by Paula Graves
She looked up at Jack, bracing for the worst.
She hadn't braced hard enough. His anger hit her like a kick in the teeth. Nervously, she nibbled at her lower lip, hissing in pain when her teeth grazed her wound.
"Why didn't you tell me he took you at knifepoint, Maggie?"
Maggie glanced toward the hallway and frowned at Jack. "Keep your voice down."
His jaw worked furiously as he fought for control. "You bring a knife-wielding juvenile delinquent into my house without telling me about it and you expect me to keep my voice down?"
"Jack, it's not like that—"
"Not like what? Not like he stuck a knife to your throat?"
She sighed. "He didn't stick a knife to my throat. He just waved it around when he grabbed me."
"I'm not seeing the distinction," Jack growled.
"The distinction is that I was never in danger."
Jack threw up his hands and shook his head. "You're insane."
"Remy was terrified. He didn't know how to ask for help the conventional way because nothing in his life has ever taught him the conventional way to deal with anything. But he would never harm me—he'd never hurt anyone. I knew that."
"He took you hostage, for God's sake."
"Once I took him out of the confrontational situation, he gave me the knife and let me help him figure out what was going on. He felt very embarrassed by his actions and acknowledged that they were inappropriate."
"Inappropriate," Jack echoed, staring at her as if she were an alien from outer space. Even to her own ears, the jargon sounded woefully inadequate. "And I suppose when he slaughtered his foster parents, that action was 'inadvisable'?"
"Remy didn't kill his foster parents."
"That's not what the New Orleans police think."
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"You must not have read very far. When the police went to the Bakers' house to inform them about Remy's 'inappropriate' behavior at the youth center, they found blood all over the rug in the living room."
She stared at him, certain she'd misunderstood. "What?"
He crossed to the counter, grabbed the paper and thrust it in her face. "Read it."
She scanned the article quickly. Her eyes widened in shock. The police had found the bloody rug in the living room.
Where it most certainly had not been the day before.
What doubts she had about her decision to take Remy and run disappeared. "They're setting Remy up."
"Who's they?"
"The police."
"Why would they do that?" Jack sounded unconvinced.
She glared at him, frustrated. "To protect Mark Blevins."
"Blevins is worth killing a couple of people and creating an elaborate set up to finger a juvenile? I know you said he's the department golden boy, but come on—"
"It's not the whole police force, Jack. It's a handful of cops working with him."
"You're basing this on what? Remy's word?" Jack's eyebrow inched upward.
Maggie squared her shoulders. "What's the alternative, that Remy killed the only foster parents who've ever made him feel like he's worth a damn? For what? Why would he do that?"
He stared at her a moment, his mouth thinned to a tight line. She saw the first hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
"Remy did not kill the Bakers," she insisted. "I was there in that house. There was no blood-stained rug in the living room, and Remy was not out of my sight for a moment after that." She met his searching gaze without flinching. "So unless you're suggesting that I'm lying, there has to be some sort of set-up involved, or the police would never have found a bloody rug in the living room of that house."
Jack passed a weary hand across his eyes. "I don't know—"
"Remy is being set up, Jack. Trust me."
His brows arched. "Trust you?"
She supposed she deserved Jack's skepticism. She had kept details from him to protect Remy. Life with her impossible-to-please father had taught her to put the best spin possible on events. It was an old habit by now.
She hadn't lied to Jack about one thing, however: knife or no knife, not once had she felt any danger from Remy. "I should have told you about the knife. But you'd have jumped to conclusions about Remy that we couldn't afford last night."
He leaned against the counter, dropping his chin to his chest. "How many other details are you keeping from me?"
She tried not to bristle. It was a fair question. "None."
His eyes narrowed as he considered her answer. Finally he released a sigh and nodded toward the doorway. "Hungry?"
She wasn't really, but she'd probably need all the energy she could get before the day was over. She followed Jack to the kitchen and found it empty.
"Where's Remy?"
