The Playboy's Baby(3)

Okay, so her foot didn’t hurt that bad. She was too stunned by the powerful press of his body against her, by the memories invading her thoughts, to protest. When they made it to the bar, she collapsed onto a stool with a relieved sigh. She closed her eyes for a moment and conjured images of the sweet face she left an hour ago. Soft chubby cheeks, big eyes closed in slumber, the wide little mouth puckered and working an invisible bottle.

Sweet little Annie was under the watchful eye of old Mrs. Emerson, who owned the bed and breakfast she was staying at. The old woman had been a dear friend of the family, back when her mother was still alive. She’d agreed to watch Annie, so that Emma wouldn’t have to drag her out in this weather. It also gave her time alone with Dillon, to break the news to him.

She needed to remember that she was here for Annie’s sake. Her niece’s future depended on Emma keeping her head. She came here to inform Dillon he had a daughter and to ask him to share custody, not to recount memories. She had a job to do. Annie deserved her best.

Lucky for her, Dillon seemed to take her sigh to mean it relieved her to be off her foot.

“Hey, Ronnie.” He raised his voice over the din and leaned his elbows on the bar, turning his attention to the bartender at the other end. “Give me an ice pack, would you?”

When the man nodded, Dillon sank onto the barstool beside her. He turned to face her, their knees brushing. A shiver rocketed through her in response, from the point of contact clean down to her toes.

“Give me your foot.” He patted the edge of the stool between his legs.

The heat of embarrassment crept into her cheeks again. She shook her head. “It’s just a little sore.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to have a look.” Without waiting for a reply, he bent sideways, pulled her foot off the rung, and set it on the stool between his thighs.

Could her face get any hotter? “I tell you, it’s fine.” She rolled her eyes to cover her unease.

Unlacing her boot, Dillon cut her a quick glance, eyes glittering in triumph. “So, where is Janey, anyway?”

How could she possibly be unprepared for that question? The raw, gaping wound in her chest, the one she’d only just managed to keep at bay, split wide open again. Emma struggled to breathe through the tide of emotions that washed over her. Never again would she see Janey’s smiling face or hear her infectious laughter. Annie would never know what a wonderful vibrant person her mother was. Janey would never see her beautiful daughter’s first steps or hear her first words.

“I know she’s in here somewhere. Only your sister could have managed to get you to come into this place.”

He was right. Only Janey. Her chest squeezed with the pain she’d barely held off for the last month. Emma stared at her stockinged foot, encased in his large warm hands, and bit her bottom lip in an effort to keep the tears burning behind her eyelids from seeping down her cheeks. The words she needed to say clogged in her suddenly full throat.

Dillon lifted his head, his questioning stare obvious. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him, to speak.

“Em?” When she didn’t answer, he cupped her chin in his palm and forced her to meet his gaze. “What’s going on?”

Instant panic replaced the pain gripping her chest, and Emma squeezed her eyes shut and dragged in a deep breath. God, why was this so hard? She’d prepared herself for this moment, rehearsed what she wanted to say to him, yet the words refused to leave her tongue.

“What’s wrong with Janey?” Dillon’s voice was deadly calm, yet with an authoritative clip that demanded she answer.

Emma opened her eyes and met his searching gaze. The anxiousness lighting the dark depths twisted at her insides and answered the question for her. Dillon was the only other person alive who loved Janey the way she did. Right now, she didn’t know if she could stand to see pain shadow his eyes when she dropped the news of her sister’s death.

She swallowed hard and managed to shake her head. “Not here.”

Brows drawn together, he hesitated then nodded. “My office.”

He didn’t bother to wait for a reply. Instead, he stood and handed her the boot he removed.

She opened her mouth to voice a protest when the bartender appeared in front of them catching his attention. “We have a problem.” The man nodded in the direction of the crowd of dancers and handed Dillon a hand towel filled with ice.

Dillon turned sideways and followed the man’s gaze. On the other side of the room, two women had climbed onto a table and shook their assets for an uproariously grateful crowd of drunken men. Dillon swore under his breath.