Chapter 3
Jaw tight, Zane forced himself to follow Jillian to the car. She didn’t comment when he again folded himself into the driver’s seat.
Dreading another encounter with the child, the closer they got to the house, the more Zane tensed. The stiffness started in his forehead and neck, tension constricted his shoulders, his spine, and crept downward. By the time they arrived, even his toenails hurt.
Jillian smoothed her disheveled hair on the way to unlock the front door. Braced for the worst, Zane stalked inside.
An auburn-haired teenage girl uncurled herself from the sofa and stood. “Hi Jillian. Mom sent Casey home with me so I could put him to bed. You were right about his allergies kicking up. Mom gave him the medicine you brought over. He was playing with Robbie and Donnie, and faded out.”
“Thank you, Danielle.” Jillian pulled a ten and a five from her purse.
“Hey, thanks!” With a wave, the teen departed.
Zane’s knees loosened and he dropped into a chair. He wouldn’t have to deal with the kid tonight.
“Zane, are you hungry? I’ll bet you didn’t have any dinner.”
Come to think of it, he hadn’t. Or lunch, either, unless stale airline peanuts counted. “I could eat.”
“I’ll reheat some leftovers while you take your bag upstairs. The largest guestroom is at the end of the hall. Casey is staying in the smaller guestroom until I’m done redecorating his room. Don’t worry about waking him, he sleeps through almost anything. Especially when he’s had his allergy meds.”
Carry-on and laptop in hand, he strode upstairs. The instant he flicked on the light, Aragorn launched off the bed. Hissing and spitting, the gigantic cat crouched in the doorway, fur on end. Cold fury crackled from slanted green eyes.
Zane retreated to the hall. “Nice kitty.” Hell, he sounded inane. Cautiously, he bent and tried to shift the cat aside.
Fangs and claws bared, the beast lunged.
“Shit!” Zane jumped, narrowly missing having a bloody furrow raked down his forearm.
He backed to the landing. “Jillian,” he called.
She bounded up the stairs. “What’s wrong?”
“Aragorn won’t let me in the room.” He felt ridiculous admitting a cat had thwarted him. He was an FBI agent for fuck’s sake. He’d unblinkingly faced serial killers, terrorists, and compounds of insane, armed-to-the-eyeteeth cults.
“You must have misunderstood.” The monster’s loud purr rumbled like a Harley lowrider as Jillian carried him over to Zane. “Aragorn’s a sweetheart. He loves everybody.”
“Apparently, I’m the exception.”
The demon-spawn proceeded to make a liar out of him by smirking and purring louder.
“Two minutes ago, he was trying to make steak tartare out of my arm—” At Jillian’s disbelieving smile, he broke off. “Never mind. Just get him out of here.”
Crooning to the furry sociopath, she left, and Zane set his bags on the ivory cotton bedspread. Decorated in pleasant beachy tones of sand, ivory, and soft teal, the comfortable room faced the backyard. In the daytime, it would offer a spectacular ocean view.
He used his cell phone to voicemail his supervisor and inform him he was staying longer than planned, but off duty. Since he didn’t have an active case at the moment, and never took vacations, Zane had plenty of available leave time. He then phoned his attorney at home to get instructions about the next step.
On his way downstairs, he paused in front of Jillian’s bedroom. She’d left her door open, and the rising moon gave enough visibility to see warm salmon walls the color of an ocean sunrise and a salmon-and-blue paisley print comforter and curtains. Her alluring scent drifted out.
He thrust his hands in his pockets and eyed the white wicker queen-size bed piled with fluffy pillows. A short, ruffled purple cotton nightgown was draped across the footboard. With her openly fun-loving personality, he’d bet his next paycheck Jillian was an uninhibited, imaginative lover. Did she make little noises of satisfaction when kissed and caressed? Cry out when she climaxed?
His skin tingled hot and tight with arousal, the boner he’d been sporting off and on since meeting her surging back to DEFCON 1. She’d said Casey slept through anything, so the kid wouldn’t hear if they—
Lock it down, Wolfe.
He gritted his teeth. Apparently, months of abstinence had left him hornier than a three-peckered bull. He’d better take that R&R, and soon. He stopped in the bathroom to wash his hands and splash cold water on his face—forgoing the urge to soak his head—before loping downstairs to the kitchen.
