Daddy By Surprise

Molly Shipman had vowed she’d never be beholden to anyone for anything ever again.

“So, you moving in soon?” Trisha asked, joining her after turning in two orders.

“I’ve got the weekend off.” She squeezed her friend’s hand. “Thanks for telling me about your mom’s vacancy. It’s perfect. Another hour and it would’ve been snatched up.” As she’d driven away from the duplex, a young couple had stopped their car, eyeing the sign Mrs. Bailey hadn’t bothered to remove and taking down the phone number. “I owe you.”

“I’ll settle for a cold drink. It’s been a madhouse in here since six.” Trisha bent to rub her sore calves.

Molly poured the drink, adding two sugars for energy the way Trisha preferred her tea. “Tell Danny the living room has a cable TV hookup for when he stays over.” A tall, slim brunette, Trisha was outgoing and dated a lot, often leaving her son with Molly evenings when her mother was unable to keep him. Molly had taught Danny to play chess and now he was beating her regularly.

“Will do. He’ll be thrilled.” Trisha took a long swallow, then left to check on her orders.

Time she got to work. Setting aside her glass, Molly put on a bright smile and walked to the front to greet an older couple who were regulars.

Hank’s gaze slid to Molly Shipman and his face relaxed. Of his three full-time waitresses, it was Molly who pleased him most. He enjoyed just looking at her. He watched now as she delivered an order to an older couple, then went to pour coffee all around for three truckers in a front booth. He saw their eyes wander over her slender frame, frankly admiring, boldly appraising. She laughed at something one of them said, then politely dodged their comments and one wandering hand as she wrote up their order. Little did they realize that no matter what they said or did, Molly wasn’t buying.

Unlike Trisha who flirted outrageously and dated frequently, in three years, Hank had never seen one customer get to first base with Molly. Oh, she was friendly to everyone, some more than others, but there it ended. She always went home alone and her phone number was unlisted. Hank didn’t know the story of her marriage or the reason for her divorce, but he figured she had to have had a rough time. Never once did she speak of those years. Divorced himself, he understood, but at nearly fifty, it wasn’t so surprising that he didn’t want another go around. But Molly was only twenty-eight, too young to want to be alone.

If only he was a little younger, Hank thought uncharacteristically dreamy. Then the scowl returned and he called himself a fool. What would a lovely young woman want with a slightly pudgy guy with thinning hair and a bad hip? He’d better keep such thoughts to himself if he wanted to keep Molly as a friend and an employee.

Molly stepped up to the service counter and raised a questioning brow. “You okay, Hank?” she asked, wondering at his grimace as she handed him her order slip. Hank was usually easygoing.

“Hector’s going to be late,” he complained, blaming his mood on that.

“Oh. If you need me to stay longer…”

That was Molly, always willing to help out, but he couldn’t let her do that. “Nah, we’ll manage. I hear you’re moving.”

“Yes, tomorrow.”

“I’ll get my nephew to help. We’ll go to your place with the truck. Is seven good?”

He’d known she’d been looking and had offered to help her move in some time ago. Still she hesitated, hating to accept favors and remembering that Hank had a bad hip. “Listen, Hank, you don’t have to…”

“That’s right, I don’t. I want to. Seven?”

She gave him a grateful smile. “If you’re sure.”

“Positive.”

“Then thanks.” The bell over the door rang out. Molly swung around and waited for the new arrivals to seat themselves before going over with menus.

Carefully placing the last box in Bessie’s trunk, Molly closed the lid and paused to gather her shower-damp hair into a ponytail. Only April and already the daily highs were in the eighties, quickly approaching ninety, with four or five more months of summer ahead. You had to love heat to live in Arizona, she thought, settling behind the wheel. Fortunately, she did. She’d liked the weather in Colorado, too. She’d left for other more important reasons.

The car was loaded—trunk, backseat and even the passenger side—with boxes and bags containing nearly everything from her cupboards. If she could get her new kitchen in order tonight, she’d be ahead of the game, leaving tomorrow free to figure out furniture placement. Not that she had that much, just the necessities and a few luxuries that she’d managed to purchase over the last three years. But at least it was all hers.

