“You don’t unless there’s a dire emergency. What was it this time? Tripped into the river? Fell off the curb? Landed on the neighbor’s dog? What?”
“Nothing like that.”
“Then it was Save the crab, Clean up the cobblestones, Preserve our southern heritage, or Ghosts are people, too. What did it cost to bail her out this time?”
“Mama hasn’t been in jail in over two weeks.”
“Uh-oh.”
“That’s what I thought. I wonder if I should take her temperature or something.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. But you aren’t.”
Kim knew her too well, and Livy wouldn’t be able to keep lying for much longer. But she didn’t know if she could ever confide in Kim about this.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why won’t you lean on me? That’s what I’m here for.”
“I thought you were here to answer the phone, file the files and weed out the psycho nutcases to a manageable level.”
“Those are only a small part of the Kim Luchetti bonus plan. First I’m your friend, second I’m your partner. Though I’m starting to think it’s the other way around for you.”
“That’s not true.” Although Livy knew it was, and not because she didn’t want to be a good friend. She wasn’t sure how. She gave up pretending to read her notes and searched for a friendly topic. “How’s Joshua?”
“Toast. Don’t change the subject. You’re acting weird and I want to know why.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired.”
“More so than usual.”
“Uh-huh.” Kim crossed the room and peered at Livy’s face like a surgeon. “You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well.”
That was the understatement of the year. Livy had barely been sleeping at all. Last night had been the worst. The time with Garrett, the argument with Rosie, Max’s questions—all had combined for a sleepless night with too much to think about.
Kim straightened. “What you need is a night out.”
“No, I don’t.”
Kim always partied as though it was 1999, even though 1999 was long gone. At times her merriment seemed a near frenzy, as if she was trying to forget something but couldn’t unless there was enough booze, music and men.
“You do.” Kim hiked her hip onto Livy’s desk. “Trust me.”
“I hate it when people say that.”
“That’s because you’re a lawyer. When people say it to you it means they’re guilty.”
“And when you say it, you’re trying to get me to do something I shouldn’t.”
“Why shouldn’t you go out with a friend like a normal young woman?”
“Because I’m not normal.”
“I don’t think you were ever young, either.”
From behind a closed door in Livy’s mind drifted laughter—hers and his—followed by the memory of a picnic on a bluff, wine and cheese, then sex in the sun.
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I was.”
“Have you met a man?”
Poof went the image and the laughter.
“Of course not!”
Kim merely smiled, then spoke in an exaggerated southern accent, “Ms. Livy, you lie badly.”
“You keep talking like that around here and someone’s going to pop you in the nose.”
Kim ignored that. “A man. A real man from the way you’re acting. Well, thank God.”
“There is not a man. I don’t like men.”
“That’s only because you’ve been dating wimps for too long.”
“This from a woman who dates every village idiot.”
Kim’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t lose her temper. She never did, and Livy could be very provoking. “You can’t make me mad so I’ll go away.”
Livy gave Kim’s butt a shove, and she slid off the desk. “Don’t get mad. Just get lost so I can work.”
The phone began to ring.
“All right” Kim tossed her hair, the movement nonchalant. Whenever Livy tried that she resembled a cheerleader on speed. “But only because duty calls.”
Kim picked up the phone. “Savannah Family Law.” Her shoulders stiffened. “What?”
The expression on Kim’s face made Livy jump to her feet.
“Max isn’t here. He’s supposed to be there.” She mouthed school and Livy’s heart lurched.
A parent always thought—or rather hoped—that their child was relatively safe in school. But in this crazy world such a hope was foolish.
Livy picked up their second line and dialed her house. The phone rang until the machine answered. Weird. Rosie was usually home at this time of day.
Livy headed for the door. She had a feeling she knew where Max was—again—and this time there would be no more Ms. Nice Guy. She couldn’t believe he’d out and out defied her. But she almost hoped he had. The alternative would be far worse.
If Max wasn’t with his father—
Livy shuddered and refused to entertain that terror until she was forced to.
Kim was right behind Livy when she opened the outer door. “You stay here, Kim.”
“Oh, no, I’m not.”
“Someone has to. What if he shows up or calls?”
Kim hesitated. “Where are you going?”
“He’s been hanging out with a friend at the old Alexander place.”
“You think he’d ditch school to go there?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“I’ll stay.” Kim took Livy’s hand and squeezed it once, then shoved Livy out the door. “Call me as soon as you get there and tell me what’s what, or I’ll send the cops.”
Livy couldn’t talk; her throat was tied in knots. She nodded, instead. With no time for the leisurely stroll she’d enjoyed yesterday, Livy hailed a cab.
Five minutes later the cab left her on the curb in front of the Alexander mansion. It appeared deserted. Livy’s heart began to thump the cadence of panic again.
Didn’t Garrett work at home? If he wasn’t here, then where was he? And if he wasn’t here, and Max along with him, what would she do next? Call the FBI to report a kidnapping? Would he really steal her son? She of all people should know J.J. always took what he wanted and left.