Jillian was in the light yellow breakfast nook, arranging silverware beside sturdy multi-colored stoneware plates. The table was loaded with food. “Everything is ready. Have a seat.”
He joined her, automatically choosing a chair with his back to the wall. A platter of fried chicken sat in front of him. A glass bowl heaped with potato salad flanked another filled with green salad. A casserole dish of spicy baked beans, a plate of warm, fragrant biscuits, and frosty iced teas garnished with lemon slices completed the feast. His empty stomach rumbled. “Everything looks and smells great. Leftovers at my place are soggy cartons of takeout Thai.”
She smiled. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but do you mind if I say grace?”
He’d given up talking to the Man Upstairs years ago when He hadn’t answered a young, hurting boy’s pleas for help, but didn’t mind if other people wanted to. “Not at all.”
Mouth watering, Zane bowed his head. After Jillian’s mercifully short blessing, he attacked the food. Accustomed to solitary to-go or microwaved prefab dinners, he’d never tasted anything so delicious. He devoured his first helping and started on seconds before finally pausing long enough to speak. “I have a kick-ass attorney who’s making an appointment for a DNA test tomorrow, with a rush on the results. I’m supposed to fax all custody suit documents you’ve been served to the law office, then we’ll meet after the DNA results come in.”
“I’ll arrange for time off.” She frowned. “It’s obvious Casey is yours, but yes, we need to get DNA confirmation.” White teeth worried her generous lower lip. “Do they have to take blood? Casey freaks over needles.”
“No, they’ll swab the inside of my cheek and the inside of Casey’s and compare samples. It’s painless. They’ll also want something personal of Deb’s, like a toothbrush, or hairbrush to collect her DNA. With both parents’ DNA, they can determine paternity within 99.9 percent.”
“I packed up her things, and saved a few mementos for myself and Casey. I’ll have to look.”
“What happened to Deb, Jillian?”
She put down her fork. “It was … She, Casey and I had a standing breakfast date, every Saturday morning. The morning she … died … she didn’t show up. I called her cell and her home phone, but there was no answer.” She looked down, her fingertip unsteadily tracing the edge of her plate. “Deb was found in her bed, dead of an overdose of prescription migraine medications.”
His breath caught, his body jerked. “Suicide?”
“No! She wouldn’t kill herself!”
Bile surged in his throat and he pushed aside his plate. Jillian was obviously in denial about her friend. He’d seen the mental games, knew the damage they could cause. Hell, he’d lived them. “Desperate people do desperate things,” he growled. He of all people should know. “Happens every damned day.”
“Deb did not commit suicide!” She swallowed hard. “She was alone in the house with Casey at the time.”
Zane began to shake. “Oh, God.” He closed his eyes against a backlash of pain. “Don’t … don’t tell me the kid found his mother dead.”
“No.”
The raw torment in that one quiet syllable made his stomach bottom out. “You did.”
She gulped. “We had— We had keys to each other’s houses. Remember I told you Casey sleeps through anything? I drove over and let myself in.” Jillian’s lower lip quivered, and she bit down on it. “Yes, I found her.”
“I’m sorry, Jillian.” He reached over, covered her fingers with his. In spite of the warm evening, her petal-soft skin was icy. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“It was horrible.” Her trembling hand clutched his, as if seeking his strength.
He wished he could offer her more. But he had nothing left to give.
“Even though I knew it was too late, I called 9-1-1. Then I woke Casey and hustled him out before anybody showed up. I figured that was the best thing for him.”
“Admirably clear thinking, especially considering the stress you were under,” he said gently. “What makes you so convinced Deb’s death wasn’t self-induced? Do you think she accidentally overdosed?”
“Have you ever had a migraine?”
“Nope.”
“I have. They feel like a pile driver is drilling your skull, you go blind from black spots in front of your eyes, and get horrendously nauseated. There’s nothing you won’t do for relief. Deb had them frequently. But the meds knocked her out, so she wouldn’t even take her prescribed dose until someone was there for Casey. She’d call me first, then wait until I got there. Sometimes she’d be sobbing and vomiting from the pain by the time I arrived.” She squeezed his hand harder. “If I wasn’t available, she’d call my dad, or our coworker and mutual friend Loucinda. Deb suffered agony rather than put Casey at risk. She was an incredibly dedicated mother. She never, ever would have killed herself and left her son alone all night. Or take the chance he would find her body.”
