Chapter 7
Zane parked in the small lot at the Hope Center. The 60’s era low-slung, faded blue clapboard building showed definite wear and tear, but the grounds were well-tended and tidy. Jillian had explained they were in the middle of a three-pronged remodeling and addition project that would be phased in as they raised the final funds from the benefit gala, allowing for the least disruption to the children’s programs as possible. Jillian’s father Dean was heading up the work crew pro bono.
Zane had familiarized himself with both the old and new building blueprints and the school’s evacuation plan, seeking potential ambush areas and memorizing possible entry and exit points in the event anyone attempted a move on Jillian. He was also running a background check on all of Dean Ramsay’s employees who’d been on site.
Zane was coming in as a volunteer who’d upgrade the outdated computer system and transfer all paper records to electronic files. He could investigate Deb’s activities prior to her death, ask pertinent questions of the staff, and bodyguard Jillian. Only Loucinda Wallis, Jillian’s boss, had been told he was a Fed. Zane wasn’t exactly hiding it, but he wanted to choose when and how to reveal himself.
As prepared and alert as when he headed into combat, he followed her and Casey through a locked employee-only side door. As a bonus, the office position would give him minimal contact with all the rugrats, thank you, Jesus.
The interior was as time-worn as the exterior but just as scrupulously clean, and smelled faintly of lemon floor wax and the aroma of spicy tomato sauce drifting from the cafeteria.
Two mischievous-looking little girls sashayed along, holding hands and giggling. “Hi, Casey,” they chorused.
“Hey, Susie and Jen,” Casey said. “I think I smell pasgetti for lunch.”
The darker haired one nodded. “Yep. But it’s pronounced spaghetti. ”
“Girls,” Casey muttered, wrinkling his nose. “Always think they know everything.”
“Get used to it, kid,” Zane muttered.
“Hi, Miss Jillian,” the girls chirped as they walked past.
“Hi, Susie, hi, Jen,” Jillian replied.
Zane’s lips quirked. “Miss Jillian?”
“That’s the way the younger ones refer to the staff. It’s easy for them, and respectful but not too formal.” She chuckled. “While you work here, they’ll call you Mr. Zane.”
“If I work here very long, I’ll be on a Valium drip.”
“You’re so cute when you’re panicked.”
“Give me a firefight with armed wackos any day of the week.”
She dropped Casey off at his already rollicking classroom, then led Zane down the shabby linoleum floor into a hallway, bright with overhead fluorescents. A colorful mural adorned the full length of both walls—a detailed primitive painting of Cape Hope, including a beach dotted with people flying rainbow-colored kites. The white-capped Pacific Ocean rolled in the background. “Nice. Original and expressive.”
“We’ll be sure to preserve it when we remodel this section. The kids painted it, with the former art instructor’s help. Unfortunately, she moved to Portland this spring, so we’re temporarily without an art program.”
Halfway down the hall, vigorous pounding accompanied by thumping music pumped from inside a closed set of double doors that led to the auditorium. “You have demolition going on in there? I didn’t see it on the schedule.”
She chuckled. “Not exactly.”
Zane accompanied her as she strolled into the small auditorium, complete with empty theater seats for about a hundred people. Dark blue velvet curtains framed a tarp-covered stage holding a trio of young teens. A very tall, skinny African-American boy was enthusiastically hammering a blank canvas backdrop over a frame. His shorter, sturdier, crew-cut blond pal painted bricks on another backdrop of a darkly menacing inner-city alley—depicting giant rats clustered around several overflowing Dumpsters—at the same time good-naturedly razzing his friend about being careful not to nail his thumb.
A raven-haired, barefooted girl wearing black spandex bike shorts beneath a neon green tank top stretched tight over a pregnant belly choreographed dance moves to the hip-hop music blaring from a laptop perched on a chair beside her, while also scribbling notes on the script in her hand. Her finely-chiseled features, long straight locks, and flawless copper complexion revealed at least partial Native American heritage. She looked like she was barely sixteen.
Zane winced. A baby having a baby.