She’d left her ex’s house without any of the lovely wedding gifts that her mother and sister had insisted were half hers. She’d taken not a plate nor pot nor pan from the kitchen, not a favorite photo or designer suit or piece of jewelry. Only her own things, though not the expensive clothes and jewelry Lee had gifted her with. She’d wanted no reminders of him or his marvelous family.

Even with no tangible evidence of her four-year marriage in the small apartment she’d moved into, it had been many months before she’d been able to sleep through the night without waking and remembering. Many long weeks when Lee’s hurtful words kept replaying in her head like a broken record spewing out a litany of her shortcomings. Endless days when she’d had to force herself to quit hiding and leave her small sanctuary to look for work. Though Lee had never laid a hand on her, she’d felt beaten up and beaten down.

But that was then and this was now, Molly thought, starting up old Bessie and moving out into traffic. She was beginning a new chapter in her life, a new place to live and, hopefully in about a year, more meaningful work that would lead to a bright future. She’d read somewhere that you can handle anything as long as you know one day it’ll end. That thought kept her going.

The sky over the McDowell Mountains was streaked with orange and purple in preparation for one of Arizona’s spectacular sunsets. Tonight Molly scarcely noticed as she flipped on the radio and heard a bluesy voice sing about moving on. She laughed out loud. Yes, that’s exactly what she was doing, and it felt good.

She was humming along when she turned into her new driveway and saw that her neighbor’s Harley was parked alongside the backyard fence. And there, guarding the gate, his black eyes on her and his ears on alert, was the biggest German shepherd she’d ever seen.

Slowly, Molly got out of her car, wondering if he could jump that fence, wondering how fast she could run after a long day on her feet. He was beautiful, she couldn’t help thinking, but dangerous-looking. His coat was mostly tan with black markings and he hadn’t moved a scant inch, just stood watching her. Drawing in a deep breath, Molly decided she’d best make friends with him if they were to share a yard. Determined not to show any fear, she walked closer.

“Better let me introduce you,” Devin said, coming down the back stairs. “If you’re with me, King knows you’re okay.”

“Fine,” Molly said, never taking her eyes from the dog.

Devin paused. “You know much about dogs?”

“I’ve never owned one, if that’s what you mean.”

He walked over to where she’d stopped. “Some dogs, especially trained guard dogs, consider eye contact to be an act of aggression.”

“Oh.” Molly’s eyes shifted to his face. “I didn’t know that.”

“Many people don’t. Even a smile can be a problem because when dogs go on the attack, they bare their teeth. So they sometimes mistake a smile where teeth are showing as a challenge.”

“I see.” She glanced over at the dog whose stance seemed more relaxed since Devin’s arrival. She avoided his eyes. “I thought you said he was friendly, even gentle.”

“He is, once he gets to know you. Let me take you over and he’ll know you’re a friend.”

Molly walked with him, her gaze fixed on the fence rather than the animal she didn’t want to give the wrong signals to. At the gate, she felt Devin stop and move close behind her. He took her hand in his, then stretched toward the big dog.

“Hey, King,” Devin said in a firm voice. “Meet Molly, our new neighbor.” He drew Molly’s hand closer to King, allowing the dog to get familiar with her scent.

A scent that seemed oddly familiar to him already. She’d changed into denim shorts and a loose-fitting black shirt. Her bare legs were long and shapely. Devin felt his pulse stumble.

Molly’s breath backed up in her throat, whether from nervousness about the dog or because the man she’d met mere hours ago was all but wrapped around her. Her head only came to his chin. He was so tall, exuding a sense of power, yet making her feel oddly protected.

She watched the big animal sniff her hand, glance up at her, then lick his owner’s hand once with his pink tongue. After a moment, he touched his wet nose to Molly’s thumb. “Does this mean we’re friends?” she asked, wondering if everyone who came to visit her would have to go through this ritual before being accepted.

“I think he likes you,” Devin said, his voice a little husky. His face was almost in her hair, as he drew in a deep breath. He could smell shampoo and bath powder. “Did you just shower?”

The question surprised her. “Wouldn’t you, after eight hours slinging hash, so to speak? First thing I do after every shift is strip and shower.” Molly’s eyes grew round as her words echoed in her head. Why on earth did she blurt out every thought so graphically?

