First-Class Father

by Charlotte Douglas

  Heather could have hugged him. Chip would make her mother forget her worries, and with her folks at the river under Frank and Jake’s watchful eyes, she wouldn’t have to worry about their safety.

  “How about some lunch first?” Dylan suggested. “Then I’ll draw you a map to the river cottage.”

  HEATHER WAVED GOODBYE from the driveway as her folks pulled away. Dylan hovered close by, apparently alert to the possibility of another attack. When she headed inside, she caught sight of Sid Bullock, parked in an old Plymouth down the street.

  “Is he there because of me?”

  Dylan hurried her into the house and locked the door. “Sid doesn’t take kindly to people trying to kill the citizens he’s sworn to protect He’s anxious to get his hands on your attacker.”

  She lifted her hand to his cheek. “Thanks for keeping my folks safe.”

  His big hand covered hers, and he touched her palm to his lips. “I’ve always liked your folks, but I doubt, under the circumstances, the feeling’s mutual.”

  She frowned. “What circumstances?”

  “Chip. They know I’m his father. Don’t they wonder why I didn’t marry you?”

  Remembering the quarrel the night she’d told them she was expecting, she shuddered. Her father had threatened to go after Dylan with a shotgun, until she’d explained that he didn’t know about her pregnancy and had convinced them why she didn’t want to tell him. “They understand.”

  Pain flashed in the mahogany depths of his eyes, and he dropped her hand.

  To break the tension, she changed the subject. “Shouldn’t we tell Rand and Jasmine what we suspect?”

  “Later. First, you’re going to rest.”

  She couldn’t argue. Even if she’d been in top physical condition, learning of her adoption would have drained her emotionally. She wanted to sleep for a week. But when she lay down in Dylan’s darkened bedroom, her mind churned with questions.

  Was she really Talbot and Lily Moore’s missing child? If so, she had a sister, Jasmine, and three half brothers, T.J., Art and Blain Moore. If she was their kin, why was she such a threat that one of them wanted her and her son dead? Was the motive money, as Dylan believed? Or did the person who’d knifed her have nothing to do with the Moores?

  Unable to find answers, she fell asleep.

  Shadows were lengthening when she awakened, and the aroma of tomatoes, garlic and basil drifted down the hall. Dylan was cooking his special pomodoro sauce that she hadn’t tasted in more than two years.

  Her rest restored her energy, and after a spaghetti supper and a call to Chip at the river, she sipped a cup of cappuccino while Dylan loaded the dishwasher.

  “Feel up to visiting Rand and Jasmine now?” He placed the last dish in the rack and closed the door.

  “I think so. I can’t get used to the idea that I might have brothers and a sister.” Butterflies dive-bombed in her stomach at the thought.

  “And Chip has uncles, another aunt, and another set of grandparents.” He dried his hands on a kitchen towel.

  “Don’t say any more, please. The possibilities are overwhelming.”

  He placed his palms flat on the table and leaned toward her, his eyes hot, his voice gritty. “Don’t worry. They won’t be able to help loving you.”

  She lowered her gaze so he couldn’t see hope flaring in her eyes as she waited for his answer. “Speaking from personal experience?”

  When he took too long to reply, she raised her head and caught the gleam of mischief in his crooked grin.

  “Yeah,” he said, “they couldn’t help loving me, either.”

  She stifled a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

  “That’s what my mama always told me.”

  “Your mama was right.”

  “I’m discovering my mama was right about a lot of things, including you.”

  If he looked at her like that another minute, they would never leave the house tonight “Aren’t Rand and Jasmine expecting us?”

  “You’re right” He shook his head as if coming out of a trance.

  She followed him into the living room. He removed his keys from a shelf by the door, slipped one off the ring and handed it to her.

  “I’ll turn on the outside lights and check the car. When I give you the all clear, come out and lock the front door behind you.”

  His precautions brought back vivid memories of the attack in his driveway. She watched from the window until he’d inspected the bushes near the drive, circled the car and motioned for her to join him. As she locked the door and scampered to the car, she spotted the dark shadow of Sid Bullock’s Plymouth across the street.

