One-Night Love-Child

All of a sudden her lukewarm attitude towards their Valentine’s Day date had undergone a definite change. Focusing on Adam would be far better than spending the evening at home thinking about Flynn.

She glanced at her watch. It was quarter to four. She didn’t know how long he expected to stay, and she didn’t want to follow them to Liam’s bedroom and ask. Even from the kitchen she could hear Liam’s excited chatter and Flynn’s low baritone responses. She could hear that blasted Irish lilt in his voice. God, it was seductive. Even now—forewarned, forearmed—it had the power to raise goose bumps along her spine and make the back of her neck tingle.

“Adam,” she said aloud. “Think about Adam.” She had to get ready to go out with Adam.

Resolutely she climbed the stairs. At the end of the hall she could see into Liam’s room, could see Liam darting past the doorway, talking a mile a minute, could see Flynn’s long legs stretched out as he sat on Liam’s bed.

She did not want to think about Flynn in the same sentence with the word bed.

She got her clean clothes from her own room, then headed for the bathroom, calling out as she went, “I’ll be in the shower.”

It was only to let them know where she was. She hoped to heaven Flynn didn’t think it was an invitation!

Of course he didn’t. But it didn’t stop her face from flaming. She was mortified to see how red it looked when she glanced in the bathroom mirror. “Stop it,” she commanded herself. “Stop thinking about him.”

Of course, that was easier said than done. She showered quickly—and used mostly cold water, not wanting to think why it seemed suddenly such a good idea. She washed her hair and blew it dry. Then she dressed in the black velvet pants and red cashmere sweater that her sister Lizzie had given her for Christmas.

She had worn a red sweater the night she had gone to Flynn’s motel room. And the memory almost had her pulling the sweater back over her head and looking for something else. But to do so would give him more power over her than he deserved.

He deserved no power at all.

Besides, she thought with all the dispassion she could muster, he probably wouldn’t even have the vaguest notion of what she’d worn. He hadn’t cared about her the way she had about him.

Flicking a brush through her hair, then putting on some lipstick that she dared hope she would not gnaw off, she gave herself one last stern look, then opened the bathroom door.

It was completely quiet. There was no sound of Liam’s eager chatter now, no Irish lilt from Flynn. The light in Liam’s room was off.

Had Flynn had enough already and left?

It was a happy thought—followed immediately by, Then where was Liam?

She hurried downstairs. No one was in the kitchen, either.

“Liam?”

She got no answer. He’d better not be playing hide-and-seek without telling her. When he was four he’d thought it fun to dart into the closet and stay still as a mouse while she went nuts looking for him. But he was five now—nearly five and a half—and she’d told him off in no uncertain terms. He knew better. He’d moved on to other sins—like sneaking in TV cartoons when he thought she wouldn’t notice.

“You’d better not be watching television, young man,” she said, marching across the kitchen and sticking her head around the door to look in the living room, expecting to find him in the semidarkened room with the sound turned down.

But only Sid the cat was there, sleeping on the couch. He raised his head and gave her a baleful look before closing his eyes again.

Sara was not given to panic. She had learned not to. But now her heart began to pound. She spun back into the kitchen.

“Liam!” Her voice rose.

Where was he? He wasn’t supposed to go anywhere without telling her. Another of his sins. He’d been in trouble for going to Celie’s during Christmas vacation without telling her he was leaving. She’d come down on him like a ton of bricks. He wouldn’t do it again.

Would he?

Now she saw that his jacket was gone. His boots were gone.

And so was Flynn.

No!

He wouldn’t! He’d never—

I’ll take you to Ireland, he’d said. And she’d refused to discuss it.

He couldn’t have just walked in and taken off with her child!

She ran to the back door and jerked it open. “Liam!” She was desperate now, frantic as she ran out onto the snow-covered porch. “Liam!”

“What?” The small surprised voice came from around the side of the house. It sounded quite close and completely bewildered.

Oh, God. The surge of relief nearly melted Sara’s bones. Her legs wobbled and she gripped the pillar at the top of the stairs as, a second later, Liam’s head poked around the corner.

“You don’t have to yell. I’m right here,” he said indignantly.

“So I…see.” She was still gasping for air. Her heart was still slamming against the wall of her chest. “Where’s Flynn? Where’s your…father,” she amended, still breathing hard.

“Right here.” Liam jerked his head towards the side yard. “We’re buildin’ a castle.” He gave Sara a thumb’s-up and grinned broadly. “Like Dunmorey.”

Sara was still gulping air, still bashing down the panic, when Flynn came around the corner of the house. It had begun to snow again and his midnight hair was dusted with sparkling white snowflakes. He looked rugged and handsome and gorgeously reminiscent of the first time she had seen him.

She started trembling.

His intent green gaze fixed on her. “Something wrong?”

“No. I just—” she dragged in a breath “—didn’t realize you’d gone outside.” Her fingers still gripped the porch pillar. “I thought…”

But she couldn’t admit what she’d thought, couldn’t acknowledge aloud her terror at the belief—even for a split second—that he’d done the most devastating thing of all: taken her son.

She shook her head. “I didn’t know where he was. I thought…never mind. Just…carry on.” And with those words she turned abruptly and hurried back into the house, shaken, relieved and shattered all at the same time.

She shut the door and sank down into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, trying with trembling fingers to peel of her snow-soaked socks.

The back door opened, and Flynn strode in.

“You thought I’d taken him.” His words were flat. His eyes accused her.

She tried to quiet the shaking and forced herself to concentrate on peeling off the socks before she would answer. Then she stood up, needing to be on a level with him, needing to find her self-control before she could reply. “I didn’t know what you’d done.”

But she couldn’t deny her panic—it was still there in her voice and she was sure he could read it on her face.

Flynn’s jaw tightened. He pushed the door shut behind him.

Sara shot a glance towards the side yard. “Liam—”