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Inside, leather couches the color of pewter flanked an eating area with a table and two benches next to the kitchenette. The walls were tiger-eye maple. The counters and tables were topped in granite veined with a handful of colors ranging from black to rusty pink to white. Deke dropped the basket and bag on the couch next to the table.
He heard someone clomping up the steps behind him. Without turning around, he knew who had followed him. “Have a seat, Troop. I’ll be right back.” He paused before heading to the back of the bus, again giving her the once-over. Her tan slacks were tailored to fit and not even the bulletproof vest beneath the dark brown uniform shirt could contain her curves. She’d slicked back her hair under the Smokey Bear hat and he couldn’t tell the color, but thought it was blond or light brown. He really wanted to see the color of her eyes but the hat brim kept them shaded.
Trooper Kincaid wasn’t the type of woman who usually caught his attention. Groupies knew the rules, played the game. Maybe he was intrigued because she was something different. Her stern authority didn’t fit in his world, but there was some undefined something that drew him. He’d have to think about why later. First things first.
“Dig around in the bag for wipes, a fresh diaper and something to change her into, will ya? This onesie is wet now.”
* * *
“This onesie is wet now?” Quin muttered as she bent over the couch and opened the diaper bag. “How does the man even know what a onesie is?” By the time he got back with several towels to pad the table, she’d found the items he requested. She noticed the wet spot on his chest. That explained the need for a clothing change but she was still mystified as to how he knew what the garment was called. She watched as he got to work, fascinated despite her best intentions.
This guy had bad boy written all over him. Now that she could see him in decent lighting, his sheer male magnetism hit her like a tackle from a Dallas Cowboys linebacker. He was undeniably handsome, with thick brown hair that fell around his high cheekbones and sculpted jaw. Five-o’clock shadow added a rugged layer to his face. Wide-set blue eyes held a twinkle that reminded her of a star-sapphire ring she once had. His black Western shirt and leather jeans fit him far too thoroughly for the welfare of the general female population. Herself included.
His fingers were long and dexterous, as would befit a guitarist, and he deftly changed the baby’s diaper and clothing. He wore a leather thong around his neck and Noelle snagged it in one chubby hand. Deacon laughed and cooed at her, like he did this all the time. For all Quin knew, he might.
She tried to sift a bio for him out of her crowded brain. Not that she was a big watcher of entertainment gossip shows. Still, Barrons and Tates were often covered in the local news, but she couldn’t recall hearing that he was married—or ever had been.
“Did you find any bottles in the bag? Or a can of formula or something?”
Lost in her musings, she startled at the sound of his voice. Luckily, he was still concentrating on the baby so he hadn’t noticed she’d been staring at his butt this whole time. “Oh, yes. There are a couple of full bottles. Not sure what’s in them.”
He glanced her way, and that killer smile with a side of dimple guaranteed to dampen groupies’ panties appeared. Quin refused to let it work on her. Much. She curled her fingers against her palms because they itched to push his hair back off his face and then tangle in the thick waves. His gaze focused on her mouth and she couldn’t stop her quick inhalation, nor could she keep her chest from swelling and pushing against the rigid bulk of her bulletproof vest. This man was lethal and she needed to remember that.
He held out his hand and she passed one of the bottles to him. Deacon twisted off the lid, sniffed and then dipped his finger in to taste, which was such a guy thing to do. “Formula. I think. Let’s pop it in the microwave for about fifteen seconds. We don’t want it too hot.” He caught her gaze on him, and the stars in his sapphire eyes blazed. “The formula, that is.”
Quin just managed to avoid rolling her eyes. She wasn’t some teenage fangirl fawning over the magnificent Deacon Tate. She retrieved the bottle from him and dumped it in the sink. “I’ll make fresh.” She snagged a can with a baby on the label and read the instructions. She pretended the whole time that her fingers hadn’t tingled when they touched his skin. That her nose hadn’t gotten a whiff of clean sweat and a scent deeper and more primal when she handed the bottle back to him. He settled on the couch.
Opting for discretion over valor because her body was fomenting mutiny, she retreated across the bus and sat on the matching couch to watch. She still couldn’t get over how proficiently this guy handled the baby.
