The Baby Came C.O.D. Part 14

The sale of her parents' house provided for the down payment on her own. It didn't, however, provide for the subsequent monthly payments. What remained of the proceeds from their house was eaten up by unexpected outstanding debts that came to light, as well as by a letter demanding payment for back taxes that had been overlooked. Claire settled everything and was left with nothing.

Nothing but Libby, her house and her determination. It was enough.

But being sick had temporarily depleted her supply of hope and with it, her optimism. Claire could feel the Aesthetics account slipping through her fingers. There was no way she could land it now. The company wasn't going to smile upon a neighbor coming by with two children in tow to drop off her presentation on the receptionist's desk.

If Evan even made it.

Which led her to her more major concern. Where was he? Where were the children? She knew if Libby was back, she'd hear the sound of running feet echoing somewhere in the house. Libby could never be accused of being a quiet child, even when she slept.

Where was she?

Claire slid down farther in the bed, pulling the covers over herself, wis.h.i.+ng she could at least fall into the mind- numbing abyss of unconsciousness.

She must have fallen asleep eventually, because the very next thing she knew, Libby was in the room, bouncing on the bed. Even in her present state, Claire welcomed the jarring motion. It took all the restraint she had not to hug her daughter.

"You did it, Mama, you did it." Libby leaned forward, peering into Claire's face. "Do you feel better now?"

"Did what, honey?" It disturbed her greatly that she could barely pick up her head. Instead of better, she was feeling worse.

And then Evan was in the room, taking Libby's hand. Taking Libby. "C'mon, Libby, you know you're not supposed to be in here."

His voice was gentle, kind. Or maybe that was just her delirium growing.

Libby was on the verge of tears. She didn't want to be separated from her mother again. "But she's my mama."

Evan sighed. The last thing he wanted was a scene, or to have Libby crying. But she couldn't stay here, either. Claire was still ill and besides needing her rest, she could still infect Libby.

He picked Libby up, holding her against him. She squirmed, then gave up.

"And she's going to continue to be your mama, but right now, she needs her rest, okay?" He could feel the indecision warring within the young body. Evan threw in what he hoped was his ace. It had worked before. "And I need your help with Rachel."

In the dim light, Claire could just about see Libby pouting over his shoulder as Evan carried her daughter out.

"Okay, I guess. But you tell me as soon as Mama's rested and better. Deal?"

"Deal," he promised.

"What did she mean?" Claire asked suddenly, hoa.r.s.ely calling after Evan as Libby's words registered. "That I did it?"

Evan stopped in the doorway. Nothing pleased him more than telling her this. "You got the account. Congratulations."

"That's nice," Claire murmured, and then slipped away again.

She thought she heard someone laugh, but couldn't be sure.

She dreamed it, knew she dreamed it. After all, it was a dream for her, to get the Aesthetic Athletics account. That had been lost to her because she had gotten sick tending to Evan.

Everything happened for a reason. She just didn't understand this one yet.

Didn't understand, either, why she and Evan were celebrating. Dancing somewhere high above, surrounded by clouds, with suns.h.i.+ne streaming through, bathing them both.

Suns.h.i.+ne had to be the reason she felt so warm in his arms. So aglow.

And then they weren't dancing anymore. They were kissing, holding each other tightly as if that were all that counted in the world. His kisses grew more ardent, more pa.s.sionate.

She could feel the floodgates quaking, threatening to break within her. Threatening to flood her, not with water, but with emotions. Emotions she had struggled so hard to lock away after Jack had deserted her.

Emotions only hurt you.

But they didn't hurt now. They felt good. Wonderful.

Evan felt wonderful.

And her body felt like a rare violin, being played after having been kept in a dark case for so many years. It hummed.

There were angels watching them. No, not angels, Rachel and Libby, standing beside a mirror image of the two of them. Except that the mirror image was different somehow. It was her, but it wasn't her; him, but not him.

And they were smiling. Smiling at the pair kissing in the center of a dance floor made up of clouds. Smiling at her and Evan.

Suddenly, the girls vanished. Heat crept up her neck as she felt and watched the kiss blossom into something so powerfully potent, it made her head spin and her desire soar. He was undressing her, loving her with his hands, with his eyes, with his lips.

Loving her...

Claire woke up with a start, then dragged air into lungs that felt as if they had been completely depleted of oxygen.

Her pulse was beating wildly.

Momentarily disoriented, Claire looked around, expecting to see clouds. Expecting to see Evan. There were no clouds, no mirror images, no angels. No Evan. She wasn't even in her own bed. This wasn't her bedroom; it was Evan's.

Evan's.

Completely conscious now, Claire looked down at herself, fervently hoping that what she'd dreamed hadn't been reality. That they hadn't danced, hadn't kissed.

Hadn't...made love, she realized.

But she wasn't nude; she was wearing pajamas.

She didn't own pajamas....

It took her another moment to remember that they were his and that she had put them on just before she'd collapsed in his bed.

Claire sank back against her pillow. The red-hot, tingling sensation that had danced through her body was only now beginning to settle down. She could feel herself blus.h.i.+ng.

They'd made love in her dream, she and Evan. That was why she felt as if her entire body was on fire. It wasn't the fever that was to blame; it was the dream. Claire touched her forehead. It was damp and warm, but not hot.

She wasn't delirious, just sick.

And turned on.