"Watching cartoons in the living room." Jack shook his head, obviously having trouble reconciling the cartoon-watching kid with the dangerous delinquent described in the newspaper.
Maggie sighed and poured herself a bowl of cereal. Jack joined her at the table, turning his chair around backwards. He straddled the seat and folded his arms across the chair back.
"I was hoping we'd have more time to figure out what to do before this thing became front page news," Maggie commented after the silence between them became too uncomfortable.
"The news hounds aren't going to sit on a story about James Cole's daughter getting kidnapped by a street punk."
She pushed a clump of corn flakes around the bowl with her spoon. "I suppose not."
"When did you last see your father?"
"A little over a year. Actually, that was the last time I spoke to him. The last time I saw him was two years ago."
"Things got that bad?"
"Things were always that bad." She couldn't keep the bitterness out of her voice. She and her father had a long history of mutual disappointment. The years had done little to improve things.
Jack's sigh was long and deep. "I hoped he'd figure out how to be a father to you finally."
"Maybe if Jimmy hadn't died . . ." She drew small circles in the bowl of milk and soggy flakes with her spoon. "No, it wouldn't have made a difference."
He covered her hand with his. "I'm sorry."
Her hand twitched as if he'd touched a live wire to her flesh. How could he still do that to her after all these years? She had to put an end to this.
She eased her hand away. "He'll turn up now. Can't resist the cameras. He'll make a tearful plea for my safe return. It'll lead the evening news, just like old times."
Jack didn't contradict her. He knew what kind of man her father was.
He was one of the few who did.
Chapter 4
Maggie had predicted her father would be on T.V. by the evening news. She'd underestimated him; he was on CNN by noon.
Her "kidnapping" was the story of the day, and just before twelve, the studio anchor went live to San Diego where James Cole sat in a San Diego studio, the picture of grave concern. He'd changed little since Jack last saw him.
"Her mother and I are very worried," Cole said.
"Stepmother," Maggie grumbled, slouching lower on the living room sofa next to Jack.
"Marguerite? If you can see this, Mom and I are praying for your safe return. We love you." Cole's chiseled features oozed earnest concern, tinted by just a hint of fatherly panic.
Maggie's face twisted with disbelief. "Are those tears?"
Jack rubbed her back soothingly, an innocent gesture until she turned to look at him, her eyes smoldering with unspoken questions he didn't intend to answer. Not here. Not this way.
He withdrew his hand and looked back at the television. The anchor stayed with Cole for another segment, no doubt thanking the broadcasting gods for an exclusive with the former president on cable's hottest news story of the week.
Cole played the role of distraught father with the perfect blend of panic and composure. But was the emotion real?
Jack's contact with Cole while on Maggie's secu
rity detail had been limited. Cole cared little for the constant surveillance of his Secret Service detail; he'd certainly had no time for someone as far down the pecking order as Jack had been.
Jack had approached Cole just once, at the end of his assignment as Marguerite's guard. Marguerite's reckless streak worried him, and he wanted to warn the president.
Cole's cool, pointed response had stung: "If you'd spent less time worrying about your own mess of a love life, maybe you could've figured out how to control Marguerite."
Jack had no answer to that. His personal life had been a mess at the time. Laura had been an emotional tilt-a-whirl, testing his love and his patience in equal measure. She loved him, she hated him, she needed him, she had no use for him. She'd marry him, she never wanted to see him again. He'd turned himself inside out trying to make her happy. He just hadn't realized the President of the United States had noticed.
He wondered if the old man knew just how vulnerable Jack had been to Naughty Marguerite. Giving into her come-ons would've lost him his job and ruined any hopes of making his volatile relationship with Laura work. But he'd been tempted.
"What next?" Maggie stared at the television screen, where the anchor had gone on to a story about a tornado in Oklahoma.
"I've got feelers out." As she turned her sharp-eyed gaze to him, he added, "Inquiries about the case, what's going on." Remy's street-wise caginess set off all of Jack's alarms. He needed to know more about Remy's connection to Blevins.
