Surrogate Dad

by Marion Smith Collins

  She was hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. “I was...surprised, almost stunned really, at how different you seem here.”

  “Different?”

  “Yes. Of course, I’ve rarely seen you in anything but a formal business suit. But even when you take off your jacket, you still seem to have a rather formal personality. I don’t mean to imply that there’s anything wrong with that. I’m a bit formal, myself.”

  “I’ve noticed.” He slid his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “You mean I’m stuffy?”

  “Well, that’s a bit extreme. Here you seem more relaxed, more approachable.” Like you’re enjoying life instead of straining against it, she added, but only to herself. It was much too dangerous to her peace of mind for her to analyze his new persona in such an introspective way.

  He had made a half turn away from her. As she looked at his profile, she realized that he wasn’t pleased. “I meant it as a compliment, Luke.”

  “Sure,” Luke said easily. His eyes had narrowed angrily at Alexandra’s so-called compliment, but he was trying to hide his response from her. He supposed she’d had cause to think of him as stiff and stilted, but it was damned deflating to a man’s ego when a woman judged him by his outward appearance.

  Years ago when he’d gone to work for the celebrated firm, he’d wanted the job, wanted it badly enough to subdue his casual, unceremonious personality for it. He could probably ease up now; he’d more than proven himself. But the habit of being one person at work and another during his leisure hours had become ingrained.

  He’d gone into the navy straight out of high school. The money he’d saved for college helped with undergraduate school, but when it came to law school, he’d wanted one of the top four. Unfortunately, the best were also the most costly. He’d graduated with a mountain of debt and a burning desire to be rich. Extraordinarily, revoltingly rich.

  He’d wanted to be so rich he’d never have to do the addition in his head before writing a check. So rich he’d never have to think twice about buying a pair of shoes or concert tickets.

  His childhood had been dismal, living from hand-to-mouth on whatever money he could earn doing odd jobs. He didn’t remember his father, and his mother may as well have been a stranger. She provided the roof over his head and a younger sister to look after, and not much else. She was rarely at home, preferring the company of various “uncles” to his own.

  The day he’d buried his mother and his little sister, he’d been sixteen. He’d stood over their graves with tears streaming down his face, tears of resentment for his mother, grief and regret for little six-year-old Diana. It was the age of antibiotics and drugs for every conceivable ailment. People weren’t supposed to die from influenza.

  From that time until he could escape them, he’d lived in a series of foster homes. After straining against the tethers and getting into trouble more times than he cared to remember, he’d learned to adapt to what was expected of him. Like a chameleon, he could fit in anywhere.

  Ambition had been Luke’s constant companion since that day. He’d vowed that somehow he would escape. He would never live like that again.

  He walked beside Alexandra for a few minutes before he finally responded to her comment. “The firm I work for prefers a low profile and a fairly serious demeanor.”

  “Yes, I know. My husband used to say that a lawyer had to be born into that firm.”

  Her words caused him to wince. “Your husband was right. Either that or graduate in the top one percent of an Ivy League school.”

  It was a sore point with him that, though he’d been at the top of his class, and had gotten the job, because of his murky upbringing, he still had to play a role for the more socially minded members of the firm who clearly had doubts about his fitting in. Not that he wasn’t routinely serious—he’d always had to be.

  And he’d paid another price. For the past ten years, every bit of energy had been directed toward achievement. Success had been bought at the expense of personal relationships. But, he told himself, things could change now. And it had all been worth it.

  He had a bank account to envy. He was building the house he’d dreamed about when he was a kid. He could afford to indulge in his favorite hobby.

  Alexandra stopped in the shadow of a camera tower. She rested against the wall and resumed fanning herself.

  She met his gaze and smiled, wondering where his thoughts had taken him. But inhibited as she was by his nearness, the broad shoulders, the raw masculinity he exuded, she didn’t dare ask.