“Hey guys, how’s it going?” Jillian shouted over the din.
The hammering stopped, and the trio’s attention concentrated on them.
The taller boy grinned. “Hey. Sets are lookin’ good, don’tcha think?”
“Fantastic,” Jillian agreed.
The blond kid’s hand self-consciously slid upward to cover a long red scar that ran from his right temple to his chin. His fond glance lingered on Jillian, then he stared warily at Zane and frowned. “Why’d you bring the heat?”
Jillian tilted her head. “How do you know he’s a police officer?”
Blondie snorted. “Look at him. Hard law rides in the dude’s eyes. He scoped us out, scoped out the room and saw everything in seconds. He moves, stands like he’s totally ready for anything.”
Two minutes tops, and his cover was blown to hell—by a kid. “Observant, aren’t you?” Zane replied easily. The teen might be young, but everything about him from his combative stance to the fairly recent knife wound on his face said honed fighter. “You might make a decent cop yourself.”
The girl burst into raucous giggles. “Farley, a narc? He’d wear nothing but a sparkly pink thong on the beach before he’d wear a badge.”
The blond boy flushed and scowled.
Zane shrugged. “Being street savvy teaches you exactly how the bad guys think. That kind of experience eventually creates the best cops.”
Farley’s calculating gaze held Zane’s for a few more seconds before he dropped it to stare at his paintbrush.
“This is FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe,” Jillian said. “He’s a friend of mine who’s volunteered to upgrade our computer system. Zane, this is Farley, who has inexhaustible energy, and as you’ve noticed, an infallible eye for detail. The carpenter is Calvin and he’s a whiz with a hammer or saw. And Tala is our brilliant choreographer who also wrote the script, lyrics and music for our first big production, a gritty modern urban take on Les Miserables that the community’s teens are really going to relate to.”
Impressed, Zane nodded at the trio on stage. “A load of talent in here.”
“Damned straight, popo,” Farley muttered.
Jillian didn’t say a word, simply looked at the boy with patient expectance.
Farley’s swaggering defiance quickly crumbled. One deliberate shoulder lifted. “My bad, Ms. Ramsay.”
She continued to simply look at the kid, until he shuffled his feet. “Sorry, Special Agent Wolfe.”
Jillian bestowed a pleased smile on Farley, whose face blazed stoplight red. She waved. “Carry on, then, troops. I’ll be in my office if anyone needs me.”
“Special Agent Wolfe,” Calvin called. “You get bored hunt-and-pecking computer keys in the office, come on by. We’ll put a hammer in your hand, see what the FBI is made of.”
Zane grinned at the blatant challenge. “I might do that.”
Once more in the hallway with the doors shut, Zane caught Jillian’s arm before she could stride forward. “Farley has a major jones for you, you know that, right?”
“I do. And I’m very careful to never cross the line, to always stay professional with him.”
“He skateboards, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, why?”
“I spotted a kid with identical build, coloring, and mannerisms skateboarding in your neighborhood the day I arrived—now that I’ve met him, I’m positive it was him. Maybe unreciprocated infatuation has spilled over into frustration. And stalking … or vandalism.”
“No.” She shook her head. “Not Farley. You want to know how he got that scar? When he was thirteen, his father kidnapped him from his mother, who had custody, and encamped them both in a skinhead cult in Idaho. Farley made a friend in there, and last year when the cult discovered the other kid was gay, they tried to beat him to death. Farley not only defended his friend almost at the cost of his own life, he planned and executed their escape afterward.” Another headshake. “You saw his camaraderie with Calvin and Tala. He completely rejected the bigoted hatred his father tried to drill into him. That boy has been dragged through hell, and he’s still struggling a bit to find his way, but he’s determined to move forward.”
Her chin jutted. “Calvin’s oldest brother is a drug-dealing gang leader, bouncing in and out of jail and accumulating a rap sheet longer than the original unabridged edition of Les Miserables. And Tala has been raised by her grandmother since she was three and her mom went to jail for stabbing a john.