“So what do you think happened?”
“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” She leaned forward. “Someone murdered her.”
Zane tensed. Hello anticipated conspiracy theory . “Look, Jillian, I understand you don’t want to believe your best friend killed herself.” He understood far better than she realized. “But—”
“She wouldn’t. She didn’t. ”
“Okay. An unattended death requires an autopsy and investigation. Were suspicions raised, was evidence of foul play found?”
“No, but the ‘investigation’ was cursory, at best. Zane, she had more than triple the prescribed amount of medication in her system, and she’d also been drinking wine. There’s no way in hell that was accidental, and she didn’t take it on purpose. And I know who killed her … although I can’t prove it. Yet.”
He frowned. “Who do you believe did it?”
“I—” Her voice quavered. “Deb was my best friend, and I don’t— I can’t judge her, okay? But she was having an affair … with a married man. They’d first met back in D.C., then really clicked when they ran into each other here and he started helping with fundraising at the center. She loved him, and said he loved her, too.” She swallowed hard. “Wade Reynolds.”
Zane’s frown deepened. “Congressman Wade Reynolds? The Wade Reynolds who’s running for President?”
“Yes. They’d been involved for several years. He claimed his marriage was in name only, he and his wife didn’t sleep together, they were on the verge of separating, blah, blah you know the usual song and sidestep. Then remember last year, his wife was diagnosed with a non-cancerous brain tumor?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, even though the surgery was successful and his wife is fine now—except being restricted from driving—Wade’s affair with Deb would’ve looked even worse under those conditions, especially with two teenage daughters depending on him. And with fed-up voters flocking to the polls determined to oust the dirty-old-boys network, how could he risk it?”
Zane shook his head. “That’s a damned long leap to Murder One. Why wouldn’t he just break it off, pay her off?”
Jillian leapt to her feet, paced the kitchen. “Dammit, Deb wasn’t some whore to be used and then paid for services rendered! She truly loved the ratbag! And she never would’ve betrayed him, which makes killing her even more stupid and senseless!”
“I didn’t mean— I just—” He held up his hands. “You honestly believe Reynolds would resort to murder to protect his political ambitions?”
She spun, tortured lavender-blue eyes boring into his. “It’s not like it’s never been done before, right? And it’s the only thing that makes sense. Two weeks before she died, they had a blistering fight. I don’t know what it was about, because Deb refused to tell me. I suspect he wanted to break it off and was afraid she’d be bitter and angry, and blab.”
He clenched his jaw as the implications hit home. “Does Reynolds know that you know about their affair?”
“No. Deb assured him she never mentioned it to anyone. But we were each other’s sounding boards and mutual support system … we told each other everything. Of course she told me.”
“What did the investigation reveal? Did any evidence turn up?”
“Like I said, the ‘investigation’ was a joke. And you can bet Reynolds was pulling strings behind the scenes to ensure the cops didn’t delve too deep. He’s the type to have influential officials in his pocket. But no, there were no fingerprints, or incriminating letters or emails. He never came to her place anyway, Deb always got a sitter and met him in different discreet, hidden locations.” She hesitated. “No traces of DNA other than her own were found. But I am going to figure out what happened, and I will slam that bastard’s cell door shut with my own hands.”
His gut knotted. “Jillian, you realize if you start digging into this and what you suspect is true, you might as well paint a target on your back.”
Those extraordinary eyes blazed violet fire. “I’m not about to sit around on my ass and let Reynolds get away with murdering my best friend!”
“And what about Casey?”
“Casey deserves justice for his mother! He was there that night, sleeping and helpless. If Reynolds had wanted to hurt him …” She gulped. “But he didn’t. Casey will be fine.”
“Even if he loses both of his mothers?”
Jillian put her back to him, leaned on the counter and dropped her head. Her slender frame was trembling violently. “Zane,” she whispered. “Please, please. You’re the only one who can help me.”
Zane’s body was already up and moving before his brain had time to reconsider. He’d never been physically demonstrative, but Jillian Ramsay roused every protective instinct—and what scant few nurturing genes—he possessed.
He wrapped his arms around her, and she turned to face him. Burrowing into his chest, she uttered a quiet, distressed sob, quickly bitten off. That small sound slid right under the Kevlar armor around his heart.
