A Mother in the Making

“

We need to talk. We’re not –

don’t do this, Jack

.”

“Seems to me that you’re doing it, too, sweetheart.”

“I’m trying not to. I don’t want to,” she said while he stroked his hands down her back and kept up a constant rain of those sweet, hungry kisses.

“Why?”

“Because this isn’t enough,” she said. “This doesn’t make up – it can’t make up – for the places that are all wrong.”

“It can. We have to work on it, not let it go. When it’s this strong, Carmen, you just have to take it on faith and –”

“No. No. Stop.” Shakily, she pushed him away and walked out of the house towards his car, parked in the street.

“You still want to eat?” He followed her, sounding angry and at sea.

“I’m hungry,” she snapped at him, because it was either

I’m hungry

or

 I’m pregnant

, and she didn’t want to give him her news that way.

 LILIAN DARCY 

has written more than seventy-five books. Happily married, with four active children and two very rambunctious kittens, she enjoys keeping busy and could probably fill several more lifetimes with the things she likes to do – including cooking, gardening, quilting, drawing and travelling. She currently lives in Australia but travels to the United States as often as possible to visit family. Lilian loves to hear from readers. You can write to her at: PO Box 532 Jamison PO, Macquarie ACT 2614, Australia, or e-mail her at: lilian@liliandarcy.com.

Dear Reader,

I’m a cat person, so you won’t be surprised to find that there’s a very cute kitten in this book. I’d actually written this scene without any recent experience of choosing kittens, but just a few weeks after I wrote it, our much loved ten-year-old black-and-white cat, Gus, died, and my children decided that what we most needed to cheer us up was a new black-and-white kitten… or even better, two.

Sometimes, life does imitate fiction! We went off to the animal shelter and there were the most gorgeous black-and-white boy kittens – twin brothers, seven weeks old, with snowy white tuxedo fronts, glossy black backs. We claimed them instantly.

That night, we all sat around trying to think of the right names, and somehow, without my influence and without the kids’ even knowing the names of the characters in this book, our twin kittens ended up with the names Jack and Davey, just like my hero. Although we will never forget our beloved Gus, I cannot tell you how much fun we are having with these two.

I hope you enjoy the story of Carmen, Jack, Ryan…and a kitten named Tux.

Lilian Darcy

A Mother in the Making

LILIAN DARCY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

Jack heard his cell phone start up when he was partway through the slow, careful process of getting dressed. It was sitting downstairs on the coffee table where he’d left it the night before. Shirtless, barefoot and cursing, he took the stairs too fast, swung around the banister post on the landing halfway down and bumped his shoulder into the opposite wall, which meant that the half-healed wound in his left side was screaming at him by the time he picked up the phone.

T-shirt balled in his free hand and lopsided with pain, he heard Terri’s voice. He’d been expecting her call. Had thought about it when he’d lain awake in the night, unable to get back to sleep.

“Sorry, did I get you out of bed?” she cooed at him, and he caught the veiled put-down like a pro baseball player catching a kid’s practice throw.

Yeah, Terri, okay, I get it, you think I’m lazy. It was seven-thirty on a New Jersey Monday morning. Terri’s

new

 husband, Jay, arose at six every day, went to the gym for an hour, ate a power breakfast and still managed to make a couple of billion dollars by lunch.

“Out of the shower,” he told her, after a silence that lasted a fraction too long. His side was still burning and he couldn’t be bothered attempting to change what his ex-wife thought of him.

What she thought of him had become pretty clear during the process of their divorce.

The only thing that mattered in their relationship anymore was Ryan, and he mattered down to the marrow of Jack’s bones. Ryan came first.

He took some cautious breaths and paced up and down the splintered old hardwood floor, willing the pain to ebb. What had he done in there? Ripped open his stitches? Did the agony show in his voice?

Terri knew that he’d just come out of the hospital, but he’d played the whole thing down when he’d told her what had happened. She no longer considered straight-talking cops to be heroes. Wall Street pirates with fat bank accounts and a polished line in doublespeak were the real he-men, as far as she was concerned.

