Right By Her Side

Prologue

T he man across the heavy, gleaming desk cleared his throat. Rebecca, I know who fathered your child.

Rebecca Holley blinked. When she’d been called away from her shift as an OR pediatric nurse to meet with Morgan Davis at the Children’s Connection facility adjacent to Portland General, she hadn’t known what to expect. Certainly not a statement of the obvious.

Well, of course you know, Morgan. Though the sperm donor had been anonymous to her, as director of the fertility clinic where she’d been inseminated, the man sitting opposite her had access to the complete records. Her palm slid across the lavender smock of her Minnie Mouse-printed scrubs to rest over her still-flat stomach. At seven weeks pregnant she’d yet to experience morning sickness, but the odd expression on Morgan’s face was beginning to make her queasy.

She cleared her throat. What’s going on?

Rebecca… His gaze dropped to the open folder on his desk and then moved back up to meet her eyes. There’s no easy way to say this.

Now her stomach mimicked a dying fish—flop, flop, flop. The pregnancy test wasn’t wrong, was it?

No, no! You’re pregnant. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice. But we recently discovered a mix-up of some donor vials, so we went back and checked our recent insemination cases.

A mix-up? Rebecca swallowed, trying to stay calm. He was telling her there had been a mix-up of donor sperm. As a nurse, she could see why the clinic would be concerned about an error, but how could such a thing affect her? She’d looked over the profiles of the donors and selected one with a working-class background—he’d spent time as an enlisted navy man like her dad—who was dark-haired and dark-eyed like herself.

But she wasn’t picky.

She let out a little laugh to cover her nervousness. As long as the baby’s healthy, Morgan, it won’t matter to me—even if it’s as blond-haired as…Blondie.

Morgan glanced down at the folder again and grimaced. Your baby may very well look as you describe, Rebecca. We inseminated you with the sperm of a blond-haired man. A very wealthy, respected man…and one who didn’t provide his sperm for this purpose.

But that doesn’t matter, right? Rebecca pressed her palm against her stomach. Don’t worry, Eisenhower. The nickname tumbled into her mind, and she almost smiled at the old family joke. It was the name Rebecca’s folks had used when referring to each of her four younger brothers and sisters before they were born. Apparently she was going to carry on the tradition.

Eisenhower, it’s going to be okay.

Everything’s still anonymous, Morgan, Rebecca continued. "I don’t know the man. I don’t know who the father is."

Morgan shook his head. "But this man has a right to know he is going to be a father, Rebecca. Children’s Connection can’t keep this a secret from him."

She found herself rising to her feet, her voice rising, too. What? Why not? Her protective instincts were quivering like antennae, though it was hard to wrap her mind around all the ramifications this mix-up might mean to her and her baby.

It’s the ethical thing to do, Rebecca. You can see that.

What she could see was her hopes and her dreams turning from something joyful to something dreadful. No, no! She couldn’t think like that. She wouldn’t. Her baby was still her baby. Who is this man, Morgan? You let me talk to him and I’ll…I’ll straighten it out. She’d explain what had happened and then assure him that she and Eisenhower expected nothing from him whatsoever.

Morgan frowned. Rebecca—

You owe me, too, Morgan, she said, her voice sounding thin and breathless. You owe me the chance to talk to this man first.

His frown deepened. Rebecca—

Tell me who he is, Morgan.

Morgan and his wife were in the process of adopting a baby and it must have given him sympathy for Rebecca’s fierce desperation because he glanced down at the file once more, then sighed. The father of your baby is Trent Crosby, Rebecca. Trent Crosby, the Crosby Systems CEO.

One

I t was past six o’clock when Rebecca steered her hatchback into a spot in the far corner of the Crosby Systems near-empty parking lot and turned off the ignition. Her fingers unclipped her Portland General Hospital name badge from her scrubs to stuff it into the purse on the passenger seat beside her.

Then she looked up at the rearview mirror, gazing at the reflection of the Crosby building’s gleaming glass front doors. Okay, Eisenhower, she said in a brisk voice. It’s time for us to get this over with.

Rebecca discovered that her legs didn’t share her can-do attitude, however, and that her behind was determined to remain glued to the vinyl driver’s seat. When she tried again to leave her car, again nothing happened.

Eisenhower, Rebecca muttered, your mom’s no wimp. Honest. But she was acting like one. She snuck another glance at the rearview mirror. It was the Crosby name that was spooking her. She knew about the family: they were powerful and they were rich. It didn’t help that she’d caught a glimpse of Trent himself at a charity auction last December, because beyond being powerful and rich he had something else intimidating going for him, too.

You’re getting some seriously good-looking genes, Eisenhower, she whispered. No doubt about it.

