His Witness, Her Child

by Ann Voss Peterson

  She met his eyes. Dragging in a deep breath, she tried to inject levity into her voice. “Nice car. New? I hope you didn’t pay too much for it.”

  His brow pinched with concern. “Oh God, I didn’t think. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you. I’m sorry. I traded vehicles with Detective Mylinski.”

  She offered him a shaky smile. It wasn’t much as smiles go, but it was the best she could manage.

  He reached toward her, removed the gun from her fingers and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. “Those tears didn’t come from my driving a strange car into the driveway. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  She forced her best imitation of a casual shrug. “Just catching up, I guess.”

  The harsh lines of his face became drawn with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  His tone was so sincere, so tender, she wanted to curl up in the smoky rumble of it. She gnawed on her lower lip and opened her eyes wide to keep the tears from escaping. “I’ll be all right. I was just—” Her voice gave way. A tear caught in her lashes before it trickled a hot trail down one cheek. She dashed it away with the back of her fist.

  “Just cry, damn it. You do need to catch up. My mama always said tears washed the poison from your soul.”

  She bit her lower lip and shook her head. She’d cried enough for one day.

  And she was so tired. Tired of carrying the burden of fear, of regret, of loss alone.

  But she wasn’t alone. Not anymore. She looked into Dillon’s patient eyes. He was back. He was there. Listening.

  She drew a deep breath. She needed to explain to someone. She needed to explain to him. “I just wanted Amanda to have what I had growing up, that’s all.”

  He didn’t say anything, just looked at her with those steady dark eyes and waited for her to go on.

  “I had a wonderful childhood. A mother and father who loved me. Took care of me. Kept me safe. I wanted that for her.”

  Words tumbled from her lips. “But she’ll never have that kind of childhood. She’ll never feel safe. She’ll never look at the world as a good place again. And I can’t fix it. Nothing I do will change what she saw. Nothing I do will make things right again. Some mother I turned out to be….” Her voice trailed off in a hoarse whisper, emotion choking her.

  Dillon brushed his thumb over her cheekbone, wiping away the tear. His touch, so gentle, so intimate, seared her skin. The scent of soap and musk and male reached into her chilled blood like heated tendrils. She fought the urge to lean against him, to soak up his heat, his strength.

  “You’re a hell of a mother, Jacqueline.” His drawl washed over her like a slow river over rocks. “And a hell of a woman.”

  She raised her chin and looked into his eyes. His gaze held hers. The tenderness was still there. But now it was joined by something else. Something deep and hot and piercing.

  Yearning seeped through her and penetrated the very marrow of her bones. She should pull back. She should push his hand away. She should squelch the wave of longing building inside her before it washed away her common sense. But she couldn’t.

  More than that. She wouldn’t.

  She wanted his touch. She wanted his warmth. She wanted to cry out, to burrow into his arms and feel safe and secure and at peace if only for a moment. She was tired of trying to do it alone. She couldn’t do it alone anymore.

  He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb, heat chasing his feather touch. His eyes burned into hers.

  She reached up, tangling her fingers in the waves of his hair. Locking her hands behind his neck, she drew his mouth down against hers. Hard. Demanding. The way she wanted his kiss. The way she needed it. To fill her. To chase away the fear. To make her feel less alone.

  Fire laced her blood. Painful in its intensity. Like the hot needles of agony as a cold-numbed limb wakes from a deep chill.

  His lips crushed hers. His tongue entered her mouth, probing, claiming. His arms encircled her waist, crushing her against his long, hard body.

  A whimper rose from her lips.

  This was stupid. Foolhardy with a daughter in danger and a killer on their heels. But she couldn’t bring herself to pull back. Couldn’t force herself to break the kiss. Because, foolhardy or not, she needed it.

  Right now she needed his kiss more than she needed oxygen.

  Heat whipped through Dillon’s veins and pooled in his groin. It had been so long since he’d kissed a woman. So long since he’d felt a woman in his arms.

  And what a woman.

