Hot & Bothered

“What subtle threat? I haven’t said one freaking word that could remotely be construed as a threa—”

“But now that you’ve gotten what you wanted,” she said right over the top of him, surprised to find she was all but quivering with fury, “funny thing. I haven’t seen you make any effort to spend so much as five minutes with Esme since I introduced the two of you.”

John stared at the passion in Victoria’s face and felt his heart pound in his chest. This was the woman he remembered, with her electric eyes and intense fervency. The cool and reserved socialite he’d been dealing with since entering the Hamilton mansion annoyed the hell out of him, but he almost wished she’d come back. At least she didn’t confuse him so much, and God knew she was a whole lot easier to hold at arm’s length. This woman he wanted to throw down on the desk and have the kind of red-hot head-banging sex he remembered from six years ago.

She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat and he realized he’d been staring at her too long without responding to her accusation. Before he could say a word she’d whipped around on her expensively shod heels and he watched her hair bell out then settle back into place as she stalked from the room. The door closed behind her and he threw himself back into his chair. Swearing, he rammed his fingers through his hair and ground the heels of both hands into his scorched eyes.

What the hell was he doing here? He knew nothing about being a parent. Less than nothing. The truth was, just the thought of it scared the bejesus out of him.

And wasn’t that one for the books? In the ordinary run of events he wasn’t a man prone to fears. The day after graduating high school he’d forged his old man’s signature so he could join the Marines and he’d spent the next fifteen years in every hellhole and hot spot in the world. It wasn’t that he’d never been afraid, of course—only a fool went up against trigger-happy terrorists armed with the latest in automatic weaponry without a healthy dose of fear to keep him cautious. But he’d learned to take in stride the kind of things that would probably start the average guy’s bowels to churning.

Wasn’t it a hell of a note, then, that a tiny peanut of a girl with a mess of hair and big dark eyes should be the one to strike terror in his soul?

He’d deliberately stayed out late last night and had left before breakfast this morning in order to avoid running into Esme. Not that curiosity wasn’t gnawing at him like a rat on cheese. He wanted to know everything about her—what kind of toys did she like, which vegetables did she hate, did she like to be read to? Or maybe five-year-olds read for themselves—what did he know about such matters? He’d like to discover the answer to that, too. But the voice in his head that had kept him one step ahead of his father’s fists, one dodge away from bullets sprayed by captors of the political hostages he’d been sent to retrieve over the years, whispered warnings to keep his distance.

He should probably head back to Denver and let Victoria get back to her well-structured life. Hell, let her raise little Esme any way she saw fit; she was obviously an excellent mother.

He, on the other hand, knew bugger-all about being a father.

But much as the idea appealed to him, he knew he wasn’t going to do it. Not yet at any rate. Gert had the office running with the precision of a German-made engine, and he’d caught up on all of the cases requiring his attention in Denver. Then, too, he still had a number of people to contact here.

Besides—his jaw stiffened—there wasn’t a female born who could make him tuck tail and run. Not some little bit of a thing less than three feet tall and not her leggy mother, either.

Tori probably hadn’t meant it as such, but she’d issued him a challenge. She’d all but accused him of being too chickenshit to get to know his daughter. And, fine, he’d admit it—that was exactly how he’d behaved. Didn’t mean he couldn’t do better, though.

It might take a little time for him to gird his loins. But John Miglionni didn’t run from any challenge.

CHAPTER FIVE

“HERE, SWEETHEART.” VICTORIA stooped to untuck a narrow ruffle that had bunched beneath the strap of Esme’s backpack. Glancing into her daughter’s dark eyes, she smiled at the excitement shining there. She smoothed the hem of the little retro flower-power tank top over Esme’s cotton shorts, then brushed back a stray tendril of baby-fine hair that had escaped the little girl’s fat braids. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Uh-huh.” Esme fidgeted away from her mother’s fussing fingers. “I’m tidy, Mummy,” she said impatiently. “When’s Rebecca gonna be here? I been waiting forever.”

“Or at least five minutes, anyhow.” Victoria struggled to keep her amusement to herself. She heard footsteps coming up the steps of the portico and patted Esme’s arm. “There. That’s probably Rebecca and her mum now.”

Instead of the expected knock, however, the big mahogany door simply opened, bringing a wash of sunlight into the house. Then the door clicked closed and there stood John. A fierce scowl marred his brow, but the instant he saw Tori and Esme in the foyer, it disappeared. His eyes were slow to lose their storminess and remained watchful, but the glower was immediately replaced by a courteous curve of his lips.

The insincerity of that smile irritated Victoria no end. Good Lord, he seemed more like a soldier to her now than he had six years ago when he’d still actually been one. Back then, at least, he’d never hesitated to exhibit emotion, and his expression had always been open. These days she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

“Hullo, Mr. Miglondoanni!”

