and her baby."
"I didn't want the baby," Constance whispered. "I hated the baby."
She slid away, back to the kitchen table and Matty.
Shocked, Maya pretended normalcy by taping the picture in place. Scary little spikes of panic raced through her veins, piercing her heart. Axell needed to be here—now. This was his daughter. He knew the score better than she.
Without thinking, she grabbed the kitchen phone and hit the starred code number for the restaurant. She was only an outsider in this precarious little family drama.
* * *
Grimly, Axell slammed into the house. He didn't know what was so all-fired important that he had to leave his bar to the mayor and his vipers, but it didn't appear the house was on fire.
He stalked through the mud room into a brightly lit kitchen no different from the one he'd left a few hours ago. Maybe there was more paint splattered across the newspapers and floor, and his refrigerator looked like a cock-eyed pop art gallery, but he didn't see any dead or dying. He watched his daughter decorate Matty's forehead with a sunburst, then turned his glare on the teacher sitting on a stool by the counter, stroking her cat.
"What?" he roared as she met his gaze with a worried frown. She'd scared him half to death over nothing.
"Daddy!" Constance raced to throw her arms around his legs.
Amazed by her reaction, Axell didn't even blink at the smear of yellow paint across his new Perry Ellis trousers. He crouched to stroke her hair and gratefully accepted the paper towel the teacher handed him.
"Can you stay? Me and Matty been painting."
Constance—when she bothered speaking—usually spoke grammatically. Axell threw the teacher another glare.
"Show your daddy your paintings, honey," Maya intervened calmly from her seat.
Axell wondered if she was feeling all right. She usually bounced around as much as the children. That made him wonder if she'd been seeing a doctor, which returned his terror of her having the kid on the kitchen floor.
Constance seemed oddly reluctant to display her art. Holding her hand, Axell crossed to the refrigerator. Matty's swirls of red with polka dot nose holes and pointed ears were easily discerned from Constance's carefully detailed scenes. He wasn't entirely certain he understood the subject matter, however.
Crouching beside her, he examined a painting of what appeared to be a room full of furniture. The cat leapt from Maya's lap to curl around his ankles, meowing. He scratched its head with one hand while holding out the picture with the other. "Want to tell me about this one?"
Pink little lips closed firmly, and her fine hair flew around her face as she shook her head.
"That's the nursery," Maya explained from her seat.
The nursery. Axell's heart plummeted to his stomach. He couldn't look at his daughter. His fingers clenched around the wrinkled painting. The nursery, of course. There was the crib his daughter had outgrown, the cradle he'd built himself, and the playpen full of toys they had shopped for every weekend.
Agony shot like fire through his chest. His stomach cramped, nearly bending him in half. Maybe a heart attack would prevent his ever thinking about that time again. Apparently aware of his crippling pain, the cat fled behind the refrigerator.
Carefully, Axell unfolded from the floor, still gripping the painting. "That's a very pretty picture, Constance," he said with what he thought was admirable calm. "I need to talk with your teacher for a moment. Miss Alyssum?" He lifted his eyebrows in expectation and nodded toward the family room.
"You need to talk with your daughter." Refusing his commanding gesture, she remained seated.
He'd fire an employee who ignored his orders. He couldn't fire a guest. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Axell fought the dangerous firecrackers popping behind his eyes. Constance had already returned to the table, but he wasn't ignorant enough to believe she didn't listen to their every word. For two years he'd been pretending she'd forgotten. He couldn't pretend anymore.
Holding the picture, he stormed into the family room. If Maya wanted him to talk to Constance, she'd damned well have to talk to him first. He didn't have any idea how to handle this.
Staring at the childish picture, Axell absently kicked a dirty tennis shoe in his path. Constance had drawn his son's nursery. The acid in his stomach spilled through his gut like wildfire, and he kicked another loose shoe in the direction of the first.
The schoolteacher appeared before him without his knowing she'd entered the room. She wore the swinging floral