Читать книгу: «Daddy on Her Doorstep»

You’re pregnant, Claudia.

You have a baby due in a month.

The last thing you need is to feel like this.

About your landlord.

Your sexy, manly, capable, laid-back landlord.

She made a frustrated sound, and it seemed to make him stir. She was just about to whisper something to him about getting to bed—he could stay on the couch till morning, if he wanted, but she needed her room—when he reached out.

Was he still asleep?

His hand curved around the back of her head and pulled her closer. His eyes were still closed. His nose nudged forward. Where was the mouth he was looking for? Ahh …

His lips were so warm. She had to drag herself away. She had to! Or push him, or tell him, “Wake up, Andy. I’m not whoever you think I am.”

But none of that happened. She let him kiss her, her own mouth motionless while his lips coaxed her. He mumbled, “Mm,” the sound coming from deep in his chest. He wanted a response. His dream self was growing frustrated that these soft lips beneath his weren’t answering the kiss.

How could she answer it?

How could she not?

Dear Reader,

I’m lucky enough to be part of a wonderful group of writers who go away together once a year for an intensive week of writing, brainstorming and craft discussion. Okay, I admit there is a small and responsible amount of eating, laughing and drinking as well.

During a brainstorming session, one of our group was looking for inspiration for her next series and I came up with a great idea for a trilogy featuring a family of successful doctors. There was the high-achieving older brother, the laid-back middle child, the burned-out younger sister. I threw in a beautiful rural setting, a baby or two, and a couple of characters—a gold-digging blonde and a blue-collar cop—whom you wouldn’t necessarily expect to be the best match for the hero or heroine concerned. I was so inspired about it … and my friend wasn’t interested.

Writing is funny that way. What sets off fireworks of inspiration for one writer will leave another writer totally cold. “Would you mind if I kept the idea, then?” I asked her. Trust me, she wasn’t planning to fight me for it. Undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm, I rushed back to my room with the whole thing fizzing and singing in my head, and started writing until my hand hurt.

Two hours later, I had the basic outline for the three stories that would become the McKINLEY MEDICS trilogy, and now here’s the first book. Daddy on Her Doorstep is Andy’s story, and who better to pair with a laid-back rural doctor than an uptight city woman with endearingly rigid ideas about having a baby on her own? I hope you enjoy Andy and Claudia’s journey, and that you’ll look out for A Doctor in His House coming soon.

Lilian Darcy

About the Author

LILIAN DARCY has written nearly eighty books. Happily married, with four active children and a very patient cat, she enjoys keeping busy and could probably fill several more lifetimes with the things she likes to do—including cooking, gardening, quilting, drawing and traveling. She currently lives in Australia but travels to the United States as often as possible to visit family. Lilian loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at: PO Box 532, Jamison PO, Macquarie, ACT 2614, Australia, or e-mail her at: lilian@liliandarcy.com.

Daddy on Her Doorstep

Lilian Darcy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Chapter One

Pregnant.

Andy’s new tenant hadn’t mentioned that little detail over the phone. He sat at the wheel of his pickup and watched her unloading her things onto the porch, with a vague sense that he was spying, while he gave about thirty percent of his attention to his sister Scarlett’s voice in his ear. “… so there was nothing we could do, and it was so fast …”

A very nice wheeled designer suitcase thumped up the wooden steps. The new tenant paused to stretch her lower back, placing a hand there for support.

The bump of her pregnancy was unmistakable in this pose, neat and round and firm, but as soon as she straightened again it almost disappeared. She had the kind of long, lean, gym-honed body that made a pregnancy look like this season’s hot fashion accessory, and she was probably a little chilly in those three-quarter-length sleeves, since it was only the beginning of April and the clear air had a definite bite.

“… so I’ve been thinking I might take a week off, just some quiet time, but not here in the city …” Scarlett had called Andy on his cell just as he was about to drive past his own house on his way from his office to the store, so he’d pulled over in front of his neighbor’s place to take her call, only a few yards from his own driveway. He hadn’t intended to watch his new tenant unloading her car, it had just happened that way.

