Gabriel's Honor

by Barbara Mccauley

  Damn, he thought, then quickly shook off the twist in his gut.

  She stood in the corner, her shoulders stiff and straight, with her child behind her. He guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid-to-late-twenties. Her wary gaze lifted to his and held, and he could see that she indeed wanted to run, was merely waiting for the opportunity.

  He moved between the two doorways in the room, effectively blocking her, but carefully keeping his distance.

  “Who are you?” she demanded suddenly, catching him off guard. “What are you doing here?”

  Gabe lifted one dark brow. “Funny, that’s what I was just going to ask you.”

  “I’m a friend of Miss Witherspoon’s.” Her chin went up. “She was expecting my son and me.”

  Gabe glanced down and watched a sandy-blond head peek out from behind the woman’s legs. Short, stubby fingers clutched tightly onto her slender thighs. Four or five, Gabe guessed the kid’s age.

  Gabe looked back at the woman. “I didn’t see a car out front.”

  “I parked it in the garage out back,” she said, placing a hand on the side of her son’s head. “I needed the overhead light to unload.”

  Maybe, Gabe thought. Maybe not. He looked back up at the woman. “When?”

  Her brow furrowed. “When what?”

  “When was Miss Witherspoon expecting you?”

  “Oh.” She blinked quickly. “Well, actually, we weren’t due to arrive until Friday, but I didn’t think she’d mind if we were a couple of days early. It seems, however, that she’s away at the moment.”

  That was an understatement, Gabe thought.

  “I didn’t think she’d mind if we waited for her,” she added. “The last time we spoke, she was looking forward to our arrival.”

  The woman’s voice was smooth, Gabe noted, with rich, deep tones, still a little breathless from their scuffling. “When did you speak with Miss Witherspoon last?” he asked.

  “When did I speak with her?” she repeated hesitantly. “I’m not sure. Several days ago. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. But I really don’t see what business that is of yours.”

  “And that was last week, you say?”

  “Give or take a day or two.” Her eyes flashed as she shook her thick, dark hair away from her face. “Look, I don’t appreciate your attitude. My son and I are invited guests here, and you’re the one who broke in and frightened us half to death.”

  There was some truth in the woman’s words, Gabe believed. But there were lies, as well. Especially the part about speaking with Miss Witherspoon the previous week. That would have been quite a conversation, considering she’d died two weeks ago.

  But anyone who knew Mildred Witherspoon, also knew that the woman had never, in the ninety-two years she’d lived in the town, ever, invited anyone into her home. Other than the monthly meetings and Sunday services she attended, Mildred had tucked herself away as tightly as the bun on top of her head.

  Which most certainly meant that the woman standing ten feet away from him was lying through her pretty white teeth.

  “Look, mister, it’s been a long day.” The strain was apparent in the woman’s thin voice and the tight press of her lips. “My son and I are tired. If Miss Witherspoon is out of town, then I’ll just leave her a note and we’ll be on our way in the morning.”

  He supposed he could just let it go, let her stay here with her child without questioning her. He seriously doubted that she’d come here to steal anything, or that Mildred Witherspoon even had anything worth stealing. What did he care if this woman stayed here and was on her way in the morning? Who was he to begrudge her a night’s stay in an empty house?

  But there was something in her eyes, something beyond the wary defiance. Something as quiet as it was fierce. Something desperate. And whatever that something was, it closed around him like a fist and squeezed.

  Dammit, Gabe, just walk away.

  Lord knew he didn’t need or want any complications in his life. He should just do what he came here to do, then turn around, walk out the front door and go to Reese’s tavern where he could toss back a beer or two. Not think about the frightened look in this woman’s eyes. She’d be gone in the morning, and they could both forget they’d ever seen each other.

  That’s what he should do.

  But he couldn’t, dammit. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.

  “Miss Witherspoon died two weeks ago,” he said evenly. “Now do you want to try it again and tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  Her breathing seemed to stop, and her eyes closed with what appeared to be genuine concern. She drew in a slow, shaky breath, then opened her eyes again.

  “How?” she asked quietly.

  “She just went to sleep and didn’t wake up,” Gabe replied. “We should all be so lucky at ninety-two.”

  “She seemed so much younger on the phone,” the woman said thoughtfully. “So full of life.”

