LITMIR.BIZ

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a dismissive hand at Blaine.

      “I didn’t even know you were here. I just came by to see how Jack and Mickey were doing.” She paused for a moment as she looked him squarely in the eye. “Mickey obviously isn’t doing very well.”

      Exasperation shouted for release. Just who did she think she was, coming here and passing judgment? “His mother just died, what do you expect him to be? Practicing cartwheels for a circus act?” A loud noise in the background reminded him of the movers, as well as of Jack and Mickey. With effort, he lowered his voice again. “All things considered, he’s doing rather well.”

      “Oh, really?”

      She tossed her hair over her shoulder. The slight action looked like a challenge from where he stood. Her hands balled into fists at her waist didn’t do anything to dispel that impression.

      “And just what is your definition of ‘well’?” The man was not only heartless, he was blind to boot, Bridgette thought.

      For two cents, he’d gladly clip that raised chin of hers. “Not that it’s any business of yours, Ms. Fanelli—”

      “Rafanelli,” she corrected tersely.

      “Ms. Rafanelli,” he echoed in the same tone she’d used, “My definition of well is the way Mickey is handling it. He’s behaving calmly, like an adult.”

      There were words for dunderheads like O’Connor, but she refrained from using them. She didn’t want Mickey hearing her swear. But she had to bite her lip, physically holding back the barrage. When she finally spoke, it was in a low, barely controlled voice.

      “You probably missed this piece of information in your vast travels around the globe, but Mickey is only ten. He’s not supposed to act like an adult until he’s past puberty.” Her eyes washed over Blaine. The look in them was far from flattering, even though she wasn’t oblivious to the fact that he was a very good-looking man. “Of course, for some it’s a reversed process.”

      He’d had enough of her sarcasm. “Look, I really don’t have time for this—”

      That had been the excuse Diane said he always used when she called him, asking him to come see his son. “Don’t have time for very much except your work, do you?”

      The image of wrapping his hands around her throat seemed to spring up out of nowhere. He wasn’t a violent man by nature. Nonetheless, it was a very pleasing image.

      “Not that I really care about your opinion, but just what is that supposed to mean?” Before Bridgette could respond, he added, “For that matter, what are all of your sarcastic remarks supposed to mean?” It took a great deal to keep from lashing out at her. “You don’t even know me.”

      That’s where he was wrong. Bridgette set her mouth hard. Diane had told her plenty about this man, the heartache he’d caused her, the pain. “I know enough.”

      There was a steely look in his eyes. His tone dropped. It was harsh, devoid of emotion, as if it had all been spent. Or kept under lock and key. “From Diane.”

      Blaine saw her raise her head, as if to defend the dead woman. Diane might be gone, but it seemed that her staff had been taken up by another. Even dead she knew how to make his life difficult. “Well, did it ever occur to you that perhaps she colored things a little? Or a lot, as the case may be.”

      She wouldn’t have expected him to say anything else. But Bridgette had facts at her disposal. “You were in London for Christmas.”

      The statement was worded like an accusation. “What does—?”

      She didn’t let him finish. “And you were in the Philippines, doing layouts for the ever famous swimsuit issue for Mickey’s tenth birthday.”

      That had been unavoidable. He’d been facing an ironclad deadline. But he had managed to call Mickey and talk to him at length. Only because Jack had answered the telephone. Had it been Diane, he would have never had the opportunity to talk to the boy. He and Mickey had celebrated the day a week later. Royally.

      “Yes, but—”

      She ignored his attempt at a protest. Nothing he could say would negate the facts. “On Mickey’s first birthday, you were—” She looked up at him innocently. “Where was it again?”

      Blaine shoved his hands into his pockets much the way Mickey had. “Canada. Quebec.” He grounded out the answer through clenched teeth. He remembered being very lonely that day. He’d missed Mickey something fierce. “Is this a trial?”

      It was a rhetorical question. She had obviously already convicted him and was leading him to the gallows.

      She wished Jack hadn’t left. She felt better talking to him, not arguing with this biological miscreant. “No, I’m merely substantiating my point.”

      Blaine’s expression hardened, hiding the anger boiling just beneath. “Which is?”

      “That what Diane told me was true.”

      Leave it to Diane to skip the part about how he made it up to Mickey. How he always found a way to make it up to Mickey. The nature of his work didn’t allow him the freedom to live like most men. That was both the beauty and the burden of his career. And even if he hadn’t had that career, there’d always been Diane to act as a stumbling block.

      “Yes, but—”

      Her eyes dared him to deny what she was saying. “There is no ‘but’ here, O’Connor. It’s either true or it’s not and you just said it was, thereby dismissing your earlier insinuation that Diane lied about you.”

      Why he was even bothering to stand here, arguing with her, within earshot of his father-in-law and the movers, was beyond him. Maybe it was the fact that he had never managed to convince Diane that he was innocent that goaded him on to make her understand.

      “Look, before you pass judgment on me—”

      He had told her what she wanted to know and she didn’t care to stand around, listening to him attempt to talk his way out of it.

      Her eyes were cold as they appraised him. She could see why Diane had fallen for him. He was tall, muscular and had a definite sexual air about him that would have been appealing if she didn’t know what she did about him.

      “I’m not passing judgment. I couldn’t care less what you do or where you go. I do, however, care a great deal about Mickey.”

      “Why?” She wasn’t a relative. He saw no reason for her to be so adamant about the boy.

      She debated ignoring his question, then relented. “For a lot of reasons. For one, I’m his godmother.”

      It took him a moment to assimilate her words. Diane had deliberately planned Mickey’s christening to take place while he was away. As always, he hadn’t found out about the ceremony until after the fact.

      “You are?”

      His ignorance of the fact didn’t surprise her. Diane had said he had cut himself off from his son’s life except for the mandatory child support payments. And even they were late in coming.

      “Didn’t know that, either, did you?”

      The tally against this man was adding up. He was an absentee father, just like her own had been. Oh, Carlo Rafanelli had been there physically, providing a roof over her head and food for her sustenance. But emotionally, where it counted, it was as if he didn’t exist. Or she didn’t. And when he had remarried, he had moved away, leaving her in Nonna’s care. In the end, he’d gone on with his life as if he’d never had a daughter at all.

      Standing here, talking to this thickheaded, thick-skinned oaf, brought it all back to her.

      Well, maybe she thought she had some right to interfere in Mickey’s welfare, but not in Blaine’s book. Especially not with that attitude. “As his godmother, it would have been your obligation to look after Mickey if both his

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