“Could be another month, maybe.”
I nodded. “Before you go, I have something to show you.”
His eyes crinkled. “I’ve already seen what you got, darlin’. And if you think showing it to me again is gonna make me change my mind and stay in Nashville—”
“Lovely as that sounds, this is something different.” I pulled my cell phone from my purse and flicked it open.
“That’s a shame,” Rafe said, “cause I was just about to let myself be talked into it.”
I ignored him while I hunted through my pictures for the one Dix had sent earlier. And then I put the phone in Rafe’s hand and watched his expression.
For a second, his face turned absolutely blank, and I don’t think he remembered to breathe. When he found his voice again, it was carefully neutral, but not without the slightest of tremors. “Looks like me.”
I nodded. “He does.”
“Who is he?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know. It’s a picture Elspeth Caulfield had on her nightstand.”
I explained, quickly, about the will, and how Martin and McCall were the executors, and that Dix and I had gone to Elspeth’s house looking for information. “There’s no name on the back of the photo, and Dix hasn’t been able to find anything else yet, either. It could even be a coincidence.”
“How d’you figure that?”
“She was a little crazy, you know? Delusional, or whatnot. She might have seen this boy somewhere and taken a picture of him just because he does look so much like you. He might not be anybody.”
Rafe shook his head. “Look at him. He’s mine. And probably hers. Fuck!”
I didn’t answer. After a second he glanced at me, “Sorry.”
“No problem.” I’d expected a few bad words. He was actually being pretty calm, everything considered.
“But I have a kid! A kid that nobody bothered to tell me about. A kid who’s…” He calculated in his head, “eleven years and eight or nine months old. And he doesn’t know who I am!”
“He probably has a family,” I said.
He looked at me, his eyes a little wild. “You think?”
“Look at him. He looks happy, healthy, well-fed, clean…” All the things Rafe hadn’t been at that age. “If the car in the background is theirs, they’re reasonably well-off, and the shirt he’s wearing looks like part of a uniform. See the logo? He probably goes to private school.”
“Yeah.” Rafe looked down at the screen again. The boy smiled back, his dark eyes shining and his smile brilliant.
“I’m sorry to spring it on you like this, especially with everything else you have to worry about right now. But if you’re not coming back for weeks, or even a month, I didn’t want you to leave Nashville without knowing. Dix is trying to track him down. I’ll let you know what he finds out.”
He nodded.
“Do you have a phone number or an email address I can use to reach you?”
“Call Tammy. She’ll call Wendell and he’ll get a message to me.”
“Do you want a copy of the picture? To take with you?”
I could see he was tempted, but he shook his head. “Better not.” He handed the phone back, after one more look. I tucked it into my bag.
We stood in silence for a second.
“You should go,” Rafe said.
I nodded. I didn’t want to, but I should. The sooner I left, the sooner he could leave, and the sooner he’d be back. “Do you think enough time has passed for the guys across the parking lot to believe that we’ve... um... finished our business?”
“We can take a couple minutes to make it look convincing. C’mere, darlin’.”
He reached for me. Drove his fingers into my hair and mussed it. Yanked my skirt up a couple of inches. Kissed me, hard. Made sure I looked breathless and roughly used before he opened the door and pushed me through the opening. “Thanks, querida. I’ll call you next time I’m in town.”
The door slammed shut behind me. The guys across the lot laughed uproariously. I stood there for a second, straightening my dress and smoothing down my hair, before I walked to the Volvo with as much dignity I could muster. And then I drove away, without looking back.
Keep reading for an excerpt of Close to Home, Savannah Martin Mystery #4
Excerpt
* * *
When Rafe Collier came back from the dead, I was late.
Not the kind of late that Mother always drummed into me is rude and inconsiderate, because it makes other people feel I don’t value their time or consider them as important as myself. In Mother’s book of Southern etiquette, making someone wait is a sin of equal magnitude with eating dessert on a date or wearing white shoes after Labor Day.
