Imperfect Rebel

by Patricia Rice

  He waited tensely as the boy pondered the pros and cons from his warped perspective. The truth would incriminate either his mother or his mother's boyfriend, undoubtedly. It was tough asking a kid to throw his mother in jail. Clenching his hands into fists and trying not to throttle the kid, Jared gave him time to think.

  Gene looked up at him through narrowed lashes. "What happens to me and Kis if I tell the truth? Cleo ain't gonna let me stay with her anymore."

  "Cleo would take you both in a minute if the caseworkers would let her, but I'm going to be honest with you. It doesn't look as if they will. I'm trying my best to get you and Kismet a good place to stay, but you'll have to trust me on that one."

  "Kis ain't gonna like it in that home." Gene crossed his arms so tightly his shoulders drew inward. "She gonna lose it if they make her stay."

  Jared wanted to hug those sturdy shoulders and tell the kid he'd make all his troubles go away, but the lawyer had told him already that as a single man, he didn't have a chance in hell of adopting them, even if Linda signed her rights away. And marrying a convicted felon would demolish all hope. He was still furious and looking for a way out, but he couldn't do everything at once. He needed Cleo's name cleared first.

  He'd already called his agent and told him to forget the screenplay. He could hear George's screams of rage and despair still, but Cleo's cries were more powerful, and these kids more important. So, if George didn't want his other idea, he'd wash dishes for a living. He had no business going to Hollywood when he'd finally found a place where he was needed, and where he needed to be.

  "Kismet will like it less if Lonnie comes after her," he told Gene. "We need to put him away for a long time. Then we'll have time to figure out what to do. Cleo will help. I can promise that much. But you've got to help her first."

  Gene struggled a little more, wiping anxiously at moisture in his eyes and fidgeting, looking away from Jared to the crowded bulletin board in the counselor's office. "What about Mama?"

  Well, here it was, sink or swim time. "She needs to get some help. She can't fight that stuff on her own anymore, do you understand?"

  "I guess." Gene continued staring at the bulletin board.

  Jared knew he understood. The boy had grown up far too early. It was even worse that he had to worry about his mother and older sister when they should be looking after him. Still, with the right support, he could make it in life. Obstacles could be scaled.

  "If she gets clean, they'll probably let her go in a few months. But they can send Cleo up for years. Is that fair?"

  "No," the boy whispered.

  He'd pushed hard enough for now. Finally giving in to the urge, Jared hugged him. "I'm trusting you to do what's right. Now, you'll have to trust me to return the favor, okay?"

  The boy nodded uncertainly. He'd never been given any reason to trust. Jared understood that. He could only hope the kid's innate character would surface and give him strength.

  Cleo had the same problem with trust. That she had finally given in and trusted him to handle this gave him reason to hope.

  "I'll tell Cleo you're looking good." Jared walked out, leaving Gene to talk to the school counselor or not, as he wished.

  Cleo had looked at him with such hero worship in her normally cynical eyes, she had him believing he could leap tall buildings. Better yet, she had him believing what he wanted to do was more important than what others wanted him to do. His family and his agent and everyone else in his former life would react in horror at his abandoning his lucrative film contract to work on an experimental project that might never sell. Cleo would simply tell him to do what he thought best. She accepted that he had enough sense and intelligence to do what was best for him—and for her, although he didn't think she realized her part in his plans yet.

  Feeling two tons lighter for being rid of a screenplay that would have stunk as badly as the television show once the committee of rewriters and producers sucked the blood out of it, Jared swung the Jeep into traffic and headed out to pick up Kismet. He wouldn't try using e-mail to persuade her that a group home was safe. That would require a personal visit. She hadn't said where she was hiding, but he was fairly confident she was on the island, dividing time between unoccupied houses. He hadn't received e-mail from her since Cleo returned home, which meant she was staying somewhere without electricity or phone. That pretty much narrowed it to her mother's or the wrecked beach house.

