Exposed
Page 21
The pilot had radioed ahead and there were deputies waiting for them at the airfield. They opted to take Sean to Martin Memorial Hospital via police car, though they did replace the hog tying with more conventional handcuffs. Roxanne was in the back of a squad car crying.
Darby was thrilled and exhausted at the same time. She knew she had to give a statement to the FBI and the local authorities but she begged off for the night, promising to come in the next morning. She just wanted to hold her daughter.
She woke up the next morning with a very unattractive swollen lip. Mia was still sleeping in her crib, so Darby made some coffee. Her house felt empty somehow. Jack and Declan were gone. There were no more FBI special agents. No one except Darby and her daughter. That should have been enough.
* * *
It took her two weeks but she finally worked up her nerve to take Mia and head to Jack’s office. Mia was in the backseat. “So,” she said to her baby. “Do you have a crazy mommy after all?”
Darby watched his office door for a full five minutes before she got up her courage and got out of the car. She released the infant seat and placed the handle in the crook of her arm. “You’re getting heavy.” Then she grabbed the diaper bag and started toward Jack’s office.
She caught her reflection in the window and again questioned her sanity. Here she was weighted down with baby stuff—hardly the impression she hoped to make. Oh well, this was her life.
She didn’t get the chance to touch the handle because Jack opened the door for her. “How can I help?” he asked.
“Take the baby,” she answered.
He easily carried Mia inside. As usual it was cluttered, but in an organized way. He placed Mia smack dab in the middle of his desk and turned to greet Darby with a proper smile. “You look great,” he said.
She let the diaper bag drop to the floor with a thud. “That’s nice of you to say but I know different. Single parenting requires a lot of heavy lifting.”
He crossed his arms in front of his broad chest. Darby started to lose her nerve. “I wanted to thank you.”
“No thanks necessary,” he insisted.
“You haven’t sent me a bill.”
“Consider it my pro bono case for this year.”
“I actually have another case for you.”
“A referral?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I want to change Mia’s name. I mean…eventually I do…not any time soon.”
“You’re babbling.”
“I am,” she agreed. “Okay, I have a proposal for you.”
“What?”
“I’m proposing we date for a while.”
Jack smiled and stroked his chin. “Well, that’s a first. No woman has ever come courting me before.”
She smiled at his grin. “So you’re going to make this as difficult as possible, I see.”
“Oh yes,” he agreed with a half-laugh. “What does your proposal entail?”
“Well, you may not know this but I have some trust issues I need to work through. And I’m a single mother. So I’m kind of a package deal.”
“What’s in it for me?” Jack asked.
“Companionship. Free vet care—don’t overlook that perk.”
Jack whistled. “As attractive as that sounds, I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no.”
Darby felt heat begin to rise to her cheeks. Boy, had she read this wrong. “Sorry to have bothered you.” She bent to reach for the diaper bag but Jack stopped her.
He stood her up and pulled her close. “I thought this was a negotiation. What about what I want out of this?”
“Which is?” she asked, steeled for his response.
“The free vet care is doable. I’m not sold on the companionship thing. Just what does that entail?”
“Getting to know each other?”
Jack dipped his head and brushed his lips over hers. “Like this?” he asked against her mouth.
Darby swallowed a groan. “Yes.”
Jack moved her hair off her neck and placed a tiny row of kisses along her throat. “Like this?”
“Mm-hummm,” she mumbled as her knees weakened.
Then a distinctive cry split the air. Jack reluctantly let her go. “This is the single-parent part, right?” he teased.
“Yep. She’s just hungry.” Darby reached into the diaper bag and got a bottle.
When she turned around, Jack already had Mia out of her carrier and had one hand extended for the bottle. “How about I feed her, then we can go out and grab lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Yeah, as in a date.”
Darby smiled. “I can’t promise she’ll stay quiet.”
“Darby, you don’t have to promise me anything. While we’re being companions, I hope you’ll reach that conclusion yourself.”
“I think I’m already on my way.”
“Good.”
Please see the next page for a preview of ABANDONED, Book Two in this thrilling new series.
PROLOGUE
The President put one hand at the First Lady’s elbow, giving it a brief squeeze before rising to join the governor at the dais. Brilliant light bathed the podium, which was flanked by the most prominent men in Louisiana politics.
Governor Rossner and his wife applauded politely, as did the dozen or so others basking in the delight of pulling off such an important political coup. Rossner straightened his tie as he turned in his seat and recrossed his legs. The seat right damned next to the President of the EN-tire U-Nited friggin’ States of America, he gloated in silence. His barrel chest puffed beneath his suit coat. He wondered what his father would think, him just sitting there with the freakin’ most important man in the free world. And that man was about to tell everyone in the crowd that he—Gil Rossner—deserved another term. Stifling his grin, Gil folded his hands in his lap and stared at the president’s profile.
He took caution not to catch Madison’s eye. His campaign manager-slash-brother-in-law shared his disdain for the party leader and current commander-in-chief. It simply would not do for the two men to erupt in laughter behind the man’s back, though he was sorely tempted. Gil enjoyed belittling the liberal Yankee in the White House.
