that it was any of his concern.

“What the hell’s with you, O’Connell?” he muttered, digging her address from his pocket. “You thinking of turning into the Good Fairy?”

Her building was on the corner. Cullen parked, trotted up the steps to a wide stoop and checked the names below the buzzers in the cramped entry. No Perez. He checked again, frowned, then pressed the button marked Building Manager.

“Yes?”

A tinny voice came over the speaker. Cullen leaned in.

“I’m looking for Marissa Perez’s apartment.”

“She don’t live here.”

He glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. “Isn’t this 345 Spring Street?”

“She used to live here, but she moved.”

“Moved where? Do you have her new address?”

“I got no idea.”

“But she must have left a forwarding—”

Click. Cullen was talking to the air. “Damn,” he muttered, heading back to his car while he took his cell phone from his pocket. He hadn’t intended to call. Why give her advance notice of his visit? Now, he had no choice.

And no success, either.

“The number you have reached, 555-1157, is no longer in service.”

He tried again, got the same message. What was going on here? Cullen called the operator and asked for a phone number for Marissa Perez.

There was none. Not a public listing, anyway.

Annoyed, he tossed the cell phone aside. There wasn’t a way in the world he could shake loose a privately listed number from the phone company. Back home, maybe, he could pull some strings, but not here.

Someone had to have her number or her address. The bursar’s office, the dean’s office…

Or her advisor. Ian Hutchins.

Cullen sat back and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. The offices would be closed for the weekend. Ian was the logical choice, but he’d want to know why Cullen was trying to get in touch with Marissa.

He was digging himself in deeper and deeper.

A sane man would turn around and head for home but then, a sane man wouldn’t have come out here in the first place.

He started the car. It lurched forward. The engine bitched when he tried to coax more speed from it, but it finally gave a couple of hiccups and complied.

Even the car knew he wasn’t in a mood to be screwed with, he thought grimly.

He only hoped the Perez babe could read him just as quickly.



THE Hutchinses lived in a big Victorian on a tree-lined street in North Oakland.

Music, and the sound of voices and laughter, spilled from the yard behind the house. The air was pungent with the mingled aromas of smoking charcoal, lager beer and grilling beef.

Cullen climbed the porch steps, took a deep breath and rang the bell. After a minute, Hutchins’s wife, Sylvia, opened the door.

“Hello,” she said, her lips curving into a cautious smile that suddenly turned genuine. “Cullen O’Connell! What a nice surprise.”

“Hello, Sylvia. Sorry to barge in without notice, but—”

“Don’t be silly!” Laughing, she took his arm and drew him inside the foyer. “I was afraid you were the fire marshal. Ian’s grilling steaks.”

Cullen chuckled. “The Hutchins method of incineration. Nothing’s changed, huh?”

“Not a thing,” Sylvia said cheerfully. “Come inside, Cullen. I had no idea you were in town. Ian never said a word.”

“He doesn’t know. And I apologize again for not phoning first. You have guests.”

“We have half the Bay area, you mean. You know these barbecues of Ian’s—students, faculty, friends, every person he’s ever met on the street. Besides, why would you call first? You’re always welcome. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”

“Actually, I just need a couple of minutes of Ian’s time.”

“Oh, come on. There are a couple of unattached women here—Ian’s third-and fourth-year students—I’m sure would love to meet you.”

“Is Marissa Perez one of them?” Holy hell. How had that slipped out? Cullen felt his face burn. “I met her that last time I was out here. She drove me around all weekend.”

Sylvia arched an eyebrow. “Marissa? No, she’s not here. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her in a while.” She winked. “I’m sure we can find a replacement.”

“Sylvia,” Cullen said quietly, “if you’d just tell Ian I’m here…I need to ask him something and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Ah. You’re really not in a party mood, are you?” Smiling, she patted his hand. “I’ll get Ian. Why don’t you wait in his study?”

Cullen bent and kissed her cheek. “Thanks.”

The professor’s study was a small room off the foyer. Cullen had always liked it. An old sofa covered in flowered chintz faced a small fireplace; an antique cherry desk stood in a corner. The walls were hung with family photos, and an ancient Oriental rug lent a mellow touch to the hard-wood floor.

