Chapter 4
Jillian directed Zane to an old-fashioned ice cream parlor on a quiet ocean-front street, where they chose an outdoor table shaded by a red-and-white umbrella. Sunshine glinted off rolling blue-green waves, a gentle salty breeze wafted over them and squawking gulls dove in the air currents.
Before long, the server returned with the tall root beer float Zane had ordered for himself, a banana split for Jillian, and bubblegum blue, candy-sprinkled ice cream in a fragrant waffle-cone for the kid. Enjoying their treats, they chuckled at the raucous birds darting for snacks amid the people playing on the beach.
“Aunt Jelly?” Casey bit off a huge chunk of ice cream, then crammed the rest of the cone into his mouth.
Watching him made Zane’s teeth hurt.
“Wait until your mouth is empty, sweetie,” Jillian patiently reminded.
Casey obediently chewed, gulped noisily. “Zane’s a secret agent, just like in those ‘Spy Kids’ movies.”
“Is that right?” Jillian gave Zane a conspiratorial wink.
“I’m an FBI agent. Not quite the same thing.” He took another drink, savoring his float. He hadn’t had one since he was a kid, had forgotten how tasty they were.
Casey wiped his blue-smeared mouth with the back of his hand. “Aunt Jelly, Zane said he has tossed-around hormones and wouldn’t mind looking at your hooters.”
Zane choked, spit root beer. “I never,” he wheezed. “I didn’t—”
Jillian frowned. “Casey Mihir Stuart, are you repeating Donnie Ray again?”
The little boy hung his head. “Yeah.”
“What did Zane really say?”
“Um. He said ... he has tossed-around hormones and didn’t mind looking at women’s chests. Why can’t I say ‘hooters?’”
“Because it’s rude.” She collected napkins, dunked them in her water glass and dabbed the little boy’s sticky chin and hands while Zane sopped up spilled root beer. “You don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings do you?”
Casey shook his head earnestly. “Nope.”
“Case, would you take these napkins to the trash can, please?” She pointed across the deck. “We’ll be done in a minute.”
As Casey trotted off, Zane watched the little boy, an odd emotion burning in his chest. “His middle name is Mihir?”
“Yes, the baby name directory said it’s derived from a Cherokee name meaning sunshine.”
“I know.” It had been his maternal grandfather’s name.
“Deb wanted to honor his ancestry.” Her face grew stern. “So, Secret Agent Man, you’ve got some ‘splaining to do. What’s this about liking hooters?”
Squirming, Zane set down his cup. He had zero experience with kids. Had he crossed the line by speaking so frankly to Casey? “This morning he rapid-fired a dozen questions about body hair and swimsuits and br-chests. I mentioned testosterone and something about how men didn’t mind looking, but I swear to God, the word ‘hooters’ never passed my lips.”
To his relief, she grinned. “It’s okay, I was teasing you. I recognized Donnie Ray’s handiwork. Casey absorbs everything like a little sponge, even TV commercials, and tends to get things royally tangled. You should have seen my dad trying not to bust a gut when Casey told him he and Deb visited Viagra Falls last summer.”
Laughter burst from him. “I know a couple guys who wouldn’t mind vacationing there.”
Golden brows arched. “Yes?”
“Not me,” he added hastily.
It was her turn to laugh. “Not a doubt in my mind, Champ.”
“I did come on strong last night.”
“Hey, I started it.” She flushed. “I’m not usually— I’ve never gotten so chummy with a man I’ve known only a few hours.”
“Jillian?” A curious female greeting had them both quickly turning. “Hello.”
Zane assessed the mid-fifties woman approaching their table. The blonde sported a chin-length bob, highlighted to look elegantly natural. Impeccable makeup enhanced clear blue eyes and exquisite bone structure. A dove gray linen suit showcased a trim, toned body and very nice legs in moderate heels. He immediately recognized her from TV and internet news articles.
“Lynn,” Jillian said, tucking back a strand of hair in what Zane now recognized as her nervous tell. When the woman smiled inquisitively at Zane, Jillian carefully set her spoon in her dish. Too carefully. “This is … ah … a friend of mine, Zane Wolfe. Zane, meet Lynn Reynolds.”
Wondering if Jillian had purposefully omitted the fact that he was FBI, he offered his hand. “Nice to meet you. You’re Congressman Wade Reynolds’ wife, aren’t you?”
A soft hand shook his, and her smile warmed. “I am. Very nice to meet you as well, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Lynn volunteers at the Hope Center.” Jillian fidgeted with her spoon. “And she’s been invaluable at organizing the upcoming gala ball to raise funds for the remodel and expansion of our building.”
“Not working today?” Lynn asked Jillian. “That’s unusual.”
“Casey had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh, I hope he’s all—”
Casey ambled over to the table, finished with his errand. He frowned at Lynn. “I seen you before.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Reynolds bent to the child’s level to speak to him. “I work at your school sometimes. I’ve been to your class and read to you during story hour.”
“Uh huh.” Casey backed against Jillian’s legs. “I don’t feel so good any more, Aunt Jelly. My stomach’s all wiggly.”
“You did inhale your ice cream pretty fast. Take a small sip of water.” She ruffled his hair as he reached for his water glass, and glanced at the other woman. “Sorry, but we should probably go.”
“Of course. We can talk at our scheduled meeting about the ball later this week. Feel better soon, Casey.” She smiled at the kid, nodded at Zane. “Mr. Wolfe.”
As Lynn turned and glided away, Zane studied the guilty misery tightening Jillian’s lovely features. “I’d advise you not to take up poker.”
