Free Found: One Secret Baby by Nancy Holland Page A

those little legs of yours.”
    The kid blinked twice and repeated, “Out.”
    Time for another tactic. “No.”
    That got the message through. The kid frowned, gave a little bounce, and said in a louder voice, “Out.”
    “No.”
    Morgan sat down on the sofa. Might as well be comfortable while the impending disaster ran its course.
    But the kid shifted tactics, too. He reached both hands toward Morgan. “Up?”
    Except for his tear-stained face, the boy seemed clean enough, but Morgan sensed a sticky veneer. He wished he had on something more easily cleaned than the two-thousand-dollar suit he’d worn to intimidate Ms. Walker. Especially since that hadn’t worked very well.
    He glanced to where Rosalie was still talking on the cell, her eyes fixed on the kid.
    “No,” he said again.
    Joey lowered his arms and put one thumb in his mouth while he gave Morgan a considering look. Finally the kid pulled the thumb out far enough to say, “Goey.”
    Near-panic set in. Was that some kind of toilet-training talk?
    When he didn’t respond, the kid touched his chest, and repeated, “Goey”.
    “Joey?”
    The kid grinned at him. Charlie’s grin, but also Lillian’s, when she was pleased enough with something to let her guard down.
    “Morgan,” he replied, pointing to himself.
    “Mawg.”
    “Close enough for a kid who’s just a few months over one.”
    Joey continued to beam at him. “Out.”
    “That would still be a no.”
    Again the outstretched arms. “Up?”
    “Okay, we’ll give that one a try.”
    Morgan stood and picked Joey up. He did indeed have sticky hands. Sticky hands that left shiny marks on Morgan’s pristine white-silk shirt when he held the kid too close and the boy pushed away.
    Sticky or not, the kid smelled sweet and milky. The urge to hold him closer again was strong, but Joey apparently wanted enough distance to be able to see this strange man’s face.
    The cats had appeared the minute he’d bent to pick up Joey and now sat on each side of him, outwardly unconcerned with the humans around them, but clearly on guard once again.
    “Okay, you’re up. Now what?” Morgan asked the mini-despot.
    Joey tilted his head to one side, as if considering his options. “Tans.”
    Morgan made a show of scanning the toy-strewn floor of the living room. “I see lots of stuff here, but no tanning booths. And it’s too cloudy outside for sun bathing. Sorry.”
    “Tans.” Joey bounced up and down on Morgan’s arm. “Sick. Tans.” He reached those sticky hands up and patted Morgan’s ears. “Sick. Sick.”
    “Music? Dance?”
    “Tans!” Joey clapped his hands and bounced harder.
    “Oookay. Don’t suppose you know where the remote for the sound system is.”
    “Sick. Tans.”
    “I’m working on it. Boy, this learning-to-talk thing is a bitch, isn’t it?” Morgan muttered as he searched the room for some kind of remote.
    “Bitch,” Joey echoed perfectly.
    Morgan groaned.
    The remote was on the mantle over the empty fireplace, well out of reach of little hands. He shifted Joey to one hip—not as easy for him as for Rosalie—and held the remote away from the kid while he examined the controls. Finally he found what he hoped was the right button.
    A wild dancing rhythm burst out of speakers on the shelves of the built-in bookcases on each side of the front window. Something familiar, yet …
    “Tans!” Joey insisted, bouncing so much that Morgan had to set the remote back on the mantle and grab him with both arms.
    Morgan took a couple of shuffling steps back and forth.
    “More!”
    Morgan broke into what he remembered of a waltz, although the music was much too fast and didn’t have the right beat. Then he recognized it. The last movement of Brahms’ double concerto. Who would have thought?
    Now he knew where the music was headed, he matched his step to the rhythm, much to Joey’s delight. They made two circuits of the living room before the music reached its climax.
    The joy and