She’d fallen for the wrong man once before, her second year in college, had thrown herself into that affair with all her usual intensity and energy, certain that here at last was the solution to nineteen years of loneliness.
She grinned suddenly, remembering Rob’s handsome, petulant face. Some solution! The only thing they had had in common was their admiration for Rob Collins, painter and lover. He hadn’t needed her, he’d needed a full-length mirror equipped with doormat. Jolian laughed and shook her head. The inconceivable tastes of nineteen-year-old innocents!
Well, it was laughable now, but the year-long affair had been painful, more than painful, while she lived it. She had come away from that fiasco with a healthy respect for the heartache that misplaced love could bring and a cool determination never to waste herself on the wrong man again. The next time she loved, she would do it right.
So, after Rob, she had measured each suitor with an unblinking objectivity which perhaps had been as self-defeating as her first uncritical, headlong rush into love. In the years since, she had found many men to like, not one to love.
‘Better luck next time.’ Jolian found herself re-reading her note and frowned. Shouldn’t have said that. She didn’t wish him better luck—not with her anyway—she wished him gone. And she’d best be going too, but that note needed something .... She fished a pen out of her shoulder bag and added a quick sketch—a Cheshire Cat with a sassy, defiant grin and one eye winking. There ...
‘Some artist,’ Fletch commented behind her, his half smile lifting as she spun around. ‘I’d expected better of you than that.’
Jolian caught her breath and pushed off from the mailboxes. ‘You bring out the worst in me.’
‘Glad to hear it’s mutual.’ A large hand closed around her upper arm and he started for the door. ‘Let’s go—I’m starving.’
Jolian dug in her heels, half tripped as he kept on moving, and followed unwillingly. ‘What are you doing here, Fletch? It’s only seven o’clock. You said eight!’
‘And that’s why I came at seven,’ he said easily, his mouth twitching. He pulled her out into cool morning sunlight and started for the car parked across the street.
Jolian jerked against his hand again, shook her hair back in frustration. ‘To quote a friend of ours—leggo!’
‘In a minute.’ In spite of his faint smile, there was a tightness around those deep-set eyes, at the edges of those chiselled lips, that spoke of temper under tight control. Jolian hoped fiercely that he’d slept no better than she had. He opened the left front door and swung her on to the seat. ‘In.’
Jolian blinked at the steering wheel. ‘I’m driving?’
‘No. Scoot over.’ And he was quick. He was in the car before she got the far door unlocked. He caught her wrist and pulled her back. ‘Don’t try it.’
‘Then don’t try me!” she flared.
‘Mmm...’ He laughed suddenly, looking down at her. ‘Shall I say it?’
‘Creep!’ She turned her head away. Fletch lifted her hand and kissed the palm. ‘Mean-tempered little cat!’ He started the car and collected her hand again. ‘Anyway, I’m glad to see you slept no better than I did.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t need to. But maybe breakfast will help.’ Maybe it would. Jolian leaned back against the seat and heaved a sigh. She’d run from him all night through her dreams, woke up prepared to run some more. It was almost a relief to be caught...
His hand squeezed her .fingers and released her. ‘That’s better.’
And he would have to behave himself in public, after all. Perhaps there was nothing here to fear but fear itself. Besides, she had no choice, had she? And all kidnappers should be so darkly handsome. Rationalisation complete, she smiled in spite of herself. Well, it was too lovely a day to worry. ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.
‘Harvard Square. The police tell me it’s the favourite hangout of new runaways.’ He swung the car warily into the traffic of Mass Avenue, the main artery linking Boston and Cambridge. ‘In the meantime, help me keep an eye out for Jem. With all these fast-food joints and stores, this looks like a likely street as well.’
‘I don’t know what he looks like, Fletch!’
He flicked her a rueful smile. ‘So you don’t ... Look in the manila envelope on the back seat.’
The envelope contained a stack of Wanted posters. That was the only way to describe the paper with the boy’s photograph at the top of the page, the reward and information printed below. ‘My God, Fletch, he’s your son, not a criminal!’ Jolian exclaimed.
