Chapter 6
Zane thrust a shaky hand through his hair. Jillian Ramsay was intelligent, fun, sexy, an incredible cook, and a great mom. She’d make some lucky man a terrific wife.
Leaping from his chair, he stalked to the window and put his back to the room.
Just not me. “Not happening.”
“Wouldn’t—” Jillian’s voice wobbled. “Wouldn’t the judge see through that as a ploy anyway?”
“Forget it,” he growled. “There is no way—”
“You asked me to help you, Zane,” Mia warned. “At least hear me out.”
He spun, strode back and dropped into the chair. “All right, talk.”
“You can declare that the child brought you together, which is the absolute truth. You’d have to pass the required personal and home evaluations, but I can coach you for that. The court would see two people who care enough about Casey to put his welfare first. He’d have the best of both worlds, his biological father, and his guardian—whom he knows and loves—as his mother. Plus, with your combined incomes and Zane’s health insurance covering Casey, the financial issues become moot. And the judge will view Zane’s decision to settle down and assume complete responsibility for his son very favorably.”
Mia focused on Jillian. “Do you have a steady boyfriend or fiancé? Or do you anticipate any prospects in the near future?”
Zane tensed, aimed his attention at Jillian.
Steadier now, she dabbed her eyes. “There’s nobody.” A flush pinkened her cheeks. “I don’t really even date much anymore.”
Why? She was intelligent, spirited, beautiful, and interesting company. Were the men in Cape Hope blind and stupid?
Mia raised her palms. “There you go. Zane, you’ve made your position never to marry perfectly clear, so I assume not being free to marry anyone else isn’t a problem for you. If and when Jillian decides to pursue another relationship, we can discuss your options at that time. You don’t have to stay married forever. A year is good, two would be better.”
“Just dandy,” he snapped. “Especially for the kid. I’m supposed to hang around for a year or two, then split? How is that better for him? I’ll end up messing with his head as badly as my old—” He caught himself. “I’ll end up doing exactly what I’m trying to avoid.”
“I understand you don’t want any part of parenthood. However, now that you’ve met Casey, can you really spend a year or two with him, then walk out of your son’s life permanently? Never see him again?”
“Doesn’t matter how I feel. Staying away from Casey is the best thing for the kid.”
“That’s utter crap,” Jillian said.
Zane couldn’t look at her. She didn’t know the facts … and he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment on her lovely face.
“Zane.” Mia’s tone softened. “You’re consistently gone for long stretches of time. This assignment was five months. And how long was the one before that?”
“Ten weeks.”
“And before that?”
“Slightly over a month.”
“If the two of you marry and live platonically until the case is settled, Casey never has to know about the marriage, or that you’re his father. After permanent custody is established, you’re free to go—and return—as you please. Jillian has the responsibility for raising him, but you visit when you’re able … as a family friend. No expectations, no pressure. Casey won’t view you as a parental figure, but you can at least see your little boy grow up. And if the unthinkable happens, and for some reason Jillian is unable to raise him, his future will be in your hands. You’ll make the decision, not Richard and Brooke, not the court system.”
The room tilted. Something happening to Jillian? The possibility horrified him—and not only because of what it would do to Casey—or Zane’s responsibilities toward him.
Dallas nodded. “It makes sense, Wolfe. And you know if you need anything , we’re a phone call away, day or night.”
Jillian’s small, warm, reassuring hand settled over Zane’s on the chair arm. “Casey has always thought of my dad as his grandpa, and my brothers as his uncles. That never sat very well with Richard, either. He considers us ‘gauche blue collar.’ Between assignments, my brothers are in and out of Casey’s life just like Mia mentioned. Casey has a blast with them when they’re in town. He understands that because of their duties, his uncles aren’t always around, and it doesn’t bother him. And my dad provides a consistent positive male influence for him.” Excitement rose in her voice. “This could work!”
Tangled in a whirlwind of doubt, Zane inhaled. Only the worst kind of asshole would run out on his own offspring just when the kid needed him the most. But what would the consequences be for Casey if Zane agreed to become part of his life—no matter how minimal? Was it possible to exert no influence at all on his son? God forbid Casey should end up like Brent.
Or Trevor.
He swallowed the strangling lump in his throat, his skin breaking into an icy sweat. As Mia’s face wavered in and out of focus, he closed his eyes. “I can’t—”
Jillian squeezed his hand. “Don’t decide right now. Think it through first.”
“Excellent advice. But don’t take too long,” Mia warned. “Time is a luxury we don’t have.”
