"Uh-uh." He kicked the stand with the toe of his sneaker. "Lance is gonna teach me to play golf next time we go to Palm Springs."
"Is that something you do often, go to Palm Springs?"
"Sometimes."
Grady grabbed the red mallet that Jimmy used to drag around behind him as he'd followed his dad around the court and handed it to the boy. "Try the feel of this one," he suggested, deliberately keeping his tone offhand. "Maybe this afternoon we can set up the court."
He moved aside the lawn edger and leaned down to open the large wooden-cruise box. Two flags lay atop a collection of life preservers. He took out the Stars and Stripes and started to close the lid, only to stop when Jimmy asked suddenly, "What's that gold thing?"
"Purdue banner. Here, hold this and I'll show you." He handed his son the flag before holding up the banner so that Jim could see the familiar Boilermaker logo.
His son seemed less than impressed. "What's Purdue?"
"It's a college in West Lafayette. A pretty famous place, actually, especially in these parts. Your mom and just about everyone else in our family went there."
Jim took a moment to work that through in his mind. "So did you go there, too?" he asked finally.
Grady took in a slow breath. He'd lost track of the times he'd been asked that same question over the years. It never failed to jab his pride.
"I tried, but I couldn't make the entrance requirements."
"What's that mean, they wouldn't let you come in, like in the movies?"
"In a way." He heard a speedboat scream by and glanced through the dusty window at the violent ripples rushing toward the sandy beach. "Entrance requirements are mostly a set of rules they have about who they want and don't want."
"And they didn't want you?"
Grady nearly groaned at his son's obvious disappointment. "Nope. But I got me a real polite letter with a seal and everything."
"How come they didn't want you?"
Persistent little cuss, his son. "I have a problem reading, which means I have to find other ways of learning things." He folded the pennant into a neat square before stowing it away. "I can usually figure things out, but it takes me a long time sometimes."
"Me, too, sometimes." Jimmy's gaze slid from his. Something in the angle of the boy's head had his gut tightening. "Guess people mighta made fun of you on account of that."
"Some did, yeah—till I got old enough to make them pay. Then they stopped."
Jimmy looked intrigued. "Did you shoot 'em?"
"Nope. Punched 'em. My brothers mostly. And a few of their big-mouthed friends."
Jimmy kicked the croquet set again. Hard. One shoulder hunched, then the other. He dropped his gaze.
"I did what you said. You know, like for the bet?"
Grady had to grab a minute to catch up. "You mean calling Ria Mom?"
He nodded, and his hair flopped. "I thought, since it was what you wanted and all, it was supposed to be a good thing. I mean, you're all the time trying to make her laugh and watching her to make sure she's not upset and all."
Grady was damn near speechless, blown away by the kid's ability to read him. "You're right. It's supposed to be a good thing." He hesitated, then squatted down to bring his gaze closer to Jim's. "Are you saying it wasn't?"
Jimmy rubbed his ear with a hunched shoulder. He looked miserably unhappy and a little scared, like maybe he was worried about what Grady was going to do next. He didn't want to think about another man punishing his son, especially a man with big hands like frigging Lance's.
"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, son, but if something's bothering you, I might be able to help."
Jimmy didn't look impressed, and Grady bit off a sigh. "I admit I don't have all the answers. Heck, sometimes I think I was sleeping-in the morning the Lord passed out sense, but I'd sure give it my best shot."
Jimmy rubbed his ear again, then gradually lowered his shoulder. Grady waited patiently while the boy worked it through. He had all day if that's how long it took. Finally Jimmy aimed another kick at the croquet set and started talking. "She got this funny look on her face, and then she started bawling."
Grady let out the relief in a long breath. "Remember what I told you right before we knocked on Mom's door that first night?"
Jimmy slanted him a wary look. "Some."
"Women, especially moms, sometimes cry when they're happy, too. Yeah, I know, it doesn't make much sense, but it happens."
"You think that's what she was doing. Being happy?"
