by Nora Roberts
"Jeez, Mom." He wriggled in mortification. "I know."
"I'm sorry I snapped at you."
He rolled his eyes, but trickles of remorse found their way through the embarrassment. "I guess I'm sorry, too."
"You and Connor can have a sleep-over next weekend. I promise."
"Okay, that's cool." When she didn't release him, he frowned. But it wasn't so bad, letting her hold him—since none of the guys were around to see. She smelled nice, and her arms were soft. There were flickers of memory of being rocked and soothed.
He was simply too young to do anything but take them for granted. She'd always been there. She always would. He let his head rest on her shoulder, and didn't feel like squirming when she stroked his hair.
"Could we maybe cook out on the grill later?"
"Sure. Want superburgers?"
"Yeah, and french fries."
"What's a superburger without fries?" she murmured, then sighed. "Bryan, has Con said anything to you about his father?"
She felt her son go still, and pressed a light kiss to his hair. "Is it a secret?"
"Sort of."
"I don't want you to betray a confidence. I found out today that Connor's father used to hit his mother. I thought if Con had talked to you about it, you might want to talk to me.''
He'd wanted to, ever since Connor had told him. But Connor had cried some—even though Bryan had pretended not to notice. And a guy just didn't tell his mother things like that.
"Con's said he's in jail for hitting her. Con said he used to hurt her real bad, and he drank a lot and gave her bruises and everything. They're getting divorced."
"I see." She'd seen plenty of men who were Joe Dolin's type in her life, but that didn't stop her from despising them. "Did he hit Con, too? And Emma?"
"Not Emma." Here was another dicey part, but Bryan heard himself blurting it out before he could stop. "But he hit Con. Not when his mom was around and could see. He'd call him names and shove him. He said Con was a sissy 'cause he liked to read books and write stories. Con's no sissy."
"Of course he's not."
"He's just real smart. He doesn't hardly have to study to get the answers right. But he doesn't raise his hand in class very much. The teacher calls on him anyway." As he stared off into the woods, Bryan's face darkened with rage. "Some of the kids give him a hard time about things. About his father, and how he's teacher's pet and how he can't throw a baseball very far. But they back off when I'm around."
Savannah closed her eyes, laid on cheek on Bryan's head. "You're quite a guy."
"Hell—heck." He corrected himself quickly. "Bullies are just wimps underneath, right?"
"Right. Con's not the only one's who's smart." She let out a sigh. "Bryan, I need to talk to you. Do you remember the other day, when you came home and Mr. MacKade was here?"
"Sure."
"He's a lawyer, and he came here on business."
"Are we in trouble?"
"No." She turned him so that they were face-to-face. "We're not in trouble. We're fine. He came about... My father died, Bryan."
"Oh." He felt nothing but mild surprise himself. He'd never met his grandfather, knew of him only because his mother had explained that Jim Morningstar was a rodeo rider who moved around a lot. "I guess he was pretty old."
"Yeah." Fifty? she wondered. Sixty? She didn't have a clue. "I never really explained things to you, exactly. Your grandfather and I had a fight a long time ago, and I left home."
How could she tell this child, her beautiful child, that he'd been the cause of it? No, that she wouldn't do. That she would never do.
"Anyway, I left, and we sort of lost touch."
"How did Mr. MacKade know he was dead? Did he know him?"
"No, it's a lawyer thing. Your grandfather got hurt, and it started him thinking, I guess. He hired this lawyer out in Oklahoma to find us, and the lawyer called Mr. MacKade. It all took awhile, then Mr. MacKade came out to tell me. And to let me know that your grandfather left some money."
"Wow, really?"
"It's about seven thousand—"
"Dollars?" Bryan finished for her, eyes popping. It was all the money in the world. Enough for a new bike, a new mitt, the Cal Ripkin rookie baseball card he lusted for. "We get to keep it? Just like that?"
"I have to sign some papers."
The dollar signs faded from his eyes long enough for Bryan to read his mother's face. "How come you don't want it?"
