Extraordinarily Yours: Collection 1 (An Extraordinarily Yours Romance Book 8)

by J. Kenner

  She slid her key into the lock and pushed open her front door. Immediately, Elmer scampered forward and started chittering.

  “Hale’s ferret?” Jason asked.

  Lane nodded.

  “Any idea what he’s saying?”

  “Not a clue,” she said. “I’m guessing he’s starving to death. He’s used to hotels with room service. Staying up with me is really lowering his standards.”

  Reaching down, she rubbed his little head, thinking that would calm him down. Instead, it only seemed to excite him more. “I guess I better make with the food.” She headed toward the kitchen, gesturing to the interior of the room. “It’s not much, but it’s home. Sit anywhere,” she offered, clicking a button on the remote to turn on the television. “I’ll only be a second.”

  Instead of sitting like she’d expected, he headed for the bookshelf. There he pulled down the carved wooden dolphin Davy had received a few months ago from his anonymous benefactor. Lane licked her lips, ignoring the hungry, hopping Elmer as she watched Jason stroke the polished wood. For the first time, she wondered if Aaron was right. Had Jason been sending these presents? But how could that be? He’d been locked up. Imprisoned. He’d told her that himself.

  Surely he hadn’t lied to her again?

  A commercial ended, and the twenty-four-hour news channel came back on. As Lane pulled open the refrigerator, she heard the broadcast: “A freak storm at the San Diego Sea World on Sunday resulted in an overload on that park’s sewage system. All patrons were evacuated while environmental officials tested the facilities to ensure there was no contamination.”

  Lane twisted, and her eyes met Jason’s, a chill settling over her as the newscaster assured viewers that the park checked out fine and would reopen in the morning. She took a deep breath, and then another. When she felt composed, she popped the tops on two Diet Cokes and turned.

  “Tell me about Davy,” Jason said, still holding the carving and standing in the living room. “Tell me about my son.”

  Lane opened her mouth, not to comply but to ask her own questions. But when she saw his eyes, she stopped, the sadness there making her want to cry.

  The realization that she wasn’t the only one who’d lost Davy washed over her. Jason had missed out on so much. And no matter what he did, there were some things Jason could never have. And despite what had come between them in the past, and no matter what might lie ahead in the future, Lane wanted Jason to know his son.

  “He’s wonderful,” she said, not knowing where to start. “He’s the best little boy in the world.”

  Despite his melancholy, Jason had to grin. Leave it to Lane to state the obvious.

  He stroked the driftwood dolphin, the warm wood alive under his fingertips. He wondered if Davy had ever played with the thing, or if it just sat, cold and unloved, on a shelf, some curio given by an unknown benefactor.

  Although he’d spent hours watching Davy and Lane, he hadn’t looked into their apartment. He’d seen Davy chasing friends, he’d seen his son and Lane wrestling on the grass, he’d seen Davy and Lane eating hotdogs at the slightly rusty table in the courtyard—but the intimacies of their lives had remained a mystery.

  “I was hoping for something a little more specific,” he said.

  Putting the dolphin back on the shelf, he headed into the kitchen, joining Lane in the cramped room. She handed him a Diet Coke and took a sip of her own. When she pulled a container out of the refrigerator, he grappled for some question that would provide loads of insight into his son. “What’s his favorite food?” he finally asked. Not exactly insightful, but he was just getting warmed up.

  Lane looked up from the glop she’d begun spooning onto a plate for Elmer—the ferret continuing to dance about her feet—the corner of her mouth curving into a smile. “Macaroni and cheese,” she admitted. “Kraft.”

  He nodded. “The kid has good taste.”

  “I take it that’s still in your cooking repertoire?”

  Jason laughed. “That is my repertoire. That and microwave popcorn. You should remember.”

  “Slacker,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly had access to a kitchen to learn anything new.” He nodded down at the plate of glop she held, not wanting to talk about his absence. “Purina ferret chow?”

  “Beef bourguignonne.” She nudged the ferret with her toe. “Hale has a service deliver Elmer’s meals. The little guy’s spoiled rotten.”