“… and if it wouldn’t create problems for you and Laura …” he heard Scarlett say into his ear.

He put his reply in fast. “Laura and I have split up.”

“Oh, Andy! When?” His sister sounded distressed.

“February. It’s okay. It’s not a problem.”

There was a beat of silence as Scarlett absorbed the news. “She tried too hard, didn’t she?”

“Yeah, she did,” he admitted, glad that Scarlett understood, so he didn’t have to explain.

“Was she upset?”

“She was the one who made the move. I came home from work and there was a note and a whole lot less stuff.” The extent of Laura’s stuff had been part of the problem. “But we both knew it was coming. She’s found someone who appreciates her for who she truly is, the note said.”

“Ouch!”

“And she was right. I really didn’t do that.”

Speaking of ouch …

The tenant heaved a second suitcase out of the trunk of her car and paused once again to arch and rub away the ache in her back. Her outfit looked brand-new and designer label, the soft sage-green stretch fabric gathered at the side seams so that it made her bump into a graceful curve instead of an inconvenient bulge.

Her dark brown hair shone with rich chestnut lights, and the artfully casual topknot looked as if it had been twisted and pinned in place at a Manhattan salon not more than half an hour ago, just as the fringed and patterned scarf around her neck could have been draped by a Hollywood stylist. Her sunglasses said expensive loud and clear.

But it was the bump that had him thinking.

“Definitely pregnant,” Andy muttered. “Wonder when she’s due …”

“Sorry?” said Scarlett.

“My new tenant seems to be pregnant.”

“Oh, you have a new tenant? Ohh …”

He couldn’t miss the disappointment. “Is that a problem?”

Seemed to be the tenant that was the problem for his sister, not the pregnancy. He didn’t have a problem with either the tenant or her fashionable bump, but he was a little curious about why a woman like this—all big-city sophistication and style—was here in a small, scenic town in Vermont, renting solo, on a short-term lease. Where did the pregnancy fit in?

“Well, see, that’s what I’ve been working up to,” Scarlett said. “I’m taking some time off. Hoping to. Thinking about it. I’d been wondering if I could use your rental half, since it’s been empty. You know, just sit in a porch swing for a week.”

“You can sit in my porch swing, instead of the rental one.”

“I know, but it’s not the same.”

“It’s almost the same,” he pointed out, “since my place and my rental are two halves of the same house.”

He’d loved the extravagant Victorian on sight, four years ago, and since he hadn’t needed such a big place, he’d been happy that it was divided into two generous apartments. He was casual about renting out the half he didn’t live in, relying on word of mouth and a couple of low-key listings on the internet, preferring short leases for the variety. He hadn’t hugely cared when it stood vacant, as it had been all this past winter, while his two-year relationship with Laura had done its slow, splintering crash, like a felled tree.

“Yeah, but that’s … No, I can’t explain.” Scarlett sounded very flat, and very tired.

“This is only a three-month rental,” he began.

This was what made him curious. Three months renting to a pregnant tenant from New York City, who had most definitely told him on the phone that she’d be living there alone, and that she didn’t want a longer lease because she was only subletting her condo in Manhattan for the first two months, and didn’t want it sitting empty for too long. She was a corporate accountant, she’d said.

So where did her due date fit in to her stay here? What was her plan? What were her intentions once the three-month lease was up?

“So if I hold off on my vacation until July …” Scarlett said.

“You may actually be able to come up here and get a Vermont tan,” he finished for her. “And make it longer than a week. Make it as long as you want.”

He’d experienced for himself the therapeutic benefits of escaping the city and coming to the Green Mountain state. Five and a half years ago, one weekend here had led to a major change of lifestyle and priorities. Scarlett had been largely responsible for the whole thing, and now he had a chance to return the favor.

“But, no, I’ll never get July,” she said. “New rotations start. I have a shot at August. Just a week …” She was talking to herself more than to him, mentally adjusting her heavy schedule.

Like every member of the McKinley family except Andy, she was all about crammed schedules. He remembered all too well what that was like.