The place felt familiar and comforting. And when Ian Hutchins crossed the threshold with a beer in either hand, Cullen smiled.

“As always,” he said, taking a glass from Hutchins, “the perfect host.”

“It’s not the fatted calf—I’ve got that laid out on the barbecue—but I figured you might be thirsty.” The men shook hands, then sat down. “If I’d known you were going to be in town—”

“It was a last minute decision.”

“And Sylvia tells me you can’t stay for our party.”

“No. I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m just passing through and I wondered…” Get to it, O’Connell. “Remember when I was here to give that speech?”

“Of course. We had a lot of excellent feedback. Matter of fact, I was going to give you a call, see if you’d be interested in—”

“The woman who was my liaison. Marissa Perez.”

Hutchins cocked his head. “Yes?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with her.” Cullen cleared his throat. “Turns out she’s moved. I thought you might have her new address.”

“May I ask why you’re trying to contact Ms. Perez, Cullen?”

Cullen stared at the older man, then rose to his feet. He put his untouched glass of beer on a table and tucked his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“It’s a personal matter.”

“Personal.”

“Ms. Perez and I had a misunderstanding, and I’d like to clear the air.”

“How personal? What sort of misunderstanding?”

Cullen’s mouth narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I said—”

“I heard what you said, Ian. And, frankly, I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

Hutchins put down his glass, too, and got to his feet. “Easy, Cullen. I’m not trying to pry, but, well, I owe a certain amount of confidentiality to my students. I’m sure you understand that.”

“Hell, I’m not asking you to tell me her social security number!” Easy, Cullen told himself. Just take it nice and slow. “Look, I want to talk to her, that’s all. If you’re not comfortable giving me her address, then give me her phone number. Her new one’s unlisted.”

Hutchins sighed. “Is it? Well, I’m not surprised. All in all, Marissa seems to have done her best to sever all her university relationships.”

“Why? What’s going on? Did she transfer out?”

“Worse. She quit. And I’m worried about her.”

“What do you mean, she quit? You said she was one of your best students. Why would she quit?”

“She wasn’t one of my best, she was the best. I don’t know why she withdrew from school. She began behaving strangely, is all I know, and made what I think are some poor decisions, but…” Hutchins took a deep breath, then slowly expelled it. “That’s why I was questioning you, Cullen. I figured, if you and she had become friends, perhaps it would be all right to share my concerns with you.”

“Ian, you’ve known me for years. You know you can count on me to be discreet.”

Hutchins nodded. “Very well, then. Here’s the situation. Marissa’s walked away from a promising future. I know that sounds melodramatic but it’s true. She was to edit Law Review next year and after graduation, she was slated to clerk for Judge Landers.” He spread his hands. “She’s turned her back on all of it.”

“Why? What happened to her? Drugs? Alcohol?” Cullen could hear the roughness in his own voice. He cleared his throat and flashed a quick smile. “We can’t afford to let the smart ones get away, Ian. There must be a reason.”

“I’m sure there is, but she wouldn’t discuss it. I tried to talk to her the first time I realized something was wrong. She flunked one of my exams.” Hutchins gave a sharp laugh. “Understand, she never so much as gave a wrong answer until then. Anyway, I called her in for a chat. I asked if she had a problem she wanted to discuss with me. She said she didn’t.”

“And?”

“And, because I was her advisor, I began hearing from her other instructors. The same thing was happening in their classes. She was failing tests, not turning in papers, not participating in discussions. They all asked if I knew the reason.”

“So, you spoke with Marissa again…”

“Of course. She told me she’d had to take on a heavier work schedule at some restaurant. The Chiliburger, I think she said, over on Telegraph. I offered to see about some additional scholarship money but she said no, she had expenses that would extend beyond the school year.” Hutchins frowned. “She looked awful, Cullen. Tired. Peaked, if you’ll pardon such an old-fashioned word. I asked her if she was sick. She said she wasn’t.” Hutchins shrugged. “Next thing I knew, she’d dropped out of school. I phoned her, got the same message I assume you got. I even went to her apartment, but she’d cleared out.”