I wasn’t that kind of late. In fact, if Mother had realized what kind of late I was, she might well have disowned me.
Rafe wasn’t that kind of dead, either. I knew that. (Except for eight pretty bad hours when I’d thought he’d really died, before I realized it was all part of a big, elaborate hoax the Nashville PD and the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation had cooked up.) See, earlier this fall, someone had sent a contract killer named Jorge Pena after Rafe. Jorge was very good at his job—this was per Rafe, whose opinion I tended to trust on things like that—and when word came down from the Sweetwater sheriff that Rafe was dead, I’d believed it. It wasn’t until eight hours later—eight horrible, interminable hours—that I learned the truth: Rafe wasn’t dead, Jorge was. The powers that be (and they didn’t include Sheriff Satterfield in Sweetwater) had decided that Rafe should take Jorge’s place, to try to figure out who was paying Jorge to kill him. The fact that there was a slight resemblance between them—both tall, dark, and dangerous—only helped with the illusion. Rafe had left Nashville for parts unknown—probably Memphis—six weeks ago, and while he was away, I’d realized I was late.
As in, I should have gotten my period, and didn’t.
Yes, I was that kind of late. The kind that results in morning sickness and the pitter-patter of little feet.
“I have a problem,” I told Dix.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” my brother answered, his voice as clear in my ear as if he were sitting right next to me instead of a couple of counties over. “What’s your problem?”
The emphasis told me I wasn’t the only one with problems. Maybe our sister Catherine had called him to moan and groan. Or maybe Todd had. Dix’s best friend, assistant D.A. Todd Satterfield, had probably called to whine about me, and about the fact that I hadn’t yet accepted his proposal of marriage. Or maybe something was going on with Dix himself. Although what kind of problem could Dix possibly have, with his perfect wife, his perfect children, and his perfect career?
Still, I’ve been trained well. I asked. Making sure my voice was sympathetic. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing you can help me with right now. Except maybe by giving me a distraction. What sort of problem, sis?”
“I’m...” I cleared my throat, “...pregnant.”
Dix was quiet for a second. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I could have sworn I heard you say you’re pregnant.”
I didn’t answer.
“You did say you’re pregnant.”
He waited. When I still didn’t speak, he added, “Well, that did it. I’m distracted. Are you sure?”
Of course I was sure. It wasn’t the kind of thing I’d toss around if I weren’t. I’d bought six different over-the-counter pregnancy tests, all different brands, two of each so as to safeguard myself against any mistakes, and all six had come out positive, one after the other. I was definitely pregnant.
“Well, are congratulations in order?” Dix asked. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t sound happy.”
“I’m not sure how I feel. Other than scared out of my mind.”
“Because of the...” he lowered his voice, “miscarriage?”
I’d had a miscarriage some three years ago, while I’d been married to Bradley Ferguson. I had told Cather
ine about it, and she had told Mother, and at some point I guess someone had told Dix. It wasn’t me. It’s not the sort of thing you discuss with your brother.
“How do you know about that?”
“Catherine told Sheila.” His voice changed subtly on his wife’s name, but I didn’t pursue it. In retrospect I realize I should have, but at the time I had other things on my mind.
“That’s part of it,” I answered. “It was not a good experience.”
Understatement of the year. Bradley and I had lasted less than two years before we called it quits, so I guess it had been for the best, really, but at the time it had been difficult.
“I guess this’ll make Todd happy, anyway,” Dix said now, trying to look on the bright side. “Now you’ll have to marry him.”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t bring myself to come right out and say it. “It isn’t Todd’s baby.”
And then I didn’t have to. When I didn’t say anything, Dix read my silence. His voice changed. “Oh, sis. What have you done?”
“Something stupid?” I don’t know why I posed it as a question.
“I’d say. You slept with him? And you didn’t make sure you were protected? What were you thinking?”
