"Who the hell are you?"

Adrenalin surged through her, in part due to the shock of that unexpected voice, but certainly compounded by the fact that the jar of preserves she'd been in the process of reaching for had just gone shooting out of her hands like a bar of wet soap. For a few seconds she was too busy to give much attention to the owner of the voice as she grabbed at the jar, juggled it ungracefully and finally managed to clasp it to her chest, rightside up, thank God, against her wildly pounding heart.

Immediate disaster averted, she turned to face the man she'd come so far to find, and heard a hiss of indrawn breath and then a sound, not words, just a mutter of denial and rejection.

Oh, yes, and rejection was plain in his face, too. But that much she'd expected. For the rest, well, what had she expected?

Someone younger, for one thing. According to Emily's birth certificate, Eric Lanagan was twenty-eight--barely two years younger than Devon. Based on the way he'd been behaving--ignoring the court's order, running away--she'd pictured him as some arrogant, irresponsible kid.

She hadn't expected him to have so much presence--and presence wasn't an easy thing to manage in tousled hair and bare feet, in pajama bottoms and a bathrobe hanging open--a flannel bathrobe, moreover, that was almost the twin of the one she herself was wearing.

She hadn't expected a face with so many hard edges and sharp angles. Bathed in the warm yellow light of the open refrigerator, it still appeared pale as chalk, shadowed and gaunt.

She hadn't expected him to look as if he'd just confronted a ghost.

Her next thought was that he looked instead like a man who wanted very much to strike her down where she stood--and might well have done so, but for the baby in his arms.

She gulped involuntarily and, eyeing the baby sideways as if it were a possibly dangerous wild animal, plunged into breathless explanations. "I didn't mean to startle you. I came in late last night. In the storm. Your parents--" She was talking too quickly; her voice kept bumping up against her galloping heart.

My God, what was that all about? Devon O'Rourke didn't scare easily, and besides, this was the man who'd befriended her sister, the man Susan had named as the father of her child. In spite of the harshness of his features, except for that brief flash of anger in his eyes, he didn't look at all like someone capable of violence. In fact there was something about him that was almost...oh, good heavens, the word sweet was the one that came most insistently to mind, with that endearing distraction, the juxtaposition of a fuzzy pink head and tiny waving fist against a naked hard-muscled masculine chest. Her heart gave another horrifying lurch.

She could be in no danger here--not from this man--not right this minute, anyway.

Was she? He was coming toward her. Her mouth went dry. She couldn't help it--she backed into the open refrigerator.

From the book: "The Black Sheep's Baby" By Kathleen Creighton
Silhouette Intimate Moments July 2002
ISBN: 0-373-27231-6
Copyright 2002 by Kathleen Creighton-Fuchs

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