‘And I want him back.’ His eyes flicked past her, scanning the sidewalks on both sides of the busy street. ‘If that’s what it takes, so be it.’
Jolian studied the young face before her, a handsome—no, a beautiful child, blond and elfin, with wide, intelligent eyes. An exceptional face, and one that teased at her memory. Puzzled, she turned to study the man beside her.
The car stopped at a light and Fletch glanced down at the poster. ‘That was taken a year ago, before he started to fill out. He’s not quite so pretty now, thank heavens.’
‘Pretty?’ Jolian laughed softly. ‘He’s not pretty, Fletch, he’s gorgeous! Not like you at all!’ She flashed him a teasing smile.
But her gibe was not well taken. A nerve tightened and fluttered beneath his right eye for an instant as his lips hardened. ‘No. He’s not.’ His gaze swept through her without stopping. ‘Now suppose you help me look for him?’
‘Okay.’ Jolian turned to the window, frowning thoughtfully. And why had that bothered him so? Her eyes swept across the early-morning sidewalks, an older man striding home with his Sunday edition of the Globe, two young girls entering a bakery; no teenage boys in sight, gorgeous or otherwise. She glanced down at the poster again, studying Jem feature by feature now. A delicately tilting nose where Fletch’s was straight; mischievous, triangular smile with lips of even width, not at all like that hard, chiselled mouth with the slightly fuller lower lip that was becoming all too familiar ... ‘What colour are his eyes?’ she asked.
‘As it clearly says on the poster, love—blue.’ He swore suddenly and tyres squealed as he braked the car. ‘Sorry.’
‘Sure.’ Jolian put a casual hand up on the dash and left it there, frowned at the back of the bus which had stopped before them. Was Fletch like this every morning before breakfast? It was odd to feel that she knew him so well, when she really knew nothing about him at all. She turned quickly to look back at a trio of bedraggled boys slouched on the hood of a parked car. They looked like street kids, all right.
‘No,’ Fletch said quietly beside her. ‘None of those is mine, thank God.’
Jolian grinned in spite of herself and looked down at Jem’s picture again. That pale blond hair should be easy to spot. A blue-eyed blond ... so he must take after his mother then. ‘She must be very beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘She is.’ Fletch’s face was as expressionless as his voice.
And the emotion which stabbed through her was utterly unexpected. Jolian had a split second vision of a drill press driving a drill through sterling sheet stock—the razor-sharp, silver spiral curling up from the hole. She blinked, and took a slow, careful breath. Coffee ... that was what she needed ... that and some sense ... ‘I thought you were going to feed me? This kidnapping is on the continental plan, isn’t it?’
His face slowly relaxed and a smile almost started. ‘That’s the bed and breakfast plan, isn’t it?’
‘I’ve had the bed already, thanks!’ she told him hastily as his fingers captured her hand again.
Fletch laughed softly and lifted her hand to his mouth. ‘Then I guess I’ll have the breakfast!’ He buried a set of excellent teeth in the soft skin at the base of her thumb and bit down gently.
‘Help!’ His grip tightened as she tried to pull away. ‘Watch the road, you cannibal!’
Still nibbling, Fletch growled something unintelligible and stopped for a pedes
trian. Crossing in front of them, the woman turned to smile her thanks. Her mouth dropped and she bustled away, head high.
‘Brute!’ He was using his tongue now and Jolian could feel the warm stroke of it down to her toes. This wouldn’t do at all! ‘Unhand me!’
‘I’m trying.’ He held her hand out before him and studied it. ‘But you’re tougher than you look.’ He licked her again thoughtfully, his eyes on the traffic, his tongue travelling slowly from the centre of her palm to the tip of her forefinger. ‘Intriguing taste, though, lady. My appetite’s only whetted.’
‘Fletch, you’re going to wreck us!’
‘True.’ He nipped the tip of a finger—a sharp, delicious pain—and released her. ‘Worse yet, we’re not looking for Jem.’ He frowned suddenly and swept the sidewalks with a fierce glance. ‘And where the hell is Harvard Square?’
