That was it? Jon waited for more, for anything to stop him from staring at her lean form: her right knee bent; breasts that were still firm enough to curve upward; and a thin line of flat stomach that looked as though it needed warm, moist kisses—
He swung away from her. Hell, maybe he should leave. He’d acted on impulse coming here, and through all the hours traveling, he’d envisioned a different Sylvie Mitchell, a different set of answers and a much different reaction to her.
He shoved aside the attraction. No way would he leave. He was so close to finally hearing the truth he could taste it.
But Sylvie Mitchell looked so vulnerable lying there. He cleared his throat and looked over at her. “Um, do you want me to get you something to eat?”
“Do you want me to throw up on you?”
Her face was so deadpan Jon couldn’t help but smile. Yet the pitiful grin fell away quickly. Oh, cripes, it had been so long since he smiled it hurt his cheeks. “Not really.”
She said no more, only lay there, eyes shut again, totally ignoring him.
“Ms. Mitchell?”
She opened her eyes.
“You knew my brother, didn’t you?”
She blinked. “You don’t look like him.”
Annoyed that she didn’t answer his question directly, he worked his jaw. “He took after our mother. I favor our father.” Both of whom were dead, he wanted to add.
“Rick was so blond,” she added softly, studying his face with a tiny frown. “And you’re the exact opposite.” She raised her eyebrows. “You say you’re Rick’s brother, but frankly you don’t look like him. How do I know you’re telling me the truth? You could be a reporter snooping out a story, for all I know.”
Was there a story to snoop out? he wanted to ask. Instead, and without a word, he yanked his wallet from his back pocket and flipped it open onto the narrow area of examination table between them. She lifted her head to peer down at it.
He knew what it said. Jonathan Andrew Cahill. Toronto Police Services.
She slumped back on the bed. Oh, mercy. A police officer in search of the truth about his murdered brother.
Could it get any worse?
“You’re a cop?”
“Like our father, before a drug pusher ambushed him.”
Ambushed? Sylvie rubbed her arms, hoping the sudden goose bumps would disappear. She didn’t need to be an expert in psychology to know that telling Jon his only brother had died in nearly the same fashion wouldn’t be a good thing. Not while this man still carried a frustrated anger so big that she could practically see it roosting on his shoulder like a gargoyle.
“I’m sorry. I remember Rick telling me about him.”
“He was a good police officer. Then some bastard killed him. And two years later that bastard walked out of court a free man.”
What could she say? His bitter tone resounded through the room, bouncing off the walls and bombarding her, over and over. A free man. When his father lay dead.
She silently prayed he’d suggest they meet someplace, at a future date….
Something she could prepare for—or maybe even avoid.
The man heaved a burdened sigh as he picked up his wallet to pocket it. “Look, to say the least, the military has been vague about Rick’s death. I have yet to receive anything in writing. I spoke to Rick’s—and your—commanding officer, and…” He paused, quite distinctly, too, leaving the impression he was tailoring his words carefully. “…all he said was Rick was on a detail with you. Delivering rations to an outpost. The accident occurred in the mountains. Right?”
She studied the ceiling. Delivering rations to an outpost that didn’t exist. Driving around the wrong mountain. “Yes.” She couldn’t look at him and focus on his words at the same time. “I’m sorry Rick died. He was a good soldier.”
Frustration surged inside of him. Damn it, that was it? A short apology for losing a good soldier? He hadn’t come halfway across the country to hear that trite compliment. He hadn’t been told by the chief of police to take all the time he needed to deal with Rick’s death—even if it took all summer—just to hear what a good soldier Rick had been.
And he wouldn’t ignore the suspicion gripping his gut at her brush-off. No blasted way.
His mouth thinned. “Rick was a hell of a lot more than just a good soldier.”
He watched her blink, fear in the gaze she suddenly couldn’t level on him. Fear again? It had to be something else.
“You were with him when he died, weren’t you?”
