One of These Nights

by Justine Davis

“How old is he?”

  She couldn’t help it, she tensed. It was instinctive, this protective urge, too long ingrained to be fought down.

  “Almost fifteen.” She glanced at him then, saw the faint crease between his brows. “I’ll save you the guessing. Just over twelve years between us.”

  He had the grace to look abashed. “Am I really that obvious?”

  She straightened up, making sure she looked only at his vivid-green eyes behind the glasses, not at his bare chest. “Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes I can’t figure you out at all.” And that, she thought, was the honest truth.

  “He was only seven when your parents were killed?”

  She nodded, the old, familiar pang tightening her lips just slightly. “I tried, but he doesn’t remember them very well.”

  “You’re the only mother he’s really known, then.”

  “I tell him about them all the time. They were good people, good parents. They thought they couldn’t have any more kids, so he was a gift. And they loved him.”

  “They must have been very proud of you,” he said softly.

  She plucked a leaf off the vine, curled it between her fingers. “I hope so.”

  “It can’t have been easy, at that age, to convince the powers that be you could take care of a young child.”

  “I had to fight them every step of the way. Thankfully I had some help.”

  Josh, bless him. He’d given her the job she’d needed. Only later did she find out he’d also pulled some strings behind the scenes and told Child Services he would be responsible for Billy’s care if she ran into trouble.

  “Even so, it must have been tough.”

  “It was.” She hesitated, and then it was coming out, despite the fact that she so rarely talked about it. “Especially because Billy is…challenged, I guess is the current word. They wanted to put him in a home, an institution. I knew it would destroy him, to lose me on top of Mom and Dad.”

  “Idiots.” He said it flatly, angrily, and it startled her. “They’re the ones with the handicap, if they couldn’t see he was better off with a sister who loved him.”

  “That’s how I felt.”

  “How did you convince them? Agencies like that aren’t noted for listening to minors much.”

  “You sound like you’ve had some experience.”

  “I didn’t. My best friend as a kid, Casey Blair, did. His folks divorced, then his mom started drinking. Instead of giving him to his dad, who wanted him but didn’t make much money, they put him in foster care.”

  “What happened?”

  He suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Ancient history,” he said.

  Her instincts told her there was something here, something he was hiding, but they also told her it wasn’t something he was going to talk about. At least not yet.

  Or not to her.

  Later that night, when she checked in with Rand, she asked him to poke around. If there was something Ian was hiding, they needed to know what it was. Needed to know if somewhere, buried farther back than even Redstone’s thorough background checks went, was something that could be used against Ian, to turn him.

  That the thought made her faintly ill was something she would deal with later.

  Ian leaned back on the sofa, swirling the last of his wine in the glass. He didn’t do this often; in fact, he rarely opened a bottle of wine at all, since he usually only wanted a glass at most. Nor did he often just sit here and mindlessly stare at the television, but tonight he needed the distraction. Not that it was working. Even his favorite History Channel show wasn’t doing the trick tonight.

  One part of him was savoring the day spent doing hard, physical work alongside a woman who wasn’t afraid of it and who made him feel as if there was nothing on earth he’d rather be doing.

  The other part of him was wary of her generosity and congeniality; women who looked like Samantha simply didn’t hang out with guys like him. Not with the odd ones, the nerds, the ones who didn’t fit in now and never had. He’d told himself to just take what he could get and be glad of it, that if he just kept his head on straight he’d be fine.

  And then, long after the incident that had everybody but him convinced it was some sort of enemy move against him, it had abruptly occurred to him to wonder if perhaps there wasn’t something suspicious to the Howards’ abrupt sale of their lifetime home and Samantha’s sudden appearance in his life. And no matter how much he told himself that all the warnings had just made him paranoid, he couldn’t seem to stop thinking about it.

  His gut protested mightily at the thought. She was just a warm, delightful woman making friends with a new neighbor. She was too open, too real to be playing that kind of game. But wouldn’t she be, if that kind of game were her business? Weren’t con artists successful mainly because they could make people think they would never be party to such a thing?

  No, he didn’t want to believe it of her, but neither was he so naive—although he was sure some would argue that—as to discount the possibility entirely.

  He sat there weighing the pain of being a fool against the pain of being wrong about her. The scale teetered back and forth, and by the time he finally went to bed, he still didn’t have an answer.

  He had, however, finished the entire bottle of wine.

  Chapter 7

  “Worry, Sammy?”

  Her towheaded little brother fixed those innocent brown eyes on her just as she was leaving, and she tried to smile. He might have trouble articulating words, but he was so sensitive to her moods it was almost eerie.

  “A little bit, Billy,” she said, speaking carefully and slowly. He had auditory problems that were at their worst on short words. “But it’s okay. It will be over soon.”

  He smiled, and she wondered anew what it must be like in his mind, when problems were resolved simply on the assurance of someone you could trust.

  Trust.