“That’s kind of the problem,” I muttered. “I wasn’t.”
I’d been feeling. Needing. Enjoying. But not thinking. Too wrapped up in the moment, I hadn’t given the possibility of getting pregnant a thought until I didn’t get my period on time. And Dix was right. I’d been an idiot. It had been bad enough to sleep with Rafe in the first place, when I knew we’d never have any kind of real relationship, but to do it without protection...!
“That’s obvious,” Dix said.
My voice was tiny. “So what do I do now?”
“You’re asking me?” I could picture him, running his fingers through his sandy blond hair, making it stand straight up. Fisting his hands in it in frustration and yanking. “All right. You don’t have many options that I can see. There’s not much chance you can pass this kid off as Todd’s...”
“No.” Any baby Rafe and I made would have its father’s dark hair, dark eyes, and golden skin. My blonde and blue-eyed fairness might lighten things up a little, like a liberal dash of milk in coffee, but we’re still talking café au lait, not plain vanilla. And since Todd is as fair-haired and blue-eyed as I am, there was no way we’d be able to explain something like that away. Or like he’d want to.
“God, sis,” Dix said, as if he were looking at the picture in my mind and freaking out all over again, “what were you thinking?”
The thing is, the picture was beautiful. A little baby... girl? boy?... with big dark eyes, thick black lashes, and a big toothless smile, holding on to my finger—
“Obviously marrying him is out,” Dix said, popping the bubble.
I nodded. Yes, and not only because he hadn’t asked. He probably didn’t want to. No, scratch that—he definitely didn’t want to. He’d been upfront about it. He wanted me in his bed, but he didn’t want a relationship. Not that he’d said so, but surely if he had, I would have heard something from him at least once in the past six weeks. The whole experience must not have been as mind-blowing for him as it had been for me. He’d achieved his goal of bedding Savannah Martin, and now he was on to the next woman. While I was here, barefoot and pregnant. Damn him.
“And I can’t imagine you want to be a single mother,” Dix continued, twisting the knife.
I shook my head again. I knew he couldn’t see me, but I couldn’t help the kneejerk reaction.
“So I guess that leaves the two As. Adoption or abortion.”
And there it was. Carrying the baby to term and giving it away to someone else. Or getting rid of it now, before it developed into a real problem.
There were issues inherent in these scenarios too, of course. While healthy white newborns are a hot commodity on the adoption market, this baby wouldn’t precisely be white. LaDonna Collier had been a blue-eyed blonde like me, but Rafe’s father had been black, and Rafe looked, if not specifically African-American, at least far from Caucasian, which might make things more difficult. Although not impossible. There was sure to be someone out there who’d be happy to have Rafe’s baby. Someone who’d love it and take care of it. A mixed couple, maybe, who couldn’t conceive. Or just someone braver than me, who wouldn’t care what people thought. After all, any baby of Rafe’s would be beautiful. Couldn’t help but be. And having gone through a miscarriage myself, I had all the sympathy in the world for people who couldn’t conceive. But if I carried the baby for nine months and then gave birth to it, would I be able to give it up? Or would I get attached, in spite of my fears?
And as for deliberately terminating the pregnancy, I wasn’t sure I could do that, either. It’d be the easiest solution, certainly, it was just—
“Did you tell him?” Dix interrupted my train of thought.
God, no. “I just realized it a few days ago.” And although I could have gotten hold of him if I really wanted to, through Detective Grimaldi with the Nashville police, I wasn’t yet sure I wanted him to know.
“I don’t suppose it would have mattered,” Dix said judiciously. “After all, there’s nothing he could have done about it. Your body, your choice. Although if he’d told his grandmother...”
“What do you mean, there’s nothing he can do?” He could do a hell of a lot, as far as I was concerned.
Dix was silent for a moment. “Who are we talking about here, sis?”
I took the phone away from my ear to stare at it, and put it back. “What do you mean, who are we talking about? Who do you think we’re talking about? Rafe, of course.”