* * *
Jillian held her tongue inside the car, again subtly watching Zane as he drove back toward the coast. Growing up in a household full of her brothers and their friends had taught her men processed things entirely differently from women.
She had to give him the space he needed, and he’d talk when he was ready.
After dozens of tense, thrumming miles, the city faded behind them and the bustling urban view out her window transformed into lush green farmland sheltered between patches of thick forest.
Zane slammed his fist on the steering wheel, making her jump. “I want to help Casey, but I can’t marry— Dammit, I don’t want to hurt either of you.”
“What makes you think you would?”
“Not purposefully.” Pain twisted his sculpted profile. “But I don’t know any other way.”
Her belly clenched as he confirmed what she’d already begun to suspect. “I took child psychology classes in school, and my job at the center has familiarized me with the warning signs and lasting effects of childhood trauma,” she said, careful to maintain a matter-of-fact tone. “When you had the flu, your feverish conversation gave away more than you realized.” She reached over and stroked his arm. “I know you were an abused child.”
He jerked as if her touch burned him, and a fist squeezed her heart. Taking two steps forward, then recoiling a giant step backward in fear was a typical pattern for trauma survivors. Zane was as skittish and defensive as Aragorn had been when she’d rescued him from death row at the county shelter. Zane, too, needed patience and understanding. Needed to learn he could trust her.
His anguished glance flicked to each of the mirrors, returned to straight ahead. “Then you get why I can’t become involved in Casey’s life.”
“No, I don’t get it. For someone who’s inexperienced with children, you do very well with Casey.” If she had her way, he’d be well-acquainted with his son by the time the custody battle was settled. Maybe he’d even want visitation. Or decide to parent his child himself.
Imagining her life without Casey ripped her up inside. But she wanted the best for him, and if that meant he lived with his father …
Her lungs constricted and she inhaled a calming breath. No use worrying about that now. She’d deal with the issue when and if it came up. “You just need to become more familiar with your son and gain confidence in your abilities.”
“It’s not only my own childhood,” he gritted. “I’ve seen nightmare scenarios in this job that would send you screaming. In the real world, mothers check out. Fathers betray their families. Children die.”
“Zane, I’ve seen plenty of horrors in my job, too. But I’ve also seen a whole lot of wonderful. Thousands of people who’ve survived horrendous childhoods mature into caring, responsible parents. You can take classes, get counseling—”
He snorted as his gaze again searched the mirrors and fixed back on the road. “Slapping a caramel coating on a bruised apple doesn’t disguise the fact that inside, the fruit’s rotten.”
“And sometimes, Champ, ‘I can’t’ simply means, ‘I choose not to try.’”
His jaw set in an obstinate masculine angle she’d seen countless times on his son—and despite her distress, she couldn’t stop a wistful smile. Casey always eventually came around to see reason.
Hopefully, so would his dad.
Without warning, Zane slammed his foot on the accelerator. The car zoomed to top speed and he wrenched the wheel in an abrupt left turn that rocketed them off the deserted highway and down a bumpy side road.
She grabbed the dash. “Zane? What the—”
“We picked up a tail in Portland,” he said as conversationally as if he’d invited her to lunch. He hit the brakes, then waited through a long series of scary beats before he threw the car into reverse and backed out just as fast as he’d entered, angling the Cooper across both lanes.
She twisted to peer across him, where his side of the vehicle now directly blocked the path of an oncoming car. “Are you insane?”
He kept his fingers tight on the wheel, his eyes on the fast-approaching black sedan. “He’ll stop.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“I’ll speed straight ahead onto the side road again.” His fierce glance pierced her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
A horn blared, tires shrieked, rubber smoked on asphalt.
“Stay down.” Before the sedan had shuddered to a full stop, Zane leapt out of the Cooper, gun in hand.
Nerves jumping, she peeked over the edge of the convertible door and watched him stalk toward the other vehicle, big hands cradling his pistol pointed at the driver.
“FBI.” His smoky timbre was calm, and so silkily dangerous it made Jillian’s scalp prickle. “Keep your hands where I can see them and pull over to the shoulder. Nice and slow. Then shut off the engine.”
As the man complied, Zane inclined his head at Jillian. “Park the Cooper in front of him so you’re off the road. Then leave it running and get back into the passenger seat.”
She quickly did as he’d ordered.
“Step out,” Zane commanded the other driver. “Keep your hands up.”
A tall middle-aged man, dark hair cut short, lanky body dressed in a spendy tailored suit and gray silk tie emerged cautiously from the sedan, hands carefully apart. “Is there a problem, Officer?”
