She was leaving?
âLetâs not part this way,â Marshall protested. âWe should talk.â
âAbout what?â
âYouâre supposed to be the expert.â
âOn pregnancy?â she asked.
âOn relationships.â
âWell, hereâs my opinion,â Franca said. âWeâre not compatible, Marshall. I wish we were, and sometimes ⦠No. I refuse to delude myself. Letâs just leave it at that.â
Her footsteps rapped across the tile floor toward the hall. Then he heard the door latch behind her with a loud click.
He sat at the counter, bewildered. How could she deny the intimacy theyâd shared last night? Yet judging from her words, she regretted the whole night with a man she could never love. What had seemed a transformative experience to him had been entirely one-sided.
He and Franca had always been opposites. Why expect things to be different now?
Because, in a few weeks, theyâd learn whether they were going to be parents â¦
Chapter One
It was unfair, dangerous and cruel. That poor little girl. If Franca Brightman didnât figure out a way to rescue four-year-old Jazz, sheâd burst into a fireball that would bring down the Safe Harbor Medical Center parking structure on top of her.
Sheâd tried to work off her fury by staying late on a Friday night at her office. Sheâd spent hours reviewing the patient files that had come with her new job as staff psychologist. Plunging into the records and assessing patientsâ need for additional treatments should have blunted her pain and outrage.
Instead, the click of her medium-high heels on the concrete floor rang in a fierce staccato as she tore through the nearly empty lower level of the garage toward her aging white station wagon. At least at this hour she didnât have to feel embarrassed by her car, which was dented and old compared with the others, particularly the sleek silver sedan parked a short distance up the ramp.
Francaâs last glimpse of Jazz had been riding off in a junkmobile far worse than this. The decrepit state of the car had intensified her fear about where and how the child would be living now that sheâd gone back to her biological mother.
Where was Jazz right now? Had her mom bothered to fix dinner, or were they eating out of a can? Crammed into a rent-by-the-week motel unit, the four-year-old must miss her beautiful princess bedroom. Did she believe Franca had relinquished her by choice?
White-hot rage swirled inside Franca as she unlocked her station wagon and dropped into the driverâs seat. It was a wonder that, despite the chilly March air, she hadnât already set the building ablaze.
Franca wished she could figure out a safe way to vent her anger, which had been simmering all day. With a PhD in psychology and years of counseling experience here in Southern California, she ought to be an expert on releasing emotions.
Instead, her mind returned to an image of the black-haired little girl, her blue eyes brimming with tears. Handing Jazz over to her unstable mother at the lawyerâs office this morning had nearly torn Franca apart. How could she expect her foster daughter to understand why the planned adoption had fallen apart?
I shouldnât have come to work today. But being new at her job, Franca didnât want to ask for personal leave. After a lifetime of careful control, sheâd assumed she could handle this.
Sheâd been wrong.
On the steering wheel, her hands trembled. She hated to drive in this condition, but she couldnât sit here indefinitely. Sucking in a breath, she switched on the ignition.
A rock song from the radio filled the car. The singerâs voice rose in a ragged lament: âI canât take it anymore!â
There must have been half a dozen songs with similar lyrics, but right there, right then, this one seemed meant for her. Smacking the dashboard, Franca cranked up the volume and sang along in shared disgust, her voice ringing through the garage.