Taking things from her brother at the front door as he made a couple of trips, Jasmine tried not to cry. How it had to hurt him, turning over his daughter’s things. He adored Bella more than anything on earth. From the second she was born, Josh had glowed with love and pride for her.
“I’ll keep her happy,” she told him as he stood on her porch, ready to take off.
“I know you will, sis. That’s why she’s here.”
“You sure you don’t want a second cup of coffee?” Dawn had come, but it was still early.
Shaking his head, he reached a hand behind her neck and gently pulled her to him for a quick hug. “I want to get ahead of this. Turn myself in before they come for me. Danny says that’s the best way to keep it low-key.”
Right. Because while Bella was by far his greatest concern, she wasn’t his only concern. As founder and chairman of Play for the Win, he had well over a thousand kids benefiting from his good reputation. A scandal could hurt them all.
Because of one damaged, bitter and vindictive woman.
“Call me as soon as you can,” she called to Josh as he strode, head high, down the walk. With a backward wave, he acknowledged her request.
“We’ll video talk every night before Bella goes to bed,” she told his already retreated back.
She wasn’t sure he heard her. And, feeling helpless in spite of herself, she let the tears fall.
* * *
The house Greg was headed to was nice. He’d been to Santa Raquel many times in the past. Liked the small, beachside town. And had never been in any of these moneyed neighborhoods with expanses of private beach. Not a lot of crime happened there and he didn’t run with the kind of crowd that would produce invitations to gated communities. He was the guy who came to town for a few hours on the public beach.
Nineteen eighty-five. He found the address. Jasmine Taylor’s home, while on a stretch of private beach, was set a quarter of a mile up from the water. And it was fenced off.
Not that safety was on his roster of concern. Child Services had already had their go at the perp’s sister over the past few days and deemed her suitable for temporary custody of the toddler. Greg was there to interview the sister for evidence against her brother.
Vibrant flowers lined her walk and trailed out of large terra-cotta pots on either side of the massive double front door.
Unlike most of the homes spread far apart on the secluded street, 1985 was single story. But still had four bedrooms.
Ms. Taylor lived nice for an elementary school teacher. But then he knew she, like her brother, had a trust fund to back her up. The brother had hired a snake of a lawyer, refusing to cooperate with the prosecutor’s office in any way.
Greg knocked. Not sure what to expect in a woman who was worth more than a million dollars and still spent her days at work teaching young children how to add and subtract.
The police had arraigned her brother on a single misdemeanor charge of domestic violence. At the status conference the prosecutor had offered a no brainer plea agreement. Even Josh Taylor’s lawyer had told him that if he pleaded guilty, he’d get no more than a slap on the wrist and probably some mandatory counseling. It was his first offense and he contributed an inordinate amount of good to the community.
Josh had refused to listen to any talk of deals or settling out of court. He seemed certain he was going to prove his innocence and had the money to spend doing it.
Which meant Greg had to work all that much harder to see justice done. Josh Taylor had nearly broken his ex-wife’s wrist. The guy had to be accountable to that. At least by an admission and submission to counseling.
The door opened. Greg stood still, forgetting for a split second why he was there. There was nothing that remarkable about the woman standing before him. Nothing shocking about a woman wearing a long, black skirt that looked like it was made out of lightweight material. Her white T-shirt with black lace flowers hugged her figure nicely, but in Southern California nice curves were the norm. The dark hair that curled around her shoulders looked clean, the big brown gaze...everyone had eyes.
He’d broken out into a sweat in his light gray suit.
“Detective Johnson?” Her voice, quiet and yet somehow laced with authority, drew his gaze to her mouth. What in the hell was wrong with him? She wasn’t his first good-looking interview. Not by a long shot.
Liv’s drama must be rubbing off on him. Another reason to get himself fully out of her life.
“Yes, I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late.” He found his spiel in the nick of time as he held up his badge. “I didn’t count on so much traffic on the freeway.”
“Yeah, the number of people who live up here and work between here and LA is growing every year.” She didn’t really smile, but it kind of seemed like she had.
“Auntie JJ! Auntie JJ! Look what I drawed!” A tiny, lisping little three-year-old voice came barreling around the corner and out to the foyer with the little girl carrying some kind of board that had a pencil-type article hanging from it by a cord.
“Come on, kiddo! Auntie JJ told you she had to work for just a minute and would be right back.” Another female voice, slightly garbled and older, sounded just before another woman came into view.
“It’s okay, Maddie.” Jasmine—he assumed Auntie JJ was the woman who’d answered the door, and that the toddler was Anabelle Taylor—took the board from little fingers as the pudgy cheeks, framed by dark hair, turned up to her. “That’s really good, Bella!”
“It’s Daddy and me riding horses to supper!” Greg thought he heard. From what he could see, the board was covered with scattered scribbles.
“What are you having for supper?” Maddie asked in that unusual voice, taking the board from Jasmine and leading the little girl down a hall. “I’ll close the door this time,” the blonde said, glancing back at Jasmine, who nodded.