  First, though, he'd better visit Marta. Cleo's livelihood might be the only one they had if his strip syndication bellied up. Grinning at the thought of relying on someone else for support, Jared swung down the usually empty street where the hardware store was located.

  To his astonishment, traffic blocked the lanes as cars maneuvered into the few parking spaces at the curb. The public parking lot was packed. Pedestrians gathered beneath the overhanging oaks to chat in the shade. Others waved to neighbors as they headed down the street—for the hardware store.

  Jared sat in the traffic and stared, a growing grin of elation tugging his mouth as he realized the job Marta had done. He had to fetch Cleo for this. Every person she had ever helped and apparently every member of their family, no matter how distant the connection, had arrived to show their support. He recognized teachers from the school walking out with full sacks. A trio of firemen carried out a ladder, and even the sheriff stood talking to one of his deputies, a sack from Cleo's store in his hand.

  It was going to be all right, his heart sang as he drove past the store and on toward the island. Everything would be all right. He just needed Cleo to believe it.

  Cleo would believe concrete evidence. Whistling, Jared did an abrupt U-turn. No one honked in rage. Not here. This wasn't New York or Miami. This was Hometown America, a place where kids could grow up decent. His kids, he hoped.

  The jewelry store didn't have a large selection, but Cleo wouldn't know the difference between a three-karat diamond or zirconia. Or care. Cleo simply needed proof that he wasn't a transient in her life.

  Tucking the prettiest ring he could find into his pocket, one that included an emerald to match her eyes, Jared sauntered back to the Jeep, fully confident that life was seeing things his way for a change. A few obstacles to perfection remained, but he'd find a way to remove them now that he didn't need to worry about what anyone thought but himself. And Cleo. He prayed Cleo would understand.

  Too high on life to pass by Cleo's house without stopping, Jared halted in the drive on the way to the beach. Kismet might come out more willingly if she saw Cleo. According to her e-mail, the kid hadn't even seen the search for her. She'd been sleeping. Teenagers! If he had Gene and Kismet around, he could keep Scapegrace going based on their antics alone.

  Cleo flung open the door as if she'd been waiting for him. Barefoot, clad in a green, silky feminine shirt that barely concealed her charms, wearing shorts so short they were probably illegal, she crossed her arms and viewed him suspiciously.

  "You're grinning like you've just won the thirty-three million dollar lottery. What have you done?"

  "I like the new you." He caught her waist and kissed her. She wore no bra beneath the piece of nothing, and he couldn't resist the opportunity it offered. She wouldn't have worn that shirt if she hadn't wanted him to touch. She looked like a water sprite with the sun glinting off the auburn of her still damp hair, and with those glorious legs tempting him from beneath a scrap of denim. "No Burt to greet me?" he asked tauntingly when they came up for air.

  "He's temporarily retired." She tugged backward and narrowed her eyes. "What have you been up to?"

  She didn't leave his arms, didn't spit in his face, and her fingers were doing enticing things to his chest that he didn't have time to explore. Capturing them with his palm, he kissed her nose. "Working on the future. Is there some way we can approach the beach house without being seen?"

  Her eyes lit. "Kismet? Surely not."

  "I left all my drawing stuff there. Where else?"

  Pulling away, she d
ashed inside the house, yelling behind her. "Let me get my shoes. I'll find a way."

  Well, at least Cleo wasn't so stubborn as to believe Kismet would be better off in a wrecked house than a group home. Now, if he could convince her to let a man in her life again, real progress would be forthcoming.

  Wearing an old pair of tennis shoes, Cleo led him out the back door and down a tangled path through her yard. The hurricane had done its work here, as everywhere. Trees torn up by the roots still littered the ground. If she would let him, he could hire landscapers. If he sold his Miami place, he'd have plenty enough to do whatever she wanted. If he could keep his strip going, he could teach her to live in luxury.

