HardWind (8 page)

As she looked up—opening those striking green eyes—it was as though she were

staring into his soul.

“I was pregnant when you left, Dáire.”

Nothing she could have said would have stunned him more. His lips parted.

“What?”

“That was what I wanted to tell you that night.”

“Pregnant,” he repeated.

“She’s ten months old,” Star told him. “Her name is Jillian.”

He raised his left hand and plowed it through his hair, cupped his neck as he stared

at her. “Whose child is she?”

Green eyes flared and Star shot up from the table. “Go to hell, you bastard!” she

snarled, and ran past him, shrugging off the staying hand he put out to stop her.

“Star, wait!” he yelled. He had overextended his reach and lost his balance, both he

and the barstool crashing to the floor. Scrambling up as quickly as he could, he raced

after her but she was already out his door and at hers, swiping the keycard down the

entry box before he reached the entry hall. Just as he got to her door, she slammed it

shut in his face.

“Star! Open the door!” He rattled the lever handle, putting his weight behind it but

the door was locked. He pounded his fist on the doorframe. “Star!”

When she would not open the door, he bellowed at the top of his voice.

“Open the goddamn door or I’ll kick it in!” he warned just as the elevator doors slid

open and the concierge stepped out, pizza in hand.

“Mr. Cronin?” the concierge questioned, disquiet covering his normally placid face.

“You know I’ll do it, Star!” Daire yelled, ignoring the concierge. He hit the door as

hard as he could, rattling the frosted panes.

“Mr. Cronin!” the concierge said. His voice was filled with outrage.

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HardWind

Star threw open the door and stood there blocking Dáire’s entrance. Her face was

twisted with fury, her lips skinned back from her teeth. “How dare you ask me such a

thing, Dáire Cronin!” she blazed at him. “How
dare
you!”

Dáire pushed past her, completely oblivious to the concierge’s gasp of shock,

grabbed her arm and pulled her back across the entry hall, batting away her attempts to

hit him.

“Miss Kiernan?” the concierge asked, the pizza clutched in his hands, pop and

salad sliding to one side so he had to fumble to keep them setting on the pizza box.

“Should I call the authorities?”

“Do and I’ll pin your ears to your desk,” Dáire threatened as he shoved Star into his

condo and slammed the door behind them.

“It’s all right, Malcom!” Star yelled as Dáire pulled her down the hall to the great

room. “I’m okay!”

Spinning her around, Dáire caught her by her upper arms and shook her. “Knock it

off!” he commanded, sidestepping the kick she aimed at his leg. “I mean it, Star! Knock

it off!”

One moment she was struggling with him, the next she was in his arms, held to him

so tightly she could barely breathe, much less move. One of his arms was anchored

firmly around her back while the other held her head, pressing it to his chest. She tried

pummeling him with her clenched fists, but he was having none of that. He was

restraining her too securely for her to get any leverage, although she dug her fingers

into his shirt, clawing at the skin beneath the fabric.

“You son of a bitch,” she sobbed against him, scratching him as hard as she could

through the shirt.

“I know,” he said, his voice soft though his heart was pounding.

“I hate you!”

“I don’t blame you. It was a fucking stupid thing I asked.”

“How could you?” she sobbed.

“I’m retarded,” he replied. “What other reason could there be?”

She shoved against him and he let her go, confident she was no longer a raging

virago, though the stinging abrasions streaking down his chest warned him to be

careful about what other stupid things might come out of his uncensored mouth.

“Not only retarded but an insensitive prick,” she labeled him, running the back of

her hand under her nose.

“That too,” he agreed.

She moved away from him and sat down on the sofa, drawing her feet up beneath

her. It was a defensive posture he recognized all too well and kept his distance.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence. He had no idea what to say that

wouldn’t set her off again. Cautiously he moved to a chair flanking the sofa and

perched on the edge, poised to keep her from running again if she felt the urge.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“You said you needed my help,” he finally said. “Help to do what?”

She sniffed, reaching into the pocket of her skirt to pull out a wadded up tissue.

Wiping her eyes, her nose, she lifted her head and her eyes were lethal as she glared at

him.

“After you left that night, I had no intention of you ever finding out about Jillian,”

she said.

Dáire flinched but he wisely kept the angry accusation from erupting.

“When I delivered her, some woman came to see me in the hospital.”

His dark brows drew together. “What woman?”

“She didn’t tell me her name and I didn’t ask,” Star replied. “She came in and the

first words out of her mouth were to tell me I was a liability to you.”

“Gentry,” he said, and the word was a bitter taste in his mouth. “She’s my boss.”

“She then went on to say that I had just given you an even more dangerous liability

and she offered me money to get out and stay out of your life from then on.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “How much money?”

“A million dollars,” Star answered, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue.

“Apparently you’re worth a lot of money to your people.”

“I hope you told her to go fuck herself,” he said. He had no doubt Star would have

done so.

“I told her she had nothing to worry about,” Star said. “I told her it was over

between the two of us and that I had no intention of seeing you again.”

“Did she tell you where I was?” he asked.

Star shook her head. “No, but Jackson did.”

“So you know it wasn’t a place where I could have been with you when you had

our child?” he asked quietly. “Even if I had known about it?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “And before you ask, no, Jackson doesn’t know about

Jillian. If he did, he’d have said something to me. I don’t think that woman told anyone

about the baby.”

He hung his head. As furious as he was with Gentry, he couldn’t fault Star for

feeling the way she did. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and

middle finger. “Where is the baby now?” he asked.

“In Pensacola where she is being raised.”

He lifted his head, hurt playing across his handsome features. “You gave her

away?” he asked.