"I... Oh, Bryan." Defeated, she curled up her legs and rested her brow on them. "I don't know how to explain it to you. I've been so mad at him all these years. Now I'm mad at him for waiting until he was dead."
Bryan patted her head and thought it over. "Is it like him saying he's sorry? And if you take it you'd be saying you were sorry, too?"
She let out a half laugh at the simplicity of it. "Why couldn't I have thought of that?" Wearily she lifted her head, studied his face. "You think we should take it."
"I guess we don't need to." He watched Cal Ripkin fly gracefully away. "I mean, you've got your job, and we've got a house now."
"No," she murmured. "We don't need to." She felt the weight slip from her shoulders. They didn't need to, and that was exactly why they could. "I'll go see Mr. MacKade on Monday and tell him to put the money through."
"Cool." Bryan leaped to his feet. "I'm going to call Con and tell him we're rich."
"No."
He skidded to a halt. "But, Mom..."
"No. Bragging about money is very uncool. And I might as well break it to you now, Ace. It doesn't make us rich, and I'm dumping it into a college fund."
His mouth dropped open, nearly scraping his shoes. "College? That's a hundred years away. Maybe I won't even go."
"That'll be up to you, but the money'll be there."
"Oh, man." At nine, Bryan was experiencing the pain of a fortune won and lost. "All of it?"
"All—" his shattered face changed her mind in midstep "— except some." You can have one thing. It'll be like a present from your grandfather."
Hope bloomed. "One anything?"
"One any reasonable thing. A gold-plated Corvette slides over to the unreasonable side."
He let out a whoop, leaped over to hug her. "I've gotta go look up something in my baseball-card price guide."
She watched him go, full steam, catapulting onto the porch, streaking into the house with the screen door slamming like a gunshot behind him.
Later, while she grilled burgers on the porch with Bryan curled up with his price guide and dreams of glory, Jared sat on the other side of the haunted woods and thought of her.
He was tempted, very tempted, to stride through those woods and finish the altercation she had started that afternoon out on the sidewalk in front of Ed's.
Prickly women weren't his style, Jared reminded himself and set the chair rocking. Prickly women with lightning tempers and murky pasts were even less so. Not that she wasn't interesting, and not that he didn't like fitting puzzle pieces together.
But his life was cruising along at a very comfortable pace at the moment. He would have enjoyed her companionship—on a purely superficial level, of course. A few dates, leading to physical contact. After all, a dead man would fantasize about rolling around with a woman who looked like that.
And Jared MacKade wasn't dead.
He also wasn't stupid. The woman who'd blasted him that afternoon was nothing but trouble. The last thing one hot temper needed was to crash up against another. That was why he preferred his women cool, composed and reasonable.
Like his ex-wife, he thought with a grimace. She'd been so cool there were times he wanted to hold a mirror in front of her mouth to see if she was still breathing.
But that was another story.
First thing Monday morning, he was going to draft a nice formal letter advising Savannah Morningstar of her inheritance and the steps she was required to take to accept or decline it.
He didn't mind getting his hands dirty for a clien
t, sweating for one, even losing sleep for one. But she wasn't his damn client, and he'd taken professional courtesy to his colleague out west as far as he intended to.
He was out of it.
Hell, the woman had a kid. A very appealing kid, but that was beside the point. If he pursued a personal relationship with her, it would involve the kid, as well. There was no way around that one and, Jared admitted, there shouldn't be one.
Then there was that fact that, beneath that scorching beauty, the woman was tough as shoe leather. There was no doubt that she'd been around, knew the ropes and had probably climbed plenty of them. A woman didn't get eyes that aware by spending all her time baking biscuits.
He imagined she could chew a man up, spit him out, and have him come crawling back for more.
Well, not this man.
He could handle her, of course. If he wanted to.
That exotic, unbelievable face zipped straight to the center of his mind and taunted him.
God, he wanted to.
In disgust, Jared sprang up and headed into the woods. He needed to walk, he decided. And he preferred the company of ghosts to his own thoughts.