  Contemplating a future with Cleo first and foremost in it, Jared followed her trail through mosquitoes and lashing branches without a word of complaint. He was still a little dizzy at all the prospects ahead. He wasn't much for planning, so he'd never contemplated sharing his life to the extent that Cleo and her son would demand. He'd had difficulty envisioning Hollywood glamour and considered it a joke he'd enjoy for the sake of his family. But he could easily see living here with the beach a short walk away and Cleo's crazy humor to keep him on his toes.

  They approached the house stealthily from the rear. Someone had boarded all of the downstairs windows, so if Kismet was here, she couldn't see them.

  "You go around front," he ordered. "I figure she's been using the back door; it's not blocked. If she has an escape route in the front, you can catch her there."

  Cleo nodded—without argument, he noted. He liked being thought competent for a change.

  He heard Cleo ripping off one of the boards barring a front window. The front door would still be blocked by sand. He waited for the back door to fly open, but either Kismet wasn't here, or she wasn't running.

  Cleo's cries of joy and delight set him jogging around to the oceanside. Despite his confidence that he'd guessed right, he breathed a sigh of relief.

  Kismet was curled up and crying in Cleo's arms when Jared arrived. He'd never seen her hug the kids before, and he stood back and admired the sight. She was coming out of her shell. She was already a different woman from the one who'd all but met him with a shotgun that first day.

  Now that he knew she could live here in confidence with no one to scorn her, he suffered a moment's niggling doubt about whether she would need him anymore, but he shoved the doubt aside. What they had together went beyond that kind of need. He simply had to make her see his way was the right way.

  The beaming smile she sent him reaffirmed his belief that all was well.

  * * *

  "It's all right, Kis." Cleo hugged the crying teenager one more time. "It's not jail. They let you use the phone. You can call me anytime." She had difficulty fighting back her own tears as the caseworker waited patiently for them to part. "You scared us all to death that last time. You don't want to put us through it again, do you?"

  Kismet shook her unruly curls against Cleo's shoulder. "No, ma'am. Is Gene gonna be okay?"

  That was something solid she could grasp instead of this welling of anguish inside. "We'll make it okay. You don't want him having to worry about you right now, do you?"

  Kismet nodded again and let the caseworker lead her away. Cleo gulped back a sob. She despised assigning the child to the fate she and Maya had suffered. She hated herself for not being in a position to stop it.

  Hiding her moist eyes and reddening nose as they left the government offices, Cleo stared out the window while Jared started the car. Maybe if she asked around, she could find someone willing to take in the kids and give them a decent home. They needed encouragement and routine and support. She knew what they needed better than anyone, but she was unfit and Linda wasn't. The world was insane.

  Jared's quiet mantle of sympathy gave her space to pull herself together. A man like that was so rare, she figured he had to be some kind of guardian angel sent from above. She so desperately wanted to love him that she choked on the need. But she wasn't whole enough yet. She still couldn't go into his world without stumbling. As recent events proved, she could barely handle the small world she'd carved for herself.

  "Got something you might like to see," he said, turning down the street to the store.

  Cleo blinked back to the moment, rubbed her eyes, and politely looked ahead. The street seemed awfully crowded for the middle of a weekday. "Are they having a fair or something? I don't remember the Chamber mentioning it."

  "Nope. Keep looking. I won't stop, but I thought you ought to see what your neighbors think of you."

  Yeah, right. They thought her an insane idiot and an ex-con. Had they posted signs to that effect?

  She frowned as she noted the party atmosphere of people gathering to chat. Almost everyone had a plastic sack from her store. Was Marta giving the inventory away? That almost made a sick kind of sense.

  Someone looked up, saw the Jeep, and waved. Others followed suit. She sent Jared a suspicious look. "What have you done now? Bought a new school?"

  He chuckled dryly. "You never give up, do you? Want me to stop so you can ask?"

  She saw a reporter from the weekly newspaper scribbling notes as he talked to one of Marta's cousins and shook her head. "No, I don't think so. My picture will be on page one as it is. I'd rather not provide the entire paper."

  He shot her a look of exasperation, removed the cell phone from its holder, and handed it to her. "Call Marta."