  And, apparently, hyperactive. The ferret was bouncing around on the floor even more frantically, clawing at the hem of Lane’s jeans and running in circles.

  “He’s a spaz,” Lane said. “But I can’t blame him for being hungry.” She headed toward the door and squeezed past, her shoulder brushing Jason as she stepped into the tiny hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you Davy’s room.”

  In two short steps he was at the door, which, in case anyone might be confused, announced on a miniature license plate that it was “Davy’s Place.”

  Jason wasn’t sure what he expected inside, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t the tornado-destroyed disaster area that confronted him. Stuffed animals were strewn all about, their apparent mode of transportation the collection of multicolored plastic trucks scattered across the floor. A variety of wooden blocks and Tinkertoys filled the rest of the space, ensuring that entering would be hazardous to one’s health. He did so, anyway.

  At the foot of the bed, the kid had mounted a map of the United States on a plastic board. Dozens of tiny lightbulbs made up its coordinates, creating a colorful display. Davy must not have changed the bulbs recently, though, because at the moment all were burned out except for one light humming in the Pacific.

  “Cool, huh?” Lane said, nodding toward the map. “He spent days making it. And he begged me for one of those Lite-Brite kits. I said he could have it on his birthday, but he conned it out of me a few months early.” She half-smiled. “I’m such a sucker.”

  Jason grinned. Imagining Davy’s enthusiasm, he understood her weakness.

  He and Lane moved around the map to the side of the bed, and her fingers absently stroked the walls. Jason noticed the movie posters that decorated every inch: Star Wars, Monsters, Inc. ,—

  “He likes Mike,” Lane said, gesturing toward one of the posters. She put Elmer’s plate on the floor in the corner next to a water dish, then plucked a green goblin-looking guy off the bed. The plush one-eyed creature matched the character on the Monsters, Inc. poster, and Lane hugged him close, her lips pressed together so tight they disappeared into a thin line.

  “Why don’t you bring Mike back to my houseboat?” Jason suggested. “That way you can give him to Davy when you see him again.”

  Lane nodded, her throat moving a bit, but she didn’t say anything. After a moment she gave the monster’s head a little kiss and looked up. “Green’s his favorite color,” she said, her voice hoarse. A tear trickled down her cheek. “And never leave anything electronic near him unless you don’t mind it being taken apart.”

  Jason reached for her hand, and she let go of Mike to take it. He squeezed her fingers. “He’s ruined some of your stuff.” She shook her head. “No. Actually, that’s the funny part. He puts it back together—just not always when I need it. Of course, when I complain, he very seriously tells me: ‘Mommy, sometimes you have to be patient while a genius is working.’ ” She laughed. “How am I supposed to argue with that?” It sounded like something a son of his would say. “I’m pretty sure you can’t.”

  Jason glanced around the room, noting the small gadgets and gizmos tucked away everywhere. And, he noticed, the presents he’d sent were all here, most looking like they’d been well played with. “So, what has his genius created?”

  Lane sat on the edge of the bed, Mike secure in her lap. “Oh, let’s see. A transporter beam so that I can go off into space and bring back his daddy.” She met his eyes. “Apparently you’re an astronaut,” she added.

  He nodded, trying to keep his face impassive
despite his pain. “Good to know.”

  “And X-ray glasses. And a magic plate that eats your vegetables for you.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “There’s lots more. Every night he tells me what he invented that day. It’s a game we started playing about a year ago. At first he just took his trucks apart and put them back together. Then he moved on to my clock radio, the toaster, and the VCR. After that, his imagination kicked in—we’ve got boogeyman repellant, tracking devices, animal translators, and mind-reading hats.”

  “A new one every day, huh?”

  Lane nodded. “Yup. Well, usually. Sometimes he says a project’s in development but needs funding. I don’t know where he picks this stuff up. Other times he says the prototype’s in production.” A genuine smile lit her face, almost bright enough to hide the sadness in her eyes. “I swear, the kid thinks he’s Thomas Edison or something.” She shook her head. “Actually, if his science ever ends up as good as his imagination, he just might show Edison up.”