“It’s going to be all right. Everything will be all right, Jillian. But I want you to promise me you’ll leave the investigating to the pros.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You can, and you will.”
Zane’s smoky voice in Jillian’s ear sent startled shivers zipping down her backbone and pebbled her nipples. Having his big, warm strength wrapped around her flooded her with a rush of assurance … and molten need. She looked up into deep, melted-chocolate eyes, and the guarded longing in them squeezed her heart.
It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to raise on tiptoe and touch her lips to his.
Firm.
Warm.
Compelling.
He jolted, inhaled sharply. Then his embrace tightened and one broad palm skimmed up her spine to cup her head as he took command of the kiss. His bold silky tongue explored the depths of her mouth, tantalizing, arousing. Learning all her secrets.
Craving more, she dueled her tongue with his, reveling in his rich, sinful taste. Instantly addictive. A wave of recognition, of rightness washed over her, sweeping her into a whirling current of desire.
The thick ridge of Zane’s erection pressed into her belly, and his guttural moan vibrated from his chest into hers. His heartbeat thrashed savagely against her breasts. He was shaking, breathing in choppy gasps. So was she.
She had no idea how, or why, but she and Zane clicked in a primal, elemental bond she’d never felt before.
Way too much.
Way too fast.
Jillian pulled back, breaking the connection. Burning inside, and struggling to understand, she sucked in a ragged breath.
What just happened here?
“Wait. I— You’re not Orlando Bloom.”
Zane stared at her as though she’d gone mental—and maybe she had. “A fact for which I’m eternally grateful.” He stepped away from her. “Look, we just, ah … had a moment. No big deal.”
Right. No. Big. Deal.
Then why had the sudden, thrumming link flipped her world upside down?
Panic skittered through her. Intense, emotionally reserved, lethally sensual Zane Wolfe wasn’t even close to her ideal man. She needed someone safe and predictable. Someone who adored kids as much as she did. Someone willing to openly communicate his feelings.
Although thirty seconds ago, they’d communicated perfectly.
Breathe.
Her uncharacteristic reaction was probably stress-induced. She had experienced a recent trauma. Or it could be transference. She loved Casey so much, it could influence her affection toward the child’s father, right? She pushed aside her tousled hair. Cleared her throat. “Um … yeah. How about some dessert?”
Those enigmatic eyes fired, locked on her. Wolfe’s dark intent penetrated to her soul. I want you for dessert. Want to devour every inch of you.
As she shivered, every muscle tightening in aching response, his Adam’s apple jackknifed.
Then he shook his head. “No thanks, it’s late. See you in the morning.”
He pivoted and bolted from the room.
* * *
Zane’s achingly restless dreams of rolling naked in sweaty, rumpled sheets with Jillian were pierced by an intent stare drilling through his forehead. He cracked open his eyelids and bright sunlight blasted him into consciousness.
Casey stood at the end of his bed, watching him.
Zane’s throat closed up. Reprieve over.
Dressed in a Yoda T-shirt and green shorts, the little boy leaned his elbows on the footboard. “Hi, mister. Who are you?”
That question again. He struggled to inhale a shaky breath. “I ... I’m ... a friend of your Aunt’s. My name is Zane.”
“My mommy used to talk to me every morning, but she doesn’t anymore. She went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up.”
His chest hurt as he groped for an appropriate reply. Thank heaven Casey hadn’t found her. “I’m sorry. That hardly ever happens, so don’t worry about people who are sleeping, okay?”
To Zane’s relief, Casey nodded. “Aunt Jelly said the same thing. My mommy’s an angel now, and she watches me from Heaven. Did ya spend the night?”
He shook his head at the rapid-fire topic switch. Ah, the resiliency of youth. Was the kid used to men spending the night? “Yeah.”
“Aunt Jelly’s friends never spent the night afore.”
Well, that answered his question.
“I got a loose tooth, wanna see?” He opened his mouth and wiggled his bottom front tooth.
“Ah … cool.”
Casey cocked his head. “You got really hairy armpits.”
Zane couldn’t hold back a smile. “Good observation.”
“Why?”
“Testosterone.” At Casey’s blank look, Zane added, “a male hormone.”
“Oh. Aunt Jelly don’t got hairy armpits. Why?”
“Because women shave their armpits and their legs.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Um … so they look nicer nak—ah … in swimsuits.”