Victoria’s heart clutched at the bright expectancy in her daughter’s face as she stared up all unknowing at the man who’d fathered her. But she managed to say calmly, “It’s Miglionni, sweetie.”

“It’s a mouthful either way, especially when the mouth trying to pronounce it belongs to such a dainty little thing.” He smiled down at Esme, and this time genuine humor warmed his eyes. “Instead of trying to wrap your lips around all those syllables, why don’t you just call me—” with a quick glance at Victoria, he cleared his throat “—John. That would probably be simplest.”

“’Kay.”

He dropped to a crouch in front of her and reached out long, tanned fingers to the braided and bespeckled doll that peeked over Esme’s shoulder from her backpack. “Who is this? Your sister?”

“No, silly. That’s my American Girl doll. Her name is Molly Mack-’n-tire.”

“She’s very cute.” He hesitated, clearing his throat again as patent uncertainty dimmed the usual lady-killer wattage of his charm. “Nearly as cute as you,” he added and gave her a small, crooked grin so diffidently sweet it made Victoria blink.

“Oh, you.” Esme giggled in delight and gave him a flirtatious poke with one soft little finger. It didn’t cause so much as a dimple in the soft cloth stretched across his hard chest. “Do you like her Route 66 frock?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s very, uh…blue.”

“Yes, lovely, isn’t it? It’s new. Mummy sent away for it on the inner net.”

“Internet, Esme.”

“Uh-huh.” The little girl didn’t spare her so much as a glance. Her bright-eyed gaze was locked firmly on Rocket. “I have a playdate with Rebecca Chilworth. She and her mummy are s’posed to pick me up, but they’re late. Rebecca’s my best friend, you know. Fiona Smyth was my best friend, but now that I live in the States, Rebecca is. Her and my mummies usta know each other a long time ago. Do you have a best friend?”

“Yes, I have two.” He looked a little dazed, but added gamely, “Their names are Cooper and Zach. We were in the Marines together.”

Her brow puckered in confusion. “What’s that?”

“They’re soldiers, Es,” Victoria interjected. “Like the Queen’s Guards at home.”

“Only better,” John added. “A Marine wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those tall-ass furry hats.”

None of which appeared to enlighten Esme, so Victoria added, “You know, sweetie. Like what Mr. McIntire is in.”

Her daughter’s whole face lit up and the look she flashed John couldn’t have been more awed if a super-hero had suddenly sprung to life. “You been over the seas, then?” she demanded.

“Yes. I’ve spent quite a bit of time in other countries.”

“Molly’s papa is over the seas, and she has to make sack fries.”

John’s expression not only lacked comprehension, he looked downright stupefied. Esme’s gregarious chatter could do that to a person, so Victoria decided to take pity on him. But she didn’t bother to swallow the little smile that quirked her lips. It was refreshing to see him at sea in his dealings with a female.

“Glad to see you’re having a good time,” he growled and her smile grew.

“Oh, I am.” But she saw Esme’s baffled expression and straightened her face. “Each of the American Girl dolls are set in a different era,” she informed him. “And part of their appeal lies in the books that come with them, with settings in the doll’s specific period in history. Molly’s stories describe life on the home front during World War II, from the challenge of having a father who’s overseas, to the sacrifices her family makes to help their country win the war.”

Esme beamed at the dark-haired man in front of her. “Sack fries,” she agreed. “Mummy says that’s part of what makes Molly a hair win.”

“Heroine, sweetie.”

“Ah.” Then John, too, grinned, a slash of white so reminiscent of the carefree, I-can-charm-your-pants-off, you-gotta-love-me smile that had first sucked Victoria into his orbit all those years ago she felt her knees grow weak and her thighs clamp tight.

She unlocked the latter and took a hasty step away to give herself some distance before she did something foolish like reach out and run her fingers over the same hard surface her daughter had poked. Hot awareness surged so fast and furiously through her system that blisters were no doubt popping up in its wake, and she gave silent thanks when the doorbell rang. She crossed the entryway and opened the door, greeting Rebecca and her mother with even more warmth than usual.

With the arrival of her friend, Esme lost interest in John so fast and completely it made his head swim. He’d been doing okay there for a while, but apparently she had bigger fish to fry now, and there was a lesson to be learned from thinking he’d been making some kind of headway. He watched as she threw her arms around Tori’s neck, pursed her little rosebud lips for an enthusiastic smooch, then tore away and clattered out the door, exchanging machine-gun-rapid patter with a little curly-haired dishwater blonde he could only assume was the aforementioned best friend Rebecca. Being able to charm a little girl for five minutes didn’t mean he knew squat about kids in the long term, he reminded himself.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” a more mature version of the little blonde said breathlessly to Victoria, pulling his attention away from the children who were climbing into a minivan parked on the circular drive. “I overestimated how quickly I could run a few errands. And Lord knows—”

“Ma-mmmm!”