The Tough Guy and the Toddler

by Diane Pershing

  He’d been right, Jordan thought, she was taking it the wrong way. How could she not? Swept up in an embrace with a man she was not only attracted to physically but starting to care about on a much deeper level, then to have the cold water of reality thrown in her face. When Dom was with her, he thought about his late wife.

  “Jordan? Did you hear what I said? It’s not what it sounds like.”

  She took a moment to gather her composure. She should ask him to drive her to her car, she supposed. She felt stupid, embarrassed, as though she’d done something wrong, as though his thinking about Theresa was because she, Jordan was lacking in some way.

  He held her by the shoulders. “You’re not listening.”

  “Yes, yes. I am.” She had to focus on what he was saying—it was important. “You’re thinking about your wife.”

  “See, it’s like Theresa’s some kind of, I don’t know, voice in my head.”

  “And what does the voice say?”

  “Not to make promises I can’t keep.”

  That one seemed to come out of left field. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll ask more of me than I can give. Not sex, I’m not talking about sex. Is this making any sense at all?” He looked utterly miserable, and she felt totally confused.

  “Dom, I...I don’t know what to say.”

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders, gripped the top of the railing with both hands and stared at the water. His profile was that of an ancient Roman, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Hey, I don’t blame you.”

  There was silence between them for a while before Jordan, also looking out to sea, said quietly, “You loved her very much.”

  “Yeah. Lot of good it did her.”

  Startled by the depth of bitterness in Dom’s voice, she glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “She died.”

  There was something going on here, some undercurrent she hadn’t picked up on before, and she latched on to that small thread of knowledge greedily. “How did she die?”

  “She bled to death on the bathroom floor.”

  “My God,” Jordan gasped as her hand flew to her heart.

  “She’d been pregnant, one of those tubular things. The tube burst and she was alone and couldn’t get any help. I was out on a drug bust at the time. I came home and found her.”

  Horrified both for Dom and a woman she’d never known, Jordan said nothing for several moments, then managed, “How awful.”

  They were both quiet for a while, then she ventured another question. “Is that what this is about? Do you blame yourself for her death?”

  He frowned, then nodded. “Sometimes.” He angled his head to look at her straight on, his face twisted with conflict. Shadows from the lights on the water danced on his visage, making it seem strange, almost grotesque.

  Then he raised both hands as though warding off an evil spirit and announced, “That’s it. No more questions, okay?”

  She took one of his hands and brought it to her cheek and held it there. “No more questions, I prom—”

  Beep-beep-beep! The sound pierced the night, making Dom jerk his hand from her grasp. “Damn,” he said under his breath.

  He reached for the pager at his waistband and turned it off. As he unhooked it to see the readout, Jordan pulled his jacket tighter around her. She was trembling, not just from the chill. Her body was all swirling sensations, her mind confused.

  “I have to call in,” Dom muttered.

  “I thought this was your day off.”

  “The day ends at midnight. Come on.”

  Wordlessly, they hurried to Morgan R’s, where Jordan waited while Dom made his phone call. When he hung up, he shook his head. “Sorry, something’s come up. I have to leave.”

  “What is it?”

  “The less you know about my work,” he answered tersely, “the better you’ll sleep. Come on, I’ll get you back to your car.”

  They said good-night to Nick, then Dom drove them toward Beverly Hills. They didn’t speak much on the drive. His face had that shuttered, protected expression again. Did he regret telling her about Theresa? Did he regret kissing her? Was he anxious to get away from her? Jordan wished she could read him, wanted to understand him.

  “Dom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I would like to know about your work. It’s part of who you are.”