  She waved to the detective as Dylan drove away. “Doesn’t he ever sleep?”

  “Sid? Not if he’s on a case.”

  “When does he eat?”

  “One of the guys on patrol drops off coffee and sandwiches when he’s on surveillance.”

  “How—” Her question died in her throat as Dylan slammed on his brakes to avoid a car that darted in front of them at the intersection. The other vehicle’s engine gunned, and it speeded off in the direction they were headed. The Jeep’s headlights briefly illuminated the driver.

  “It’s him!” she cried. “The man who kidnapped Chip.”

  Dylan stomped the accelerator and took off after the black Chevy Blazer. He passed her his phone and shouted a number. “Call Bullock. Tell him we’re in hot pursuit, headed for the interstate.”

  She punched in the number with shaking fingers. Dylan tailed the rocketing vehicle along several blocks and followed it up the interstate entrance ramp.

  “We caught the bastard by surprise,” Dylan said.

  “I can’t get through to Bullock. Some kind of interference.”

  “High tension lines. We’re almost clear of them. Keep trying.”

  The Jeep flew onto the deserted interstate, close behind the Blazer.

  She lifted the phone to try her call again, and the Jeep lurched downward, tossing her toward the windshield until her seat belt yanked her back. Metal screamed, showers of fiery sparks spewed from beneath the front of the vehicle, and a tire bounced past her window.

  Dylan wrestled with the wheel, and the Jeep bucked and pitched for endless seconds before screeching to a halt on the shoulder of the highway.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You didn’t hurt your arm?”

  “I’m okay. What happened?” Her voice shook with the rest of her.

  “We lost the right front tire.”

  “How can you lose a tire?”

  “Someone must have loosened the lug nuts.”

  “Why?”

  “To stop us and create an easy target. Running into our kidnapper wasn’t coincidence after all.”

  He stared through the windshield at the highway ahead, and she followed his gaze. Several hundred yards in front of them, the Blazer crossed the median, made a U-turn and speeded toward them.

  Dylan unfastened his seat belt and pulled his gun. “Get on the floor in back and stay down.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  From the opposite lane of the highway, the Blazer swerved onto the wide grassy median directly across from them. With the Jeep immobilized without its right front tire, Dylan had no means for their escape.

  He groped along the floorboards for the phone, thrown from Heather’s hand when the axle hit the pavement. His fingers closed over its outer case, and he tossed it to her in the back seat. “Call 911.”

  A quick scan of the four-lane highway showed several cars traveling in the opposite direction, unaware or uncaring of his plight. No headlights glimmered on the dark road behind the Jeep. In the back seat Heather talked to the emergency operator, but help could be a long time coming.

  Lunging across the front seats, he reached to open the passenger door, but the wail of an approaching siren stopped him. Raising his head warily, he peered through the rear window and grinned.

  Flashing blue lights were bearing down on them. Fast.


  The Blazer’s driver had apparently seen the lights, too. The black vehicle bounced off the median onto the pavement near the Jeep and accelerated away from the approaching police car. Seconds later, Sid Bullock’s Plymouth barreled past, leaving the Jeep quaking in its vortex.

  Dylan climbed from the Jeep and helped Heather out of the back seat. “You okay?”

  Her face was drawn and pale in the moonlight, but she nodded and handed him the phone.

  “We’ll need a tow truck,” he told the operator. “And alert police south of us to be on the lookout for a late-model black Chevy Blazer exiting the interstate.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Dylan and Heather sat in the back seat of Sid’s Plymouth and watched the tow truck, orange lights blinking, haul away the Jeep.

  “Too bad you lost him,” he said to Sid.

  “He disappeared into a stream of traffic at the mall. Even with my siren blaring, I couldn’t get through fast enough to catch up.”

  “He was waiting for us.” Heather shivered. “He pulled in front of us on purpose, knowing we’d follow.”

  Sid nodded. “With me watching the house, he had to lure you into the open for another shot at you. He must have loosened the lug nuts on Dylan’s tire while the Jeep was parked at the hospital night before last.”

