Claiming His Love-Child. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      THIS time, after he toweled off, he shaved, put on a pair of khakis and a black T-shirt and reached for the telephone.

      He needed a change of scene. That was a no-brainer. It was a little late to make weekend escape plans—the roads would still be crowded—but he knew all the back ways to reach the airport at Nantucket. Yeah. Maybe the best choice was the closest choice.

      His cottage, and his boat.

      Cullen punched in the number of the couple who took care of the cottage. The woman answered; he asked how she was, how her husband was, how the weather was…and then he heard himself tell her he’d just phoned to touch bases and no, he wouldn’t be coming out for the weekend and he hoped they’d have terrific weather and enjoy the three days, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

      He hit the disconnect button, ran his hand over his face. Okay. Obviously, he wasn’t in the mood for a weekend of sailing. Well, what was he in the mood for? Something other than rattling around here, that was for sure.

      Who to call next? Keir, to ask what time the barbecue was on? His mother, to tell her he’d be home after all? Or should he head for one of those other parties, maybe that one in Malibu? That was a better idea. His family would take one look at him, ask questions he couldn’t answer.

      Hell.

      Cullen grabbed his address book. He’d call the redhead he’d dated a couple of times the past month. She was pretty and lots of fun, and if he hadn’t called her in a week or two, it was because he was busy.

      He hadn’t taken her to bed, either.

      How come?

      Perhaps this was the weekend to remedy that oversight. The lady had made it very clear she was more than ready to join him in the horizontal rumba.

      Cullen smiled, thumbed open the address book, flipped to the page that had her number on it…

      “Crap!”

      He slammed the book shut, took a quick walk around the room and tried to figure out what in hell was going on. No sailboat. No gorgeous redhead. What did he want to do with the weekend?

      The answer came without any hesitation and he acted on it that same way, not fighting it anymore, just grabbing the address book and telephone again, punching in a series of digits before he could change his mind.

      “Flyaway Charters,” a cheery voice said. “How may we help you?”

      “You can tell me how fast you can get me to Berkeley,” Cullen said. “Yeah, that’s right. Berkeley, California.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      BY THE time the chartered Learjet landed in California, Cullen had come to the conclusion he was crazy.

      He’d flown 3,000 miles in six hours, gone from East coast time to Pacific coast time—something that always left him feeling vaguely disoriented—and now, as he stepped onto the tarmac, he was engulfed by air so hot and humid it made the weather he’d left behind seem like an arctic paradise.

      And for what?

      What in hell was he doing?

      He’d never chased after a woman in his life. Well, not since the seventh grade, when he’d made a fool of himself over Trudy Gershwin, but seventh grade was long gone. He wasn’t a kid. Neither was Marissa Perez. She was history and so was the night they’d spent in bed.

      History? Cullen slung the strap of his carry-on bag over his shoulder as he walked toward the terminal. That night was barely a blip in the fabric of his life. Who gave a damn why she’d slept with him, then vanished and refused to take his calls?

      Trouble was, he’d reached that conclusion somewhere over the pastures and fields of the Midwest, a few hours and fifteen hundred miles too late. He’d come within a breath of telling the pilot to turn the jet around.

      He’d thought about phoning his brothers. One or the other would give him good advice.

      Hey, bro, Sean or Keir would say, you know what your problem is? You’ve got a bad case of ZTS.

      Yes, he’d thought, I do. He’d smiled, even reached for the phone…and then he’d realized that first he’d have to tell the whole story, the weekend in California, making a fool of himself with Marissa, the infuriating months since then.

      Besides, this wasn’t ZTS. He wasn’t thinking with his gonads, he simply wanted answers. Closure. The word of the day.

      So he’d sat back, finished the flight and now, as he stepped into the welcome chill of the terminal, Cullen told himself he was glad he had.

      Closure. Right. That’s what he wanted, what he was entitled to, and, by God, he wasn’t going home without it.

      He found the rental car counter easily enough, managed a “hello” he hoped was civil and slapped the confirmation number of his reservation on the counter.

      “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Connell,” the clerk said, her smile as bright as if she were about to hand him a winning lottery ticket instead of the keys to…

      A four-door sedan? Cullen blinked as he read the paper she slid in front of him.

      “There’s some mistake here, miss. I reserved a convertible.”

      The blinding smile dimmed just a little. “I know. But this is a holiday weekend.”

      “And?”

      “And, it’s all we have left.”

      He knew she meant he was lucky to get anything with an engine and four wheels. She was right, too, and really, what did the type of car he drove matter? He wasn’t here for a good time; he was on a safari to Egoville because, yeah, the simple truth was this was all about ego. His. The Perez babe had dented it, and he was here to set things right.

      Man, acknowledging that nasty truth really put the icing on the cake.

      Cullen glared, muttered something about inefficiency as he signed the papers and scooped up the keys. He started to stalk away but after a couple of steps, he rolled his eyes and turned back toward the counter.

      “Sorry,” he said in a clipped tone. “I’m in a bad mood, but I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

      The clerk’s smile softened. “It’s the weather, sir. Everybody’s edgy. What we need is a good soaking rain.”

      Cullen nodded. What he needed was a good soaking for his head. If he’d done that in the first place, he’d still be back home. Since it was too late for that, he settled for buying an extra-large container of coffee, black, at a stand near the exit door. Maybe part of the problem was that he was still operating on East coast time. Pumping some caffeine through his system might help.

      It didn’t.

      The coffee tasted as if somebody had washed their socks in it. He dumped it in a trash bin after one sip. And the sedan was a color that could only be called bilious-green. Five minutes on the freeway toward Berkeley and Cullen knew it also had all the vitality of a sick sloth.

      Not a good beginning for a trip he probably shouldn’t have made.

      Cullen fell in behind an ancient truck whose sole reason for existence was to make green sedans feel like Ferraris.

      Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

      His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

      And that was the one thing he wouldn’t do with Perez. Beg. No way. He’d confront her, get in her face if that’s what it took, and he wouldn’t let her off the hook until she explained herself, but he wouldn’t let her think he was pleading for answers…

      Even if he was.

      Damn