Free The Real Father (Twins) (Harlequin Superromance No. 927) by Kathleen O`Brien Page B

aging, didn’t know he was half-blind, didn’t know he was driving her crazy. He knew only that he was out in the world for the first time in weeks, and he wanted to lunge and bark and chase everything that moved. Demery Park at noontime gave him plenty of scope.
    â€œYou’re a crafty soul, I’ll give you that,” she added, wondering if Stewball was big enough to actually pull her arm out of its socket. “Doing that sleepy old helpless hound impersonation so that I’d feel sorry for you.”
    Stewball darted between her legs to growl at a trash receptacle. At home he looked so harmless. Jackson had been in New York for days—an emergency with one of his building projects, she’d heard from Lavinia—and Stewball had spent the entire time mooning pathetically on Everspring’s shady front porch, watching the drive with his long, sad face propped against a huge clay pot of pansies.
    In a fit of pity, Molly had invited him to come along to the park, where she was to meet Lavinia at noon. And now she was stuck with the demon dog he had become the minute he bounded out of the car. Maybe, she thought, hoping against hope, when Lavinia got here she could make him behave.
    Or maybe not.
    Molly tried to unbraid the leash Stewball had diabolically wound across her legs. But he kept circling, and she only seemed to grow more tangled.
    â€œNeed some help with that mutt?”
    Stewball knew it was Jackson before Molly, absorbed in extricating herself, could focus on the words. With a loud, welcoming bark, he suddenly raced forward, nearly toppling Molly in his haste to tackle Jackson, who was approaching with Lavinia. Molly had no choice but to follow, her fingers tangled in the leather lead and her feet clumsily weaving their way several inches behind her outstretched torso.
    Drat the mangy mutt. She had been dreading seeing Jackson again after the way she had embarrassed herself the other night. She had almost kissed him, for heaven’s sake. Jackson, who had been her most loyal friend since her pigtail days—but who had never once looked at her that way. And why would he? Everybody knew that Jackson liked his women exotic and sassy and hot. Jackson wouldn’t ever have wasted his kisses on a common domesticated house-female like Molly.
    What a miserable moment it had been! She had tried to explain. His resemblance to Beau had momentarily confused her. It had been a little like being caught in a dream. It had been—oh, it had been crazy. There weren’t any words to explain it, not really.
    He’d been nice about it, but she had sensed his discomfort. He had invented an excuse to leave the carriage house almost immediately. And before the sun came up the next morning, he was on his wayto New York, like a starling winging mindlessly away from the sound of gunfire.
    So she would have liked to show a little dignity, at least right at first. And now here she was throwing herself at him all over again. With a little help from this damned dog.
    â€œStewball, down! Down!” Lavinia was laughing and backing away at the same time. Stewball was ignoring her, intent on getting his mouth close enough to Jackson’s face to properly welcome him home.
    Jackson ruffled the dog’s hair playfully, somehow managing to keep clear of that soggy, enthusiastic tongue. He reached for the lead, which Molly surrendered gratefully, and within a few seconds he had shortened Stewball’s range so drastically that, after a few abortive lunges that went nowhere, the animal had no choice but to sit at Jackson’s feet and pant his adoration quietly.
    â€œHi, M.” Jackson smiled at Molly, who hoped she didn’t look too mussed. “You okay?”
    She nodded. “But happy to see reinforcements.” She frowned down at Stewball. “Didn’t he once qualify as a good dog?”
    Jackson chuckled. “God, no! Don’t you remember the Fourth of July picnic