On the porch, a heavy-looking cardboard box was about to join the two suitcases. This time, the arch-and-rub was followed by a hard lean onto the seat of the porch swing. The swing rocked too much and the pregnant tenant … Nelson, Claudia Nelson … almost lost her balance. She grabbed the swing chain, pivoted on one foot and sat on the moving seat with a hard thump, and Andy had to fight an impulse to leap out of the pickup and rush to her aid.

Which she might not have appreciated, since she would have no idea who he was at this point. Anyhow, she’d recovered her balance now.

Recovered her balance, but not her built-in cool. She flattened her hand over her upper chest and took some breaths that looked as if they’d been learned in prenatal class and practiced diligently since. In through the nose. Out slow and steady, through rounded lips.

Shoot, she wasn’t in labor, was she? She only looked around six months or so, but as he’d already observed, she had the kind of body where it was hard to tell.

“I’d better go,” he told Scarlett. “Think about it for August or whenever, and call me back when you decide. Please.”

“I will.”

“I’ll hold off on another tenant for a while when this one moves out. Meanwhile, if you want to come up sooner, I can check out some of the bed-and-breakfasts around here. They’re pretty quiet. And I can make sure a porch swing is part of the deal.”

“Thanks, Andy. But, no, it was probably a dumb idea.” Down the line, Scarlett sighed to herself and began planning again. “I’ll wait. Even August, with the new interns … I’ll check the calendar. Maybe October …”

Scarlett disconnected the call before Andy could tell her that October sounded too far off, given the stress and fatigue in her voice. He knew what his father, Dr. Michael James McKinley, Senior, would have said to her: “Get a good night’s sleep and pull yourself together, Scarlett. You’re a cancer specialist. You’re going to lose patients. You can’t let it get too personal.”

Speaking of personal, it was time for Andy to introduce himself to the lady with the bump. The trip to the store for some steak and potatoes to accompany salad and a beer as tonight’s meal would have to wait.

There was a man in the front yard. Claudia had been vaguely aware of him since he’d pulled to the curb thirty feet down the street to take a call on his cell, but then she’d taken her eye off him for a few moments while she caught her breath after that scary near-fall.

Now, instead of ending the call and driving away as she would have expected, he was suddenly here, coming toward her, smiling as if he knew her.

Or as if he had suspect intentions.

She had a moment of vulnerability, unfamiliar and unwanted. The baby crammed itself against her lungs, making her breath short. Her female friends—well, her one best friend, Kelly, plus her work colleagues and her hair stylist—kept telling her approvingly that she barely showed. But, oh, the baby was there, and if she didn’t show much from the outside it was only because the pregnancy was crowding out her internal organs, instead.

What did this man want? Around her own age of thirty-four, he looked strong and competent and sure of himself, dark haired, square-jawed, crooked-nosed, dressed in conservative dark pants and a pale polo shirt, with sleeve bands that stretched tight around hard biceps. His stride was long and he had an aura of casual ownership.

Of the moment.

Of the situation.

It might have been appealing in other circumstances. She liked competence and control in a man.

Right now, however, there was no traffic going by and the air had filled with an odd stillness, as if she and this stranger were the only two people anywhere near. He was kind of frowning and smiling at her at the same time. He was incredibly good-looking, with an especially nice mouth. Any woman would be bound to notice. But he was big and strong and she was no match for him physically. Especially not now.

She stood, and the swing rocked again, reminding her of how she’d almost fallen a moment ago, and then had bumped down on it painfully hard.

Scary. Unsettling.

She was used to grace and strength in her body, not this clumsiness.

She was used to being fully in control.

She wasn’t used to this instinctive gesture of curving one hand in protection across her lower stomach, while the other was pressed against her beating heart.

I want this baby, she reminded herself. I chose it. I went for it. It was a considered decision after a ton of research and planning. I didn’t sit around whining that there weren’t any good men and that my body clock was ticking.

She wanted the baby, yes, but she wasn’t a huge fan of the actual pregnancy. It made her feel caged and vulnerable, a familiar feeling from long ago that she hated and fought or avoided whenever she could.

“Claudia?” the stranger said, still with the frown and the grin.