"I think it's a good bet." He reached up to ruffle the unruly hair that he'd passed down to his boy. "It's not easy for a guy to understand why women do what they do sometimes, especially that crying thing, but when a guy finds a lady as special as your mom, well, he's willing to do a whole bunch of trying."
Jimmy let out a noisy sigh that was almost comical. "Does that mean it's okay if I call her that again?"
"Very okay," Grady said with a grin that felt damned wobbly at the edges. "And I'm very proud of you for keeping your word and paying off your bet."
His son flushed with pleasure. Grady wanted desperately to hug him, but the instinct honed over a lot of years told him it was too soon. So he took the SWAT cap from his own head and slipped it on Jimmy's, brim backward.
"C'mon, let's go hoist the flag. And then if we ask real nice, Mom might give us a coupla hunks of that fudge she was cooking up when I got home."
* * *
The sun was setting over the lake, turning the water to flame. The three of them had eaten outside at the picnic table, then taken a boat ride before tackling the dishes. Falling easily into old habits, Ria washed and Grady dried while Jimmy practiced hitting croquet balls through the wickets Grady had set up on the lawn facing the lake. Every few minutes Ria would lean close to the kitchen window and look out.
The yard had been fenced years earlier to keep the youngest of the Hardins safe. The latch on the gate was not only over the boy's reach, but locked. The fence itself was sound. He'd walked it earlier to be sure and told her twice that it would take a tank to break through.
Still she checked.
Though she professed to hate firearms in the home, she'd packed the Walther .380 he'd taught her to shoot on their honeymoon. It was now on the top shelf of the master bedroom closet. It was also loaded.
"Did Flynn say how he'd found Monk's ex-wife?" she asked as she rinsed the last of the cups.
"Nope. Just that she'd agreed to see him." Grady gave the dinner plate another swipe before returning it to the cupboard. All through the meal he'd waited for Jim to call her "Mom." But the boy had said almost nothing.
Taking an extra loop around his impatience, he'd looked forward to the moment he and Ree were alone, positive she, too, was just waiting for privacy before sharing her joy.
"When I called the Center to give Kate and Tova the number of your cell phone, Kate said that Brenda had left a message on my voice mail, asking me to call her back. I left a message on her machine, but so far I haven't heard from her."
Grady reached for the cup she'd just upended in he drainer. "If there's fault in the thing, Flynn will find it."
"I know. That's why I asked him to look into it."
She checked on Jimmy, smiling a little at something she saw. The smile faded quickly, however, as her brow puckered. "If Monk did murder that poor little baby in her own bed and Brenda knows it, I have to believe it's tearing her apart inside."
"Maybe. Or maybe she handed him the pillow."
She winced, and he hated himself for not guarding his tongue with greater care.
"No, I'm sure she'd never harm a child."
"Keeping silent hurts as much as a fist sometimes, Ree," he said, hanging the mug from a hook in the cupboard.
"You're right, of course. It's just that I hate to think I've misjudged her."
"It happens."
Frowning thoughtfully, Ria scrubbed down the counter, then wrung the dishcloth dry before hang
ing it from the faucet. "I can't help wondering about that woman. Moira."
Grady plucked a glass from the dish drainer. "What about her, honey?"
"Do you think she really came to love Jimmy or do you think she just put up with him because of the money?"
Grady took his time putting away the glass. "If that woman had an ounce of maternal blood in her veins, I'll put on a tutu and walk the fifty-yard line during the Purdue Notre Dame game this September."
Ria's mouth twitched, but the shadows in her eyes only shifted aside for a moment, returning full force when her expression sobered.
"Grady, I know I overreacted this morning. I know you'd never let anyone get to Jimmy again."
The words were right. It was the way her gaze slid from his that had his gut twisting hot. "We both overreacted, honey. It's going to take time for us to relax again."
"I realize that, but still, it started me thinking…" She broke off to close the window over the sink. It stuck, and she had to give it a hefty shove which made her fanny wiggle enticingly. Though he managed to keep the groan inside, his hormones drop-kicked him dead center.