President Kent Rawlings wasn’t much by Gil’s standards, yet women seemed to lose their good common sense whenever he was around. His guess was the rumors about Rawlings were true. He stifled a laugh by covering his mouth and quietly clearing his throat. Rawlings was too refined. He and his wife were snobby and polished. Definitely made for television. Gil tried to imagine the prissy man in the sack with that shapely, young First Lady of his. He wondered if the president screamed when he—
Pop!
Gil’s eyes bulged as incredible pain seared through him. He slumped, slowly, to the side. Sweet Jesus! were the only words his brain could conjure. There were two more popping sounds. Gil was now lying prone on the floor. A spray of blood blurred his vision. Then he felt crushed beneath a heavy weight as the president fell on him. Gil heard his own wife scream as he expelled his final breath.
CHAPTER ONE
TWENTY YEARS LATER
Conner Kavanaugh wasn’t normally given to bouts of chivalry, but then there was something decidedly different about the hot blonde currently trying to fend off the off-duty bartender’s interest. Frankie may have been born into money but he was still white trash.
The round stool beneath Conner squealed when he turned back to rest his elbows against the scarred and lacquered bar. He put the long-neck bottle to his lips, taking a long pull and allowing the beer to slide down his throat.
He watched the scene in the mirror behind the bartender. Frankie had one dirty boot on the stool next to hers. His hat was pushed back on his head. To her credit, the blonde wasn’t even looking at him. Conner snorted and took another sip of his beer. She was obviously thinking that subtlety would work on a guy like Frankie. But Conner knew better. Frankie didn’t comprehend anything less subtle than a two-by-four against his temple.
When she finally lifted her eyes, he felt the impact as if he’d been slapped. Even in the smoky haze of the bar, they were the greenest he’d ever seen. Clear, emerald green. And shimmering with anger.
Frankie apparently wasn’t seeing it that way. Conner watched the large man anchor himself on the stool as he pushed it just inches from his quarry. Why, he wondered, couldn’t this broad have picked a safer place to find Mr. Right Now? With her looks she could have sauntered up to the Dairy Queen and found someone eager to spend the night with her. Maybe she liked slumming, he considered as he finished off his drink. He watched as Frankie continued to move in on her. The man had less finesse than a teenager on prom night in the front seat of his father’s pick-up. His big palm gripped her wrist, wrestling her hand to his sloppy mouth.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t seem to put up much of a fight. Conner’s chivalrous thoughts were dismissed when he realized he’d been wrong. “Happens,” he muttered with a shrug. Some women just liked ’em nasty.
He’d no sooner turned his attention away from them when he heard the familiar sound of a bottle being smashed. “Damn!” he sighed. He was off duty and he sure as hell wasn’t in any mood to break up a drunken bar fight.
Expecting to find a couple of townies squared off by the pool tables, he looked there first. It wasn’t the townies. He shifted his gaze in the opposite direction. It wasn’t Frankie. No, the hand holding the jagged glass weapon belonged to the Harvard blonde.
“You gonna do something?” the bartender fairly pleaded.
“Think I should?” Conner countered without looking away from the standoff. “It’s my night off,” he mentioned almost casually.
“C’mon,” the bartender groaned. “I can’t afford no more fights in here. Councilman Tuppman and his holier-than-thou wife are just itching for a reason to get my liquor license pulled. Anybody gets hurt, I can kiss this place good-bye.”
Now that would be a loss, Conner thought as he slowly got to his feet. His boots scraped the worn floor as he closed the space between himself and where Frankie stood, apparently ready to pounce on the woman or the weapon she brandished—or both.
Conner slipped his hand onto Frankie’s tense shoulder. A small semi-circle of interested folks gathered around the participants.
“You don’t want to get into a brawl with a woman, do you, Frankie? It sure would give Tarrant Parish a bad name.” Conner kept his eyes on the weapon.
“You gonna let that bitch get the best of you?” someone taunted.
“Yeah, Frankie!” another voice echoed. “Can’t be letting no woman kick your ass!”
“Take that bottle away from her, Frankie!” someone else called. “Show her what a real man does when a woman gets outta line!”
Conner knew ol’ Frankie would rise to the bait. Frankie was one of those individuals destined to spend his entire life being goaded by others. His past was testimony to that. His father had been leading him around by the nose for years. It didn’t seem to matter that Frankie was pushing forty-three.
“You really don’t want to do that, Frankie,” Conner said calmly. “Doesn’t take much of a man to beat up on a little thing like her.”
Now Frankie turned and snarled at him with eyes that were narrow and angry—just like the guy’s brain. Amazingly, the Harvard Blonde was shooting him a pretty hostile look as well. Apparently everyone was having a bad day.
Frankie snarled. “This ain’t your concern, Kavanaugh.” He puffed out his muscled chest and added, “’Sides, you’re in no position to tell me what to do in here.”
Conner sighed. “I see it a little differently,” he countered. “My mamma was real clear on the rules about boys hitting girls.”