Face scrunched in concentration, Casey considered him for a minute. “I got swim trunks . Why do girls wear tops with their swimsuits?”
“Uh, to cover their br—uh—chests.”
“Why?”
Hellfire, he’d suffered through easier enemy interrogations than this. His groggy mind struggled to form a coherent answer. “Because the current societal norm in our culture is for women to cover their br-chests. Not that men find them objectionable to look at. It’s that testosterone thing again...” Catching the rapt interest on Casey’s face, he trailed off. Swallowed. He was floundering way out of his depth here.
“Robbie Ray’s big brother Donnie calls ‘em hooters.”
Shit. Now he was drowning. “Uh, I hear your Aunt calling you,” he lied.
“‘Kay.” Casey shot out of the room.
Zane scrubbed a hand over his face. Last night he’d been routed by a cat, retreated from a woman, and now he’d resorted to fibbing to a five year-old. His lawyer better get this custody issue settled in a freaking hurry, before Zane turned into a complete pussy.
And before he did the unthinkable—and jumped Jillian.
Last night … God. Bewitched by her heady scent, savoring her tempting honeyed taste had nearly made him implode. Nearly made him ditch every vow, forget every trap he’d resolved to avoid. His morning boner twitched, and he groaned.
Cold shower time.
A miserable icy shower later, shaved and dressed in his black suit, fresh white shirt and dark blue tie, he followed the savory aroma of bacon to the kitchen.
“Good morning.” Looking like a mythical goddess in a gauzy, crinkled wine-colored sundress that gilded her hair and softened her eyes to purple velvet, and woven beaded sandals on her slender feet, Jillian carried a stack of steaming pancakes flanked by a crisp side of bacon, and set it on the table.
He couldn’t decide whether he was hungrier to take a big bite out of the food … or her.
Zane joined Jillian and Casey in the breakfast nook. Casey chirped out an irreverent grace, something about, “rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub,” that he insisted was Donnie Ray’s favorite blessing. After a quiet admonishment from Jillian, the kid said a simple thank-you.
While Zane devoured crunchy bacon and fragrant, fluffy pancakes that melted in his mouth, Jillian cheerfully mopped up a puddle of syrup Casey spilled. The little boy told a silly joke, and she laughed, her husky chuckle sweeter than the syrup.
Zane’s stomach cramped, and he abandoned his fork.
A burning weight lodged in his chest, and suddenly, he was ten years old again … trudging reluctantly toward home in the dusky gloom past houses where other families laughed and shared joy-filled meals behind cozily lighted windows. He’d yearned to belong to one of those happy families.
But fate had other plans. Zane’s old man had annihilated everyone he came in contact with. In different, but equally devastating ways, Zane’s mother and two brothers had paid with their lives.
Choking panic spiked. He had to leave.
Before he followed the family party line and destroyed this beautiful woman and innocent child.
Jillian glanced up at him. “Zane? Are you all right?”
He gripped the edge of the table. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure? You went pale.” She stretched her fingers toward his forehead. “Are you sick?”
He jerked away before she could touch him. “No.”
Casey watched the exchange wide-eyed. “Are you gonna hurl? Robbie Ray hurled last week, green and red and yellow and—”
“Case, if you’re done with breakfast, please put your dishes in the sink and go wash your hands and face,” Jillian intervened. “Remember, I explained about our visit to the lab this morning?”
“Yeah.” The little boy trudged off.
Jillian pursed her lips. “Zane—”
“Don’t start. I’m not five, and I’m not your responsibility.” He surged to his feet. “I’ll wait outside.”
Desperately clinging to control, he stood on the porch and inhaled bracing sea air. He had an accomplished career with a comfortable income, a quiet high-rise apartment, and casual female companionship when he chose. So what if he was lonely from time to time?
An occasional bout of loneliness was better than the unforgiveable alternative.
By the time Jillian and Casey exited, he’d nearly succeeded in regaining his shredded composure. Jillian shot him a concerned frown, but thankfully didn’t say anything. The threesome silently climbed into the pink car, Zane commandeering the driver’s seat.
Casey spent the fifteen minute trip waving his arms and singing a boisterous song about a sponge who wore square pants. In spite of Zane’s inner turmoil, the little boy’s enthusiastic, humorous concert made him smile.