Devin’s fertile imagination pictured the shower scene perfectly. He glanced down at her small hand resting in his. He found himself not wanting to let go of her.

Molly felt her fingers grow damp with nerves. It had been years since she’d allowed a man to get this close. “How long must we stand here like this?” Molly asked, looking over her shoulder at him, a smile appearing at the absurdity of the situation.

“Two hours, three at the most.” He grinned, squeezed her hand and reluctantly let go.

“Well, that was fun,” Molly said to cover her embarrassment, “but I’ve got boxes to unpack.”

“I’ll help you,” he offered, walking with her to the car.

“Thanks, but I can manage just fine.”

Stubborn, independent and beautiful, Devin decided. She’d soon learn he could be stubborn, too. As soon as she opened the trunk, he lifted out what he guessed was the heaviest box.

“I told you…”

“Yeah, I know. Look, you’ve put in an eight-hour day, right? Mrs. Bailey tells me you’re a waitress and I know that’s hard work. I’ve done my share of slinging hash for tips and minimum wage. There are no strings attached if I haul in a few boxes for you, honest.” Holding the heavy container, he waited while she studied his face. He could almost see the wheels turning while she tried to figure out whether or not to believe him.

Molly didn’t want to set a precedent on the first day sharing this house with him, allowing him to think she was some helpless female who’d be ever so grateful for his heavy-handed help. She’d let him, this time, but she’d set some ground rules.

“What else did Mrs. Bailey tell you about me?” she asked, picking up a second box and heading for the back door. Maybe she’d have to have a little chat with her landlady about being less than pleased at being Topic A with her other tenants. Molly hadn’t been crazy about living in the large three-story apartment complex she was vacating, but at least a person could remain anonymous there if she wished. And she definitely wished.

Devin waited until she unlocked the door, then followed her into the kitchen and set the box on the counter where she indicated. “Not much, just that you waitressed at the Pan Handle with her daughter. Is the food good there?”

He was pretty adept at controlling the conversation, she decided. “Since I eat more than half my meals there, I must think so.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime,” Devin answered, following her back out to the car.

Molly waited until every box, bundle and bag was inside her new kitchen before turning to him. “Thanks. I appreciate your help.” She turned aside and began measuring shelf paper she’d brought along, obviously dismissing him.

“Where do you want to stack these canned goods?” he asked, poking around in a sack.

He was either obtuse or being deliberately annoying. Molly stopped and drew in a deep, calming breath. She checked her watch, then looked up at him. “Look, I’ve been on the move since six this morning and it’s nearly eight. It’s been a long day and I really want to get this done tonight. So, if you don’t mind…”

“It’ll go much faster if we do it together. I moved my stuff in earlier and it takes forever if you work alone.” Devin wasn’t sure why he wanted to help her. Maybe it was because he was a nice guy. Or maybe it was because she looked dead on her feet and he knew how that felt. More likely it was because she attracted him and it had been a long while since anyone had.

Scissors in hand, Molly studied him. He wore a V-neck black T-shirt and tan shorts, a generous sprinkling of dark hair visible on his muscular legs and what she could see of his chest. She’d never been especially drawn to obviously virile-looking men. Why then did this one interest her despite her usual reluctance? “Are you always this insistent?”

Grinning, he shrugged. “Sometimes even more so.” Damn but he had a dynamite smile. He was wearing her down and she was too tired to argue. “Just my luck.” She indicated the long cupboard at the far end. “Cans in there, if you insist.”

Chalk up one for our side, Devin thought as he opened the pantry cupboard. “Any particular order? Want them alphabetized or arranged by category, like fruits one side, vegetables opposite?”

Though he had his back to her, Molly sent him an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding? Do you honestly do that in your kitchen?”

Still smiling, he began unpacking cans. “Yeah, but it’s real easy at my place. I have two cans of soup and one box of microwave popcorn.” He studied the can he held. “Spaghetti sauce. Funny, I’d have bet you made your own sauce from scratch.” His mother always had, even while raising six kids and working full-time.