‘We’re here.’ Jolian crossed her arms, tucking her hands safely out of sight. ‘That’s Harvard to the right, behind this wall.’ They passed a gate just then and she caught a glimpse of tall, dark brick buildings, slate roofs, ivy turning bronze and scarlet beyond the wrought iron lace, it’s not a formal square really, just a place where several streets intersect.’
‘And what’s its attraction?’ He slowed the car to a crawl as they passed a group of youngsters on the corner, then drove on, frowning again.
‘Oh, it’s just a district with lots of boutiques and cafes and bars that’s grown up around the college. I suppose it’s a good place to panhandle too.’
His breath hissed as he stopped to let the van ahead back into a slot at the kerb. ‘I don’t know what I’d do if I found Jem begging on the street. It would be a toss-up whether I hugged him or whether I just kicked his young rear all the way to Chicago!’
Jolian studied the muscles tensed along the clean line of his jaw. ‘I think you’d better hug him, Fletch,’ she said dryly.
His brows came down dangerously and then relaxed again and he nodded, staring blindly as the driver made a second attempt to fit into the space. He sighed and suddenly leaned back against the headrest to stare up at the overhead. ‘God, yes,’ he muttered bleakly. His breath hissed in an angry sigh and he shut his eyes.
It was suddenly necessary to touch him. Without thought Jolian reached out, ran a gentle finger along that tensed eyebrow.
His lips quirked for an instant but he shook his head. ‘Don’t make me feel good, Jolian. I need to feel bad,’ he said softly. ‘Very bad.’
‘True.’
His smile was wry this time. The car behind them honked. He shot a savage look over his shoulder and started them moving again.
‘When did you last hug him?’ she asked gently.
‘July.’ He shook his head again. ‘July ... God!’ He laughed a bitter, soundless laugh. ‘And I was going to be everything to Jem that my father wasn’t to me!’ Jolian resisted the impulse to touch him again.
‘What wasn’t he to you, Fletch?’
‘Around!’ he bit out. ‘Now where the hell do we park?’
‘Take a left up ahead.’ She eyed him cautiously. How far could she pry before he lashed out at her? ‘He didn’t have time for you?’
‘You might say that.’ Following her point, Fletch swung the car into the municipal parking lot. ‘He walked out the door one day, when I was about nine, and forgot to come back again.’
‘Oh.’ Jolian had a ridiculous need to put her arms around him and hug him, as if that could somehow heal a wound inflicted before she was even born. While she fought that urge, Fletch parked the car, his face set in a tough half-smile which warned her not to try it. She was still frowning absently into space when he opened her door.
‘You coming?’
‘Oh ... sure.’ She swung long legs out of the car and stood up to find herself toe to toe with him. The man didn’t back down very well. And short of sitting down again, there was no retreat. She looked up into those green-gold eyes with a haughty surprise that belied what her heart was doing as his hands found her shoulders. But indignation hadn’t helped much in the past, had it? Perhaps distraction was the answer. ‘What was he like?’ she asked quickly as he swayed her forward. She caught her balance with a hand against his chest, her arm stiff.
Fletch’s mocking half-smile faded. Just as she decided that he wouldn’t answer that, he spoke. ‘He was good with his hands. A carpenter ... and a damn good one. I hear he was good with the women as well.’ His hands tightened and the smile reappeared, but the mockery was for himself now. ‘A lot like me, I suppose.’
Jolian caught his wrists and lifted his hands away—was relieved that he allowed this. She held them up before her face and inspected them, frowning judiciously. ‘You don’t work with your hands.’ She slipped under his arm and moved away, then stopped to look back, smiling now that she was free again.
The remark seemed to nettle him. ‘I did once.’
‘What happened?’ She buried her hands in the pockets of the heavy cardigan she’d thrown over a red cotton shirt and slacks this morning, but it was no use. Fletch slipped his hand through her arm and took her in tow. Frowning, she hung back. He shortened his stride, but didn’t let go. ‘What happened?’ she repeated.
‘I just decided I could make more money other ways.’
‘And money’s important?’ She studied his chest from the corner of her eye. He had changed the elegant businessman’s suit for some snug, well-worn jeans and a light sweater. But the brown leather jacket he had slung over one shoulder gave his outfit the lie if you looked at it closely. Leather with that buttery, supple look cost money. Lots of it.
