The Touch of Love Page 2

  In a hurry this morning? she asked mildly, her anger toned down to friendly criticism. Her temper flared quickly, but anger never lasted long for Melody.

  The man on her doorstep was a total stranger.

  Melody pushed her hair back in an unconscious attempt to tidy herself, to look less like a sleepy slob. She said briskly, Yes. Can I help you?

  He wasn't the mailman, not unless Canada Post had given up on blue uniforms and gone to immaculate gray trousers and leather, sheepskin-lined jackets. Not to mention the captain's hat that topped it all off, giving him the look of an inappropriately polished but tough man of the sea.

  She started to smile, then the curve of her lips faded to a frown as she realized that his hazel eyes held no warm lights in them, his mouth no friendly curve to it. It was character in his face, she decided, not handsomeness. She felt a sensual jolt that surprised her, even while she decided thankfully that he was a stranger whose frown was not going to mean trouble for her.

  Is Robin Connacher here? His voice was firm, pleasant, and he was accustomed to people jumping when he spoke. Behind him, she could see the black truck he must have driven up her twisted driveway. It was a four-wheel drive, shining and expensive. Like the man, it was obvious that the truck meant business.

  Sorry, she said, smiling slightly, her mind putting musical notes to words about a sea captain with a big truck and tired laughter lines radiating from his eyes. He was obviously an islander, although she knew she had never seen him before. She would have remembered. He had the tough confidence that went with the wild north. A fisherman perhaps, maybe even a neighbor. The house down the hill had been for sale six months now, and last week the real estate agent's car had been there, showing someone around. There was no laughter in his voice or his eyes, though, so Melody snapped out of her whimsical daze and repeated more firmly, Sorry, he's not here.

  He doesn't live here? The voice seemed to lose something of its authority. This isn't Robin Connacher's house?

  You've got the right place. Did Robin live here? Did Robin actually live anywhere specific? She shrugged that question away and said, But you can't see him. Sorry. If you want to give me a message for him, I can see it gets delivered.

  That won't do, he said, frowning.

  She resisted an urge to salute and say Aye, aye, captain.

  I've got to talk to him. He looked back at his truck and she followed his gaze, then stared at him when he grumbled, Did you ever think of getting someone in to fix up that driveway?

  With four-wheel drive, I wouldn't think you'd have a problem, she snapped back. My van does it all the time.

  He shrugged something away, then the irritation was gone and he was smiling down at her. He wasn't a tall man, but then neither was she tall, and he had the big, heavy shoulders of a wrestler or a weight lifter. She felt small and ridiculously feminine.

  He said, I'm a bit over-tired. I took the ferry up from Port Hardy and didn't have a very good sleep in my hotel last night.

  She nodded and tried to pretend that she did not realize his eyes had fixed on the free swelling of her breasts under the soft housecoat. It was time he left, past time she got to work. She could spend the morning on her front veranda, feeling tousled and oddly vulnerable, or she could work on the eighth song.

  Look, do you have a message for Robin, or-

  He shook his head, pushing his hands into the pockets of the suede jacket. No message. I have to see him personally. I take it he's at work? When will he be home? I could come back this evening or-

  He won't be here. She heard a sound, muffled, like a baby's cry, and he jerked around towards his truck. She said, It's probably a raven. They're all over the islands. He must not be an islander, not when he talked about staying in a hotel. She added, They're fantastic mimics. The ravens, I mean. They can sound like a baby, or a dune buggy engine, or a rock dropping in water.

  His eyes flew from his truck back to her. The sound came again before she realized that she was wrong, that it was no raven. He looked uneasy, something she suspected did not happen all that often.

  It's a baby, he said.

  She laughed. Your day to look after the baby? He was obviously not accustomed to the job.

  The baby yelped again and he jerked, torn between going to the truck and not going. No, he said abruptly. I-Oh, hell! Just wait a minute, would you?