  Jason’s stomach twisted. His son, the inventor. His son, accepting the Nobel Prize in physics. His son, Time’s Man of the Year.

  Yeah, that would be cool.

  “He’s such a clever, special little boy,” Lane went on. Her voice cracked, and Jason sat beside her on the bed, taking her hand in his. She aimed a weak smile in his direction. “Maybe he can invent himself a way to get free of Hieronymous.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “We’ll get him back, sweetheart. I promise.”

  His pager hadn’t vibrated, but he checked it anyway. No messages. He keyed in an entry, directing it to the others at his houseboat: Progress report?

  No news, came the answer.

  Damn.

  Lane’s bloodshot eyes darted down to the pager and then back up to him. “Nothing?”

  “I’m sorry. But we will fi—”

  “No.” She whispered the word, her head shaking. “Don’t keep telling me that.” She got to her feet and then, with an icy calm, hurled Mike across the room. “Damn it all to hell!” Tears spilled from her eyes. “I don’t want any more platitudes. I’ve had enough. I’ve reached my limit. I’m done, Jason. I want this to be over. I want my son. I want Davy back.”

  Her anguish came in a flood. Tears streamed down her face, and Lane pressed her hand over her mouth as she stumbled back onto the bed. On the way, she almost tripped over Elmer, who hadn’t eaten and was still practically bouncing off the walls near the foot of the bed. Lane ignored the ferret, throwing herself down on Davy’s mattress and curling up with his bedspread, her knees at her chest.

  Jason was immediately, at her side, leaning over her, stroking her arm. He had no idea what comfort he could bring, but he had to try. His heart wrenched and he reached out, wanting to make Lane’s tears stop.

  Gently he brushed the palm of his hand over her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead. Her shoulders shook with silent sorrow, and he placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

  “Lane,” he whispered.

  That was all it took. With a guttural sob that almost ripped out his heart, she rolled over and clung to him. Her hands clutched his sleeves and her cheek pressed against his chest. Her sobs were no longer silent, and he held her close, rocking from side to side, wishing he could do more to soothe her, wishing he’d never left, wishing he’d been just another dad at Sea World with his boy so that maybe this would never have happened in the first place.

  If wishes were fishes . . .

  With one hand, Jason stroked Lane’s back, murmuring soft words, saying nothing but trying to communicate everything: hope, strength, most of all, the certainty that all would end well.

  As her sobs slowed, Lane pressed closer against him, her arms tight around his waist. Even in the face of the surrounding horror, the moment felt right. She felt right. And Jason knew without a doubt that he would do anything—anything—to make sure Lane wasn’t hurt again. By him, by Hieronymous, by anyone.

  He stroked the small of her back. Her little T-shirt had come untucked from her jeans, and his palm skimmed her soft, warm skin. His own body felt hot, but whether from the warm room or the woman he loved, he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Right now, nothing mattered but letting Lane know Davy would be safe.

  “It will be okay,” he whispered.

  “How?” The word came out strangled, Lane’s voice so raw it caused him physical pain.

  This was all his father’s fault, and Jason clenched his fist, pressing it against the belt loop of Lane’s jeans, fighting the urge to smash his fist through the wall as a substitute for his father’s head.

  “Because I’ll make sure it’s okay,” he said.

  “But what if—”

  He pressed a finger against her lips, unwilling to let her complete the thought. Hell, unable to think it himself. “Failure is not an option,” he said, gratified when she grinned at the cliche. “I’m serious, though,” he added. And he was. Deadly serious.

  With the side of his hand he stroked Lane’s cheek. She turned, and his palm slid over her warm, soft lips. The sensation rocked him, sending tremors through his body. He ignored them. This wasn’t about him. Wasn’t even about Lane. Not yet. This was about Davy. “I’ll get him back,” he promised. “Or I’ll die trying.”

  When she’d first seen him hours ago, her eyes had been accusing. Now, she looked at him like a hero. A wave of fear rose in his gut—fear that he wasn’t up to the task. His father had bested him before; what was to stop him from doing so again?

