Running Scared

by Lisa Jackson

  Kate tried to yank back her hand, but he refused to let go.

  “I should have been the one,” she said. “Jon’s my son and—”

  “And you wouldn’t have made near the impression I did,” he said, feeling a hard smile curve his mouth. “Neider heard me.”

  “The whole damned town heard you, everyone but me! I heard it from one of my students, Daegan. Try and imagine my surprise and what an idiot I looked like as I didn’t know a thing about what was going on!”

  “It was between Neider and me.”

  “And Flo Cartwright—Neider’s girlfriend—she apparently overheard you giving Carl the business.”

  He remembered the blonde lounging behind the screen door of the shabby trailer.

  “This is a small town, Daegan. You shouldn’t have gone over there in the first place, but once you did, the least you could have done was tell me about it. This does involve my son, you know.” Her lips drew together in frustration and he saw a gamut of emotions play across her features. At this moment in time she didn’t know whether to hate him or love him, and he was hoping she’d find some middle ground. He supposed if she ended up hating him, which was highly likely, it would be better than if she was foolish enough to consider loving him. Love could only end in disaster. “You threatened him.”

  “Within an inch of his life,” Daegan agreed, pulling her closer and leaning down so that his nose was nearly touching hers. “It’s the only thing bullies understand.”

  “You had no other choice?” she demanded.

  “I don’t think so, no.” God, she smelled good and the sight of snowflakes melting on her cheeks and catching in her hair nearly undid him. Her lips parted slightly and he saw the change in her eyes, a dark awareness that transformed her fury into a hollow yearning.

  His response was quick and primal. “Oh, hell,” he growled and wrapped his arms around her, capturing her chilled mouth with his own. She seemed to melt against him, her heart a hammering echo of his own, her arms surrounding him as if it were the most natural act in the world.

  A vital part of him, one he’d kept locked away for most of his life, struggled to break free. His eyes closed, and as the first snowflakes of fall swirled around them, he opened her mouth with his tongue, tasting and teasing and feeling the velvety warmth of her.

  A soft little moan escaped her throat and he wound a hand through her hair, holding the back of her head while the other reached upward beneath her jacket to feel the weight of her breast. Her mouth opened farther and he rubbed a thumb over the cup of her bra, feeling her nipple harden and strain. Already his blood was on fire, his skin itching to rub against hers, his mind ablaze with images of her satiny body arching to his, joining in splendor, her breasts, ripe and peaked with dark button-tipped disks begging to be suckled. Their joining would be a hot, savage union that would leave them both spent and heaving, sweat dripping from their bodies.

  He pulled the shirt from her jeans and his fingers scaled her ribs, touching, feeling, slipping the front clasp open.

  “Daegan, oooh,” she whispered against his ear and he rubbed in slow, sensuous circles belying the fire running through his veins. “I don’t think—”

  “Neither do I.”

  “I mean…I should go home. Jon is expecting me…Oh, God, please—”

  With all the willpower he could scrape together, he released her, letting her blouse and jacket fall back into place. Trying to ease the ache in his loins by shifting his jeans, he saw her take in a long, shaky breath as both her hands raked impatiently through her hair.

  “I don’t think I’m ready for this,” she confessed, and the honesty in her gaze pierced straight to his soul.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to rein in his galloping emotions, attempted to find that clear-thinking common sense that had seen him through the most painful and complicated portions of his life. “I’m not ready either,” he admitted.

  “I—I don’t know if I’ll ever be,” she said softly, squinting up at him before walking to the old split rail fence separating the barn from the house. Wrapping her arms around a silvered post, she stared through the trees toward her place.

  “You still love your husband.”

  “No. I did for a long time, but Jim’s been gone for almost sixteen years. I don’t really remember what he looked like, even though I still have pictures. And Erin, my baby, she’d be a junior in high school now, probably have a driver’s license, be dating…” Kate blinked rapidly and looked away. With a squaring of her shoulders, she slapped the post and faced him again. “No reason to dwell on it, is there? I’ve still got Jon.”

