Hush, Little Baby, Page 2

  She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I traveled all the way from New York City so we resolve this.”

  “Resolve what?”

  When she’d set up this meeting last week, she’d explained the reason to the woman who had answered the phone—Holt’s secretary, Corinne assumed. Surely if the secretary had told him about the meeting, she would have told him what it was about.

  Then again, with his child care problems, he probably couldn’t remember any conversations from a week ago.

  She suppressed an exasperated sigh. “The design needs to be reworked a bit,” she said. “I know Gerald signed a contract with you, but after reconsideration, he realized that some changes have to be made.” She directed her gaze to Levi’s cheekbones. Any lower and she’d be distracted by the diaper on his shoulder. Any higher and she’d be trapped by his dark, soulful eyes.

  He raked his hand through his hair again. The motion of his arm jostled the diaper, which slid down his arm. Frowning, he caught it in mid-air as it floated toward the floor. He stared at it for a moment, as if not quite sure why it was there, then spun around and tossed it into his office. It landed squarely on his desk.

  Turning back, he said, “We’ve already broken ground on that project. The changes Mosley wants had better not be extensive.”

  “You’ve already broken ground? So soon?” Gerald had signed the contract with Arlington Architectural Associates barely a month ago. “I thought construction projects always had all kinds of delays.”

  “We’re one of those rare firms that actually gets things done on time and on budget.” He dug his hands into his pockets and slouched against the doorframe, looking arrogantly proud of his firm’s performance. “If the changes Mosley’s asking for are significant, we’ll have to rethink the budget and the completion date.”

  This was the reaction she’d anticipated: that as soon as she started enumerating the changes, he was going to ratchet up the price of the house. He’d probably want to inflate the price even more because construction on the project was already underway. She didn’t know enough about the construction business to understand all the ramifications of “breaking ground,” but she could guess that the further along the project was, the more expensive it was going to be to make changes.

  “Gerald would really like to hold the price to what was contracted. I know the construction company on this project was hired through you—it’s all one set price for the whole house. And it’s a big price. A very big price.” Not that Gerald couldn’t afford it, but still, there was no reason he should have to pay twice as much as the house was worth, simply because he asked for a few alterations.

  “We went to contract, Ms.—what was it?”

  She tried not to frown. If he couldn’t remember their appointment, she shouldn’t expect him to remember her name. “Corinne Lanier.”

  “Ms. Lanier. If you want changes in the design, you’re going to get changes in the contract. That’s only fair.”

  True enough. Her mission was to maximize the changes in the design and minimize the changes in the contract.

  Levi Holt was no fool. In spite of his rough morning, in spite of his diaper and his baby and his failure to remember this meeting or Corinne’s name, he was going to bargain hard, to try to make Gerald pay for the privilege of turning a bizarre house into a livable one.

  Gerald should never have agreed to the design without running it past Corinne first. Men had no idea how to design a practical house. Multilevel rooms were dramatic, but not if you had to drag a vacuum cleaner up and down the steps, and not if guests who’d consumed too many martinis tripped and broke their ankles when they wandered from room to room. Elevated nooks and beams were eye-catching—but spiders could reside in them for generations because no one could possibly dust them. Changing the bulbs in the two-story entry’s elegant chandelier would be impossible without a thirty-foot ladder, or perhaps some scaffolding. To have such a large house with only three full bathrooms was ridiculous. The fireplace in the master bedroom consumed the only wall where one could place a triple dresser.

  And the kitchen was a disaster. Gerald’s concept of cooking involved can openers and microwaves; what did he know about kitchens? But the room lacked adequate counter and storage space because Gerald was infatuated with an ostentatious wall of glass—which was going to suck all the heat out of the room in the winter and let all the heat in in the summer, when the sun struck it. And that wine cellar cabinet? It shouldn’t be taking up valuable pantry space. It ought to go in the basement. That was why it was called a wine cellar.