  Looking at the stern planes of his angular jaw, she gulped, and took the phone. She trusted this man not to hurt her. She dialed.

  "Cleo's Hardware," a bright voice answered. Not Marta, but one of the many women who assisted during peak seasons. This wasn't Christmas. This wasn't even a weekend.

  "This is Cleo. Is Marta around?" she asked warily.

  "Sure, Cleo. I'll get her. Have you seen the turnout here? The registers are rocking off the counter." She set the phone aside before Cleo could respond.

  Jared maneuvered around a car attempting to parallel park and slowly followed traffic past the store. Cleo could see a line of customers through her plate glass window.

  "Hey, Cleo," Marta answered cheerfully. "We've got a full house here. When you coming in? We'll need an express order to restock the shelves before the weekend."

  "What the hell is going on?" Cleo demanded. "I'm out here stuck in traffic and the place is swarming."

  "Jared didn't tell you? That man's a keeper, girl. Don't you worry about a thing. We have orders coming in that will keep us busy right through December."

  Staring blankly out the window, Cleo nodded, said something inane, and hung up the phone. She didn't dare meet Jared's eye but watched his long, talented fingers skillfully steering the wheel. "What did you do?" she asked very, very carefully.

  She could almost hear his surprise.

  "Me? Not a thing. If anyone did anything, Marta did. I just gave her a few words of encouragement, and she apparently got on the phone and called every relative in two counties. How many husbands has she had, anyway? And I lost track of the brothers and sisters somewhere after the twelfth stepbrother and thirteenth half-sister on her mother's side." He turned and gave her a significant look. "And then she must have started on all the people you've helped in the year you've been here."

  Cleo gulped, twined her fingers together, and let the tears pour down her face.

  Chapter 33

  "Shall I take you out somewhere fancy to eat?" Jared asked.

  He helped her from the Jeep in front of the house, politely ignoring her tears. "I could take you into Charleston where no one knows us."

  Cleo didn't know how to answer that. She didn't know much of anything just yet. She needed to find the shield she used to hide intrusive emotions, the one she needed to cover up her desperate desire to be folded into comforting arms and loved.

  He'd said he loved her. The panic and outright terror of that much responsibility clawed at her. She simply couldn't carry a bigger load.

  She shook he
r head. "Maya is heading down here with Matty after school. They don't believe Axell that everything is all right." Matty. If she didn't go to jail and didn't have to move, maybe they'd let her have him home on schedule?

  Despite all her efforts, hope crept through every crevasse and cranny in her soul. Maybe all could be well, for a little while. Love never lasted, but she was stronger now. When it came time for him to go, she might survive, if she had Matty back.

  Cautiously, she tamped the thought down for later examination. Standing on the porch stairs, she looked up to Jared for stability. Proved the extent of her insanity if she looked to a playboy artist for stability, but she'd learned that laughing, lanky frame of his disguised muscles and a brain and compassion.

  At her look, he ran his fingers through her hair and quirked his eyebrows in a question she could read all too well. Love poured through the broken dam of her heart, and her smile shook a little.

  "Don't you have work to do?" There, she was returning to normal a little bit. She'd be back in the swing of it shortly.

  His gaze lingered on her face, then dropped to the highly respectable tailored shirt and khakis she'd donned for the visit to bureaucracy. "Probably a lifetime's worth," he agreed. "But I think I'll enjoy every minute of it."

  Heat seeped through her breasts and up her throat. "I'm not a very profitable endeavor."

  "Depends on your definition of profit." He lowered his head slowly, watching her, giving her time to run.

  She didn't. With relief, she grabbed his neck, and lifted into his kiss. Sex, she understood. Or maybe not. What had passed for sex in her past was nothing like this. This was what the romance books called making love. She poured herself into the press of lips and tongue, showing him what she couldn't tell him. She prayed he understood because she couldn't sort out gratitude, joy, relief, and love in any meaningful measure. He was the life she'd never known, and what moments she could steal from his time would buoy her through a lifetime of crises.