“But they’re all moving forward. Calvin disowned his brother and shunned the gang lifestyle, and works his butt off here at the center. He eventually wants a contracting business of his own. And Tala is giving her baby up for adoption and has diligently applied for every college music scholarship available. She has a brilliant future in musical theater.” Her index finger poked him in the chest. “These kids have had a rotten row to hoe, Zane, but not a single one is a criminal, and don’t you dare treat any of them like one. They’ve been well-vetted and proven themselves trustworthy. We don’t allow anyone into the Center who could be a potential threat to the smaller children.”
He frowned. There she went, diving into the deep end of trust yet again. “If you say so.” Which didn’t mean he wasn’t going to thoroughly investigate all of them anyway.
He walked beside Jillian as she sauntered down the hallway and around several corners. What if he and his brothers had had a safe haven like this when things got bad at home? Had a champion like Jillian who listened, believed … and stood up for them?
He rubbed his suddenly aching sternum. Maybe things would’ve turned out differently for all of them.
Maybe Trev would still be alive.
Zane followed her through the open door opposite the entry lobby and into the administrative offices. He finished a quick, silent check both in the reception area and Jillian’s office for listening devices, found two and pocketed them in bags he’d brought. He nodded at Jillian. “Clean.”
“Hello,” Jillian called out. “Anybody here?”
An attractive older woman with chin length dark hair and a voluptuous figure strolled out of one of the two back offices and rounded the empty reception counter in the front. “Jilly, honey, there you are,” she drawled in a soft southern accent. Her gracefully languid walk contradicted her worried expression. The woman saw him, and stopped short. Her glance raked down him, then back up, wise silver cat’s eyes a distinct contrast to her soft curves. “Oh, my. Hello, there.”
Jillian turned to him. “Zane this is Loucinda Wallis, my boss, the center’s director, and one of my best friends. Loucinda, FBI Special Agent Zane Wolfe. He’s the new volunteer I phoned you about yesterday.”
“Very nice meetin’ you, Agent Wolfe.” A soft hand firmly took possession of his. “You’ll need all the help you can get, Jilly. Dr. Dick is in fine form today.”
Jillian sighed. “Now what?”
“He came barrelin’ in here about ten minutes ago, all in a lather, wantin’ to yank Casey out of classes for some private school admission interview. I refused, and he threatened to pull his contributions to the Center’s financial support … and influence his colleagues to do the same.” The woman planted her hands on ample hips. “When I didn’t budge, he pitched such a royal hissy fit I picked up the phone to call the police. He stormed out, but warned he was not happy, and would be talking to you later.”
Zane curled his lip. Later couldn’t come soon enough. He had edifying info to deliver to Dickwad.
Jillian tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry, Loucinda.”
“Now, don’t you go apologizin’ for that belly crawlin’ vermin.”
“Thanks for sticking to your guns and not allowing Richard to take Casey. He knows damned good and well he’s supposed to arrange his visits in advance.”
“As if I’d let Asshat blackmail me with the funding? Dr. Dick blusterin’ out his blowhole doesn’t intimidate me one itty bit.” Loucinda gave Jillian a hug, waving at Zane over Jillian’s shoulder. “You just go right on into Jilly’s office and make yourself at home. We have some catching up to do here.”
Zane strode toward the room on the left, into what used to be Jillian and Deb’s shared office, now belonging only to Jillian.
As he started to close the door, he heard Loucinda’s voice lower. “Jilly, how in the Sam Hill did you find Casey’s father?”
Fuck me. He went cold all over, leaned against the wall next to the partially open door.
“Ah … I …” Jillian stuttered. “How did you …?”
“Oh, come on, sugar. It’s not that tough to take a gander at Agent Hottie there, add two-and-two and come up with a five-year-old.”
Zane’s stomach clutched. Is it that obvious?
“Oh no! Oh, Loucinda, do you think everyone will see it? Zane doesn’t want … We can’t let Casey—or any outsiders—know.”
“No, you can rest easy on that. I’ve known our baby boy since about thirty minutes after he was born, so it’s obvious to me. But a casual acquaintance isn’t gonna connect the similarities between Casey and Mr. LWP.”