  Women understood these things. Men—even architects—didn’t. They liked flash, special effects, the house equivalent of mag wheels and racing stripes. They were willing to blow a million dollars on a house with soaring glass and multilevel living, and give little thought to the functionality of the place.

  “Some of the design changes shouldn’t cost any extra money,” she told Levi Holt, hopeful that “breaking ground” meant nothing more than digging a hole in the middle of the lot. “And some are so obvious, they should never even have become issues in the first place.”

  His gaze changed, losing some of its intensity and becoming speculative and vaguely amused. His mouth didn’t move, his jaw shifted only the slightest bit, but the light in his eyes, the angle of his gaze, the deliberation with which he regarded her…

  His eyes were almost hypnotic. Maybe that was how he’d gotten Gerald to agree to include only three full baths and locate that stupid wine cellar in the kitchen pantry: Holt had hypnotized Gerald.

  “I’ve written a list of the changes we want,” she said briskly, sliding her bag from her shoulder and pulling out her file of notes. She was good at this, she reminded herself—good at being prepared, good at having her documents organized in a neatly marked folder. Good at having everything where it was supposed to be, which was why, once this situation was straightened out, she would have the wine cellar in the basement.

  His eyes still glimmering with what could pass for amusement, he took the folder from her and opened it. She watched him skim the first page, and the glimmer faded. In its place she detected skepticism. “Gerald Mosley specifically requested a fireplace in the master suite,” he said.

  “You must have misunderstood him.”

  Levi raised his eyes from the folder. They’d gone cold. “No. I didn’t misunderstand him.”

  “Well, maybe he misunderstood himself,” she backtracked. “He didn’t think through all the implications of having that fireplace there. He got caught up in the razzle-dazzle.”

  “He specifically said he wanted a fireplace in the master bedroom. I suggested it and he said yes.”

  She checked herself before retorting that no one could sleep with a fire burning right across the room—it would be too bright and too hot. As for lending the room a romantic atmosphere, well, Corinne thought a roaring fire in the hearth was something of a cliché. And there was a fireplace in the family room, if a burning log was really necessary.

  Gerald wasn’t the kind of guy who went for fireplace seductions, anyway. He was cerebral and nerdy, the sort who would find innovative software far more of a turn-on than a blaze crackling in a bedroom hearth.

  She steeled herself for battle. “Assuming Gerald did say he wanted the fireplace, did you point out to him how much wall space he would be sacrificing?”

  Levi studied her for a long moment. “He’s not an idiot. He could see that for himself.”

  “You were the expert. You showed him designs, suggested ideas—yet you didn’t point out that if he had a fireplace on one wall, and the glass sliders to the upstairs deck on another wall, and the doors to the dressing room and bathroom on a third wall, there would be only one wall available for both his bed and a triple dresser. This isn’t the sort of problem that would occur to a lay person like Gerald.”

  “It occurred to you,” Levi noted. “Aren’t you a lay person?”

  His eyes unnerved her. They didn�
��t seem so cool anymore. In fact, they were smoldering. With anger? she wondered. Resentment?

  “I’m a woman,” she said, smiling in the hope of deflecting his apparent hostility. “I notice details that Gerald misses.”

  “So you think the fireplace is a detail.” Levi Holt glanced at the folder in his hands, then met her gaze again. His expression was disdainful.

  “Getting rid of it should actually reduce the price, not increase it,” she noted hopefully.

  He appeared unpersuaded, but before he could flip the page, the baby began to whimper again. He cursed, a low hiss of sound, and stalked back into his office.

  She hesitated on the threshold, evaluating how things had gone so far. Not badly, she decided. Not well, but not disastrously. If only Holt had normal eyes, eyes that didn’t seem to cut right through her, things would be going better. If he were about eight inches shorter and had a pot belly, things would be going better yet. Attractive men rarely rattled her; but this man was different. He was just so damned…big.

