by Lyn Stone
“No, I’m okay,” she murmured against his chest. “You did come back,” she added in an even quieter voice, her hands gripping his arms. “I thought he was you when I opened the door.”
“It’s all right,” he assured her. “Everything will be all right now. Why don’t you lie down and I’ll get you a—”
“I need to see about Syd,” she said, pushing away from him and getting up. “I just need to see her.”
“You’re still shaky.” Damien lifted her again, moved swiftly down the hall and stopped at Sydney’s room. There he lowered Molly to her feet while he opened the door.
“Ah, look at that,” he whispered, smiling down at Molly’s chalk-white face with its wide green eyes, hoping to divert her attention from what she’d just experienced. “She’s still asleep.”
Molly moved with less than her usual grace as she crossed the room. Damien hovered just behind her to catch her if she fell. Her fingers reached out, brushed a wispy curl off the baby’s forehead and then retreated.
The word fragile came to mind when he looked at her now, though he would never have used it before to describe Molly. How young and vulnerable she seemed in that white terry robe, bare toes peeking out beneath the hem, her hair a soft, wild tangle that begged to be touched.
The truth hit him like a brick. The same brick that had left a dent when it struck him earlier on his way downtown to see Winton. He could never love anyone the way he loved her. Nothing else mattered.
She turned to him as if something had just occurred to her. “Why did you come back, Damien?” she asked, trembling. Frowning.
He cradled her face in his hands, that infinitely precious face with its sprinkle of freckles and generous mouth. “I was nearly halfway to the main precinct when I asked myself why I was leaving Nashville today. It seemed a foolish thing to do when I have unfinished business right here. With you,” he added softly.
“Your job,” she reminded him. “Those reports?”
“I can fax them to Duvek.” He trailed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Would you mind if I stayed for a while?”
Her sigh was heavy and her face looked pained. A tear trailed slowly down one cheek. “Yes. I would mind, Damien. I would mind very much.”
Clear enough and painful to hear, but Damien could hardly blame her. Molly had just witnessed the self-destruction of a man she’d once thought she loved, the father of her child. Small wonder she wasn’t up to discussing a future with someone else right now.
Regardless of what she’d just said, Damien wouldn’t leave her, but she didn’t need or want a lover right now. Damien understood. What she needed was a friend.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he suggested. “Why don’t you get dressed? You’ll have to anyway since the police are waiting for us with all the questions. It shouldn’t take long. Then I’ll take you and Sydney to your mother’s.”
Her gaze wandered again to the baby who still slept on. “All right,” she said quietly as she looked up at him with a puzzled frown. “I guess I should cry, but I can’t. Jack was Sydney’s daddy.”
Damien scoffed. “You know he was never a father to Sydney. And why on earth should you shed any tears over a man who kidnapped your daughter and terrorized you the way he did?”
She shrugged, still watching the baby sleep. “Maybe I should have tried to get help for him before he got so sick.”
Damien had to force himself not to grab her, hold her and try to banish the guilt he saw in her eyes. Instead, he used the most reasonable tone he could manage. “You couldn’t have helped him, Molly. There was nothing you could have done for Jack. You cannot feel responsible for what he did out there this morning. You can’t.”
“You’re right. I know,” she agreed a bit too quickly. “I ought to call Mildred and John,” she said, sounding numb. “I hate for them to hear it from the police.”
“I’ll take care of that,” he said, knowing the cops had probably notified John Jensen already. Even if they hadn’t, Damien didn’t think Jack’s parents would want to hear the news from either Molly or himself. She must be in shock to imagine her telling them would make it any easier. If anything, they would resent her even more.
He turned her from the crib and gently ushered her out of Sydney’s room and across the hallway to her own. When she simply stood there in the middle of the carpet, he went to her closet and selected a pair of brown slacks and a sweater for her.
Damien laid the clothing on the bed and went back to find shoes to match. He set them on the floor. “Get dressed, Molly,” he said firmly. “We have questions to answer. The police need to do the report.”
She jumped a little, as if she’d been lost in thought. “Fine. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Will you be all right by yourself?” he asked, worried about her pallor. “Do you feel faint again?”
“No, I’m okay,” she said, shaking her head. “Go ahead.”
Reluctantly he left her, glancing back again when he reached the door. She was moving toward the bed, so he trusted she would be able to function.
A half hour later Molly forced herself to leave the bedroom. She looked in again on Syd. After a deep breath to call up her courage, she walked toward the living room. Damien was waiting for her there, just outside the doorway. He took her arm.
Detective Winton had arrived. “Sit down, please,” he said gently. “This won’t take long. Just tell me what took place this morning.”
Repeating all that had happened seemed to lessen the impact of it, reduced it somehow to terms she could face and accept. That didn’t seem right to her, but there was nothing she could do about it. Just as there had been nothing to do to save Jack from himself.
“Did you know about his habit?” Winton was asking.
“What?” Molly demanded, her senses snapping to full alert. “What habit?”