  “I owe you,” Dylan said. “Things could have turned nasty if you hadn’t shown up when you did.”

  “We’re still no closer to catching this creep.” Sid struck the steering wheel with his fist in frustration, then started the engine and drove onto the highway. “He smeared mud on his tag, so I can’t trace him through the Department of Motor Vehicles.”

  “After I’ve talked with Rand Sinclair,” Dylan said, “maybe we’ll have a better idea who we’re dealing with.”

  He pulled Heather closer. Someone was determined to kill her. He was just as determined to catch the assailant and throw his sorry butt in jail.

  “THAT’S EVERYTHING that’s happened until now.” Dylan finished his account of Chip’s kidnapping and the attacks on Heather, including the one less than two hours ago on the interstate.

  Rand reclined against the back of the leather sofa with his arm around his wife. Even in the final stages of pregnancy, Jasmine managed to look gorgeous and at ease.

  While telling his story, Dylan had shifted his gaze between Heather and Jasmine. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t noted the resemblance before. Jasmine’s long hair was straight and blond, and Heather’s honey-hued curls were short. Jasmine’s eyes were emerald, while the green in Heather’s was the earthy color of moss, flecked with gold and brown. But both women were tall and slender, their hands graceful and elegant, and their profiles identical.

  Before, Dylan had attributed his aching discontent whenever he was around Jasmine to the contrast of his solitary state with Rand’s married happiness. Now he realized that Jasmine’s subtle resemblance to Heather had activated his longing for the woman he loved.

  “We can’t be certain we’re sisters until DNA tests are completed,” Heather was saying.

  Jasmine cradled her belly and the child she carried and smiled. “Anybody not blind in both eyes can tell we’re related. When there was just Aunt Daisy and me, I yearned for family. Last year, I found my mother and father, as well as my brothers, and now I have a sister.”

  Rand cleared his throat, and when she looked at him, he raised an eyebrow. “What about me?”

  Her face crinkled into a teasing smile. “You are responsible for my months of nausea and waddling like a duck. Don’t push your luck.”

  Rand kissed the tip of her nose.

  Dylan, remembering how Heather had carried Chip all those months and delivered him alone, experienced a spasm of regret.

  “Shouldn’t we tell Mom and Dad about this?” Jasmine asked Rand.

  “I’m happy to have a sister-in-law,” he said with a nod to Heather, “but it might be best to wait until blood tests confirm your kinship before telling Lily and Talbot.”

  “I agree,” Heather said. “Let’s find who’s trying to kill me first.”

  Dylan leaned forward. “I figure someone who knows that Heather is Talbot’s daughter is behind Chip’s kidnapping and the attacks on her.”

  “Charles Wilcox is the prime suspect,” Rand said. “He unquestionably is the one who kidnapped Heather when she was a baby and gave her to the Taylors.”

  “Charles is in prison for life,” Dylan said.

  “Then it has to be someone else.” Rand flung his hands wide in a gesture of frustration. “But who? And for what reason?”

  Jasmine narrowed her green eyes. “Money.”

  “Your father is a very wealthy man,” Dylan said. “His estate, split between four children, would make each a multimillionaire.”

  “And Heather makes five,” Rand said. “Her existence, and Chip’s, would mean a smaller piece of Talbot’s estate for everyone.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” Jasmine said, “to be talking about Daddy’s estate. He’s only in his fifties and in excellent health. Besides, I don’t want his money, I want my father around to enjoy his grandchildren.”

  “What about your—our brothers?” Heather asked.

  “T.J. and Art love Talbot as much as the rest of us,” Rand said. “They’d never do anything to hurt him.”

  “Not even for a bigger inheritance?” Dylan asked.

  Rand shook his head. “They enjoy their work in the company and are well paid. Neither has money problems or has ever shown greed. Besides, T.J.’s been in Detroit the past week for a builder’s convention, and Art spends all his free time with his fiancée.”

  “Blain blamed Talbot for divorcing his mother,” Dylan reminded him.

