by Lisa Jackson
She blinked hard and fought a powerful wave of emotions as she slowly rocked and cradled little J.R. Was it so wrong to want another baby?
Forget it, you’ve got the twins; that’s enough for a single parent. Would you really want to raise another one without a father?
But Molly and Mindy did have a father, though Paul didn’t really seem to give a damn. He rarely called them, never came to visit, wasn’t interested in hearing about them. He was remarried now to a professional woman like himself, one who swore she didn’t want to be tied down with children. But she was young. Nicole expected she might change her mind.
“There you go,” she said softly as the baby quit drinking to stare up at her. “You are precious.” She kissed the top of his downy curls and glanced through the plate glass window. Thorne was on the other side, his gaze centered on her, his expression unreadable. Dressed in a business suit, crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted tie, he appeared more unapproachable than he had been, more hard-edged. The terms shark and corporate raider slid through her mind and she reminded herself he wasn’t her kind of man; she’d learned that lesson well.
Nonetheless she felt a flush of scarlet climb up the back of her neck at being caught in such a tender moment. Managing a weak smile she lay the baby back into his crib and hesitated when he began to cry. “Shh. You’re all right,” she assured the infant.
The nurse stepped forward. “I’ll take it from here,” she said as Nicole slipped through the door and joined Thorne in the hallway.
“Didn’t expect you here,” she said, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her white coat.
“Had business in town. Thought I’d check on Randi and the baby.”
“He’s much better.”
Thorne managed a smile. “I see that. I just wish my sister would respond.”
“She will. In time.”
“I hope.” He didn’t seem convinced. “Can I buy you lunch?”
She thought about the work in her office. She’d finished most of it and she was hungry. Why not? Because it would be best if you gave him up right now. He’s not in love with you—you’re just a convenient distraction while he’s in town. But he’s going to leave, Nicole. You know it. His life is in Denver.
“I have to be in the ER in a few minutes.”
“So how about a cup of coffee in the cafeteria?” His smile was irresistible.
“Okay. You’ve twisted my arm,” she said with a laugh. Together they walked through the hallways, passing nurses with medication carts, aides helping patients walk and an assortment of visitors looking for loved ones.
The cafeteria was a madhouse, and over Thorne’s protests that she should eat something more substantial, she grabbed a carton of vanilla yogurt, a cranberry-pecan muffin and a cup of black coffee while he ordered a turkey sandwich and cup of soup.
Once served, Thorne carried the tray to the end of a Formica-topped table where a few pages of the morning newspaper were scattered. Several nurses were talking at the next table—one of them had obviously just gotten engaged and the others were gushing; clusters of visitors had gathered in several groups and several of her colleagues were debating the addition of another wing and trauma unit.
Nicole slid into a seat near a shedding ficus tree and Thorne sat opposite her. A few of her colleagues cast curious glances in her direction, but for the most part they were left alone. “I was hoping you could help me,” he said, unwrapping his sandwich.
“How?” She bit into her muffin.
“As I said before, when J.R.’s released we’ll need a nanny.”
She swallowed and grinned up at him. “Don’t tell me the three McCafferty brothers can’t handle one baby.”
“We’re all busy.”
“Mmm.” She dipped her spoon into her yogurt.
“I don’t think it’s gonna be like the movie Three Men and a Baby at the Flying M.”
“No?” She laughed. “The thought conjures up some interesting scenarios. Thorne McCafferty, CEO, president of the Chamber of Commerce and…diaper changer. Matt McCafferty, calf roper, horse brander and…baby burper. Slade McCafferty, daredevil and—”
“Okay, okay, I get the idea.” His lips twitched and his gray eyes sparkled.
“Good.” She winked at him.
“So you’ve had your fun,” he said around a bite of sandwich.
“It’s just nice to be with a man of sooo many talents,” she teased.
“Only you would know.”
The laughter died from his eyes and Nicole nearly dropped her spoon. Thoughts of making love to him flitted through her mind. Heat climbed up the back of her neck and she swallowed hard at the thought of their recent lovemaking.