“Y-yes?” He’d said her name.

“Hi. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, showing strong, clean fingers. “I’m your landlord. Andy McKinley.”

Her landlord! Sheesh, of course he was! Claudia, you panicky idiot! She even recognized his gravelly voice from the phone.

Oh, shoot, she was going to cry.

I’m not. I’m not.

This was another thing she didn’t love about the pregnancy—all the hormonal emotions sloshing around inside her. Just the switch from slight—and let’s face it, pretty irrational—fear about a stranger’s approach to relief that he had a good reason for smiling at her, knowing her name and giving off that sense of ownership, was enough to dampen her eyes and tighten her throat.

“Nice to meet you, too,” she managed, after swallowing the tears back. Fortunately, she was still wearing her driving sunglasses so he wouldn’t have seen. She took her hand away from her chest, returned his handshake and found her fingers engulfed in a warmth and strength that once again reminded her of her own new vulnerability. “I’m a little earlier than I said.”

“No problem.”

“Um, Mr. McKinley, how come you’re parked in the street, not turned into the driveway?”

“I was on my way to the store when my sister called, so I pulled over.”

“Oh, right. It … uh … threw me a little, when you came across the grass. I didn’t know who you could be.”

“Yeah, I can see how you could get the wrong idea. Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine. Just wanted to explain. I don’t normally react like a deer in the headlights when a perfectly respectable man says hello to me.”

“Good to know.” He gave another smile-and-frown, kind of crooked, and she felt she still hadn’t been fully on message. I’m not a jittery flake, I’m on top of everything I do. But if she didn’t let it go at this point, she would only make things worse. “And it’s Dr. McKinley, if you want to get technical.”

“Oh. Dr. McKinley. Okay.”

“Let me help you get your things inside and show you around,” he said easily. “I saw you lose your balance on the swing just now. Are you okay?” He stepped closer.

“I’m fine,” she said firmly.

“Sure?”

“Quite sure.” What did he want from her? He was still studying her, frowning. If only he would look away, she might just rub her lower back again because it ached so much from the drive and the hefting of baggage. She didn’t want to rub it while he was watching, because even now that she knew who he was, she didn’t want to telegraph the vulnerability she disliked so much.

She could still hear her mother’s voice on the subject of the baby, still see her openly scathing expression. Are you crazy? The words had come out harsh and strident and a little fuzzy after several glasses of good wine. Doing it on your own, by choice? There’d still been a wineglass in Mom’s hand as she spoke, held very gracefully by its slender crystal stem but threatening to spill. Do you have any idea? It’s nothing like getting a degree or taking the partnership track, Claudia.

Just as getting through a bottle or two of French chardonnay or very nice Australian shiraz every night in the privacy of her own home, while wearing expensive jewelry and glittery clothes, was nothing like being an alcoholic, in Mom’s view.

Claudia’s argument that she was thirty-four years old, she was a highly competent professional with a corner office that she’d well and truly earned, she was financially secure, she was dealing in a sensible, practical way with the fact that there seemed to be zero decent available men in New York City and she had thought her decision through with enormous care and a detailed budget, hadn’t swayed her mother’s opinion one jot. “You’ll find you’ve bitten off way more than you can chew, my girl.”

Forget about it, Claudia, she lectured herself now, it was months ago.

But darn it, she just couldn’t help rubbing her back, and Andy McKinley had seen.

“I’ll just mention,” he said carefully, “that I’m a family practitioner, with a sub-specialty in ob-gyn.” He took a key ring from his pocket.

“I’m not due for five and a half weeks. And since first babies are often late, I’m working on six.”

“Mmm, so you are planning to have the baby here in Vermont?” He unlocked her front door, extended the handles on her suitcases and wheeled them both into the front hallway. He had strong wrists with a tan line on them that suggested he liked to ski.

“That’s right.” She explained briefly in what she privately called her spreadsheet voice, “I wanted a calm atmosphere for the last weeks of the pregnancy, and for the birth. I wanted my body to recover and to get our bonding and our routine in place in peace and quiet for six weeks or so before I go back to the city and then to work.”