  She ventured into his office. Her gaze circled the room—the broad windows letting in early June sunlight, the austere teak desk neat except for the diaper heaped on it, the drafting table with a jointed light arching over it, the corkboard on the wall, with various sketches pinned to it. The swivel chair behind the desk, the swivel stool in front of the drafting table…and the stroller tucked into the dimmest, but currently the noisiest, corner of the room.

  She watched while he eased the baby out of the stroller. Its tiny arms flailed and its sobs grew louder. His large hands cradled the child gently, almost hesitantly, one hand cupped around the baby’s body and one protecting its head as he carried it over to his desk and grabbed for the diaper. Once it was draped over his shirt, he lifted the baby onto his shoulder.

  “Shh,” he sighed, swaying slightly. “Come on, D.J. Be a sport. Shh.”

  “Deejay?” Who would give a child a name like that?

  Still swaying and cradling the baby’s head in his palm, he turned to her. “His initials. D.J.” He bowed his head to the child’s and whispered, “Shh.”

  Corinne wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do. Watch him lull the baby back to sleep? Offer her assistance? She’d never dealt with infants, but she figured this one could be crying because he was hungry or wet. What else did babies weep over?

  Levi wasn’t asking her for help, but if she offered some she might win points in their negotiation. “Perhaps he’s hungry,” she suggested. “Does he have a bottle I could get for him?”

  “He just ate. He’s not hungry.”

  “Then maybe—” she tried not to wrinkle her nose “—he needs a dry diaper. If you tell me where I could find one for you…”

  “He’s fine.” Levi rocked the child back and forth. Despite their widely contrasting sizes, or maybe because of it, they looked right together, a father and his son doing a magical dance. For a moment, Corinne was transfixed by the sight. Then she shook her head clear. Babies didn’t melt her heart. Neither did fathers. She could think of no reason why Levi Holt would look so magnificent trying to soothe his fussing child.

  “Maybe he has a tummy ache,” she suggested, wishing she could fix this problem the way she fixed so many others.

  “He’s fine.” Levi seemed to be saying it more to himself than to her. More to himself, and to the baby. “You’re all right, buddy, aren’t you? There you go, D.J. That’s my pal. There you go. Shh.”

  The baby had grown quiet. One tiny pink hand clutched at Levi’s shirt, and the other found its way to his own mouth. He snuffled, hiccupped and burrowed his face into Levi’s shoulder. Levi continued to rock him back and forth, slowly, slowly.

  “I’m sorry,” he mouthed to Corinne.

  “That’s all right.” The more accommodating she was, the more accommodating he’d be. And really, he did look sweet soothing his baby that way.

  “He’s teething,” he explained.

  “How old is he?”

  “Almost six months. The pediatrician says that’s what’s going on with him.” He settled against his desk, apparently not planning to put the baby back in his stroller. Instead, he stroked his hand up and down the baby’s back, up and down again.

  His hands mesmerized her.

  Again she shook her head clear. She had to stay focused, had to get through this negotiation, pull Gerald’s butt out of the fire and make sure he was getting a livable house for his money. She had to remain ingratiating with Levi Holt—but not fall under his spell. As if a man stroking a baby’s back could cast a spell on her.

  “What happened? Did your baby-sitter call in sick today?”

  “I just hired someone last week. She’s terrific, the best by far out of all the nannies I interviewed. But she can’t start work until next Monday. I’m juggling things until then.”

  “You and your wife are taking turns?”

  His eyes flashed, dark and mysterious. “No,” he said so tersely she knew there was a whole lot more than no to it.

  Had his wife left him? Abandoned him with the baby? Run off with someone else? Or had she died tragically? In childbirth, maybe. That had happened on an episode of Mercy Hospital a couple of seasons ago, such a depressing episode Corinne had stopped watching the show.

  Levi’s no hung in the air, a warning, a challenge. She stored it away, figuring she’d pull it back out and analyze it later. “What do the D and the J stand for?”