“Right,” Dix said. “Rafe Collier. Isn’t he dead?”
Oh... shit.
“Darn,” I said faintly.
“He’s not dead? Sis?”
I drew breath and blew it out, thinking about knocking my head against the coffee table. Stupid, stupid, stupid...
Well, the cat was out of the bag now. Lying wouldn’t do any good; besides, Dix could always tell when I did. I might as well tell the truth. And beg him not to pass it on.
“No, he isn’t dead. He’s undercover. But you can’t tell anyone, Dix. You’ve got to promise me that you won’t. If word gets out that he survived that nutcase they sent to kill him, they’ll just send someone else. And I don’t want him to die.”
My voice shook. I could still remember that horrible feeling I got when Dix told me that Todd had told him that the sheriff had said that Rafe was dead. No doubt Dix remembered, as well.
He was silent for a moment. “Are you in love with this guy, sis?”
“Of course not,” I said, grabbing a strand of hair and twirling it around my finger.
“You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not.” And even if I were, he couldn’t possibly tell from two counties away.
“Is your finger turning blue?”
“Why would my finger be turning blue?” I unwound the hair and inspected the finger. Not blue.
“You always play with your hair when you’re lying,” Dix said.
“I’m not lying.” I leaned back on the sofa pretending I hadn’t been doing exactly what he’d accused me of doing. “God, Dix, have you lost your mind? How could you possibly think I’d fall in love with Rafe Collier? Mother would kill me!”
“You forget,” Dix said, “I saw your face last month, when you thought he’d died. And don’t bother trying to tell me that you knew, at that point, that he was just faking it, because I won’t believe you. You thought he was dead, and you had a meltdown.”
“It wasn’t a meltdown.” I’d kept myself from becoming a blubbering mess, and as far as I was concerned, that was a major achievement, when all I’d wanted to do was break down in hysterics.
“You also told me you’d fallen for him.”
“A little. I said a little. And that was when I thought he was dead.”
“Right,” Dix said. “Relax, sis. It’s n
ot like I’m going to tell anyone. This isn’t something I’d want to get around.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” Dix said. “You’re up there in Nashville. You can turn off your phone. I live with these people. And if word got out that you’re pregnant, and with Rafe Collier’s baby—oh, and by the way, he’s not really dead after all, so guess what, he’ll be around, practically part of the family—can you imagine the flak I’d get?”
I could imagine, only too well. I suppressed a shudder.
“So no,” Dix said, “until you figure out what you’re going to do, I won’t be saying a word to anyone. And when you do figure it out, assuming there’s anything to tell at that point, you’re telling them.”
Fair enough.
“So Collier doesn’t know.” Dix picked up the conversation where we’d left off several tangents ago.
I shook my head, although he couldn’t see it. “He left that same night. And I haven’t heard from him since.”
“He seduced you and left town and he didn’t even leave a number? I’m gonna kill him.”
“Please don’t.” And not just because if he tried, chances were Rafe would kill Dix instead. “It’s not his fault.”
“Whose fault is it?”
I sighed. “It’s mine. I should have been more careful. He was always upfront about what he wanted, and it wasn’t anything permanent.”
“I should hope not,” Dix said darkly, “because if he offers to marry you, I want you to say no.”
I couldn’t help it, I giggled. Weakly, but it was a giggle. “I don’t think you have to worry about that.”
God, could you picture it? Rafe Collier facing Mother over the Thanksgiving Day turkey for the next thirty years...?
And then, to my absolute mortification, the giggle turned to a sob, and then another. “I don’t know what to do, Dix. I can’t keep the baby—what will people think?—but I don’t think I can give it away, either. Not after carrying it for nine months. I’ll get attached, you know I will. And aborting it—just because I’m too much of a coward to keep it—seems wrong.”
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Dix said.
[Cutthroat Business 01.0 - 03.0] Boxed Set Page 81