“So you’re going back to work …?”

“When the baby is three months old. I’ll spend my last six weeks of maternity leave back in the city, getting systems in place. I’ve already researched nanny agencies and I’m on the books of the best one in the city,” she said, then added so that he wasn’t left in any doubt, “I’m going to be a single parent. I’ll just say it up front. This was a planned pregnancy, using a sperm-donor father, at a highly reputable Manhattan clinic.”

“Got you.”

“It’s good to get these things out in the open, I think, rather than have you wondering, and making things embarrassing for both of us.” She smiled, again making it brief and cool to give him his cue.

“Right,” he said, nodding and smiling back. Again it was a little crooked, she noticed. As if his view of the world was a complicated thing. As if he stood back from life, faintly amused by the whole messy business. “Thanks for filling me in.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense not to.”

“Six weeks before, six weeks after. I guess that about takes care of your three-month lease.” He sounded cheerful about it, but maybe she was a little defensive after her mother’s often-repeated refrain of, You’re crazy. She thought she detected some hidden … what? … Criticism? Skepticism? Amusement?

All three.

Why did people have so much trouble believing that a pregnant woman could be organized? That a single-by-choice mother could make good decisions? That even being a single-by-choice mother was a good decision? That proper planning and budgeting did actually lead to a more successful outcome, and babies on a solid routine were more content? It was basic common sense!

And why did people think it was any of their business, even if they did happen to be doctors who knew about babies?

“There’s no need to show me around,” she told him, cool about it once again. “I’ve seen your photo tour on the internet and I’m confident there’s everything I’ll need. As long as the furnace is hot and the refrigerator is cold?”

“Checked them both this morning.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“I’ll bring your boxes in.”

She would have argued, but her back told her not to, so she simply thanked him again, gritted her teeth and waited until he’d shunted the remaining two boxes inside.

“Want me to take those suitcases up?”

“Thanks, no, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. I’m right next door, if there’s anything you need.”

“The nearest store?”

“Straight on down the street, make a left at the end, then a right on Route 11, and you’ll hit a shopping plaza on your left in about half a mile.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He gave a casual click of his tongue in farewell and sloped off along the porch to his own front door. Was he whistling?

He didn’t seem like any doctor she’d met before. Nothing like the rather stuffy, fifty-something, highly recommended and very expensive ob-gyn she’d been seeing in Manhattan. More like a rancher with that pickup he’d climbed out of.

If you went by the whistle, he was Tom Sawyer, all grown up. If you went by the crooked nose, someone who’d had a minor accident while skiing or climbing, or even a punch-up outside a bar. Or maybe a construction-crew boss. Someone who knew what he was doing, but was laid-back about it. Someone good with his hands and with tools.

This place, for example. Had he remodeled it himself?

It was beautiful. The internet tour hadn’t given a misleading impression. Late afternoon spring sunshine poured through the kitchen window on the first floor and her bedroom window above. The wide bay window at the side of the house would glow when the morning sun hit those leaded sections of stained glass.

Beyond the borders of a Persian rug, the hardwood floors shone a dark syrup color, and the two couches looked soft and inviting with their stylized floral fabric. There were prints on the walls, wrought-iron fire tongs on a stand beside the grate, a good-quality coffee table and end tables made of solid wood, thick cream drapes at the windows for privacy, carved newel posts and rails on the stairs.

For the moment, however, with the baby kicking and rolling in a very uncomfortable way, the most urgent piece of exploration she needed was to check out the state of the bathroom.

Of course, Andy ran into her at the supermarket on the outskirts of town less than forty-five minutes later.

She was efficient, he’d give her that. She’d asked for directions to the store, and in the time he’d taken to unwind in a lazy, casual way from a day of seeing patients with conditions ranging from ingrown toenails to advanced pregnancy to serious heart disease, she’d—he could hear her faintly through the walls—toured both levels of the half a Victorian house that were now temporarily hers, tested the bathroom facilities, unpacked at least one of the suitcases and taken a long and no doubt critical look from the back porch at a garden he hadn’t touched since last summer.