  “Damien Justice.”

  “What an unusual name.” She liked it. It had a lilting rhythm to it.

  “It’s too fancy for a little baby,” Levi said. “D.J. fits him better.”

  “So, what does one do to comfort a teething child?”

  “He’s got toys he can bite on. And there are ointments. They don’t seem to work that well with him, though. According to Dr. Cole, some kids have a harder time getting through it than others. He spiked a fever the other night, just from the teething.”

  Levi was talking to her as if she were an expert on child-rearing, someone who understood these things, a fellow parent at the playground or in a medical office’s waiting room. She wished she could contribute some wise advice—rub ice on the baby’s gums, or give him a shot of tequila, or hold him upside-down and count to ten.

  “I’m real sorry about this meeting,” Levi said. “Why don’t you leave your notes with me. I’ll review the changes Mosley wants, and then we can talk about how much they’ll cost you.”

  That was exactly what Corinne didn’t want. As long as she was present, she could argue against cost increases. But if she left him alone with her list of changes, he could pull out a calculator and start hitting the plus button. And he might not even understand how some of the changes should be made, or why they were necessary.

  But she couldn’t hang around his office for hours while he consoled his anguished son.

  “Are you staying in town?” he asked. “I could get back to you.”

  “I’ve got a room at the Arlington Inn, but—”

  “Great. Give me a little time with this stuff, and maybe I can twist some arms and get someone to watch D.J. for an hour while we figure out what exactly Mosley wants me to do. Would that be all right?”

  She couldn’t refuse without seeming unreasonable. All he was asking for was a little time. While he reviewed her list, she could drive out to Gerald’s property and see just what “breaking ground” entailed. That would give her a clearer idea of how difficult it would be to make changes, and then she’d know if Levi Holt was being reasonable or ripping Gerald off.

  “Fine,” she said, managing a bright smile. “I’m going to drive around town for a bit, but I’ll be back at the hotel by eleven. You can call me any time after that.” She fished into her tote and pulled out the small leather envelope containing her business cards. “There’s my cell phone number,” she said, placing the card on his desk. Both his hands were full of baby; he couldn’t take the card from her.

  “Thanks.” He stood, caref
ul not to jostle his son. “I appreciate it, Ms. Lanier. This is not the way I usually conduct business, but—”

  “That’s okay. We’ll talk later.” Oh, yes, she could be accommodating, and charming, and terribly flexible. How could he be a bastard about amending the contract when she was accepting this inconvenience with such equanimity?

  “I mean it. I appreciate it,” he whispered, walking her to the door. She stepped out into the hall, and he gave her a farewell nod. A few paces down the hall, she glanced back and saw him bowing his head and touching a kiss to the baby’s downy hair.

  A man kissing his son. Who would have thought it would be the most beautiful sight in the world?

  *

  He’d heard her voice. A woman’s voice, just a whisper, but it made him think of his mother.

  He missed her. He wanted her so much. When was she coming back?

  At least he had the man. The man had a good shoulder, big and hard and strong, and his neck was warm and smelled sweet. When he was on the man’s shoulder his mouth didn’t hurt so much. Sometimes he felt as if someone was reaching inside his face and stretching the bones apart. It hurt all the way into his cheeks and his chin and he could only cry and cry and wish his mother would come back.

  But the man was good. His hands were big, and when he held D.J. against his shoulder, D.J. felt better.

  And he’d heard that woman’s voice. Soft like cotton balls, a light, gentle voice. He imagined it puffy and white, brushing against his skin.

  If only he could ask the man who she was.

  If only he could ask where his mother was and when she was coming back. She would make the pain go away. He knew she would.

  Maybe this other woman could make the pain go away, too. Maybe she could be soft and round like his mother, with her body full of milk and lullabies on her lips.

  He nestled closer to the man and wished the pain would go away.