“If I recall—”
“Enough, okay? I get it,” she whispered, not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation. “Truce.”
“Then you’ll help me find a nanny.”
“I guess I don’t have much choice.”
“Good. I accept your white flag.”
“I didn’t surrender, just suggested a truce!”
His eyes glittered with wicked mischief. “Whatever you say.”
Still flushed, she managed to change the subject and make small talk through the rest of the meal. Why did she let him get to her? Bait her? Tease her? Flirt outrageously with her? What was it about him that she found downright irritating and incredibly sexual? Good lord, she was becoming one of those foolish, man-crazy women she abhorred! Glancing at her watch, she realized she was running out of time. “Duty calls,” she said, standing.
He scraped his chair back. As she discarded the remains of her lunch in the trash bin, he walked with her stride for stride and she was aware how distinctive he looked, a tall man in a long black coat amidst doctors and nurses in white lab coats or green scrubs, or visitors in an array of cotton, denim, rawhide or flannel. There were a few business types as well, salesmen, for the most part, but none were as tall or as arrogantly self-important as was Thorne McCafferty in his crisp white shirt, silk tie and expensive suit. His presence demanded notice and noticed he got.
At the table where the nurses sat, more than one pair of interested eyes watched him as he held open one of the double doors leading to the hallway, while his other palm rested against the small of her back, as if he needed to guide her through. It was a simple gesture, maybe even a polite, automatic movement on his part, but she stepped away from him as they entered the corridor and was thankful that he dropped his arm to his side. The less personal contact they had, the better.
And yet…
“Has anyone located J.R.’s father?” she asked. “He might have a say in what kind of care the baby gets.”
“Not yet.” His eyes turned as cold as a blast of winter. “But I’ll find him.” She didn’t doubt it for a moment. Thorne McCafferty was an intimidating force, a man who, if he chose to hunt someone down, would leave no stone unturned in his quest. As she pushed the elevator call button, he touched her shoulder.
She started to step inside, but he took hold of the crook of her arm and pulled her against him. To her surprise he kissed her. Hard. So hard, her knees nearly gave way.
“What was that all about?” she asked, as he finally released her.
“Just something to remember me by.”
As if I don’t have enough.
Thrusting his hands into the pockets of his coat, he turned and walked toward the front of the building. Nicole, stripped of her breath and dignity in one fell swoop, entered the elevator car. Gratefully, the doors whispered shut and she was alone. So she wouldn’t forget him?
Well, he needn’t worry. Sighing, Nicole leaned against the back wall of the car. Thorne McCafferty was impossible to forget.
Chapter 10
Kurt Striker looked like the television version of an ex-cop turned private detective—hard features, deep-set eyes that, when they weren’t pinning you in his cold, green glare, moved restlessly, his gaze taking in everything.
He shook Thorn
e’s hand in a strong grip that he released quickly. In a jean jacket, matching Levi’s, scratched boots and collarless shirt, he stood on the back porch, watching the clouds roll across the western hills. Slade smoked. Kurt didn’t seem to mind as he squinted into the distance. Growling deep in his throat, Harold rounded the end of the porch and with a wag of his tail, slowly climbed the steps to settle at Slade’s feet.
“Good to finally meet you,” Thorne said.
Kurt nodded and Thorne noticed a few flecks of gray in his otherwise brown hair. “Thought you’d want to know what I’ve found out.”
So there was some information. Good. “Anything.” Thorne hitched his head toward the kitchen. “Let’s go inside and talk.” Slade took last one pull on his cigarette, then flipped it into an empty metal can that rested on a weathered bench. Together they walked into the house where the sharp scent of pine from some kind of cleanser mixed with the aroma of roasting pork.
“Boots off! Muddy boots on the porch,” Juanita called from deep in the recesses of the pantry.
“Eyes in the back of her head,” Slade grumbled, checking the scuffed leather of his hiking boots. “Forget it.”