She hadn’t been like this when they were first married at age twenty, fourteen years ago. He’d never seen this side of her back then, when they were so young. Deciding that she didn’t love him anymore seemed to have given her the license to fight as dirty as she could, and it set his teeth on edge.

“Did you and Jay have your meeting?” he asked.

“Family council,” Terri corrected quickly, as if the distinction was important.

Jack thought it was typical of Jay Kruger that he ran his new family the same way he ran his corporate takeovers, complete with meetings and agendas and power plays, but Terri didn’t want to see things this way.

He waited. He wasn’t going to dutifully echo the words

family council

 just to ease her conscience. Nor was he going to let on how emotional he felt about the possible outcome.

“Yes, we had it…” she said, letting her sentence trail off enticingly.

Jack clenched his jaw. He knew this routine. She wanted him to wait and beg. It was like those pointless thirty-second pauses on reality TV shows before they announced the winner or loser’s name. Did his ex really think he didn’t see the emotional manipulation?

“Cut to the chase, Terri,” he growled at her.

“The chase? I’m not sure that I like what you’re implying, Jack. This is not a game.”

“I know it’s not.”

“These are incredibly serious issues.”

“I know they’re serious issues. Tell me what you and Jay decided.”

“See, and I hate to hear you sounding so aggressive. It makes me wonder if I’ve made the right decision after all…”

His heart leaped.

The right decision

. Did she mean…? “Please tell me straight, and don’t keep me dangling.” There. She had him begging, the way she wanted. “What decision have you made?”

“I’m getting to that.” Her voice pointedly soothed his impatience. “But you need to know the process we went through first. This was not decided lightly, Jack.” She gave him several minutes on the nonlightness of the process, her feelings, her priorities, and yet another rehash of how she’d never wanted to hurt him, then finished, “And we feel that the most important issue in all of this, Jack, in

all

 of this,” she repeated, in case he thought she meant only forty-three percent of it, “has to be Ryan’s well-being.”

She spoke as if generously sharing a profound new insight. In reality, Jack himself had been making the same point to her for almost three years, as clear and direct as he could, and was never heard. He’d dealt with stalling and manipulation and outright lies. Only six months ago had he resorted to the threat of going to court. “We feel it’s not in his best interests to drag him through a court proceeding,” she went on.

Noooo, he thought sourly. Really? Not in Ryan’s best interests? How perceptive and profound! He never would have thought to consider the issue of Ryan’s well-being!

From somewhere nearby there came the sound of a car door slamming, followed by metallic clunkings, and Jack struggled to hear his ex’s voice. “…and Jay also wants to pay tribute to your desire to remain involved in Ryan’s life.”

Pay tribute to his desire to remain involved?

 Was she reading from a script?

“Okay…” Jack said cautiously. The pain in his left side still throbbed, although it had begun to ease. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

“So we’ve decided to give you what you want,” Terri said, and despite that little teaser from her about “the right decision” a couple of minutes ago, he almost didn’t believe what he was hearing.

Give him what he wanted?

Just like that?

There had to be a catch!

“Ryan can spend every second weekend with you,” she announced. “Friday afternoon through Sunday evening, and three midweek nights, Monday through Wednesday, of every second week.”

Okay, so there

was

 a catch. Five nights out of fourteen, split into two separate packages, when Jack had wanted seven nights in a row. Ryan didn’t need an extra session of packing pajamas and homework and going back and forth.

Still it was so much better than he’d expected.

So much better—enough that he wouldn’t push for the seven consecutive nights.

Real, genuine day-to-day time with his nine-year-old son, and no battles to fight along the way. They could start the new arrangement immediately. He had seriously thought that Terri would hold firm on the current grudging one weekend in four unless he took her to court, and he’d been so torn about what was best for Ryan. He’d tried so hard not to let things get too ugly between himself and Terri, for their son’s sake.

Ah, hell…hell…

This was really, really good.

On top of the pain in his side and last night’s sleeplessness and bad dreams, the news had him battling his emotions, desperately trying to keep them at bay. He felt his throat tighten, felt the physical wash of relief that made his legs go weak. His eyes began to sting.