  He propped his hand against the wall beside her head. “So I play their game. For now,” he said absently as his eyes roamed over her face.

  Alexandra felt a return of the breathless emotions that had so surprised her this morning. Her blood thickened in her veins, slowing down her heartbeat. His scrutiny with those hot, smoky eyes should raise blisters, but the hand that had been fanning with the program dropped to her side.

  He was standing very close. She could see flecks of gold in his silver eyes. She could smell fuel and sweat and energy. But his face didn’t give away an inkling of what he was thinking or feeling.

  Suddenly she realized that she wanted him to kiss her.

  Ridiculous. She searched through her laggard brain for something to say. “You seem to have been leading a double life, Luke. I’m amazed that I didn’t see this side of you earlier.”

  He slanted a look at her, and this time it was quite easy to read. The look held a world of disapproval. “Perhaps you never bothered to look,” he said scornfully.

  She stiffened. “What does that mean?” she asked carefully.

  “West Chadwick has the kind of credentials you favor. I don’t. I was brought up dirt-poor, Mrs. Prescott, in coal mining country, not in country clubs. You and West are a lot alike. We both know he’s the more desirable dinner date, don’t we?”

  She frowned, stung by his implication, even though she had taken herself to task for prejudging him, too. “That sounds like you think I’m a snob because I turned down your invitation. You don’t know me well enough to make that kind of judgment.”

  He shrugged and levered himself away from the wall. He took a couple of steps and halted with his back to her. “Sorry.”

  He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded as though he didn’t give a damn. Well, that was just fine with her. She wanted to leave, to get out of here. Now. She felt stifled, suffocated, disappointed. Deeply disappoint-ed. But she couldn’t leave.

  “If you’d like to get back to town, I can bring David home when the show’s over.”

  Had he read her mind? She looked up.

  And was caught in those steely gray eyes. Glacial, chilling, they seemed to stab at her.

  “Luke, I—” She broke off and shook her head helplessly. “I’ve said something to insult you. Though I’m not sure what it was, I’m sorry for it.” She didn’t make the mistake of meeting his eyes again. Instead, she resolutely kept her gaze lower.

  On his mouth. But that was another mistake. Even thinned in anger, his lips were amazingly sensual. “The heat is giving me a headache. If you’re sure you don’t mind—”

  “Not at all. Wait here and I’ll get David. We’ll walk you to your car.” He strode in the direction of the refreshment stand as though glad to escape.

  She wanted to stop him, to say no. She wanted to leave right now. But she waited.

  When Luke returned with David, the boy looked at her worriedly. “Mom, are you sick?”

  “No, honey. Not sick. But Luke offered to bring you home. And you know how I hate the heat...” Her voice trailed off. “If it’s okay with you.”

  * * *

  Luke stood with his hand on David’s shoulder and watched as Alexandra drove away.

  “Was Mom mad about something?” David asked.

  “Not at you,” Luke said with a deep sigh. Why had he acted like such a horse’s ass? “Me. I’m afraid I said something that offended her.”

  David looked surprised. �
��About what?”

  “I think I was—” Jealous?

  “Jealous?” said David with a grin.

  Surprised by the boy’s insight, Luke kept quiet. They turned and headed back toward the grid.

  “You know,” David said after they’d gone a short distance, “my mom has changed a lot since my dad died. She never used to be so serious. She used to laugh all the time. She was a lot of fun.”

  Luke almost smiled. The kid was trying to sell him on Alexandra. He made an effort to take the same advice he’d given to her—ignore it. “After your dad died, I imagine she had to be serious, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, sir, she did. She’s worked hard.”

  “And been successful.” The compliment was a mistake; it put the hopeful gleam back in David’s eye.

  “I’ll bet Mr. Chadwick turned her against you. He’d do something like that. He doesn’t like you much.”

  Luke wasn’t sure how to answer. “He likes your mom.” He didn’t elaborate; the details of Chadwick’s plans for seduction weren’t for David’s ears.

