by Fay Robinson
“This baby changes everything for you and Jack.”
“I know,” Lucky told her sister. “We’re already separated. What’s a baby going to do to us?”
“Lucky, if the marriage isn’t working and you’re not happy, then file for divorce and save yourself a lot of grief. It is possible to raise a child without a man around.”
Lucky didn’t respond. At this point she didn’t know exactly what she wanted. But despite his annoying quirks, she loved Jack and didn’t want to raise their child alone. He’d never allow that anyway. He’d demand to be part of his child’s life.
“You’d better tell him as soon as possible,” her sister said.
“I will,” Lucky replied, but with little conviction.
“Lucky, do it. Don’t make things worse by having him find out some other way.”
“I will, okay?” And she would, but she dreaded it because she knew how Jack would react. He’d be thrilled. He’d want to move back in. But not for her. Not because he wanted to be with her. Only for the sake of the baby. And when that happened, she’d never be able to trust his feelings again.
This pregnancy would destroy any hope she had of saving her marriage.
Dear Reader,
In my story, Mr. and Mrs. Wrong, Jack and Erin Cahill love each other, but their differences result in a separation before their first wedding anniversary. Jack has secrets from his past that he’s unwilling to share. Lucky—as Erin has been nicknamed by her family—must let go of hurts from long ago if she and Jack are to have any chance of making their marriage work.
Lucky is a bit eccentric. Of all the characters I’ve created, I believe she’s my favorite. To do justice to her, I paired her with someone very special. Jack is a strong, sexy cop who adores her but doesn’t always understand how her mind works. That makes for some interesting conversations—and trouble. The people of Potock, Alabama, don’t call Lucky the “Body Magnet” for no reason. And her nickname “Lucky” isn’t always appropriate.
This book contains drama and laughter, suspense and romance. The setting is special to me—the Black Warrior River, where I spent many wonderful days of my childhood.
I very much enjoyed writing this story. I hope you enjoy reading it.
I’d love to hear from readers. You can write me at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. You might also want to visit my Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com/. Or check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.
Sincerely,
Fay Robinson
Books by Fay Robinson
HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE
911—A MAN LIKE MAC
961—COMING HOME TO YOU
Mr. and Mrs. Wrong
Fay Robinson
For my mother, who was fearless.
And for Casey, who never minds listening to my crazy ideas.
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
My deepest appreciation to the following people
for their help with research questions:
Buck Sanders, logger; Larry Hood, forestry manager;
Julie Merced and the Autism Society of Alabama;
forensic investigator Jim Sparrow and the Alabama
Department of Forensic Sciences; Larry Nichols of the IRS;
Cindy Taylor, private investigator; Robert Seidler, game
warden; and the members of the P-rock research list.
Any errors in this material are mine and not theirs.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
HE SHOWED UP without warning on a Thursday night. He said he’d left his boxing gloves behind when he’d moved out and needed them, but they both knew he kept them in his locker at the gym.
Lucky undid the latch on the screen door and the one on her heart and invited him in—again. Last time, the supposedly missing object had been his extra pistol. Before that, a basketball.
In the four months since Jack had taken an apartment in town, putting their eleven-month marriage in question, they’d searched for a “favorite” shirt he’d never worn and for tools he didn’t use. They’d turned the cabin upside down looking for a first-edition Hemingway he didn’t own and for a burglary-case file he’d never have left lying around. The only things they’d ever found were the zippers to each other’s pants.
“Whoa!” he said with a start, getting a better look at her. “What the hell did you do to your hair?”
“Whacked it all off, obviously.”
“No kidding.”
She waved back a moth that tried to follow him onto the porch, then flipped on the lights at the pier to draw the insects down to the water and away from him. The mosquitoes never bothered her. Like all the creatures who called Alabama’s Black Warrior River home, she’d accepted them as a natural part of life.
But Jack was already slapping at his skin, so she handed him the canning jar she’d learned to keep by the door. It contained a mixture of herbs and 190-proof grain alcohol. She’d inherited the recipe for the insect repellent from her granddaddy thirteen years ago, along with this cabin and eighty acres of surrounding bottom land.
Unscrewing the lid, Jack took a sniff. “You didn’t brew this in a whiskey still out here somewhere, did you, runt?”
“If I had, don’t you think I’d be drinkin’ the stuff, instead of making bug juice out of it?”
Chuckling, he dipped his fingers in the jar and dabbed a few drops of the liquid on his neck, face and below his rolled-up sleeves. He wore his dress clothes from work and, after chasing bad guys all day and being out in humidity over ninety percent, appeared wilted and tired. His tie was askew, and beggar lice and other bits of plant material clung to the hems of his pants. He needed a shave.
The gun he usually carried was probably locked inside his car’s glove compartment, but the empty shoulder holster by itself was enough to give him a dangerous look.
