“Jordan,” Dom called out. “Over here.”
The police car doors slammed. A voice called out, “Halt, or I’ll shoot!”
“Don’t shoot!” Dom yelled. “I’m L.A. Sheriff’s Department. The woman behind me is a 5150 and I’ve just removed the child from danger. Jordan,” Dom called again. “Open your arms, catch him and fall into the dirt. Got it?”
Her answering shout came from directly below. “Got it.”
As an enraged Myra struggled to reach them, Dom released the little boy and watched him fall, down, down, down, right into his mother’s embrace. The impact threw them both into the dirt pile, but all the while, Jordan shielded him from harm by holding him tightly to her.
Dom heaved a sigh of relief. Michael was safe. Now it was time to deal with Myra and the local cops.
Resting her head against Dom’s shoulder, Jordan held onto his hand a little more tightly. Soon, she thought, soon it would all be over.
The bench they sat on was cool, as was the hallway outside the judge’s chambers, with its marble columns and stone floor. But Jordan felt almost feverish. It was so close, so near, the moment she would have her son back for good.
The last few days had gone by in a blur. After Myra, still screaming, had been led away in handcuffs, Jordan had wanted to take Michael home, but the police—who had been called by a neighbor—had detained her. No, they told her, she could not take him out of the county, not until the local department of children’s services had investigated the case.
She’d protested, but Dom’s assurances and a talk with the social worker had settled her into accepting reality—Jordan might know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this small boy was hers, but it had to be proved and sanctioned by the State of California.
From there, Dom had taken care of everything. Arranged for tetanus shots for all of them. Gotten on the phone, made sure the hospital records from Michael’s birth-including his newborn footprints, blood type and the record of the strawberry mark on his shoulder—were faxed to them in two hours instead of two days. It was Dom who harried, nagged, bullied the social worker, doctor, lab technician, local police, lawyers, paper pushers, Dom who’d burned up phone and fax lines, twisting arms, calling in favors. Getting results.
Because of Dom, she was sitting outside the judge’s chambers only days after her reunion with Michael, instead of the weeks or even months that a child dispute case could take.
Cynthia sat on the adjoining bench next to the high-powered lawyer she’d brought with her from L.A. She seemed collected and calm, as she usually did. She had offered a stiff apology to Jordan for doubting her, which Jordan had accepted. Still, their relationship was strained and probably always would be.
Jordan clutched Dom’s hand again—she felt much closer to this man she’d known only for weeks than the woman with whom she’d shared a house for twelve years.
“You’ve given me so much support,” she told him. “What would I have done without you?”
“Don’t, Jordan.”
“I have to. You’ve earned my undying gratitude for the rest of my life.”
Gratitude. Again.
If he went the rest of his life without hearing that damn word, Dom figured it would be too soon.
He’d done what had to be done, that was all. He’d extended his sick leave so he could be with Jordan these past few days. While she visited with Michael, he kept tabs on all the paperwork and legalities necessary to make sure Jordan’s case was handled right.
At night, they’d eaten dinner together, slept together, made love. As if by mutual agreement, they hadn’t talked about the future, hadn’t spoken of feelings. She’d needed distraction, he figured, not more emotional burden; he’d needed to see her through this, to make up for his missteps.
Jordan snuggled into him, as though seeking warmth and protection. Oh yeah, she was grateful as hell.
But how did she feel, deep down, about him? he wondered. He wasn’t blind, she got that look on her face each time they made love, that shining glow of satisfaction and trust that looked like love. But was it? Or was it gratitude?
Jordan was basically alone, no family to speak off, and Cynthia with her arrogant sniffs was no support. So Dom had come into her life, and she’d glommed onto him like a drowning woman needing rescue. Not that he blamed her. Hey, if you needed help, you took it wherever you could find it.
But he didn’t want Jordan’s gratitude. Hell, he didn’t deserve it. Here she was thanking him right and left for making this day possible, when with a slight turn of the coin, it could have come out differently. Myra could have jumped before he got to her. The kid could have been proven to be Rory Foster, not Michael Carlisle. Any one of a number of things could have gotten in the way of a happy ending, and it was only sheer luck that had made it turn out all right.
So he was here today, by her side, finishing up what he’d begun. He was ready to close the file on Michael Carlisle...and Jordan Carlisle. It was better that way. Let her return to L.A. with her little boy, start a new life with him. And without Dom. Clean break. Best thing.
Then why did that thought make him feel as though his heart was being squeezed by a vise? Because sometimes you didn’t get what you want. That was how life worked. And he was strong; he’d get over it. He just needed to tell her.
Jordan stirred beside him, then lifted her head from his shoulder and said, “Do you think this is all a dream?”
“Why are you asking that?”
“Because all this seems so strange, so impossible to believe. Myra’s story, the fact that Michael is alive, that he’s here. It’s like something out of a fantasy.”