  When he didn’t respond, she sat back in her seat, disappointed. Then he spoke. “Remember the day we met, when I drove you home and you wanted to know if I was as cynical and hard as I seemed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, the truth is, most of me is. The first two years as a deputy you spend on custody duty—lockup, prisoners, jail. You get real wise in the ways of the criminal mind, and it’s not pretty. Since then I’ve done time on vice and narcotics—real underbelly stuff, nasty people with creepy, sick minds. Now I’m part of the personal and property unit. That means armed robbery, rapes, spousal abuse. That phone call I just got? Looks like a teenage girl was gang-raped, and my partner, Steve, and I have to do the follow-up. I have bad stories from all the years, Jordan, lots of them. I’ve learned to keep them to myself because after a while, it got so Theresa didn’t want to hear them.”

  “I’m not Theresa.” It came out of her so quickly she wasn’t sure where it had come from. She didn’t say it angrily or petulantly, just stated the fact. Wanted him to hear her loud and clear.

  He glanced at her, then nodded. “No, you’re not, are you?”

  Another enigmatic reaction, another enigmatic statement. What went on in the deepest heart of this man? Jordan wondered.

  When they got to the restaurant, she insisted he drop her off at the valet because she knew he was in a hurry. Before she opened the car door, she kissed him quickly on the cheek. “I had a lovely time,” she said. “You’re a lovely man.”

  His expression was startled, then he let out a bark of laughter. “You are too much, Jordan Carlisle, you really are.”

  Her mood was pensive as she drove up to the house, parked the car and let herself in the front door, careful to keep quiet. A single light burned in the foyer. As she closed the door, she glanced at the small table.

  A special delivery envelope lay on the table, addressed to her, printed in block letters.

  Chapter 6

  The instructions this time were typed. The sender was still interested in the reward for information about her son. If she wanted to pursue this, on the following night, Saturday, at seven, she was to go to Union Station—alone—to a specific locker and pick up a package that contained proof and further instructions. A locker key was taped to the letter. The last sentence was more strongly worded than the last time. This is a private transaction. If you bring in the law, it’s off. As before, it was signed, A Friend.

  All reflections on the evening with Dom flew out of her head as, thoroughly shaken, Jordan stared at the words written on the page. Again? He wasn’t through taunting her yet? The familiar sensations of clammy palms and thudding heartbeats began to overtake her. She tried to summon up anger—how dare someone anonymous play with her emotions this way?

  But it was no use, because even as she told herself this was just one more punch line in someone’s sick joke, she couldn’t help the surge of hope the letter aroused. It mentioned proof, proof of Michael’s existence.

  She headed up the stairs to her room, telling herself her reaction was foolish. She should throw the letter away, or keep it and, yes, report it to the authorities. This was probably a crime—malicious mischief or something like that.

  Certainly she mustn’t take it seriously. Some person had decided to play mind games with her by making her think her son wasn’t dead. That was bad enough. But for Jordan to act on that, to go to a public place, to an anonymous locker, well, that was not only foolish but possibly insane. This whole thing was like something out of a movie.

  Closing the bedroom door behind her, Jordan stared again at
the letter. As she did, Dom’s voice echoed in her head. Scam artist. Ghoul.

  But what if—

  No, she chided herself. It had been Michael who died in that car crash, of course it had been. She would not give “A Friend” the dignity of even considering it, she told herself. She flung the letter on the floor and sank onto her bed.

  But that didn’t stop her mind. Why would he or she go to all the bother—the letters, the locker key—why send another letter unless there was something to it?

  Her hands clenched into fists on the bedspread. How could she allow herself to hope? And how could she not? If there were one chance in a million that her son was still, by some miracle, alive, how could she not investigate further?

  Jordan sighed. Should she go to the train station? Alone? What if there were something dangerous in the locker? Like a bomb?

  She laughed weakly. No, no, she was letting her imagination run away with her. The letter writer was someone who wanted her to believe her son was still alive and was going to offer proof. After that would come demands for money. Why kill or harm the fatted calf? So to speak.

  Still, she had some trepidation about going alone. What she ought to do was ask someone to go with her.

  Dom, she thought immediately, she wanted Dom with her—he would know what to do.