“Maddie and her husband and kids live at The Lemonade Stand with Lynn Bishop, our full-time nurse practitioner,” Jasmine said, leading Greg out through a set of French doors at the back of the house to a deck furnished with upholstered wicker furniture. Wicker. For a two-hundred-pound guy.
He briefly noticed the large expanse of yard beyond, followed by as much beach and then the ocean. Paradise.
“Maddie works at the daycare and offered to sit with Bella while you’re here,” Jasmine was saying.
His job was to find out anything pertinent that wasn’t in the formal reports. And to get her to tell him whether or not her brother had ever exhibited signs of domestic violence. During initial plea negotiation it had come out that they’d grown up in an abusive home—not that that fact alone made someone suspect. At all. Taylor’s lawyer had offered the information in his client’s defense, saying that Josh had helped save his mother and sister and was determined to live a violence-free life. As was his sibling. But fact was, victims often grew up to have victims. He didn’t make the facts; he had to know them, to use them, to do his job.
She didn’t offer him anything to drink—in spite of the nice teapot centerpiece on the wicker-wrapped glass-topped table in front of the couch. She took a rocker off one corner of the table. He lowered himself carefully to the couch, facing the ocean in the distance. He could barely make out waves moving in the dusk but didn’t hear their sound.
“Maddie was a victim of domestic violence. First at home, when she was growing up, and then she was a victim of her husband.”
Maybe she thought he needed a crash course in the world of domestic violence. No way she’d know that he’d successfully investigated—and earlier in his career, prosecuted—more cases of it than he could count.
“I’m not here to investigate you or your choice of babysitter,” he told her, the first words he’d been able to get in since he’d shown her his badge. “I’m a detective, employed by the prosecutor’s office.” He’d told her so earlier when he’d call
ed to make the appointment.
She nodded. “I know.” Both hands on the arms of her chair, she rocked. Back and forth. Back and forth. Slowly. Portraying a sense of calm he wasn’t sure she really felt.
Because she was a woman with secrets?
Could she hide something without appearing to be doing so?
She was a survivor. He heeded that knowledge.
But Liv was a survivor, too. And had moments of utter control.
“I’d like to have Maddie back before eight,” she told him, not ungently. “She’s happier when she can tuck her kids into bed herself.”
That gave him an hour. For a five-minute interview.
For the first time in years, Greg wasn’t sure of himself. Wasn’t getting a good read on his interviewee.
There was no way he was thrown off balance by the woman in front of him. Wouldn’t happen. Not after Liv.
Damn straight.
That wasn’t going to happen.
Ever again.
CHAPTER 3
The second she realized she was feeling relaxed, Jasmine put herself on notice. The man sitting across from her, while recognizably attractive with his short, thick dark hair and surprisingly vivid green eyes, was huge. As in tall. And broad. One good shove from his index finger could send her backward.
And he was there to get her to turn on her brother. Not to find out the truth. His job was to assist the prosecutor to build his case.
Not to help her and Josh.
She usually felt safe around law enforcement. Was drawn to them. You’d think she wouldn’t be, after an unsuccessful relationship with a cop who’d taken his street persona of being in charge way too far. He’d once told her he’d handcuff her to the kitchen table if that’s what it took to keep her from going out with some friends he thought were bad for her. But no. Jasmine was attracted to people who exhibited confidence. People with power. Most particularly to cops. They’d always been her symbol of safety. She just had to call the cops. Just had to get to them. The police would help her.
Detective Greg Johnson was there to hurt them. She couldn’t like him.
But when he asked her about The Lemonade Stand, about her job there, teaching the elementary-aged children who were residents, she found herself answering him like they were old friends.
“I’ve got grades one through six,” she told him, thinking it would have been better if she’d faced the ocean rather than the house. That seemingly unending water mass was like a talisman. Reminding her of her strength. “But I rarely have students in all six grades at a time. The kids are generally never there more than six weeks—that’s the state-allotted time a woman can remain at a shelter. The Lemonade Stand is privately owned, though, so exceptions can be, and are, made when deemed appropriate.”
“Why would anyone ever not deem it appropriate for a woman to stay longer if she had nowhere to go?”
“Six weeks should be enough time for her to make some kind of arrangements. The thought is that if you don’t force someone who’s been victimized to take back control of her life, she’ll remain a victim. The shelter is a safe place—and for a woman who’s just left a home of terror, she could easily just settle in and want to stay.”
“So how much teaching can you actually do?”
“A lot. I teach to state mandates for public education, focusing on the basics kids will need to pass on to the next year. Reading, writing and math proficiencies. But since I have all grades in one classroom, I do a lot of one-on-one work. Much like school systems that share buses and start different schools at different times, my kids’ days start at staggered times. That way I can get one age group going on something before the next one comes in and needs my time.”
“Sounds like a tough gig.”
“It’s actually the best job I could imagine,” she told him. “I’ve been where those kids are. I love being able to work with them. To show them gentleness and love and understanding from a position of authority. I want them to know there are adults in charge of them whom they can trust.”
