Con listened intently, drawing up a composite of Cecily Barnhardt in his mind, prepared to outthink the woman if necessary. “I’m married,” he reminded Karen. At least for now.
“She may not know that,” Karen replied. “In any case, the state is obligated to allow her time to prove herself a fit parent.”
“How much time?”
“At least six months.”
Con slammed. down his beer. “The hearing’s only three weeks away.”
“That will be a placement hearing, Mr. Randolph, at which time you and your wife may be appointed as Joey’s caregivers, but he’ll remain a ward of the state until his custody is determined.”
Con digested that piece of information silently. Just more bad news he had to break to Robbie. It seemed as though that was all he ever did—bring her bad news. She’d been working like a madwoman for three days straight, and he knew it wasn’t only because of him. She was missing the baby.
And so was he.
“I want to see him before then,” he said. He was the boy’s father. He had to have some rights.
“Certainly. Now that the DNA’s back, you can have him every weekend if you like.”
The tension in Con’s gut slowly disintegrated. “I like. How soon can we pick him up?”
“Friday, anytime after four. Betty Williams will have him ready.”
Robbie would be happy. Maybe even happy enough to forget what an ass he’d made of himself.
“Oh…Mr. Randolph? If you get placement, chances are good you’ll get custody, too.”
Con hung up the phone, suddenly energized. He’d heard Karen’s if loud and clear, but he’d always taken things one step at a time. And in just two days he’d see his son again. Two days until he and Robbie could put their own troubles aside and be a team once more.
But sometime during those two days he had to tell Robbie about Cecily Barnhardt’s reentry into their lives. How in hell did a man tell his wife she might lose her baby to a woman her husband had slept with, when he’d never even slept with her?
CON DIDN’T GET AROUND to telling Robbie about Cecily before Friday. She’d been working late both Wednesday and Thursday, and he’d been up and gone in the mornings before she appeared. He’d left her a note on the breakfast bar telling her they would pick up Joey for the weekend, so she’d be sure to come home early on Friday. It was true they’d been avoiding each other, but he was banking on the baby to bring them back together again—and to be the buffer that would help him keep his hands off her.
But once they had Joey that afternoon, although he told her about the placement hearing, he was loath to mention Cecily. Their time with the boy was too limited. The hours spent with him were the best hours Con had ever had, and he couldn’t bring himself to tarnish them with the messy details of their future— or his past.
Stan and Susan drove down from Sedona on Saturday, bearing far too many gifts. With Joey on her lap, Robbie unwrapped each one, holding it up in front of the baby as if he really understood what it was or that it was for him. Joey obliged her by staring at each of the various brightly colored toys. He even reached for a couple. A mouse that squeaked. And a plastic hourglass that was filled with water and brightly colored confetti.
Susan marveled at every move the baby made. Even Stan got into the act, coaxing smile after smile out of the boy.
Con was content to watch, glad that Joey was getting the acceptance from this family he’d once craved so hopelessly for himself.
The weekend flew by. He and Robbie fell right back into parenting as if they’d been at it for years. They played with Joey; they shopped for more things they’d suddenly discovered they needed for him—a teething ring for one; they took turns feeding him and changing him.
Together they discovered new and amazing things about the little boy—the birthmark on his knee that was identical to Con’s, the way he was starting to scoot himself around on his belly, the tooth they were sure was starting to come through. Together they pushed his stroller and answered proudly when people asked questions about him.
And together they drove him silently back to Gilbert on Sunday.
In one way this trip was made easier by the knowledge that they’d be getting Joey again in just five days. But for Con it was also more difficult. First, because as soon as the baby was gone, so would be the camaraderie he and Robbie had shared over the weekend.
And second, because he knew he had one more strike against him now, a strike Robbie knew nothing about. The boy’s biological mother wanted him back.
THINGS WERE SHAPING UP. Now that he knew the woman was living with Randolph, he didn’t have to watch the place so much. He still had to figure how he was going to get her out of there, but he had time. And ideas, too. He was having a real good time considering the ideas. He spent whole days just thinking about them. Yeah, maybe he’d take her at night. Maybe even when Randolph was home. Whatever way was going to make Randolph hurt the most.
He had the place to take her to. It was empty, but he’d slept there last night. Not too many crickets, but hot. He’d had to sleep naked.
He’d thought about making Randolph watch him do it to her before he took her away. Except he wasn’t keen on hurting the woman. Not until he had to. Or on giving Randolph a chance to stop him. The bastard was good, and a lot bigger than he was. He had to be smart about this, had to get it right. He’d only get one chance. And his black belt in karate probably wouldn’t faze a guy like Randolph.
No, he’d probably grab her when Randolph wasn’t home. His percentages would be better that way. He’d just have to make certain that Randolph suffered afterward. A lot.
ROBBIE LEFT the TV station in time to make it home for dinner Monday night. She’d missed Con last week. But she’d needed the time away from him, time to recover from his assault on her senses, her heart. She pulled onto Con’s street, her street now, too, waving at the teenager who was the neighborhood odd-job boy, out raking the gravel in the yard across the street.