She swallowed. “I’ve never been any good at hiding what I feel. Oh, God, you don’t think I gave it away, that she suspects anything’s wrong—” She broke off, glanced down at the child leaning against her legs.
“No. You covered it okay while you were face-to-face.”
“She has no idea about Wade and …” She hesitated, spelled out, “D-e-b. She’s so sweet and unselfish about giving her time to our kids, and seems to absolutely adore her husband. I have to unearth the truth … but she’s already suffered so much. I hate the thought of Lynn—and her and Wade’s daughters—being hurt.”
“It’s not your fault, it’s the cheating bastard’s. Remember that.”
Casey gasped. “Zane said the basket word!”
“Yeah, I did.” Zane sighed. He’d have to remember to watch his mouth.
During the drive home, Casey stayed uncharacteristically subdued in the backseat, Jillian just as quiet in the front.
As they walked in the front door, Casey started to whimper. “Aunt Jelly, I—”
He leaned over and puked, spewing with unerring aim on Zane’s shoes.
Zane jumped back. “Argh!”
“Oh, no!” Casey wailed. “I ralphed ice cream and sprinkles all over Zane!” He burst into noisy tears.
“Hey, whoa!” Zane waved his hands at the sobbing boy. “Don’t cry, kid. I used to play college ball, I’ve seen plenty of puke.”
“Okay, it’s okay, sweetie.” Jillian felt Casey’s forehead. “A little warm. Stomach flu is going around at the center. C’mon, pal, let’s get you cleaned up.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. “Zane could you please get that? Just take a message and tell them I’ll call back ASAP.”
“Sure.”
As he headed out, she scooped up Casey and carried him toward the stairs, turning briefly to address Zane. “Use the master bath in my room, and I’ll take him into the smaller bathroom. I’ll mop the floor after I take care of Casey. Oh, and you can put your messy stuff in the laundry room.”
Unknown blinked on the caller ID as Zane picked up the shrilling receiver. “Ramsay residence.”
Silence.
“Hello?”
Another long moment of silence.
Then a click and the call disconnected.
He shrugged. Wrong number, or maybe the caller had been surprised by a male voice answering Jillian’s phone.
He gingerly toed out of his shoes and peeled off his socks. Ugh. Damned good thing he wasn’t a sympathetic vomiter. He tiptoed to the laundry room off the kitchen, where he found a used towel in a hamper and wiped his feet and pant legs. He rinsed out his socks in the laundry sink, and what the hell , also rinsed his dress shoes under the running water and left them sitting on the floor on a newspaper. They were probably goners anyway.
After rolling up his pant legs, he backtracked barefoot to the front door, swabbing the hardwood floors with a mop dunked in a bucket of hot water and floor cleaner he found in the laundry closet. Jillian had plenty to deal with at the moment, no sense in leaving it for her.
He dumped and rinsed the bucket and mop, then dropped his socks and towels into the washing machine, figuring when she brought Casey’s clothes down they could run one load.
Upstairs, he tied his pants inside a garbage bag until he could take them to the nearest, fastest dry cleaner’s. He collected clean clothes, and strode into Jillian’s bedroom studiously avoiding looking at the plush, neatly-made bed.
Sudsing up inside the expansive sea-glass-tiled shower enclosure while breathing in her lingering erotic scent and visualizing her luscious curves … wet and soapy and slippery beneath his roving hands … forced him to again crank the water to icy shards.
Havin’ some fun now.
He toweled off before changing into jeans and a black T-shirt. As was his habit when traveling on Bureau business, he’d worn a suit and brought enough clothing to last a week, including his runners. He left the T-shirt untucked to cover the Beretta stuck in his back waistband. He didn’t want to wear the shoulder holster in the house in full view of Casey, but he wasn’t about to walk around unarmed.
By the time he jogged back downstairs, Jillian had Casey settled on the sofa in blue cotton summer pajamas, dozing with a pillow and blanket. A battered Han Solo action figure was clutched to his chest, and a Star Wars movie had begun to play on the TV screen. Jillian had set the mop bucket on the floor beside the sofa pending another spontaneous eruption.
She met him halfway across the room. “Thanks so much for cleaning up down here,” she whispered. “It was really above and beyond.”
He kept his reply quiet also. “No problem.”
“I hate to ask, but could you do me a favor?”
“As long as it doesn’t involve kid-sitting, sure.”
“I need a few things from the grocery store, there’s one eight blocks south on Conch Avenue. Pedialyte, popsicles, strawberry Jell-O, ginger ale, and soda crackers. Want me to write it down?”
“Nah, I got it.”
“I’ll find my purse and give you some money.”
“Nah, got that, too.”
“You don’t—”
“I do. I can drop off my suit at a dry cleaner’s while I’m out. See you in a few. I won’t be long.”
He collected his suit and the Mini Cooper’s keys. He stopped short when he reached the driveway, the hair on the back of his neck prickling.
During the short interval they’d been home from the ice cream parlor, in broad daylight in the middle of a busy neighborhood, someone had slashed Jillian’s tires.
Jaw set, he snapped photos with his cell. He dialed local law enforcement, asked for Jillian’s cop neighbor Officer Ray to respond to the call if he was available, then silently strode back inside.
Smiling, Jillian hurried in from the laundry room. “What did you forget?” she again whispered.
“Kitchen,” he murmured, pointing.
He followed her into the other room, and she turned to face him, honeyed brows knit. “Zane, what’s the matter?”
