at them. The refrigerator bulb, however, was almost blinding.
Probably because nothing blocked its glow.
Maya stared in fascination at the shelves of shiny—empty—glass. A half-gallon of milk, some eggs, and butter hid in the distant corners of the vast interior. It almost reminded her of home. Almost. In Cleo's ancient appliance, just the milk would have filled a shelf, if they'd had any.
"Miss Alyssum, are you fixing breakfast?"
The soft voice nearly startled her into jumping into the refrigerator. She'd probably fit, belly and all, Maya decided with amusement as she peered around the door to see Constance in her flowing nightshirt. The child had crept up quieter than any mouse.
"Well, it's a mite early, and our options look limited. Would you like something?"
"Daddy's other ladies usually fix French toast." She watched Maya cautiously.
Daddy's other ladies. Right. Rolling her eyes and biting her tongue on that one, Maya eyed the refrigerator contents skeptically. "Well, if you know where to find bread and syrup, we could do that. Or maybe even bread and cinnamon. Or jelly?"
"You and Matty slept on my side," Constance replied irrelevantly.
Maya had enough psychology courses to know when a child had something on her mind. She just didn't want to contemplate this particular topic at this hour of the morning in the house of a man she scarcely knew. By "side," she assumed Constance meant her wing of the house. She'd already figured out Axell had a wing all to himself, since she hadn't heard him come home.
"Well, I guess that makes us your guests," she replied brightly, closing the refrigerator and opening a cabinet. Dumb move. Now she had no light.
"Sometimes Daddy's ladies don't stay for breakfast."
All right, so the kid had a one-track mind. Deal with it.
"Constance, what are you—" The kitchen exploded with light.
Maya blinked. The sleepy man standing in the doorway did the same, then rubbed his eyes in the glare of the overhead fixture. Fixtures. The kitchen had track lighting all over the blamed room.
Axell Holm stood there in only his pajama bottoms. A soft brown fuzz nicely delineated his rounded pectorals and descended into washboard abs before dropping beneath the elastic falling over lean hips. Maya thought her eyes might pop out. Surely pregnancy prevented hormonal outbursts. Lean, hungry, artistic types did not have chests like that. She didn't think yuppie businessmen should either.
She closed her eyes and pretended she'd imagined the whole thing. "Don't you have anything dimmer?" she pleaded.
Hitting the dimmer switch, Axell lowered the confounded lighting while trying to assimilate the image of his elfin daughter standing beside a hugely pregnant fairy godmother in chaotic auburn curls and... He peeked from behind his hand. The shimmering turquoise nightgown nearly blinded him as much as the kitchen lights.
"What are we doing out here in the middle of the night?" he asked cautiously. Actually, he'd come home in the middle of the night. It must be closer to morning. He blinked again at the vision in turquoise. Why did she remind him of a particularly striking bouquet of fresh flowers as she stood there against his steel and porcelain kitchen?
"I'm after warm milk. I believe Constance is checking on my sleeping habits."
Axell heard her humor and regarded his daughter's innocent expression with suspicion. Maybe his fault lay in believing an eight-year-old hadn't yet developed the twisted mind of all females. "Constance, go back to bed. It's Saturday. You don't have to go to school."
He recognized the rebellious pout of his daughter's lower lip. Warily, Axell glanced at the teacher to see if she'd help. She beamed sunnily as she poured milk into a cup. Following the pattern of her recent behavior, it dawned on him that the gypsy woman didn't believe in confrontation. She had a habit of slipping and sliding out of the most damning tempests with just a smile as her umbrella.
"Did you want warm milk too?" he asked his daughter. Two could play at the game of No Confrontation.
"French toast," Constance replied stubbornly.
Red warning flags waved all over that one. Axell glanced at the gypsy putting the milk into the microwave. Her smile had grown suspiciously wider. Damn, but her mouth looked rosy and ripe even at this gawdawful hour of the morning.
She was eight months pregnant, dammit! Easily eight months. Nervously contemplating babies popping out on the polished tiles of the kitchen floor, Axell rubbed his unshaven jaw and tried to gather his thoughts. He was standing here half-naked, for chrissake. He wasn't used to having guests.
"When the