Damien, who was standing behind her chair, placed his hands on her shoulders. Grounded her. “Cocaine, Molly.”
“Your ex-husband had a pretty good supply on him today,” the detective told her. “Must have made a buy this morning. It appears he was a fairly heavy user. I thought you might want to know that.”
“Oh.” Molly breathed the word. “Would that have caused him to…do all that he did?”
Winton sighed and nodded. “Could and probably did. It sometimes causes paranoia, depression, even violence. Cocaine can also cause people to think they can accomplish just about anything, no matter how ambitious the undertaking. Makes them feel smarter, believe they’re able to think circles around everybody else. Can’t seem to be rational about any long-term consequences, however.” He slapped his little notebook in his palm and got up. “Anyway, I thought you should know.”
Molly hung her head, shaking it sadly. The drug had almost surely exaggerated Jack’s problem. He had been jealous when they were dating, but not to that extreme. Just enough to flatter her. After hearing about the coke, she could almost pinpoint the month during their marriage in which his personality had begun to change. At least she could stop beating herself up for not realizing what he was before they married. And could also admit that she had loved the man he had been at first.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She reached to her shoulders and placed her hands on top of Damien’s, thankful he was still here. Wishing he would stay with her. Knowing he would if she asked him to. But she didn’t want that. He had his own life to live and she had to get on with hers.
“You are finished, aren’t you?” Damien asked. “I’d like to get Molly away from here. We’ll be at Brenda Devereaux’s if you need anything else for the report.”
“That ought to do it until the inquest,” Winton said, getting up to follow them out. “You stick around town for that, Perry. Don’t want to have to come looking for you.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Damien declared. As he said that, his firm grip on Molly’s arm felt like a promise meant for her. He couldn’t very well leave when the detective
had told him to stay for the inquest, but Molly knew the longer he remained with her, the more difficult it would be to say goodbye when the time came.
It would come, she had no doubt of that. Damien hesitated to leave her because he was Ford’s friend. Even though Jack was no longer a danger, Damien must think she still needed someone to look after her until her brother returned. Given how she’d been acting since the shooting, she could hardly blame him for thinking that, but she didn’t want him to feel responsible for her.
Molly wanted Damien around only if he loved her and thought they had a good chance at making a life together. Only she knew Damien didn’t do long-term commitments. And she couldn’t settle for anything less. She would have to make him leave. Or at least leave her alone.
The funeral had been a large affair, attended by many of Jack’s high school classmates and their families, people who had known the Jensens all their lives.
The fact that Jack had served time, definitely done drugs, wrecked his life and then destroyed it, did nothing to discourage attendance at the service.
Damien had remained in the back of the sanctuary and on the fringe of the crowd at the cemetery, present only because he thought Molly might show up and need his support. He’d thought her guilt might compel her to do so, but obviously it had not.
Immediately after he had taken her and Sydney to Brenda’s condo, Molly had asked him to leave her there and not to call or come by. Oh, she’d been polite about it. Need for solitude was the reason she gave, but he knew the real reason. Molly was in love with him and didn’t want to be. It was right there in her eyes, totally exposed because her emotions had been stripped raw by the horror of that day.
The ridiculous thing was, she had to know he loved her, too. True, he’d only told her the once, but she knew. He figured she didn’t think that was enough to hold them together. Damien had also decided she was in no frame of mind to make any decisions at the time, so he’d given her the space she asked for.
The inquest this morning was short and succinct, only held to satisfy the requirement by law for a death not of natural causes. When it was over, Damien was one of the first to leave.
Now he waited beside his car, which he had parked next to Molly’s van. She had come alone today, and after a stiff little smile of greeting in the coroner’s office, had pointedly ignored him.
He supposed Brenda was keeping Sydney today. A good thing, since he needed to speak with Molly alone.
There she came, that confident long-legged stride of hers grabbing the notice of every male in sight. A tailored yellow blazer molded her figure to perfection. A panel of creamy lace concealed any cleavage. Her slim skirt ended just above her knees, revealing only a modest portion of those long, marvelous legs.
He supposed the upswept hair was meant to make her appear businesslike. It was provocative as hell. Several bronze wisps had escaped since she’d pinned it up, making him want to free the other curls that hadn’t slipped out of captivity.
If she dressed to attract attention, she seemed totally unaware of it once she received it. But even for men who didn’t know her at all, it would be impossible to ignore her. Molly was sensuous innocence personified.
Poor ol’ Jack—already saddled with a jealous nature and having it compounded by a mind-altering substance—must have gone through hell a thousand times over. No excuse for his reprehensible actions toward Molly, however.
Damien had to admit to a sharp little sting of rivalry himself when heads turned to watch her walk by. That was an altogether new and unexpected emotion for him, one he would definitely keep concealed. His pride in her ought to cover it well enough.
He trained his hungry gaze on her eyes as she came closer, and saw the exact instant when she noticed him propped against his car. Her stride shortened almost imperceptibly.
“Hello again,” he said when she approached.
