He planted both of his palms on the wall beside her head. “If you believe that’s going to happen, then you’re not a very bright girl.”
She might not be afraid of John, but being so close to him was very intimidating. His wide chest and thick arms made her feel as if she were completely surrounded by testosterone and hard muscles. The smell of soap on his skin and the hint of aftershave clogged her senses. “I’m not a girl,” she said, lowering her arms to her sides. “Seven years ago I may have been very immature, but that isn’t the case any longer. I’ve changed.”
His eyes lowered deliberately, and his grin wasn’t very nice when he said, “From what I can see, you haven’t changed all that much. You still look like a real good time.”
Georgeanne fought the urge to deck him. She glanced down at herself and felt heat rush up her throat to her cheeks. The edges of her big green robe lay open to the belted waist, exposing an embarrassing amount of cleavage and the entire top of her right breast. Horrified, she quickly grabbed the edges and closed the robe.
“Leave it,” John advised. “Seeing you like that just might put me in a more forgiving mood.”
“I don’t want your forgiveness,” she said as she ducked beneath his arm. “I’m getting dressed. I think you should leave.”
“I’ll be right here,” John promised as he turned and watched her hurry down the hall. His gaze narrowed as he noticed the sway of her hips and the bottom of her robe flutter around her bare ankles. He wanted to kill her.
Moving across the living room, he pushed aside a prissy lace curtain and stared out the front window. He had a child. A daughter he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. Until the moment Georgeanne had confirmed his suspicions, he hadn’t been completely certain Lexie was his. Now he knew, and the thought of it burned a hole in his chest.
His daughter. He fought a strong urge to march across the street and bring Lexie back. He wanted to just sit and look at her. He wanted to watch her and listen to her little voice. He wanted to touch her, but he knew he wouldn’t. Earlier, he’d felt big and awkward sitting next to her, a big man who sent vulcanized rubber pucks hurling across the ice at ninety-six miles an hour and who used his body as a human steamroller.
His daughter. He had a child. His child. He felt his anger swell, and he pushed it back behind the rigid control he kept on his temper.
John turned and walked to the brick fireplace. Spread across the mantel was a series of photographs in a variety of frames. In the first, a baby girl sat on a stool with the bottom edge of her T-shirt tucked beneath her chin while she found her belly button with her chubby index finger. He studied the picture, then turned his attention to the other photos illustrating various stages of Lexie’s life.
Fascinated by the likeness of his little girl, he reached for a small picture of a toddler with big blue eyes and pink chubby cheeks. Her dark hair stood straight up on the top of her head like a feather duster, and her little lips were pursed as if she were about to give the photographer a kiss.
A door down the hall opened and closed. He slipped
the thin-framed photograph into his pocket, then turned and waited for Georgeanne to appear. When she entered the room, he noticed that she’d pulled her hair back into a slick ponytail and had dressed in a white summer sweater. A gauzy skirt hung down to her ankles and clung to her long legs. She wore little white sandals with straps that crisscrossed up her calves. Her toenails were painted a dark purple.
“Would you care for some iced tea?” she asked as she came to stand in the middle of the room.
Under the circumstances, her hospitality surprised him. “No. No iced tea,” he said, lifting his gaze to her face. He had a lot of questions he needed answered.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” she offered, and swept her hand toward a white wicker chair covered in fluffy, frilly cushions.
“I’d rather stand.”
“Well, I’d rather not have to look up at you. Either we sit down and discuss this, or we don’t discuss it at all.”
She was ballsy. John didn’t remember that about her. The Georgeanne he remembered was a chatty tease. “Fine,” he said, and sat on the couch rather than the chair he didn’t trust to hold him. “What have you told Lexie about me?”
She took the wicker chair. “Why, nothing,” she drawled with her Texas accent not quite as heavy as he remembered.
“She has never asked about her father?”
“Oh, that.” Georgeanne sat back on the floral cushions and crossed one leg over the other. “She thinks you died when she was a baby.”
John was irritated by her answer, but he wasn’t surprised. “Really? How did I die?”
“Your F-16 was shot down over Iraq.”
“During the Gulf War?”
“Yes.” She smiled. “You were a very brave soldier. When Uncle Sam called for the finest fighter pilots, he phoned you first.”
“I’m Canadian.”
She shrugged. “Anthony was a Texan.”
“Anthony? Who the hell is Anthony?”