“Someone slashed your tires. All four.”
She gasped. “What? How is that possible? We were right here.”
“I know. I’ve taken photos and called Officer Ray. I figured he’d have a vested interest, seeing as how he lives next door.”
“Yes. Good idea.” Wide, troubled violet eyes met his. “Who would do such a thing and why?”
“Damned good question, I was hoping you’d know the answer. You also got a hang-up call right before that. Anybody you’ve pissed off lately?”
White teeth worried her plump, pink lower lip, and she tugged at her hair.
“Jillian?”
“Well … Our new gang intervention program is picking up steam, and we’re starting to make inroads in diverting high-risk kids into healthier, more productive activities. We’ve heard secondhand rumblings that the leaders aren’t too happy about it, but nobody’s made actual threats or approached the center, or any of our employees. Difficult to imagine they’d bother to come all the way to my home and attack my car. They’d be more likely to hit the center, or lash out at Loucinda, our director. It’s probably just a random case of spur-of-the-moment vandalism.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Little pink Cooper tends to inspire antagonistic reactions in the male population.”
The thought of Jillian at the mercy of gangbangers iced his blood. “Yeah, okay. I’ll go back outside and wait for Officer Ray.”
“Let’s try not to wake up Casey, though. He needs his rest, and this might upset him.”
“The cops won’t tear in sirens blaring for a tire slashing. When you see them arrive, you can come out and give a statement. I’ll handle everything else, including replacing your tires. Then I’ll eventually get to the grocery store.”
Her eyes sheened. “Zane, I can call my dad. You don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t, but I’m going to. Tell you what, I never did get that promised dessert from the other night.” Cocking a brow, he smiled. “I’m partial to peach pie, if it’s not a hassle.”
Her endearing grin made his heartbeat kick. “Yours for the asking. A la mode, even. I have peaches, but add vanilla ice cream to the grocery list.”
Now tormented by visions of stretching her out on the kitchen table, stripping off her clothes, and slowly, meticulously licking ice cream off every inch of her beautiful curves, Zane stalked outside, barely remembering at the last moment not to slam the door.
* * *
Three hours later, Zane parked the Barbie Car in Jillian’s driveway and reached into the backseat for the grocery bags. Officer David Ray had turned out to be a burly K-9 cop, packing no-nonsense efficiency along with a big, scarily intelligent police dog named Axel that looked like a German Shepherd had crossbred with a semi-truck.
When Zane introduced himself, Ray’s sharp cop’s eyes had glinted with speculation that told Zane the officer remembered Jillian’s earlier requested background check. But Ray had followed Zane’s lead and avoided small talk, sticking strictly to procedure. He’d expedited Jillian’s report, summoned an auto club truck bearing new tires, and assured Zane he’d be keeping a closer watch on the neighborhood.
Both bags gripped in one hand, Zane opened the front door. The homey scent of chicken broth teased his nostrils and mingled with the fruity fragrance of cooked peaches. Another Star Wars movie flickered on the TV screen and Casey was sitting up on the sofa, still hugging Han Solo.
Anxious brown eyes in a peaked little face blinked owlishly at him. “Hi. Sorry I throwed up on ya.”
“Hey, sport, don’t worry about it. I got you some stuff that’ll make you feel better. Where’s Jillian?”
“Right here.” She strolled in from the kitchen, creamy skin flushed from baking, her sweet feminine scent more delicious than the pie. She confiscated the bags. “Thanks again, I owe you. I made chicken noodle soup, want some?”
His stomach growled ferociously, and she chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes. Breakfast was ages ago, and it’s been quite a day. I’m sure you’re more than ready to sit down and relax. Casey, you want to try some soda crackers and a sip of Pedialyte now? If you keep that down, you can have some soup.”
“Yes please, Aunt Jelly.”
Jillian strolled out and Zane edged toward the kitchen. “Ah, I think I’ll just eat out there.”
Casey’s chin wobbled. “Don’t be mad. Don’t be mad, Zane. I didn’t mean to barf on ya, everything just gushed up inside me before I could stop it.”
“I know, I’m not mad.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
“Then why don’t ya want to sit in here with me?”
The kid was way too perceptive for comfort. “It’s not that. I just— Shit. ” Sighing, Zane sat in the easy chair flanking the sofa, ignoring the clutch in his chest at Casey’s gleeful grin.
“You said the ‘S’ word!”
“Yeah. Crap. I mean … uh … sorry.”
“Who’s your favorite Star Wars guy? Mine is Han Solo, he’s a super brave pilot!”
Zane didn’t mind watching Princess Leia prance around in her scanty slave girl rig, but he could hardly tell the kid that. “I’ve never actually watched the movies all the way through. Only glimpses here and there.”
Casey’s jaw dropped, aghast. “ What? They’re the bestest stories, ever!”
Jillian emerged from the kitchen carrying a loaded rattan tray which she set on the coffee table. Along with Casey’s crackers and glass of Pedialyte, she’d brought steaming bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup and crispy grilled cheese, bacon and tomato sandwiches. “Really late lunch is served.” She smiled at Zane when his stomach muttered again. “And warm peach pie a la mode for dessert.”
“Aunt Jelly, Zane has never got to watch Star Wars! ”
Violet irises twinkled. “Well, he has been deprived, hasn’t he?”
“Poor, poor Zane,” Casey intoned gravely. “Aunt Jelly, could you start the first movie over—not number one, but number four, the first one with Han Solo in it? I slept through it all anyways, and Zane has to watch from the beginning.”
