Father Most Wanted. Marie FerrarellaЧитать онлайн книгу.
that Gina’s life would be taken right before his eyes. Things like that only happened in the kinds of movies he didn’t care to watch.
As did kidnappings.
Even the hint of the word caused sharp chills to tingle their way down his spine. But what else could have happened? His daughter knew better than to wander off.
He’d only looked away for a second. But a second was all it took for something bad to happen.
He couldn’t think like that, he admonished himself. It would drive him crazy. And then where would the girls be?
“We’ll find her, Daddy,” Bethany told him. She sounded so much older than her years. Almost as if she were the parent and he the child.
Ironic humor tugged at his soul. “I’m supposed to be the one saying that to you.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about. Ever,” he told her, toning down the fierceness in his voice. “Your sister, when we find her, however, does.” He looked down at the little girl on his left. “Are you sure she didn’t say where she was going?”
The girl shook her head, her dark curls bouncing like tiny springs. “She was just gone.”
Gone. The word echoed in his mind. No, he refused to let himself go there, refused to entertain any idea except that he would find her. He had to.
“Look, Daddy, over there!” Excitedly Bethany pointed beyond the carousel at the same moment she began tugging on her father’s arm. “There she is, with some lady.”
His heart iced over, the words registering before he had the opportunity to see for himself. He turned his steps in the direction Bethany was tugging, hurrying before he even looked at the terrain. He zigged around the heavyset security guard just in time. The older man looked at him oddly as he made his way to his daughter.
Good. Keep watching. Maybe we’ll need you.
But the instant he saw his wayward daughter, he knew he’d just allowed himself to overreact. Instinct told him everything was all right. His daughter wasn’t in any danger. This time.
For the second time that day Brooke came to an abrupt halt because of the tall dark-haired man. But this time it wasn’t to keep from colliding with him, it was because she was stunned. His matching bookends still flanked him.
Confused, Brooke looked down at the little girl whose hand was firmly tucked into hers. She was a dead ringer for the other two.
Somewhere, Brooke decided, there had to be an overheated cloning machine given over to producing tight, almost jet-black curls, rosebud mouths and big, luminous blue eyes with lashes any grown woman would kill for.
“They’re triplets,” the man said in answer to the silent question she knew had to be written all over her face.
“I noticed.”
She was addressing the top of his head. He’d lowered himself to his knees, wrapping his arms around the tiny recipient, nearly burying her in them.
“Tiffany, where did you go?” he asked.
Tiffany? This was Tiffany? Brooke looked down at the little girl, feeling foolish. She should have known better than to think a grown man would look that worried about a missing wife.
“Into her store,” the child said matter-of-factly, pointing a finger at Brooke. “She’s got the best books, Daddy. You gotta see them.”
“Maybe later,” he told her.
Regaining control over emotions that had been, only moments ago, stripped raw, he rose to his feet and looked at the woman beside his daughter. He’d learned to be a quick judge and at the same time not to trust his first impressions. But she looked harmless enough.
Not everyone was a threat, he reminded himself.
“I’m sorry if she caused you any trouble.”
Judging by his tone, Brooke thought, Tiffany was probably every bit the handful she appeared. Brooke’s eyes swept over the three impish curious faces. Maybe they all were. “No, no trouble at all. As a matter of fact, she was delightful.”
If it weren’t for the fact that their clothes were slightly different, Brooke wouldn’t have been able to tell them apart. Her sympathy went out to the man and his wife. “Are there any more at home like her?”
“No, three’s about all I can handle.” He laughed softly, the deep sound undulating around the otherwise quiet early-morning mall. “Actually, more than I can handle, as you just saw. I should have grown a third hand the day they were born.” There was no mistaking the affection in his voice. He tried to pull his face into a stern expression as he looked down at his prodigal daughter, but failed. “Tiffany, what did I say about wandering off?”
Tiffany drew a deep breath before answering. “Not to.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman shaking her head and laughing to herself. “What?”
“Nothing.” But because she didn’t want him to think she was laughing at him, she explained, “It’s just that when I heard you calling Tiffany a few minutes ago, I thought you were looking for your wife.”
“No.” There was a quiet stillness in his voice. “I wasn’t.”
Uh-oh, looks like you’ve just trod on some toes, Brooke upbraided herself. Maybe she’d been hanging around children too long and absorbed their tendency to be too honest, she thought.
If he was about to say anything else, it was put on hold by his two other daughters, both of whom were determined not to remain on the sidelines for a second longer than necessary.
“I’m Bethany,” one announced.
“And I’m Stephany,” the other told her.
Dutifully Brooke shook first one hand, then the other. “Pleased to meet you, Bethany and Stephany. I’m Brooke.”
“And he’s Daddy,” Bethany nodded behind her at her father.
Brooke raised her eyes to his face. Amused by the introduction, she couldn’t help asking, “Does Daddy have a name?”
Was it her imagination, or had he hesitated before putting his hand out? “Tyler Breckinridge,” he told her after a beat.
He sounded so formal she wondered if the name was supposed to mean something to her. Was he known for anything? This was Southern California and you were as likely to run into someone famous as not. She’d once eaten dinner one table over from a movie star who’d won her young heart years ago. Out of makeup, it had been hard to recognize him.
She looked at Breckinridge closely, then decided he was merely being formal.
“Brooke Carmichael.”
She slipped her hand into his and shook it firmly. She saw a flicker of mild surprise in his eyes. He was probably accustomed to softer women who barely touched hands. Her father had always believed that a firm handshake was the mark of character, and she, he’d told her, had character to spare.
Brooke nodded in the general direction of her bookstore. “I own Tell Me a Story. I found Tiffany taking inventory of my books.” She smiled at the little girl. “Please feel free to drop by anytime with the girls.” Her smile broadened. “Tiffany can show you the way.”
Tiffany needed no more encouragement than that. “How about now, Daddy?”
Two more voices joined in, turning the entreaty into a choruslike refrain. “Yes, please, Daddy?”
“Please, Daddy?”
Tiffany turned up her face toward her father, triumph written all over it. “Three against one, Daddy.”
“I already told you, Tiff, this isn’t a democracy.” He looked at the other two.