a baby that had his forehead and his thick black hair.
Jax’s hair was straight and laced with gray, while Sunny’s was soft as down and curly, but one look at that small pink face and he’d known. Known it in the marrow of his bones, or wherever such knowledge was centered. She was his, all right—toothless grin, fat pink cheeks, navy-blue eyes and all. His daughter.
“I could take her for you.”
“Huh?” His attention swerved to the tall, thin woman with the clear gray eyes and the quiet voice.
“Into the ladies’ room, I mean. To change her diaper. You could stand guard outside the door if you’re worried. Not that I’d blame you, because you read about things every day—kidnappings and all, I mean. And I’m a stranger, so it pays to be cautious.”
Caution fought with desperation. Desperation won. “Shh, Sunny, it’s going to be all right.” After only a moment’s hesitation, Jax handed his daughter over to the woman in the long, flowered skirt, the thick-heeled sandals and the layers of baggy sweaters on top. He was no expert on women’s fashions. Most of the women he associated with in the course of his work wore tailored suits. As for the others—the ones he took to dinner, a show, and occasionally to bed—they always looked pretty, but he’d never spent much time analyzing what they wore.
“Yeah, if you wouldn’t mind, I guess she’d be more comfortable. There’s powder and diapers and stuff in here—” He handed over the large pink bag and the carrier, then braced himself to wait. “Her name’s Sunny,” he called as an afterthought.
He could only hope he was doing the right thing. What he knew about babies could be scratched on the head of a thumbtack.
His daughter. That red-faced, smelly, noisy little miracle was his own flesh and blood. God, he didn’t know the first thing about relating to family. Other than the great-uncle a social worker had tracked down some thirty-five years ago who’d installed him in a series of boarding schools and grudgingly paid the freight, he’d never had to deal with a family. At least not since he was six years old.
As she turned away from the darkly handsome creature with the stern face, the guarded eyes and the beard-shadowed jaw, Hetty’s arms curved around the soggy little bundle. Brushing her lips against a soft, dark curl, she whispered, “Don’t fuss, sugar-britches, he’ll be right there waiting for you when I get you all cleaned up.”
He didn’t quite trust her, that much was obvious, but what choice had he had? If it hadn’t been for the hint of vulnerability he’d let slip through his guard, Hetty would never in a million years have dared speak to him. Mercy, he was intimidating. But at least he seemed to care about the baby, which said a lot in his favor.
Edging her way through the cluster of women, she got in line for one of the changing tables. The line inched forward slowly. Hetty bounced a fretful Sunny in her arms, wondering what on earth had possessed her to do such a thing. She had her own problems to deal with without taking on someone else’s burden. She’d been on her way from Oklahoma to Miami, Florida, supposedly changing planes in Cincinnati and again in Atlanta, when her plans had started to fall apart.
A table opened up and she grabbed it, plopping her charge down on her padded backside. “Stop squirming, sugar, your little doohickey’s stuck.” She struggled with the zipper, half-afraid if she took too long the baby’s father would come after her. “Ooh, you’re a real mess, aren’t you?” Rummaging in the stuffed diaper bag, she found a container of predampened tissues. “No wonder you were so fussy, you’re getting a rash.”
Holding two wriggling feet up with one hand, she felt in the bag again with the other and came up with a familiar-looking tube. She’d used the same ointment on Robert whenever he’d been threatened with diaper rash.
“I hope you’ve got a teething ring in here somewhere, else you’re going to wear those knuckles out,” she murmured. There were already several women lined up behind her, waiting for the fold-down changing table. The rest room was crowded. Someone called out that there was no paper. A roll was tossed from one booth to the other.
Mercy, to think she’d harbored the illusion that travel would be one glamorous adventure after another. Her friend at the agency had explained that the cheapest rates involved an illogical route with several changes along the way. Hetty hadn’t been intimidated. Once she’d taken the first step, she hadn’t looked back.
Now she almost wished she had. Still, her very first flight was proving exciting, if a bit tiresome. And in a few hours she’d be embarking on her very first cruise.
“Here’s hoping I don’t have to change ships between islands,” she muttered, disposing of the soiled diaper.
At any other time in her life, Hetty would never have considered doing something so absurdly impractical, never mind expensive. But when an old friend, a woman who knew about her situation and who worked at a travel agency in Oklahoma City, had called to tell her about a last-minute cancellation, Hetty had jumped at the chance. It was too late now for second thoughts.
“There, sweetheart, we’re all done. Let’s see if Papa brought along something for you to eat, shall we?”
“Would you mind? You’re not the only mother with a wet kid.”
Hetty smiled apologetically. “We’re all finished. Sorry you had to wait.” She got a frown for her efforts and scurried out of the way, taking her place in the line waiting for a lavatory.
The familiar scent of baby oil and the feel of the small, sweet bundle in her arms brought back painful memories. Hetty promised herself resolutely that once she got back from her cruise, found a job and a place to live, she would begin mending fences. Family—any sort of family at all—was too precious to be squandered. She was determined to patch things up again.
Conscious of the waiting lines behind her, she spared only a fleeting glance in the mirror, startled all over again by her new haircut and the unfamiliar clothes. If she’d known she was going to wind up in ice-bound Chicago instead of balmy Miami, she would have dressed far differently. Or at least worn something warmer than the silky knit tunic, the overshirt and shawl the clerk assured her were made to be worn with the new longer skirts.
But there’d been no way of knowing that the jet stream would zig when it should have zagged, or that the arctic blast would collide with a stream of Gulf moisture along the mid-Atlantic.
Hundreds of flights were being diverted as, one after another, airports from Atlanta northward were shutting down. Evidently she was among the lucky ones. According to rumor, there were a number of loaded flights trapped on runways, unable to take off, unable to return to the gates because of the planes already stranded there.
From now on, she’d just as soon stick to Greyhound.
With the diaper bag and carrier in one hand, and her big, lightweight purse that was supposed to be just the thing for traveling over her shoulder, she hugged the infant who was chewing on her yellow fringed shawl and said, “Come on, sugar-britches, let’s go before your daddy sends out a search party.”
He was hovering like a dark cloud just outside the ladies’ room door. Hetty wondered if he was even aware of all the women who glanced at him and then turned back for a second look.
Probably used to it. He was that kind of man. George Clooney with a harder edge, a narrower backside and broader shoulders. She’d noticed that much standing in line behind him, before she’d ever seen his face, which seemed to wear