“Mister … LWP?”
“Lust, with potential. And plenty of it. What’s going on between you and Wolfe?”
“Well … It’s complicated.”
Loucinda snorted. “The smokin’ ones always are.”
“We don’t … we’re not …” Jillian gulped. “Loucinda, you have to promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone . And I mean anyone. Remember, whatever happens … whatever choices I make … will be for Casey’s sake. For Casey’s future.”
Zane swallowed. Right. And he’d better remember it too.
“Sure thing, darlin’.” Loucinda’s tone sharpened. “You just keep right on telling yourself that.”
“I need to get to work.” Jillian’s footsteps grew louder, then she flew through the door, slammed it shut and propped her back against it. “Damn, damn, damn! Damn it all to hell and back!”
“Yeah.” Zane blew out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Sums it up.”
Panicked violet eyes met his. “Of course you heard.”
“Kinda hard not to.”
“Listen, Zane, it’s okay. She won’t tell anyone. And she’s right, nobody who doesn’t know Casey like we do will guess. Please don’t leave. Not now. Not when we’re getting things rolling on the custody suit.”
He had no intention of bugging out until he’d finished the job, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t use a tactical advantage when it was handed to him. “Tell you what. I’ll make you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“I promise I won’t leave until you and the kid are both safe and secure … if you do the same, and promise you won’t take off with Casey.”
Her eyes narrowed. She sighed. “You hustled me right into that one, didn’t you, Champ?”
Zane lifted a shoulder and whistled a few bars of “Do the Hustle.”
“Bastard.” But she grinned and held out a hand. “Shake on it. I won’t run, Zane Wolfe.”
“I won’t run either, Jillian Ramsay.” As he enfolded her small, soft hand in his, a current of tenderness buffeted him, dropping the ground out beneath his feet.
He broke into an icy sweat. Jesus, Wolfe. You’re flying headlong into uncharted airspace here.
* * *
Zane spent the next several hours immersing himself in the computer at Deb’s former desk after ascertaining that neither Deb’s former machine or Jillian’s had been implanted with any tracking programs. He attempted—in vain—to block his thrumming awareness of Jillian working at her desk next to him. The warmth of her presence. Her intriguing patchouli scent. The rise and fall of her lush breasts with each soft breath.
Shit.
He glanced around the room. Obviously furnished on a budget, Jillian’s office reflected her personality. Unpretentious, comfortable, and cheerful. Children’s drawings in bright colors, dedicated with affection to Miss Jillian, nearly covered the yellow walls. Two overstuffed chairs upholstered in sapphire blue flanked a window that overlooked the grassy courtyard between the old building and the new addition on the other side. A scraggly dandelion bouquet in a paper cup decorated her desk, the wilted, brown-edged offerings of small earnest hands long past their prime, yet apparently too cherished to toss.
Next to the bouquet sat a shiny red frame holding a picture of Casey, Deb, and Jillian at Halloween. Deb wore a furry Ewok costume, Casey cut a dashing figure as Han Solo, and Jillian looked damned cute and surprisingly regal as Princess Leia. Zane dropped his gaze from the trio’s happy faces and forced his focus back to the computer.
He didn’t find anything out of the ordinary on his first pass, not that he expected to. He emailed some files to his laptop to delve more deeply into at home. He then moved on to updating the Center’s files, keeping at least part of his cover story intact.
Richard phoned four more times, but Jillian routed the calls directly to voicemail. She also received two blocked-number hang-up calls.
The Center was serving lunch at eleven, then closing after lunchtime recess today to accommodate the construction schedule. Jillian took pity on Zane and told him he could head to the cafeteria and grab his meal before the kids swarmed in, then eat it in the relative peace of the office. Of course she chose to eat with the pint-sized mob.
Perversely, as hard as he’d fought her presence all morning, he missed her during his solo meal.