  Just thinking the word made her grimace inwardly. She’d spent way too much time in the past few days pondering it. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t done undercover work before, so she didn’t understand why it was bothering her so much this time. But it was. Lying to Ian, directly or by omission, bothered her. She’d had to deceive innocent people before in the course of an assignment, but it had never gotten to her the way lying to Ian did. Even the dancing around the truth she’d been doing bothered her, although she’d given him more of her real life than anyone else she’d ever been assigned to watch.

  Perhaps it was because he was so fundamentally honest himself, she thought. Maybe that’s why it went against the grain to lie to him. That and the fact that sometimes she caught him looking at her intently, as if he somehow knew she wasn’t being honest with him.

  That had to be it. It had nothing to do with the shock that had jolted through her when he’d peeled off his shirt in the garden and she’d found herself gaping at an unexpectedly beautiful male body.

  Absentminded professor my as—

  “Baseball tomorrow,” Billy reminded her as he walked her dutifully to the door, cutting off her thoughts. And just as well, Sam thought. It was bad enough that that vivid image had taken over her dreams, without it taking over every waking moment, as well.

  “I know.” Rand was taking over so that she could take Billy to a game. He loved the sport and applied himself to understanding it as he did nothing else. “I’ll pick you up here at noon. Do you remember what that looks like on the clock?”

  “Both hands up!” he exclaimed excitedly.

  Even though he seemed perfectly happy, she still felt odd about leaving him here. She’d fought so hard to keep him out of an institution for so long. But they’d told her the safe, happy home life she’d given him for ten years, and the way she’d worked to find ways to maximize his capabilities, gently pushing him to learn, had made it possible for them to do even more for him now. He’d been in the facility for over two years now, and it seemed to have done wonders for him.

  It had been rough at fi
rst—he’d screamed every time she left, but the soft-spoken woman who ran the center told her that was normal, and he’d get over it. She’d been doubtful, had wanted more than anything to just take Billy back home again, but after Josh had gone through all that trouble to find—and to shore up financially—Mrs. Fortier’s New Chances project, she didn’t feel right quitting so soon.

  And after three weeks Billy had suddenly turned a corner. He began to take an interest in the classes tailored to his interests and abilities. He responded to the social activities with the other kids in a way that made her realize that perhaps she had protected him too much, keeping him away from children his own age for fear they would tease or torment him for being different.

  And most important, he had begun to learn to take care of himself, and it had given him a pride and confidence Sam knew she never could have instilled. He no longer got violently upset when she had to leave or when she was gone on assignment. He even took it with only a small tantrum when his beloved baseball team lost.

  “On some level,” Mrs. Fortier told her, “he was afraid of something happening to you, not just because he loves you, but because who would take care of him then? Now he knows he can take at least basic care of himself, with the proper reminders in place. It frees him from that worry.”

  She had been guilty, Sam realized, of the common misconception that because of his generally cheerful nature, Billy didn’t have the capacity to worry. Get frustrated, yes, as he often did when he attempted something and failed repeatedly, but she had just never thought he would worry in the same sense she did. That realization alone made her wonder what else she was wrong about, and had made her determined to stick it out, to give Billy this chance, even though she missed him terribly. So she would just enjoy the time with him and be glad this assignment allowed her to see him often.

  She called Rand as soon as she got back to the house, to confirm that he was coming on time to take over while she was gone.

  “I’ll be there at eleven-thirty. Don’t want Billy to miss all the pregame fun.”

  “Thanks. He does love that.”

  “If I run into Gamble, I assume I’m your brother, as usual?”

  Oops, Sam thought. “Uh, no. He knows I only have the one brother.”

  There was a fractional pause before Rand, his voice too neutral to be casual, asked, “He knows about Billy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know…your story? That there’s no other family?”

  “He knows I raised Billy alone, so it’s been implied.”

  “I see.”

  She wasn’t sure what Rand thought he saw, but she was positive she didn’t like that too-interested undertone in his voice. Rand knew perfectly well her brother wasn’t a topic of casual conversation with her, so it seemed an explanation was necessary.

  “He’s one of our own, so I’ve tried to keep what I’ve told him as truthful as possible.”

  “I suppose you do have a point,” he agreed after a moment. “He isn’t a bad guy we’re staking out. So, who am I, then? The looks thing could be problematic if I try to say I’m just a friend.”

  She hadn’t thought of that, either. Maybe Rand was right—she was too distracted. She should have thought about all of this. It had seemed so simple, just stick as much to the truth as possible, but now it was clear a bit more lying would have made things easier.

  And if she was uncomfortable lying to Ian, that was her problem. Her job was to keep him safe, not keep herself comfortable.

  “We’ll use the looks, then,” she improvised. “Bring it up front first thing. We met because of it. Friends got us together.”

  “Hmm. Okay, I’ll be over…to do laundry or something. I think I can pull that off.”

  “You know you can,” Sam said. She’d seen him bluff his way through much dicier situations than this, using that baby face and those big blue eyes. She’d done it herself, and it got easier with practice.

  Which didn’t explain why lately she’d been on edge as if this were one of those very dicey situations, even though there hadn’t been a moment she’d been in real danger.

  That the danger might not be physical wasn’t an idea she was ready to deal with.