  He shoved the thought aside. He would win. He had to. For Davy, and because he couldn’t bear the thought of this shadow crossing Lane’s eyes again. Yes, he’d win. And, in the end, he’d make Hieronymous no longer a threat to anyone.

  “Thank you,” Lane whispered. “I’m sorry I . . .” She trailed off with a shrug. “I don’t like breaking down like that.”

  “No one does,” he said. “But I’d say you have a pretty good excuse.”

  “It’s like he took me, too,” she explained. “Like I’m being held prisoner with Davy. Only I don’t know where, and if only I could see through the darkness we could run free.” She looked up at him. A watery smile graced her lips, in sharp contrast to the sadness in her eyes. “Does that make any sense at all?”

  He met her smile. “More than you know. Believe me, I know all about prisons. And I know all about Hieronymous.”

  She licked her lips. “Do you want to tell me?”

  He shook his head, fighting the memories he’d worked so hard to block out, those years trapped all alone in a suspended crystal fishbowl, that prison within a prison, hidden on some desolate island in the Pacific. “Some other time,” he said. “Right now we should get back to the houseboat.” She nodded, then scooted to the edge of the bed.

  Poor lady. Poor Davy. And no one’s paying attention to the ferret.

  Jason frowned, cocking his head as he tried to locate the voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. He stood and turned in a circle, his eyes scanning the room. Nothing. Hello, he called.

  Lane stared at him. “What are you doing?”

  He ignored her, addressing the voice. Is anyone here?

  You can hear me? Oh, that’s wonderful! I had no idea. Ask the ferret! You need to ask the ferret where Davy is!

  Jason turned to Lane. “Does Davy have a fish?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, my gosh. I completely forgot to feed Dorothy.” She reached to the headboard and pushed Davy’s pillow aside. There, on the built-in bookshelf, was a simple goldfish bowl housing a tiny plastic castle and one small fish.

  Thank Hera he wasn’t losing his mind.

  Immediately, Jason climbed back onto the bed and crawled to the headboard, coming nose to bowl with the fish.

  “Uh, Jason?”

  He ignored Lane, focusing on Dorothy. What do you mean, talk to the ferret?

  The goldfish swam back and forth, building up speed with each turn. The ferret’s been rambling like mad. And the boy used to talk to him about a tracking
device.

  You can understand the boy?

  I understand him, but he doesn’t understand me. He can talk to the ferret, though—he invented a translator.

  His brilliant son . . .

  Jason shook his head. Time for that later. Can you ask the ferret?

  I don’t speak ferret. Do you?

  No, Jason certainly didn’t. Which had never bothered him before, but now it caused him no end of grief. Yet there were other ways to communicate besides words, and he intended to get answers.

  With a quick thank-you to Dorothy, Jason dove for Elmer, plucking him off the map and the brightly lit bulb plugged into the South Pacific. He wracked his brain for a way to interact with the beast.

  “Jason?” Lane asked, her voice switching from slightly amused to slightly concerned. “What’s going on?”

  As Jason opened his mouth to answer, realization struck. He stared at the ferret now dangling from his hands, tiny ferret feet kicking in the air.

  Jason swallowed as he glanced from the bulb to the ferret and back.

  Surely it wasn’t so simple . . .

  The ferret twisted to follow Jason’s gaze and then started to spaz out again, his little head bobbing up and down affirmatively.

  “Dammit, Jason, tell me what’s going on.” Lane clutched his wrist so tightly he opened his hand, dropping Elmer.

  “I know where he is,” he answered, meeting her widening eyes. “I know where Hieronymous took Davy.”

  7

  Jason stalked in front of his large Council-issued speedboat, which was docked near his houseboat. He was trying his damnedest to hold his tongue, and so far he’d managed for one entire length of the pier. Apparently, though, that was his limit. “I don’t care about any damn directives,” he said, stomping back in the opposite direction. “I’m going after my son.”

  Zoe ran a hand through her hair—or tried to, anyway. She wore it pulled back from her face in a tight braid. The hairdo had started out neatly that morning, but it was now a frazzled mess. “I’m not trying to be difficult,” she began.