attendant, except for Pierce’s five-year-old daughter, Jaci, who’d be the flower girl.
Grace had helped Dani pick out her dress, which was made of an emerald-green satin that brought out Dani’s eyes and went well with her mass of unruly coppery curls.
The style worked, too. The dress was fitted at the waist with cap sleeves and a slightly flared skirt that fell to her ankles—easily long enough to cover her chunky calves.
The rounded, no-frills neckline revealed only a minimum of cleavage and fully covered her size 38 D puppies. A plump lady’s version of chic.
Grace had been her first and only close friend since moving here. Not that the people weren’t nice, but Dani’s spare time amounted to pretty much zero.
Dani put the finishing touches on the cake, the last rose with petals so thin they were practically translucent. She’d entwined the roses with deep green vines to represent the way Grace and Pierce’s lives had joined together forever.
Dani was a sucker for anything romantic. Not that she had any romance in her life. She’d dated, but never anything serious. Never met a guy who’d blown her away with just a smile, the way it happened in books.
Hadn’t been with a guy who’d made her heart go tripping or left her breathless the way Grace claimed Pierce affected her.
But Dani was only twenty-six. One day her prince would come charging in on a white horse. Of course, with her luck, he’d probably be dropping by to order a wedding cake for his marriage to some hot chick with a drop-dead gorgeous body.
So, who needs a prince?
Dani had her very own bakery and she had her adorable, drama-queen niece, Constance, who’d dropped into her life totally unexpectedly. Between her job and her niece, she was kept busy enough that she hit the bed exhausted every night.
And Dani was just about there now. She rubbed the tired muscles in her neck and glanced at the wall clock next to the cooling racks. Eighteen minutes after nine.
Not late by most people’s standards for a Friday night, but she’d be up and baking before sunrise tomorrow morning. Fortunately all she had to do was descend the stairs from her second-floor living quarters and she was on the job.
She started cleaning the mess she’d made while icing the cake. The old building that housed her bakery was never totally quiet. It creaked and groaned at will, as if yesterday’s ghosts still haunted the place that had originally been a bordello more than a century ago.
If only walls could talk.
Dani was startled from her mind’s imaginative drifting at the sound of someone hammering a fist against the front door of the shop. The sign on the door clearly indicated they were closed and the lights in the serving section were out.
No one could be this desperate for a late-night sugar high.
She removed the chef’s hat that kept her wild hair under control while she worked, and walked briskly to the front door of the shop. She arrived as the knocking started again. She flicked on the outdoor light to see who was so rudely persistent.
The man who stared back at her looked harmless enough. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue plaid, long-sleeved sport shirt, open at the neck. Needed a haircut, but was clean-shaven. He looked a tad familiar, but she couldn’t place him.
She motioned to the closed sign. The man didn’t take the hint but kept standing there and waiting for her to let him in.
It was Friday night, so there were still a few people out and about in Winding Creek’s downtown area. A couple were leaving the pharmacy across the street. A family of four with ice-cream cones were checking out the display window of a candle shop next to the pharmacy. A group of twentysomethings spilled out of a double cab pickup truck and into the middle of Main Street, no doubt headed to Caffe’s Bar and Grill around the corner.
The man at her door looked no more of a threat than the rest of them. Besides which, the town of Winding Creek was practically crime-free. She pulled the key ring from her pocket, unlocked the door and opened it a crack.
“We’re closed,” she said. “Open again at seven tomorrow morning.”
“Sorry to bother you, but I think I left my windbreaker here earlier today.”
The pieces suddenly fell together. He was obviously the man who’d left the jacket she’d found on the floor beneath one of the tables.
“Was it blue?”
“Yep. Navy blue.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
He put a foot in the door, basically inviting himself inside. His pushiness irritated her and made her a bit nervous.
She checked to make sure her cell phone was still attached to the waistband of her flour-splattered slacks. A call to 911 would have a deputy at her door in seconds. There would always be at least one in the downtown area on Friday evenings.
“Nice place you have here,” he said. “Dani’s Delights, catchy name, too.”
“Thank you. I’ll be right back with your jacket.”
She retreated to her office off the kitchen, picked up the jacket and took her cell phone in her right hand. When she turned around, the man was standing a few feet from her, blocking the door.
“Here’s your jacket,” she said. “You can go now.”
“After we talk.”
His attitude alarmed her. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“Yes, we do.” He took a step toward her, almost backing her against her desk.
Every muscle tensed. “If it’s conversation you want, I’ll yell and my husband will rush down the stairs to join the chat. I should warn you, he’s an excellent shot and will be toting a forty-five.”
“You don’t have a husband, but you do have my daughter. So now that we have the essentials out of the way, why don’t we sit down and discuss this quietly like two rational adults?”
“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, but you’ve obviously mistaken me for someone else.”
“No. I know exactly who you are, and that you were granted custody of my daughter, Constance Boatman. That’s where the mistakes comes in. I’m her father, which makes me next of kin—not you.”
“You’re lying.” The words had flown to her mouth. Only she couldn’t be sure of their accuracy. She had no idea who Constance’s father was. She had her niece’s birth certificate filed away in her upstairs living quarters, where Constance was sleeping right now. No father was listed. She was certain of that.
The social workers who’d testified in the custody hearing had insisted there was no record of the father’s identity. That had been eight months ago, weeks after her sister, Amber’s, tragic death. If he was the father, where had he been all this time?
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“You