  He luxuriated in the softness of her body, the flavor of her lips. Like roasted honey. Sweet. Hot. Delicious.

  And he didn’t have a right to any of it.

  Drawing in a breath of resolve, he broke the kiss. He reached behind his neck, clasped her hands in his and brought her fingers to his lips. “I’m sorry.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes large, luminous. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I kissed you, not the other way around. And I’m not sorry. I needed it.”

  He closed his eyes. “Damn, I needed it, too.” But that didn’t change anything. Jacqueline wasn’t the type of woman who kissed just for the fun of it. A kiss meant something to her. Something far beyond simple lust.

  And kissing her meant something to him, as well. Kissing Jacqueline was a promise. A promise for the future.

  A promise he knew damn well he couldn’t keep.

  He’d broken enough promises to Jacqueline. He wouldn’t—couldn’t make any more that he couldn’t keep. “But it wasn’t a good idea. For a lot of reasons. You know that, and I know that.”

  She nodded. “Yes.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, but her eyes held naked longing.

  And he drank in that longing with an unquenchable thirst.

  JACQUELINE HUNCHED DOWN at the kitchen sink and tried to concentrate on the paring knife flashing in her hand, peeling the potato into the garbage disposal. She’d thought that a normal task like helping Dillon prepare dinner would settle her mind. Make her feel more grounded. Make her focus on something besides the memory of his lips pressed to hers, his arms crushing her against his strong chest. But it wasn’t working.

  For the millionth time, her knife stilled. Her gaze shifted away from her work, wandered past Amanda sitting at the table coloring, and came to rest on Dillon.

  He stood at the opposite end of the kitchen, next to the stove. His back to her, he diced onions with a chef’s knife. His muscles moved smoothly under his denim shirt with each chop. The bright overhead kitchen lights glinted off the waves in his black hair.

  Yearning strained in her chest. She’d been alone for so long. Alone with the responsibility of raising her daughter. Alone with the fear of losing her. Even before her divorce, Mark had been gone so much he was more like a visitor than a husband.

  She drew in a fortifying breath. The eye-watering odor of onion saturated the air and stung her sinuses. This afternoon, when Dillon had dried her tears, when he’d listened to her fears for Amanda, when he’d taken her into his arms and kissed her, she hadn’t been alone. For a moment she’d known what it was like to be cared for, to be safe.

  But Dillon was right. They couldn’t let it happen again.

  His presence in her life was temporary. After this ordeal was over and Amanda was safe, he would go on with his crusade for justice. And she’d go back to her life. Raising Amanda. Helping her little girl overcome the hell she’d lived through.

  That’s the way it would be.

  He could help ease her burden for now, but she mustn’t let herself get too involved with him. No more crying on his shoulder. No more kissing. She didn’t need a broken heart to add to her problems. Getting Amanda back up and running was going to be tough enough, if—no, when they escaped from this nightmare.

  She tore her gaze from Dillon’s back and focused on her daughter. Her heart lurched at the listless way the crayon dangled from her little fingers. When Amanda had awakened from her nap she had seemed brighter. But now she seemed to be hit
ting a spell of sadness again. Apparently coloring wasn’t enough of a distraction. “Punkin, do you want to watch cartoons on TV instead of coloring?”

  Amanda’s nod was almost imperceptible. Jacqueline set the paring knife and potato next to the sink, wiped her hands on a paper towel and crossed the room to the small television perched on the kitchen counter. She snapped it on.

  The polished voice of the local news anchorwoman rose from the box, her bleached-blond smile beaming from the screen. Jacqueline reached for the knob to change the channel.

  “My daddy knows her.” Amanda’s thin voice rose above the television.

  Jacqueline glanced up at her daughter. Her little finger pointed to the television. On the screen, the anchorwoman smiled a plastic smile and giggled at the sports guy’s joke.

  At Amanda’s coo of a voice Dillon turned from his task. He looked to Jacqueline, his black brows arched in a silent question.