“Your mamma was a whore,” Frankie spat.
Conner’s first response was an audible, deep sigh. “Frankie, I don’t think you want to make me mad just now. Do you?”
Conner saw a faint flicker of uncertainty pass in the smaller man’s eyes. “You don’t scare me, Kavanaugh. Never have, never will.”
“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to reason with you. Surely you have something better to do tonight than pick a fight with a girl.”
“Girl?” the Harvard Blonde scoffed.
The broken bottle never wavered from her target, not even when she tossed some of that long, thick hair over one shoulder. “I am not a girl. I don’t know why you feel the need to play Knight in Shining Armor, but I can assure you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
Conner grinned. “That must be why you’re standing in the middle of a barroom full of sloppy-drunk men with a broken bottle in your hand.”
She stiffened with indignation and he wished he had just stayed out of the whole situation. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. Sorry for interrupting your fun.”
Her eyes burned like fire as she glared at him.
“Go on, Frankie!” one of the men yelled as Conner began to move backward toward the bar. “Teach her some manners!”
Conner had every intention of leaving her to her own devices; let her learn a small lesson so long as it didn’t get truly bad. That lasted only until he saw the smallest flicker of fear on her face. He should have ignored it. She had basically told him as much. He should have let the foolish woman get her due. Lord knew she’d asked for it by coming to a place like this and giving Frankie the time of day. But as he thought about her small body being manhandled by a pig like Frankie, he knew he was going to help her. Even if she didn’t want him to.
“I’m sure you’re right capable of taking care of yourself,” he began as he stepped between her and Frankie. “But I wouldn’t be much of a gentleman if I—”
He hadn’t finished the sentence when he felt an explosion in the area of his ribs. His breath billowed in his cheeks. He heard the Harvard Blonde’s sharp shriek. He was almost sorry that Frankie hadn’t decided to sucker-punch him in the mouth. At least then he would have had the satisfaction of bleeding all over the dimwitted woman. As far as he was concerned, this whole situation was her fault.
“That,” he warned Frankie between clenched teeth, “wasn’t real smart.”
With a speed belying his size, Conner caught the other man around the mid-section in a move that sent them spraying atop the pool table. Bracing his forearm across Frankie’s throat, Conner turned and glanced at the blonde. He caught a faint whiff of her perfume. Annoyed at the world in general and at her specifically, he asked, “May I borrow your bottle, please?”
Stunned, the woman relinquished it to his free hand. Ignoring her for the moment, Conner stared down at the menacing, red face of his opponent. The room had gone still and silent. He was able to hear every rasp of breath. Conner placed the jagged edge of the bottle to the base of Frankie’s throat.
“This ain’t your fight, Kavanaugh,” Frankie gasped in a whisper.
Conner eased his pressure hold on the man. “I beg to differ.” He allowed the glass to pierce Frankie’s sweaty skin. “You threw the first punch.”
“But I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Sure.” Conner put more weight into his hold. The action caused Frankie’s watered-down blue eyes to bulge in their sockets. “I don’t take kindly to having my ribs punched.”
Frankie’s thin lips pulled back to expose two rows of capped teeth. He managed to shrug defeat from beneath Conner’s hold and the threat of the jagged glass.
Conner moved close to the man’s ear. “When I let you up, you’ll head on out the door. Understand?”
Frankie was gl
aring, but he nodded. Somehow, Conner didn’t find his attitude very reassuring. He decided Frankie might definitely need just a bit more persuasion. Bracing one leg firmly on the floor, he brought his knee up and applied attention-getting pressure to Frankie’s crotch. “I didn’t catch your answer.”
The combination of the bottle against his jugular, the band of muscle against his throat, and the distinct threat to his privates apparently made Frankie see the error of his ways.
“I didn’t really want that frosty bitch anyways,” Frankie puffed, casting his eyes in the direction of the woman. “I like my women a whole hell of a lot softer than her.”
“Then there won’t be a problem,” Conner acknowledged.
Slowly, he eased off the man, but kept the broken bottle raised just in case Frankie got another attack of the stupids. He knew from prior experience that ninety percent of Frankie’s decision-making was fifty-percent stupid.
Luckily, this wasn’t one of those times. Conner placed himself and the weapon between the Harvard Blonde and Frankie while the latter collected his hat. Shoving through the visibly disappointed group of men, Frankie stomped out of the bar. Expelling a breath, Conner had a sinking suspicion this wasn’t quite over. Frankie was short on brains but long on memory.
Absently, he kneaded his ribs, relieved when he felt only mildly uncomfortable. Cracked ribs were a pain in the ass. Speaking of pains in the ass…He turned, wanting an explanation from Miss Harvard Blonde.
What she apparently lacked in common sense, she definitely had in looks. He felt the beginnings of a smile. Her hair was beautiful, spilling well below her shoulders in a simple, no-frills style. Judging from the way she had smashed the beer bottle to challenge a man twice her size, Conner assumed her hair was simply an extension of her personality—blunt.
“Come here often?” he remarked casually.