Jillian sent a questioning glance at Zane, and he lifted a shoulder. He’d planned to retreat to his room, or maybe the secluded beach with his e-reader. But what the hell, he could think of worse ways to spend the afternoon.
As it turned out, he ended up spending more time covertly studying Jillian’s face than the TV screen. Her elegant, expressive features as she lost herself in the magical story captivated him.
Casey kept down his food and stayed awake until the end of the second movie, which, according to Jillian was actually the fifth installment, before he crashed.
Zane went for thrillers over fantasy, but surprised himself by thoroughly enjoying the expertly-crafted classic of good defeating evil.
Jillian glanced at the clock on the DVD player. “Almost eight.” She shut off the TV and picked up the sleeping child.
“Jillian, I’m the first to admit I know jack about kids, but aren’t these movies somewhat … intense for a five-and-a-half year-old?”
“Yes, they wouldn’t be my first choice for kindergarteners, either. But he actually watched one of them for the first time when he was staying at Donnie and Robbie Ray’s house, and Deb had no idea. Darth Vader did scare him, until Deb explained it was only a man wearing a mask. After that, he was fine … and now the stories are almost an obsession with him, especially Han Solo. Boys his age are usually way more into dinosaurs than sci-fi, but Casey is definitely unique.”
He studied the little boy’s slack body and too-familiar face, peaceful and still slightly peaked in slumber, and his heart twisted. “I hope he feels better soon.”
“I’m sure he’ll be much better by morning. Luckily, this crud seems to run its course in twenty-four hours. I’ll put him to bed, then we need to finish what we started last night.”
The memory of kissing her, touching her last night made his dick leap to attention, and lava flooded his veins. “Last— Ah, I—”
Jillian tilted her head, eyes bright with merriment … and speculation. “Our discussion, remember? About Deb.”
Jesus, what was wrong with him? Sure, sex was great, but he’d never been a freakin’ maniac about it.
He cleared his throat. Down, boy. “Right. While you’re doing that, I’ll fax your custody docs to my attorney.”
“The folder is in my room on the dresser.”
Once he was done with the thick file, he arrived back downstairs at the same time Jillian emerged from the kitchen with her tray carrying a bottle of white wine, two crisp, hearty chef salads, and a basket of home-baked crusty rolls. “It’s a perfect evening, let’s eat outside.”
They shared the delicious meal at the bistro table on the patio while watching a pink-and-orange sunset splash the sky over the undulating blue-green Pacific. A hurricane glass holder with a lit pillar candle flickered on the table, along with a baby monitor tuned to alert her if Casey needed anything.
Zane bit into his third buttered roll. “Lady, you should be a professional chef.”
“Nah, then it would be a job. I cook for fun and relaxation.” She sipped wine. “What do you do to relax, Zane?”
He knew what he wanted to do, and it all involved her—naked and writhing beneath him. He shifted in his chair. “I read, watch ball games, run or work out, and whenever I get the chance, I fly. I have my own plane.”
“Wow, that’s fabulous.”
“Yeah, it’s a great way to unwind, especially at night. I like looking at the stars, always have. I wanted to fly fighter jets.”
“Why did you fly commercial out here?”
He smirked. “Because your six dozen messages had a certain … urgency. And mine doesn’t go as fast as a jumbo jet.”
“Ah. Casey’s very interested in astronomy, too. So why didn’t you do the pilot thing?”
“I blew out my shoulder pitching that last championship baseball game in college. No permanent debilitating damage, but the military is damned picky about their fighter pilots’ physical condition.”
“You could still have become a commercial pilot.”
“Same as you with cooking, I didn’t want to spoil the exhilaration of flying by making it a mundane job. Up there, alone in that quiet place, I own it.” He took a drink of his wine. “Besides, by then I knew I wanted to be a cop.”
“And what influenced that decision?”
What was it about this intriguing woman that made him want to confide all his secrets? Open himself to danger … and pain? His barricades slammed back into place. “We’re not here to talk about me.” He tugged out his encrypted phone, started a new memo document. “Tell me every detail you have about Deb’s case.”
Disappointment flickered in her gaze before she lowered her lashes, and his gut twisted. He’d bruised her feelings.
Yet another reminder to keep your distance, before you hurt her worse.
“Let me get dessert, first.” She went into the house, quickly returning with two plates of peach pie topped by mounds of ice cream.
He eagerly dug into his pie.
Jillian took a dainty bite of hers. “Like I said, Deb and Reynolds had met in D.C., then grew really close when he did some fundraising for Hope Center. Ironically, Lynn is the one who convinced Wade to become involved in the center, she’d been helping us since her girls were in middle school. Deb resisted Wade’s advances at first, but he courted her with the same persistence and charm he uses to con the voters. Kept assuring her he and Lynn had nothing left and were only staying together for their daughters and his political career.”
Her fork crumbled the crust to bits on her plate. “My best friend wasn’t perfect, none of us are, are we? But she was a good person, and a damned terrific mom. Getting her heart tangled up with a married man wasn’t the wisest choice, but she didn’t deserve to die for it.”
“No, she didn’t. How did they communicate, were there emails, phone calls?”
“Yes, but they constantly switched to different email accounts. Deb was careful to erase the emails, and Wade gave her a separate phone just for his calls. When I packed up her things, it was missing, which set off even more alarms for me. Nobody but Reynolds and his sniveling assistant Carson Wentworth, who spins everything for him, knew about that phone. Frankly, I don’t trust Carson as far as I could toss him, either. He’s a coldblooded little bastard whose lips are permanently attached to Reynolds’ ass, and I wouldn’t put anything past him to protect his boss’ political career—and by default, his own limited claim to fame. One of them, or both, are responsible.”