“Did you go to this place where she works? The Chiliburger?”

“No. This is America,” Ian said with a little smile. “People are entitled to lead their lives as they wish. Marissa had made it clear she didn’t want to discuss her problems. I’m her advisor, not her father. There’s a certain line I don’t have the right to cross.”

Cullen could feel a muscle knotting and unknotting in his jaw. Hutchins was right. Marissa Perez was entitled to lead her life as she saw fit. If she wanted to sleep with a stranger and then ignore him, she could. If she wanted to drop out of law school and walk away from a future others would kill for, she could do that, too.

And he could do what he had to do. Find her, and find out what in hell was going on.

“You’re right,” Cullen said as the men walked slowly to the front door. “You did everything you could.”

“You’re going to talk with her? Assuming you can find her, that is?”

Cullen laughed. “I have a feeling finding her won’t be hard. Getting her to talk to me might be a different story.”



CULLEN knew exactly where to find the Chiliburger. It was, as burger joints went, an institution.

He had eaten countless fries and burgers within the confines of its greasy walls; he’d studied in its vinyl booths, at wooden tables scarred with the incised initials of at least four decades’ worth of students.

He drove to the restaurant, lucked out on a parking space and strolled inside. A blast of heavy-metal music made him wince. Even the stuff pouring from the jukebox was the same. So was the aroma of fried onions, chili and beer.

He scanned the room. It was crowded. No surprise there, either. Holiday or not, there were always some students who remained in town. It was coming up on supper time, and they’d gather at places like this for a cheap meal and some laughs.

He spotted a vacant booth way in the back, went to it and slid across the red imitation leather seat. The table was still littered with plates and glasses; he pushed them aside and reached for the stained menu propped between the ketchup bottle and the salt and pepper shakers.

As far as he could tell, only one waitress was working the tables, a heavyset blonde of indeterminate age.

No Marissa.

After a while, the blonde appeared at his elbow and shifted a wad of gum from one side of her mouth to the other.

“You know what you want or you need more time?”

“A Coke, please.”

“That’s it?”

Cullen smiled. What she meant was, You’re going to take up space at one of my tables and that’s all you’re going to spend?

“And a burger. The house special, medium-well.” He shoved the menu back into its hiding place, considered asking Blondie about Marissa and decided this wasn’t the right time. “No rush.”

“No rush is right. I got all these tables to handle by myself.”

“Nobody else on with you tonight?”

“Oh, there’s somebody on with me.” Blondie rolled her eyes. “She just isn’t here yet, is all.”

Cullen tried not to show his sudden interest. “She’s late?”

“She’s always late,” Blondie said. “Last couple months, anyway. You want guacamole or mayo on that burger?”

“You pick it. How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come the other waitress started showing up late?”

Blondie shrugged. “How would I know? Only thing I’m sure of is that it’s a pain in the butt, trying to cover for her so the boss doesn’t realize she’s not here.”

“Then why do it?”

The waitress’s expression softened and she leaned toward him. “’Cause she’s a nice kid. Always did her fair share until now.”

“And that changed?”

“It sure did. She says she’s just been feeling under the weather.” The blonde shifted her gum. “You ask me,” she said slyly, “the trouble with her is that she’s—”

“She’s what?”

Something in his tone must have given him away. Blondie drew back. “What’s with all these questions?”

“I’m just making conversation, that’s all.”

“Well, you got questions about Marissa Perez, ask her direct. She just came in. I’ll put your order in, but it’ll be her takes care of—Mister? Mister, what’s the problem?”

What was the problem? Cullen didn’t know where to begin. Marissa was coming from behind the counter that ran the length of one side of the room, but this wasn’t the Marissa he’d spent countless nights dreaming about.

Her face was devoid of color; there were rings under her eyes. Her hair, which he remembered as being as lustrous as a crow’s wing, was dull and lifeless.

Something was terribly wrong with her.

He shot to his feet.

She saw him as he did.

She paled—though how she could get paler than she already was, he thought grimly, was hard to comprehend. He saw her lips form his name as she took a step back.