“You said you don’t have kids?” she finally asked, removing her hat.
His gaze was sharp as he looked up. “Kinda hard to have kids without a wife.”
That didn’t stop a lot of celebrities but she didn’t point that out. “Then how are you so good with the baby?”
He paused to burp the infant then cuddled her back in one arm with the bottle in her mouth. Quin attempted to read the expression on Deacon’s face. She found a sweetness there that was almost as surprising as his competence.
“Only child?”
“Excuse me?”
“Not a hard question, Troop.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Then tell me your first name.”
Quin refused to throw her hands up in a fit of frustration. “Fine. Not that it’s any of your business, but it’s Quincy.”
“Did you hear that, Noelle? Her name is Quincy.”
The baby cooed, and Quin discovered she was grinning rather stupidly. She wiped that expression off her face and leaned forward so she could breathe a little easier in her vest. “And to answer your question, I’m not an only child. I have four older brothers.”
Deacon peeked up at her from under lashes far too long and lush for a man exuding as much testosterone as this one did. “Ah, the baby in the family. I’m the middle and got stuck with baby duty, especially with Dillon. He was a late surprise for Mom and Dad.”
She glanced out the tinted window behind her. “Dillon is in your band?”
“Yup.”
“Was he serious?”
“About what?”
“The...stuff?” She wanted to bite her tongue. She didn’t care if overenthusiastic fans embarrassed themselves by leaving underwear in tribute to the band. Nor did she care if maybe some of the owners of said lingerie ended up in the bedroom or one of the curtained bunks she could see when she glanced toward the back of the bus.
He laughed and set the bottle on the table. Shifting the baby to his shoulder, he patted her back until she burped again. Deacon checked her diaper, settled her back in the crook of his arm and gazed at Quin. “Yeah, he was serious. We get stuff like that thrown on stage sometimes, too. Goes with the gig.”
She couldn’t decide if he was being this nonchalant because he was so egotistical that he figured the thongs and stuff were his due or because he didn’t care. Time was passing and Quin needed to get things wrapped up. “Is she really yours?”
“Who?”
“The baby,” she said pointedly.
He studied her face and she flushed for no reason she understood. He broke their staring match first by peering down at the sleeping infant. That soft expression washed over his features again, and she wondered where the feelings came from. Maybe Noelle really was his. Her chest burned at the thought, and she didn’t quite know how to handle the feeling. To cover it up, she asked again, “Is the baby yours, Mr. Tate?”
Before he answered her question, the sound of booted feet stomping up the steps drew their attention to the front of the bus. Chance Barron’s gaze bounced between her and Deacon before he announced, “She is until you find her mother, Trooper Kincaid, and we clear things up.”
Three
Deke didn’t know whether to high-five his cousin or panic. Was his ego overriding his common sense on the outside chance Noelle was his? Babies were hard. He knew that, but while he didn’t quite understand his attraction to the gruff cop, he was adamant about keeping the baby close until he knew definitively who the father was. Noelle was a cute little thing and deserved something more than becoming a ward of the state.
So yeah, he’d score this one for the good guys. Not that Quincy Kincaid was a bad guy. She wasn’t a guy in any way, shape or form. She’d pushed to her feet when Chance came in. With her back to Deke, he could tell the hair twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck was blond.
His blood warmed. There was something about the nape of a woman’s neck that really stirred him up. Some men liked breasts, some a sweetly rounded butt. Him? The arch of a woman’s neck and the lines of her back. He loved kissing his way down from the spot where a woman’s hair met skin on her nape, across soft shoulders and down the valley of her spine. Shifting uncomfortably, he jerked his thoughts away from Quincy the woman to focus on Quincy the cop.
“I don’t think you understand the situation, Mr. Barron. A Child Protection worker from DHS will be here shortly. Under the law, Mr. Tate has to relinquish custody. He has no proof the child is his.”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand, Trooper Kincaid.” Chance stepped toward her, his phone held out. “I’ll have the paper version of this court order here very likely before your DHS representative arrives.”
Deacon exchanged a relieved look with his cousin while Quincy scanned the document on Chance’s phone.