About an hour after he’d eaten, Jillian came to get him and they walked outside to find Casey. The raucous noise hit Zane long before the playground came into view. Shrieking children ran back and forth across the grassy space, attacking the swings, teeter-totters, and jungle gym.
Zane shuddered. Holy shit. They were blasting enough decibels to out-wail an F-16 screaming down a runway. And the playground not only looked and sounded like a zoo after feeding time, it smelled like one.
Wearing a blue helmet, Casey stood in front of the chain link fence surrounding the baseball diamond. He hovered at home plate with a bat perched on his shoulder, a group of boys clustered behind him awaiting their turn. The pitcher threw the ball over the plate, but instead of taking a swing, Casey flinched back. The same thing happened twice more before the ump called Casey out.
“Casey!” Jillian yelled over the noisy throng. “Over here!”
The little boy dejectedly tugged off his helmet and dropped it, then picked up his mitt and trudged to join them. “Hi Aunt Jelly. Hi Zane. I guess ya saw me strike out, huh?”
Jillian knelt, swept the child into a hug and kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. Derek Jeter struck out plenty on his way to fame.” She shot Zane a wry look. “Casey’s a Yankees fan, thanks to my dad.”
Casey’s mouth drooped. “Uncle Richard yells at me when I strike out. He says only babies and cowards are scared of the ball.”
Anger hotter than the glaring August sun beat at Zane. He squatted to the child’s level. “That’s not true. When I was your age, I used to be afraid of the ball myself. But I grew up to pitch championship games in college.”
“You were? You did?” Casey’s eyes widened hopefully. “How did ya learn not to be scared?”
When Zane was six, Stoneheart had made him stand in front of the backyard fence, and hit him with stinging pitch after pitch until pain and fury had eclipsed fear. He could still hear the low taunts. “C’mon, be a man. A little old softball never hurt anybody. Suck it up, crybaby.”
He’d sported bruises for weeks afterward.
Two years later, Trevor had received the same “cure”.
Zane banished the barbed memory. “Everybody’s scared of new things at first. Anyone who says he’s not is flat-out lying. You just need extra practice at home, and you’ll be fine.”
Casey hung his head. “I got nobody to practice with at home. My uncles are SEALS … not the fish-eating kind, the Navy kind. And Poppy’s burst-itis shoulder bugs him when he pitches. He says it’s even why he has to stuper— Wait, what’s that word he said? Supervise his crew more nowadays. That means watch them more instead of using the tools himself.”
“That’s too bad.”
Don’t get involved .
“And even though Aunt Jelly tries real hard, she throws all crooked and squiggly.”
“True,” Jillian admitted. “Unfortunately, ‘pitch like a girl’ totally applies in my case.”
Zane gritted his teeth against the impulse to speak.
Don’t say it, chump.
But dammit, the kid looked so unhappy, and it was the least he could do. “How about if you and I toss the ball around sometime?” he heard himself blurt.
“Really?” Casey’s face lit up, making Zane suddenly feel ten feet tall. “That’d be awesome!”
Jillian offered Zane a glowing smile that punched him in the chest harder than any baseball. “C’mon you two. We’d better get home.” Navigating the maze of screeching children, they zigzagged across the grass toward the parking lot. “Thank you, Zane.” she whispered.
“No biggie,” he muttered. “I offered to play a little catch with the kid. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Of course not.” She patted his arm. “But it’s very sweet of you, all the same.”
“I’m not ‘sweet,’ Jillian, in any way. The sooner you realize that, the better off we’ll all be.”
They’d reached the Mini Cooper and Casey clambered into the back seat. Zane flung open the back door, then opened Jillian’s door and waited until she belted Casey in.
She straightened, arched a brow at Zane. “If you say so, Agent Big Bad.” She murmured something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “huff and puff, ‘til you blow your house down.”
“Come again?”
Deceptively wide violet eyes blinked innocently at him. “Merely commenting that we have lots of tourists in town.” She grinned before she slid into her seat. “For the kite festival.”
Yeah. One tourist too many, counting me.
He shut her door and stalked around the car.