He was not going to give in to this! The police counselor kept telling him he was bottling things up, that something would have to give, and that it wouldn’t be pretty. She was probably right, but he was

not

 going to pop the cork on that bottle now, in front of his ex on the phone.

With the effort of keeping himself in check, he tightened his stomach muscles, and the pain gave another sharp rip at his guts.

“That’s good, Terri, that’s great,” he managed, heading for the kitchen.

Water.

He just needed a glass of water, to loosen up this lump in his throat.

In that direction, he heard a door open, and a clatter.

“But we’ll need to work out the exact details…” His ex-wife’s tone gave out a warning, like a parent saying, You have to do your homework first.

“Of course.” The emotion pushed harder into his chest, and the pain knifed his side. What had he done to himself, coming down those stairs? The doctor had said he was very happy with the way the injury had been healing since the surgery.

“I’ll pick him up from school Thursdays because he has violin,” Terri was saying.

“I can take him to violin,” Jack managed to answer.

“Well, no, because I need to take notes from his teacher on his practice schedule,” she explained, as if such a task was quite beyond Jack’s abilities.

“Let’s talk later, okay?” he said, through teeth clenched from the pain in his side.

“I guess you need to get dressed…”

“Something like that.” He disconnected the call and rounded the corner into the kitchen, intending to lean over the sink and just pant and gasp and swear and groan for a while…maybe let the cork out of that bottle…as soon as he’d safely put down the phone. But there was a strange woman standing there with a dilapidated toolbox open on his equally dilapidated kitchen table, and the sight of each other brought both of them up short.

She dropped something back in the toolbox with a metallic clatter, gave a loud, startled squeak and clamped a fist over her heart. “Oh. Didn’t hear you!”

Jack gulped back the jagged rock in his throat, dropped the phone onto the kitchen bench and said, “Uh, hi.”

Why was there a woman in his kitchen? She had goose bumps on her bare arms and an aura of energy in every limb, and he was confused.

This should be Cormack O’Brien, here to begin work on the kitchen and bathroom remodeling, not this curvy little thing, underdressed for early April in a red cotton T-shirt and blue denim shorts. She had dangling red earrings that swung back and forth when she moved her head, dark curly hair, brown eyes and tanned skin. She also had an alarmed look getting stronger on her face, and he did not want her here to witness…to witness…

With a heroic effort, he tightened every muscle in his body, shook out his T-shirt ready to put it on, and managed to look…just…as if he was okay.

“You’re Jack,” Carmen said, taking a large step backward, for safety’s sake, her heart beating a little too fast as she looked at the new arrival in the kitchen.

She really, really hoped this man was Jack, shirtless owner of the house, because she wasn’t convinced she could tackle him to the ground and put a knee in his back if he was an unwanted intruder. He was tall and strong, and with that bare chest, knotted arm muscles and a crumpled garment dangling from a tight fist, he looked wound up and ready to snap.

“I’m Carmen O’Brien, Cormack’s sister,” she continued quickly. “The other C in C & C Renovations. Cormack is sick and can’t work today.”

Although she was the one making explanations, Jack Davey looked like the one who thought he didn’t belong. “Right,” he said. “Right.”

“And you’re Jack.” She managed to avoid making it a question.

“Yes, that’s right.” He lowered the T-shirt or rag or whatever it was. He was only half-dressed. His feet were bare, and the snap on his ancient jeans was undone. His dark hair was rumpled and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He had cool gray eyes with little crinkles at the corners that she wanted to trust. The crinkles had to say something good about his smile. But he looked so far from smiling right at this moment, he scared her.

Ah. Okay.

With the T-shirt out of the way, she saw the red slash of a barely healed wound slicing across his tanned rib cage, which maybe explained the scary vibes. She wondered what on earth he’d done to himself. Heart surgery? Was that why he looked so serious and struggling and grim?

“I’m sorry about this,” he said through a tight jaw. She saw his throat work and his body spasmed. “Side’s hurting a bit.”

“Oh, of course, it looks nasty.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m not who you were expecting. I mean, I guess we startled each other.” She hadn’t been expecting a half-naked, freshly scarred, well-built, thirtysomething man who looked like a bomb about to go off, here to greet her this morning.