"What if someone connects you with me?" Maggie asked.
"I was careful. Besides, everyone thinks you're a hostage."
She frowned. "You think I made a bad decision, don't you?"
He knew better than to answer.
"I did what I had to." Passionate conviction infused her face with color, staining her cheeks and brightening her lips. She gave off waves of fragrant, spicy heat, a heady elixir of soap and water and woman. Her hair, damp from the shower, brushed her delicate jaw line and spilled over her shoulders.
He tucked her hair behind her ear, his fingers brushing her cheek. Heat roared through him, settling low in his belly.
Her eyes met his, sloe-dark. She rubbed her jaw against his curled palm as he touched his thumb to her lower lip.
He shouldn't be sitting here, cupping her face, stroking her lip, feeling his body surge like an ocean tide toward the moist, welcoming heat of the shore. He had to put a stop to it before he did something stupid.
Then her hand closed over his thigh.
A low groan escaped his throat. Her touch sent fire coursing through his body, igniting flesh and blood and bone. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed rapidly, a delicate vein in her temple fluttering like a wild thing. Her lip moved beneath his thumb, sending a jolt along his nerve endings.
God, he wanted to kiss her. He knew exactly how she'd taste—like rain in the summer, hot and slick and sweet—
He marshaled the tattered remnants of control and withdrew.
Maggie gazed at him, her lips parted and quivering. "I should check on Remy."
Jack willed his body back under control as Maggie headed out the door. With difficulty, he dragged his gaze away from her long, shapely legs as she disappeared from sight.
New Orleans was a steam bath after the hard rain, hotter than May should be, even for the Crescent City. Detective Mark Blevins wiped his brow with a snowy handkerchief and scowled at
Gerald Phelps. "What do you mean, still nothing?"
Phelps paused in the middle of sopping his biscuit in a thick puddle of cayenne-spiced milk gravy. He tried not to look anxious, but Blevins noted with silent satisfaction the sheen of fear shimmering in Phelps' eyes. "Kid spent his life on the streets. He's learned a thing or two about dodging a uniform."
"The woman's helping him." Blevins tucked the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, his movements unhurried. Inside, his gut twisted with anxiety, but unlike Phelps, he hid his unease well.
Phelps dropped his fork by his plate, giving up the pretense of an appetite. His heat-flushed face paled to a pasty gray. "What happened to the foster parents?"
Blevins narrowed his eyes. Phelps should know better to ask that question. He sidestepped the query. "Someone's asking about the kid and the woman. Former Secret Service guy—used to guard the woman, back when her daddy was in the White House. Name's Jack Bennett." Blevins pushed away from the scarred oak table and stood. "Look into it. Maybe it'll be a lead."
Phelps started to reach for the check. Blevins grabbed his wrist, tightening his grip until Phelps looked up in alarm. Once he had the man's full attention, Blevins let go and reached inside his coat for his wallet. "I've got it."
Phelps drew back his hand, rubbing his wrist.
Blevins placed fifty dollars on the table in ones, fives and tens. "Make sure the waitress gets twenty-five percent; she earned it," he told Phelps as he turned to leave.
As he paid the bill at the cashier's desk, he glanced back at the table where Phelps still sat. Phelps was counting out the money, his hands trembling. Twelve dollars and change for the breakfast, another three and a quarter for the waitress. Phelps pocketed the rest of the fifty dollars, glancing around quickly to see if anyone had noticed.
But nobody was paying attention to the slightly overweight cop in the corner booth. That's one of the reasons Blevins had picked him out of the sea of overworked, underpaid officers he saw in the squad room day in and day out. Nobody would suspect Gerald Phelps of being anything but a good little soldier for the New Orleans Police Department.
And that suited Mark Blevins just fine.
