father’s taunts, Tory’s strange behavior last night, the frantic look in her eyes, the way she had practically run from his room.
And that remark of Bob Avery’s—That’s some little girl you got there—after which good old Bob suddenly couldn’t backpedal out of that restaurant patio fast enough.
Marsh discovered that he understood how Tory must have felt last night. Right now he was pretty sure he felt the same way. Slightly sick, his stomach in knots. And he realized he didn’t give a damn if some nosy busybody called the Norman police on him. He pulled over to the curb, parallel with Tory’s side fence and stopped the car.
Was it possible?
Could Tory have had his baby?
Could he have had a daughter for—what—a little over nine years now, and not had a clue?
Dense as a post, the old man had called him today—the old man who had apparently known where to find Marsh for some time now, yet had never come after him, had never tried to exact the necessary revenge for the way his only son had finally dared to turn on him.
Or so Marsh had thought.
But what better revenge could there be than to deny a man knowledge of his own child?
He thought of those letters.
Those letters he’d sent back to Tory unopened.
Was that what he missed by not reading them: the news that he was going to be a father?
The knot in his gut yanked tighter. God. Tory. It must have been tough for her. At least at first. No wonder she couldn’t forgive him for leaving her.
But then again, it had been years. And aside from those letters, it seemed pretty obvious she hadn’t knocked herself out trying to find him. After the first couple of years, after he’d started to build his business, to get some sense of himself as the man he meant to become, he’d stopped hiding from the chance that the old man would find him. He’d lived his life in the open. And from that time on, she just might have managed to track him down—if she’d wanted to.
Anger. He felt it rising, felt it pounding in each beat of his heart. She could have found him. If she’d wanted to find him.
He muttered a curse—and told himself to relax. To take it easy. Not to overreact. He had been the one who called it off.
And until he confronted Tory and got the truth from her, he still couldn’t be sure that the dark-haired child was his. She might be a neighbor’s girl, or the daughter of a friend. She could even be Tory’s, by some other guy….
No.
He couldn’t believe that. She would have had to hook up with that guy too soon after Marsh had left town. She wouldn’t have done that. She had loved him too much….
Marsh shook his head.
She had loved him too much.
Was that simple truth—or male ego talking?
Damn hard to say.
So just cool it, he told himself. Chill. Settle down.
But there was no damn way he would leave this nice, well-to-do neighborhood now. No way he was waiting until later to call.
He started the car again, nosed away from the curb and turned left at the corner. He parked right in front of the house. Then he got out of the car and strode up that sloping front walk.
Tory stood at the closed door to the hall bathroom. “Kimmy?”
“Please. I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Well, speed it up. We have to get back to the shop. I told Lisa I would only be gone half an hour, tops.” Lisa was one of Tory’s two clerk/floral designers.
“Mama. Can I please have a little privacy?”
“Get a move on.”
“I’m trying.”
Right then the doorbell rang.
Kim yelled, “If that’s Alicia, tell her—”
“Just finish your business, young lady—and don’t forget to wash your hands.” Tory headed for the front door to the sound of the toilet flushing behind her.
She came around the corner to the entryway—and saw Marsh’s face through the glass in the top of her front door.
Oh, God.
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