Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  Case closed.

  Now, twenty-three years later, someone was writing to John anonymously, suggesting that his father was innocent and implying that Hannah Duncan somehow held the key to his prison cell.

  Your father was convicted on mostly circumstantial evidence and the coached testimony of a six-year-old. Hannah was the only witness to the crime. But she was deeply traumatized. I’m sure she knew more than they let her tell the jury.

  After all these years of struggling to come to terms with his father’s guilt, now John was presented with an opportunity to try to prove his innocence. To do that, he had to gain access to Hannah’s darkest, most horrific memories, without revealing his true identity to her. He was prepared to mess with an innocent woman’s head, to risk her emotional and mental well-being on the long-shot possibility that she remembered anything.

  It was unfair and unethical. Like his father’s imprisonment.

  He rubbed a knuckle over the furrow between his brows. What he was doing went against everything he stood for.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Larissa plopped down on the bench beside him, holding a stack of files. In her bright yellow sweat suit, she looked like some kind of exotic bird. She aimed a flirtatious smile at him, and he returned it, but kept it strictly friendly. No sense straying into dangerous territory.

  “How’d your first interview with Hannah go?” Larissa asked.

  “Let’s just say if I’d been counting on that interview for my last meal, I’d starve to death.”

  Larissa tipped back her head and laughed. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “How long have you known her?”

  Larissa crossed her thin legs. “Not quite three years. Since she took over the school from Arthur.”

  “Why did she live with the headmaster and his wife? Do you know?”

  “Yeah, but you have to promise not to put it in your book.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  She looked around for eavesdroppers. “She tried to kill herself a few weeks after she got here.”

  John’s chest squeezed, and for a moment he stopped breathing. “Poor kid,” he managed. No doubt her mother’s brutal death had led to the suicide attempt. There were probably other factors, but a six-year-old who’d witnessed her mother’s murder was bound to have problems. Serious problems. He was barely twelve when they took his father away, and the exuberant boy had transformed into an angry, insecure adolescent who went looking for trouble to stave off his desperate helplessness.

  “What about her father?” he asked. “Why didn’t he take her home?”

  She shrugged. “Hannah doesn’t talk about her father. Nobody seems to know anything about him.”

  “Do you see her outside of school?”

  “Now and then,” Larissa said. “But she doesn’t let people in easily, that’s for sure. I, on the other hand, am very open and have plenty of free time for interviews. Or whatever.”

  He grinned. No one could accuse Larissa of being subtle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You do that, honey,” she said, reaching across and giving his shoulder a little squeeze.

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  They turned to find Hannah standing behind them. Her face was pale and she seemed slightly breathless. “Who left the roses, Larissa, do you know?”

  Larissa frowned in concern. “You got more roses?”

  What the hell?

  “I just found them outside, on the steps off the teachers’ lounge,” Hannah said.

  “Was there a note?”

  “No. No note. If you could check around, I’d appreciate it.” She glanced quickly between Larissa and John. “When you can spare a minute.”

  Hannah set off back to Grange Hall at a fast pace. John hopped to his feet and caught up with her at the bottom of the steps.

  “What’s going on with the roses?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said, her expression shuttered. “It’s really nothing.”

  “I noticed your cleaning lady pulling flowers out of your trash on Friday night.”

  “Oh?” She hugged herself.

  “I figured it was boyfriend trouble. Guess not, huh?”

  “No.”

  “You’re upset about them.” She didn’t respond. “What are you afraid of, Hannah?”

  She looked startled for a moment, then recovered. “Nothing. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “You can trust me, you know.”

  “Uh-huh. Right. So, how’d it go with Larissa? Got a date later?”

  “It’s not Larissa I’m interested in.” He stepped closer but stopped short of touching her.

  Damn if she didn’t step back. The intensity of his disappointment surprised him.

  “You may as well stop flirting with me.” She didn’t meet his eyes. “It won’t get you anywhere.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

  Chapter Three

  Hannah was sipping wine by the fire when she heard the footsteps on the porch. The clock over the mantle said seven forty. Which one of the teachers would be working this late on a Friday night?

  Damn it. She loved the people she worked with, but she just wasn’t in the mood to solve their problems right now. It had been a long week and she hadn’t been sleeping well. All she wanted to do was have dinner, take a long bath and crash early. She stood slowly, realized she already had a buzz on, and concentrated on walking a straight line to the door.

  “Oh,” she said, when she opened it. “I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”

  “I walked it up the driveway.” John’s hands were tucked inside the pockets of his bomber jacket, and his breath was turning to steam in the cold, damp air. “I know I should have called first, but I really wanted to see you.”

  Hannah was so shocked it took a moment for her brain to flip into gear. “Why?”

  “We got off on the wrong foot, and I want to change that.”

  She stared at him, unsure how she felt about him being there. “Come on in,” she heard herself say.

  He filled the small entryway, bringing with him the scent of leather and peppermint. She hadn’t realized how tall he was. He pushed the door closed behind him, glanced at her wineglass and smiled. “One of my favorite ways to relax too.”