Myra had broken down when led away, and was now hospitalized. In the past few days, her version of the car crash had come out in bits and pieces. That day, Michael was in his child safety seat in the rear right of the Mercedes. Rory was strapped into the regular seat belt behind Reynolds. In the back seat, the two little boys fought over Michael’s stuffed dog. Rory grabbed it and threw it out the open window. When Michael sobbed for Pup-Pup, Reynolds lost his temper and turned to slap Rory. Myra blocked his arm, he lost control of the steering wheel, they veered off the embankment, rolled over twice and landed on the driver’s side.
Reynolds and Rory were killed immediately. Myra and Michael, both on the passenger side, were miraculously spared. She managed to get her door open, dragged Michael with her, hauled him up the embankment and started running. Even when she heard the big explosion behind her, she kept on running. A truck driver stopped to pick them up, and gave them a ride to Santa Barbara. Her parents came to get her and the rest of the story was known.
Somewhere in there, both her grief and her mental instability had caused her to become confused about the child’s identity, and she began to call the boy Rory.
She would probably be hospitalized the rest of her life.
“So, is it a dream?” Jordan asked again. “Because if it is, I don’t want to wake up.”
A uniformed bailiff approached. “Mrs. Carlisle?”
“Yes?”
“The judge sends his apologies. It will be another half hour before he can meet with you.”
Jordan didn’t want to wait any more, not even another half hour, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. As though he’d read her mind, Dom rose from the bench and offered a hand. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
“Good idea. Cynthia?” she said, turning to her mother-in-law. “Feel like a walk?”
“No, thank you.”
There was a little garden behind the courthouse, and the moment she and Dom got outside, Jordan lifted her face to the sun. “Oh, that feels good.”
“Yeah.”
She put her hand through Dom’s bent arm and they strolled along the garden. Early spring flowers and bushes were in colorful bloom. Life, she thought. A fine thing. She was still edgy, would be until the papers were signed, but the fact was, she was so much better, so much clearer-headed at this moment than she’d b
een all the weeks preceding, that she could actually appreciate a garden.
She laughed with the sheer pleasure of being able to laugh again, then squeezed Dom’s arm. “When we get back to L.A.,” she told him, “Michael and I expect to be seeing a lot of you.”
“Yeah, well, I need to get back to work. It’s all piling up on my desk, waiting for me.”
“Of course.” Grinning, she reached up, pushed a few strands of hair off his forehead. One of these days, the man really needed to get a proper haircut. “Expect dinner invitations, then, lots of them.”
He halted, which made her stop also. The sides of his mouth were turned down. “Don’t, Jordan.”
“Don’t what?” she asked, puzzled by his attitude. “Invite you to dinner?”
“Don’t expect anything of me.”
The abruptness of his comment made her head jerk in surprise. “Is that what I’m doing?”
Without him answering, the frown line between his brows deepened. They stood near a white stone bench, beneath a shade tree, and shadows cast by the leaves made his face seem even darker than normal. “I need to talk to you,” he said finally, and the way he said it made her stomach turn suddenly queasy with trepidation.
“All right.” Slowly, she lowered herself onto the bench and looked up at him.
Propping a foot on the bench next to her, Dom grabbed at a narrow, low-hanging branch and stripped off a couple of leaves. He held them in his hand and stared at them. “From the beginning,” he said, without looking at her, “there’s been something in the back of my head that feels wrong, about you and me, you know, being together. I’ve thought about it and thought about it, and the way I figure, it’s a big responsibility, loving someone. And deep down, I’m one of those old-fashioned types. The last time, the only time, I told a woman I loved her, I proposed marriage right away. That’s what the word ‘love’ means to me—commitment, making it official in a church.” Turning his troubled gaze on her, he added, “Following me so far?”
He was so serious, almost mournful, Jordan thought. And he was about to tell her he didn’t love her. Oh, lord, she thought. What would she do? “So far,” she said hesitantly.
Removing his foot from the bench, Dom sat down next to her and refocused his gaze on the ground. “I can’t do that to you. Being a cop’s wife is too damned hard for most women, and besides, I’m not good husband material. I’ve gone over this in my head for a while, and I can’t get past it. No matter how I feel about you, I can’t make any promises. I—” He paused, seemed about to say more, then shook his head. “Damn, this is hard.”
“Dom?”
He looked at her. “Yeah?”
She thought she got it now, but she wasn’t sure. “Forgive me, but I’m confused. Did you just say you don’t love me, or that you do?”
“Well, yeah, I do, but I can’t marry you.”
A smile started at her toes and shot right up her body till it reached her mouth. He loved her! “Can we stay on the love thing for a minute?” she said, her eyes filling. “Because as it turns out, I happen to love you too,”
For an instant there, his expression softened and she thought he was going to smile back, but then he scowled again. “Don’t, Jordan.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me that way. Damn it, I don’t want to love you. Every time I’m with you, I feel guilty.”
She had to tread lightly here. “Why is that, do you think?”
“I’ve already told you. It’s something about Theresa.”
“What about Theresa?”
He expelled an impatient breath. “I didn’t take good enough care of her. I didn’t protect her.”
Jordan stared at her lap for a moment, wanting to be sure to choose her words carefully. “Dom, she was a grown woman. She was the one who chose to get pregnant, even knowing it could affect her health. It was her choice.”
“She was obsessed.”