Claire drew in a few more breaths, forcing herself to calm down. She'd almost succeeded, and then negated it all by remembering the children.

Dear heaven, she'd been lying here in bed, having sensual dreams while the children were out there, with him. Who knew what they'd gone through? They were probably hungry and dirty and...

She had to get up and get to them. They needed her. Evan needed her.

Summoning her strength, Claire stumbled out of bed and made her way into the hall as best she could. The process was much too slow to satisfy her. Claire had to stop and hold on to the walls and then the doorjamb to steady herself.

Each time, the room rippled like a mirage in the blazing desert sun.

She finally made it into the hallway and inched her way along the walls. When she stopped concentrating on getting her balance, she realized that she was listening to Evan's voice.

He was reading something out loud. A story.

Bracing herself as she moved, Claire drew closer to the sound of his voice. The door was open, and she peered into the room.

He was sitting on a chair with Libby on his lap. The bed was turned down and waiting for her. Evan was patiently reading a story to Libby out of her favorite book.

He must have gone and gotten it from her room, Claire realized.

"...and the Prince and Cinderella lived happily ever after." Evan closed the book and then looked at Libby expectantly.

Libby wriggled in his lap. "More, please," she begged.

This was beginning to be a familiar pattern, but he was up to it.

"No, you've got to make good on your promise. You said one more story and then you'd go to bed. I read the story, now you have to go to bed." He set her down on the floor.

The sigh was bigger than Libby. She pouted, but saw no way out. "Okay, I guess."

Evan pulled back the covers for her, waiting for her to get in. "You bet okay. You want to grow up to be big and strong and pretty just like your mother, don't you?"

Libby scrambled into the bed. "Mama's beautiful, not pretty," she corrected loyally.

Evan tucked the blanket around her and smiled, thinking of Claire. "Yes, she is."

Libby studied him with the same intensity that scientists examine microbes under a microscope. "You like my mama?"

He'd discovered in the past few days that not much got by Libby. Since they were alone, he saw no reason to deny it. "Yes, she's a very nice lady."

She thought he liked her more than just nice. "She's like Cinderella, isn't she?"

Evan pretended to look surprised. "You mean she sews clothes for mice?"

He got the reaction he was after. Libby covered her mouth and giggled. "No, silly. I mean she works real hard. All the time." She exaggerated the word on purpose.

He could see where Libby could draw the comparison. "Yes, she certainly does."

Encouraged by his agreement, Libby continued spinning her childlike web. "She needs a prince to marry her."

Evan could just hear what Claire would have to say about that comment. Claire had made it very clear that she was doing fine on her own. No princes for her. Which was a d.a.m.n shame. Not that he was the prince type, but he wouldn't mind trying to take care of her once in a while. He discovered that he rather liked the feeling of caring for someone.

"I don't think your mother needs anything. She's a very independent lady."

It was what, Claire thought, she had striven for. What she would have wanted to hear someone say of her. So why did hearing it from Evan's lips make her feel so empty?

Libby still liked the idea of a prince. And so did Mama- she was sure of it. "Mama says everybody needs somebody, no matter who they are."

He paused, looking down at the little girl. He wondered if there was a hidden message in all this, or if he was just hoping there was. "Your mama is a very wise lady."

He was about to leave. Libby stopped him dead with her next question. "Will you be her prince?"

Evan laughed. Now, there was a role he wasn't qualified for. "I'm not anybody's idea of a prince."

Libby sat up. "You are mine," she told him enthusiastically. Momentum grew in her voice. "And Rachel's."

It was a simple fantasy and simple words, coming from a four-year-old. He had no idea why they should touch him so much. But they did.

"Rachel's too young to think or have an opinion," he told her softly. He tried to make her lie back, but she was like a spring that refused to stay in position.

"No, she's not. She thinks just like I do." Rachel was going to grow up just like her, Libby thought confidently. She just knew it.

Evan knew better than to argue with Libby. Diplomacy was what was called for here. "Well, she's asleep right now, and so should you be."

Libby wanted to rub her eyes, but she clenched her hands into small fists on either side of her. Rubbing her eyes would make him think she was tired.

"I'm not sleepy. Really I'm not," she insisted. And then she raised hopeful eyes to his face. "Will you stay here till I fall asleep?"

He was tired, and there were things he still had to do. He'd hooked up with his office and should have been working on something for the past hour instead of sitting here and reading to Libby.

Evan nodded at the light switch. "How about if I leave the light on again?"

She didn't want the light. Lights didn't make monsters go away. Only grown-ups did. "No, stay. Please?"

There was an urgency in her voice he couldn't force himself to ignore. For some reason, she didn't want to be alone. It had been a long time ago, but he could vaguely remember being afraid of the dark.

"All right. But you have to promise you'll try very hard to fall asleep quickly."

She nodded her head vigorously. "I promise." She eyed the storybook on the chair. "I fall asleep faster if Mama reads to me."

He should have seen this one coming a mile away.

"Con artist." He laughed, shaking his head. "Libby, I think you're going to go all the way and become president someday."

She took the comment in stride, as her due. Presidents were important people who were in history books and got to talk on TV. It might be a nice job to have. She looked at him. "If I do, will you come and read to me, Mr. Q.?"

"Only if you don't call me Mr. Q. It makes me feel like a character on 'Star Trek.'"

"What's that?"