“Mine’re clean,” Kurt said.
Juanita was on a new subject as she emerged from the pantry. Carrying two plastic bags of small onions and red potatoes, she kicked the pantry door shut, then dropped both sacks onto the butcher block and shook her head. Pointing an accusing finger at Thorne, she said, “That woman—that Annette. She called again. Insists you phone her, today.” With a roll of her expressive eyes, she muttered something in Spanish.
Thorne couldn’t hide his irritation. “Next time let the machine answer.”
“I did. But I heard it record. I was dusting.” Juanita’s back was as stiff as an ironing board, her chin elevated a fraction as if she expected Thorne to reprimand her for eavesdropping. “And that is not the worst of it, another reporter called today. Wants to talk to you. Dios!” She clucked her tongue, threw up her hands and shook her head as if she couldn’t understand the folly of it all.
“I’ll talk to them later,” Thorne said. Then he turned to Kurt. “Let’s go into the living room.”
Juanita opened the bag of onions and began peeling them deftly. “Would you like something to eat? A bocado? Something to drink?”
“Snacks would be fine. And beer,” Thorne said as they walked down the hall. While Slade and Striker made their way to the living room, Thorne shed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and followed.
“So, what’ve you got?” he asked once they were all in the living room.
Striker stood near the windows. His forehead was creased, his eyes serious. “I don’t think your sister was involved in a single-car accident.” Thorne’s eyes narrowed on the other man. “I suspect another car or truck or some kind of rig was involved.”
“Wait a minute. Doesn’t this go against everything the police have told us?” Thorne was thunderstruck. He glanced at Slade to back him up.
“That’s what I heard.” Slade was kneeling at the fireplace, striking a match to the paper and dry kindling.
“It’s only a theory at this point,” Striker admitted. “But there does seem to be a discrepancy. A few paint scratches on her back fender. No skid marks, no other evidence, but I think it’s a distinct possibility another vehicle was involved.”
The fire crackled to life and Slade tossed a thick chunk of oak onto the hungry flames. Juanita carried in a tray of three long-necked bottles of beer and a basket of chips. As soon as she disappeared, Striker crossed the room and settled into a corner of the worn leather couch facing the fireplace. Both he and Slade picked up bottles. Thorne didn’t. He wasn’t interested in anything other than the story the detective was concocting.
“What does the sheriff’s department have to say?” he asked, ignoring the fact that his gut was clenching hard, his head pounding. Striker’s hypothesis wasn’t good news. Not at all. If someone had run Randi off the road or even hit her accidentally, it meant hit-and-run was involved—or worse. It could have been intentional.
“They’re not saying much. Though they’re still considering all the possibilities. The trouble is, they don’t have any eyewitnesses and as Randi’s in no condition to tell them what happened, they’re not jumping to any conclusions.”
“But you seem sure.”
Green eyes found his and held. “I said it was just a theory. I’m not sure about anything.”
“What about the baby’s father?”
“Got a few leads, but haven’t talked to the guys yet.”
“Who are they?”
“Men she was seen with about a year ago. Seems your sis didn’t have a steady boyfriend, at least not recently. She hung out with people she worked with at the paper, and friends she knew from school, but no one she knew realized she was in any serious romance. She never told any of her friends about the guy, whoever he is.” He took a long swallow from his beer. “But there are some men who dated her that I’m trying to track down, one’s a guy named Joe Paterno, a photojournalist who did some freelance stuff for the Clarion. Then there was a lawyer by the name of Brodie Clanton—he’s connected to big money in Seattle. His grandfather was a judge at one time. The last guy’s a cowboy type she met while helping someone with an interview.”
“His name?”
“Sam Donahue.”
“I knew a Sam Donahue,” Slade said as he took up a position near the bookcase, leaned his hips against the liquor cupboard and crossed his ankles. “When I rode the circuit a while. Matt knows him, too, if he’s the guy I’m thinking of. Big. Blond. Tough as nails.”