  But no, she had to keep this from Dom. If you bring in the law, it’s off.

  Who else could she trust? she asked herself, because, of course, her mind had been made up for her by the sender of the letter. She would take this key and go to the station the next night. With a friend or alone. It didn’t matter.

  If there was even the slightest chance of seeing her son again, she would jump through whatever hoops were put in her path.

  As Saturday was the busiest day of the week, Jordan usually spent it at the shop. So, the next day, she kept herself occupied at Riches and Rags, trying not to count the hours till that evening. When Lisa commented on how industrious she was, Jordan just smiled. At one point, she was on the verge of asking Lisa to go with her, but when the shop owner mentioned that she had a date, Jordan said nothing.

  She planned to leave about six-fifteen, to give herself plenty of time to get to Union Station and park. At five forty-five, during a lull in the steady stream of customers, Jordan had an armload of dresses on hangers and was placing each one onto its appropriate rack near the rear of the shop when the front door opened. Looking up, she smiled automatically, then froze in place.

  Dom stood there, filling the doorway with his presence. His gaze scanned the room, then came to rest on her. Their eyes locked for a quick moment—he had that intense, brooding look on his face again—before she called out, “Hello.”

  Out of nowhere, a surge of happiness shot through her. Dom had come to see her. That meant whatever demons he was struggling with—and after last night, she knew there were some serious ones—he wasn’t going to disappear from her life—at least, not yet. That was enough to make her smile.

  Her next thought wiped the smile right off her face. The timing for his visit couldn’t have been worse. Uh-oh, Jordan thought. What do I do now?

  Lisa came bustling up to Dom and offered a cheery smile. “May I help you find something, sir?”

  He glanced at her briefly, then returned his gaze to Jordan. “No, I see what I came to find.”

  Lisa followed the direction of his gaze, caught the way Jordan stood, unmoving, and nodded. “All right,” she said, then walked casually over to her.

  Lisa took a couple of the dresses, moved a few hangers around and hung them on the rack, while she said under her breath, “You okay? This guy some kind of problem?”

  “No,” Jordan replied, keeping her voice low so the shop’s piped-in jazz would cover the sound. “I know him, it’s all right. Dom,” she called out. “Give me a moment to finish this, okay?”

  “No problem,” he said. “Take your time.”

  Lisa whispered, “He’s a little scary-looking, isn’t he?”

  “Only at first.” Her mind racing furiously, Jordan lifted another dress from her pile, shook it out and hooked it on the rack.

  Lisa winked at Jordan. “So, you’ve been keeping secrets from me, huh?”

  Jordan glanced quickly at Dom. He’d closed the door behind him and moved to stand in front of the wide shop windows. His dark form was outlined by the fading afternoon light. His arms were crossed over his broad chest, and he wore his work clothes—unbuttoned jacket, shirt, loosely knotted tie. A powerful picture.

  “No, no secrets,” she told Lisa. “He’s the policeman I told you about—the one that drove me home after that car chase.”

  “Oh, right. Rude, Italian and macho, I think you said.” She snuck a quick peek at Dom. “But there’s more going on now, right?”

  “Well—”

  “Have you gone out with him?”

  “You’re a witch. Yes. Last night.”

  “Aha. And, not being a fool, the man is back for more.”

  Lisa turned, gave Dom another bright smile, then said under her breath, “I wonder why scary looking is such a turn-on? This one looks like he could gobble you up and you’d love every moment of it Done the deed yet?”

  A startled laugh erupted from Jordan’s mouth, but she bit down hard on her bottom lip to discourage any more. “Stop, Lisa,” she whispered furiously, placing another dress on the rack. “We haven’t—” She swallowed, feeling incredibly juvenile. “Well, not yet.”

  “Really? How can you keep your hands off him?”

  “Shush.”