  “You like her, too, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. But he and your mother have known each other longer.”

  “He may like her, but he sure doesn’t like kids. He thinks they get in his way.” David’s mouth took on a stubborn look. “He also thinks I’m so dumb, I don’t know what he’s up to.”

  “Ah, what is that?” Luke asked.

  “He wants to get her into bed, of course. Honestly, Luke, I’m fourteen, not four.”

  “Yeah.” Luke sighed. “Kids today do grow up too quickly.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Luke. You sound just like Mom. I thought you were different.”

  “I thought so, too. Obviously I was wrong,” Luke said almost to himself. “Anyway, Mr. Chadwick, like you, is an only child. He probably was not around many younger kids when he was growing up. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to relate to you.” Luke didn’t know why he was explaining Chadwick to this boy.

  “Were you? An only child?”

  Suddenly, Luke felt the blood drain from his face. “No,” he said more harshly than he’d meant. But his harshness had the desired effect.

  David looked astonished, but he changed the subject.

  * * *

  Alexandra was glad to be home. Alone. The sun had gone down but darkness had brought no relief from the enervating heat. Her feet felt like lead and her head like a water balloon. And her heart—her heart felt unprotected, exposed.

  She had just inserted her key in the front door, when a voice startled her. “Hey, Alexandra, the police want you to call them as soon as possible.” West ambled out of his door and across the porch to where she was standing.

  She stopped and studied his tall form for a moment. He moved easily, fluidly. His well-defined muscles were displayed to perfection in a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. His smile was gorgeous, he exuded sensuality the way other people sweat...and, to her disgust, he left her unmoved.

  He was a nice man. He had a good sense of humor and a good mind. So what was wrong with her?

  “Oh, damn,” she groaned under her breath, then smiled at him in apology. “It’s too hot to deal with those people.”

  “Yeah. And it’s Saturday night, too,” he went on with a grin. “The officer said you had his number. I thought you might appreciate some moral support.”

  “No date tonight? You must be slipping, West.” She lifted her damp hair off her neck. “Thanks. I’ll call him right now. Give me five minutes to splash water on my face and I’ll fix us something cold to drink.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she and West relaxed in her living room with tall glasses of ice tea. She had pulled her hair off her neck in a tortoiseshell clasp and changed her sneakers for sandals. A shower would help even more—the shorts she had donned this morning were a wrinkled mess and the crisp white shirt was now damp and limp from the humidity. But the officer had said he would be right over.

  “Where’s David?” West asked.

  “He’s with Luke,” she answered absently. She closed her eyes and rubbed the cold glass across her forehead. “I feel almost human again. Are you hungry? I could probably find the energy to fix sandwiches.”

  When he didn’t answer, she opened her eyes to find him gazing at her with the unmistakable gleam of desire. She frowned and he recovered almost immediately.

  “Why don’t we wait until the police finish, then order Chinese?” he said smoothly.

  The doorbell rang and she got to her feet. “That sounds even better.” The officer who had worked on her burglary case was at the door, accompanied by two other men. He introduced one as his lieutenant.

  The other man removed his hat, then introduced himself. He took a leather folder from his inside breast pocket and deftly flipped it open to show them his identification. “Mrs. Prescott, Mr. Chadwick. I am Special Agent Ash Zarcone with the FBI.”

  The FBI? What was going on? Despite the heat outside, the agent’s collar was perfectly smooth, his tie perfectly knotted and his dark suit undefeated by the humidity. How did he remain so crisp? she wondered. And the hat—in the South, a man wearing a dress hat was a rare sight; she hadn’t seen one in a long time.

  As always when she was faced with someone colorful or intriguing, her fingers itched for a pencil.

  “May we sit down?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She returned to her seat on the sofa, which was a mistake. The agent placed his hat on the coffee table and sat in a chair to her right. His head was above hers, looking down. Their positions made her uncomfortable. “Would anyone like a glass of ice tea?” she asked.