Zane still wasn’t convinced, but it wouldn’t surprise him. Unfortunately, not much bad news surprised him anymore. He’d been around long enough to see the worst of humanity. Stopping predators was his life’s work.
But he was only one man … there were too many victims he couldn’t help.
“Do you still have her computer and her own cell phone?”
“Yes. But I’ve searched through every message and every file, and found nothing incriminating.”
“Even deleted data can often be tracked and recalled. I know my way around a hard drive, plus I have a brilliant security specialist buddy. If there’s trace evidence anywhere, we’ll find it. I need you to arrange for me to meet Wade Reynolds, and his assistant, on a casual basis, so I can get a read on them.”
She covered his fingers with hers, squeezed. “Anything you need, I’ll do. I can never thank you enough, Zane. For everything. I’ve felt so helpless, lost, and furious at the injustice.”
How could one simple touch of her hand make his skin tingle, his muscles tighten? “Not unexpected. Losing your friend in such a sudden, traumatic way and fitting a kid into your life is a big adjustment.”
“Yes, but I have to stay strong for Casey.”
“You need to let yourself grieve, too. Bottled up grief causes insidious damage.” His mother was a prime example.
She scrambled to her feet and walked to the end of the deck. Turned her back to him. Staring out at the murmuring sea, she wrapped her arms around herself. “I miss Deb every minute of every day.” The little catch in her voice revealed her battle against sorrow. “But …” She straightened her spine, raised her chin. “I don’t have time for self-pity. I need to funnel all my energy into the custody battle and ensuring Casey’s life is stable and secure.”
Her familiar, bravely determined gesture decimated his resolve. He rose and strode to her. Ignoring the warning sirens blaring inside his head, he stroked her satiny waterfall of golden hair.
But one touch was no longer enough.
“Aw, hell. ” His fingers tangled in the soft mass. His other hand gripped her shoulder, turned her around. He captured her mouth, dove in to the sweet, hot haven. She tasted like warm peaches.
Drugged by her scent, crazed by her taste, he took … and took … and yet she gave him more.
When he finally eased back slightly, dizzy and gasping for oxygen, Jillian’s palm that had been pressed to his chest slid down to drop limply at her side. She uttered a low, throaty purr that eclipsed the warning bells.
Flaring warning into wanting.
Fingers still entangled at her nape, he wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, tugged her close until her body plastered against his. When he again delved into her mouth, his remaining brain cells incinerated.
His thudding heart leapt into his throat, every sense burning alive in her essence. God help him, he was in way too deep … and didn’t care. Caught in her silky feel, her erotic feminine fragrance, her generous kisses that promised exquisite sin.
Her lush curves trembled against him, revving his body for action. The longer he held her, the more he savored her … and the more he craved her.
He cupped her ass, glorying in riding her softness against his hard need, both of them careening on the sharp, razor edge of passion. Her shaking ramping up, her mouth fused to his, she moaned—and he tasted the desperate heat, thrilled at the power of her complete surrender to him.
He could have her. Here. Now.
Kissing Jillian felt eerily like he’d finally found a home.
Zane tensed.
He, of all people, knew home was a treacherous place.
He was speeding headlong into a crash-and-burn at a thousand screaming miles per second. If he didn’t stop, stop now, the primal instinct to make her his would overtake all reason. And they’d end up between the sheets, naked and sweaty.
Followed by the disturbing consequences—and complications.
All he could offer Jillian was sex. Greedy, all-consuming, short-term sex. He could not afford the cost of getting tangled up with her.
Zane dragged in a scorching breath. No. She couldn’t afford to get tangled up with him. Physically or otherwise.
Dragging in another breath, he brutally subjugated his desires. Forced himself to pull back, release her.
Her creamy skin was damp and flushed, her eyes huge and dark … and dazed. “Zane,” she whispered huskily. “I want—”
“Not the same thing I do.” He battled the savage caveman urge to scoop her up into his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed. Aching with loss he didn’t quite understand, he took another step back. “This was a mistake.” He hoped he didn’t sound as splintered as he felt. With the blood roaring fast and hot in his ears, he couldn’t hear his own voice.
She gulped. “B-but …”
Over the years, he’d become an expert at detaching and shutting down. Because he couldn’t trust himself not to reach for her—and knew he wouldn’t have the strength to let go of her again—he pivoted and strode toward the patio door. “I’ll collect Deb’s things from you tomorrow and contact my security guy. If Deb was murdered, we’ll nail the bastard. Dinner was terrific, especially the pie. Good night.”
The taut silence beat louder than his pulse as he stepped into the house.
He’d slid the door nearly shut when she said, “Sweet dreams, Mr. Big Bad.”
The ragged tenderness mingled with abject confusion in her soft farewell would’ve stabbed him in his now frighteningly unprotected heart—if he hadn’t quickly dodged the blade.
If you only knew.
Grinding his teeth, he loped upstairs toward yet another cold shower followed by a long, lonely night.
Self-discipline was a wicked bitch of a mistress.
* * *
The next morning, Casey was apparently fully recovered and the sounds of him hopping up and down the hallway outside the bedrooms crowing a horrible repetitious little ditty about a song that never ends made Zane think he might die.
He kinda wished he would.