Star stared into his eyes. “No, I didn’t give her away. Jillian is a special-needs

child,” she told him. “She required more care than I am capable of giving her. She’s in a

group home with other special-needs children.”

“Special needs,” he said. His heart was no longer pounding but racing. “What does

that mean?”

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HardWind

“She’s a Down’s syndrome baby,” Star said, her eyes full of fresh tears.

“Down’s…?” He shook his head, completely taken aback. “I don’t…”

“It is a genetic condition,” she told him. “Children born with DS develop it at

conception, caused by the presence of an extra chromosome.”

Dáire flinched as though he’d been slapped in the face with a wet rag. “I know

what Down’s is,” he said in a choked voice.

“It’s nothing either you or I did, Dáire,” Star said. “She was underweight, born two

months earlier than expected.” She dabbed at her eyes again. “It didn’t help though that

I was thirty-five when she was born.”

“Star,” he said, trying his best to cope with what he was being told, “I thought you

were on the Pill. I thought—”

“I was, but the Pill isn’t always foolproof, Dáire.”

Feeling as though he was back in the dark, dank bowels of the prison in Borneo,

Dáire got up and began pacing, assuring himself that he was, indeed, free to move

about, to stand before the wide sweep of windows and look at the piercing blue of the

sky.

“I wasn’t equipped to care for her,” Star said, following his every move. “Jillian is

severely retarded. Her sight is very limited. She has a hearing impediment too. Now,

this morning, I heard from Frieda, the woman who runs the facility where Jillian lives,

that she’s been diagnosed with acute nonlymphocytic leukemia.”

“Leukemia?” he repeated, horror flooding his face.

“It’s a form of leukemia that occurs in infants under a year of age. Frieda said Jilly

had been losing weight then she developed a high fever and was crying a lot. They took

her to the doctor and when he ran tests on her, they found the ANL.”

Dáire squeezed his eyes shut against such devastating news. “What have I done,

Star? What have I done? I had…” he said, his voice breaking, “an aunt who was a

Down’s baby,” he said. “She died when she was twelve.” He turned to look at Star,

misery deep in his wounded eyes. “It’s my fault. If I’d known you could get pregnant, I

wouldn’t have—”

She was up and off the sofa in a flash, going to him, taking him in her arms as he

broke down, his sobbing tearing at her heart. “No,” she said. “You can’t blame

yourself.”

He clung to her, feeling like the lowest scum on the bottom of the deepest sewer.

“Oh, God, Star. I’m sorry,” he said.

She rocked him, absorbing the tremors of his crying. His arms were once more

tightly around her, but this time it was because he needed her rather than a desire to

restrain her. He sagged against her and she went down to the floor with him, refusing

to break their embrace. Somehow his head wound up in her lap, her hand smoothing

the curly hair from his forehead as he curled in a fetal position and moaned deep in his

throat as though his heart were breaking.

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Charlotte Boyett-Compo

“Dáire, don’t do this,” she said. “Baby, you have to be strong for me right now

because I’m about to come apart here.”

It took him a moment to realize what she’d said. He pushed up from the floor and

turned to face her, his cheeks streaked with tears. “What can I do?” he asked, swiping

angrily at the telltale signs of his weakness. “What do you want me to do?”

“She needs a bone marrow transplant,” Star explained to him. “Normally they like

to use the healthy marrow from the patient, but Jilly has a proliferation of white blood

cells in her bloodstream. That means she’d need an allogeneic transplant—from a

compatible donor—but I wasn’t a good match. Once we find a suitable donor—and I

pray to God that’s you—she’ll have to undergo chemo and maybe even radiation

therapy before they can do the transplant.”

“What should I do?” he asked. “How do I…?”

“We need to go over to Pensacola and have you tested to make sure you are a good

match. After that, they can do the procedure if everything is okay.”

“Let’s go right now,” he said, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to her.

Star slipped her hand into his. “It’s Saturday, remember? Nothing can be done until

Monday,” she reminded him. “It’s not as though her life is in immediate danger. We

can go Monday.”

“Together,” he stressed, reaching out to take her other hand as well, pulling both of

them to his chest.

She nodded. “Of course. We’re her parents.”

“Just you and me.”

Star frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I know you’re still angry with me,” he said and felt her tug against his hold. He

tightened his grip. “I understand why, but I’m back now, Star. I’m here with you.”

She pulled against his hands and stepped back. “For how long?” she asked, and

there was a note of anger in her tone.

“For as long as you need me,” he replied, letting go of her hands.

“Or for however long they will allow you to stay,” she countered.

“Star, don’t…”

“Did that woman give you permission to see me?” she asked.

His mouth tightened. “She doesn’t own me, Star. I came here because I was to be

given an assignment but—”

“Not to see me,” she said.

He flung out a hand. “Of course to see you! I must have pushed your doorbell a

dozen times that first day and I know you were in there. I could
feel
you in there, but

you didn’t answer.”

“So you go and got roaring drunk,” she accused.

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HardWind

He put his hands on his hips and looked at her. “I was hurt,” he said. “In more

ways than one when I left you last year. I needed something to dull the pain of that

hurt. You made it obvious you didn’t want to see me.”

“And now you think things have changed because I ask for your help with our

daughter?” she asked. “Nothing has changed, Dáire. You are still who you are. You

made that perfectly clear when you attacked Brighton this afternoon.”

“I didn’t attack that shithead motherfucker!” he threw at her. “If I had, I’d have put

his arrogant ass in the ICU!”

“He is not an arrogant ass,” she defended the man in question. “I know he can be a

bit overbearing but—”

“If you don’t stay the hell away from him, he’s going to come up missing,” Dáire

said, wanting to kick himself the moment the strong words came out of his mouth.

Star’s eyes flared, her mouth opened in shock and she took another step backward.