  He ran to the truck just as the cries turned to wails. He was back with the baby in his arms, holding it as if he had done it a lot, but still with that uneasy look in his eyes. The baby didn't stop crying, although he joggled it gently and rubbed its back.

  Maybe it needs changing, she suggested. Or feeding?

  Maybe, he agreed. Listen, I really have to see Robin Connacher. I'm Scott Alexander, and I've come up here from the lower mainland specially to see him.

  She shook her head. I'm sorry, but you're out of luck. He's not here. As I said, I can get a message to him, but unless you want to sit around a few weeks waiting, you won't get to see him here.

  Damn! The baby's wailing gained power with the man's curse. He lowered his voice, pressing the baby against his shoulder and saying with a subdued anger, It's urgent that I see him. Wherever he is, I've got to get there and talk to him. I-Who are you?

  She frowned, wondering just what Robin was involved in. Wild though he was, it really wasn't like her twin to get into the kind of trouble that brought tough-looking men to his door. If this tough stranger had come looking for Charlie, she could believe it more easily. Her father was always in scrapes. But Robin?

  I'm Melody Connacher, she said, suddenly wondering why he had a baby with him. A baby, and he was a stranger, staying in a hotel, so he had no family locally. Of course, he might have a wife with him, but in that case, why wasn't she in the truck, holding the baby? Where was the baby's mother? And what on earth was he doing here?

  Realizing that she should have been suspicious from the first, she demanded abruptly, What is it you want with Robin?

  Where is he? he countered, speaking softly so as not to disturb the baby's sudden silence.

  Away, she snapped. She could feel her heart pounding. It would be hours after he left before she could get herself quieted and in a mood for working. Damn the man! Why do you want him?

  It's personal. The baby stirred. The man sighed in a way that made her remember he had said he was tired. She almost invited him into the house, but she knew better than that. He could be anyone at all. An axe murderer. A baby kidnapper.

  He demanded, Are you Connacher's wife?

  Robin's not- She broke off, knowing she should not give out personal details about Robin. Then, not realizing she was going to tell him, she said abruptly, I'm his sister.

  He's not married?

  She crossed her arms over her breasts and the man nodded, as if she had answered his question. You must have a phone number for him, or an address, a hotel where he's staying. It's really very important.

  He was persuasive, his voice sending messages that said he was trustworthy and responsible, that she could tell him anything. But her childhood and those two years in Los Angeles had given her a wariness that reminded her Robin was famous enough to be fair game for all kinds of crazy schemes.

  No, she said. I can give him a message if you like. Then if he wants to see you, he'll call you. I don't give out his phone number or his address. She smothered a grin at that, thinking of city things like telephones, and Robin on his little ship in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

  The baby drowned out his answer with a powerful scream. Melody winced. The man holding the infant shouted to drown out the howling. Look, Ms. Connacher, we've got to talk! But first of all this baby needs tending to!

  The wind twisted over the veranda and she hugged herself closer, aware of her bare feet as his eyes dropped to the hem of her housecoat. She snapped, It's not my baby.

  He scowled at her, the expression in his eyes as violent as his arms were tender on the child. The poor baby howled even more
loudly. He needs changing, but it's bloody cold out here. Why don't you open that door and let us in. We can talk better inside.

  No. They glared at each other. A baby could be a novel gimmick to get into a strange house. It was not his house, but Melody felt nervous. Not that she thought he would physically force his way inside, but those eyes had changed from hazel to granite and he was the sort of man who got his way regardless of rules or opponents. She bit her lip and asked again, What is it you want Robin for?

  Not me, it's the baby that wants him.

  The baby? she repeated, her voice sharp and startled.

  Yes. His baby.

  His- Her lips were open but nothing was coming out. Robin's baby? The baby did have Robin's glowing skin, his dark hair, a heritage from an unidentified Latin ancestor. Even Robin's eyes. But-

  You can't just burst in here and-

  I'm not in anywhere, he corrected wryly. She felt his presence like a physical blow as he shifted a few inches closer. I'm out in the cold.