Much about Jack was dangerous, mysterious even, including his background. That was one of the things that had attracted her to him in the beginning. These days, though, the unanswered questions about his past only irritated her.
“So what’s the deal with your hair?” he asked. “Did you have one of those hissy fits your grandmother talks about?”
“A hissy fit is when you’re mad. I wasn’t mad.”
“What were you?”
“I don’t know. I felt like cutting it off, so I did.”
She fingered it. Three nights ago, during a depression over their crumbling marriage, she’d suddenly decided—after a lifetime of wearing her hair to her waist—that it had to go. The first crude snips she’d made with sewing scissors. A beautician had taken off most of the rest the next morning while trying to repair the damage Lucky had done. With the weight gone, it was no longer forced to behave, resulting in a riot of brown curls.
“Pretty awful, huh?” she asked him.
“No, not at all. Shocked me at first because you look so different, but it’s cute.” He reached out and playfully ran his fingers through it.
She let out a breath, exasperated. Never in a million years had she imagined he’d like it. Maybe she’d even lopped it off to spite him; she wasn’t sure. Where Jack was concerned, she had a hard time being honest with herself.
�
�But…you told me a million times I looked good in long hair.”
“You did. But this suits you, too.”
“Cal says I look like I had a brawl with 100,000 volts of electrical current.”
He chortled. “Want me to hurt him for you?”
“No, silly.” She tried not to smile.
“I could maim him slightly,” he teased. “Lock up one of his knee joints so he’d have to hobble around for a few weeks.”
He could, too. She’d once watched him take down three suspects in a robbery and never even draw his weapon.
“Better not,” she said. “As much as I’d love to see him in pain, he’s the only brother I’ve got.” She waved for him to follow her. “Come inside. It’s a bit cooler.”
“Have any beer?”
“I think so.”
The front room was a combination den and kitchen and even had a bed for nights when no breeze came off the river and the tiny bedroom became an oven. The old ceiling fan rattled overhead but barely stirred the air.
Her treasures—bird feathers, turtle shells, fossils, snakeskins and other objects she’d found in the woods and water—covered the walls and nearly every surface. Photographs littered the couch and chairs, leaving nowhere to sit.
“Things are a mess,” she said.
“When haven’t things been a mess?” He headed for the kitchen area.
“Try calling first to let me know you’re coming. I might clean up.”
“Like that would do any good. You need to throw away or burn some of this junk. The place is worse than a nature museum.” He opened the refrigerator, leaned in and started moving things around in search of a beer. He jumped back abruptly. “Damn! There’s a dead animal in here in a garbage bag!”
Oops. She’d forgotten about him. “That’s an otter.”
“What’s it doing in the refrigerator?”
“The poor thing drowned in one of my fish traps. I put him in there until I can give him a proper burial.”
He turned back with a pointed stare. “You’re going to have a funeral for an otter?”
“Not a funeral, Jack. Don’t make me sound like some nut. I don’t feel right simply tossing him in a hole in the ground since I caused his death, so I’m going to find a nice box for him.”
“Dead animals don’t belong in the refrigerator.”
“The next time I buy a chicken, I’ll remember that.”
“I’m serious, Lucky. Stuff like this shouldn’t be in the house, and you know it.”
She made a mental note not to let him in the bathroom if she could help it. He’d have a stroke if he saw what she was keeping in the tub.
“Let’s not argue, please.”
“Fine. It’s your place. You do what you want.” He slammed the fridge door. “I’ll pass on the beer until after the eulogy.”
Lucky bit back her retort.
He wandered over and took a cursory glance at the prints on the couch. “What’s this stuff?”
“Leigh asked me to frame two or three of my photographs to hang in her new office, now that Dad’s vacated it.”
“I’m surprised he’s taking his retirement so well. He seems really happy.”
“When did you see Dad?”
“He and Cal and I played golf the other day. He looked better than I’ve ever seen him. More relaxed.”
“I think he’ll enjoy concentrating on his weekly column and leaving the day-to-day hassle of running the newspaper to Cal and Leigh. Besides, Leigh’s managed the editorial side of things for a couple of years, anyway. She may as well have the title.” Lucky picked up some of the photographs. “I like the ones of the hummingbirds. The sunrise reflecting in the water is pretty good, too, but what do you think of this one? It’s Mr. Byrd, the old man who squeezes lemonade down at Turner’s drugstore.”
“I like it. Shows all the character lines in his face.” He chose one from a stack she’d developed that afternoon. “I’d skip this ugly thing, though. What is it?”
“A cicada. They’re courting right now.”
“That must be the racket I heard when I drove up.”
Racket. She thought of it as music.