“Who can call a judge at three thirty in the morning and get a custody order signed?” she muttered. Inhaling in an obvious—to him anyway—effort to control her frustration, she passed the phone back to Chance. She added, more loudly, “We’ll all just sit right here until DHS and your paperwork arrive. In the meantime, Mr. Tate—”
“Deke,” he insisted.
“Mr. Tate.” She arched one brow and glowered. “In the meantime, you can explain to me how you, a single man, plan to care for a baby girl. I seriously doubt this bus contains a nursery.”
“Considering I’m headed home as soon as we settle things, it doesn’t matter if it does or not.”
He watched her pull in her chin, crinkle her forehead and scowl at him. Deke was just contrary enough to enjoy the heck out of putting that expression on her face.
“So, you have a nursery set up at your home? Which is where, by the way? You can’t take the baby back to Nashville.”
“Home is a ranch about an hour’s drive from here. And I admit I don’t exactly have a nursery.”
“Yet,” Chance interjected. “Cassie, Jolie and Roxie have gone shopping. You will have everything you need by the time we get this worked out.”
“Wait until Mom hears about this.” Deke all but chortled. His mother was huge on family and none of her wayward sons had provided her with a grandchild. None of them was married. As a result, she doted on Cord and Jolie’s little boy, CJ.
Quin favored Chance and him with her scowl. She’d been outfoxed and her expression indicated she knew it. She stepped back as Chance approached him but he could see the wheels turning. She hadn’t surrendered. Yet. And wouldn’t it be sweet when she did.
Chance murmured in his ear, “Won’t be anything fancy. They went to the all-night supercenter.” He glanced down at the baby and got a goofy look on his face. Deke choked back a laugh. If Noelle stayed in the family for very long, he predicted a Barron baby boom by next autumn.
Pulling back mentally, Deke considered what he’d just thought. He wasn’t as freaked out by the notion of keeping Noelle in the family as he probably should be. That idea was all sorts of wrong. He toured. A lot. Only coming home when he could. He could hire a nanny, keep Noelle on the road with him. Or leave her at home with a nanny... Nope. He didn’t like that idea at all. He did like the idea of having a loving wife and family—no matter where he was. Only that idea was all sorts of wrong, too.
Wow. He knew that the magic baby smell worked on testosterone as easily as it did on estrogen, but it was supposed to have the opposite effect. Women were supposed to go all weird and want babies. Not men. So why was he going all mushy where the kid was concerned? Deke was honest enough to admit his head space had been strange all night long. And then he was hit with the possibility that he had a kid. He’d been blindsided, but he’d also responded viscerally to the idea. It was growing on him.
He barely noticed Chance leave as he stared down at the baby in his arms. The little imp had obviously bewitched him. He’d never lacked for female companionship, and until his rather maudlin reflections of earlier, being tied down with a wife and family was a foreign concept. Maybe his cousins’ happiness was rubbing off on him. Maybe he just needed something more than a one-night stand. Maybe he’d get lucky with the very luscious Trooper Quincy Kincaid. Maybe she’d even wear her Smokey Bear hat.
Noelle whimpered in her sleep, reminding him of what was at stake here. Deep down, he knew that as soon as the baby’s mother was located—and his family had the resources to find her—the situation would be straightened out. When it was, he’d get back to life as normal—a life full of long-legged cowgirls in Daisy Dukes while touring, then going home and sitting on his front porch with a cold beer and his guitar for company.
Quin’s voice interrupted his reverie. “I don’t believe for a minute you are naive enough to believe that baby is yours.”
With one hand, he grabbed the basket and moved it closer. With profound gentleness, he transferred the little girl into it. She stayed asleep. After tucking a crocheted blanket around her, he brushed the tip of his index finger through her wispy gold baby hair.
The sexy cop standing a few feet away kept pinging his radar. She’d been gruff and in-your-face about Noelle, and he wanted to know what made her tick. They had some time to kill. He’d watched out the window as his brothers and Cash Barron organized rides and shipped almost everyone off.
Deke wanted to satisfy his curiosity about Trooper Kincaid and whether she was as aloof—and as immune to him—as she pretended to be. He watched her from under half-lidded eyes, not missing a detail. Shoulders back, feet apart, knees slightly bent, hand on the butt of her pistol. She looked like she was getting ready for a fight.