“It’s Special Agent. Turn around and put your hands on the hood.” When he complied, Zane swept the guy’s feet farther apart, forcing all the man’s weight and balance forward onto his arms. Keeping the gun trained on him with one hand, Zane tugged his FBI ID from his pocket, held it under the guy’s nose.
“Special Agent Zane Wolfe,” the man recited. “I’ll remember that.”
“Please do,” Zane replied, still lethally calm. “Because if you cause Ms. Ramsay any grief, I’ll be the one raining hell down on you.”
“I have no idea what—”
“You don’t want to play that game with me, pal.” Zane slid his gun into his back waistband and did a quick, thorough pat-down.
When he tugged a pistol from a hidden shoulder holster beneath the man’s suit jacket, Jillian gasped.
Zane stuffed the confiscated weapon beside his own. “You have ID and a permit to carry concealed?”
“Yes. You don’t have probable cause to detain and search me.”
“I’ve watched you following us since we left the city, and you were driving erratically. It’s my sworn duty to ensure the public’s safety. I stopped you to determine if you’re driving impaired.”
“That’s a load of horseshit.”
“Where’s your ID and permit?”
“Wallet. Left inside jacket pocket.”
Zane extracted the man’s cell phone and wallet, flipped the wallet open. “Dwayne Polson, private investigator.” He scowled. “Who are you working for, Polson?”
“That’s privileged client information, which I have no obligation to disclose. So unless you’d like to formally charge me with a crime and arrest me, I’ll be on my way.”
Zane laid the wallet on the hood, tossed the cell phone up and down in his wide palm. Then he cocked his arm and let the phone fly high, fast, and far into the woods. “Oops. Sorry about that. It must’ve slipped.” As Polson swore, Zane reached into the driver’s side door, plucked the keys from the ignition, and they also sailed into the woods … on the opposite side from the phone. “Well, hell. I’m all thumbs today.”
“I’ll have your badge for this.”
“You’re welcome to try.” Zane bared his teeth in a smile that iced Jillian’s blood. “Assume the position until I’m in my car and gone. Then you’re free to leave.”
“You’ve still got my Glock.”
“Yeah, you can pick it up at the downtown Portland FBI office after it’s been examined and cleared of being used in the commission of any crimes. I’d allow at least a couple months. Maybe three. My paperwork’s backed up like a bitch.”
“You fucking Nazi, I’m going to—”
“Might want to rethink that statement. Threaten a federal law enforcement officer, and I would have to haul you in.” He clapped a hand on the investigator’s back, gave it a pat. “And Dwayne, just a prudent word of advice: find another client. Come anywhere near Ms. Ramsay again, and you’ll lose more than a phone and your weapon.”
Zane strode to the Cooper, slid inside. He pulled onto the road, but instead of driving forward, he made a sharp three-point police turn and rocketed past the furious PI, back toward Portland.
Jillian looked at the grim set of his chiseled features. “Where are we going?”
“Back to Dallas’ office. I want to scope out this Polson with him … and pick up some extra equipment we’ll need.”
She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw Polson standing beside his stranded vehicle. The investigator flipped them the bird, and she broke into chuckles. “I have to say, Champ, you’ve still got the trophy-winning pitching arm.”
His rare, beautiful grin zinged her from head to toes … and sent her heart soaring out of the ballpark.
* * *
On the way home again after Zane and Dallas’ private confab in McQuade’s office, Zane stayed intent and focused, but oddly now seemed far more confident and less edgy. Jillian shook her head. Her macho FBI guy was perfectly comfortable with bullets, but babies scared the crap out of him.
When they turned onto her street, he stiffened. “Jillian.”
“What is— Oh. Oh no!”
He parked in the driveway and she scrambled from the car, staring in horror at her front lawn. Someone had destroyed all her flowers. Every pot was smashed, the rose trellis splintered into pieces, each plant she’d lovingly settled into the ground and nurtured into bloom uprooted and ripped to shreds.
“Why?” she whispered. “Who would— Why?”
Her throat clogged and she started to shake … and then Zane was there wrapping a strong, steadying arm around her. “Easy. Take it easy, sweetheart.”
“I don’t understand. It’s just so senseless—”
“This is personal. Meant to hit you where it hurts.”
She swallowed hard. “Well, it worked.”
He urged her toward the house. “Let’s get inside.”
She gasped. “You don’t think they got in— Aragorn! Zane, I have to—” Icy with terror, she ran to the front door, fumbled for her keys.
Steady and assured beside her, Zane took them from her trembling fingers. “No signs of anyone attempting to break into the house.” His muscled forearm blocked her when she would’ve rushed through the door he swung open. “But I go in first.”