  Well, she had already let him in, she couldn’t very well leave him standing there with nothing to drink, not when he was being so conciliatory. “Um…would you like some wine or a beer?”

  “A beer sounds great.” He sniffed. “Something smells good.”

  “I’m reheating some chili.” She led him into the kitchen. What was the harm in feeding him while she was at it? “There’s plenty if you’re daring.”

  “Well, if it tastes as good it smells… Oh, wow, corn bread.”

  Hannah couldn’t help but smile at his reaction. “Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  He shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over a wooden chair. His hiking boots alone took up most of the space between his chair and the door to the living room.

  “God, you have big feet,” she blurted.

  He waggled his eyebrows playfully. “You know what they say.”

  She rolled her eyes. John grabbed himself a beer as she ladled the chili into thick crockery bowls and topped them with sharp cheddar cheese and raw onions. “There’s extra chili peppers in it, so be prepared.”

  “Mm, just how I like it. How’d you know?”

  She sat across from him at the small table. “I didn’t figure you for having a delicate palate.”

  He smiled. “Got that right.”

  His legs were so long their knees touched under the table. Hannah knew that if she were completely sober the contact would make her acutely uncomfortable. But she wasn’t, so it didn’t. His hands were large, and she couldn’t take her eyes off them as he buttered his cornbread, dug a spoon into his bowl and lifted it to his mouth. Then he grinned, and she knew he’d been watching her watch him
. She hid her embarrassment behind a swallow of wine.

  “So,” he said after he’d gobbled down half his chili and drained most of his beer. “Did you figure out who left the roses?”

  She paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Not yet.” She didn’t want to think about the roses right now. Or the notes. “But that’s not why you came here to see me.”

  “No. But you were freaked out about getting them, and I’ve been wondering why.”

  “I overreacted.”

  “Who do you think sent them?”

  “I have no idea.” She watched him lift the beer bottle to his lips and swallow the dregs. “Go get another beer if you like.”

  “Hey, thanks,” he said, and his smile was so engaging, she told him to get more chili too. He came back with more of everything and refilled her wineglass, then settled his big body back into his chair. This time he stretched his legs out on either side of hers, and the thought of his legs being open with her between them sent a delicious shudder through her.

  Get a grip, Hannah. This guy is trouble.

  Hazel eyes roamed her face, pausing at her lips, then held her gaze until Hannah realized she wasn’t breathing. She let out a breath and sat back. His eyes were still on her, and his legs were gripping the sides of her chair, as though he was trying to keep her from escaping. Normally she would be, but at the moment, all she could do was imagine what his lips would taste like, and how big he would feel inside her. That thought nearly had her up out of her seat and onto his lap.

  Holy cow.

  She cleared her throat. “So, is there something in particular you wanted to talk about?”

  “You. Me. The kids.”

  “You make it sound like we’re getting a divorce.”

  There was that damn smile again. “I think I like you with a couple of glasses of wine in you.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s me. The life of the party.”

  Images of The Party—which is how she thought of it—invaded her mind. Walking up to her front door, drunk and nauseated, wrapped only in a scratchy police blanket. Her father’s face, cold and hard, thanking the cop for saving him the embarrassment of having to pick her up at the station. Taking the bag with her beer-soaked clothes and dumping them in the trash, then turning to her, his words cutting through her heart like a knife.

  You’re a dirty little tramp, just like your mother.

  Just like your mother.

  A finger lifted her chin, and this time the smile was missing. “Where’d you just go?” John asked, his voice as gentle as his touch.

  Damn it. She’d let her guard down. She picked up their bowls and hustled them over to the sink. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

  She turned on the tap, soaped up the sponge and went to work scrubbing bowls, pans, utensils with a zeal that was actually amusing, considering how allergic she was to housework.

  When John’s big hands grasped her shoulders from behind and began kneading her tight muscles, she nearly dropped what she was holding. God, his touch felt good. Too good. She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke before she could.

  “You’re too tense,” he said. “Try to relax.”

  After a brief hesitation, she bent her head forward to give him better access. His body was close enough to her back for his heat to penetrate her sweater. A thrill shot clear down to her toes. She imagined his hands kneading her breasts and couldn’t stop the involuntary arching of her back.

  John leaned forward and whispered very softly in her ear, “That’s right.”

  She lifted her head and suddenly his face was in her hair. He rubbed his cheek against the side of her head, nuzzled her neck. The pleasure was so intense she began to tremble, and he wrapped his strong arms around her and pulled her back into his hard body.

  She grasped the arms that held her. “John,” she whispered. “We can’t—”

  “Sssh.” He turned her around in his arms, but she laid two fingers against his lips before they could cover her mouth.

  “If you kiss me,” she said, “I won’t be able to let you leave.”

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t have a one-night stand with you.”

  “One night?” He laughed harshly. “One night with you wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.”

