Who's That Baby?. Diana WhitneyЧитать онлайн книгу.
salesman, weather reports mingled with the stilted dialogue of old movies, headline news segued from the cheery jingle of a cereal commercial.
Night surrounded him. Fatigue weakened his muscles, but sleep was the enemy, a place haunted by secret loneliness and memories he couldn’t control. Emotions could be bottled during the chaos of waking hours; pain could be ignored through the focus of work.
Work was Johnny’s life, had always been his life, first to achieve the success that was so important to him, and later to keep him from dwelling on past failures or acknowledging the emptiness of a heart betrayed too often.
Now that heart was in jeopardy again.
The image of his precious daughter floated through his mind. Everyone Johnny had ever loved had been lost to him. His parents, his wife, even the woman who had borne him a child. Love was temporary; people were temporary.
Fatherhood was forever.
The concept gave him chills, made his palms sweat. Johnny had never allowed himself to think in such permanent terms before. Now he must, for no matter when Samantha returned or why she had left in the first place, his life would never be the same.
Part of him whispered that was a good thing. But another part, the largest part, was absolutely terrified.
Myra Bierbaum glanced up from the word-processing keyboard, arched a raspy brow above her tortoise-framed spectacles and eyed Johnny’s fatigued features a bit too acutely for comfort. “Tough night?”
“No worse than usual.” Avoiding his office manager’s knowing gaze, Johnny absently flipped through the stack of messages she handed him. “Call the ranch-association president, and see if you can reschedule the monthly meeting until next Tuesday, then cancel my afternoon appointments and clear my evening schedule for the rest of the week.”
“You got it, boss.” Matronly, motherly and totally irreverent, Myra cocked a knowing eye. “Dare I hope you had a hot date last night, and have finally been convinced that there’s more to life than striking option clauses from corporate personnel contracts?”
“See if Spence can take over the school-board meeting tonight. If he can’t, contact the district administrator and have the busing contracts postponed to next month’s agenda.”
“Blonde, brunette or redhead?”
Johnny refused to make eye contact or lend credence to the woman’s prying. He loved Myra to death, but she drove him nuts. She was a busybody, of course, but so was just about everyone else in Buttonwood. Gossip was the town’s official pastime, which was why Johnny took such pain to keep his personal life personal.
The woman grunted. “You need a life. All work and no play makes Johnny a dull boy.”
“It also makes Johnny your employer.”
“In name only.” She yawned hugely, allowing her glasses to slip from her wrinkled nose and bounce on a garish pearl chain at her bosom. “You and Spence couldn’t survive without me.”
“We wouldn’t even try.” He sorted the phone messages with practiced efficiency. “You can handle this one. Give this to this week’s law clerk to check precedents and give me a list of citations for court next week.” He flipped through the rest of the stack, trashing several, pocketing one, delegating the rest with succinct instructions.
At the end of the routine, he spun on his heel, took two steps toward his large, sunlit office at the end of the hall before hesitating. He spoke without looking. “And Myra, get Hank Miller on the phone for me.”
He heard the squeak of her swivel chair, the soft intake of breath. When she spoke, the sting had evaporated from her voice. “I knew it, knew the minute I laid eyes on you this morning that something was wrong.”
Myra uttered a concerned cluck. He recognized without looking that she’d probably pursed her lips while squeezing her thick hands together the way she did when she was worried about him. She was always worried about him, it seemed. Much as he tried to discourage that, he nonetheless loved her for it.
Squaring his shoulders, he forced an even glance over his shoulder. “Nothing is wrong, Myra. I simply have business to discuss with the sheriff, business that is mine and mine alone. Are we clear on that?”
A prick of regret stung him as he noted the sorrow in her eyes. She nodded briefly, forcefully enough to vibrate the poodle pelt of graying curls on her scalp. He would have turned away, but she extended a hand. The pleading gesture stopped him, forced him to meet her empathetic gaze.
“You can’t keep people from caring about you, Johnny.”
He studied her, softened his voice with a smile. “I can try.”
With that, he strode into his office and closed the door. Ten minutes later, the intercom buzzed as Myra announced that Hank was on line one.
Johnny took a deep breath, pressed the button. “Hank, how’s it going?”
“Can’t complain,” came the jovial reply. “Had me a real lively time at the steak house over on the highway last night. There was a pair of twin beauties there from out of town that couldn’t keep their hands off me. Had to flip a coin just to keep the both of them happy! Now if you’d have been along, I wouldn’t had to wear myself into such a frazzle.”
Johnny smiled, pinched the bridge of his nose. Hank enjoyed bachelorhood to the fullest, and was always trying to entice Johnny into joining his tomcatting forays into the local singles’ scene. “My loss, Hank. I’m sure you took up the slack.”
“Did my best, and that’s a fact.” A hiss of air filtered over the line, as if Hank had heaved a sigh. “So what’s going on, Johnny? Myra sounded like a woman who’d just scraped her favorite cat off the pavement. You got problems?”
“No, no problems.” He spoke quickly, too quickly. Puffing his cheeks, he exhaled slowly, forced himself to lean back in his chair. “Actually, I just need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Do you remember Samantha Cloud?”
“Sure do. Pretty woman, ran off to Albuquerque a year or so back with that ne’er-do-well boyfriend of hers.”
Johnny flinched. “Yes, well, I need to find her, and I was wondering if you could do a little checking for me.” A nerve-racking silence followed. Johnny felt compelled to break it. “Just a few discreet inquiries…off the record.”
There was a rustling sound, as if Hank had shifted to peruse papers on his desk. “Sure, I can do that.” More rustling was followed by the unmistakable rasp of a throat being cleared. “Don’t want to tell me what this is about, do you?”
The office door cracked open, startling Johnny. He glanced up to see his partner, Spence McBride, peering into the room. He motioned Spence inside, and completed his conversation with Hank. “Not at the moment. Let me know what you find out.”
“Will do,” Hank said.
Johnny cradled the receiver as Spence settled into the guest chair across his desk, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He kicked one lean ankle over his knee and sucked mustard from his fingers. “Myra’s worried about you.”
“Myra’s always worried about someone. Worry is what she does.”
“Yep, she’s good at it, too.” Spence licked his lips, took another bite of his breakfast.
Johnny nearly gagged at the sight of it. “Good Lord, what is in that thing?”
“This?” Wide-eyed, Spence gazed at the huge conglomeration, yet another of his famously atrocious sandwich fetishes that were the talk of the office. “This is my newest specialty,” he said proudly. “Sardine, banana, mashed avocados and sliced kiwi fruit on a garlic-onion bagel. All the major food groups. The perfect meal.”
“You’re a sick man.”
“Perversity