Now she was shopping, arriving at the spacious, brightly lit supermarket just off County Route 5 only a few minutes after he’d gotten here himself.

He had steak, potatoes, orange juice and bananas in his basket.

She was filling a whole cart, stocking up big-time.

Buying diapers already?

He had to smile. Of course she was buying diapers!

He’d pegged her to a T, in the space of just a few minutes of conversation. He’d met her kind before. A highly intelligent and competent city professional, who would sincerely believe that efficiently stocking up six weeks in advance on non-perishable baby supplies would give her a significant head start in acquiring that all-important “routine” that would miraculously turn the years-long demands of parenthood, whether solo or shared, into a walk in the park.

Boy, was she in for a shock.

It was funny …

And not.

He didn’t know what to feel, actually.

Impressed? It was brave, no doubt about that. Angry? He was so busy with this mix of wry amusement, anger and … something else that he couldn’t quite work out … that he forgot to keep track of her movements through the store and found her coming down the dairy aisle toward him, pausing to reach for yogurt and cheese on the way.

“Oh. Hi,” she said.

And caught him looking at the stack of diapers.

He hadn’t meant to, but they were hard to miss—five big, block-shaped, plastic-covered, newborn-size sixty-packs piled one on top of the other.

Ten diapers a day for a month. Seven a day for six weeks. Take your pick. She’d probably already worked out a theoretical schedule for how often the baby would need changing.

She flushed. “It’s not like they’ll spoil. This way, I get to carry them into the house while I’m not too big and not too sore.”

“Makes sense,” he agreed.

And it kind of did. Of course it was a good idea to get as much done in advance as you could. But it was a drop in the ocean.

They stood there, him with the basket hooked over his arm, her leaning on the piled-up cart. Her hair was gleaming and pretty but a little too tightly wound for his taste. He liked fullness and bounce, soft waves shadowing a woman’s face, something to run his fingers through, something to tickle his shoulders or cheeks or chest when he came in for a kiss. Was the tight style another piece of efficiency on her part?

Knot it and go. Nothing to get in the way.

She was incredibly well-groomed close up, even more so than he’d observed when he’d first seen her on the porch. Soft hands, their long fingers tipped with a French manicure. Neat gold earrings with just the right amount of sparkle and dangle. A touch of lip gloss. Perfectly arched eyebrows with not a hair out of line. Low-heeled ankle boots and that artfully arranged scarf.

And what was the deal with the scarf, anyhow? If he had something like that fussing around his neck, it would either choke him or fall off every time he moved. It’d drive him crazy. She carried it with casual grace. He wondered if he was underestimating her and she would soon carry a baby on her hip the same way.

Due in five and a half weeks. First babies weren’t always late.

Would she manage on her own? Did she have support systems in place that she hadn’t mentioned yet?

I’m going to find out …

A danger signal suddenly clanged in his head. His father had accused him in the past of being a soft touch for people in need. You don’t know how to keep your distance, Andy. When you let yourself get overinvolved, all that happens is mess and complication.

Was Dad right? He often asked himself this, because Dad was right about a lot of things and knew it. He was a heart surgeon, and patients came to him from hundreds of miles away. But was he right that Andy had a tendency to become overinvolved?

The question hung in the balance for what felt like too long. He murmured something polite in Claudia Nelson’s direction. See you back at the house. Good luck with your shopping. The words didn’t matter. He was only using them as an exit line. Then he moved on down the aisle.

But when he turned at the end, remembering he needed to pick up some milk, he looked toward her, saw her pick up several cans of tomatoes from a lower shelf and once more straighten and rub the band of tightness around her lower back. Suddenly, she looked far too alone, marooned in the middle of a brightly lit supermarket aisle in her designer maternity clothes.

“She’s not going to go five more weeks …” he muttered to himself in a flash of medical intuition. “One or two if she’s lucky. A couple of days if she keeps on with the superwoman stuff.”

Trying to look casual about it, he wandered back. “Hey, I’ve just thought, would you like to come next door for dinner tonight, since you’ve had a full day? Save you calling out for pizza?”

“I wasn’t calling out for pizza, I was going to cook.”