  She shook her head, sending the curls tumbling as she finished in a rising voice, -and claim a strange baby is my brother's. You-you think just because he looks like Robin that you can-

  Does he? He looked down at the baby, his own eyes hazel again, assessing as he said, I thought he must. He certainly doesn't look like Donna.

  Donna? She had never even heard Robin mention the name Donna! Surely Robin would have told her? Granted, they'd seen little of each other these last two years, but surely he would have told her if he'd fathered a child? This had to be a con, although this stranger looked far too blunt and direct for a con man. She bit her lip, unable to keep her eyes off the baby with Robin's eyes, her eyes. She said, I don't know anyone named Donna.

  Can't we leave that until later? His voice had lost the aggressiveness, but this firm, persuasive gentleness might be every bit as dangerous as the lord-high-captain voice. She started to tell him it was not her baby, that she had no reason to believe it was Robin's either, but before the words could come he seemed to read her mind.

  He said, It's not my baby either, but it is crying, and shouldn't we look after its problems before we settle our own? A new diaper and a bottle of formula.

  I don't have any diapers. You'll have to go down to the Shop Easy, or-

  Suddenly she found herself with an armful of squalling baby. She clutched instinctively, afraid of dropping the infant. Listen, Mr. Whoever-you-are, I don't know anything about looking after babies! You can't just dump it here and-

  I'm getting the diapers, he said, and he was gone, covering the ground between the veranda and his truck with quick strides. She stood in the doorway while the baby burped something up on her housecoat. She stared after the man, wondering if he really was getting diapers. It seemed more likely that he would get behind the wheel and drive away.

  She shouted, If you drive off, I'm calling the police. They'll be here before you can back down to the road!

  He reached into the truck, then emerged with a bag that looked identical to those used by the young mothers around Queen Charlotte. It seemed very out of place in the hands of this muscular, he-man type. He was grinning as he slammed the door of the truck and took the stairs up to the veranda towards her two at a time. Don't worry, I'm not deserting you. Diapers, as promised, and I believe you about the police. That driveway certainly wasn't made for quick getaways.

  He stopped, close enough that she could smell the soap he had showered with that morning. Fresh and tangy and masculine. She frowned. Her thoughts ran like a soap advertisement, and that should be a warning to her. If she didn't get to work soon, she would be doing advertising copy instead of songs.

  He shifted the strap of the bag onto one shoulder and reached the other hand up. She jerked, thinking he was going to touch her, but his fingers brushed the baby's cheek, not Melody's. The infant turned his head towards the man's hand, opening his mouth and sucking noisily on a brown, callused finger. Watching, Melody saw the man's expression change to tenderness as he looked down at the suckling baby. She felt an impulse to reach up and trace the lines drawn on his weathered cheek by that half-smile.

  Are you going to let us in? he asked, smiling widely enough for her to see the laughter lines crinkle around his eyes. He must have been psychic because he added, We're not dangerous.

  Maybe not the baby, she said, and his laughter sounded as she had imagined it would, full and real, not forced at all. She stepped back and he was inside before she had time to wonder if she was crazy.

  He stopped inside the door, reaching back to close it behind her. She stopped too, waiting.

  Somewhere to change the baby? he suggested.

  She looked towards the living room and he smiled, his eyes taking in its comfortable elegance. The kitchen table? he suggested. That would be better. And we could start warming up a bottle.

  We? She looked down and found those eyes staring back at her. Her eyes. Robin's. The eyes they had inherited from their mother. The eyes this baby had inherited from his father? Perhaps. She knew she was not going to turn out the man and this baby, not just yet.

  He said firmly, Yes, we. Until we get to this baby's father, you and I are the nearest thing it has to kin.

  His mother? What about the mother? Surely the mother had not pushed her child aside. Robin would never be interested in the kind of woman who-

  She's dead. He said it flatly, without emotion, and she stared at him. The kitchen, he reminded her, and she wondered if he was as untouched as he appeared. What had the mother been to him? Kin? She stared at the baby and thought about the kind of odd, intertwined relationships that seemed to belong in the madness that was LA and the world she had escaped.