  Here she was giggling like a schoolgirl, but it wasn’t only because Lisa was a naturally funny person. Dom’s presence seemed to make her all jumpy and nervous, too. Yes, he was scary looking, and yes—if her body’s reaction was anything to go on—he was sexy as all get-out. If she allowed it, the memory of that slow, sizzling kiss the night before could reduce her to jelly right here in the middle of the shop.

  However, at this moment, she was on her way to a railroad station locker, a fact she had to keep secret from the man who had just walked in the door. So Jordan’s current list of priorities didn’t include discussing her sex life with Lisa like two teenagers in the girls’ bathroom.

  Dom let his gaze dart around the shop, not quite sure why he was here. He’d been in the neighborhood doing a follow-up interview with a witness to last night’s crime and remembered Jordan telling him about Riches and Rags. He’d told himself he would drop by, see if she was there, say hello. No big deal.

  But now that he was here, now that he was looking at her, he knew his what-the-hell casual excuse to be here was pure bull pucky. He was here because he needed to see her again. Too much had gone down between them the previous night to try to sweep it under the rug. And besides, he wanted her.

  His body was revved and on alert even with only three hours sleep the night before. He wanted Jordan Carlisle, and today, wanting her seemed much less complicated than it had last night. Maybe telling her the truth, talking it through, had helped. Maybe, like Jordan had said, unburdening yourself to someone else provided necessary release.

  Whatever. He wanted her and he’d come here to get her. His body had taken over, had told his mind to take a hike.

  However, she’d only smiled briefly at the sight of him. She hadn’t glowed with welcome, the way he’d pictured. Instead, she seemed nervous, jumpy. Was she uncomfortable about what had happened between the two of them? Had he been too honest, telling her about Theresa? Or was there something else going on?

  Abandoning his post at the doorway, he walked toward her. She was still working through the armful of dresses, hanging them up one by one, taking her time. The other woman was helping her and chuckling at something.

  He came to a halt. A long rack of blouses separated them. “This a bad time?” he asked Jordan.

  She glanced at him, then away immediately. Keeping her gaze focused on the clothing in her arms, she said, as though uncertain, “Well—”

 
Again, not exactly rolling out the old carpet. Was she giving him the brush-off? He felt his jaw tighten at the thought. What he ought to do was say adios, sorry to have bothered you, turn on his heel and get out of there.

  But before he could, the cute one with the frizzy hair scurried around the rack and breezed up to him.

  “Hi, I’m Lisa Davidson, this is my shop.” When she offered her small hand, he took it in his and shook it. Her grip was surprisingly strong for such a petite person.

  “Dom D’Annunzio,” he said.

  “Jordan,” Lisa called, addressing her but still smiling at him, “Dom here seems a little impatient to speak with you. Why don’t the two of you go get a cup of coffee next door? I can manage.”

  He glanced at Jordan to check her reaction. She seemed flustered by Lisa’s offer. “But I was going to straighten up the sweaters before I left.”

  “I’ll do it. Go on.” She turned to look at Dom, grinned and batted her eyelashes at him in a parody of flirtatiousness. “Any more like you at home?”

  He couldn’t help returning her smile. He liked up-front women. “Three brothers and four sisters, but they all live back east.”

  “Guess I’d better work on my frequent flyer miles.” She walked purposefully to the dress rack, making shooing gestures at Jordan with her hands. “Go on. Get out of here. Talk to the man.” She grabbed the rest of the dresses from her in a no-nonsense manner.

  Jordan still seemed unsettled, but said, “Well, okay. I’ll just get my purse,” she told him and headed for the back of the store.

  Not exactly enthusiastic, Dom thought, but he’d take what he could get.

  While he waited he walked around the shop, checking it out. Lots of silk and lace, assorted colors and prints on the clothing and a faint powdery smell in the air. There were flowers in vases all around, and pictures of old-fashioned women in old-fashioned gowns adorned the walls. Jewelry and silver brushes glittered in glass shelves.