Her Secret, His Child

"Just grading papers."

"Brad's essay?"

"Among others." She'd finally confessed to him that she'd overheard the conversation between him and Brad about Huckleberry Finn. The only thing he'd never understood was why she'd left without letting him know she was there.

"How do you think he did?"

"I don't know. Haven't looked at it yet." But he was afraid the boy still hadn't passed.

"Can you spare an hour tonight?"

"Of course," he said, sitting forward, pulling his calendars out of his briefcase. He had a faculty meeting in—he glanced at his watch—five minutes, but other than that, he was free for the rest of the day.

"Say around eight? It'll give me time to get Ashley to bed."

Disappointed that he still wasn't going to be allowed to meet the child, Kyle agreed to be at her house at eight.

"Is something up?" he asked, suddenly uncom-

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

fortable. It wasn't like Jamie to invite him over for no reason.

"No!" she said.

And he knew instantly that there was.

Ringing off with one minute to spare before his meeting, Kyle was no longer in a good mood. In fact, his whole being was filled with dread.

Whatever Jamie had to tell him, the news was going to be bad. And the only thing that could come between them was Ashley's father. If the man had come back, if Jamie still loved him, there was nothing Kyle could do. Except hurt.

Probably because he was driving himself crazy with worry, Kyle was right on time that night. He'd stayed on campus all evening, not wanting to face the loneliness of his empty house, and his corduroy jacket was showing the day's wear. At least it was one of his newer ones and didn't have patches on the elbows. His blue jeans were fairly new, too. He might not have been at his best, but if he had to measure up to another guy, he wasn't at his worst, either. Not wanting to rush things, Kyle stood on the doorstep, waiting for the minute hand on his watch to reach the twelve. He brushed his hand through his thick mop of hair and wondered if he'd made an appointment to get it cut. If not, he needed to.

"Were you ever going to knock?" Jamie threw open the front door.

"Eventually." She looked beautiful. Her black slacks molded her hips and thighs before flaring down to the floor, and the blousy thing she was

TARA TAYLOR QUINN

wearing tucked in at the waist showed off her proportions to perfection.

She motioned him in and shut the door behind him. "Why were you standing out there in the cold?"

Kyle shrugged, his unusual lack of confidence discomfiting. "It wasn't quite eight."

Jamie's smile seemed forced. "Since when has a minute here or there been a big consideration with you?"

He couldn't work up any humor. "I wasn't sure whether or not you were alone."

"Why wouldn't I be alone? I asked you over." She was frowning—and obviously nervous.

Which only increased Kyle's anxiety. If he hadn't been so certain they were meant to be together, he'd have given up on her long ago—and he wouldn't have been here tonight. As it was, her tension made him feel as though he'd been transported to the world of Poe's story, "The Cask of Amontillado." He didn't figure being trapped in a tomb could be any worse.

There was a fire in the fireplace. A couple of wineglasses sat on the coffee table with a chilled bottle of wine in a cooler beside them.

"What's up?" he asked. He was too tense to sit. Too wary to take hope from those wineglasses.

She sat, if you could call it sitting, perched on the very edge of the couch. "Come sit down." She picked up a little pillow, playing with the lacy edge, and laughed nervously.