Carefully, Molly stretched to fit the shelf paper she’d cut in place. “Fast and easy, that’s my style. Actually, I’ve never mastered the fine art of cooking. Growing up, my mom cooked, then at college, our landlady was a terrific cook.” And when she’d married Lee, he’d tasted one or two of her efforts and hired a cook, but she decided not to mention that. “Today, with all the shortcuts available, you can eat really well and not know how to do much besides read the labels.”

He glanced over, taking in those incredibly long, sleek legs. “Yeah, but I thought all women knew how to cook, like it was in the genes or something.”

“Sorry to explode that little myth.”

Devin finished emptying one sack and went searching for another from where they were stacked on the floor while Molly went to work on the second shelf.

“Where in California are you from?” she asked. All right, so she was a little curious about him.

“The L.A. area.” He unloaded boxes of crackers, pancake mix, pasta. “How about you? Are you a native? It seems everyone I talk to in Arizona was born somewhere else.”

“Not me. Born and raised in Phoenix.”

“Never lived anywhere else?” He found that hard to believe. She didn’t look small-town and, by Los Angeles standards, Phoenix was almost backwoods.

“I lived in Tucson during my college years. And, for a while, in Colorado.”

He caught the change in her tone at the mention of Colorado, the reluctance. “Not a happy time?”

Her head swiveled to him. He was too quick, a man who actually listened, not just to words but to voice inflections. It was unnerving. “No, it wasn’t.”

Molly was grateful that he apparently decided to let that alone. They worked in silence for awhile, until she finished papering the shelves and bent to retrieve the dishes she’d carefully wrapped last night. She stretched to reach the top shelf while her sore muscles protested, but she ignored them, as usual. When there was work to be done, Molly just did it.

She’d almost forgotten he was there when he spoke up. “Are you just off a divorce?”

Surprise and irritation warred for dominance in her blue eyes. “What makes you ask that?”

Devin shrugged. “You’re skittish, kind of secretive, touchy. And you have a sad expression around your eyes when you think no one’s watching you.”

Stopping with a dinner platter in her hand, Molly frowned. “What are you, a psychiatrist?”

He had the decency to look sheepish. “Worse. I’m a writer.”

“Figures. Well, save your psychoanalysis for your characters.”

“I’m right then. You’ve just gone through a bad divorce.”

“Your vibes are a little off. It’s been three years.”

“Whoa! Three years and you’re still so testy. Must have been bad.”

Molly had had enough. “Let’s turn the tables here. What about you? Are you married? Have you ever been? Divorced? Children? How is it that you’re probably at least thirty and still renting furnished apartments? Bad relationships or just bad judgment? And how do you enjoy the third degree?” Letting out a whoosh of air, she ran out of steam. Turning aside and brushing back a lock of hair that had come loose from her ponytail, she set the platter on the counter with unsteady hands. “Oh, Lord. I’m sorry. I have no right to go on the attack. I hardly know you. I must be really tired.” One hand braced on the counter, she stood with her eyes downcast.

He stepped in front of her. “It’s all right. I goaded you and I deserved your tirade. I apologize. Occupational hazard. I have this insatiable need to know everything about everyone I meet. Gets me into a lot of trouble, as you can see.”

She still hadn’t looked up, so he went on. “To answer your questions, I’m not married, never have been, and no children. I’m thirty-three and I left California mostly because I have this big, overwhelming family and I need a quiet place so I can write without interruptions. I’ve had a few relationships, one in particular that lasted quite awhile, but when she realized I meant what I said when I told her I didn’t want the house, the picket fence or the two-point-five children she had in mind, we parted quite amiably. Bad judgment? Yeah, I’m guilty of that occasionally, but who isn’t?”

“Certainly not me,” she said so softly he had to move closer to hear the words.

Devin dared to reach up and touch her chin, forcing her to face him. “I’m sorry if I was out of line, Molly. Don’t be angry, please.” The word fragile came to mind. He hadn’t figured under all that bright energy that she’d be fragile.

His eyes were the color of jade tonight in the glare of the overhead kitchen light. So deep a green they were almost black. Maybe she was being taken in, but they also seemed sincere. “I’m not angry, just tired. Let’s forget it.”