  “She interviewed Mark,” Jacqueline explained. “Jancy Brock. An in-depth look at a witness doing the right thing despite the threat to his safety.”

  A bitter taste rose in her mouth. Mark had been so excited, one would have thought he’d won a trip around the world instead of a mention on the local news. He’d thrown a party at the pub the night his interview aired.

  Amanda looked straight at Dillon. “He talked to that lady on TV. And she wanted to talk to him again, too. He is important, my daddy.”

  A pain shot through Jacqueline at Amanda’s use of the present tense to describe Mark. As if she didn’t realize he was dead. Or refused to acknowledge it.

  If Dillon recognized her selection of tense, he gave no outward sign. He set his chef’s knife on the cutting board and leaned back against the counter, giving Amanda his full attention. “Yes, he was. Very important.”

  Amanda narrowed her eyes. Her hand found its way into her hair, twisting a shank into a tight rope. “More important than you?”

  Jacqueline noted the challenge edging her little girl’s voice. The tone Amanda had used often to defend Mark’s absences at key moments like her seventh birthday party. Amanda had been so disappointed that day, but she wouldn’t say one bad word about her daddy. And she wouldn’t stand for anyone else to voice their disapproval, either. As if she was afraid he’d never want to see her again if she became angry with him.

  Dillon nodded. “Much more important than me. Your daddy was a witness. I wouldn’t even have a job if it wasn’t for witnesses like your daddy.”

  She bit her lower lip, the worry lines slashed across her little brow breaking Jacqueline’s heart. “He’s brave, isn’t he?”

  Once again, Dillon nodded. “Very brave. Your daddy was very brave.”

  “Brave like you?”

  “Thank you, darlin’, but your daddy was far braver than me.”

  Amanda shook her head vigorously. “He’s brave like you.”

  Jacqueline’s throat closed. Amanda was so vulnerable. She wanted so desperately to rely on someone to protect her. She prayed that Dillon would recognize her compliment for what it was—Amanda’s attempt to reassure herself that he was brave enough, strong enough to keep her safe.

  Slowly he straightened himself from the counter and walked across the room toward Amanda. He squatted in front of her chair and looked deep into her eyes. “I may not be as brave as your daddy, sweetheart, but I’m a darn sight braver than any bad guys out there. That you can count on. You’re safe with me.”

  “And Mommy?”

  “Your mommy’s safe, too.” He gently plucked the twisted rope of hair from her chubby fingers and enveloped her hands in his large palms. “You don’t have to worry.”

  Amanda leaned forward, stretched her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips. A sigh of relief. A sigh of thanks. A sigh of trust.

  Jacqueline’s eyes burned.

  After the years of Mark’s neglect, her little girl was starved for a father figure, and now it seemed she had chosen Dillon.

  Jacqueline had been so concerned with the dangers Dillon had posed to her own emotional well-being, she’d never considered his effect on Amanda. What would happen when this nightmare was over? When they returned to their lives and Dillon returned to his?

  Her poor little girl had been through enough. Enough danger, enough fear, enough heartbreak. She had already lost her father; she didn’t need to let Dillon into her heart and then lose him, too.

  Jacqueline didn’t know what she could say or do, but she had to do something. She had to protect her little girl’s heart.

  And she had to protect her own heart, too.

  She opened her mouth to speak just as the doorbell’s chime echoed through the little house.

  Chapter Eight

  The doorbell’s chime vibrated through the still air. Dillon straightened, a jolt of adrenaline rushing into his bloodstream. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Door-to-door salesmen and Girl Scouts peddling cookies didn’t generally make it out to his remote home. So who the hell was at his door?

  Jacqueline turned her pale face up to look at him, her eyes round with fear. “It can’t be—”

  “Swain?” he finished for her. “I doubt he would ring the bell.”

  “Then who?”

  Once again Dillon searched his mind. Once again he came up empty. “I don’t know.”

  Amanda turned her wide blue eyes on him. Although her face was pinched with fear, there was something soft in her eyes. Something that could only be trust.