“Marissa,” he said, but he knew she couldn’t hear him, not over the din of music and loud voices.

She stared at him. Her lips formed his name. For a second, he thought she was going to pass out. He mouthed an oath, took a step toward her, but she pasted a bloodless smile to her lips and started toward him.

“Cullen,” she said in a thin voice, “what a nice surprise.”

It didn’t take a genius to know that her smile was a lie. She was surprised, all right, but nice? No way. She was about as glad to see him as a lone gazelle would be to see a lion.

“Yeah,” he said coldly, “what a nice surprise.” His hand closed around her wrist. “You look terrible.”

“Are you always so free with compliments?”

“Cut the crap.” Why was he so angry? So what if she looked like death warmed over? It wasn’t his business, he told himself, even as his eyes narrowed and drilled into hers. “Is that why you didn’t call me? Have you been sick?”

“I didn’t call you because I didn’t want to call you. I know that must come as a shock, Cullen, but—”

“Is that the reason you left school?”

Her face colored. “Who told you that?”

“You were the best student Ian Hutchins had, and you quit. You moved out of your apartment, you’re working your tail off in a joint like this and you look like hell. I want to know why.”

“Just who do you think you are, Mr. O’Connell? I don’t owe any explanations to you or anybody. My life is my—”

“I’m making it my business. Last time we saw each other, you had the world by the tail. I want to know what happened.”

“But you’re not going to find out. I told you, I don’t have to—Hey. Hey, what do you think you’re doing?”

Cullen was tugging her toward the door. Marissa tried to dig in her heels, but he paid no attention.

“Stop it!” she said in a frantic whisper. “Are you crazy? You’ll cost me my job!”

“Tell her you’re taking a break to talk to an old friend,” he growled when Blondie hurried toward them.

“Marissa? You okay? You want me to call the cops?”

And turn this bad dream into a full-fledged nightmare? “No,” Marissa said quickly, “No, I’m fine. I’m just—I’m taking a break…”

The next thing she knew, she was tucked in the passenger seat of Cullen’s car and they were pulling away from the curb and into traffic.




CHAPTER FOUR


MARISSA swung toward Cullen.

“Are you insane?” Her voice rose until it was a shriek. “Take me back! Turn this car around and take me—”

“Buckle your seat belt.”

“You son of a bitch! Did you hear what I said?” She lunged toward him and slammed her fist into his shoulder. “Take-me-back!”

Cullen took one hand from the steering wheel and wrapped it around hers.

“You want to hit me, wait until we stop moving. For now, keep your hands to yourself. And put on that belt.”

She stared at him. His profile looked as if it had been chiseled from stone. He was driving fast, weaving in and out of traffic, and she knew she had about as much chance of getting him to take her back to the Chiliburger as she had of changing what happened the weekend they’d met.

You couldn’t turn back time.

Marissa lay a hand protectively over her belly. Then she clipped the ends of her seat belt together.

Given the chance, she wasn’t even sure she would turn it back. At first, oh God, at first, she’d have given anything to erase that night but now—now, things had changed. She’d faced what had happened, gone from hating the changes in her life to hating only herself for her weakness and stupidity, for making the same mistakes her mother had made…

No.

She took a deep breath.

She wasn’t going there. All that was behind her and, anyway, it had nothing to do with the man sitting beside her except in the most fundamental way. Besides, why was she wasting time on this nonsense? She had more immediate concerns. Her job. She’d come in late again, and two minutes later, Cullen had dragged her away. Would Tony take her back? He would. He had to. She’d beg. She’d grovel, if that was what it took. She needed the money desperately.

How would a man like Cullen O’Connell, born to wealth and power, ever understand that?

She’d tell Tony that Cullen was an old boyfriend. That he’d just gotten in from out of town. She’d laugh, make it seem as if it was all about being macho. That was true enough. Cullen did have a macho quality. Tony thought he had one, too, but it wasn’t the same. Cullen’s was the kind some women found attractive.

All right. She’d found it attractive, but that didn’t give him the right to swagger into her life and take over. As for telling him why she’d quit school, changed all her plans…that wasn’t going to happen.