  The younger officer, who had remained on his feet, looked as if he wanted to accept but the FBI agent spoke for them all. “No, thank you, Mrs. Prescott. This won’t take long.”

  The older policeman seemed to make a decision. “You don’t need us, Zarcone. We need to get back—we’re on duty,” he said.

  The agent nodded his dismissal. “Thanks. I’ll see you at the station later.”

  The police officers left and Alexandra waited for the FBI agent to explain why he was here.

  “Mrs. Prescott, it is routine for local police to forward unidentified fingerprints to FBI headquarters. A print found during the investigation of the break-in of your condo was in our files. The print belongs to a man named Ned Austin.”

  He paused, smiling tightly, perhaps waiting for a reaction. “The name isn’t familiar,” she said.

  His smile went askew. “I didn’t really think it would be. We apprehended Austin a number of years ago. He was sentenced to prison, served some time and was released on parole last year.” He took a folder from his briefcase, extracted a picture from the folder and handed it to her. “The parole officer assigned to his case hasn’t heard from Austin since January.”

  She looked at the face, then shook her head; she had never seen the man. “I don’t know him. I’m sorry I can’t help you.” She handed the picture back but he didn’t put it away. Instead, he dropped it on the coffee table.

  “Austin was originally convicted of smuggling technological data—computer chips, to be exact. The fact that his fingerprint has shown up here, in your condo, is a puzzle. But we can’t help speculating that he may have a connection to a smuggling ring we’re investigating here. Again, the smuggled goods are computer chips. We believe the ring is tied in to the murder of the pilot at the airport last month.”

  The murder had been highly publicized and she remembered reading that the FBI had been called in. “I was at the airport that day.”

  West, who slouched comfortably with his ankles crossed and his fingers linked over his stomach, sat up abruptly. “You were?”

  Zarcone leaned forward, suddenly alert. She could see the excitement in his eyes. “The day the pilot was murdered?” the agent said.

  She nodded. “To meet David’s plane,” she said to West. She explained to Zarcone, “My son had been visiting his grandparents in Switzerland.”
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  “Did you see anything at all that might have aroused your suspicions?”

  Alexandra shook her head. “No, nothing.” The telephone rang. She excused herself and reached across the back of the sofa to answer. “Hello.”

  Silence. She gripped the receiver until her knuckles were white and forced her breathing to remain steady and rhythmic. Then, at last, she heard the dial tone.

  “They hung up,” she explained, glad that Zarcone hadn’t seemed to notice anything amiss. “Now, what were you asking?”

  “The Atlanta police tell me that you are an artist and some sketchbooks were taken during the robbery.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t understand why.”

  “Do you ever draw in public?”

  “Of course. I was drawing the day of the murder. I have a picture of the pilot who was killed. But not of this man,” she said, indicating the picture on the table.

  “Mrs. Prescott, I want you to take me through that day, step-by-step.” The agent leaned back in his chair. “If the offer’s still open, I would like a glass of ice tea.”

  West stopped her when she started to rise. She wondered why he was frowning so, why he seemed so distracted. “I’ll get it,” he said.

  Alexandra sipped her own tea and replayed the scene in the airport. “The planes were late that day because of the weather—all of them—and the lounge was crowded. I waited for almost an hour. I didn’t mind waiting, except that I was looking forward to David’s homecoming. Anyway, there were a lot of interesting people so I found myself a corner and sketched.”

  “And some of your sketchbooks were taken during the burglary.”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder,” said the agent. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please go on.”

  She spread her hands. “That’s all. I drew until they announced the flight.” Her eyebrows furrowed.

  “What?” said Zarcone. “You look as if you remembered something?”

  She did, she remembered the feeling she’d had that someone was watching... West reappeared with the glass of tea for Zarcone. “Oh, I ran into one of your clients that day, West,” she said.