Con had done her a favor, really. He’d been trying to shock her, make her not want him. But he’d also said something she’d needed to hear. It wasn’t her his body was responding to, as she’d so desperately wanted to believe. It was his need for a woman. Any woman. He’d obviously been celibate for a while, and she had legs and breasts, both of which she’d shame-lessly rubbed against him in the pool.
She pushed the button on the remote, and when the garage door opened, was disappointed to see that Con’s car wasn’t there. She pulled her truck into her side of the two-car garage, then lowered the door behind her.
She wasn’t his type. She knew that. Had always known that. The women Con went for were her total opposite, helpless beauties every one of them. She’d seen enough of them come and go over the years. But she had something none of them had ever had, some-thing far more precious than sex—Con’s friendship.
She’d been content with that for twenty-five years. She couldn’t let a little thing like this marriage change that.
Which was why she was glad he’d stopped when he had that night last week in the kitchen. As much as it had hurt, she knew it would have been a thousand times worse if they’d gotten as far as his bed-room or hers. By then it would have been too late to salvage anything. Not her heart. Not her marriage. And not their friendship.
She had spaghetti boiling in the pot when Con walked through the door half an hour later. She’d heard him pull in five minutes before and knew he’d been outside finishing his cigarette before he came in. She’d been very tempted to go out and join him. She hadn’t had a cigarette in more than a week, and her nerves were jangling.
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” he said, throwing his keys on the breakfast bar next to one of Joey’s pacifiers. There were clean bottles upside down on a towel on the counter, too.
Robbie shrugged, trying to remember how they used to act before they’d gotten married. “I was a little tired. Home sounded good.”
He pulled a b
eer from the refrigerator, twisted off the cap and tossed it in the trash. “It’s good to have you home,” he said. She froze, her back to him, staring at the spaghetti as she blinked away a sudden rush of tears. He’d never said that to her before.
“Here—you want one?” he asked.
Robbie turned. He was holding out a beer.
Just like the old days. “Sure,” she said, taking it from him, trying not to notice when his hand brushed hers. There was absolutely nothing seductive about the movement, but her body ignited, anyway. How in hell was she going to survive a lifetime of this?
“So what kind of blood and gore did you cover today?” he asked, getting out the tomato sauce for the spaghetti.
“I’ve been investigating a couple of nursing homes here in the valley,” she said, ignoring her reactions to his nearness as best she could as they finished pre-paring the meal together.
He pulled a loaf of French bread from the freezer. “Why?”
“They’re owned by a group of doctors, all internists who specialize in geriatrics,” she explained, frowning. “We got this anonymous tip that the good doctors are convincing family members that patients need to be institutionalized before they really do.”
“Are they?”
Robbie shook her head, her short hair bobbing against her ears. “That’s just it, I don’t know. I’ve visited the homes, Con, talked to many of the patients, and while some of them belong there without a doubt, there are others who seem perfectly capable of living at home. Yet the family members I’ve interviewed all insist they had no other choice.”
“You could be going for the wrong story,” Con said, slicing the frozen bread. “What you may have here are families who no longer want the burden of caring for their elderly.”
Robbie rinsed the lettuce for a salad. “I don’t think so, Con. One woman I spoke to was really broken up about having to institutionalize her husband. She spends every waking moment at the home with him. She’d do anything to have him back with her, but she’s convinced he has to be there. So they’re living the rest of their lives in a nursing home that’s eating up all their savings.”
Con frowned, quiet for so long that Robbie thought the discussion was over. She should have known better.
“I’d look for a younger family member,” he finally said. “Maybe a son or daughter of the woman you just mentioned. Elderly people tend to be more dependent on their doctors, often taking a doctor’s word as law. Possibly seeing symptoms they’re told to see. They’re also easier to convince. Someone younger might give you the insight you’re missing.”
Robbie nodded, knowing she should have come to him before now. She always had before. The man was an expert when it came to human motivation. She supposed it came from years of trying to please dis-approving caregivers, of always putting himself in others’ shoes. Or maybe he’d developed a sixth sense during his years as an agent. Lord knew it had helped save his life a time or two.
“Thanks, friend, I will,” she said, suddenly feeling better than she had in days.
“Anytime.”
Anytime. This was what she had from him, an open-ended twenty-four-hour-a-day invitation into his life. She had to let it be enough.
“ROBBIE, CAN I SEE YOU?” Rick Hastings called out into the newsroom late Tuesday afternoon.
She dropped what she was working on and walked into the producer’s office.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve been going over the tape of your interview with Blackwell this morning. Great stuff.”
“Thanks.” She’d even dressed up for the occasion and was still wearing her new pair of black jeans and a white blouse.
“I’d like you to do the piece live on the air.”
Robbie’s gaze flew to Rick’s. He had to be kidding. He’d always told her she was one hell of an investigative reporter, but she didn’t have the right look to actually report the stories she uncovered. Which was why her pieces were always dubbed. Someone else narrated her stuff on air, paraphrasing the questions she’d asked to correspond with clips of the subject’s answers.