  “That’s one way to describe her,” Gabe replied. He could think of several other descriptions he’d keep to himself.

  “I’m sorry about Miss Witherspoon,” the woman said abruptly, then straightened her shoulders. “And since it now appears that we’re imposing, my son and I will be on our way.”

  She reached behind her, took her son’s small hand in her own and started for the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going to leave now.”

  Gabe blocked her way. “You haven’t told me who you are.”

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said coolly and tried to step around him.

  He stepped in front of her again.

  Her eyes narrowed with anger. Gabe stood close enough to the woman now to see that her eyes were gray. Dove-gray, with a dark charcoal ring around the iris.

  When he pulled out the slim cell phone tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, he watched that soft gray harden to the color of steel.

  “Get out of my way,” she said tightly.

  “I’m afraid not.” He punched the buttons on his phone. “And since you won’t talk to me, then we’ll just have to call someone you will talk to.” He pushed the Send button.

  “No.” She stared at the phone, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”

  “I’m out at the Witherspoon house,” Gabe said into the phone a moment later. “Get over here as soon as you can. Bring two of Reese’s best.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, I’ll explain when you get here.”

  Gabe hung up the phone, watched the fear on the woman’s face turn to panic as she gauged the distance to the opposite doorway. Even without a small child, she never would have made it. When her gaze swung back to his, the look of defeat in her eyes stabbed sharply into his gut.

  She didn’t want his help, that was for certain, Gabe thought with a sigh, but she sure as hell was going to get it.

  Trapped.

  Her heart pounding, Melanie Hart stared at her captor and fought back the dread welling up in her stomach. He was much too tall for her to outrun; those long legs of his could easily overtake her. And she’d already experienced firsthand the power and strength of his well-honed body, a body she would have greatly admired under different circumstances. He was solid muscle under his faded blue jeans and chambray shirt.

  But she couldn’t let herself be caught. Couldn’t let the police find her and Kevin.

  She took a step toward the doorway again, but the man moved with her, slowly shaking his head.

  How could she fight him? Especially with Kevin clutching so tightly to her legs. Determination glinted in the man’s dark green gaze, and the stubborn set of his strong jaw gave her no hope. The sight of blood on his angled cheek startled her. Had she done that in their scuffle? Guilt tugged at her, but she quickly shrugged it off. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but if necessary, she would. What choice did she have?

  Lifting her chin, she drew in a slow breath to steady her nerves. “This is kidnapping,” sh
e said with a calm that amazed herself. “You have no reason, and certainly no right, to keep me and my son here. I want you to know I intend to press charges.”

  “Fair enough.” He lifted a dark brow, then gestured toward the doorway leading to the living room. “In the meantime, why don’t we go sit down? Filling out all those forms will be tiring.”

  Once again she thought about running, but the futility of escape loomed as dark as the night. She’d have to find some way to distract this man, or perhaps reason with him, though that possibility appeared to lie somewhere between slim and none.

  He stayed close behind as she moved out of the dining room with her son, effectively squelching any ideas she might have had about dashing out the front door as they passed through the entry at the bottom of the stairs. When they stepped into the living room, he flipped on a small brass table lamp.

  The room was spacious, high beveled ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors. A fireplace big enough to drive a Volkswagen into. Oil paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on off-white walls. Two Queen Anne chairs and a long sofa were slip-covered, tables and desks and chairs of various styles and woods completed the room. Like the rest of the house, the scent was musty and stale.

  Her captor gestured for her to sit. She glared at him, then took her son’s hand and moved to the sofa.

  How could she have known that Miss Witherspoon had died? She had spoken with the woman, though it had been four weeks ago, not last week. Melanie had known that the woman was elderly, but she’d sounded so fit, with too much grit and pluck to die. When she’d driven up a little while ago and discovered the house empty, Melanie had simply thought that the woman was away.

  She knew that she’d made a mistake lying about Miss Witherspoon inviting her here, a big mistake. Dammit. She blinked back the threatening tears. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

  But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And so was Kevin. After leaving California, she’d taken her time zigzagging across the country. But the trip was taking its toll on both her and Kevin, not only the traveling and moving around, but the constant worry, the fear, was mentally exhausting.

