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WHAT'S A DAD TO DO?byAnnette BroadrickChapter OneThe persistent sound of the doorbell eventually seeped into Tess'ssleep-drugged mind. She fought her way to bleary-eyed consciousness,managing to open her eyes wide enough to focus on the digital clockbeside her bed.It was barely six o'clock.In the morning.A Saturday morning.A no-work, chance-to-sleep-in kind of morning. Whoever was at her doormust have decided to make a career out of pressing thebutton--continuing to lean on it with unremitting, relentlessenthusiasm despite the fact that no one was responding.Tess wasn't sure she could respond, even if she really cared to findout what kind of idiot would be so rude. Her body refused to cooperatewith any of the signals her sluggish mind was attempting to send.The faithful caller downstairs didn't appear to feel the slightest bitof remorse for Tess's physical or mental condition. The doorbellcontinued to echo throughout her Pasadena, California, condominium withan irritating persistence."All right, already," she finally muttered, pushing herself into asitting position with trembling arms.She'd spent the greater part of the night in the bathroom exhibitingthe rather disgusting symptoms of some kind of stomach virus. Shehadn't stopped throwing up until sometime after four o'clock, when herstomach had finally seemed to notice that she had absolutely nothingmore to offer to the process and mercifully eased its cramping pains.The muscles just below her ribs were still sore. At the moment shefelt weaker than a newborn tiger. And three times as mean.The door hell continued to ring.She fumbled around the foot of the bed for her knee-length robe.Whoever was there was certainly going to receive a piece of her mind!Of that she was sure. At the moment, however, she wasn't too certainshe had a piece to spare. Her mind seemed to have taken some sort ofvacation, no doubt under the reasonable impression that her body couldbe safely counted on to remain horizontal for a few more hours.Not a bad assumption, considering the night she'd just spent. Too badthe idiot at the door didn't seem to understand that a door hell notanswered should he treated with some respect and left alone after aproper interval of nonresponse.These dark thoughts accompanied a barefoot Tess as she made her waydown the stairs, across the hall and to the front door. By the timeshe jerked open the door--the safety chain still in place--severalmethods of exquisite torture had already popped into her head, all ofwhich she would take delight in performing on whomever stood on theother side of the threshold."Can't you have a little mercy at this time of morning, for God'ssake..."Her voice trailed off as she stared at her early-morning caller, hermouth slightly open in stunned disbelief.The man comfortably leaning against the stair railing, his finger stillpressed firmly against her doorbell, looked as disreputable as any ofthe homeless people that seemed to congregate along some of the offramps of the Ventura freeway... with the exception of the obviouslyexpensive cameras and equipment draped around his neck.His blond hair was overdue for a trim and his lean cheeks were coveredwith at least two days worth of beard. His silver-gray eyes lookedtired and a little bloodshot.And his clothes? The least said, the better. Not only did the fadedjeans, jersey, battered denim jacket and hiking boots show how hardthey'd been used, but they also didn't look particularly clean.But his grin was as spectacular as a tropical sunrise.Tess closed her eyes and swallowed, hoping against hope that she washallucinating, or even better, justhaving one of those awful nightmares that sometimes accompanied avirus.Unfortunately for her peace of mind and uncertain stomach, he was stillstanding there when she opened them once more. At least he'd had thedecency to remove his finger from the doorbell before She'd beentempted to sever the damn thing to gain some blessed silence.He slowly straightened to his full height, a good five inches over herown not inconsiderable five-foot-seven-inch frame. He eyed herwarily--as well he should!