As they walked toward the automatic doors, Casey’s footsteps lagged. The instant the child saw the brunette receptionist dressed in blue surgical scrubs, he jerked to a halt. “This is the shot place!”
Jillian whispered to Zane. “He had to have blood work a couple months ago for his allergies.” She knelt to the little boy’s level. “No shots, Case. I explained about the mouth swab to you this morning, remember?”
Casey looked dubious. “No needles, Aunt Jelly?”
“Cross my heart and eat apple pie, stick a French fry in my eye.”
The little boy’s face lit up, and he giggled. “Okay.”
Zane sat on a hard plastic sofa in the empty waiting room and filled out a ream of paperwork. Used to paperwork in his job, he neatly and quickly completed the forms. This joint had the FBI beat hollow for useless duplication.
Smelling far too enticing, Jillian sat beside him writing down Casey’s information. She’d found a birthday card Deb had given her, and they hoped the lab could collect enough trace DNA from the envelope.
The kid ignored toys and books on the child-size table, instead conducting a thorough visual examination of the lobby’s aquarium. His intent assessment reminded Zane of himself.
Both the kid and the woman were beginning to have far too dangerous appeal.
Avoid the hot zone.
Before long, the receptionist called their names. She asked to see Zane’s ID, and made a photocopy of it and Casey’s birth certificate. As she handed the certificate back to Jillian, Zane caught a glance of the document long enough to see the line for “father” was blank. He scowled. It shouldn’t bother him. After all, he never planned to tell the kid who he was, or be part of his life. Nevertheless, that empty space rankled.
The receptionist sealed Deb’s envelope in a plastic bag, and then gestured to the sofa. “Ms. Ramsay, you’ll have to wait out here.”
Jillian frowned. “Why?”
“For DNA samples, only the parties being tested are allowed in the exam room.”
Jillian tucked her hair behind one ear. “Could you make an exception? Casey had blood work recently and he’s a little—” She spelled out, “N-e-r-v-o-u-s.”
“I’m sorry. Med-Lab’s policy is very strict. We’re required to protect the integrity of the evidence. Considering the litigious climate these days, I’m sure you understand.”
“Yes.” Jillian lowered her voice. “That doesn’t mean I like it.” She again knelt down to the child. “Case, you go with Zane. I’ll be right here when you’re done.”
Casey stared up at Zane, as if determining his trustworthiness. “He’s going with me?”
Jillian nodded. “He’ll stay with you the whole time.”
Zane held his breath until the child finally spoke. “‘Kay. Can we get ice-cream after, like we did when I had my shots?”
She ruffled his hair. “You betcha. But only if you cooperate.” She stood and addressed Zane. “Watch over him.”
Disconcerted, he nodded.
The little boy followed the receptionist down the hallway with Zane close behind. She ushered them into a tiny exam room painted industrial green. After promising the tech would be along “soon,” she departed.
Casey looked at the exam table draped with standard scratchy paper, and edged closer to Zane. “I don’t very like this.”
Boxed into the airless, institutional room, Zane wasn’t thrilled either. The smothering medicinal odor reminded him of nightmarish visits to his mother. The day of Trevor’s death, she’d suffered a complete breakdown and spent a year in a care facility before she’d died. The doctors had confiscated her booze, but kept her in a tranquilizer-induced fog. Substituting one emotional painkiller for another.
He dropped into a chair and forced a hearty tone. “Everything will be fine. Nothing to it.”
Casey leaned on Zane’s leg and sent a pleading look up at him. “You won’t let that mean old nurse stab me, will you?” His brown eyes dilated. “Last time, she sticked me a whole bunch.” The little boy’s lower lip trembled.
Zane’s throat convulsed, and he swallowed hard. At that moment, he would walk barefoot over hot coals for the kid. “No.” His voice shook and he cleared his throat. “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
“I didn’t think so.” The child’s intelligent gaze studied him from the part in his hair to the soles of his shoes. “I saw the gun under your coat. Are you a Rebel smuggler, like Han Solo?”
Zane furrowed his brows. The kid had amazingly keen observation skills. After a decade of wearing his weapon everywhere but the shower, nobody saw his gun unless he wanted them to. “I’m a law enforcement officer.”
“Donnie and Robbie Ray’s daddy is a policeman.” Casey wrinkled his nose in an endearing miniature imitation of Jillian.