“That’s the one.”
“He was involved with Randi?” Thorne couldn’t believe his ears.
“Appears so. Haven’t quite caught up with him yet.”
Slade scowled and look a long swallow from his bottle. “Donahue was bad news. In and out of jail, I think.”
“You’re right.”
“Hell,” Thorne snarled.
“The more I learn about little sis, the more I feel like I didn’t know her at all.” Slade shook his head.
“None of us did,” Thorne said as the front door opened and slammed shut. Matt, bringing in a rush of cold wind, strode into the living room and caught the tail end of the conversation.
“None of us did what?” he asked, yanking off his gloves and looking from one man to the next. His face was ruddy with the cold and he tossed his hat onto the cushion of a vacant armchair.
Slade introduced him to Kurt Striker and caught him up with the conversation as he grabbed the last bottle of beer and twisted off the cap. “Sam Donahue?” He snorted. “No way. The guy’s not Randi’s type.”
“Oh, so you’re the expert now. Tell us, who is Randi’s kind of guy?” Thorne demanded, more frustrated than ever.
“I wish I knew,” Matt admitted. “Hell.”
“What else have you got?” Thorne asked the private detective.
“Not much more, except that your sister wasn’t having such a great time at her job, either. Though everyone at the paper’s been tight-lipped, some of her co-workers thought she’d gotten into some hot water with the editors.”
“How?” Thorne asked, his eyebrows slamming together.
“Good question. I’ve got copies of all the columns she wrote for the past six months, but those are only the ones that were in print. According to her friend Sarah Peeples who writes movie reviews, Randi had about two weeks’ worth of columns that she’d written but hadn’t yet been printed. No one has seen them. And there was talk of some kind of project she was working on, though the paper denies it. Again, no one’s seen any copies of it.”
“Except maybe Randi.”
“And she’s not talkin’,” Matt observed, his mouth a grave line as he leaned against the bookcase and the fire crackled and hissed.
“She writes advice to the heartbroken for God’s sake!” Slade interrupted.
“And what else?�
�� Striker thought aloud.
Matt frowned down at his beer. “Now wait a minute. You said that Randi’s vehicle might have been struck, but no one knows if it was intentional or not. It’s a pretty big leap to go from a single-car accident because the driver hit black ice to some kind of…what? Attempted murder?”
“All I’m saying is that there might have been another vehicle involved and if there was, the driver is, at the very least, guilty of hit-and-run. From there it only gets worse.”
“If she was hit.” Matt’s gaze fastened on the private investigator. He was obviously skeptical.
“Right.”
“I think we’re making big assumptions here.”
“Just checkin’ out all the possibilities,” Slade argued. “We owe it to Randi.”
“God, I wish she’d wake up.” Matt straightened and shoved a hand through his hair in frustration.
“We all do.” Thorne looked from one brother to the other. “But until she does, we’ve got to keep trying to figure this out.” To Striker, he said, “Keep at it. Talk to anyone you can. We need to find the father of Randi’s baby. If there’s any way you can find out the blood type of the men she was involved with, we could at least eliminate some of the possibilities.”
“Already doin’ it,” Striker admitted.
“How do you do that?” Matt said.
Kurt sent him a look silently telling him he didn’t want to know.
“Just handle it.” Thorne wasn’t sure he liked Kurt Striker, but he believed the man would do what had to be done to dig up the truth. That was all that mattered. He didn’t even care if the law was bent a little, not if Randi’s life was truly endangered by someone with a grudge. But who?
Striker nodded. “Will do. And I’m gonna try to find those missing columns. I don’t suppose any of you know if she had a laptop computer?”
Slade lifted a shoulder, Matt shook his head and Thorne frowned.
“Nothin’s on her desktop.”
“How do you know that?” Matt asked.
“I checked.”
“You broke into her apartment?” Matt looked from one of his brothers to the next. “Hey—isn’t that illegal? Randi’ll kill us if she ever finds out.”