"What if Rustakov decides to steal our baby again?" she asked when she was sure they wouldn't be overheard.
"Bastard's dead, Ree." He concentrated on draping the damp towel over the edge of the counter to dry.
She picked up the glass of wine he'd poured her before they'd tackled the dishes, then put it down again without taking a sip. "How do you know? Are you sure? Maybe your source was wrong."
"This source doesn't make mistakes."
"Did … did you kill him?"
"No." It wasn't for lack of trying, but no one knew that but a couple of hard-eyed contacts in Washington. Guys with kids of their own willing to grease a few palms, make a few phone calls in a good cause.
"He was blown away by the head of a rival cartel on the steps of his villa overlooking the Black Sea," he told her when he realized the anxious look hadn't quite faded from her eyes.
"I'm glad he's dead," Ria said, downing a huge swallow of wine. "I hope he died a horrible death."
It had been that and more. It also hadn't been quick. At the time Grady had felt only fury that his best link to his son had been snuffed out.
"He can't hurt you anymore, sweetheart." He said the words quietly, but the knowledge of his own part in her suffering was like acid against his throat. Someday, maybe, she would forgive him. He doubted he would ever forgive himself.
"I hated him." She took another sip. Though she seemed calm enough, he caught the ripples in the wine and realized her hand wasn't as steady as it should be. "He was a horrible man."
"He's gone," he said very quietly, even though he doubted she heard. His brave lady was at the end of her emotional rope. He'd seen the signs often enough. In fellow officers shaken by a particularly bloody crime scene. In Kale when his partner had taken a bullet meant for him. In himself after Jimmy had been snatched.
Days of stuffing her feelings deep inside. Months of denying emotions that had the power to destroy until finally the ability to feel was numbed.
"I wanted to kill him myself," she said in a strained tone he'd heard only once before—on the night she'd asked him to move out.
"I know, honey."
"He was evil. Vermin of the worst kind." The wine sloshed over onto her hand, but she didn't notice, just as she didn't notice when he plucked the goblet from her fingers.
"Tell me," he urged. "Tell me how you hurt. How I let you down and how you hate me for it. Take a swing at me if you have to. Or scream. Just let it out."
"No, I'm … fine now." The words seemed torn from her, and her face was white. She blinked, then jerked her gaze toward the window. "Jimmy?"
"Still whacking the heck out of the ball."
"He's been practicing for hours. He's determined to win, just like his dad." Her voice was a croak, and she cleared her throat. "He called me Mom today. I made a fool of myself and dripped all over him."
"Hey, that's great, honey. About the Mom thing, I mean. Really great."
She narrowed her gaze, back in control. "It would have been if he'd come up with it himself."
He could almost hear the whine of a bullet headed straight for his head. Like all wise cops, he ducked first. "Come again?"
"You tricked your own son—and don't try that innocent look on me. I have my sources, too."
He'd be damned if he'd feel guilty. "I consider it more a case of finessing him in the right direction."
She snorted. "You ran a street con on a six-year-old."
"Hey, now that hurts." He did his best to look wounded. Even pressed his hand to his heart. It didn't faze her. "You know what cats are like. Independent as hell."
"You trained that animal to come when you whistled."
"Honey, it takes a professional to train a cat. I'm just … hey, wait a minute. Let's examine this more closely. How is it you know about the whistling?" He crowded her against the counter, his chest rubbing a little against her breasts, and his thighs molding her. She sucked in, her eyes darkening.
"I might have overheard part of your conversation with Jimmy," she hedged, angling her chin at him. Like mother, like son, he realized, smiling to himself.
"Listening at keyholes can get a lady in deep trouble, sweetheart." He bracketed her waist with his hands and held her still.
"It was … inadvertent," she declared haughtily. "And don't try shunting your guilt onto me, Grady Hardin. You suckered your own son into a bet you knew he'd lose." She poked him in the chest. "Didn't you?"
"I'm pleading the fifth."
