He stole another glance at the photograph as he drove the Range Rover across the 520. Little girls wore green boas and pink cowboy boots and cut the hair off their Barbies. A little girl chattered and giggled and kissed her mother good-bye with sweetly pursed lips.
Her mother. At the thought of Georgeanne, John’s hands tightened on the steering wheel once more. She’d kept his child a secret from him. All of those years of wanting, of watching other men with their children, and the whole time he had a daughter.
He’d missed so much. He’d missed her birth, her first steps, and her first words. She was a part of him. The same genes and chromosomes that made him were a part of her. She was a part of his family, and he’d had a right to know about her. Yet Georgeanne had decided that he hadn’t needed to know, and he could not separate the bitterness of that deed from the person responsible. Georgeanne had made the decision to keep his child’s existence from him, and he knew that he could never forgive her. For the first time in several years, he craved a bottle of Crown Royal, one shot glass, no ice to pollute the smooth whiskey. He blamed Georgeanne for the craving, because almost as much as he hated what she’d done, he hated what she made him feel.
How could he want to place his hands around her throat and squeeze, yet at the same time want to slip his hands lower and fill his palms with her breasts? Harsh laughter rumbled within his chest. When he’d had her against the wall, he was surprised that she hadn’t noticed his physical reaction. A reaction he’d been unable to control.
Where Georgeanne was concerned, he obviously had no control over his body. Seven years ago he hadn’t wanted to want her. She’d spelled trouble for him the minute she’d jumped into his car, but what he’d wanted hadn’t seemed to matter all that much, because right or wrong, good or bad, he’d been overwhelmingly attracted to her. From the tilt of her seductive green eyes and cover-girl lips, to the lure of her centerfold body, he had responded to her regardless of the situation.
Apparently that old saying about some things never changing was true, because he wanted her again, and it didn’t seem to make a whole hell of a lot of difference that she’d kept his daughter from him. He didn’t even like Georgeanne, but he wanted her. He wanted to touch her all over. Which he figured made him one sick bastard.
As he drove around the south end of Lake Union toward the western shore, h
e endeavored to push the memory of Georgeanne in her light green robe from his mind. He stole glances at the picture of Lexie propped up on the dashboard, and once he’d pulled the Range Rover into his parking spot, he grabbed the photograph and headed to the end of the dock where his nineteen-hundred-square-foot, two-story houseboat was moored.
Two years ago he’d bought the fifty-year-old houseboat and had hired a Seattle architect and an interior designer to redesign it from the floats up. When the job was finished, he owned a three-bedroom floating home with a gabled roof, several balconies, and wraparound windows. Until two hours ago, the houseboat had fit him perfectly. Now, as he shoved his key in the heavy wood door and pushed it open, he wasn’t so sure that it was the right place for a child.
Lexie is mine. I expect you to leave and forget about us. Georgeanne’s words echoed in his head, prodding his resentment and stirring the anger he held deep in his gut.
The soles of John’s loafers squeaked on the newly polished hardwood floor of the entry, then fell silent as he walked across plush rugs. He set the photograph of Lexie on an oak coffee table, which, like the floors, had been polished the day before by the cleaning service he employed. One of the three telephones sitting on a desk in the dining room rang and, after three rings, was picked up by one of three answering machines. John stilled, but when he heard his agent’s voice reminding him of his flight schedule for the following day, he turned his attention once again to the events of the past two hours. He moved toward a set of French doors and gazed out at the deck beyond.
Forget about Lexie. Now that he knew about his daughter, there wasn’t a chance that he’d forget. I won’t share her with you. John’s eyes narrowed on a pair of kayakers paddling across the lake’s smooth surface, then suddenly he turned and moved into the dining room. He reached for one of the telephones sitting on the mahogany desk and dialed the home telephone number of his lawyer, Richard Goldman. Once he had Richard on the phone, he explained the situation.
“Are you sure the child is yours?” his attorney asked.
“Yeah.” He glanced into the living room at the photograph of Lexie sitting on the coffee table. He’d told Georgeanne that he’d wait until Friday to contact an attorney, but he didn’t see any point in waiting. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
“This is a pretty big shock.”
He had to know where he stood legally. “Tell me about it.”
“And you don’t think she’s willing to let you see the girl again?”
“Nope. She was real clear about that.” John picked up a rock paperweight, tossed it in the air, then caught it in his palm. “I don’t want to take my daughter away from her mother. I don’t want to hurt Lexie, but I want to see her. I want to get to know her, and I want her to know me.”
There was a long pause before Richard said, “I specialize in business law, John. The only thing I can do is give you the name of a good family attorney.”
“That’s why I called you. I want someone good.”
“Then you want Kirk Schwartz. He specializes in child custody, and he’s good. Real good.”
“Mommy, Amy gots a Pizza Hut Skipper just like mine, and we played like both our Skippers work at the Pizza Hut, and we fight over Todd.”
“Hmm.” Georgeanne turned the handle of her Francis I fork, wrapping spaghetti around the tines. She twirled the pasta around and around as she stared at the narrow basket of French bread in the center of the table. Like a survivor of a bloody battle, she was exhausted, yet restless at the same time.
“And we made clothes for our Skippers out of Kleenex, and mine was a princess, so I drove in the empty box like it was a car. But I wouldn’t let Todd drive ‘cause he gots a ticket and likes Amy’s Skipper more than mine.”
“Hmm.” Again and again Georgeanne replayed what had happened that morning. She tried to remember what John had said and the way he’d said it. She tried to recall her response, but she couldn’t remember everything. She was tired, and confused, and afraid.
“Barbie was our mom and Ken was our dad and we went to Fun Forest and had a picnic by where the big fountain is. And I had magic shoes and could fly up higher than that one big building. I flew to the roof-”
Seven years ago she’d made the right decision. She was sure she had.
“-but Ken got drunk and Barbie had to drive him home.”
Georgeanne looked up at her daughter as Lexie sucked a saucy noodle between her lips. Her face was clean of cosmetics and her dark blue eyes shined with the excitement of her story. “What? What are you talking about?” Georgeanne asked.
Lexie licked the corners of her mouth, then swallowed. “Amy says her daddy drinks beer at the Seahawks and that her mommy gots to drive him home. He needs a ticket,” Lexie announced before she twirled more spaghetti with her fork. “Amy says that he walks around in his underwear and scratches his bum.”