She said nothing. Jon crushed the urge to grab her and shake her and demand the whole damn, blasted truth once and for all. But, checking his fury, he clenched his fists and stalked to the window.
Finally she spoke, her voice so barely above a whisper he had to hold his breath to hear her. “I’m so sorry. We’d driven—” She checked her words, for what reason, he couldn’t guess. “We’d done similar details before. Got stuck together overnight more often than not because of mudslides or bad weather. Never once had we been ambushed.”
He whirled, his heart pounding, his throat suddenly dry. It took him a minute to find his voice. “Ambushed? No one said anything about an ambush! What the hell are you talking about?”
Horrified, she fell silent again and looked away.
Ambush? Was that what the military was keeping from him? Rick had been attacked, in a country purporting to be at peace.
No. Even ambushes make the news, especially in these troubled times.
He stalked over to her and pressed a fist on either side of the black vinyl table, not caring if he towered over her like a madman. “I want to know about this ambush. Now.”
She wouldn’t even look at him. Swearing internally, he pulled back and raked his fingers through his hair. So close to the truth! So close he could feel it teasing him. How could she shut up now? “Look, Ms. Mitchell. Sylvie. My only living relative has died and no one will give me any details. Do you think that’s fair? Do you think Rick deserves to be forgotten so easily?” He sucked in a long breath in a desperate attempt to control his growing frustration.
Her hand strayed to her belly. The sunlight streaming in the window behind him caught a narrow, glimmering trail of a tear as it escaped her eye. She furtively swiped it away and pushed herself up, this time meeting his glare with equal intensity. “Rick isn’t forgotten, all right? I was there. I tried to keep him alive, but I couldn’t.” She paled, then sagged. Was she going to pass out again? “Now, could you please leave me alone?”
The door swung open and in strolled the doctor. He carried a clipboard and smiled at Sylvie. “Good morning. I hear you’ve fainted.”
Jon glanced at Sylvie. She lay back down and closed her eyes. “Yes, I did.”
The doctor directed his attention to Jon. “Could you please leave us for a few minutes? I won’t be long.”
Jon looked to Sylvie, hoping that somehow she might ask him to stay. But of course she wouldn’t. They were strangers, regardless of the fact she’d been with his only relative up until the moment—
Unable to form the words in his mind, Jon stormed out of the room. He might as well write off talking to Sylvie Mitchell today. But she’d mentioned a ranch outside of town. It wouldn’t be hard to find, despite there being nearly as many ranches here as Stetsons. Maybe talking on her own turf would make her feel less intimidated. And, hopefully, she’d have eaten by then and couldn’t use the excuse of fainting to avoid conversation.
For a tall, strong woman, she didn’t look the type to faint for lack of food. In fact, she looked pretty damn good, period. When he’d spotted her across the street, her creamy complexion had looked healthy, her body toned. Her short, blond hair gleamed with good health.
Her skin soft like warm peaches against his.
Whoa, Cahill. That’s pushing it, don’t you think?
Suspicion still curdling inside of him, Jon stalked down the corridor to the receptionist’s desk. He’d ask for a phone book there. He�
�d find her ranch.
“Excuse me?”
He turned at the sound of the voice. The receptionist bustled past him and behind the counter, throwing a smile at him as she went. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll be fine. Soon she’ll be outside, enjoying this lovely day. Best way to start the summer, isn’t it, with a great weekend ahead, weatherwise. Do you have her medical insurance card? I’ll need it.”
He bristled at the bright, cheery chatter. It had been a long time since he’d been in a small town. Toronto wasn’t the kind of place where people struck up friendly conversations with perfect strangers. They barely made eye contact. And being a cop, he found himself suspicious whenever someone he didn’t know started talking.
But he wouldn’t ignore the opportunity. “I’m sorry. I don’t have her card. I’m still worried about her,” he said, hedging his way into the conversation. “She’s…not the kind to faint.”
“It happens like this sometimes, but the symptoms should pass soon. You must be a…‘friend’ of hers?” Her stare was openly curious. She stood there, no doubt hoping he would fill the empty silence with an answer.