Livy ran up the walk and rang the bell. All she heard was the echo through the empty house—no movement, no footsteps, nothing. She tried the door, but it was locked.
On the short ride over, Livy had convinced herself she’d find Max and Garrett on the porch, yakking away and drinking iced tea. She’d worked up a righteous snit. In an instant that anger dissolved, leaving a cold sweat behind. Adrenaline made her head buzz and anxiety had her ears ringing.
She tried to talk herself down, but a sob escaped. Horrified, Livy pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She had to calm down and think.
Garrett would never hurt Max. That much she knew. Even if he had kidnapped him, he was a hot-shot author now; there was nowhere he could hide.
“Unless he’s already left the country.” Livy started to hyperventilate. She needed to breathe deeply or she was going to pass out.
She sat on a nearby chair, put her head between her knees and talked to herself some more. What if they were in Bolivia? Garrett would bring Max back eventually. A child just wasn’t his style. The novelty would wear off. He had no idea of all the things he’d miss out on because of Max.
Of course, there wasn’t a single thing Livy had missed that had been more important than her son. Because once there’d been Max, nothing had mattered but him.
She stood up too fast and swayed. But a good, brain-jarring shake of her head stopped the vertigo. She marched down the steps. She was getting inside this house somehow. If Max had been here, she’d know it. If Garrett had taken him somewhere, she’d find out where. Then she’d kill the man.
Livy tested every window on her way around the house. They were all painted shut, so she began to search for a brick.
Breaking and ent
ering? her mind whispered.
“Whatever it takes.” Livy climbed the back porch, searching for a loose, heavy object and coming to rest upon the half-open back door.
“But, Officer,” she murmured, “the door was wide-open.” Livy pushed it. “And I heard suspicious sounds from inside.”
She walked in, not bothering to listen. Suspicious was a matter of interpretation. Same as probable cause. Right now she didn’t care. They could lock her up forever. Once she found her son.
But the place was as deserted on the inside as it had appeared from the outside. She even checked the coffin in the dining room. Empty. Who kept a coffin in the dining room anyway? Or anywhere in a house, for that matter?
“Psycho.” She slammed the lid.
Most of the rooms were unoccupied—by people or furniture. One contained a treadmill and a television set. In a second sat a sleeper sofa and nothing else. Another held Garrett’s bed, unmade, and his clothes, still in the suitcase.
“Figures.”
She could feel him in that room—his spirit amid the rumpled sheets, the imprint of his head on the crumpled pillow. Something deep down inside her trembled—because she could smell him, the same scent as before, soap sliding over warm skin.
Livy hurried away from his bedroom. Sometimes, when she thought of how deeply she’d loved him, she was mortified. He had been everything, and when he’d left she had felt hollow, empty, dead. The only way to go on had been to forget. But had she forgotten if the mere scent of his skin caused everything to rush back?
His office was pristine, and gave her a start. Had he packed up and left? If he had, he’d forgotten his laptop. The sight of the machine made her racing heart slow. Though Garrett might leave behind his furniture and clothes, sparse as they were, Livy doubted he’d leave his computer.
The calendar had only one date marked—a big red circle around December 15.
The phone rang, and she skittered away from the desk. After several rings, she picked it up and glanced at the caller ID. Lawton, Andrew, followed by a New York area code, then a number. She placed the phone back on the desk, between the laptop and the calendar.
Nothing else cluttered the desktop. After a token flash of guilt, Livy began opening drawers. All she found was a contract for a book, delivery date December 15—aha!—a few yellow legal pads, pens and an old school address book. The only entries inside were Lawton’s, several publishing houses and her own.
She dropped the book back in the drawer. Why on earth had Garrett kept her address all these years? It wasn’t as though they exchanged Christmas cards. Livy had believed he’d gone on to the next town, next adventure, next sweet young thing, forgetting Savannah, forgetting her. But if so, then why had he come back? And why was hers the only woman’s name in his book?
“Because he has a little black book for all the ones he wants to call again.’’
She opened every drawer, searched every crevice. But there was no little black book. There was nothing else at all.
Where was he? More important, where was her son? Had she been wrong? Was Max even now anywhere but here?
Livy glanced out the window just in time to see the sisters stroll past on their afternoon walk. Must be four o’clock. If all was right in her world, Max would be home from school by now. But life hadn’t been right since Garrett returned.
She turned and tripped over a box of books. Several more were scattered about. Why bother to unpack books or clothes? He wasn’t staying.
The last time he’d lived out of his duffel bag, not bothering to make the major commitment of hanging up so much as a single shirt. Livy should have figured him out by that quirk alone. Would have if she hadn’t been dazzled by everything about him.
The books were copies of his novels. Livy had never read a Garrett Stark book. Her tastes ran more to the law review or the newspaper.
Curious, she picked up his first release. She had read about it in the paper. There’d been quite a buzz. His writing had been called a cross between Bram Stoker’s and Flannery O’Conner’s.
Southern vampires. Livy shook her head. He and Max were certainly a pair.
“You’ve never read my work.”
