Alias Mommy - Linda Johnston O.

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lovely face, and Reeve found himself wanting to return it. “What is it?” She propped her weight on one hand resting on the bed.

      “Wait.” He hated seeing her look so uncomfortable, so he drew closer and pushed the button that adjusted the back of the bed. It rose with a whir, and she leaned back as soon as it stopped. This close, he could smell her soft spicy scent, the one he had been aware of even when he’d discovered her in her wrecked car, except now the scent was incongruously interspersed with her infant’s baby powder. He pulled up a metal chair from beneath the window and sat near the bed. “How are you at convincing delinquent accounts to cough up what they owe?”

      She gave a small laugh. “Like me?”

      He laughed, too. “Well, at least you’re willing to pay. Some people who owe the center ignore their debts.”

      “I’ll pay, I promise. And if I have to do it by strong-arming others into paying, too, I’ll manage.” She sounded so serious that he wanted to squeeze the small hand that lay on top of the white bedclothes. Strong-arm? She seemed too delicate for that. And yet her offer to stay and work here, while still recuperating from an accident and surgery, told him that she had a powerful determination that was inconsistent with her vulnerable demeanor.

      “Great. As soon as you’re feeling up to it, I’ll have Clifford fill you in more about the job. Oh, and Frannie Meltzer has an idea about child care.”

      “Thank you,” Polly said. “I really appreciate this. I can’t tell you how much.” Her face glowed, her small chin tipped up and he had a sudden urge to bend and kiss those full, tempting lips.

      He stood in a hurry. “I’d better go.” He walked briskly toward the door, but remembered something and turned back to her.

      She was staring after him. There was a longing expression on her face, as though she had wanted him to kiss her.

      He shook his head. Fool. He was imagining it. Even if he weren’t, such an act would be utterly inappropriate. She was a patient at the medical center. His medical center. She was nearly his patient, for he had treated her before anyone else.

      And, he reminded himself, she had a husband somewhere. Maybe a divorced husband, but one who just might want to know about this baby, despite what Polly had claimed about sleeping around—a claim Reeve couldn’t bring himself to believe.

      “I almost forgot,” he said. “Clifford said someone called, asking after you.”

      She didn’t move, yet seemed suddenly to cringe. Her face drained of the little color it held. “Who?”

      “I’m not sure, but I had the impression it was the guy from the gas station where they towed your car. Clifford said something about selling it for scrap parts.”

      “Oh.” Her voice sounded weak, but it grew stronger. “Well, sure. Though I’ll want to talk to him about it first, just in case it can be fixed.”

      Reeve gave a brief, ironic laugh. “Not the car I saw. But I’ll tell Clifford to have the guy speak with you.”

      He said his goodbyes, then left the room. He paused outside the door in bemusement. Was Polly Black a runaway wife? That would explain a lot. Her reactions were not those of a woman simply traveling to stay with a friend. She had seemed afraid when he’d mentioned that someone was asking after her. She had seemed terrified when she’d learned Alicia was a reporter.

      And if she were hiding from her husband, then what? If it came to a choice between helping her hide and revealing her whereabouts to the poor bastard whose kid was being kept from him, which would Reeve do?

      Maybe it was his attraction to this woman that made Reeve unsure whose side he would take.

      Chapter Three

      “So what do you think?” asked Frannie Meltzer. An unbuttoned blue raincoat flapped open over her nurse’s uniform. Her platinum hair was more mussed than usual from the chilly fall breeze outside.

      Polly stood in the living room of a furnished one-bedroom apartment two blocks from the medical center, holding Laurel, now nine days old, against her shoulder. The place smelled of pine cleaner, and patches of brighter white paint on the walls indicated where pictures had hung. The green overstuffed sofa and matching chair appeared to have been thrift store issue. But a rich walnut wainscoting lined one wall, and a delightful stone fireplace dominated another. And there was a small TV—the better to keep her vigil over the news.

      The apartment was on the top floor of a garage behind the house owned by Frannie’s great-aunt Esther, and the rent was cheap, making Polly’s decision easy. “It’s wonderful!” she told Frannie. “Don’t you think so, Laurel?” she said, rubbing her daughter’s back reassuringly.

      Never mind that the entire apartment would nearly have fit inside the master bathroom of the house she had just left. Her former residence had never been her home. It had never really felt like her home.

      When Polly and he had married, Carl had bought it to please her mother and stepfather.

      Well, this place would be all hers—hers and Laurel’s.

      She walked into the tiny kitchenette, remembering the house she’d shared with Carl. It had been in the kitchen of the large house that Carl had first confronted her. He had brandished a gun to scare her.

      She had been wearing a flowing maternity dress, a little designer number. It had been blue….

      But that was all behind her. Now, Polly wore inexpensive stretch slacks and a plaid maternity top, the tie in back cinched tight since she had nearly regained her figure. The clothes had been salvaged from her wrecked car. Her toiletries, too, had been there, including a small bottle of the costly perfume she had loved—and probably never could afford again. Surprisingly, no one had stolen her bag, as would have happened in a large city. Not that there was much worth taking—except for one small item of importance to her. It was still there.

      She would need a new, nonpregnant wardrobe here—all the better to prevent discovery, at least for the next three weeks, until Laurel’s actual due date. Polly would also have to dye her hair again soon. She had noticed in a mirror at the hospital that its lighter roots had begun to show. She had darkened her eyebrows and lashes, too, and these would eventually need touching up.

      She glanced out the kitchen window, which overlooked the driveway. The yard was fenced, and it was beautiful. In the center was a magnificent aspen, its fall leaves brilliant gold.

      More important, the place looked secure.

      Frannie had followed her into the kitchen. “Do you think you’ll take the apartment?” she asked.

      “Absolutely.” Polly knew she sounded enthused. She was enthused.

      She had almost said no when Frannie first told her about the place. Polly had not wanted help from anyone. But she had been acting helpless. What else did she expect but that someone would offer help?

      “It’s perfect,” she said. “I don’t know how to thank you, Frannie.”

      “You just did.” She touched Polly’s shoulder and smiled, revealing her prominent front teeth.

      “Everyone here has been so nice.” Polly thought of Reeve Snyder, and a warmth unfurled inside her. During the past days in the hospital, she had seen a lot of him—as he checked on Laurel, of course. He had been kind. Helpful. He never criticized her fumblings as a new mother. In fact, he encouraged her.

      And he had helped her get the part-time job that was so important to her. She planned to start soon, since her responsibilities at first would only be to make phone calls from her own home. She could work around her soreness and exhaustion, and be able to care for Laurel by placing calls only when her daughter napped.

      Polly would increase her time and responsibilities gradually. And her pay. At her starting rate, it would take her years to work off her debt, especially since Laurel

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