“We’re running it tomorrow night at six. Report to makeup by five.”
“You got it,” she said, grinning. She was going to be on the air!
“Better make that four-thirty and stop off at ward-robe on your way.”
“I’m not wearing any of those low-cut show-your-cleavage things Megan wears on the air.”
“She wears them off the air, too,” Rick reminded her. “That’s just Megan. We’ll find you something. Don’t worry.”
She wasn’t worried. She was ecstatic, thrilled, excited as hell. She had to call Con.
“Oh, and Robbie?”
She looked back at the producer. “Yeah?”
“Joan and I are having a cookout on August third. It’s a Saturday. You think you and Con can make it?”
“I’ll check with him and get back to you,” she said, still grinning.
It felt great to be included again. Life was good. Life was really good.
SHE’D CALLED CON first thing, and when she got home he was waiting there with a bottle of champagne.
“Congratulations,” he said, toasting her as they sat together in the living room, the open bottle on the coffee table. Still in her black jeans and white blouse, Robbie was sitting on the floor, leaning against the couch. Con had changed out of his suit to shorts and a cotton shirt and was lounging on the other end of the sofa. “Though I still say your reporting isn’t grunt work. You have a real talent for getting to the truth.”
“Thanks,” she said, sipping her champagne. “You know, I really never thought this day would come.”
“Why not? You wanted it.”
She looked over at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You always get what you want. Always have.”
She burst out laughing. “I do not.”
It was funny someone could know you for so long and still have an entirely different perception of you than you had of yourself. A false perception. She’d never had the one thing she’d always wanted most.
Him.
“What about that time you wanted to play foot-ball?”
“I was good enough to be on that team, Con. And I was a cop’s kid. The team was for cop’s kids. There was no reason I shouldn’t have played.”
His lips curved into the half grin she loved. “You were the only girl on the team, Rob.”
So she’d caused a bit of ruckus, but she’d done the team and her father proud. “Yeah, well, you didn’t seem to find anything wrong with it back then. If I remember correctly, you were the one who taught me to play in the first place.”
They sipped silently for a couple of minutes. Her memories of those days had to be a whole lot happier than Con’s.
“What about that Jeep you just had to have for your sixteenth birthday?” he asked.
“I worked hard for that Jeep, Con. I paid my dad back every cent, plus paid for insurance and gas.”
He frowned. “I never said you didn’t work hard. You’ve always worked hard. Which is why you always get what you want.”
She smiled sadly into her champagne.
Not always.
CON MADE SURE he was home by six the next evening. He’d been looking forward to Robbie’s debut all day. He was proud of her.
She’d called him that afternoon to tell him that her piece on Blackwell was being picked up by stations all over the country. He wasn’t surprised. He’d always known she’d make it big. If not in news reporting, then doing something else. She was just one of those people.
After pulling a beer out of the fridge, he wandered into the bedroom and flipped on the television set while he stripped off his suit and tie. The temperature had been well over a hundred all week. He’d done nothing but sweat the whole time.
A swim sounded good. A nice cool swim. Right after the news.
He tossed his clothes on the end of his bed, which was huge and took up most of the room.
He’d had to have the bed specially made so he could sleep without his feet hanging over the end.
He heard the news come on, listened to Megan Brandt do the headlines. Padding in from the bath-room naked, he sat down on the end of the bed.
“We’ve all been reading his comics for years…" He heard Robbie’s voice. He even made out the first few words she said. But the rest was lost on him as he sat and stared at his television set. Who was this woman? He hardly recognized her.
Her hair, normally flat against her head, was fluffed up like a fashion model’s. She was wearing a dress, a navy thing that hugged her waist and ended several inches above her knees, exposing far more of her miles of legs than he was comfortable with. And she had makeup on, which widened her eyes and gave her lips a fuller “come kiss me” look.
How in hell was he supposed to convince himself she was still just his buddy when she looked like that?
He felt his body tighten as he continued to stare at the woman standing before him, who sounded every bit as confident as she looked.
Shit. He wanted her. Still.
“YOU WERE RIGHT,” Robbie told Con later that evening. They were sitting in the kitchen, sharing a beer.
“Right about what?” He seemed awfully interested in his fingernails.
“Reporting isn’t grunt work. It’s what I love.”
Con looked up. “Being on air wasn’t all you thought it was?”
“Nope.” She’d learned something about herself to-night. Something she’d thought she already knew, but apparently she’d needed the reminder. She was who she was. She couldn’t change that.
She’d thought that if she looked like Megan Brandt she might be able to stir Con’s blood. But she’d felt like an idiot. If Con didn’t want her for herself, then so be it.
“I’m going to stick to reporting,” she said, taking the beer from him. The bottle was still warm from his lips.
“Have you told Rick?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And?”
She shrugged. “He said I was great at both. The choice is mine.”
Shotgun Baby Page 13