“You need to get to work. I’ll, uh…”

“No rush. Although it would help me to warm up a bit.” She tried a grin as she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. “I’m dressed for working hard in the middle of the day, not standing around doing nothing early in the morning.”

He nodded vaguely, and looked past her, toward the sink. What was wrong with him?

“Um, are you okay?” she tried.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

It was such a lie, he could barely get the words out, poor guy. His face was so tight, and his gray eyes were like slits, he’d narrowed them so much. She gentled her voice and told him, “No, you’re not.”

And then it happened. His stomach began to heave. He pressed the shirt to his face. His shoulders shook. Sounds broke from his mouth.

He was crying.

Crying, with great, deep, scratchy, painful and achingly poignant sounds, and fifteen years of family grief and struggle had taught Carmen an instinctive response that came without her even thinking about it. She stepped close to him, took a hold of his big, warm body and let him sob his heart out in her arms.

Chapter Two

Carmen didn’t know how long they stood this way.

She had to stretch onto her toes to reach Jack Davey properly, even though he was already bent and crooked. The awkward posture must come from protecting that wound on his side. She was careful not to hold him too close because she could tell he was in pain. He laid his head on her shoulder and she cradled it the way she used to do when the sobbing body in her arms belonged to her dad, her sister Melanie or her brother Joe.

Just last night she’d held her other sister like this—eighteen-year-old Kate, after Kate had stumbled in at midnight, and Carmen had yelled at her because she was drunk, and Kate had yelled back, then burst into maudlin tears.

Carmen had run her hands across Kate’s wildly streaked hair and soothed her with little sounds and finally told her, “You have to get a grip, honey, you can’t let yourself get this messed up. What’s wrong?”

Kate had had no answers, and the tears had given way to petulant teen anger. “You have no clue, Carmen! You treat me like a child! How come you can’t just leave me alone?” Then she’d half stormed, half lurched off to the bathroom to hang over the sink and lose whatever cocktail of fast food and alcohol was sloshing around in her stomach.

Was there anything else in the cocktail besides alcohol?

Anything stronger?

Carmen was incredibly worried about her and had no idea what to do.

And now she had a stranger crying on her shoulder, and didn’t know what to do about that, either. Especially when she discovered that thinking about Kate had made her run her hands across Jack Davey’s hair in just the same soothing, helpless way, while she whispered, “It’s okay, it’s okay, just let it all out.”

Oh, Lord, had he noticed what she was doing?

She stilled the movement cautiously, not wanting just to rip her hand away. Resting on his dark head, her fingers found clean springiness and released the damp scent of his musky, nutty shampoo into the air. His body’s shaking began to ebb. She lifted her hand and patted his back in a rhythm of rough, awkward beats, finding pads of solid, well-worked muscle. He had the hardest, strongest body she’d ever felt. How could such a body possibly feel so vulnerable in her arms? What was wrong?

“I’m sorry.” His voice was like gravel. Or metal, rusted by his tears. “I am so…” he took a shuddery breath “…sorry about this.”

“It’s fine.” She pulled away. “I—I didn’t know if—”

“It’s okay.” He balled the shirt in front of his chest, a defensive maneuver that successfully put some space between them.

Carmen felt a little dizzy for a moment, and the air around her body was too cool again now that his body heat had gone. So strange. Every cell in her body seemed aware of how strong he’d been, and yet she was the one giving comfort. As she’d known for a long time, there was more than one kind of strength in a human being.

While she watched, still helpless as to what she should say or do next, he brought the garment to his face and wiped, as if it was a towel. He pulled it over his head, pushed his arms through the sleeves, looked down at the wet patch on the fabric made by his tears, and pulled it off again. “I’ll have to change,” he muttered.

“Do you want to…talk, or something?” she offered. “You shouldn’t just—”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re not.”

“Well, I’m embarrassed. But I know what this is about.”

“Maybe you should tell me. Please don’t be embarrassed.”

“Yeah, right!” he drawled. “This isn’t remotely embarrassing, sobbing on my kitchen contractor’s shoulder.”

