Kid's a hard nut, he thought, squirting shampoo into his cupped palm. Damn stuff was pink and smelled like roses.
Just like that, his libido gave him a sneaky kick.
This was Ria's scent, Ria's shampoo. She used it in this tub.
Naked.
He nearly moaned at the image that shot into his mind. A ripe, lush body, suntanned thighs. Lush breasts tipped with dusky nipples that poked through the froth of suds sliding over her skin. He remembered how she'd moaned when he'd traced that same slow slide with his mouth, how she'd shivered when he'd used his, tongue on her.
His mind stuttered, his body already heavy before he was able to shut down the memory. It was a measure of his fatigue that it took longer than usual.
* * *
Jimmy's temperature had been a little over a hundred. "Probably a twenty-four-hour bug," Kate had said over the phone. Just in case, however—and to appease an anxious mom, Ria suspected—she'd promised to stop by in the morning on her way to the hospital for early rounds. In the meantime she'd prescribed a half tablet of Tylenol every four hours and a diet of juice, water and Popsicles.
Ria had just carried a glass of orange juice into the den that also served as her guest room when she heard a bellow of little-boy outrage coming from the master bathroom. After hastily depositing the glass on the nearest flat surface, she raced down the hall.
"What's wrong?" she demanded as she jerked open the door, her racing heart all but bursting in her chest.
Two irate males glared at her from eyes that were nearly identical. Jimmy's hair stuck up in wild spikes of dripping lather. Grady's hands and arms were covered with soapsuds, and there was a swipe of frothy white along his jaw. His shirt was soaking wet and plastered like a second skin to his chest. He looked hot and frustrated—and disturbingly virile.
"It seems your son doesn't like to have his hair washed," he declared, biting off his words.
"Grady, for heaven's sake, he's sick!" she exclaimed, holding on to the doorknob while she reined in the panic still surging in her system.
"Sick, hell. He just tossed his cookies. I used to do it all the time when I got nervous."
"He's still just a child. You're upsetting him."
"The hell I am." Grady's eyes heated. "Look at this place. I sure as sh—shooting didn't make this mess."
"He started it," her son declared hotly, drawing his legs into a tight ball against his chest. Outraged male modesty in a six-year-old. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She'd diapered his bottom about a million times in the past—and kissed it every single time. Right next to the tiny dimple just above the swell of his buttocks. Grady had a similar dimple—and a tight, hard butt that was anything but boyish.
She scowled, stunned at the rush of desire the image had evoked. Ignoring them both, she jerked another towel from the rod and tossed it at Grady's head.
"I expect this place to be spotless—and dry—before you leave it."
Grady's mouth slanted. "Yes, ma'am."
"That goes for you, too, James," she declared hotly before backing out and slamming the door.
Water sloshed against the sides of the tub as Jimmy uncoiled, then sat up. "Your wife was really mad," he said in an awed tone that had Grady swallowing a chuckle.
"Yeah she was that, all right," he said, more than a little awed himself. Ria never yelled. Foster kids who made scenes got booted out, she'd told him once. "Only the thing is, son, she's—" Grady broke off, reluctant to load Jimmy down with news of his parent's split while the boy was still so raw.
"She's what?" Jimmy demanded, back to the sullen tone that made Grady's teeth ache.
"She's going to skin both of us if we don't hop to it."
The boy crossed his skinny arms and glared. "Not me, dude. Cleaning and crap like that is for chicks."
Grady sighed. "We're definitely going to have that talk about your language real soon, son. In the meantime, we have work to do."
Tough love, he reminded himself, as he dunked the boy's head under the soapy water.
Jimmy came up sputtering and spitting, looking a lot like his mom when he'd dunked her in the lake that first time. Grinning at the memory, one of many he took out and polished up to keep him from diving into a bottle during the blackest of the black nights, Grady pulled the plug and turned to grab for another towel.
When he turned around, he took a soap-slimy washcloth full in the face.
* * *
Chapter 5
« ^ »
It wasn't in Grady's nature to pace. It reminded him too much of a hamster he'd had as a kid, running endless circles in a little wheel until the little beggar went psycho from sheer boredom.