  But she couldn’t stay here, especially now, with the police coming. She had no criminal record, but if she was charged with breaking and entering, then she would have one. And that might leave a trail she couldn’t afford to leave. “Look, mister—”

  “Gabe.” He sat down on the arm of a Queen Anne chair. “Gabe Sinclair.”

  Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”

  “Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”

  “It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.

  “You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

  Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.

  But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.

  And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.

  If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.

  Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.

  Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.

  As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

  When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.

  The only question that remained was, how?

  When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.

  It had to be now.

  She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.

  With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.

  Now or never.

  In one fluid movement, Melanie grabbed the statue and rushed the man, swinging the heavy bronze at his head. With an oath, he ducked, then reached out and plucked the statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.

  When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.

  “Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”

  Chapter 2

  Gabe turned sharply at the sound of his sister’s voice. The wildcat woman in his arms went still.

  Cara stood in the doorway, a hand on one hip, a large brown paper bag balanced on the other. The heavenly scent of grilled hamburgers and hot, crispy fries filled the room.

  “For God’s sake, Gabe, let her go,” Cara repeated sharply.

  Gabe set the woman down and released her. She stepped quickly away, dragging one shaky hand through her tousled hair, glancing from him to his sister.

  The confusion on Cara’s face turned quickly to an astute understanding that he had called her here for help. If anyone could help this renegade woman, Gabe absolutely knew his sister could.

  “I apologize for Gabe’s lack of manners,” Cara said smoothly in a soft, calming voice. She snapped her gaze back to his and narrowed piercing blue eyes at him. “Shame on you.”

  Shame on him? Gabe ground his teeth and swore silently. He’d been kicked and scratched, and his left shin hurt like a son of a bitch. Females, he thought bitterly. Who would ever understand them?

  With a toss of her blond head, Cara turned her attention back to the other woman and smiled. “I’m Cara Shawnessy,” she said evenly. “This ape here is my brother.”

  Ape? He pressed his lips into a thin line. Gee, thanks, sis.

  At the sound of a small whimper from the living room, the woman turned, then hurried back to her son. Cara glanced at Gabe, her gaze questioning, but he simply shrugged and shook his head.

  Gabe held back when Cara moved into the living room and stood beside the sofa. “Would it be all right if we sat down and talked while we ate? I hope you like cheeseburgers and fries.”

  The woman gathered her son in her arms, and the glimmer of tears Gabe saw
in her eyes caught like sawdust in his throat. He knew she wanted to refuse, he could see it in her hesitation, but when she looked at the bag of food in Cara’s hand, then back at her son, she let out a long, surrendering breath and nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “It’s the least I can do, especially after the way my brother manhandled you.” Cara ignored the rude sound that Gabe made and smiled at the woman’s young son, who was wide-awake now and watching all the adults around him. “Do you like pickles?” she asked the child.

  The boy stuck a stubby finger into his mouth and nodded shyly. Cara unwrapped a thick quarter slice and offered it to him. He hesitated, then looked at his mother. Smiling, she smoothed one slender hand over his rumpled blond hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can have it.”

  Eyes bright, he took the crisp pickle and bit in, chewing around a mumbled “thank you.”

  When a drop of juice fell onto the boy’s pale blue T-shirt, Cara handed his mother some napkins. “It’s optional,” Cara said gently, “but it would be easier if you told me your names.”

  Gabe watched the woman’s hand tighten around the napkins, saw the instinctive stiffening of her slender shoulders.

  “You’re safe here,” Cara assured her. “You and your son.”

  Gabe saw the distrust in the woman’s face when she glanced over at him. He frowned, unreasonably irritated that she obviously thought him a threat. She stared at him, her soft gray eyes uncertain and a little bit afraid. Damn if those eyes of hers didn’t cut right through to his gut.

  “Melanie,” she whispered, still looking at him. “My son is Kevin.”

  Kevin sunk his teeth into another bite of pickle. “I’m four years old,” he offered.

  It drove Gabe nuts, but Cara didn’t ask any questions, just chattered on about the weather as she unwrapped food and set everything out on the coffee table, including two sodas. She’d known to bring the hamburgers and fries when he’d asked for two of Reese’s best, but she’d thrown the drinks in on her own.

  “Gabe, I’m going to need that report for my board meeting in the morning.” She pulled a thick paper cup of steaming black coffee out of her bag of tricks and brought it to him. “Will you be able to work up something rough for me in the next hour?”