“Well… But no, I mean, you’re a human being. We all—”

“Yeah, okay. I mean, the counselor said it would happen. That something like this would happen at some point. I’m sorry you were the one who got hit with it.” He massaged the heel of his big hand against his ribs, parallel to the fresh surgical scar. “I just got shot a couple of weeks ago, that’s all.”

“

Shot?

” she echoed on a gasp, shocked not just at the fact of it, but the way he said it, almost apologetically.

“Line of duty.” He’d seen her reaction. “I’m a cop.”

“What, so you’re…used to it or something?” She was still shocked, line of duty or not.

“I meant, don’t go thinking I’m in the middle of a gang war, or I’ve just come back from a war zone. It’s just…it’s a risk, in my profession. It was bad luck. And it hurts. They’ve given me some time off, and I’m taking a backlog of vacation days, too.”

“I should think so!”

“But it all got pretty messed up in there—the bullet through my ribs, I mean—so I had surgeons poking around, fixing it up, stitching everything. I strained it, or something, coming down the stairs too fast a minute ago…to catch the phone. It’s feeling a little better now.”

“That’s something. Still, though…”

“But then I got the phone call from—” He stopped. “Yeah. She—the counselor—said I was bottling things up. My emotions. And it might come spilling out for no reason. She said I’d have some really strange reactions, maybe for weeks or even months.” He rubbed his side again.

“Is it still hurting bad?” Carmen asked. “Looks to me like it is. Don’t you need a doctor?” It seemed easier for both of them to focus on the physical damage, not the emotional, after what had just happened. “You’re still not standing straight.” He had one big, muscular shoulder lifted forward, and bent over from the waist.

“I’m fine. It looks worse than it is. Or that’s what they keep telling me.” He gave a sudden grin that dropped from his eyes and mouth far too soon. Carmen wanted it back. It changed his whole face. The man should grin all the time. But he was frowning when he repeated, “I’m fine.” Once more he wiped the hem of his shirt across his face.

She nodded. “Mmm. Really?” He didn’t look fine. He looked embarrassed, distressed and in serious pain. “Can I get you…?” She waved vaguely, at a loss.

“Glass of water would be good.” He nodded toward the faucet and the sink, both of which would be completely gone from here by the end of the day, with the help of C & C’s trainee, Rob, and some good tools. Jack looked down at the shirt. “I’d better, uh…”

Without finishing the sentence, he disappeared back the way he’d come. Carmen poured his water, feeling that it was nowhere near enough as a gesture of comfort and support.

Oh, glory!

Jack sank onto the edge of his bed and wiped his hands down his face. If he just could have drunk the water and been on his own for a minute, he would have been fine, but to be faced by a pair of concerned brown eyes, hands that visibly itched to give a comforting caress and a soothing feminine voice asking that classic, caring question, “Are you okay?”

That was what had broken him. That little question. And then when she’d pushed, after he’d said he was fine. “No, you’re not…” Her voice was a honey trap, sweet and clear and straightforward.

He’d never felt so awkward and embarrassed in his life. Sobbing on her shoulder like a kid who’d grazed his knees. He could still feel the way her body had pressed against him. Carefully, because of his wound. Softly, because she had too many curves to be anything but soft—two full breasts and a slightly rounded stomach that she probably thought was too fat. Generously, because it was incredibly generous of her to give him that comfort when they’d only just met and she had no clue what was wrong.

If he hadn’t been in floods of tears, he would probably have been aroused. Oh, yeah, he could still smell her on his skin! He lifted a forearm to his nose. Yes. A wholesome, intriguingly different sort of smell, like oatmeal and fresh wood shavings and peach.

“Get a grip, Officer Davey!” he muttered out loud.

He stood up and began to pace and breathe, then wondered if she’d be able to hear him going back and forth like a caged beast. She already thought he was a little scary, with his raw wound and hair-trigger emotions. He couldn’t stay here like this when he’d only come up to change his shirt. She deserved some further explanation as to why he was so messed up, even if a heart-to-heart was the last thing he felt like.

He rummaged in a drawer for another old T-shirt suitable for painting in, but his damned eyes were still stinging and what the hell were all his old shirts doing way in the back of the drawer, anyhow, when usually they were the only ones he could find when he looked for a new one?