  The baby shifted and Melody could feel the dampness. First things first. She led the way, still holding the baby because he wasn't offering to. She stopped at the kitchen table and said firmly, You'll have to do this. I haven't a clue what to do.

  You've never changed a baby?

  Never, she said firmly.

  Just my luck. I thought all girls baby-sat. Surely-

  I didn't have that kind of childhood. Now why had she said that? As if she were inviting his interest, and she saw the curiosity, the response that seemed to mean he was as aware of her as she was of him. She had never felt a response to a man's smell before, but her nostrils caught that after-shower scent again and she felt an answering quivering deep inside herself. Take it, she said, holding the baby out, rejecting the crazy feelings.

  His lips twitched, but he did not quite smile. He took the baby. Have you got a bath towel? She went and got one and he nodded to the table. She spread it out, then watched as he efficiently stripped the lower half of the baby, put the diaper in a plastic bag and said, You'll have somewhere to dispose of that?

  Yes, she agreed, taking it, unable to resist adding, You, on the other hand, seem to be an expert in this baby business. Maybe you baby-sat for spending money when you were a kid?

  No, he said absently. I fished. Put a pot of water on the stove to heat up a bottle.

  A fisherman. She had been right.

  Aye, aye, captain, she said. His head jerked around and she grinned. You're bossy, you know. You're used to giving orders.

  But she put the water on, although he was the one who fed the baby.

  Somewhere more comfortable? she suggested, and he followed her into the living room with baby and bottle. She wanted to sit across from him and watch, intrigued by the sight of the big man holding the tiny baby with such care, fascinated by the look on his face when he bent to watch the tiny person suckling on the rubber nipple.

  Perhaps because she wanted so much to watch, and because the desire was uncomfortably stirring, she stood up and said abruptly, I have things to do. Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a few minutes.

  It was past time she got dressed. She ran up the stairs, leaving him behind. Her sweater lay on the bed, her jeans a jumble on the floor where she had dropped them when she picked up her dressi
ng gown to put it back on. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she shed the dressing gown again.

  She was tumbled, rumpled, as if she had just come from her bed. She had not yet brushed her hair into tame order this morning. Her lips, always red, looked fuller than usual, vulnerable. No wonder he had stared at her when she told him she was leaving him alone with the baby. She looked ... sensual, she thought, not liking the word.

  She dressed quickly, zipped her jeans up and pulled the sweater on. She brushed her hair briskly, taming her curls into waves. When she put the brush down, her hair had its daytime look, smooth and controlled as if she had just been to the salon. A pity, Amanda had always said, that Melody had the dramatic coloring, the full dark lips and the wonderfully wavy hair, when she was the one Connacher who hated to be up on the stage. Wasted.

  She made her bed, pulling the blue pile spread smooth. She hung up her robe and put away her T-shirt. She pulled the bedroom door tight behind her and went down the corridor to the music room, stopping at the head of the stairs and listening, hearing a faint murmur that might be her uninvited guest talking to a baby.

  She moved from the synthesizer to the multi-track recorder in her sound room, her hands hovering, but touching nothing. It was ridiculous to pretend she could work right now. She lifted the page of notes for a hauntingly sad song about a girl at the side of the sea, and her fisherman lover who went out on the herring fishery and lost everything in a cold, fierce winter storm ... his life ... his love.

  She knew that when she went back to the song, the fisherman lover would have changed, taken on a reality that was beyond her usual fantasies. He was downstairs.

  She was stalling and she knew it. Avoiding going back, avoiding the complication of this baby and the man. She had learned to protect herself from distractions, to shield herself from the rat race that destroyed what was creative in her, from the trivial tasks that sucked away her spontaneity. Not selfish so much as necessary, because she had almost lost herself before she learned to say no to the people who demanded parts of her.