Turning to gaze about the kitchen, Molly saw that only two boxes of dishes remained unpacked on the floor. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I’ll get to the rest tomorrow.” She walked over and picked up her canvas handbag, then snapped off the overhead light.

Standing in the moonlight on the back porch, she locked the door, then made a mistake. She looked up at him again and their eyes collided and held. Molly saw far more than she wanted to see in those green depths.

Slowly, Devin trailed a fingertip along the silk of her cheek and saw the pulse in her throat leap. “You’re going to be a distraction I don’t need, Molly Shipman.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t want to get involved with you, with anyone. I want you to ignore me as I plan to ignore you.” She stepped away and didn’t look back. “Good night.”

Walking to her car, Molly wondered if she had the fortitude to stick to her guns.

Chapter Two

Devin turned off his computer with a nod of satisfaction and leaned back. It was working just fine, thank goodness. His computer was the only item he’d carried up the stairs and into his spare room with the same care he might have shown delicate bone china, if he had any. In a way, computers were just as fragile. Unexpected jarrings or, God forbid, a near-drop and all that intricate wiring inside could cause the loss of a great deal of important data. Whole files could be erased or be extremely difficult to retrieve.

With all the many moves in his travels, fortunately he’d never had a problem. But he’d heard horror stories about systems crashing and motherboards that needed replacing after relocation. So he babied his equipment as if his livelihood depended on each and every component part. Because it did.

Stepping back, Devin gazed around his new office. The computer desk was in place along with his lucky chair, a somewhat beat-up old leather swivel that he’d sat in to pound out his first fiction pieces back when he was writing short stories on an ancient portable Smith-Corona. He had a sleek electric typewriter now as backup on the long table that also held his printer, copier and fax machine. Amazing the machinery a person had to have to write today. He’d read that Ernest Hemingway had carted an old portable Underwood all over Europe and done fairly well on it. But this was the nineties.

Devin strolled over to his bookcase filled to overflowing with reference material, books dating back to his college days and a shelf of well-read paperbacks he couldn’t seem to give up. With a sense of awe that was still very present in him, he reached to the top shelf and picked up his first published book, Murder at Oak Creek Canyon. Never had he seen anything more beautiful than his name above the title or his words and thoughts inside.

For as far back as he could recall, Devin Gray had wanted to write. And he had—essays, a journal, stories, even some very bad poetry—for his eyes only. Then, as a student at the University of Southern California, he’d met a professor who’d recognized his talent and encouraged him. In the beginning, he’d written short stories, nine his first year after graduation as he’d traveled all over the southwest, working all sorts of odd jobs to pay for rent and food. After two years, they’d finally begun selling. The income wasn’t much but the euphoria of seeing his name in print kept him going.

Devin lovingly ran his hands over the dust jacket. He’d kept moving, traveling, learning, researching. A hundred short stories later, he decided to try a novel. His love of the west combined with his fascination with mysteries led him to concentrate on western mysteries, which only a handful of authors were writing at the time.

He’d hired an agent who’d begun submitting his work to various publishers. It had taken three years—three long, hard years—before his first book sold. The following year, he’d published the second just as the first was published in paperback. Now, at long last, he was on his way, contracted for two more for more money than he’d dreamed possible.

Replacing the book alongside his second novel, Devin anchored them between two brass owl bookends, gifts from his father. He strolled into his living room, stopping to look out the large double windows. He could see Camelback Mountain in the near distance, serene as always under a clear, sunny sky. He’d visited many parts of Arizona in his travels, and fallen in love with the redrock country he used as the backdrop for some of his books.

Recently, when he’d decided it was time to leave the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a variety of reasons, he’d picked Scottsdale on the eastern border of Phoenix. Because it was small enough, western yet hardly provincial, classy yet homey. And it was only an hour’s flight to visit his family if he got the urge.

Here he could live quietly with a minimum of interruptions and only an occasional pang of guilt for not being at the beck and call of his huge clan. Devin loved his parents and five siblings and their spouses and his eleven nieces and nephews. But there was total bedlam when all the Grays got together, which was often enough to distract him big-time. They all seemed to thrive on chaos where he preferred quiet solitude. He’d decided to rent for a while and see if he liked the area well enough to build his dream house here. Already Scottsdale felt like home.