  She blinked up at him. He was right, of course. One night with him wouldn’t be nearly enough. Which was a good reason not to let him any closer.

  But her hand didn’t seem to care about reason, only about desire, as it moved to his cheek, grazing over the stubble, following the line of his jaw. He turned his face so her fingers met his lips yet again, but this time his eyelids slid lower and he opened his mouth enough for her to feel the slick wetness inside. He bit down gently on her fingertips and ran his tongue over them. She groaned.

  “Hannah,” he said quietly, pressing her body against the sink cabinet, letting her feel his arousal. He grasped her wrist, placed her hand over his galloping heart and lowered his face slowly. She rose up on her toes, wanting this kiss, knowing it was a mistake and not caring.

  Suddenly he jerked his head up. He was staring over her shoulder at the kitchen window, frowning.

  “What?” she whispered.

  “Shhh.” His eyes scanned the tiny kitchen, and then he reached out and flipped off the overhead light. “Turn to the sink like you’re getting a glass of water, but don’t look out the window.”

  Oh, God. Someone was out there. Panic seized her by the throat, gripped her muscles, rooting her to the spot. But she forced herself to do what he asked, turning slowly to the sink, not daring to raise her gaze to the window, presumably so whoever was out there wouldn’t know he’d been spotted. John went into the living room and switched off lamps until the only light was the glow of embers in the dying fire. She hugged herself tight.

  Seconds later she heard a window in one of the rooms—her bedroom?—slide up. Had John climbed out, or had someone climbed in?

  John grabbed a Maglite and his SIG pistol from the tail bag of his bike and crept around the perimeter of the lawn, shining the light on the ground. He could find no sign of a person or large animal lurking in the darkness. The breeze sent a light drizzle clinging to his face and hair, as though he’d walked into an invisible web. Damp leaves flew about, sticking to his pant legs and covering up any footprints that might have been there.

  The beam settled on a bit of fur sticking out from under the porch steps. He squatted down to take a closer look and found three mutilated squirrels, their bellies slit so their entrails spilled out.

  “Damn it,” he murmured. One he could have dismissed—maybe. Three was a pattern.

  He ran the beam around the foundation but spotted nothing else sinister. Neither had he seen any unusual movement in the trees. But something had been out there. Or someone. He’d swear to it. And whoever or whatever it was could be a threat to Hannah.

  He returned the gun and flashlight to his bike and went back to the bedroom window. He could insist on spending the night to keep her safe. Offer to sleep on the couch. Right. If she let him stay, he would make love to her, and they both knew it. And it would be good between them. Real good.

  Maybe too good.

  I’ve never believed your father was guilty, John.

  That’s what he had to focus on—proving his father’s innocence, clearing his name, getting him out of prison. Yeah, he wanted to get into Hannah’s pants, but for once he had a reason to sleep with a woman he barely knew. It was kind of unsettling, really, the thought of putting the moves on Sharon’s daughter, knowing her lips probably tasted a whole lot like her mother’s had, and that his old man had gotten just as aroused as he had, feeling those full breasts pressed against his chest.

  Unsettling. Right.

  He ran a hand over his hair and pulled it away wet. He couldn’t remember ever being more desperate to make love to a woman than he had been ten minutes ago in her kitchen. What if Hannah’s resemblance to her mother was
part of the attraction? Maybe this was some kind of delayed Oedipal competition. A Freudian might say he’d never had to compete with his father for his mother’s love, so now he was competing with him for his lover.

  But he didn’t want Hannah’s love, only her memories. And the best place to hitch a ride down memory lane was in bed, when her inhibitions were down and her emotions high.

  My God, what is he doing?

  Hannah raised her eyes to the kitchen window, certain that whoever was out there—if it was a person and not an animal—could no longer see inside. The night was overcast, and no ambient light filtered through the trees. She could barely even see the trees. What had John seen? And where was he now?

  What if someone else was in the house?

  She stood in the darkness, shivering uncontrollably. Cold sweat dotted her upper lip and trickled down the middle of her back. The old tune was running through her head in an endless loop. Relentless. Suffocating. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.

  London Bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down…

  Then she heard it. A pinging sound, coming from the back of the house. Was someone moving around her bedroom?

  She remembered the knife block beside the stove. Could she…if it came to that? Could she thrust a knife into someone’s body?

  Falling down…falling down…

  The pinging started again.

  With effort, she unfolded one arm from around her waist and stretched it, painfully, toward the knives. She felt around until she gripped the handle of the butcher knife, slid it carefully out of its slot, then retracted her arm, bringing the knife close to her body.

  Ping… Ping… Ping…

  She held her breath.

  Maybe he’s come for me at last. I always knew he would.

  “No,” she whispered to the darkness. “No one wants to kill me.” She edged her way down to the end of the counter and stood with her back to the wall, straining to listen for sounds over the pounding of her heart and the ringing in her ears. Her living room was filled with sinister-looking shadows and dark shapes that could be a person.