He bent suddenly to kiss her hard on the mouth before drawing back again. She glared, but her mouth was suddenly as soft as rose petals. "Sneaky, Hardin. Really sneaky."
"Yeah, but like you said, I'm cute."
He inched his hands up higher until he could run his thumbs along the underside of her breasts. Her breath hitched, but she wouldn't yield easily. Maybe she never would. But he knew now he'd keep trying. The alternative would leave him too empty and lost.
"You're impossible," she sputtered, but her gaze was on his mouth. The impact shot him past his troubled thoughts and right into sharp, angry need. Pride had him taking his time instead of yanking down her shorts and driving into her.
"But sexy, right?"
"What you are is exasperating." Her voice was strained and her eyes were going smoky.
"Admit it, honey. You're crazy about me."
She winced. "Don't use that word."
He called himself a few choice names. "Sorry, I forgot you hated it."
"I hate the memories it evokes," she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder, her body still tense. He sighed and pulled her closer.
"How would you feel about a little dip after Jimmy's tucked into bed?"
She lifted her head and looked up at him. The bad memories were still there, deep in the backs of her eyes, but they were dimmer now. "The last time you suggested a little dip I ended up with sand in my bikini bottom and…" Her voice faded.
He lifted a hand to brush back her hair. "And a marriage proposal," he finished softly, aching a little.
"Grady—"
He used his mouth to cut off the sweet little speech he saw forming in her eyes. About how much she liked him, and needed him.
"The only proposal I'm interested in right now is an indecent one." To sweeten the pot, he slipped one hand beneath the elastic at her waist. He felt heat through the damp silk of her panties and bit off a groan.
"How about you, honey? Are you interested?"
She drew a shaky breath. "I just might be—later," she whispered.
"It's a date." Reluctantly he withdrew his hand and straightened her shirt.
She lifted a hand to his cheek, her gaze on his. "About that trick you pulled," she said softly. "Thank you."
Don't thank me, he wanted to shout. Just love me. Instead, he offered her a lazy grin and kissed the tip of her nose. "You can pay me ba
ck later, honey." He leaned closer to whisper a very graphic suggestion in her ear.
When she blushed, he kissed her again and felt the tiny shivers run through her.
It was enough, he reminded himself. At the moment it was all he had.
* * *
Chapter 12
« ^ »
Brenda pulled into the apartment lot, her stomach feeling like she'd eaten something rotten. Her heart was beating so violently she felt faint.
It was almost five-thirty and Monk was due home sometime tonight. He'd been on the road for a week, and like always, he would expect dinner to be ready when he walked in the door.
It wasn't her fault the battery in the old Chevy had gone dead, she told herself as she scrambled out and reached behind the seat for the groceries. With the rain and all, it had taken her forty minutes to find someone to give her a jump start. The old guy who'd helped her had been real nice, too, offering to follow her back to the apartment, just to make sure the rusted-out junker didn't stall out.
Brenda had been tempted, what with the gangs taking potshots at each other in her neighborhood the way they'd been doin' these past months, only she'd been scared that Monk would find out.
Monk didn't like her talking to strangers. He hated anyone knowing their business. Things were real bad right now, so more trouble was the last thing she needed.
Monk had always been moody, but he'd never been mean. Oh, maybe he got a little rough in bed, but that was the way men got sometimes. Her stepfather had been a lot rougher when he'd raped her when she was twelve.
Monk really loved her, she was sure of that. But since Missy had died, he'd been kind of weird, sometimes staring at her with the strangest look on his face. Like he was trying to figure something out in his head.
He'd been having bad headaches, too. Worse than they'd ever been. Which is why he'd come home early a few weeks ago and found the note she'd made to herself after Callie had called, reminding her of the Healing Friends meeting that night.
It was her fault he'd lost his temper and knocked her around in the parking lot outside the Center, he'd told her when he'd finally calmed down. Hadn't he asked her real nice not to go back to the support group? But had she listened? Had she obeyed, the way a wife should?
ONCE MORE A FAMILY Page 17