Fire ants crawled beneath his skin, biting and stinging, a jackhammer was cleaving his brain, and the mere idea of food made his stomach lurch in lethal warning. He groaned.
Casey flung open his door. “I heard you awake in here! Morning!”
Zane groaned again.
“Aunt Jelly!” Casey shrieked, shooting white-hot spikes through Zane’s temples. “Hurry and come quick! Zane’s sick now!”
“No,” he mumbled.
Jillian’s angelic face appeared in his blurry line of vision. A soft, cool hand touched his forehead. “Uh, oh, looks like you caught the dreaded bug.”
“I’m. Never. Sick.”
A rueful smile tilted her mouth. “Hate to break the news to you, Champ, but you’re definitely on the official flu roster.”
“Ugh.” He closed his eyes. What you get from hanging around with germy rugrats—the fucking plague. “Go. Away. Let me … die in peace.”
“Casey,” Jillian said. “Please go play with your cars for a little while in your room.”
“I wanna help take care of Zane.”
“You can help him the most by being nice and quiet so he can sleep. I’ll come take you downstairs for breakfast in a few minutes.”
“All righty.” The child’s footsteps skipped out.
Breakfast. Blech. Zane’s stomach convulsed and he sealed his lips. He would not do the Technicolor yodel. Especially in front of Jillian.
Those blessedly cool fingers stroked his forehead, brushed back his hair. “Just relax and go to sleep. Rest, Zane, and you’ll feel better.”
Amazingly, her gentle caresses vanquished the pain, and before long, everything went dark.
Trapped in the Twilight Zone from Hell, he slept in fitful snatches, waking too often to misery. But each time he awoke, Jillian was there. Cooling his pounding forehead and fevered skin with compresses, slaking his dry throat and soothing his churning stomach with sips of water and ginger ale, and calming his restless limbs by straightening rumpled sheets and fluffing twisted pillows.
Her soft, melodic reassurances chased away the rampant fear and the nightmare voice demanding he stop being a wuss and man up. Sympathy had been off-limits in their household, any weakness ruthlessly exorcised.
Nobody had ever taken care of him before.
He tried to push away Jillian’s empathy, fought not to succumb to her ministrations, but the woman was a velvet steamroller. She didn’t argue, didn’t push, just continued to quietly, implacably tend his hurts.
When Zane finally regained a semblance of sanity, the sky outside the windows was fading to purple twilight. He ran a tongue around his dry mouth and struggled to sit up, propping his shoulders against the headboard.
His door swung open and Jillian walked in, stopping beside the bed. “There you are. I figured you’d be coming around pretty soon. How’re you doing?”
“Fine,” he said automatically.
“Really? Because you look like you’ve been dragged through a knothole backwards.”
Exactly what he felt like. A rusty laugh escaped him. “Gee, thanks.”
Delicate, caring hands cupped his face, and the lower half of his body immediately proved even the plague couldn’t keep a good man down.
“Your fever’s broken, that’s good. Do you think you could eat a little chicken soup?”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to wait on me. I’ll go downstairs.”
“Nope, you’re on bed rest until tomorrow morning.” The tenderness in her gaze curled warmth around his heart, but the steely determination in her smile him warned him he wasn’t going anywhere.
Truthfully, he was afraid if he tried to wrestle his way past her at the moment, she’d win … and wouldn’t that be mortifying? Sighing, he settled more comfortably in the pillows, arched a wry brow. “Okay, bossy lady, but tomorrow, you’re gonna have to find someone else to play doctor with.”
“Be nice to me, Mr. Big Bad, you’re at my mercy. I could always take your temperature the old-fashioned way.”
“Not unless you have a death wish,” he growled.
Heading for the door, she chuckled. “Be back soon.”
She quickly returned with soup, soda crackers, and more ginger ale on her tray.
Casey ambled in behind Jillian, cocking his head quizzically. “Hey, Zane, did ya hurl?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“Casey,” Jillian said. “Zane’s not up to visiting.”
A small lower lip poked out. “But he’s awake, now, and I wanna—”
“Casey,” she warned quietly.
He stomped a sneakered foot. “He’s been asleep all day and I didn’t get to talk to him at all!”
“Please wait for me downstairs, and we’ll decide on something fun to do together. Unless you’d rather sit in the timeout chair.”
“Stupid timeout chair. ” The scowling child released a gusty sigh. “Nope, don’t guess I wanna do that. See ya later, Zane.”
Jillian got Zane settled with his food and moved his e-reader from the nightstand to within easy reach at his side. “If you need anything, call out. I’ll keep your door open a crack so I can hear you, but I’ll let you recuperate in peace unless I hear from you.”
“Okay. Did you … did you miss work today because of me?”
“I would’ve kept Casey home another day anyway. We don’t want to spread this crud around at the center any more than necessary.”
Gratitude and appreciation at her unexpected compassion forced him to clear sudden thickness from his throat. “Ah … Jillian. Everything you did ... It really wasn’t necessary— I don’t— You—”
“It wasn’t any trouble, but you’re welcome.” She leaned down and soft lips brushed his forehead. “Everyone needs to be—and deserves to be—taken care of sometimes. Especially tough guys.” Then she strolled out, leaving him feeling more vulnerable and confused than ever before.
The following morning, he woke up at ten o’clock. He hadn’t slept this much since he’d taken a knife in the thigh a few years ago somewhere in BF Afghanistan and spent an uncomfortable forty-eight hours morphined to the max in a tent infirmary. He still didn’t feel a hundred percent, but he was at least with it enough to get vertical.