“Yes, poor thing. And no one can make anyone else get over an obsession.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I think I’m proof of that.”
Why wasn’t she getting it? Dom wondered, gritting his teeth, frustrated as all get-out. Finally, he turned and gripped her arms, not hard, just emphatically. “Jordan, you have to understand. I wasn’t there for her, and I’m afraid I won’t be there for you.”
She smiled at him lovingly. “I can’t speak for Theresa, but you’ve always been there for me. Always, from the beginning.”
“Yeah,” he said with disgust, “as a cop.”
“No, as a man.”
“Bull,” he said, rising from the bench. Turning his back on her, he rested one hand against the tree trunk, filled with hearty dislike for himself. “I almost blew this case. You almost didn’t get Michael back because of me.”
“And I did get Michael back because of you,” she answered him. He heard a rustling sound, then Jordan came around to face him. Propping a shoulder against the tree trunk, she crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re beating yourself up over something that was not in your control, Dom,” she said firmly, “crucifying yourself on your own, homemade cross.” Her expression softened. “Theresa wanted a child, she got tunnel-visioned about it. It wasn’t her fault, she wasn’t a bad person, but neither are you. She wasn’t perfect, and neither are you.”
“You got that right,” he muttered.
As she continued to stare at him, she seemed puzzled. Then her gaze narrowed. “Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?”
“Hey, Jordan, don’t.”
“Well, you know what? I’m getting angry. You say you love me, but you’ve done all the thinking for us and you’ve decided it’s a dead end. Have you ever heard of taking a little time to work on a relationship? To explore some options? Have you ever heard about talking?”
“Mrs. Carlisle?” The bailiff had come outside and was trying to get Jordan’s attention. But she wasn’t done with Dom, not yet. Yeah, she was definitely working up a good head of steam.
“Whatever you want to do with your memories of your marriage,” she went on, shoving her finger into his chest for punctuation, “get it through that thick skull of yours, D’Annunzio. I’m not Theresa. I refuse to stand here and let her memory interfere with us, with you and me. I refuse.”
He threw his hands up in the air and walked away from her. “Fine. Refuse all you want, I’m not marrying you.”
“You stupid, pig-headed man!” she shouted after him. “I don’t recall asking you to!”
“Mrs. Carlisle?” the bailiff repeated.
She whipped around to face the young man. “What!”
He flinched, but went on bravely. “Sorry to interrupt you, but the judge is ready for you now.”
Chapter 14
The hearing was over in minutes.
The Kaczmaraks were there, but they left before Jordan could talk to them. It was probably best that way, she thought. She had compassion for their situation and gratitude that Myra had saved Michael’s life, but she also knew there was nothing she could say or do that would restore their daughter’s mental health or return their real grandson to them.
As for the fourth Kaczmarak family member, Wally had been picked up two days before and charged with parole violation and extortion.
The social worker had explained to Jordan that Michael had been through a lot, that he was physically capable of speaking, but at present chose not to. Time and patience and love would repair most of the damage, but Jordan was not to expect anything from him for quite a while.
She didn’t care how long it took, she thought, as she signed all the papers put in front of her. She had her son back. And when the social worker brought Michael to her, Jordan got down on her haunches to speak to him. Instinctively, she knew enough not to grab him and confuse him further.
“Michael,” she said slowly, in a soft voice, “we’re going home now. A different home than you’ve been living in. Maybe you’ll remember this home and maybe you won’t. Whatever happens, yo
u are safe. I love you with all my heart.”
He stared at her, his finger in his mouth.
“Do you remember,” Jordan went on, “you used to raise your arms to me and say, ‘Mommy, hug,’ and I would lift you up and hug you very tightly? One day, when you’re ready to do that again, I will be there.”
With a smile, she stood, took his small hand in hers.
Dom, his arms crossed over his chest, watched the whole thing, most especially the look of mother love on Jordan’s face as she gazed at her son. The back of Dom’s throat got tight, and he had to swallow a couple of times before it loosened up.
When Jordan had Michael’s hand, she looked directly at Dom. In her gaze was a question and not a little trepidation. So much always showed in those eyes of hers. She hadn’t been too pleased with him a few moments ago; hell, he hadn’t been too pleased with himself. He’d intended to lay it out for her and end it. It hadn’t gone down anything like that clean, and both of them, he was sure, were feeling abandoned in limbo.
“Coming?” she asked him.
“Nah. I think it’s better if I don’t. Give you two a little time.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she smiled. “You’re right. I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
The little boy gazed at his mother, then turned his unsmiling attention to Dom. Jordan’s old soul was staring at him out of those eyes.
“You nervous?” Dom asked Nick as they stood adjusting their tuxedos in the chapel’s anteroom mirror. “You’re supposed to be a wreck by now.”
“Sorry.” Nick held one hand, fingers splayed, in front of him. “See? Steady as a rock.”
“I can’t believe you.” Dom cursed as he fidgeted with the tie. It was a clip-on—why wouldn’t it lie straight? “I mean, it’s not as though you don’t know what’s ahead. It’s hard work being married. You’ve been down that road before.”
The Tough Guy and the Toddler Page 24