Her left hand gripped the thin shoulder strap of her purse. Her knuckles turned white. “I thought we’d agreed—”
“To give you your solitude. You’ve had ten days,” he said, unfolding his arms and putting his hands on his hips. He inclined his head and studied her for a minute. “Are you angry about something?”
“No, of course not,” she replied with a stiff little smile. She busily fished the keys out of her purse and inserted them into the door of the van.
“Molly, talk with me,” he told her. “I’m not going away.” His letter of resignation was already in the works and he was reviewing to stand the Tennessee bar. What would she say to that? he wondered.
She turned, sighed, and gave him a considering look. “I hope you won’t make this difficult, Damien. I do thank you for all you’ve done for us, but—”
“But I’m not finished,” he said pleasantly. “Could I take you to lunch?”
“No. Thank you,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I’m not hungry.”
Yes, she was, he thought. He could see her color rising, turning her alabaster cheeks the loveliest shade of rose. Good, he thought, she had her spirit back. Desire was there, too, banked, but definitely present in spite of her denial of it.
“I’m on my way to the house,” she told him rather curtly. “It’s going on the market in a couple of weeks and I need to sort through some things before the movers come.”
He shrugged, turned and unlocked his car. Without another word, he got in and fastened his seat belt. He watched her do the same.
She didn’t even glance at him before she cranked the van, backed out of her parking space and drove off into the heavy noon traffic.
Damien pulled out right behind her and followed, whistling along to his favorite passage from the William Tell overture. On the last resounding note of the finale, he popped out the CD and switched to the radio. The tickling fiddles of blue grass replaced Rossini.
Molly didn’t know it yet but he was home to stay.
Chapter 18
Molly wheeled into the driveway and carefully avoided glancing at the corner of the yard where Jack had died. She’d known it would give her the willies to come back over here. Mama had volunteered to do it for her, but Molly had to face it herself.
Damien would be here in a minute. She glanced in her mirror and saw him pull in behind her even as she thought about it. As much as she knew she should avoid him, she couldn’t help being glad he’d decided to be stubborn. Without turning around, she watched him get out of his car and amble toward hers.
He looked different today than he ever had. Though she’d tried to ignore him at the inquest and afterward when he waited for her, he’d made it impossible. He had on worn jeans, his soft leather jacket and new boots.
She bit back a grin. Damien in cowboy boots, something she would never have thought to see. Knowing his tastes, she’d bet they were special order and made of ostrich skin or something just as expensive.
Molly knew exactly what he was doing. But boots or no boots, Damien had no idea what he was trying to let himself in for here. And if he wasn’t careful, she was going to take him up on it.
For ten days now she had lectured herself on how imprudent it would be to continue what they’d started. She’d been firm, too.
He would get tired of her. He would have to leave soon anyway. Men like Damien didn’t fall in love with women like her. Women like her only idolized men like him. It wasn’t so much his worldliness. Not entirely their conflicting tastes. Or that he seemed to have been born a loner. It was all of those things and much more. They were just too wildly different, she told herself.
But no matter how hard she tried, Molly couldn’t deny the fact that she loved him, everything about him, totally and without reservation. And she suspected that he did love her in his own way. At any rate, he still wanted her.
When the affair played out, however, she knew she wouldn’t be the only one hurt by it. Sydney would surely grow to love him. Already she remembered Dammit and had asked for him several times. The eventual breakup would affect his friendship with Ford, t
oo. And her mother would be devastated. She thought the world of Damien.
For their sakes, as well as hers and Damien’s, Molly knew she had to convince him to forget about it.
“Hey, Molly” he said, leaning his palms against the door of her van, “you don’t want to do this by yourself. Come on, I’ll help you.” He opened her door and offered his hand.
She took it and got out. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this?”
“I want to be with you,” he said. “Simple as that.”
Not so simple, Molly thought. Not simple at all, and dangerous to explore. So she changed the subject. “You sound strangely like Detective Winton. Been hanging out down at the main precinct?”
“Some,” he admitted. “Ol’ Win and I went fishing a couple of times. Bass.” He kept hold of her hand while they walked toward the front steps, releasing it only when she tugged it away to unlock the door. “Mostly I’ve been looking around for a place to live,” he said.
Molly tamped down her excitement, warning herself again why this wouldn’t work. “Really? Where are you staying now?”
“Motel,” he replied, punching in the code to turn off her alarm system. “But I think I’ve found a house.”
“What?” she asked turning all the way around, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Why in the world would you want a house? You’re not going to live here!” She hesitated a second. “Are you?”
He motioned toward the den. “Let’s go sit down and talk about that, okay? Once we get everything worked out, I’ll help you go through your things. Then we can pick up some lunch and I can show you what I found. See what you think about it.”
Hope reared up and she kicked it down. Thinking about a house was a temporary madness on his part. A whim that would surely pass when he stopped and really thought about it.
She halted in the middle of the room and looked up at him, shaking her head. “You don’t sound like yourself today. You don’t even look like yourself. Is this supposed to impress me? Prove how…adaptable you are, or something?”