When he had energy to burn, he used it productively. Like tearing into an ailing V-8 and making it purr for him the way a woman's finely tuned body purred under a slow hand. Or sanding the sleek curve of a fender until it was as smooth as the inside of a lady's thigh.
When he was pissed off, he went looking for something—or someone—to hit. Preferably someone bigger and younger and sneakier, like Flynn or one of the twins. But when he was wired on adrenaline, like now, he went completely still, inside and out.
It was a trick he'd learned from an old-line flatfoot named O'Sullivan who'd been his first partner after he'd pinned on his detective's shield. A guy got high, a guy made mistakes, Sully had drummed into him until he'd heard it in his sleep. It didn't matter what kind of chemical pulsed through his system. Adrenaline, rage, booze, they were all the same—pure poison to a man who needed a cool head and a clear eye.
Because he was short on sleep and long on nerves, he propped a shoulder against the wall opposite the fridge and watched his brother work his way through an entire bag of oatmeal cookies, washed down with enough coffee to float a decent-size ship.
The sanctimonious joker who claimed that denial was good for the soul probably drank herbal tea, he decided as he rubbed absently at the bonfire in his gut.
"What the hell is she reading the kid, War and Peace?" Grady grumbled, shifting only his eyes toward the far end of the town house where the murmur of voices was faintly audible.
He heard the thud of Flynn's coffee mug hitting the counter. "Don't know, Bro, but after she stopped dancing around the kitchen and hugging the bejabbers out of this old boy, she spent a good half hour rummaging through boxes in the storeroom downstairs before she hauled up a stash of books and toys." Flynn chuckled. "Made a big fuss over this ratty old bear that looked in need of fumigation. Started crying all over again."
"Jimmy forgot and left it out in the rain one time," Grady muttered, then he whipped around to face his brother. "What the hell do you mean, she hugged you?"
The glint in Flynn's eyes looked like a "gotcha," one brother ragging another just for the sheer fun of it. Just in case, Grady narrowed his gaze. "I might have slowed down a step or two, but I can still take you, Little Brother."
"Don't doubt that for a minute, Big Brother." Flynn's grin was just a shade too innocent for Grady's peace of mind.
"Just so's you know."
"Wouldn't mind going a few rounds, though. Just for the hell of it." Flynn's grin faded. "You figuring on angling for a second shot at winning the lady?"
Damn, Grady thought, grinding his teeth. Was he really that easy to read? "It's been on my mind some, yeah. You got any opinion of my chances?"
Flynn lifted his mug and sipped, his brow furrowed in thought. Behind the lady-killer charm and the easy laughter, his brother had a way of seeing through the thickest armor into the heart of a person. Grady had come to trust Flynn's judgment more than his own admittedly flawed perceptions of human nature.
"Three hours ago I would have said they weren't worth a damn," Flynn said at last. "But since she didn't boot you out on your keister when you hit her with that three-day bombshell, I figure you for an outside shot."
Grady let out the breath he'd been holding. "I've beaten worse."
"Guess you have at that." Flynn d
rained his cup, then rose to stow it in the dishwasher. "You gonna call the folks first thing in the morning?" he asked when he'd finished.
"Yeah, no reason to wake 'em up now."
"Mom will be steamed you didn't."
"Dad would be steamed if I did. Of the two I'd rather handle Mom."
"Not me, Bro. I'd rather go toe-to-toe with the old man any day of the week than explain myself to Mom."
"Wimp."
"Hotshot."
Drop twenty years and the two of them would have been pushing and shoving their way through a list of favorite insults. It took Grady a few beats to realize why he suddenly felt young again. Jimmy was home safe and sound. The problems that lay ahead could wait until tomorrow. Tonight he wanted to savor the sheer joy of having his son back.
"Thanks for hanging around," he said when he realized he was close to making a damn fool out of himself. "I owe you one."
Flynn cleared his throat. "Don't think I won't collect," he said as the two of them walked through the living room to the front door. "Call if you need me."
Grady nodded, then frowned at a sudden niggling thought. "You never said why you happened to be here when I phoned."
