by Diana Palmer
“I spoke to his teacher. They understand the situation. It will be all right. He’ll catch up. He’s very bright.”
“He’ll like it here, I think. There’s a lot for a child to do. He seems to love animals.”
“He does. He’s always begging me for a dog. But we live in an apartment, and it’s not allowed.”
She thought of her apartment, and then of the break-in, and shivered.
“We talked about the attempted burglary,” he said suddenly. His jaw tautened. “And the phone call that came after it. They are part of the reason I insisted on bringing you up here, where we can keep you and your son safe. I hate that you’re mixed up in this.”
She was surprised, and touched. “Thanks,” she said softly, “but we both work for a highly visible law enforcement agency. It’s unrealistic to think there would never be a risk involved in it.”
“It shouldn’t involve your son,” he said bluntly.
“I used to be naive enough to think that no human being would ever harm a child.”
“Wishful thinking.”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” she asked. She drew in a long breath. “That’s what scared me about having my apartment broken into, the fact that someone might hurt Markie. He’s all I have in the world.”
He frowned. “You said your…Markie’s father,” he corrected, “was killed overseas.”
She averted her eyes. “Yes.”
“Did you care for him?”
She bit her lip. “Very much.”
An odd expression touched his handsome face. “I’m sorry.”
She turned away. “It was a tragedy, in many ways.”
“Would you have married him, you think?”
Unseen, her hands dug into the fabric of her jeans. “He didn’t have those sort of feelings for me,” she managed to say.
“He had some sort, or you wouldn’t have Markie,” he said, and then groaned silently at the slip of the tongue.
She swallowed, hard, and turned back to him. Her face was pale. “Please. It’s difficult to talk about something so personal,” she said heavily. “Could we change the subject?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I hear that the Chinese have a restaurant where robots deliver meals to the table.”
A surprised laugh escaped her tight throat. “What?”
He chuckled. “I read it on a virtual news site.”
“The internet has revolutionized the way we share information,” she replied.
“So it has. What was your boyfriend’s name?” he added suddenly.
“Mr. Blackhawk…!”
“Jon. We’re not at the office.” His gaze slid over her with a strange intensity. “What do people call you?”
“Sir?”
“What do people call you? Surely you have friends, family…”
“All my family is dead, except my mother, and we don’t have any contact now,” she blurted out. “I lost touch with my high school friends. I had a friend when I was training as a paralegal, but she married and moved to California.”
“You must have a nickname,” he persisted.
She bit her lip.
“Come on. Tell me.”
She shifted, took a deep breath and said, “Rocky.”
He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rocky.”
“Would you like to explain how you came by such a, shall we say, unique nickname?”
“I sort of punched another girl at school for pouring grape juice all over my new white skirt.”
His black eyes twinkled. “Rocky. I like it.”
“I’d better go find Markie. When do you want to start working?”
“In the morning,” he said. “You need a little time to get over the trip and settle in.”
She moved toward the door. “Then I’ll see you later.”
He smiled. “Sure thing. Rocky.”
She flushed and dived out the door.
9
Markie was already in love with Megs. He followed her around, rambling on about her wonderful cookies and how big the house was, and how many animals the Blackhawk family seemed to have. There was a big white Persian cat curled up near the fireplace. It let Markie pick it up and hold it in his lap. There was another cat, a tortoiseshell one, that kept its distance.
Joceline was delighted at the friendliness of the people who worked for Jon. She didn’t expect it. Her idea of wealthy people was undergoing a reversion of late. Not that she thought Cammy Blackhawk would be friendly if she knew Jon’s “secretary” was living here, even temporarily.
“Markie loves the kitchen,” Joceline told Jon while she was taking dictation for emails that would be sent to various agencies about current cases.
He chuckled. He was still in some pain, and he slept a lot, but he was improving daily. “She despairs over my eating habits. I don’t like heavy meals, but she loves to cook.”
She studied him over her laptop. “You’re still pale.”
He shrugged, and then winced, because it hurt. “You get shot and you’ll understand why.”
“I’m glad you’re going to be okay.” She smiled at him, and her eyes lit up. “I’d hate having to break in a new boss.”
He smiled back. His eyes narrowed on her face. She was pretty when she smiled. He liked the color of her hair, and the thickness of it. He liked her long neck and the pert, firm little breasts that stretched the front of her pale blue sweater. He frowned. In a flash of memory, he pictured something he shouldn’t even have seen.
“You have a mole,” he said unexpectedly. “On your rib cage…”
She gasped and went red.
He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Good God, I must be out of my mind. How would I know such a thing?”
She fumbled with the keyboard and almost dropped the small notebook computer.
“Sorry,” he added. “I’m really sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“It’s okay, no problem,” she stammered. She forced a laugh. “Probably an aftereffect of the anesthesia, it makes you do and say all sorts of weird things.”
“Yes. They said it might.” But he wasn’t smiling now. And as he looked at her, he felt a pang of conscience. He didn’t understand why…
Joceline always read Markie a bedtime story. Usually it was Dr. Seuss. His favorite was “Green Eggs and Ham.”