“Ah … that’s nice.” The suffocating room got smaller by the second. Zane loosened his tie a notch. Where was that tech?
“He gots a big dog named Axel, and a uniform. Where’s your uniform?”
“I don’t wear one. I’m an FBI agent.”
“Oooh!” Casey’s eyes widened in awe. “A secret agent.”
“Not a secret agent, an—”
The door banged open and a burly woman barreled in. “Hi, I’m Louise. Zane and Casey?” At Zane’s nod, the scarily jovial woman whisked Casey up. “On the table with you, little man, and we’ll get started.”
“Zane!”
The child’s panicked cry instantly had Zane on his feet and beside the exam table. He awkwardly patted Casey’s bony little knee. “It’s okay, kid.”
The tech snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and grabbed a long, intimidating-looking swab from a cabinet. She advanced on the child. “Open up, now. There’s a good boy.”
Casey firmed his mouth into a stubborn line and crossed his arms over his chest.
Uh oh. “Open your mouth for the nurse,” Zane commanded gently.
The little boy shook his head.
“C’mon, it won’t hurt,” Zane tried in a reasonable tone. “It’s only a swab.”
Casey shook his head again.
Shit, now what? When all else failed, try bribery. “Remember the ice cream?” The reward system even worked on snitches—except he usually dished out twenty-dollar bills instead of strawberry ripple. “But you have to cooperate.”
The kid again shook his head.
Sweat pooled in Zane’s armpits and lower back. The commercials that had promised his deodorant would stand up to ugly commutes, irate bosses, and rigorous gym workouts hadn’t counted on one pint-sized brick wall. “Casey, this test is very important.”
“You hold his nose,” the nurse suggested. “When he opens his mouth, I’ll get the sample. No muss, no fuss.”
Anger boiled through his veins. “No way. Back off.”
“It’s a natural reflex.” She huffed. “We do it all the time. It’s fast, easy and won’t hurt him a bit.”
No wonder the kid was leery. Zane would cancel the test for today before allowing that. But his attorney had said they needed to move fast. Frustrated, he studied the little boy. A direct command, negotiation, and bribery had failed.
Logic. Try logic. “Why won’t you open your mouth?”
“She’ll gak me,” Casey muttered through gritted teeth.
Zane frowned. “Huh?”
“Gak. You know, like the strip test.”
Enlightenment dawned. “Oh, you mean gag you, like a strep test.”
“Yeah. I flunked it before and had to take gross pink medicine for a really long time. A whole year,” he added darkly.
Zane bit back a grin. “A year? That is a pretty long time.”
The child nodded. “Yup.”
“What if I promise, and I never, ever break a promise, that the lady won’t gag you?” Zane lasered “the look” at the tech. “You won’t,” he warned.
The woman blinked, gulped. “Uh. No. No, I’ll do my best.”
Casey’s eyes narrowed.
“Tell you what. I’ll go first.” Zane propped his hip on the exam table. “You can watch me, and see how it’s done.”
The kid contemplated him for a full thirty seconds. “‘Kay,” he finally said, “But if she gaks you, I’m not doin’ it.”
The nurse approached Zane and he opened his mouth. Suddenly, a small warm hand slipped into his palm.
“I’ll hold your hand so you’re not scared,” Casey whispered.
At the gentle touch of that tiny, loving hand, the shields Zane had fought an entire lifetime to construct cracked ominously.
Painful breath jammed in his lungs. Thank God the swabbing saved him from a reply … because he couldn’t have spoken if his life depended on it.
After Zane escaped “un-gakked,” Casey submitted to the test.
Zane used the few valuable minutes to piece together his shattered equilibrium.
The tech snapped pictures of Zane and Casey individually and together for the files before dismissing them.
As wrung out as if he’d run a marathon with his leg shackled to an anvil, Zane delivered Casey to the waiting room.
Jillian rose, her face anxious. “That took forever. Was there a problem?”
Did Hulk turn green when he lost his shit? “A slight miscommunication. We worked it out.”
She sighed. “Good. Ice cream time, then.”
Too bad Jack Daniels didn’t make ice cream, because he could use a belt. Every survival instinct he possessed shrilled at him to leave. He checked his watch, willing the hands to move faster.
The second he got this situation wrapped, he was bugging out.
Right about now, Afghanistan was looking a helluva lot safer than Cape Hope, Oregon.