Daddy By Choice. Paula Riggs Detmer
the rest of the office, it was furnished in Southwestern pastels. The chairs for visitors were well padded and covered in soothing shades of green and beige. His own chair was upholstered in brown leather that looked butter soft and showed definite signs of wear.
A Navajo blanket of excellent quality covered part of one wall, and a signed lithograph of the desert at dawn hung behind the desk. As far as she could see the only visible sign of his rodeoing days was a small bronze statue of a wild-eyed stallion trying to unseat its rider, used as a paperweight on the desk.
Both her charts were there, as well, sitting squarely in the middle of the blotter. Though she knew it was inappropriate, she was sorely tempted to take a quick peek at the notes Luke had jotted down in his left-handed scrawl. Only the knowledge that she would feel horrendously embarrassed if he caught her kept her hands in her lap.
Though by necessity intimate, the examination itself had been virtually painless. As he’d worked, he and Esther had ragged each other about a dispute over a called third strike during her son’s last Little League game.
By the time they’d finished insulting each other, the exam had been finished and Luke was helping Madelyn to sit up. Before she could launch into the anxious questions tumbling in her mind, he’d stripped off his gloves and been on his way out.
“We’ll talk in my office,” he’d told her with a noncommittal smile before disappearing.
So here she was, fully dressed again in her new maternity power suit, so uptight she was surprised she didn’t creak when she moved. Certainly she couldn’t sit still, she realized as she got up from the chair and went over to inspect the snapshots and children’s artwork pinned to a large bulletin board opposite the desk. Most of the drawings were addressed to “Uncle Luke,” the letters printed laboriously in crayon or pencil. Several, however, had obviously been done by an older child and showed a definite flair.
One in particular caught her eye. It was of a cowboy astride a yellow horse, his gloved hands crossed over the pommel, his hat pushed to the back of his head, the way Luke used to wear his when he was feeling playful. At eighteen, he’d been breathtakingly earthy, the epitome of untamed masculinity to a naive girl raised on cowboy lore.
“That was a Christmas present from my goddaughter.”
Startled, she whirled around. “She’s very talented.”
“I think so.” After closing the door, he crossed the room to stand next to her. She’d forgotten how tall he seemed when they stood side by side, how he filled up the room with restless energy even when he was standing still. She felt that same energy seeping into her now.
“That’s her there,” he said, indicating a glossy photo of a young girl perched in front of Luke on the saddle of a breathtakingly gorgeous palomino. About five or six, she had dark braids, big brown eyes and looked impossibly dainty snuggled against his broad chest.
“Her name’s Tory MacAuley,” he said, his voice a little gruff. “Her mom’s a kindergarten teacher and her dad’s a neurosurgeon at Port Gen.”
Madelyn forced herself to smile. “How old is she?”
“Five and three-quarters. A real proper lady already. Reminds me a little of you, actually.” His grin transformed his face, erasing years and strain. “She informed me a few weeks ago that all the boys in morning kindergarten were pigs.”
Madelyn laughed softly. “She’ll change her mind soon enough.”
“That’s a fact, though I wouldn’t care to be in her daddy’s shoes when it happens.” A look she couldn’t decipher crossed his face for an instant before he glanced toward the desk. “How about we have that talk I promised you?”
“Yes, fine.” Madelyn hurried to the chair she’d just left. Outside an ambulance wailed as it sped along the hospital access road, and rain pelted the twin windows. Luke snapped on the brass lamp, then waited until she’d seated herself before settling with surprising stiffness into his own chair.
“The baby’s a good size for twenty-three weeks with a good strong heartbeat. The two ultrasound photos Dr. Morrow included show a definite increase in the size of the fibroid, which is a concern. But your blood pressure is fine and from what I’ve seen, you’re in excellent health. Just to be on the safe side, though, I’d like to have Esther draw some blood and we’ll set up an appointment to do another ultrasound. After that, I’ll have a better idea—”
The door flew open, startling them both. “Sorry to interrupt, Doctor,” the redheaded receptionist exclaimed as she rushed in. “We just got a call from the ER. Marlene Gregory was hit by a car as she was crossing Powell Street, and the baby’s in trouble. The trauma surgeon said he’d meet you in the OR stat.”
Luke was already on his feet by the time the receptionist ran out of air. “I’m sorry, Maddy, I have to go.”
“Of course,” she said, rising. “I’ll wait.”
He hesitated, then came around the desk. “Look, I don’t know how long I’ll be. Where are you staying? I’ll call you when I’m done, and we can set a time to meet.”
“I’m at the Mallory Hotel downtown. But I don’t mind waiting. Really.”
“Go back there, order yourself a blood-rare steak with all the trimmings for lunch and then take a nice long nap.”
“But—”
“Doctor’s orders, Mrs. Foster.” He gave her a quick—and impersonal—smile before hurrying out.
Chapter 4
Built in the early twenties on a hill overlooking Portland’s central district, the Mallory Hotel retained all the elegance of an earlier more gracious era. In the lobby glittering crystal dripped from a magnificent chandelier while classical music soothed tempers and set the mood.
Madelyn’s room was on the fourth floor. Discreet signs directed Luke to the right and down a long dogleg. Thick green carpet splashed with pink and purple roses muffled the sounds of his boots as he checked the shiny brass numbers affixed to the old-fashioned doors. Her room was the second from the end and looked out toward the business district wedged between two mighty rivers.
The Willamette and the Columbia.
He chuckled to himself as he recalled her nervous travelogue in his office. That first night in Texas she’d chattered a mile a minute all the way to the motel, her breath coming out in cute little bursts. And when she hadn’t been chattering like a magpie, she’d been gnawing on that curvy little bottom lip. A classic response to anxiety. Him, he tended to dive a little deeper into that private place inside no one had ever seen. He knew the stony silence made him seem grumpy and maybe a bit remote, but anything was safer than having his insecurities hanging out naked for the whole damn world to kick.
His gut tightened as he lifted a hand and knocked. While he waited, he worked at blocking out the screaming ache in his spine. Just as he lifted his hand to knock again, the door swung open. It took him a moment to connect the rumpled sleepy-eyed angel in the purple robe with the sophisticated woman he’d left almost six hours ago in his office.
“Luke! I thought you were going to call.” Her voice had the throaty quality of someone who’d been asleep only seconds before.
“I thought about it,” he admitted, trying his damnedest not to notice the tendrils of pale hair that had slipped free of the classy twist to frame her face, but even a man with promises to keep could only stretch professional detachment so far. “But then I, uh, thought about how long it’d been since breakfast and I figured we could talk over dinner.”
She blinked, then frowned. Damned if she wasn’t adorable, standing there with bare feet and her mouth pursed in the closest thing to a kissin’ invitation he’d ever hoped to see on a pretty woman. Hell had to be a lot like this, he decided. Condemned to want the one thing you can never have, no matter how many years of penance you’ve paid.
“What