  “Blain is in France with Irene,” Jasmine said. “When Daddy divorced her, he gave her the vineyard he’d recently bought, and she and Blain are running it. Their wine produces a good income. Between the winery’s profits and Daddy’s settlement, Irene is a rich woman.”

  “Some people never have enough money.” Dylan frowned. “And if Talbot’s money isn’t the motive behind these attacks, what is?”

  “Revenge?” Heather suggested.

  Rand looked thoughtful. “Maybe Irene didn’t take the divorce and settlement as amicably as we thought.”

  Jasmine shook her head. “From everything we’ve heard, she’s perfectly happy in France.”

  Dylan stood, shoved his hands in his pockets and paced the Oriental carpet of Rand and Jasmine’s spacious living room. “Detective Cramer in St. Pete has already eliminated every possible suspect who might have a grudge against Heather. Her parents could think of no one with ill will toward them. Unless some psychotic wacko has chosen Heather for some unknown reason, that leaves only her connection to Talbot as motive.”

  “You think an insane person could be behind all this?” Jasmine asked with a shudder.

  “It’s possible,” Dylan said, “but unlikely. If Heather was chosen at random, as closely as she’s been guarded, her assailant would have selected a more accessible target by now. Her relationship to Talbot has to be the key.”

  “Charles Wilcox,” Jasmine said, “is the only one who knows she’s Daddy’s daughter.”

  Rand nodded. “Killing Talbot’s daughter and grandson would mean more money for Charles’s nephews when Talbot dies. Charles also blames his imprisonment on Talbot and Lily, so he might consider killing the daughter they’re searching for fitting revenge. As twisted as Charles’s mind is, he could be planning to tell the Moores that Heather’s their daughter—after she’s murdered.”

  Heather’s eyes clouded with confusion. “But Charles is in prison. How can he harm us from there?”

  Dylan stopped pacing. “He’s allowed mail, phone calls and visitors. With his access to other criminals, finding and hiring a hit man wouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Charles won’t help us,” Rand said. “He refused to tell Talbot what he’d done with Lily’s baby. He’ll be less likely to rat on a professional
murderer who might have friends in the same prison.”

  “He doesn’t have to tell us anything.” Dylan grinned with satisfaction. “Everything Charles does—visitors, calls and letters, friendships within the prison—is monitored. If he made the contact, information from the prison records should lead us to Heather’s attacker.”

  “You’ll check with the prison?” Rand asked.

  “Right.” Dylan glanced at Heather and noted the violet shadows beneath her eyes. “But first, I’m taking Heather home. She needs her rest.”

  Rand and Jasmine walked them to the front door.

  Jasmine hugged Heather, not an easy task when she was eight months pregnant and Heather had a bandaged arm, and kissed her cheek. “Welcome to the family, sis. After Dylan catches his bad guy, we’ll have a reunion celebration that’ll knock your socks off.”

  Heather returned Jasmine’s hug, then walked with Dylan to Sid’s Plymouth in the front drive. Dylan settled her in the back seat and climbed in front with Sid.

  “Well,” Sid said, “did you get that lead you were hoping for?”

  “Uh-huh. If you don’t mind a late night, I’ll explain after I place a call to the warden at Starke.”

  “About what?”

  “Charles Wilcox.”

  “The guy who tried to kill Jasmine and Talbot Moore last year?”

  Dylan nodded.

  Sid flicked his gaze from the street to Dylan. “I got a feeling there’s a lot you haven’t told me.”

  Dylan glanced at Heather, already asleep on the back seat. “It’s a long story. Come in for coffee at my house, and I’ll fill you in.”

  DYLAN SHIFTED ON THE SOFA, opened his eyes and squinted in the blinding sunlight spilling through his living room window. Sitting up, he stretched and rubbed his aching shoulder where he’d slept on it wrong.

  Voices drifted from the kitchen, and he pushed to his feet. Sid’s car was out front, where he’d left it last night, and the fragrant aroma of coffee drifted through the house.

  Dylan padded past his open bedroom door and noted the neatly made bed. In the kitchen, he found Heather sitting at the table and Sid serving breakfast.