  But not for long, he thought with a sick feeling that tore at all his convictions. How could he tell her the truth? How could he take her son from her? How could he not? Every day was one day closer to the truth—either from him or Robert Sullivan, and that meant they were one day closer to a day of reckoning when she would realize why he’d come here and then she would hate him forever.

  “Does he look like his father?” Daegan asked suddenly and she tensed.

  “Pardon?” she said, her voice nearly a gasp.

  “You said you couldn’t really remember what Jim looked like. I wondered if Jon resembled his dad.”

  She bit her lip. “No. Not at all.”

  Tell her. Now’s the time! “But he doesn’t look much like you.”

  “He takes after Jim’s side of the family,” she lied, her mind racing wildly. Why did he want to know? Why now? How had she been so stupid to bring Jim and Erin into this conversation? “His…his brother. My brother-in-law.”

  Daegan’s head jerked up. “Does he live around here?”

  “No…still back in Iowa, I think, but we’ve kind of lost touch.” Oh, Lord, now she was getting herself into the thick of a mess she couldn’t get out of. She remembered her vow to Tyrell Clark, how she and Jon would remain without past ties, and now she was confiding in this man—a stranger to her really, a man who heated her blood, yet of whom she knew so little. “I’d better get back,” she said quickly, dusting hands that were cold as the November air. “Jon will be home any minute and I want him to eat something and do his homework before he gets any ideas about coming over here.”

  “He’s always welcome,” Daegan drawled, staring at her with those stormy gray eyes that caused her pulse to jump and her heart to pound. She climbed back in her car, switched on the wipers, and drove the short distance to her house. But she kept glancing in the rearview mirror expecting Daegan—or someone—to follow her.

  Don’t be paranoid, she advised herself. Just because he asked a few questions, he doesn’t have to be sinister or evil. She slammed on her brakes and studied her reflection in the mirror, this time looking into her eyes and seeing the truth. She wasn’t afraid for Jon, not anymore. She was afraid for herself, because like it or not, she was giving her heart to the man living in old Eli McIntyre’s house.

  “You’re comin’ to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, aren’t you?” Jon asked as he unbuckled the cinch of Loco’s saddle.

  “Did your mom invite me or is this your idea?” Daegan asked. It had been three days since he’d seen Kate, and the invitation sounded suspiciously as if it had been Jon’s plan.

  “She says it’s okay.” Jon stared at him with round Sullivan eyes and Daegan didn’t have the heart to turn the boy down.

  “Sure, I’ll be there, then,” he said and felt guilty when he saw a smile stretch along Jon’s jaw and a light of anticipation brighten his gaze. What would he say when he found out the truth, when he realized Daegan was not only his father but a liar as well? A man who could ruin his life? “Just let me know what time.”

  “Four o’clock. We eat around five or five-thirty.” Jon slid the blanket off the gelding’s back and tossed it over the rail of a stall. Snorting loudly, the gray searched for any leftover oats in the manger.

  “Am I supposed to bring anything?”

  Jon laughed. “Mom said you’d probably ask
and she said just bring your appetite.”

  Unfortunately Daegan was always hungry around Kate, but it didn’t have anything to do with food. Lately he’d been thinking of her, hoping to see her again, plotting excuses to get her alone. Ever since Bibi’s phone call, he’d been on the alert, listening to the town gossip about possible newcomers, keeping his gaze trained on the gate to Kate’s lane whenever possible. He’d also called a friend of his in Boston who was gathering information on Neils VanHorn. Before the guy showed up, if he showed up, Daegan would be waiting.

  And then what?

  The truth, damn it. No matter what it cost. He glanced at the boy who was his son. Jon’s face in the low wattage was set in concentration as he began to brush Loco’s muddy hide. At this moment he looked younger than fifteen, and Daegan felt a protective surge race through his blood. He’d missed Jon’s first words, his first uneven steps, the chance to teach him how to cast a fly into a swift mountain stream, the best way to break a tackle in football, and the importance of being your own person, but most of all, Daegan had missed the chance to be a father to his only son after growing up knowing what it felt like to have no father who cared. Could he really give up the rest of Jon’s youth as well—the few years the boy had left before becoming an adult? And what about Kate? Could he live the rest of his life knowing that she would rather spit on him than talk to him? How would he be able to rise each morning and know that he’d never see her or his son again?