“Do I make you nervous?” he drawled.
* * *
Quin refused to retreat a step, though her common sense insisted it was the smart thing to do. Instead, she stood her ground. She was the trained law-enforcement officer here. She was in charge. Keeping her stance aggressive but controlled, she jutted her chin toward him and leaned ever so slightly in his direction.
“Absolutely not.” Then she realized her hand was on the butt of her sidearm. Oops. With conscious effort, she loosened her grip and hooked her thumb in her belt. She’d be cool, calm, efficient, with a detached sense of control. She could send out those vibes. Absolutely. Because this man did not make her think of kissing those full lips of his even if she was wondering whether they were soft or firm. No. She would not go there.
She was a professional. On duty. She didn’t have time to picture running her fingers through that messy hair of his. Or—or... Her gaze rose from his mouth, quirking up at the corners as it was, to meet his eyes. They really were the soft blue of a star sapphire. She curled her fingers against her belt. Would the stubble on his face be rough, or as soft as his hair looked?
“Darlin’, you really shouldn’t look at a man that way.” His gruff voice was both a caress and a wake-up call.
Quin barely controlled a full-body shudder. She needed to think of ice baths and blizzards. Snow and ski slopes. Invigorating high mountain air. Not warm. Not sexy. She took that step back, both physically and mentally. He laughed, and the sound was dark and warm like fudge brownies just out of the oven. Her mouth watered.
Coffee. She needed coffee. And fresh air. Like right this minute. She squared her shoulders and glanced at her watch: 4:18 a.m. Despite Quin’s hoping otherwise, the DHS worker likely wouldn’t arrive until after sunup.
“It appears we will be here a while, Mr.—”
“Deke.”
“Tate. Is there any chance you have coffee hiding somewhere in this place?”
He chuckled, and she didn’t like the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. No. She didn’t like that at all.
“I’ll see what I can scare up.” He turned away from her and she realized she needed what cops laughingly called a 10-100.
“I also...” She did not want to ask, especially when he turned around, leaned up against the counter by bracing his hips against it and looked at her.
“You also...?” He did that smile-and-dimple thing again.
“May I use your facilities?”
“My...” His eyes twinkled and she could tell he was fighting laughter. The big jerk. “Bathroom is that way.”
“Thank you,” she acknowledged stiffly. Marching past him, she made note of the six curtained bunks lining the hall between the living space and the bedroom she could see at the rear.
Just past the bunk area, through a wooden door, she walked into a bathroom that made the one in her condo look like it belonged in a cheap motel. There was a huge glassed-in shower, a marble countertop with sink and full-sized commode. It was luxurious. She closed the door for privacy.
When she was done, she washed her hands and let her curiosity get the best of her. She poked her head into the bedroom. The queen-size bed appeared to be on a platform. It was higher off the floor than she’d first thought. A pewter-colored comforter looked warm and inviting. Then she stopped to wonder how many women had been in that bed. Time to make a right turn into the sanity lane.
A chair sat in one corner. A guitar occupied a metal stand and there was a microphone in its own stand on the opposite side of the chair. Did he record back here? There was a computer setup on the nearby desk.
Quin heard a throat clearing behind her and she whirled. Her face flaming, she met Deacon’s amused gaze without blinking.
“See anything you like, darlin’?”
“Uh...no. Not at all. I was curious to see how the other half lives. That’s all.”
“Sure.” That twinkle in Deacon’s eyes had turned to a hard glitter. He stalked toward her.
Self-preservation made her back up, taking one step for each of his. The backs of her legs smacked into the bed and she almost went down—would have hit the mattress if Deacon hadn’t reached out and grabbed her arm.
All but panting, Quin forced herself to calm down. She was embarrassed at being caught. She truly hadn’t meant to snoop. Much. And then there was the proximity of Deacon—with his dark good looks, the smoldering gleam in his eyes and that mouth. She couldn’t help staring at it.
“You’re starin’ again.”
She gulped. Jerking her eyes upward, she attempted to inhale around the catch in her chest. It just wasn’t fair to women that one man could be this...everything a man was supposed to be. “Oh. Uh...the coffee?”
“It’s ready.”
