Kitabı oku: «Baby By The Book», sayfa 2

Chapter One

Rand Barclay wrestled with the baby crib, trying unsuccessfully to reduce it to two dimensions. It had been nice and flat when he’d brought it down from the attic two years ago, when his younger sister, Alicia, had come home from the hospital with Dougy. Now it refused to fold up.

He cursed the baby bed just as Clark Best walked into the room. Clark was his employee—estate manager, majordomo, butler, maid and cook rolled into one. The man was the epitome of efficiency, competence and hard work. He also happened to be Rand’s best friend.

“Missing the little tyke already?” Clark asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief. He was up to something, but Rand had no idea what.

“The only thing I miss is my office,” Rand growled. “And I’m taking it back. Now.”

“Then let me do this.” Clark bent down, flicked some invisible lever, and the crib folded right up. He smiled smugly, his blindingly white teeth flashing in stark contrast to his dark skin. “You want it in the attic?”

“Hell, no. Burn it. There will be no more babies in this house. Maybe I’ll be able to get some work done around here.”

Clark snorted. “We’ll see about that.” He left the room, carrying the crib effortlessly under one arm. At six-foot-three and two hundred and forty pounds, Clark made most things look effortless—including a cheese soufflé. An old buddy from high school, Clark was in his last year of cooking school at Savannah’s Culinary Institute. He lived in one of Rand’s many spare rooms and ate prodigious amounts of Rand’s food in return for keeping the house running smoothly. Rand didn’t know what he would do in a few months when Clark graduated, got real a job, and moved out.

Yes, he did know. Rand would be alone, just as he’d wanted to be since he’d bought this house after his first year at a successful medical practice. It had taken him the eight long years after that to get his three rambunctious younger sisters safely launched into the world.

Then there was his mother. Rand loved her dearly, but the obstinate Marjorie Barclay had clung to Rand and this house like a tic on a hound dog. He had used every persuasive trick he could think of to get her to move to South Carolina’s most posh retirement village, where she could meet people her own age and develop some interests apart from her children. Fortunately, she’d adjusted quickly and now pretended the move had been all her idea.

Rand contemplated the stacks of research books that had grown like stalagmites around his office during the past six months. He’d been setting the stage for the massive task of writing his book—collecting papers and articles on rare skin diseases, tracking down subjects, accumulating stacks and stacks of statistics. But he had yet to commit a single word to paper.

Who could write with little kids underfoot and assorted females coming and going all the time, their high-pitched laughter and mindless chatter constantly in the background? One of his medical journals, he noticed, had a half-eaten lollipop stuck to it.

But that was all over now. As of today, he was embarking on a new life, one of total independence. For a while, at least, Rand Barclay was going to focus on Rand Barclay. He was going to do what he wanted, buy what he wanted, work, sleep and eat when he wanted—in blissful solitude.