Chapter Four
"Good afternoon, MacKade law offices." Sissy Bleaker, Jared's secretary, answered the phone on the fly. It was quarter to five, she had a hot date in exactly one hour, and the boss had been like a bear with a sore tooth all day. "Oh, yes, hello, Mr. Brill. No, Mr. MacKade is in conference."
Sissy could have spit nails when the front door opened. How the devil was she supposed to look irresistibly sexy in an hour if she couldn't get out of here?
"I'll be happy to take a message." As she picked up a pad, she glanced up. And decided she could have a week at her disposal and not pull off the kind of in-your-face sexy that had just walked into Jared MacKade's outer office.
Savannah hated being here. She hated that she'd felt obliged to change out of jeans into pleated trousers and a jacket. Something about visiting official places compelled her to put on a front.
And this place certainly looked official. The pretty plants and bland pastel paintings on matte-white walls didn't hide the fact that law was the order here. The carpet was a muted gray, the deeper-toned chairs in the waiting area were likely just the wrong side of comfortable.
We wouldn't want people to be at their ease now, would we? she thought bitterly.
She'd never known a den of authority—social services, a principal's office, an unemployment line—to offer comfort. Still, she'd thought the man had more style than to choose such a cold, formal setting for his work.
The secretary behind the polished reception-area desk was young, bright-eyed and, Savannah was sure, fiercely efficient. The quick greeting smile she sent in Savannah's direction was carefully empty of curiosity and perfectly balanced between warm and cool.
Savannah had no idea Sissy was curdling with envy inside.
"Yes, Mr. Brill, I'll see that he gets your message. You're welcome. Goodbye." Wondering just where the mystery visitor had come across that terrific jacket, all sweeping lines and bold colors, Sissy hung up the phone and aimed her most professional smile.
"Good afternoon. May I help you?"
"I'd like to see Mr. MacKade."
"Do you have an appointment?" Sissy knew very well she did not. Jared's schedule was filed in her brain right alongside her own.
"No, I was..." Damn, she hated this. "I was in town, and I thought I'd take a chance he'd be free for a minute."
"I'm afraid he's in conference, Ms___"
"Morningstar." Of course he was in conference, Savannah thought nastily. Where else was a lawyer when he wasn't on the putting green but in conference? "Then I'd like to leave a message."
The name Morningstar rang all sorts of bells in Sissy's brain. It had been said through gritted teeth that morning, when Jared dictated a briskly formal letter with all kinds of interesting hums between the lines.
"Certainly. If it's personal, you could write it down and I'll... Oh." Sissy beamed at her phone. "Mr. MacKade's just finished his conference call, I see. Why don't I buzz him, see if he can squeeze you in?"
"Fine, great." Restless, Savannah turned away to pace.
Sissy decided that if she grew six inches in height, filled out several more in the right places, she might just look that impressive on the move.
"Mr. MacKade, there's a Ms. Morningstar to see you, if you have a moment. Yes, sir, she's in the office now. Yes, sir." Careful to keep her lips from sliding into a smile, Sissy hung up the phone. "He'll see you, Ms. Morningstar. It's right up those stairs and to the left. First door."
"Thanks." Savannah turned toward the short curve of stairs, put one hand on the pristine white rail and climbed.
Must have been a town house at one time, she decided. Or a duplex. Though she wouldn't have called the place homey, Savannah admitted it had class—if you went in for snooty and nondescript.
There was a short hallway at the top of the steps, a print of a spray of white orchids in a white vase that was so soulless and ordinary it offended her artist's eye, and two doors facing each other.
She strode to the one on the left, rapped once and opened it.
Of course he'd look terrific in charcoal gray, she thought. A lot better than the office did, with its dull grays and punishing whites. Someone should tell him work was more pleasant in an environment with a little color and life.
But it wouldn't be her.
He rose, elegant in his three-piece suit and carefully knotted tie. A tie he'd just jerked back into place. She thought, with an inner sense of rebellion, that he looked like more of a lawyer than ever.