When had he drawn his gun? A floaty sense of unreality numbed her as she followed him in, her glance ricocheting around the room. Everything looked undisturbed. At the sight of Aragorn’s sleepy green eyes blinking at her from his perch on the back of the sofa, a relieved sigh billowed out.
Her relief cut short when Zane withdrew what looked like a small, complicated remote control from his pocket and began to pace the floor.
“What is that?”
He touched his index finger to his lips and continued his circuit, stopping at the driftwood lamp on the side table. “Bring me a couple of sandwich bags, would you?”
When she returned from the kitchen and handed them to him, he turned one inside-out, covered his fingers with it, and reached beneath the end table. Withdrawing a small silver disc, he held it close to his mouth. “Tsk, tsk, Dwayne. Now I have an ass-load of due cause. I find fingerprints or any evidence that proves these belong to you, and you’ll lose your license … and face charges.” He flipped the baggie right-side-out, sealing the small device inside without touching it.
He found and confiscated another disc from inside her kitchen telephone, a third from under the deck railing outside, and a fourth beneath the nightstand in her bedroom. He took them out to the garage to store them where they’d pick up no signals, quickly returning.
Floaty unreality merged with stunned, scared disbelief. She pressed a hand to her churning stomach. “Those were transmitters, right? Someone hired that PI to bug my house. He was spying on me. Even in my bedroom. ”
“Yeah.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I suspected it after Dallas and I checked Polson out. He’s exclusive. Expensive. Has a rep for being extremely good, extremely thorough, and getting results.”
“So they’ve overheard everything , our conversations, our intimate … Out on the patio, when we …”
“Yeah. They probably have pictures, too. Shot long-lensed from the beach.”
“Pictures?” Bile surged in her throat.
He cupped her nape, drew her close to his comforting heat. “Think back. They didn’t overhear anything that’ll hurt our case. In fact, if questions arise about our motives regarding Casey’s guardianship, the … ah … kiss between us will help us prove we’re … ah … involved enough for me to grant you custody. But …” His grip tensed. “If Polson was hired by our intrepid congressman, then Reynolds knows you suspect him of murder.”
“Why would Reynolds bug my house? He has no idea of what I suspect. No, this is right up Richard’s sleazy alley, damn him. ”
“Nevertheless, from this second until everything is wrapped up and tied with a shiny fucking bow, I’m your 24/7 personal bodyguard. You don’t go anywhere, do anything, or talk to anyone without clearing it with me first.”
“I—” Her fingers curled into fists. “It’s too much. Just too … I need … Zane, please go downstairs and leave me alone for a while.”
To his credit, he didn’t question or argue, or try to feed her useless platitudes. Because right now, nothing would make her feel less violated. Less afraid.
“All right.” A strong, soothing palm stroked down her spine. “Holler if you need me.”
* * *
Outside in the breezy early afternoon, Zane carried another yard refuse bag to the side of the garage where Jillian kept her recycling bins. He could relate to the need for solitude when stressed.
Leaving Jillian alone to regroup, he’d channeled his rage into productivity. He’d gone downstairs and immediately called Dallas, who was on the way with a state-of-the-art security system. And a print-dusting kit. Polson was probably too smart and experienced to leave trace evidence, but Zane had to cover all the bases.
After he’d stuffed the yard debris bin and four refuse recycling bags with ruined plants, and thrown away the smashed flowerpots and trellis, he’d raked the grass and swept the porch and sidewalk.
Jillian’s yard now looked perfectly clean, perfectly neat … and stripped barren of her uniquely colorful presence. Which gave him an odd hollow sensation he didn’t care to examine too closely.
He consulted his watch. Nearly ninety minutes had passed. Dallas would be here shortly, and he should let Jillian know. His back teeth ground together. Okay, yeah, and he was worried about her.
He loped upstairs and strode down the hallway, sneakered tread silent, his gut tied in knots. God, he hoped like hell she wasn’t up here crying. He had a very bad feeling Jillian’s tears could wreck him.
Her bedroom door was ajar, as was the door to the attached bathroom, but both were empty. He followed the hallway to Casey’s room, stopping short outside the open doorway.
Jillian was in Casey’s bedroom, her back to him, folding a tiny pair of jeans into a backpack sitting on the bed. As he watched, she added several coloring books and a box of crayons.
“Jillian?”