He forced a brief smile onto his face. Now why should she put so much emphasis on the word friend? He gave her a knowing look. “More than a friend, believe me.” Perhaps this chatty little receptionist could direct him out to Sylvie’s ranch?
The woman smiled back. Abruptly, the doctor strolled behind the counter and dropped a slim file on the desk along with a few sample packs of medicine from his pocket.
Jon glanced at them as they fell onto the file. Prenatal vitamins, in pale-pink wrappers.
Prenatal?
“Give these to Ms. Mitchell, will you, Fleur? And I want to see her in my office first thing next Wednesday morning.” The doctor noticed Jon, and his smile broadened. “Your wife’s fine. Though I suggest you take her home and feed her. She shouldn’t miss any more meals.”
Jon nodded, unwilling to correct the man on their marital status. The mistake could prove useful. “I will.”
The doctor gone, the receptionist scooped up the vitamins and smiled at him. “See? Nothing that won’t cure itself by December.”
His face fell. Talk about hitting the jackpot. All he’d hoped for were directions to her ranch.
Fainting, prenatal vitamins. The look of horror on her face when he spoke of Rick. The hand that slid to her flat belly.
Stuck overnight more often than not, she’d said.
Taking the offered vitamin samples, he strode down the hall. The cure coming in December? A hasty bit of mental math quickened his step. He should have known. Hadn’t his ex-wife fainted that one day and blamed it on missing a meal? Right before asking for a divorce? She’d been queasy all through their meetings with the lawyers. A blessing that had ended in an uncontested divorce.
She’d practically raced out to her lover after that, leaving him at the lawyer’s office with a bitter taste in his mouth.
A mental litany of the secrets she’d kept from him danced in his mind. The path ahead of him was starting to look pretty damn familiar, and while Tanya’s secrets meant squat to him now, Sylvie Mitchell’s were worth a hell of a lot more.
Jon thinned his lips. Did this have something to do with Rick’s commanding officer’s reluctance to speak to him?
His heart pounded in his throat as he swung open the door to the labor room. Damn appropriate room, he’d say.
Sylvie looked up as he strode in.
“Feeling better now?” His tight voice sliced the quiet.
A tiny frown creased her forehead. “Fine, thank you.”
He gritted his teeth as he dropped the pink packages into her lap. “So, is it Rick’s baby you’re carrying, or did you two just talk on those nights you were stuck together?”
Chapter 2
After spending thirteen years in army logistics and supply, Sylvie had met her share of intimidating jerks. Most she either ignored or answered with a blunt, uncomplainable “Yes, sir.”
But cornered in this stifling birthing room, she could do neither. Nor was it in her nature to lie. She had kept herself as honest as possible in a trade that had more thieving bin rats than it had army boots.
Try as she might, she couldn’t ignore the intimidating man who filled the doorway, any more than she could have ignored him when he scooped her up like a child and walked calmly across the street to the clinic.
Oh, she hadn’t been so fully unconscious that she didn’t realize she was being carried. She’d felt his arms around her, the heat of his chest penetrating deep into her…and, well, if truth were told, she hadn’t minded it one bit.
They say one’s whole value system changes when one faints; it certainly had with her. But not to the point of telling this man she was carrying his nephew or niece. What if he asked more questions? What if he wanted to know how serious she’d been with Rick? What if he learned the truth?
She turned her attention to the window, wishing it could open and let in the strong mountain breeze she so desperately needed. “What did the receptionist tell you?”
“Nothing you could use in a formal complaint, if that’s what you’re thinking. I put two and two together. I’m right, aren’t I? You’re pregnant.”
If she opened her mouth, she’d tell the truth, the way she’d always done. She pursed her lips.
Jon continued, his arms folded over his chest. “I’ll take that as a yes. I didn’t know you and Rick were so close. He always spoke highly of you, but in a supervisor-subordinate sense. Or so I understood.”