"Ms. Morningstar." He inclined his head. He thought that her stepping into the room was like having some brilliant bolt of lightning strike a placid pond. "Have a seat."
"It won't take long." She remained standing, stubbornly. "I appreciate you taking the time to see me."
"I had the time." To illustrate the point, he moved a file from the center of his desk to the side, and sat. "What can I do for you?"
In answer, she pulled papers out of her purse, tossed them on his desk. "I signed them, in triplicate, and had them notarized." Her driver's license landed with a plop on top of the papers. "That's my ID." She threw in her social security card for good measure. "I don't have a birth certificate."
"Mm-hmm..." Taking his time, Jared pulled brown horn-rims out of his jacket pocket and slipped them on to study the papers.
Savannah stared at him, swallowed hard. It didn't seem to matter that she told herself it was ridiculous. Her heart had skipped a beat. He looked gorgeous, intellectually sexy, in those damn glasses. And made her feel like a fumbling fool.
"It's all in order," she began.
"Afraid not." Thoughtfully, He picked up her driver's license, perused it. "This is invalid."
"The hell it is. I just had it renewed a couple of months ago."
"That may be," he continued, studying her now. "But as the picture actually looks like you, and is, in fact, flattering, this driver's license is obviously a fraud, and therefore, invalid."
She closed her mouth, jammed her hands in her pockets. "Are you making a joke? Is that allowed in hallowed halls?"
"Sit down, Savannah. Please."
With a bad-tempered shrug, she sat. "Did you ever hear of color?" she demanded. "This place is dull as a textbook, and your art is pathetically ordinary."
"It is, isn't it?" he agreed easily. "My ex-wife decorated the place. She was a tax accountant, had the office across the hall." He leaned back and scanned the room. "I've gotten used to not seeing the place, but you're right. It could use something."
"It could use an obituary." Annoyed with herself, she pushed a hand through her hair. "I hate being here."
"I can see that." He picked up the papers again, skimmed through them. "You understand that you're agreeing to accept a payment, by cashier's check, that equals the total cash balance of your father's estate?"
"Yes."
/>
"And his effects?"
"I thought.. .I thought that meant the money. What else is there?"
"Apparently there are a few personal effects. I can get you an itemized list if you like, so that you can decide if you want them sent or discarded. The shipping would be deducted from the estate."
Discarded, she thought. As she had been. "No, just have them sent."
"All right." Methodically he made notes on a yellow legal pad. "I'll have my secretary draft a letter tomorrow confirming the status and apprising you that you'll receive full disbursement of the estate within forty-five days."
"Why do you need a letter when you've just told me?"
He glanced up from the papers, the eyes behind the lenses amused. "The law likes to cover its butt with as much paperwork as humanly possible."
He signed the papers himself as proxy for his colleague, then handed Savannah back her license and social security card.
"That's it, then?"
"That's it."
"Well." Feeling awkward, and relieved, she rose. "It wasn't as painful as I expected. I suppose if I'm ever in the market for a lawyer, I'll give you a call."
"I wouldn't have you as a client, Savannah."
Her eyes fired as he took off his glasses and stood to come around the desk. "That's very neighborly of you."
"I wouldn't have you as a client," he repeated, standing behind her, "because then this would be unethical."
He caught her off guard. She'd had no idea any man could still catch her off guard. But she was in Jared's arms and being thoroughly kissed before she had a chance to evade.
If she'd wanted to evade.
There was heat, of course. She expected that, enjoyed that. But it was the lushness of it that surprised her—the silky, sumptuous spread of it that bloomed in that meeting of lips, flowering through her body.
He held her close, in a smooth, confident embrace, no fumbling, no grappling. He gave her room to resist, and as that clever, wide-palmed hand skimmed lightly up her spine, she thought only a fool would step away from that caress, that mouth, that heat.
So she stepped into it, sliding her own hands up his back until they were hooked over his shoulders.