Maybe she shouldn’t have insisted on breaking the news herself, she thought. Maybe she should let Morgan tell him, man-to-man, and then she could wait for Mr. Rich, Powerful and Good-Looking to approach her.

But no! The last thing she wanted was to be at the emotional mercy of some man, right? Been there, done that, got the painful divorce.

So she forced her feet from the car, slammed shut the door, then reminded herself of the number of new situations she’d faced as a navy brat. Those eight moves in seventeen years had made her an expert at assessing new people and new surroundings and then finding a way to fit in—or at least fade into the woodwork. It was why she’d insisted on talking to Trent herself. She was practiced in making herself appear agreeable and non-threatening, certainly a big plus at a moment like this.

So there was absolutely no reason to hesitate. Squaring her shoulders, she faced the company entrance and…

…let her gaze wander to the freshly painted Dumpsters off to her right. She told herself she wasn’t putting off the inevitable. She told herself it was because her attention was snagged by several appliance-size, empty cardboard boxes sitting beside them. Boxes of the ideal size and condition for that playhouse she’d been promising to make for her favorite pediatric patient.

Rebecca glanced up at the cloud-filled sky. It had rained that morning and now it looked as if it might rain again. She could take the few moments necessary to flatten the boxes and stow them safely away in her car.

It wasn’t stalling!

It wasn’t as simple as it should have been, either. First, her slick-soled white nurse’s shoes slid on a patch of squishy mud in the Dumpster area, sending her down on one knee and sprouting a dirty stain on her pants leg. Second, the boxes had stubborn, reinforced corners that resisted her efforts to collapse them. Third, when she indulged in a foot-stamp of frustration, she sent a spray of mud droplets into the air, to land who knew where.

Fourth, when she crawled beneath the open end of the largest box to see if she could find a way to flatten the thing from the inside, she heard a man’s voice float through the air. Can I help you?

She froze. Whoever belonged to that deep voice, perhaps he wasn’t talking to her. Perhaps he was talking to someone else in the lot, someone having an innocuous, employee-going-home problem such as too much to carry or a recalcitrant car door lock. Some run-of-the-mill, easy-to-resolve problem.

Happening to someone else. Please.

You there in the box, the man spoke again, squashing her hopes. Can I help you?

Rebecca cleared her throat. Are you, um, talking to me?

Believe it or not, you’re the only one wearing cardboard in my entire parking lot. There wasn’t a whiff of humor in the voice.

His parking lot? Was this Trent Crosby? This was as bad as it could be.

In the evening light coming through the open top flaps above her head, Rebecca glanced at the muddy knee of her scrubs, then the fine sprinkling of drying dirt on her forearms, then the corrugated camouflage surrounding her. Oh, Eisenhower, this isn’t the meeting I planned for us.

I was just, uh, driving by and spotted the boxes, she said.

Just driving by, huh?

She swallowed her groan. The company was located at the farthest corner of a business and industrial complex that could only be reached by a dead-end parkway. It was impossible to drive by the place. Instead of answering, she edged toward her car—she hoped she was heading in that direction, anyway—taking her disguise along with her. The scurrying box had to look ridiculous to him, she knew that, but not half as ridiculous as she would feel if she had to introduce herself to Mr. Rich, Powerful and Good-Looking when she was dirty, disheveled and not yet ready to meet him.

Her box bumped into something. She halted, uncertain of what that something might be.

Come on, now. Exactly what are you doing in our garbage?

The close proximity of the voice made it clear she’d bumped into him. She chanced a peek upward. The giant-size box was taller than the man, so she couldn’t see his face and he couldn’t see hers.

Stop playing games, damn it. What the hell are you doing with our garbage?

But she didn’t need to see him to understand he was more than suspicious. It’s not garbage, she replied, hoping to placate him. It’s a box. Moving like a hermit crab, she set off in the general direction of her car once more. For a playhouse.

There was a moment of silence.

She bumped into something again.

Him. He’d moved to block her way, she realized, as the box was whisked over her head, leaving her blinking in the now-brighter light. Though she resisted the urge to cover herself, she had to look up—it was instinctive—and then she jumped back and looked away. That was instinctive, too. Like the sun, blond-haired, brown-eyed Trent Crosby was dazzling.

There was no chance she was carrying his child, she decided, his lean features and rangy body already forever etched in her mind. He had a confident, very male brand of beauty that oozed power and wealth. He couldn’t be the father of her baby, absolutely not, because such a thing went against the laws of the universe. They were from two different worlds. The last time she’d tried bridging such a gap, she’d found herself taking a shortcut to humiliation and heartache.

A playhouse, you say. He repeated her words in a flat, cool voice.