‘Oh yes, it’s important.’ He stopped them at the corner and glanced down at her, one eyebrow lifting. ‘Now where for breakfast?’
‘This way.’ Jolian tugged gently and he followed her across the busy street. ‘Funny,’ she murmured, as they sauntered past the small shops offering books, music, pizza, dry-cleaning—all the needs of a college populace, ‘funny, but I’ve never thought it was all that important.’
‘That’s what they all say, Puritan.’ His arm tensed to match the words, crushing her arm against his side for a moment. ‘But when push comes to shove, or rather, when supper comes down to baked beans three times in a week, they sing another song.’ He dropped her arm suddenly and glanced down at her, smiling that cool, tough, meaningless smile she was learning to hate. ‘So where’s this restaurant?’
‘We’re nearly there.’
But when she led him into the small cafe on a side street, he looked around, frowning. ‘You couldn’t think of any place fancier?’
Jolian slid into a booth and smiled up at him. ‘Sure, there are fancier places, Fletch. But none with better omelettes. Do you mind?’
His half smile was genuine this time as he sat across from her. ‘No. I just thought you might like something special.’
‘This is special. You’ll see.’ And this morning and this man were special too, Jolian realised as she studied his face bent over the menu in the honeyed light coming in at the window. He looked up suddenly and their eyes locked. Jolian took a deep breath. Careful ... Distraction, that was the idea ... but distract whom? ‘Answer me a question?’
Those green-gold eyes stroked her face, warming it, or was that just sunshine? ‘If you’ll answer me one.’
‘Okay—mine first. How did you find me?’
Fletch’s faint smile was teasing ‘It’s easy enough to trace a call, if you know when it’s coming, provided you can keep the nitwit on the line long enough! That’s when I knew for sure that you weren’t a kidnapper!’
Jolian scowled. ‘And how did you get here so fast?’
‘That’s two questions ...’ He studied her face with amusement, then glanced up as the waitress arrived with a fragrant coffee pot.
‘So, I’ll give you two,’ Jolian offered recklessly as she passed him the cream.
‘Fair enough. I had my bag packed, and a Lear jet chartered and waiting at O’Hare. All I needed was a destin
ation, and you provided that.’ Fletch took a long, appreciative sip of his coffee, then put the cup down, his dark eyes intent, his smile gone. ‘Now, my turn.’
‘Yes?’ She shifted uneasily before that searching gaze, but couldn’t break it.
‘I had some time to look around your apartment last night, and it’s very nice—too nice for a jewellery-maker. So where do you get your money? Is someone keeping you there? And if so, where is he?’
It took a moment to catch her breath. ‘That’s three questions, and they’re all three obnoxious!’
‘And that’s not an answer.’
The waitress chose that moment to break their clashing gaze with two lightly browned omelettes, steaming and puffed high with mushrooms and ham. Jolian smiled automatically and clutched at her temper with an effort. ‘First of all, Fletch, I’m, not a jewellery-maker, if by that you mean someone who makes earrings and peddles them from a pushcart. I’m a jewellery designer and I own half of one of the best design studios on the East Coast—I think in the country. We’re new, but we’re on our way up. Our work has been featured in Craft Horizons, in Modern Jeweler, and in Vogue in the last two years. We provide all the designs worn on all the television series produced by Jacob Stine. We provide a lot of jewellery to a lot of the better galleries and department stores on this coast and a few in California ...’ True as this all was, it began to sound like bragging. She shut her mouth and sliced into her omelette.
‘Well, well!’ Fletch studied her for a moment, his half-smile appraising but not unkind. They ate in prickly silence, then settled back for a second cup of coffee.
‘And who is your partner?’ he asked at last.
‘A friend of mine from college—Al Frasier. Al handles the production end of the business. We do some of the work in house, but some of the processes, like casting and enamelling, we job out to local factories. Then I handle the creative end—the designing. And we have three full-time salespeople around the country who market our lines.’
‘And this Frasier,’ Fletch asked quietly, ‘is he your lover?’
The man was insufferable! Did he think of nothing else? ‘What if he were? What’s it to you?’
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