  Jon finished brushing the horse and together they crossed the frigid yard to the house where, as they did every time they were together, they split a Coke. Never mind that it was below freezing outside, together they sat near the old wood stove, sipped from chipped enamel mugs, and Jon told him about his life.

  “Neider giving you any more trouble?” Daegan asked him.

  “Nope.” Jon frowned into his mug and blinked as if something was weighing on his mind. When he glanced up, his blue eyes were troubled. “Mom said you talked to Todd’s dad.”

  “That’s right.”

  Biting his lip, Jon scowled, but didn’t say anything.

  “What’s on your mind?” Daegan prompted. He rested the heel of his boot on the brick pad that supported the blackened stove.

  “I hate him.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean I really hate him.”

  Daegan nodded, watching as Jon’s brow furrowed and his lips twisted into a knot.

  “But Todd’s dad beats him.”

  Daegan didn’t move.

  Jon looked at the floor, avoiding Daegan’s stare. “I don’t mean that he gives him a swat, I mean that he hits him over and over again when Todd messes up.”

  “Jesus.” Anger and disgust gnawed a hole in Daegan’s gut.

  “He came back to school last week and in gym class I saw his legs; they were all bruised. Someone asked Todd what had happened and he said he’d fallen down the back steps and scraped himself.”

  “But you don’t believe him.”

  “Nah.” Jon swirled his Coke and the two cubes of ice clinked together. “I…um…well, you know that I sometimes can see things—not always, though, and sometimes I’m wrong, but usually if I get a clear vision…” His voice trailed off and he worried his lip while still rotating his cup nervously. “Anyway, I’ve touched Todd and seen into his mind, if that’s what you want to call it. He’s scared shitless…I mean scared to death of his old man after he’s had a few beers. Todd locks himself into his bedroom, but his dad comes in and hits him with a belt, over and over again, and Todd, he cries for his mother. She left a long time ago, married someone else, had some other kids and never calls or sees Todd.”

  “Damn.” Daegan’s anger was white-hot. “No wonder the kid’s a mess. What about social services? If you’ve seen the bruises, then someone else has to have as well, a doctor or a teacher—what about the gym teacher?”

  “He’s the football coach.” Jon’s eyes rose from his cup to meet Daegan’s. “He thinks everyone should be able to take a hit now and again. ‘Makes boys into men,’ he says, but it’s all a bunch of crap.”

  “Does Todd know that you’ve seen what happens to him?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s why he hates me so much. He’s afraid I’ll tell, and well…” Jon shifted in his chair as if he’d like to crawl out of his skin. “Sometimes he makes me so mad I say the first thing that comes to my mind. I know he’ll stop picking on me or giving me a bad time if I bring up the fact that his old man beats him.”

  “And you feel bad about it?”

  “Sometimes. It makes the other kids laugh at him, and even though he deserves it—man, does he deserve it—I know what it feels like.” He took a long swallow from his drink, as if his throat was suddenly parched.

  “So what do you think we should do?” Daegan asked, studying the boy.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t want to get Todd into any more trouble, not now anyway.”

  “What if he starts picking on you again?”

  “Then I’ll have to beat him up myself,” Jon said with a cocky grin.

  “You think that would be the answer?”

  Jon offered him a one-sided smile that was so much like his own he could barely breathe. “The best one we’ve got.”

  “Gotcha!” Adrenalin coursed through Neils VanHorn’s bloodstream. With a hoot, he slapped the itinerary onto the top of his metal desk and silently praised himself for being one helluva private detective. Sullivan was getting his money’s worth.

  He took a pull on his beer and leaned back in his chair, balancing the bottle on his flat stomach. Perseverance, perseverance, perseverance! Ha! Take that, Beatrice, you snobby bitch.

  Finally, he’d struck pay dirt and he could feel his wallet growing heavier by the second. Glancing again at the copy of Bibi’s itinerary, he wondered what she was up to.