Rebecca could only nod, hyperconscious of everything that was wrong with her, from her muddy scrubs to the way her brown hair frizzed when there was rain in the air. She reached up both palms to slick back the inevitable, messy tendrils that were surely springing at her temples, smoothing them toward the efficient twist she wore during work hours.

You’ll have to come up with something better than that. You get a playhouse at a toy store, not a Dumpster, sweetheart. I can guess what you’re really after.

Her head jerked up. Huh?

In a light charcoal suit, white shirt and true-blue tie, Trent Crosby was staring down at her through narrowed eyes. Our history—both past and very recent—has made us careful, honey. And ruthless. You won’t find our company secrets in these garbage bins, but regardless, we prosecute wanna-be corporate spies, even little cuddly ones like you.

What?

He smiled at her, a cold display of perfect white teeth that sent shivers running for cover down her back. And if you’re not off my property in thirty seconds, I’ll be happy to haul you into the security office for an after-hours strip search.

She didn’t need ten seconds to be back in her car and accelerating out of the parking lot. A glance in her rearview mirror confirmed what she could feel in the second flurry of shivers rolling down her spine. He was watching her leave, his crossed arms shouting out his satisfaction.

Believe me, Eisenhower, she whispered. He can’t be your daddy. Because the heat of humiliation on her cheeks told her Trent Crosby was from a different world, all right. The Planet of the Jerks.

At 4:00 p.m. the next day, Trent Crosby departed the executive conference room of Crosby Systems, his mind teeming with the details of the new contract he’d sewn up that afternoon. He decided to draft a memo on it to the Research and Development Department before leaving for the day. Between the memo and the reports stacked up on his desk for review, he’d be in his chair well past midnight. The thought made him almost cheerful.

He was more comfortable at Crosby Systems than in the morgue he called home.

Half a hall-length from his office, his assistant waylaid him, snatching the coffee mug out of his hand and tsking. Nuh-uh-uh. Remember how even bossier and more bad-tempered we get on too much caffeine? We can’t have another five-pot day.

Ah. An impending skirmish with the battle-ax who ruled the top floor. Damn, Trent thought, things kept getting better. He drew in a deep, threatening breath and glowered down at her. "We aren’t having a five-pot day. I am. You drink that disgusting green tea."

I’m going to live forever on that green tea, Claudine retorted.

Then I’m praying for my own early grave. He made a grab for his cup, but she whisked it behind her back. Strong-arming her was tempting, but Trent was wary of that determined glitter in her eye, even if she was on the upside of sixty.

Even after ten years of her working for him, she could still scare the hell out of him.

I said no more coffee, Claudine declared again. We don’t want you polishing that nasty mean streak of yours on the pretty young woman who just arrived.

Nasty mean streak? Don’t blame that on the coffee, you old biddy. It comes from putting up with you. Then he frowned. Wait a minute. What pretty young woman?

The one in your office. And don’t ask me what she wants. She said her business is personal. Claudine reached up to straighten his tie.

He batted her hand away, wondering who had personal business with him. He, as a rule, didn’t get personal with people.

His assistant stretched toward his tie again, and again he evaded her fussing. Leave me be, you old bag. Which reminds me, aren’t you past our mandatory retirement age yet?

She snorted. "I’ll be here, still cleaning up your messes when you retire. Now get into your office and find out why a nice woman would have personal dealings with a temperamental dictator like you."

He narrowed his eyes. Harridan.

She mimicked his glare. Tyrant.

Fishwife.

Martinet.

Then they smiled at each other and set off in opposite directions.

Trent was still smiling when he pushed open the door to his office. But the smile died as the nice and pretty woman in one of his visitors’ chairs jumped to her feet and swung around to face him. It was the box lady.

You, he said.

The first thing out of her mouth was something he already knew. "I’m not a corporate spy."

Of course she wasn’t, he acknowledged, letting out an inward sigh. But he’d been grinding his teeth through a brutal headache yesterday when he’d glimpsed someone skulking around the Dumpsters and he’d flashed on the ugly explanation. Claudine accused him of cynicism.

The way he figured it, expecting the worst of people ensured he was never disappointed.

I know you’re not a spy, Trent admitted to the young woman. As you were scuttling to your car, I realized you couldn’t be.

She blinked. What cleared it up for you?

The little thing had big brown eyes, the long-lashed kind that made him think of Disney characters or his sisters’ baby dolls. The scrubs. Maybe if they were that sick, surgical green, but ones like yours… He gestured, indicating the loose-fitting pants and smock that enveloped her. Today they were lemon-yellow and printed with cross-eyed clown fish. Not spy wear.

She didn’t respond, only continued standing there, staring at him with…anticipation? Expectation? Trent stared back, cursing Claudine for denying him his jolt of caffeine. He needed something to pop out the apology Big Brown Eyes obviously