Jack had left the house around three that afternoon in Maggie's car, leaving Maggie and Remy alone. Remy settled in the den to watch the Braves and Astros, while Maggie scanned the cable news stations for anything new on her "kidnapping."
By five, she'd switched to an old Cary Grant movie in hopes of a little mindless distraction. But the sound of a car set her nerves jangling. She crept to the living room to peek out the window. An unfamiliar black Chevy Blazer pulled into Jack's driveway and parked.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Then she saw Jack get out of the driver's side, balancing a large pizza box in one hand.
She met him as he entered the kitchen from the side door. "Nice wheels. What did you do with mine?
Jack laid the pizza on the counter. "I hid it. A client of mine is out of the country until November. He has a very secure garage, and nobody will be looking for his Blazer."
She smiled. "You think like a criminal."
He chuckled. "That's why I'm good at what I do."
Her stomach knotted as his eyes locked with hers. His eyes darkened and his lips parted in a low, gusty exhale.
He was turned on, she realized.
Well, well. She held his gaze, filled with a rush of confidence. For the first time since she had grabbed up Remy and started running, she felt a sense of control. This kind of situation she knew how to handle. She'd spent the last ten years figuring out how to deal with men. How to control the playing field and win every time.
She didn't drop her gaze. Didn't blush. Her lips parted, releasing a soft breath, and she took a step closer.
Color spread up Jack's neck. His eyes dilated, and she could imagine what he was thinking. He was thinking of her. Naked. Wrapped around him, soft to his hard. She saw it, too, his muscles flexing under her fingers, his power barely leashed, straining to break free as he drove into her again and again—
His eyes darkening to pools of black rimmed by a thin crust of blue ice, he met her knowing gaze with laser intensity. She wondered if he could read her mind, see how much she wanted him inside her, branding her, claiming what was his if he wanted it.
Heat spread through her limbs. Control slipped away from her, leaving her far too vulnerable to his passion and her own weakness. She looked away, shuttering her emotions from him before he broke through the last of her defenses.
When she spoke, her voice was raspy. "So wha
t's the plan?"
Remy came into the room before Jack could answer Maggie's double-edged question, his teenager radar zeroing in on the pizza box. "Please be pepperoni. Please be pepperoni."
Jack willed his heartbeat to slow, trying to forget what he'd seen in Maggie's eyes. "It's the works."
"Even better." Opening the box, Remy reached for a slice.
Maggie slapped his hand away. "Wash your hands and put out some plates."
Remy groused as he went to the kitchen to wash up.
"I made some inquiries today about the status of the case." Jack had to be vague with Remy there. Maggie had insisted they keep the news about the bloody rug from him, though Jack suspected Remy already knew the truth. The boy had seen the rug himself. He wasn't naive.
Still, Jack understood Maggie's desire to protect Remy. He had the same instincts; why else was he putting himself on the line? Harboring a fugitive and his "hostage," illegally swapping license plates, and borrowing a client's property without his permission—the list of crimes he was committing to keep Remy Chauvin safe was growing by the hour.
He glanced at Maggie, his gaze dipping to the curve of her breasts displayed so invitingly by her thin gray t-shirt. Of course, it was entirely possible, he had to admit, that Remy's welfare had little to do with his decision.
Three-quarters of a pizza later, Jack's hormones were still humming along solidly in the danger zone, making Maggie's words to Remy ring in his head like an alarm klaxon.
"Remy, you're about to end up with your pizza as a pillow. Go to bed." Maggie stood and started gathering the remains of the pizza, cutting her eyes Jack's direction. The awareness he saw in her look made Jack's palms sweat.
"You always treatin' me like a baby," Remy complained, a wide, noisy yawn undermining his argument.
"And you like it." Maggie flashed the boy a grin.
Even her maternal side looked sexy to Jack. He found himself envying the tender touch Maggie gave Remy as the boy stumbled off to bed.
He was definitely swimming in shark-infested waters, Jack thought. Worse, Maggie knew it, and would use it to her advantage if he let her.