Casey chattered all the way home, but Zane tuned him out. Regretting his impulsive offer, he sent up a silent plea that the custody suit would be settled in record time. Between the child and the woman, they’d turned him every which way but loose.
Tense and edgy, Zane parked the car in Jillian’s driveway.
Casey bounded out of the backseat, mitt in hand. “Can we play catch, now, Zane? Huh? Can we? Can we? Now? ”
Zane looked into those big, brown, puppy-dog eyes. Then he glanced at Jillian. Her lovely face wore the same hopeful expression. What the hell had he gotten himself into? “Ah … I don’t think we have time. Don’t you have to take a nap or something?”
Jillian unlocked the front door. “No problem. The world won’t end if we postpone nap time for an hour.” She scooped up a softball from the porch and flung it toward Zane. The ball missed by a mile, and he had to chase it down. She laughed. “Now you know why I’m no help.”
“All right!” Clutching his mitt, Casey tore across the lawn and crouched in front of the pine tree. He pounded his miniature fist into the mitt. “‘Kay. I’m ready.”
Zane tugged down the back of his shirt to more securely cover his Beretta before taking a stance ten feet from Casey. A lazy bumblebee droned past. Sunshine glinted off the emerald lawn, the thick grass beneath his feet emitting a lush, earthy scent, mingling with the piquant fragrance of Jillian’s newly-planted flowers.
“Get ready. Here it comes.” Zane tossed a slow pitch.
Casey flinched, ducked, and covered his head with both hands. Then he peeked out from between his arms, his small, wary face etched with dejection. “Don’t yell. I didn’t mean to. I’ll do better next time, honest.”
“Relax, kid.” Zane clapped his hands. “Throw it back to me, and we’ll try again.”
He lobbed three more easy pitches, and Casey reacted the same way. Finally, Zane moved closer. “Let’s try it from a shorter distance. Unless you want to stop now?”
The little boy cocked his head. “How come you’re not mad?”
The unwanted image of himself as a terrified six-year-old burned across his brain. Zane took a deep breath. He juggled the ball from hand to hand. “Because when somebody is scared, getting mad isn’t the right thing to do. You can’t help how you feel. It’s okay to be scared. And you’re trying really hard, that’s the important thing. Someday, you won’t be afraid anymore.”
Casey’s somber gaze raptly studied him. “No lie?”
“No lie. Ready to go again?”
Casey nodded and Zane sent over another careful lob.
At the last minute, Casey swiveled the wrong direction, and the ball smacked him in the shoulder. “Ow!”
Zane’s heart stopped. For a long moment, he froze in shaken horror.
Those who don’t learn from history are condemned to repeat it.
Then he rushed to the child, taking him gently by the arms. “I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry, Casey. Are you hurt?”
“He’s fine,” a sardonic male voice drawled from behind him. “The little wimp excels at whining.”
Zane turned and saw a tall, sandy-haired man standing at the edge of the driveway in front of a pristine white Porsche.
Sniffling, Casey grabbed onto Zane’s leg. “It’s Uncle Richard. He saw.”
The man jerked the hem of his charcoal designer suit jacket straight. “How many times have I told you not to run away from the ball? Serves you right to get hit. And you’re still throwing like a girl. Put your shoulder into it.”
Once again, unwanted memories of Stoneheart’s relentless criticism slammed Zane, and his pulse kicked into a staccato. He looked down at the child. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The little boy smiled. “I know. It wasn’t on purpose. I’m okay, really, it doesn’t hurt, Zane.”
The trust in Casey’s gaze rocked him to the core. He swallowed the aching lump lodged in his throat, and ruffled Casey’s dark silky hair, warm from the sun. “You did good.” His voice emerged graveled. “You worked hard today. Why don’t you go ask your aunt for a cookie and some juice?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
The little boy bolted across the lawn, and Richard shook his head, disgust twisting his mouth. “That’s what happens when a woman raises a boy without a father. When I was his age—”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Zane interrupted before he lost it and punched the jackhole’s teeth down his throat. “Special Agent Zane Wolfe, FBI.”