She laughed as he made a face.
“I wouldn’t eat green eggs,” he muttered.
“Just between us, I wouldn’t, either,” she whispered.
He grinned at her. “I like it here,” he told her. “Megs makes good cookies.”
“Yes, she does. Megs makes everything good.”
“I wish we could stay here.” He sighed. “They got horses. I want to ride a horse.”
“We’re going to talk about that. But not tonight, young man,” she added. “Now let’s finish the book. You have to go to sleep so you can get up early in the morning and help Megs set the table for breakfast!”
“She’s going to make biscuits.”
“I heard.”
“I like it when you make biscuits. You don’t cook much except for breakfast.”
“I don’t have time, baby,” she said gently. It was hard to describe her hectic job to a child. She was usually so tired when she got home in the evenings that she just thawed out food she’d frozen earlier. She had a cooking day on the weekend, when she made large amounts of a dish, separated it into portions and froze it. Then she could serve the entrée with vegetables and fruit during the week. It ensured that Markie had balanced meals, and that she did, too.
“I like your biscuits.”
“Thanks.” She bent and kissed him.
“I’m sorry your boss got shot,” he said. “I like him a lot.”
“So do I. Now let’s finish reading,” she said firmly.
She tucked Markie in, kissed him good-night and turned out the light. She left the door cracked so she could hear him. Sometimes he had night terrors. She d
idn’t like having him out of her sight, even if others thought her overprotective. He did have health problems.
She went back into her own bedroom and sat down heavily in a chair. She’d been kept so busy that she hadn’t had time to worry about the break-in at her apartment, but in the darkness she couldn’t forget it. She’d burned the diary, as she’d threatened to. It served no purpose other than to remind her of an episode that was both painful and poignant. It contained information that could be devastating not only to herself but to innocent people if it were ever revealed. Far better to have it destroyed than risk that.
But Jon’s outburst today had shocked and frightened her. She’d read enough on psychotropic drugs to know that flashbacks could occur, but she was less informed on memory. He shouldn’t have remembered anything. And perhaps he didn’t, consciously, but the intimacy of being here, in his home, in his bedroom with her had triggered some wisp of memory. It disturbed her. She should never have overreacted, either. But it had been impossible not to.
She locked her arms over her breasts and closed her eyes with a long sigh. She’d promised herself that she would never reveal the truth, not even under torture. But what if he remembered other things? What if it wasn’t a fluke and he was regaining lost time?
She sat up, leaning over. Surely life couldn’t be so cruel. After all she’d been through, it couldn’t end like this.
She got up and paced. What would she do if he remembered? It would be a nightmare. And what about his family…how would they…?
“Stop it,” she told herself in a husky whisper. “Stop it! You’re making mountains of molehills.”
The sound of her own voice startled her. She laughed self-consciously, got into her pajamas and climbed into bed. Surprisingly, she slept.
“You should eat more than that for breakfast,” Jon scolded as she finished the last delicious piece of a homemade croissant just before she sat down in the chair beside his bed and rested her coffee cup on the table, on a doily.
“I usually cook breakfast for Markie, but I never eat much,” she said apologetically. “I don’t have time.”
“Megs says the boy eats like a horse.” He chuckled.
She smiled. “He’s always starving, to hear him tell it.”
“He drew a sketch of Megs. She showed it to me. You should have him taught,” he added gently. “He has great natural talent.”
“I think so, too,” she said. “I’ve considered it.”
His eyes narrowed. “I can take care of the tuition.”
She fumbled with her notebook and almost dropped it. “I can manage,” she said abruptly.
“Why are you so nervous with me?” he asked suddenly. “You’re not like this at work.”
She swallowed. “I’m not used to being around you away from work.”
“No, that’s not it,” he said somberly. “It’s something else.”
She felt butterflies wobbling around in her stomach. “Mr. Blackhawk…”
“Jon,” he corrected gently.
She bit her lower lip. “I can’t…”
His black eyes narrowed on her face. He held out a big hand. “Come here, Joceline.” His voice was gentle, tender. It sent ripples of sensation over her skin.
She should have ignored it. She should have pretended not to hear him…
She put the notebook computer carefully on the table by her chair and went to sit beside him on the bed.
His arm slid around her. He studied her with unnerving curiosity. “We’ve danced around the subject for several years. You would never tell me what happened that night we went to the diplomat’s daughter’s party.”
She bit her lip again. “You were under the influence of a very powerful psychotropic drug,” she began.
“Yes, I know all that,” he said impatiently. “But what happened?”
“You…you got very sick and I drove you to the emergency room,” she stammered.
“We came to the apartment first,” he said doggedly. “I do remember that much. I remember you helping me into bed. The rest is very blurry, but there has to be a reason that I know about that mole, Joceline.”
She tried to move away. His arm tightened. “You…got a little out of hand,” she confessed with a nervous smile.
One eyebrow lifted. “Amorously out of hand?”
She cleared her throat. “Just a little…”
He tugged. She landed on his broad, bare chest, her hands going on each side of his head on the pillow.