“Oh, good. Great. Yes, thanks. Thank you. Very much.” She eased past him and fled toward the living area. She almost stumbled when Deacon called after her, his voice gruff, which invited all sorts of sexy thoughts.
“We’re not done, Trooper Kincaid. Not by a long shot.”
Four
Deacon fell into bed just before 7:00 a.m. While he appreciated all the help from the Barron wives—or the Bee Dubyas as his brothers called them—they’d exhausted him and Noelle. The baby had been passed around so much she was wailing before he could convince them to go home. It helped that he’d sent out a group text to their husbands to come get them.
But they’d worked some serious magic on short notice. He’d come home to a functional nursery, courtesy of the chain store that was open 24/7. His home was now filled with bottles, diapers, formulas and more clothes than a kid needed in the short term. The crib and playpen thingy were up and ready—not that any of the women put Noelle down long enough for the baby to use them. They’d also set up a baby monitor. As tired as he was, that was a good thing.
Noelle took thirty minutes to calm down. He’d put her in the crib then sat next to it, stroking her gently and singing to her until she fell asleep. Deke had fond memories of singing Dillon to sleep and he sometimes wondered if that was why they both ended up in the music business. In the end, Noelle had been clutching his finger as her eyes drifted shut and her breathing turned into little puffs. He was in desperate need of at least a couple of hours of sleep. Then he’d deal with the curveball life had thrown him—and the intriguing Highway Patrol trooper he’d left in the Thunder River Casino parking lot as she attempted to placate the DHS caseworker.
* * *
Bacon. Deacon inhaled deeply. That was bacon he was smelling. And biscuits. What the...? He jumped out of bed and stumbled toward the kitchen. He was halfway down the hallway when his brain caught up with his body. The baby-monitor receiver on his bedside table had been turned off. He backtracked to the baby’s room and looked in. Noelle was sleeping soundly.
By the time he reached the kitchen, he’d corralled the panic and was mostly coherent. Until he recognized the woman standing at his stove. He should have known she’d come as soon as word leaked out.
“Mom, why are you in my kitchen?”
She leveled him with a look insinuating he was both not too bright and maybe not her son as a result of that fact.
“Beyond the obvious, Mom.”
She poured him a cup of coffee and placed it on the island. He hitched his butt onto one of the bar stools and gratefully accepted her peace offering.
“Your brothers and cousins are in quite the tizzy, son.”
Okay. Son was better than his full name, but not by much. “It was a crazy night, Mom.”
“Uh-huh.” She flipped the strips of bacon in the cast-iron frying pan.
“It was late, Mom. Or early, depending on which side of dawn you went to bed.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cut me some slack here.”
“Don’t get snippy, Deacon. Is she yours?”
He studied the steam rising from his mug. “You’ve seen her.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think?”
“I think she’s a darlin’ little girl that somebody—preferably her parents—should love beyond all things.”
“We’re doing the swabs for the test this afternoon. Chance says it’ll take about three weeks. While it’s possible, I’m not sure she’s mine.”
“I figured, sugar. She could be, but I don’t think she is, either. As disappointing as that is.”
“Mo-o-o-o-m,” he warned by stretching out the word.
“None of you are married, Deke, so I am not advocating any of you rush out and find...what’s the term you young people use? Baby momma? No baby mommas. Your daddy and I raised you boys to be honorable men, to do the right thing. You’ll find the right girl, marry her and then have babies. Until we get the paternity-test results, the baby needs looking after. We’ll hope her momma decides to come back. ’Course, if she’s yours, she’s ours. But that’s a whole different situation. On the chance she is yours, we’ll look after her.”
Deke slid off the stool, walked around the island to his mom and kissed her on the cheek. “Yeah, we will. So...is that why you decided to come over and fix breakfast for me?” He noted the pile of bacon and sausage patties, the cartons of eggs and the huge pan of homemade biscuits baking in the oven.
“I suspect the locusts will descend soon enough. You know how crazy the family went over Cord’s little CJ. Noelle is a baby. That just trips switches like you wouldn’t believe.”
Except he would, because seeing the baby, hearing her cry and holding her? Yup, every last one of his switches had been tripped. “She might not be mine, Mom.”