comment had gotten her nowhere. Perhaps she would have to take Duncan’s call after all. He’d certainly been persistent in the face of her unwavering rejection, making her wonder if he had the tenacity of a pit bull or was merely as dense as muffin batter that had been stirred too long. There was only one way to find out.
The next time Mac dialed the Malone woman’s number, listened to her recorded greeting and identified himself, prepared to leave another message on her machine, she picked up the phone. He was so surprised that he nearly forgot what he was going to say, covering his momentary confusion with brusqueness.
“This class we’re signed up for starts next week,” he said. “We need to make some decisions.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, voice cool. “I still have time to find a partner.”
“You mean you don’t have anyone yet?” Mac demanded. Here was his opening, a way to get to know each other. “Does that mean you aren’t married?”
“Why would it matter?” she countered. “Do you have something against single parents?”
Mac struggled for patience. “No, of course not. It just stands to reason that if you had a husband, he’d want to take the class with you.”
“Oh. No, I’m not married.” Her voice thawed a degree or two. “Are you?”
At least she was curious about him. “I’m involved with someone,” he admitted, “but it won’t be a problem.”
“The class is two evenings a week, you know. That’s a pretty big commitment for a busy man.”
“I said my relationship won’t be a problem.” Mac hoped he was correct. How would Justine react to the news that another woman was having his child? They’d only been seeing each other for six months, but his parents were right. It was time he settled down and raised some little Duncans to carry on the family name.
“I was referring to your job, not your social life,” Megan replied. “You do work, don’t you?”
“Actually, I own a business, so my hours are flexible. Making time for the class wouldn’t be a big deal.” Perhaps he was pushing, but it seemed like the only way to stop her from shutting him out of his baby’s life. If he allowed her to do that, he would always feel like part of him was missing.
The thought of his parents’ reaction, if that happened and they found out, made him shudder.
When Megan didn’t say anything, Mac tried a different tactic. “There’s a part of me growing inside of you. We’ve made this baby together. Aren’t you the least bit curious about me?”
“The clinic gave me all the information I needed when I picked you from the donor list,” she said stubbornly, but he thought there was the tiniest hesitation in her voice.
“What did they tell you?” he asked, praying it wasn’t much. Even if she wasn’t admitting it, she was bound to wonder.
“The description I read said that you’re intelligent and attractive.” Had her voice warmed a little more?
“Sounds accurate so far,” he said lightly. “Did you see a photo?” He knew the answer. The clinic didn’t have his picture.
“No, but I have a general description. Your looks weren’t my first priority, Mr. Duncan.”
“Call me Mac,” he suggested. When she didn’t reply, he forged on. “What are you going to tell our child about me? No kid wants its father to be a test tube.”
“I haven’t worked that all out yet,” she said defensively. “I still have some time.”
“But how will you answer the questions when they come?” Mac demanded. “The clinic can’t have told you whether I played baseball or if I like vegetables, or even what kind of person I am. If you don’t have the answers, our child will eventually be forced to go looking for them somewhere else. You’ll lose any control over what he or she finds out. Is that what you want?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” she admitted. “Maybe you could write a letter, one I could give him when he’s old enough to understand the situation.”
“Him?” Mac asked with a tremor in his voice he couldn’t hide. Did she know the baby’s sex already? Good God, was he going to have a son?
“I’m just guessing,” she admitted. “They offered to tell me, but I don’t want to know.” For a moment there was silence on the line. “I think of him as a boy,” she added softly. “It’s probably silly.”
The tenderness in her voice was nearly Mac’s undoing. Hearing it was both reassuring and heart wrenching. At least she cared for the baby, but what was Mac supposed to do with his feelings? Forget them?
“So you know a little bit about me already, but I don’t know anything about you except that you’re pregnant with my baby,” he said, gripping the receiver tighter. “Dammit, that’s not good enough. I have rights, too.”
As soon as the harsh words had left his mouth, he realized he’d made a big mistake. He was met with a wall of silence. “Can’t you put yourself in my place?” he pleaded, the effort to lower his voice nearly closing off his throat. “If our roles were reversed, wouldn’t you want to know something about the person who was going to be raising your firstborn? Wouldn’t you?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she cried. “I don’t know why you donated sperm and I don’t care, but if you don’t stop harassing me, I’ll report you. I’ll get an attorney if I have to. Leave me alone!”
Before Mac could say anything more, she crashed the receiver down in his ear.
Hell, he’d really blown it with his Me, Tarzan, you, Jane routine.
Before he could think what to do next, the door to his office flew open and one of his men poked his head through the doorway. “Boss, the windows for the Merritt project just came in and we have a little problem,” Archer said, tugging on the bill of his Broncos cap. “Can you take a look?”
Just what he needed—something else to deal with.
“Can’t you handle it?” he demanded.
Archer’s eyes widened. “I don’t think so, but I guess I can try.”
Instantly ashamed of his outburst, Mac muttered an apology. “Show me the problem.” Putting aside his frustration, he followed the younger man out to the large shop where most of the work was done on the custom playhouses they manufactured. This project was a rush job, a birthday surprise for the daughter of a computer guru out on the coast. Like nearly everything Mac’s company created, the playhouse was a miniature reproduction of the family home, right down to the front porch columns and the dormer windows. It was being designed and built in sections here in Buttonwood, using blueprints of the bigger house as well as photos and videotapes. Once the playhouse was finished, it would be shipped and assembled on location.
The windows were one of the few parts that weren’t custom-made at Mac’s plant. Instead they were manufactured by an outfit in Denver.
As soon as he saw them, he recognized the problem. The French doors