The only way to handle him would be to play on that machismo. Make him think she saw his high-handed interference as gallantry, and that she appreciated it even if it had been misplaced.

Marissa cleared her throat.

“Look, I appreciate your concern, but—”

“What street?”

“What?”

“I said, what street do you live on? I’m taking you home.”

“No,” she said quickly, “you’re not. You’re taking me back to the Chiliburger.”

“You want to give me your address, or you want to drive in circles until we run out of gas?” He looked at her as they stopped at a red light. “Your choice, lady.”

Lady. The way he said it turned the word into something vaguely impolite. So much for finding a way to handle him.

“I don’t think you understand,” she said, trying to stay calm. “I need that job.”

“You have a bachelor’s degree and three years of law school.” He smiled sardonically as he stepped on the gas. “Oh yeah. Right. I’ll just bet you sure as hell need a job serving burgers and fries.”

“How readily you jump to conclusions, Mr. O’Connell. I have a degree in political science. Do you see anybody clamoring for my services? As for three years of law school…‘Sorry, Miss Perez,"’ she said in a high-pitched voice, “‘but we really don’t have any openings in our office for paralegals."’ She looked at Cullen, eyes flashing dangerously. “Translation. ‘Are you kidding? Why would our attorneys want to work with a clerk who probably thinks she knows everything?”’

“Okay. So getting a good job would be tough.”

Marissa sank back in her seat and folded her arms. “Something like that,” she said tonelessly.

“What about your scholarship money?”

“What scholarship money?”

“Ian Hutchins says—”

“I had a scholarship. You have to attend school full-time to keep it.”

“And?”

Look how he’d drawn her into this discussion! Marissa blew back the hair that had fallen over her forehead.

“And,” she said coolly, “this conversation is over.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds. Then Cullen looked at her.

“I’m still waiting. Where do you live?”

“None of your business. How many times do I have to tell you that? Take me back to the Chiliburger.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet your boss would like that. What’s he do, work you twelve hours a day?”

“Tony agreed to give me extra hours, yes.”

“What a prince,” Cullen said sarcastically. “Hasn’t he noticed you look like you’re going to fall on your face any minute?”

Marissa almost laughed. Tony probably had no idea what she looked like. She was a waitress, a commodity about as invisible in a place like the Chiliburger as the film of old grease on the griddle.

But she wasn’t going to tell that to Cullen. She wasn’t going to tell him anything. She’d made that decision months ago.

She could take care of herself. She always had…except for that night. How could it have happened? Hadn’t she learned anything, growing up?

Some girls’ mothers taught them to cook or sew.

Hers had taught her the truth about men, and life.

The day she got her first period, her mother handed her a box of tampons and a bucket of advice.

“You’re a woman now, Mari,” she’d said. “Men will look at you, but don’t you let ’em come near you. They’re all like the son of a bitch planted you inside me, gruntin’ between your legs, then zippin’ up their pants and walkin’ away. The rest is your problem. You remember that, girl. Nothin’ lasts, especially if you’re dumb enough to hope it will.”

She always had remembered, until Cullen. How come? Was it because her mother had omitted one salient bit of advice, that when a man took your breath away, he took away your ability to think?

That’s what had happened to her. Cullen had taken her breath away. One look, and she’d been lost. He was so ruggedly handsome, so funny, so smart…and each time their hands accidentally brushed, it seemed as if a bolt of electricity sizzled straight through her bones.

No matter. She wasn’t her mother, despite what had happened. She wouldn’t confront a man who was little more than a stranger with a truth he wouldn’t want to hear. She wouldn’t beg him to believe her. She knew how things would go if a woman named Perez tried to tell a man like Cullen O’Connell that he’d played a role in a sad little tragedy that was really of her own making.

Her fault, all of it.

She should have been strong enough to ignore the hot attraction between them instead of melting into his kiss. And when he’d asked if she had protection just before he undressed her, she should have remembered that though she took the pill to regulate her period, she’d been off it the start of the month because she had the flu.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/sandra-marton-2/claiming-his-love-child-42488317/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.