He let out a string of curse words—which never helped as much as he expected, he’d noticed—dived into the shirt and braced himself for going back down the stairs.

Carmen heard Jack’s footsteps overhead, making the old floorboards creak. He returned after a couple of minutes, wearing a fresh T-shirt.

Old, but fresh.

Very old, smelling of lemon detergent.

She could see the contours of his muscles clearly through the thin cotton fabric. Around his thick biceps, the edges of the shirt were frayed. Despite his wounded chest, he was dressed for hard work, and she had an instinct that he needed it. He was the kind of man who hammered out his pain far more often than he cried over it.

She handed him the water. He still looked emotional, like he was struggling, and she blurted out, “I’m sorry, if you’ve had bad news, or if you need more time, or an appointment with the police counselor you mentioned. If this isn’t a good day to start, I can wait until Cormack is better. He just has the flu.”

“I had a phone call. Would have been okay without that.”

“You mean you would have bottled up your emotions a little longer?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a strategy, I guess,” she murmured, and waited.

She didn’t want to push him on this, but maybe it would be better if he spilled a little more. Better for both of them. She hated the idea of everything hanging in the air, since it was obvious he planned to work on the house today, also.

They would be alone together for hours.

“It wasn’t bad news, it was good news, when my ex called just now.” He dropped into a kitchen chair and rubbed his wounded side again, then said abruptly, “Might as well tell you so you know, because he’ll probably be around when you’re here. I’m getting part-time custody of my son, Ryan, without having to go to court over it, after six months of battles. I wasn’t expecting it. I’m really happy.”

“Yeah, really happy, and that’s why you were crying,” Carmen drawled, before giving herself a chance to rethink the words. Some people considered her too blunt, but she had no time—literally no time, on a busy day—for playing games.

“You can cry when you’re happy, you know,” he retorted with a little spirit, “even when you’re a guy.” He paused for a moment and took several gulps of water, before more words came spilling out. “See, this whole shooting thing… It was a woman, only in her twenties. She shot me. She was crazy on ice—crystal meth—completely off her face. Don’t ever touch that stuff, it’s a terrible drug.”

“I wouldn’t,” Carmen said, but she was thinking of Kate.

Kate wouldn’t be that stupid, would she? As usual, she felt like a parent instead of an older sister, angry and worried and helpless about what to do with a rebellious teen.

“Then my partner shot her and she died,” Jack Davey said.

“Oh, no…”

“He had no choice. There was no other way to get her under control and stop her shooting more. He wasn’t aiming to kill, but the light was bad, and she was moving crazy all over the place. It was… People think it’s all in a day’s work for a cop, shooting and killing, but it’s not.”

“I’m sure it isn’t!” She couldn’t begin to imagine.

“No matter what the situation and how much you had no choice, it’s still something you live with for the rest of your life. The woman had a kid.”

“Oh, no…”

“Maybe it’s a blessing. The kid’s with her aunt and uncle now, and I was told they’re decent people, so maybe she’ll have a better life now that her mother is gone. But still.”

“When did it happen?”

“Ten days ago.”

“Ten days!” No wonder he was raw, physically and emotionally.

“Sheesh, listen to me!” he said. “I’m sorry. You signed on for my kitchen not my therapy.”

“It’s okay.”

“Like the counselor said. We’ve both been told we’ll have some strange responses to things for a while, my partner and I.” He paused for a big, slow breath. “Including babbling to strangers.” The corner of his mouth twitched wryly.

Carmen could only nod. “It sounds—”

Like a nightmare.

He cut her off. “Yeah. It was.”

She got his don’t-want-to-talk-about-it-anymore message loud and clear. “Seriously, I can start tomorrow.”

He thought about it for a moment, then said slowly, “No, please stay and get started now. I’d like the company, to be honest. The house is spooking me, on my own.”

“I like a guy who can admit he’s scared of ghosts,” she said, and scored a laugh, which brought his whole face to life. He had the most natural, joyous laugh she’d heard from a man in a while, complete with the blink-and-you-miss-it grin he’d given a couple of minutes ago.

“You got that righ