“Don’t! You’ll open the wound!”
“Not a chance,” he mused. Her eyes had flecks of green in them. He was fascinated by this view of her, very close. Her mouth was soft and pretty, with a natural bow shape. Her nose was straight, with a tiny line of freckles over it. There was a faint red tinge in her hair, which was thick and soft. He smoothed his hand over it.
“You’re pretty,” he said in a deep, soft tone.
“I…am not.” She laughed.
“Pretty,” he repeated. His eyes darkened. His hand speared into the hair at her nape and his fingers contracted. He pulled her face down to his. “Don’t worry…it’s just the anesthetic making me goofy a few days down the line….”
His wide, firm mouth covered hers, brushing at the tightness of her lips until he teased them apart. His arms contracted gently, enveloping her. The kiss was slow, soft, insistent.
She loved the way he kissed her. She moaned softly, helplessly, and went limp against him. He turned, and a gruff sound escaped his throat as it hurt, but he kept turning until she was lying on her back. His mouth never left hers. His big hand smoothed under her sweater, over her pert breast and down, to touch the mole he knew about, the mole he was certain he’d never seen.
His thumb eased up under the band of her bra and teased around the softness of her breast, while his mouth crushed onto hers in the heated silence of the room.
“Dear…God,” he whispered hoarsely, fumbling at the catch behind her back.
He found it and unsnapped it. His hand smoothed over her firm, soft little breast. His eyes were blazing as he looked at her, registering the helpless attraction, the utter delight in his touch. He touched the hard nipple, heard her gasp at the pleasure it kindled.
“Unbelievable,” he said huskily.
He pushed up the sweater and the bra and looked at her firm, dusky-tipped breasts. “Beautiful,” he whispered as his head bent.
His lips smoothed over the hard rise, his tongue caressed it. She moaned again and arched up to ease his access to her body. She loved what he was doing. She couldn’t even pretend to protest.
His hand smoothed under her back, feeling the soft, bare skin, which was like warm silk to his touch. His mouth opened on her breast and suckled it, hard. She cried out.
He lifted his head to look down at her flushed, shocked face. His nostrils flared. He’d never felt anything so powerful, so erotic, in all his thirty years.
“They gossip about me at work,” he said gruffly. “They speculate. You can’t pretend you haven’t heard the rumors.”
She managed a nod.
“They’re true,” he said, his eyes black and glittery. “I’ve dated. I’ve even had petting sessions over the years. But I’ve never gone all the way with a woman.”
She averted her eyes.
He turned her head back, so that he could see her face. “Cammy and my father raised us very strictly,” he told her. “We were taught that sex outside the sanctity of marriage is a sin. It was such a powerful lesson that we were prisoners of our own beliefs. At first, I had so many hang-ups that I couldn’t do it. Then as I got older, I was embarrassed that I’d never done it.”
“We’re all prisoners of our upbringing,” she agreed.
He smoothed his hand over her breast, enjoying the view of it, of her instant reaction. “You’re as religious as any woman I’ve ever known, yet you have a child out of wedlock.”
“Yes,” she said tautly. “I made a decision…”
“A
wonderful decision,” he corrected tenderly. “He’s a great little person. You’ve done well with him.”
“Thanks.”
“The point is you’ve had sex.” His thumb and forefinger contracted on a taut nipple, producing a helpless moan from her. “What does it feel like?” he asked in almost a whisper.
Her lips parted. “I…don’t really know,” she confessed. “It was so quick…”
“He was in a hurry?”
She swallowed. “We were just kissing. And then all of a sudden, it was so urgent…” She averted her eyes. “It just happened. It hurt a little, and then it was over.”
“Damn him!”
“He was…drunk,” she said, defending him even now. “He isn’t, wasn’t,” she corrected quickly, “the sort of person who ever lost control.”
It went without saying that she was the same sort. He didn’t say it. “You think he was killed overseas?”
“Yes, I’m sure that he was,” she replied, but she didn’t look at him. “He was very sorry.”
“Did he want you to keep the child?”
“He…didn’t know about the child,” she replied. “I couldn’t tell him. It was too late.”
His hand stilled on her body. He didn’t like the idea that she’d had someone else. It ate at him like an acid. He bent and brushed his mouth over her taut breast, enjoying the sounds of pleasure that she emitted when he did it. He could erase the bad memory. He could pleasure her, like this, but more. Much more.
His mouth became insistent. She shivered. The pleasure was quickly becoming unmanageable.
She felt his hand at the fastening of her slacks and she caught his wrist.
“No,” she whispered urgently. “We can’t!”
He was almost too far gone to stop. He fought with his own instincts, visibly, trying to backtrack.
His eyes went to the door, which was standing half open. He laughed in spite of himself.
She followed his gaze and colored even more. “Oh, dear.”
He pulled her sweater down. “Do you want me to apologize?” he asked.
She searched his eyes. “You’re not sorry,” she replied, trying to make a joke of it.
“No, I’m not,” he replied, and his black eyes twinkled. “You taste like honey.”