  Narrowing his eyes, he let the cold beer slide down his throat. Recently, about the time the old man started making noise about finding the kid, Beatrice had taken herself a little trip to San Francisco, where she’d met her doctor boyfriend for a fun-filled weekend. But on the way to the West Coast, she’d stopped in Helena, Montana—just a layover, but a strange one considering that there were plenty of nonstop flights coast to coast.

  Oftentimes a person had to stop in Denver, Chicago, Minneapolis, even Dallas, but Helena, Montana? Never. Besides, Bibi had already stopped once in Chicago, where she’d changed planes, and rather than take the continuing service to Seattle, she’d opted for a smaller jet with a destination of Backwater, U.S.A. Two hours later she climbed aboard yet another plane, this one headed for her final destination of San Francisco. There had to be a reason she’d spent a few hours on the ground. Why?

  To meet someone?

  Who?

  He picked up a legal pad with his notes scattered through half the pages and thumbed through the wrinkled sheets. He’d already checked and found that the only person who was remotely associated with Bibi or the Sullivan family who lived within a radius of five hundred miles of the airport was Daegan O’Rourke, Frank Sullivan’s bastard, the guy some people thought had killed his half cousin, Stuart.

  So why would Bibi want to talk to O’Rourke?

  What could they possibly have in common? O’Rourke was a juvenile delinquent turned into a goddamned cowboy, for Christ’s sake—a cowboy! From South Boston. If nothing else, O’Rourke had a sense of humor. Bibi was a fading Boston socialite, a rich divorcée intent on marrying an uptight doctor. As far as Neils knew, Bibi and Daegan had nothing to share except they were related to one of the meanest sons of bitches of all time—good old Frank Sullivan.

  Born wealthy, Frank had spent his life feeling third in line while William was alive and then second best when his eldest brother had died. Insecure and mean, Frank Sullivan reminded Neils of a street tough, rather than a guy who’d been born with a silver spoon rammed down his gullet.

  Why would Bibi fly halfway across the country to see O’Rourke?


  He wrote Daegan’s name on the note pad and circled it over and over again, trying to come up with a reason. O’Rourke had been a private investigator himself; maybe Bibi had hired him to help her. With what? To check on her boyfriend? Nah! The timing was too coincidental and Neils didn’t put much stock in coincidence.

  So what?

  Did they share a secret?

  Did he know about the kid?

  He stopped drawing and concentrated so hard that his head began to pound. His other leads had dried up. He’d tried to locate Tyrell Clark’s staff but had come up empty-handed. Even the women who worked for him, Rinda DuBois and Kate Summers, were no longer anywhere near Boston. Rinda lived in the Florida Keys somewhere, still working for a lawyer, and she hadn’t seen or heard from either Tyrell or Kate for fifteen years. Kate Summers, well, he was still looking for that one. Her name was just too damned common, but he wasn’t giving up. She’d left Boston soon after the baby was born, before Tyrell’s death. Perhaps she and Tyrell were lovers, or maybe she knew about his illegal scams that the IRS was looking into, or…she left with a baby?

  “Oh, hell, you’re really losing it, VanHorn,” he growled at the empty room, but he doodled around her name on the yellow paper. She might just know something, but he couldn’t find her or her family. Her father was dead, her alcoholic mother dead as well, an aunt and uncle in Des Moines acting as if she’d fallen off the face of the earth because of some vile thing she’d done as a teenager and her sister—hell, what was her name? Linda? Lori? No, Laura. That was it. Laura Rudisill Something or other. Neils hadn’t tried to get through to her because Kate, who had only worked for Tyrell Clark a little while, seemed like such a longshot to be involved in something of this magnitude. She was barely more than a receptionist. Would Clark have trusted her with the truth about Beatrice Sullivan’s baby? Or could she have stumbled upon it innocently—is that why she disappeared so completely when she left Boston? Or had she been, as Neils originally suspected, Clark’s girlfriend?

  He’d given up on that angle for the time being because he had this interesting development with good ol’ Bibi and her infamous bastard cousin. He’d start with Daegan O’Rourke. He had his number somewhere…Flipping through the pages of his notebook, he found the scrap of information he needed, then decided against making a phone call. No, a visit would be better—harder for O’Rourke to avoid. Face to face, that’s how it was gonna be.