He picked up several more prints and this time studied them. “These are pretty incredible,” he said, making her smile. “It’s a shame the public only ever sees your news photos. If you had your own studio…”
The smile vanished. “Don’t start, Jack.”
“Come on, Lucky. At least think about it. You’d get exposure for this area of your work. You could set your own hours and you wouldn’t have to be out at night. I don’t like you driving around here in the dark. It’s too isolated.”
“I’m three miles from downtown! And as far as my job goes, I couldn’t make a living freelancing. I’d have to worry about paying rent, getting equipment, setting up my own darkroom and buying chemicals—”
“Okay, I get it.”
“Not to mention having to hire someone to answer the phone and handle appointments.”
“I said I get it.”
“I like being able to take personal photos at my convenience, and Dad lets me use the Register’s dark-room after hours for nothing. That saves me a lot of money. I’d be foolish to quit my job there.”
He squeezed his forehead with one hand, his usual gesture of frustration. “I said okay. You’ve made your point.”
“Then please stop nagging me about this.”
“I would if you’d stay out of trouble. Your name’s already crossed my desk twice this week. What were you doing in the middle of that domestic dispute on Carver Avenue Monday afternoon?”
“That was purely accidental. I was taking photos there when the woman’s ex-boyfriend showed up drunk and tried to break down the door.”
“Situations like that can get you killed. What if he’d had a weapon?”
“Good grief! The story was about her doll collection. How could I have possibly known there’d be problems from that? You act like I get myself in trouble on purpose.”
“Sometimes I think you do. You thrive on the thrill of it.”
She started to respond, then let the comment slide. No, she wouldn’t talk about this anymore. Not with him. She had a job she loved and did well, and he was wrong in trying to tell her what she could and couldn’t do.
She crossed her arms and didn’t say anything. He tried to discuss it further, but she refused. Finally he gave up and dropped the subject.
He asked her about bills that needed paying. She asked him about her traitorous dog, who preferred to live with him. They talked about the weather, if she thought it might rain by morning. The conversation was stupid, purposely noncombative. But at least they weren’t arguing.
When they’d exhausted every “safe” topic, they stood staring at each other.
“Well…” He absently scratched his dark head.
“Well…” She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze without feeling foolish. Her cheeks grew hot. Other places grew hot. They were about to engage in something she didn’t want—sex without commitment—and she couldn’t figure out why.
Because…the only time they got along was when they were horizontal. Much as she hated to admit it, that was the sad reality. He accused her of being too independent, and maybe she was. But he was too dictatorial. The one thing they had in common was their overpowering physical attraction to each other.
The anticipation thickened. She shifted from one bare foot to the other. Her pulse rose and her heart thumped so hard she imagined he could hear it. One of these nights she’d refuse to give him what he’d come here for.
But not tonight.
“I guess we should look for those boxing gloves before it gets too late,” she told him, playing the game. They never spoke the rules out loud or even acknowledged there was a game, but the result was always the same. “Where do you think you left them? The storage room?”
“The bedroom.”
Her face turned an even deeper shade of red. He was anx
ious tonight. He’d skipped a couple of the usual steps.
She swallowed her nervousness. “Okay, let’s go look.”
The room was tiny, dominated by the double bed, with no space left for any other furniture except a trunk she’d picked up at a garage sale and used as a table. A half-size closet built into one wall held the jeans and shirts she wore to work, the drawer under it her underwear and shorts. Her few good dresses for church hung from a hook on the back of the door. That was it. Nothing else could fit.
She made a pretense of going through the closet, anyway, even getting on her hands and knees to peer under the bed with a flashlight.
“I don’t see them. You sure you didn’t take them with you?”
When she stood, he moved closer and pressed himself against her, enveloping her in his arms. He was already aroused. “Now that I think about it,” he said, sliding one hand inside her shorts, “I guess I did.”
JACK PROMISED HIMSELF he wouldn’t do this again, because it only made the situation harder on Lucky and on himself, but his determination had deserted him the instant she’d appeared at the door. In its wake remained an aching desire that only touching her could erase.
He nuzzled the crook of her neck, catching the scent of sunblock and the metal left on her skin from the iron-contaminated groundwater. Sexy. He didn’t know how, but it was.
Lucky could smell like fish, or the vinegar she sometimes put on her sunburn, and still excite him to the point of pain. But it was the breathy little sounds of pleasure she made when he touched her that always did him in. Like now. They bubbled from her throat to heat his blood and erase whatever good intentions he’d had when he arrived.
He continued to stroke as he undressed her, taking time as he removed her top and bra to kiss the freckles on her shoulders and the line her bathing suit had made across her tanned back. Slight of build, with few curves to speak of, she wasn’t the ideal of beauty, and yet she was beautiful. To him, anyway. She possessed the kind of beauty that exists without effort or artifice.