  He clenched his jaw. He damn well wouldn’t let her down. “I’m sure it’s nothing. But just in case, I want you to go into the bedroom and close the door. And don’t turn on the light.”

  Jacqueline gave him a nod and rose from her chair. In a flash, Amanda was beside her, both arms wrapped around her mother’s leg as if she was holding on for dear life. A second later they had disappeared down the short hallway. The bedroom door clunked softly as it closed behind them.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Whoever was out there wasn’t going away. Dillon made a quick inspection of the kitchen, looking for anything out of place. Anything that would give Jacqueline’s and Amanda’s presence away.

  Jacqueline had done a good job of corralling their belongings in the bedroom where they could be hidden away from anyone who happened to stop by. But—

  He reached down under the table and picked up Amanda’s stuffed horse. Apparently the little girl had dropped the well-worn critter when she’d wrapped herself around her mother’s leg. Dillon stashed the horse in the closest cupboard and strode into the living room.

  He swept the room with his gaze. Satisfied that nothing in the house would give them away, Dillon retrieved the Defender from his locked desk drawer and tucked it in the waistband of his jeans. The nickel plate pressed reassuringly against his back, cool even through his denim shirt.

  If only he could see the alcove of the stoop from the picture window. Then he’d know who waited at the door. He wouldn’t have to open the damned thing blind. As soon as he dealt with his visitor, he’d install a peephole in the door. He reached for the doorknob. He pulled the door open a crack, his free hand poised over the gun.

  “Hey, Dillon.” Kit Ashner peered up at him.

  “Kit?” What in hell was Kit doing here? Although he spent most of his waking life with her and the other task force members at the office, none of them had ever visited his house before. And he’d never visited theirs. A cold chill slid up his backbone. He rested his fingers on the Defender’s grip.

  “What? You have a lot of crime in this neighborhood suddenly? Or are you shacked up with some woman in there? Open the door and let me in, damn it.”

  Normally Kit’s brashness brought a smile to his face. But not tonight. Her sudden unexplained appearance didn’t amuse him. Not at all. What was she up to?

  Only one way to find out. He unfastened the safety chain and opened the door.

  Kit bulled past him and into the house,
her caramel-colored eyes searching the room like a damned storm trooper. It was as if she was looking for something out of place. Something that belonged to a little girl or her mother. “Nice place you’ve got here. Obviously the same decorator that did your office. Spartan yet cluttered. Unique, but truly you.”

  “What do you want, Kit?” he asked in his gruffest voice.

  She raised an eyebrow as if she was offended at his tone. Good. Maybe she’d gotten the idea that he didn’t want her here. Maybe she’d leave.

  “Are you waiting for a hot date or something? Want me gone before she gets here?” She tilted her head and made a face. “Naw. Not a hot date. Not you. Your social life is even more pitiful than mine.”

  “Kit. Get to the point. Why are you here?”

  “Don’t get your shorts in a bundle. I’m getting to it.” She crossed the room, plunked herself on the couch and slapped the cushion next to her. “We’ve got to talk, Reese.”

  He frowned at her and stayed rooted to his spot, keeping his body angled so she couldn’t see the Defender. “Then talk, Kit. I have a lot of work to do.” Like digging into that box of personnel files. Maybe Kit’s file would shed some light on her reason for being here tonight. Maybe she was the one with the connection to Swain, and she’d stopped by to fish for Amanda’s whereabouts.

  “Work. That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t talk to you at the office today, so I thought I’d drop by.”

  “What’s wrong with your telephone?”

  She dismissed his question with a wave of her hand. “I prefer personal contact. What did you find out from the little girl?”

  He’d been so intent on protecting Amanda from the task force, he’d almost forgotten he was supposed to at least appear to be working with them on this case. He shrugged. “Not much. She hasn’t been doing a lot of talking.”

  “Trauma?”

  He nodded.

  “Where did you stash her? We need to get a child psychologist out to talk to her right away.”