She jumped and whirled, guilt stamped all over her startled expression. “Zane.” She shifted between him and the backpack, twitched aside a tumbled strand of hair. “I … ah … didn’t hear you. I was just— Um …”
“I know exactly what you’re doing.” He stepped into the room, his pulse ratcheting into high gear. Keeping a careful grip on her shoulders, he moved her aside, glanced down into the pack. Along with Casey’s clothes and a few toys, she’d stowed his allergy medicine, a wad of cash … and the kid’s passport. “You’re packing a ‘go-bag.’ I’m betting you now have one for yourself stashed in your closet, too. Planning to run, are you?”
Anxious violet eyes went huge, her slender shoulders rigid in his grasp. “Only if … Only as a last resort.”
“I can help you. I can protect you both.” Throat tight, he shook her gently. “But not if you run. Go outside the law, and you blow it for all of us—including Casey.”
“What if the legal way of doing things doesn’t land on our side? What if—” Her lips trembled. “I won’t let Richard and Brooke take him. I won’t. ”
“They’re not getting him.” He tugged her into his embrace, wrapped his arms around her. “Promise me you won’t bolt.”
She shuddered. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Zane. I can’t make that promise.”
Frustration nailed him, followed by a vicious punch of something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel since that fatal freshman year of college … sick, helpless terror. “You willing to leave your job, your home, your friends and family—and never see them again? Lie, cheat, even steal if necessary? Because that’s the reality when you drop off the grid.”
“I know,” she whispered unsteadily. “But if leaving is what it’ll take to keep Casey safe, then I’ll have to go.”
“Listen to me.” He held her tighter, trying to ignore the way she felt so damned right in his arms. She and Casey would never live as fugitives, live in fear while Zane still had breath in his body. “I will handle this. I will protect you. But you need to trust me, Jillian.”
“I do. I do trust you.” She looked up at him, her irises shadowed by pain. That too-discerning gaze compelled his. “You just need to learn to trust yourself.”
He let her go and stepped back, physically and emotionally. “I called Dallas a while ago. He’ll be here any minute with a top-notch security system, and we’ll install it. Within a few hours, nobody will sneeze in the vicinity of your house without us saying ‘ gesundheit .’ Dr. Dick and his sleazy gun-for-hire don’t stand a chance.”
Her look of appreciation embraced him in warmth. “I’ll call Dad and see if he can pick up Casey from the center and take him to his place so Casey won’t see the damage, or the alarm installation. Then I can clean up the yard while you and Dallas install the system.”
“I already cleaned it up.”
Appreciation evolved into stunned gratitude. She bit a trembling lower lip. “Okay, then. Um …” She cleared the thickness form her voice. “While you and Dallas do your thing, I’ll replace my plants. That is, if I have permission to go to the garden center. I can also pick up your suit from the cleaner’s. I’ll be in downtown Cape Hope, within full sight of people at all times.”
“I think that’ll be safe enough. Just check in with me when you arrive at each location, and again before you head back to the house.”
A jaunty golden brow arched in blatant mischief. “Aye, aye, Special Agent. ”
Zane grinned at her. “Now that’s exactly how I like my women.”
“Really?” She strode past him, her surreptitious, playful pinch on his ass making him jump. “Well don’t get too comfortable with it, Champ.”
He burst into laughter as she strolled out. This resilient, gutsy woman continually surprised and delighted him.
* * *
The next morning, Zane consumed a most excellent breakfast of French toast and sausage—which unbeknownst to Jillian, Casey surreptitiously snuck pieces of to Aragorn lurking beneath the table. When the kid caught Zane watching, Casey offered him such a merry conspiratorial grin, Zane couldn’t rat him out.
After breakfast, they all trooped outside and climbed into her car. Zane backed out of the driveway, admiring Jillian’s superb job of resurrecting her flower gardens while he and Dallas had connected the security system. She’d brought the DOA grounds back to vibrant life, as if it had never been destroyed. And Zane had somehow found himself promising to assemble and install the new trellis she was having delivered later today.
Zane headed toward the Hope Center, covertly glancing at Jillian. She looked like an alluring mermaid today, in a sundress the same blue-green as the Pacific, her hair intricately braided in the back and banded off with a circlet of tiny shells, and silver seahorses dangling from her ears. He hadn’t found it necessary to mention that he’d also stashed a tracking device on her Cooper, another in her purse, and a combo bug/tracker in her cell phone. No sense spooking her more than she already was. The last thing he wanted was for her to snatch the kid and bolt.
She’d never need to know. And she’d never think to ask, because she was a trusting soul.
Jillian trusted him. A muscle twitched in his jaw. People who trusted too much got hurt. His hands tightened on the wheel. He’d make damn certain nobody hurt her.
Including himself.