--keeping that damn grin of his firmly inplace, knowing exactly how lethal a weapon it was against any angryattack she might make."What are you doing here?" she finally asked, disgusted at herself toonce again discover that she could never stay angry at the man in frontof her when he looked at her in that way, no matter how just her causemight be. "You were going to Tibet for two years," she managed to saywith the last remnants of her irritation. "Can't you read a calendar,Jamison? You've barely been gone two months. Come back in anothertwenty-two months, all right? But not at six o'clock in themorning!"She hated herself for noticing that even his memorably lopsided grinlooked a little beat. That wasn't her problem, was it? The L.A. areawas full of hotels and motels, a great many out by the internationalairport. He certainly hadn't needed to come all the way to Pasadena to"Is that any way to greet your best pal in the whole wide world, Tess?"His eyes took on a sparkle, damn him anyway, as he took a step closerto the door.She eyed him morosely. "You might have been my best pal in the thirdgrade, Craig, but I've had reason to revise that opinion more than oncein the twenty-five years since then."They both knew she didn't mean a word of it, that they had always beenthere for each other through the years, and he was kind enough to lether muttered remark pass without comment.After all, he knew her well enough to know how sacred she consideredher sleep time, and yet here he was on her doorstep at six o'clock on aSaturday morning--a severe test for the most enduring friendship.He lifted his arms high above his head, stretching and twisting with agroan. "I know it's early for you. I didn't plan it this way, believeme. I feel like I've been flying for days to get here. We've got totalk, Tess. Aren't you going to invite me in?"She gave his suggestion a great deal of thought before murmuring, "Do Ihave a choice?"--a rhetorical question if she'd ever heard one, becauseshe already knew the answer.Tess closed the door in order to unhook the chain, then threw it openand turned away, saying, "Comeon in, but don't expect me to talk to you anytime soon. I'm goingback to bed where I intend to sleep through the next several hours."She paused at the top of the stairs and added with a little. morecordiality, "Make yourself at home. I'll see you later."The closing of her bedroom door echoed through ut the place.Craig had already scooped up his duffel bag and stepped inside by thattime so that he was able to watch her progress up the stairs. She wasstill muttering something to herself when she closed the door--no doubtsomething uncomplimentary about him and all of his ancestors. He wasglad he couldn't make out what she said.He winced when her bedroom door slammed shut. The numbing sense ofdull fatigue he'd accumulated by crossing a series of time zonessettled around him like a familiar cloak.He was here now, that was the important thing. She hadn't slammed thedoor in his face, which was a good sign. She'd actually spoken to him.Another good sign.Of course he'd known she wouldn't be thrilled to see him at six o'clockin the morning. He smiled, thinking about the years he'd known her andwhat a grump she was until she finally woke up. She would have facedthe president of the United States with a similar attitude at sixo'clock in the morning, and she had actively campaigned for the man.She'd come around eventually. When she did, he intended to talk to herabout the revelations he'd had during the past two months. About her.About him. About the two of them.He'd never been so nervous concerning the outcome of anything in hisentire life than he was about her reaction to what he intended to tellher.He still stood in the foyer, aware of the silence around him. Therefrigerator hummed in the kitchen. There was a clock ticking in theliving room. Otherwise, he could hear nothing but the sound of his ownbreathing.Now that he was here he wasn't certain what to do next. He ran hishand through his hair. A hot shower sounded good... that, and a freshcup of coffee. He was sick of old, reheated coffee and stale rolls.Craig wandered into the kitchen and searched through her cupboardsuntil he found what he needed, then went through the familiar routineof making coffee. While he was waiting for it to brew, he carried hisbattered duffel bag into the den. One wall, almost entirely made ofglass, looked out on her backyard, which was surrounded by a high stonefence.He dumped the contents of his bag into a heap on the floor and pawedhis way through the pile, looking for the cleanest of his dirtyclothes, before heading for the shower downstairs.on in, but don't expect me to talk to you anytime soon. I'm goingback to bed where I intend to sleep through the next several hours."She paused at the top of the stairs and added with a little. morecordiality, "Make yourself at home. I'll see you later."The closing of her bedroom door echoed through ut the place.Craig had already scooped up his duffel bag and stepped inside by thattime so that he was able to watch her progress up the stairs. She wasstill muttering something to herself when she closed the door--no doubtsomething uncomplimentary about him and all of his ancestors. He wasglad he couldn't make out what she said.He winced when her bedroom door slammed shut. The numbing sense ... [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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