She slid off the bed, ignoring the sharp pang of hunger that booted away her fading nausea. “Look, yes, I’m pregnant, okay? But as to who the father is, that’s my business, not yours.”
She tried to brush past him, but he stepped in front of the door and at the same time kicked it shut with the heel of his shoe.
The sharp click echoed around the hot, quiet room.
“We’re not done talking, Ms. Mitchell.”
Her head shot up. For the first time, she stared hard at him, forcing herself to notice every little detail of his handsome face.
She’d like nothing better than to fire back that he had no right to decide when she was done talking. She leaned in close….
Too close and way too personal for her liking.
Well, maybe not totally against her liking. If circumstances had been different…
His coal-black hair wasn’t neat the way his smooth polo shirt and pressed pants were. Maybe he was the kind of man who ran his fingers constantly through it.
She peered into his narrowed eyes, recognizing in the dark, brittle-blue irises a hint of Rick. Although Rick’s would have narrowed in the sunlight only, not out of mistrust like this man. She’d rarely seen Rick without one of his trademark, handsome grins. He had trusted so easily, she thought, her stomach tightening again.
Shaken by the memories she’d conjured up, she stepped back from Jon.
Somewhere from down the corridor, a baby wailed. Jon snapped his head around, listening. The crying stopped almost immediately.
Out of the corner of his eye, he looked at her. “I wonder if it was the father or the mother who picked that baby up. What do you think?”
“I’m sure it was the nurse.” She took another step forward again. “Now, please excuse me, Mr. Cahill.”
“Call me Jon. Because you’re going to see a lot of me in the future,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.
She shot a sharp glare into his calm features. “I haven’t confirmed your suspicions, Mr. Cahill.”
“It’s my business to read people’s faces, Sylvie. Yours is no different. I’m not condemning you for carrying my brother’s child. I’m just telling you I will be a part of its life.”
“You didn’t tell me how you came to suspect such a thing.”
“The receptionist gave me a date when you’ll be ‘cured,’ and from your commanding officer, I learned when you left Bosnia. You retired eleven weeks ago immediately af
ter Rick’s memorial service. You’ve been pregnant about twelve weeks, haven’t you?”
What could she say? She nodded.
“You told me you and Rick got stuck overnight more often than not, confirming what Rick had already told me in his e-mails.” He drew in a deep breath, as if controlling some troubling part of himself. “Rick died March twenty-sixth. All of these facts plus the way you reacted when I mentioned him made me suspicious. Am I correct?”
Hunger kicked at her again, but this time she fought off the pangs. She could stand on a parade square for days, shifting very little, never feeling hungry, tired or woozy. Yet today, feeling like the stuff at the bottom of a horse stall, she could barely nod her head.
She managed to anyway. What was the use? It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that this guy…with eyes like frozen diamonds, who had cradled her in a way she hadn’t figured she would want to be cradled…he wouldn’t give up until he knew the truth.
“Yes,” she whispered, shocked that she was relenting. “This is Rick’s baby.”
Wait. She’d plowed through a tour of duty in one of the world’s worst war zones without ever weakening, and yet one moment of Jon’s questioning and she’d caved. What was wrong with her?
For starters, she hadn’t plowed through the whole tour of duty without weakening. There was that one night…when she’d thought only of herself. And how she hadn’t wanted to die a—
Jon folded his strong-looking arms across his powerful chest and nodded. Sylvie’s knees wobbled, and she recalled briefly how good it had felt being carried, her head sagging against his firm, warm shoulder.
“Good.” Leaning forward, he took her arm and steered her into the corridor without so much as looking her way. “Now that we have that confirmation out of the way, I’ll drive you home. On the way, you can tell me what everyone said about the age difference between you and Rick. It must be more than ten years.”
Jonathan Cahill was a bastard. And Sylvie knew bastards. They came a dime a dozen in the army. This man cut to the quick, wasted no words and had a damn annoying expectation that his questions would be answered truthfully and immediately.
Necessary Secrets Page 2