So maybe they wouldn’t constantly be drawn to, feel safe with, people who tried to control them—with an overactive need to seek approval from those people—once they reached adulthood.
Sadly, children who grew up with abuse were more prone to end up with partners with abusive tendencies. It made no logical sense to her. She couldn’t explain it. But she knew the statistics were high.
And true. Because she was one of them.
“So that’s why you do it.”
“Do what?”
“Your work. You and your brother are both quite well-off.”
“Me more than my brother now, since he gave half of what he had to Heidi when they divorced. Just offered it to her, not because he’d been ordered to do so.” Her job was to show this detective, this big man in her space, that Josh was one of the good guys. One of the very best.
“So what about you? You’ve never been married?”
“Don’t you have that information in your report?”
His shrug didn’t tell her much. He did or he didn’t?
“Why does that matter in proving that my brother didn’t hurt his ex-wife?”
“It could tell me where you stand in terms of spousal negotiations...”
If she had a bias for him to be concerned about, it would be her love for her brother. But even that wouldn’t let her hide any abuse. No way would she expose Bella to it. Not for anyone.
“I’ve never been married,” she told him. “I’ve had three serious relationships but got out of all three before anything legal transpired.” That should do it for his investigative purposes.
Why she hadn’t turned in Desmond the cop was a question for another conversation. With her counselor, not this detective.
A conversation she’d already had. Multiple times.
Why she’d never filed charges, never brought anything into the legal realm, when all three of her choices—two male and one female—had ended up being abusive in one way or another, was more of that “other” conversation.
“Are you currently in a relationship?”
His green gaze glinted as he watched her. In the back of her mind a thought hung out—surely that wasn’t an investigative question—and yet, meeting his gaze, she shook her head.
Because she wanted to answer him.
She wanted to please him.
It’s what she did.
And...
“Has Josh been by to see Bella?”
There. That’s what they did. People in authority, people you needed sucked you in. Made you feel safe. Cared for. And then, wham! So you’ll give them what they want from you.
“No. He was ordered to stay away from her, except for supervised visits, since his arraignment two days ago. He’s waiting for the paperwork to clear Child Services.” This detective had to know that. And she had nothing to hide.
“Josh is going to do this by the book,” she told him, straight on. “Bella is his world. Keeping her safe and happy means more than life to him. And to me, too, for that matter. He didn’t hurt Heidi. This is all new to you, but we’ve been dealing with her, and her insidious vindictiveness, for years. This is a new low for her, granted, but it’s of the same cloth.”
“I’ve spoken with Child Services,” Detective Johnson told her. She wasn’t sure why. Was he warning her?
If so, it was unwarranted. And unnecessary.
“Then you’ll know Josh is complying.”
“I also know that Heidi’s been in counseling and is committed to getting her rights to her daughter back.”
Heidi had earned the right to supervised visits after completing a year of counseling successfully. And the restraining order Josh had been granted at the time of her arrest eighteen months before had been dropped.
Jasmine hadn’t felt good about e
ither development.
“Do you know that she threatened Josh? Told him she’d accuse him of domestic violence if he didn’t agree to shared parenting with her?”
The woman he was trying to protect was dangerous. Maybe Jasmine was the one who had to show him that. They certainly didn’t seem predisposed to believe Josh.
“This whole thing was planned. Just like the time Heidi claimed that Josh had stolen from her when, in fact, he’d merely taken what had been granted as his by the divorce. Or the time she claimed that her ring had slipped around on her finger without her knowing when she slapped him on the neck and left a big gash with her diamond?”
She could go on. And on. It would all be in his record. If he’d bothered to read about Heidi’s past.
“The past is past,” the detective said, almost as though he’d read her mind. He wiped at the back of his neck with his hand, perched there on her sofa like he thought it might give way beneath him at any moment.
She shivered. September’s Friday evening air was balmy. Not warm, but not cold, either. The motion-sensor lights on either side of the deck had come on. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought him out here to her peaceful place. In the mornings she liked to sit with her soda and watch the waves in the distance as they raced up to the beach.
With the sun having set, they weren’t visible behind her. But she knew they were there.
“We are who we are.” She shot the platitude back at him. And then, “Did she tell you she’d threatened him?”
“He did.”
“And you don’t believe him.” It wasn’t a question.
“She has proof of assault, Ms. Taylor. I understand your emotional investment here. I applaud your faith in your brother. But in my job, I have to deal with facts.”
His pat on the head felt like a major thump. Disappointment flooded her when anger probably would have been more appropriate. She recognized the failing.
“You want facts? Well, how about the fact that the picture of the fingerprints on Heidi’s wrist are on her left wrist and it’s her right one that’s sprained?” She’d discovered the discrepancy the first night after Josh’s arrest and release—after they’d video-called Bella’s bedtime story and hug. Her brother had shared the evidence against him with her.
Harlequin Romantic Suspense July 2021 Box Set Page 66