Richard’s hazel eyes darkened. “So you’re the one. Exactly what kind of scam are you and that harebrained, so-called ‘guardian’ trying to pull, anyway?”
The screen door bounced open, and Jillian hurried onto the porch. “Hello, Richard.” She sounded breathless. “Casey said you were here.”
“Since you didn’t return any of my calls this morning, I came in person.” Richard thrust his hand inside his jacket and Zane automatically reached for his gun.
When Richard tugged out a folded sheet of paper, Zane dropped his empty hand to his side.
Frowning, Richard waved the paper at Jillian. “What are you doing with this stat DNA report on Casey?”
She jogged down the porch steps, ran across the grass. Stopping in front of Richard, she snatched the paper. “How did you get this?”
Richard lunged in an attempt to grab it back, but Zane stepped between them.
Richard scowled. “As Casey’s next-of-kin, I have his medical records flagged in the hospital’s computer. Any activity involving him alerts me. What kind of angle are you running here, Jillian?”
She slipped out from behind Zane, and he raised his arm to block her from stepping any closer to Richard. She wisely stayed at his side. “You’ve read the results. The DNA test confirms that Zane is Casey’s father.”
“Convenient timing,” Richard snarled. “Biological father didn’t want anything to do with the kid. But now, with everything at stake—” Richard stabbed Zane’s chest with his index finger. “The sperm donor is suddenly a devoted daddy?”
Zane looked down at Richard’s finger, then leveled his gaze on the other man. “Careful. I’m not a scared five-year-old.”
Richard dropped his hand and sidled backward. “Last-minute legal contortions won’t do you any good, Wolfe. You’ve ignored Casey’s existence all his life, and no court in the world will grant you custody. My sister botched the job, but Brooke and I will raise that child right. Since Deborah took the coward’s way out of her predicament, I have the responsibility to make a real man out of him.”
Zane’s pulse thundered in his ears. A red haze blinded him, and his hands fisted, clinging to the slippery edge of control as he battled to keep both the past and the present at bay.
He skated within a millimeter of letting go … and succumbing to the brutal inheritance he’d worked so hard to overcome.
Then he inhaled deeply. Channeled his rage into icy self-discipline. “Get off Ms. Ramsay’s property,” he warned with quiet intent and a stare that should’ve flash-frozen Stuart’s balls. “And don’t come back here, or harass her at the Center again. Or you and I are going to have a serious problem.”
“Did you just threaten me?”
“Believe me, Dick,” Zane said in a falsely pleasant tone. “If I threaten someone, they don’t need to ask for clarification.” He crossed his arms. “For instance, I might say something like, ‘if anyone tried to harass or hurt Jillian or Casey, I’d rip his liver out through his nostrils, and cram it up his ass. Piece by bloody piece.’”
Richard hastily retreated, fumbling with the Porsche’s door handle before scrambling inside. The engine rumbled to life, and then the window slid down. “You crude lowlife. My lawyer will rake you over the coals.” The window slid up. The Porsche backed down the driveway, and roared away in a flash of gleaming white.
In the sudden silence, Jillian gulped.
Zane glanced at her. She’d gone pale, and in spite of the sun’s warmth, her body trembled.
“Are you all right?”
“S-sure. But you do come across ... intense.”
“Are you afraid of me?” He held his breath, waiting for her answer.
She gave him a wobbly smile. “Of course not. I appreciate your willingness to protect us.” She smoothed her hair behind an ear with trembling fingers. “I am worried about the consequences of making Richard mad, though. You’d better believe he’ll go all Drama Queen in court with today’s encounter.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters. He’ll twist everything around to claim you threatened him and insist to the judge that you’re not a fit parent.”
“That sadistic fuckhead will raise Casey over my decomposing body!” He checked his watch. “Get your—and the kid’s—go-bags.”
A shocked violet gaze shot to his. “Zane, you want me to run, now? But you made me promise—”
“We’re going to quit playing defense and launch our offense.” Grabbing her hand, he towed her toward the house. “We’re not running. We’re getting married. Today.”