He called his security expert pal to relay the information about Deb’s situation, then checked with his attorney, who hadn’t heard anything new about the custody case or DNA results. Showered and dressed in Levi’s and a dark blue T-shirt, he headed downstairs for breakfast.
In the empty kitchen, he poured a mug of coffee. Making a wide berth around Aragorn, who was sprawled out snoring in a sunny patch by the patio doors, he stepped outside to gaze at glinting waves rhythmically slapping the sandy shoreline.
He stopped short when he found Jillian sitting at the bistro table alone, sipping coffee and eating a frosted cinnamon bun nearly as big as the tires on her Mini Cooper. A platter of the rolls sat in the center of the table. His mouth watered, and he chose to believe it was the pastry and not the sight of her lithe figure and supple, toned legs lovingly showcased by white shorts and a lemon crocheted tank top. “Where’s Casey?”
“Loucinda swung by and picked him up for his summer day camp program at the center. I figured you could use the reprieve.”
“You shouldn’t have stayed home again on my account. I’ve been self-sufficient since I learned to walk.”
“I’ll bet you’re hungry this morning. Want some scrambled eggs with your rolls?”
So apparently, they were going to ignore the near miss with screaming jungle sex. Perfectly okay by him. “Jillian, you don’t have to wait on—”
Looking blithely at him, she bit into her roll, pushed the platter toward him.
He sighed, dropped into the chair opposite her. “Have you always been so obstinate you could defy gravity?”
Her pink tongue delicately swiped a dab of frosting off her lower lip, and fire licked up his spine. “I have an ex-Navy construction foreman dad and three older brothers who grew up to become Navy SEALS. Take a guess.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I suppose it was either swim against the current or drown.”
“I prefer to surf right over the waves.” As she rose, her mischievous grin notched up the heat another ten degrees. “I’ll be back in a few minutes with those eggs.”
After breakfast, she challenged him to a game of gin rummy, which turned into a spirited tournament at the outdoor table with the ocean humming and gulls calling in the background.
She was damned good, but he ended up winning by one game. Barely, though, because he was too distracted by the inspiring view across the table—and he didn’t mean the ocean.
He insisted on helping her make the sub sandwiches for lunch, over which they continued their conversation about the current state of world affairs, movies, hobbies, books, and music. Their shared passion for protecting and saving the environment delighted him. But discovering she also loved baseball damned near made him delirious, and inspired a lively debate over whose team was better, his Rangers or her L.A. Angels. Jillian possessed smarts and humor, and her vibrant, engaging outlook defied his more pessimistic bent.
Dammit, resisting her was becoming harder—painfully so—by the second.
Casey arrived home in the afternoon, bubbling with enthusiasm about his various activities and the “awesome” chocolate chip cookies served with lunch at the center.
Jillian suggested a barefoot walk along the beach. At Zane’s blatantly transparent excuse of needing to go rest from his bout of flu with his e-reader, the woman and the child’s equally dejected expressions coerced him into reluctant agreement.
The trio strolled along the damp sand in the warm, briny breeze toward a huge rock formation that looked like a tower. Casey darted in a hundred different directions to collect shells in his blue plastic bucket.
“Zane,” he called excitedly, pointing at a tide pool at the rocky tower’s base. “Look! I found a whole herd of starfish!”
“I see. Red, and pink, and purple, and orange. They’re pretty, and interesting with all those spines, aren’t they?”
“Yep. But you can’t pick ‘em up and take ‘em like the empty shells, cause those spiny outsides are their houses, and they would die. So don’t pick ‘em up, ‘kay?”
“Right, I’ll keep that in mind.”
The kid raced off again, and Jillian swished her feet in the shallows beside Zane, her toenails—now painted pink and decorated with whimsical yellow flowers—winking at him from beneath the translucent seawater.
He clenched his jaw. He was way far gone when he got turned-on by a woman’s toes .
“Casey likes you.”
A steel band squeezed his ribs. “He barely knows me.”
“It’s a start, and he’ll get to know you even better, won’t he?”
Don’t bank on it. “He seems remarkably well-adjusted considering it’s only been seven months since he lost Deb.”
“He does have rocky moments sometimes and melts down, but less and less frequently. Overall he’s handling it fairly well. He’s been in counseling since it happened, which we’re now able to space farther apart. I’ll never take Deb’s place, nor do I want to. But my being with him since he took his first breath helps both of us a lot.”
“You’re doing one hell of a terrific job, Jillian. You’re a natural-born mom. Not everyone is.”
“Nobody is born knowing how to parent. I had to learn by trial and error, just like everyone else.”
He watched the happy-go-lucky child scamper in and out of the surf. Had he ever been that carefree? He swallowed. “It’s the errors that concern me.”
She moved closer, linking her arm with his. “You’ve got good instincts, Zane. You’ll do great.”
He tensed. “You don’t know me either.”
“How much have you delved into your Native American heritage?”
“My mother talked about it sometimes. Not much, though, and I never knew my maternal grandparents. They died in a car accident when my mother was nineteen.”
“I’ve researched quite a bit since Casey was born. There’s so much wisdom, so many wonderful stories and traditions. Can I tell you something?”
“Something wise and wonderful?”
She chuckled. “There’s a Native American proverb that asks, ‘when two wolves are fighting in your heart, and one is vengeful, angry, and violent, but the other is loving and compassionate … which wolf will win?’”
Startled that she’d so accurately targeted his well-hidden inner battle, he looked into eyes far wiser than her years. “I don’t— I suppose whichever is strongest.”
