A Christmas Cowboy. Suzannah Davis
Her teeth snapped together. “Keep your contempt for my profession to yourself.”
“Now there’s a trick and a half! Last time I had the misfortune to tune in, you and that pretty boy you play against were cuddled up in a hot under-the-covers scene. Tell me, do you often work naked in this ‘profession’ of yours?”
Marisa’s eyes flashed her annoyance. “Dear Mac. As abrasive and crude as ever.”
“I’m paid to ask the hard questions, honey,” he drawled.
“Eric and I share a great respect for each other’s work. It’s a matter of trust and communication.” Her voice went sugar sweet. “But some people have trouble understanding such a simple, basic concept. And, unlike others I can name, Eric has never made so much as a single off-color remark to me.”
“Too tongue-tied by your beauty au naturel, I guess.”
“For your information, Eric and I have never gotten naked together...on camera.” Smiling as he chewed on that, Marisa pointed at the generator. “Now, why don’t you use a little of that brute strength you’re so fond of showing off to crank this thing!”
Jaw taut, Mac glared at her, then reached for the starter rope. Ten frustrating minutes later, he gave up. “It’s no use. If I could break it down, maybe clean out the carburetor...”
Marisa sighed. “Forget it then. We’ll just have to make do.”
“Not something a princess is accustomed to, eh?”
She looked blank for a moment, then pitched the flashlight at his head and stormed out of the lean-to. Mac ducked and went after her, his temper at the flash point. He caught up with her in two steps, looped his arm around her waist and physically dragged her into the garage, ignoring her futile attempts to break free as the wind howled around them.
“Let me go!”
Shutting the garage door behind them, Mac obliged, thrusting her down onto a pile of stacked boxes. “Sit. And shut up. We’re going to get a few things straight.”
“I’m sick of you!” Marisa whipped off her cap, shook her hair free and wiped her damp face. “Sick of the sight of you, do you hear?”
“Yeah. You’re my favorite person, too.”
Mac looked around. The garage was frigid, but being out of the wind was a relief. Several generations of tarps and tools and outdated farm and sporting equipment of every description hung from the rafters and walls. A gray sedan sat in one of the parking spaces, the vehicle Marisa had used on her escape from Los Angeles. Which brought him back to the reason he was here.
“Are you ready to tell me what really went down with you and your husband and Dr. Morris?”
Marisa spluttered in fury. “Nothing, I told you! I never heard of him until that day in Jackie Horton’s studio! Nicky’s adoption was handled by the Latimore Corporation attorneys, and it was all perfectly legal, Mr. Hotshot Reporter!”
Mac’s voice was quiet. “Then why did you run?”
“I did not—” She caught a shaky breath.
“This place wasn’t as far as you planned to go with the kid, was it? What were you thinking? Canada, maybe? Some Greek Island? Talk about parental kidnapping with a twist, jet-set-style.”
Hot color burned her cheeks, but she looked him in the eye and denied it. “Assumptions, Mahoney. You’ve got no facts, and no self-respecting journalist is going to run a story based merely on air. You used to be capable of better than this.”
“You’d do anything to protect the kid, wouldn’t you?”
“He’s my son. What do you think?”
“I think there’s a birth mother out there who’s owed some explanations.”
“Look, I feel for the women this Dr. Morris exploited, but that’s only one side of this story. There are families involved, families and lives that you’re disrupting, even destroying—hasn’t that occurred to you?”
“We find the truth, we get justice. It’s as simple as that.”
“God, it’s not!” She stood up, staring at him in sheer disbelief. “Why must it always be either black or white with you, Mac? The world has shades of gray, too.”
“All I want to do is shut down the baby mill.”
“At what cost?” she cried. “Do the ends always justify the means to you?”
“If it keeps the bastard from using other innocent women like he did the kid’s mother.”
“I’m his mother! And I’m just as innocent and undeserving of this mess that you’ve made of our lives! Can’t you for one minute see past your damned story to realize that?”
“The facts say otherwise. And you’re going to have to face up to them eventually, one way or the other.”
“I’ve told you, your facts are all wrong!” Marisa shoved him hard in the chest with both hands. “And the kid’s name is Nicholas!”
He nodded, barely rocked by her puny blow. “As in the saint, right? Which reminds me. You’ve got a problem. He thinks Santa Claus is bringing him a horse for Christmas.”
“A horse. For Christmas? That’s just—” she gulped “—four days?”
Mac nodded again.
Her expression was stricken with a horrible realization. “Oh, God. We won’t be able to drive out by then.”
He shook his head.
“Everything’s at home. All Nicky’s presents. I had everything on his list. I can’t even get to a store! I never thought...I never dreamed...” Feeling behind her, she sat down heavily on the boxes again. Her eyes filled. “Oh, no.”
Mac felt something hit him in the gut. “Hey, don’t do that.”
She wasn’t listening. A tear splashed over her lashes and trailed down her cheek. “He’s just a baby. He’ll be so disappointed. How will I explain?”
Mac was gruff. “You’ll think of something.”
“It’s all your fault.” Her eyes were indigo, swimming in liquid crystal. “If you hadn’t started this, he’d be safe at home where he belongs, sleeping in his own bed, waiting for Christmas morning. I’ll never forgive you for this, Mahoney.”
“Marisa...” He was beside her, cradling her tear-streaked face in his gloved palms, bending forward so that his forehead almost touched hers. His throat felt thick. “Lord, help me, you’re still such a baby yourself.”
“Because I believe in dreams, Mac?” She held on to his wrists, looking up at him in misery. “You never really understood, did you? You were always too much the cynic to realize that dreams are the most important things in life. Especially a little boy’s Christmas dreams.”
From deep in his memory came a vivid picture of a small dark-haired lad—Mac, himself—with his nose pressed to a store window, longing with every fiber of his six-year-old being for the magnificent red dragline with the Tonka name on its side. It was better than a dinosaur, better than a fire truck, and most certainly better than the pair of sturdy school shoes that had been the only present to appear that long-ago Christmas morning.
Mac swallowed. “That’s not true.”
Her lids dropped and more tears slid down her face. “What am I going to do?”
“Marisa, don’t.” Seeking to comfort, he nuzzled her temple, then the corner of her eye, tasted the salty essence, murmured soothing nonsense. Like a flower turning to face the sun, she raised her face to his. Mac’s gloved thumb caught at the corner of her mouth. Slowly her eyes opened and she searched