Livy caught her breath, the startled sound seeming to whirl about the room. Garrett lounged in the doorway, looking for all the world like the southern vampire she’d just been thinking of; only his clipped Yankee voice spoiled the image.
“Where is my son?”
Confusion flickered over his face. “I just walked him home.”
Relief made her dizzy; fury alone kept her upright.
Black hair, black eyes, black stubble of beard made his skin gleam pale. Black clothes accented the long, leanly muscled body. Would he die if she put a stake through his equally black heart? Doubtful.
So she threw his precious book at his beautiful damn face.
*
Garrett caught the book right before it crashed into his nose. Luckily, he’d learned to manage his big hands as well as his huge feet. Fifteen years ago the missile might have split his lip.
“What did I do this time?”
“You don’t know?”
“Max said he needed to be home by four. No one was there so I took him to the neighbor’s.”
If possible, she appeared angrier, and Garrett got nervous. Had he left his son in the wrong stranger’s hands?
“Max said that’s where he should go, and the lady next door agreed.”
“It’s fine. Though where my mother got to I don’t want to know.”
“Then, what’s the problem? And why are you here?”
She threw up her hands. “It’s Wednesday.”
“All day.”
“It’s September.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Does school ring any bells? Does truant mean anything to you?”
The light dawned. He was the idiot Livy’s expression branded him. Garrett had been so thrilled to see Max, and not just because he’d wanted out of the coffin, but because he genuinely liked the kid and enjoyed being with him. From what he’d observed, Max felt the same way.
Livy still glared at him as if she expected something. “Uh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”
“What kind of man doesn’t know that an eight-year-old should be in school on a Wednesday afternoon?”
Her continuing “too dumb to live” expression was getting on Garrett’s nerves. When she gazed at him like that, he was back in his father’s office, a child again, being told how worthless he was.
Garrett had stopped feeling inferior to the rest of the world years ago. Although his confidence had taken quite a few knocks lately, he wasn’t going to let Livy give him any more. He was a big boy now. He knew how to fight back.
“What kind of man?” he asked. “Maybe the kind who’s never been around children.” He took a step into the room. “A man who was so thrilled to see his son come through the door he couldn’t think past the joy of it.”
“Perhaps a kidnapping charge might help you to think more clearly.”
She made every sentence a threat, every encounter an argument, every day difficult. Annoyance surged through him, and he gave up trying to play nice.
“Try it,” he murmured, “and I’ll make you very—” he took a step closer “—very—” another step “—sorry.”
She was tall, but he was taller, so she had to tilt her head to see into his face. When she did that, the light from the window splashed across her, revealing the lines of strain around her mouth and the deep-down terror in her eyes.
His anger drained away. He dropped the book she’d thrown at him, and the unexpected thud made her start.
“Shh,” he whispered, lifting his hand toward her face, giving her time to step back if she needed to, praying she would not. “You’re scared to death, aren’t you?”
She kept very still. She didn’t move away, though her eyes went wary, wide and dark.
He let his fingertips glide over her cheekbone, across the fine
lines. Only the tease of a touch, down to her chin, where he spread his thumb over those tight, tight lips. Her lids fluttered closed. She let out the breath she’d held, on a sigh that was almost surrender.
With her smart mouth shut and her angry eyes closed, he could almost believe it was that long-ago summer come again.
Back then his hands had been hardened by work, callused by tools, scarred from wood and nails. Back then he’d been afraid to touch her for fear he’d scratch her with the roughness of his skin or bruise her with his big, clumsy hands.
Yet when the nicks in his fingers had caught and pulled her hair, she’d merely laughed and put her lips against the cuts, then drawn her tongue along the center of his palm, making him forget any fear, every caution. She’d placed his scarred hands on her perfect body, letting him touch her any way that he liked.
The past and the present blended. The pulse in her throat throbbed, and he ached to put his mouth there, feel the beat against his tongue. Instead he skimmed his fingers down her neck to her collarbone, barely touching her, and she shivered.
Her hair brushed the back of his hand. The scent, secret summer, aroused him instantly. The dark, crisp material of her business suit only emphasized the pearly shade of her skin, a texture that was yet the softest thing he’d ever touched.
His hands were no longer rough, hard or clumsy, but he was still so afraid he might hurt her. Hurting her was what he’d wanted to do the least but ended up doing the most.
He should step back, let her go—Max was waiting. And he very nearly did. But she opened her mouth and her breath shook, then her lips trembled. Before he knew it, he was kissing her and every good intention burned away.
Their last kiss had tasted of anger; this one held the flavor of desperation. Tangy and wild, heedless yet helpless—it tempted him to take all he’d once been given.
While he might not be a gentleman, he had acquired some finesse and a little bit of patience over the years. So he gentled his mouth, soothed her trembling lips with his tongue, placed a single finger on the pulse that taunted him and absorbed her heartbeat into his own.
If she’d pushed him away he’d have gone, gladly, because he was falling back in the deep, and sex would only confuse this mess they were in. But tell that to his body. The traitor. All it did was shout for hers.
Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) Page 10