  Ian backed away from the window, not wanting to get caught snooping.

  There was a man in Samantha’s house.

  She’d told him she was taking her brother to a baseball game today, had even apologized that she wouldn’t be working in the garden. He remembered that scene in the car with some embarrassment. He’d been half hoping she’d ask him to go with them. Then he’d felt silly; obviously she wanted this time alone with the boy. And he supposed she couldn’t just drop a total stranger on the child, she probably had to be careful about such things.

  He understood and admired that, just as he admired everything she’d done for the child. It would have been much easier, at nineteen, to simply hand over the boy and go on with her own life. But she’d put his welfare above her own, and no doubt given up a great deal in the process.

  She had also mentioned, on the ride home, that a friend might stop by while she was gone, to use her washing machine since his was broken. He’d almost forgotten about it until he looked out and saw the same blue pickup truck he’d seen the day she moved parked at the curb. And shortly after Samantha left, a man came out, walked to the truck and retrieved two pillowcases apparently full of clothing to wash, hoisted them over his shoulder and returned to the house.

  There was no reason for him to get involved, Ian told himself. Samantha had warned him someone might be here—thoughtful of her, really—and here that someone was. Just because from the glimpse Ian had gotten he was a young, good-looking guy was no reason to get himself in an uproar.

  He returned to his computer and sat down. He nudged the mouse to bring his screen back up. He stared at the data there, wondering why he was having to force himself to concentrate on what usually came so easily.

  He got up again and walked back to the window. He saw movement in the living room, only a shadow against the pleated shade. He stood there for a moment, realizing he’d never been in Samantha’s house. He knew where things were because he’d been inside when the Howards had lived there, but he’d not set foot inside since she had moved in. But she’d been in his house several times now, usually when they got takeout food for dinner after a long day spent working in the wilderness of his yards.

  He frowned, feeling his glasses shift slightly on his nose as he did so. He’d assumed she hadn’t wanted anyone inside because she’d just moved in and the place was probably still pretty chaotic. Especially since she’d been spending so much time on his garden instead of her own house. But now that this guy was here, he wondered if maybe it was just him, specifically, that she didn’t want in her house.

  “Nothing like making yourself the center of the universe,” he chided himself. “He’s an old friend, and you’ve just met her.”

  He could, of course, go over there. Make sure the guy was legit, the one she said would be there. Just to be sure, for safety’s sake. It would be a neighborly thing to do, after all.

  He went back to the computer. When he had to give up for the third time, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to concentrate until he did…something. Anything.

  When he heard the sound of Samantha’s front door again, he got up with a speed that made him laugh ruefully at himself. The man was heading out to his truck for something. Uncharacteristically, Ian thought for all of ten seconds before he went out his own front door in time to catch the man on his way back to the house.

  He was holding a book, obviously what he’d gone back to the truck for. Ian saw that it was the latest techno-thriller by the leading author of the detail-laden books. He had a copy on his own shelf, as yet still unread. Ian cut through the honeysuckle. As he wouldn’t have been able to do pre-Samantha, he thought.

  “Hi,” the blond man said, stopping on the walkway up to Samantha’s door.

  Ian nodded. He cou
ldn’t think of a thing to say, because the man looked so much like Samantha it was unsettling.

  The man laughed. “Let me guess. You’re thinking I’m Sam’s secret twin or something, right? We get that a lot.”

  The easy way the man referred to her nagged at Ian. As did the “we.” “She told me a friend might be over,” he said, proud that his tone sounded fairly even.

  “Yeah.” The blonde grimaced. “Laundry. The machine at my building went south. Sam’s a good guy, to let me use hers.”

  The mere thought of calling Samantha a guy made Ian want to laugh. But somehow that this man did it made him relax slightly. “You’ve been friends for a long time?”

  “A few years. She’s good people.”

  “Yes. She is.”

  He looked at Ian for a moment before he added, “You must be Ian.”

  She’d mentioned him? Ian thought, surprised. “I…yes. Ian Gamble.”

  “My name’s Rand.”

  They shook hands. A strong, firm handclasp, Ian noted, but not excessive. Friendly, not challenging. But that didn’t mitigate the fact that the man had only offered his first name.

  “The resemblance really is remarkable,” Ian said.

  “I know. That’s how we connected. People kept telling us we had to meet, because we had to be related. We thought they were crazy, until we came face-to-face.”

  “But you’re not related?”

  “Not that we know of. All my relatives seem accounted for, anyway.”

  Ian realized that the man must know Samantha didn’t have any family left to ask. And then, almost involuntarily, he asked, “So, are you two…dating?”

  It sounded so stupid he wanted to turn tail and run, go hide back among the safety of his papers and computers. But Rand answered so quickly and easily that he got over it.

  “Sam and I? Lord, no. It would be like dating my sister.”

  Ian smiled, rather more broadly than the comment deserved. “I can see where it would be a bit disconcerting.”

  “Not to mention the looks we’d get,” Rand added with a grin. Then he glanced at his watch. “My first load’s probably done, I’d better get moving. Nice to meet you, Ian.”