Jillian flashed him one of those secret feminine smiles that incited prickling goosebumps. “Zane, the one you feed will win.”
She squeezed his arm, then ran down the beach to splash a squealing Casey, leaving Zane alone with his turbulent thoughts.
Staring at the rippling waves, he fought to even his jagged breaths. Soft-spoken, soft-hearted Jillian Ramsay was far stronger than she appeared, with a backbone of tungsten steel.
And was the most appealing—and scariest—woman he’d ever met.
Jillian and Casey finally rejoined him, relieving him all to hell when she kept the conversation light on the way back to the house.
Jillian put Zane in charge of barbecuing hotdogs and foil-wrapped corn-on-the-cob on the backyard grill, which she claimed anyone could do.
He accepted the dare while she and Casey made a salad in the kitchen. Despite Aragorn’s sneering contempt from his perch in the kitchen windowsill, Zane did okay for his novice flight.
It seemed like a no-brainer to clean everything up and load the dishwasher while she was upstairs bathing Casey, but when Jillian returned to the living room with the scrubbed, pajama-clad kid in tow, she acted as thrilled as if he’d painted the Sistine Chapel.
Casey scribbled crayon pictures while Zane attempted to read his latest downloaded crime novel. But he ended up watching Jillian as she glided gracefully in and out of the room, tossing in a load of laundry and sweeping the kitchen floor.
She read several stories to Casey, coaxing covert smiles from Zane when she imaginatively voiced all the characters, including a confused elephant who hatched an egg.
It would’ve actually been a restful day if not for the lust that pounded Zane as relentlessly as the waves slapping the shore.
And the second call that shattered the quiet right after Casey had been tucked into bed—this one on Jillian’s cell.
She answered, it, silencing her “Staying Alive” ringtone, listened. Frowning, she hung up the phone. “I could hear harsh breathing on the other end, but nobody said anything. And no number, nothing shows on the incoming calls. How can they circumvent the ID system?”
“Let me see it.” He examined the blank call log. “There’s varied technology to block the information. Which means these aren’t just kids making prank calls.” He surged to his feet, keying numbers into her phone. “Here, I input my cell number for you, and I’ll enter yours into my phone. I’m going out for an extended perimeter patrol around the neighborhood. Don’t wait up.”
Anxiety tightened her features. “Shouldn’t we call Officer Ray?”
He snorted, palming his Beretta. “Lady, I’ve survived battles in armpits that make Hell seem like an amusement park. I think I can handle coastal Oregon. Lock every door and window behind me and buzz me if you hear or see anything remotely out of place.”
“I’ll get my extra house key for you.”
He accepted the key from her trembling fingers. Then on an impulse he couldn’t contain, stroked a finger down her cheek. “Don’t worry, Jillian. I’ve got your back. Nothing will happen to you or the kid on my watch.”
She gave him an unsteady smile. “I believe that, thank you.”
He spent hours combing every inch of the surrounding neighborhood, but didn’t see or hear anything suspicious. When he arrived back at the house, Jillian had gone to bed.
He didn’t sleep worth shit, instead combat napping while subliminally listening for any danger to the woman and child now trusting in his protection.
* * *
Zane woke up the next morning to a silent house. He found a stack of blueberry muffins and a covered bowl of fresh-cut summer fruit on the kitchen table along with a note from Jillian saying she and Casey would be at the center until late afternoon, to help himself to anything from the fridge, feel free to use her exercise studio, and she hoped he’d have a great day.
Exactly what he’d wanted, a day to himself. It was definitely quiet.
Too quiet.
Zane wandered from room to room. Jillian’s idea of an exercise studio was a lavender-painted room with wall-to-wall mirrors on one side and a dance barre on the other, a thick purple mat on the floor, and patchouli scented candles arranged on a dainty table beneath the window beside a bowl of sea glass and a sound-system console. Since yoga or ballet wasn’t on his top-ten list of fun, he didn’t stick around. He switched on a ball game, but switched it off after three innings. Tried to settle with his e-reader. Moved to the patio to stare at the equally restless ocean.
Finally, he put on his running clothes and sprinted down the beach.
He’d always enjoyed his own company. Never had a problem being alone—in fact, he preferred it. Now the stark contrast between yesterday and today made him feel … far too alone.
Terror raked icy claws through his guts.
He pounded along the hard-packed sand at the shoreline. In such a short span of time, how the fuck had he come to appreciate, like, and crave being with Jillian?
He’d always had a thing for willowy blondes, but chose cool sophisticates who knew the score. Women who wanted sex with no strings, who understood he’d give them pleasure, but nothing more. No expectations, no treacherous emotional ties.
Caring, nurturing Jillian was the complete opposite. Her generous sweetness tempered by her unwavering courage beckoned his frozen heart. Tempted to dance ever closer to her bright warmth, he was as edgy as if he were juggling buzzing chainsaws.
But unless he wanted them both sliced to ribbons, he had to fight it.
Because even if he was idiotic enough to get involved with her, which he wasn’t, she came as a package deal with the kid. And no way could he risk that.
He ramped up his speed, running for miles. Until his heart labored, his lungs gasped for oxygen, his muscles screamed from the burn.
But he couldn’t outrun the fear.
* * *
Zane stayed in his room the rest of the afternoon and evening, telling Jillian he was working on a case—and sideswiped by guilt when she good-naturedly left a tray of food outside his door.
Another perimeter patrol after dark turned up nothing. He didn’t sleep much that night, either.
And then the next morning, the lab called with the DNA results.