"You never asked."
Grady narrowed his gaze. "I'm asking now."
Flynn sliced a quick look toward the other end of the room. It wasn't a good sign. "Ria asked me to look into a case one of the other homicide guys is working on," he said in a low voice. "She thinks maybe the coroner made a mistake."
"What kind of case?"
"Crib death. Six-month-old girl. The mom comes to a support group at the Center. Since Ria is—or was—leaving on vacation tomorrow morning, she asked me to drop by tonight."
Another question answered, Grady thought. It was annoying as hell to realize he'd been jealous of his own brother.
"She's the suspect, the mom?"
Flynn shook his head. "The dad. Seems the guy is ex-Army and something less than a Boy Scout. Truck driver. Apparently he's not crazy about his wife coming to meetings, so the wife sneaks away when he's out of town on a run. Ria's afraid the guy might get violent if he finds out she disobeyed him."
"Bastard," Grady muttered, running hand over the back of his neck.
"I hear you." Flynn grimaced. "Thing is, a guy with that kind of temper might just lose it with a crying kid. Maybe shove a pillow in his face."
Grady nodded. "It's happened. Too many damn times."
Both men fell silent. Grady thought back to the first time he'd walked into a child's bedroom and stared pure evil in the face. The mother had been no more than eighteen, an apathetic, undernourished drug addict, as guilty as the stepfather. The guy had been a bruiser, strung out on smack. The little girl had been crying because she was hungry. The bastard used his fists.
The memory had his gut knotting, and he sucked in against the spike of hot, angry pain. "First thing tomorrow, you pull the file." The words were out before he remembered he was speaking to his brother, not a subordinate. "Sorry," he muttered when Flynn lifted a brow. "That was out of line."
"A week from now I'd have to bust you on it, but I figure tonight you're still in a state of grace, so I'll let it pass."
Grady was almost too tired to grin, but habit had him making the effort, anyway. "Put out the word, okay? No phone calls or visits until we get the logistics of this thing sorted out."
"I'll do it, but you'll owe me," Flynn said before letting himself out.
* * *
Her son was proving to be a grumpy patient. He'd balked at taking the Tylenol and grumbled about the dorky pajamas his father had picked out. Which hadn't surprised Ria all that much, given the fact that Grady slept in the buff, with the windows wide open winter and summer and an aversion to anything heavier than a sheet covering him.
Jimmy's bedroom furniture was in storage. The bed he'd loved, the twin dressers she'd refinished, the rocking chair where they'd cuddled during story hour. Tomorrow she would call the transfer company and have everything returned.
It wouldn't take much to convert the den into a room more suited to a six-year-old. New curtains, some bright posters, she decided, as she guided Jimmy to the daybed she'd made up with clean sheets. Whatever he wanted, she'd give him—and to hell with anyone who criticized her for spoiling him.
She felt a surge of happiness so great it nearly swamped her. Finally it was sinking in. Her baby was really home. Her eyes filled with tears as she smiled down at him. He didn't smile back. In fact, he hadn't smiled once since his arrival. It would take a little time and patience, she reminded herself.
"I know this seems strange to you, sweetie, but I didn't know you'd be coming home tonight," she said, drawing back the sheet to let him climb in. He studiously avoided her gaze as he scrambled onto the mattress.
Though he was visibly drooping from exhaustion, and he was still too pale for Ria's liking, she had to admit his color was better. His fever was hovering just above normal.
"You've had a long day, haven't you?" she asked gently as she sat on the edge of the bed. "And a really lousy night, poor darling. But you'll feel a lot better tomorrow."
He moved one shoulder, his gaze fixed on the knees he'd drawn close to his chest. It was about as close to the fetal position as he could get.
She recalled herself as his age, huddling into a strange bed with the memory of her mother's screams still echoing in her head. Her foster mother had brought her chicken soup and sat on the side of the bed while she ate, talking about the garden she'd planted that day.
Ria remembered being lulled to sleep by the steady drone of Mother Dee's voice. Her happiest memories were of that small, sunny house on the outskirts of Indianapolis. She'd stayed there for two years before Virginia Madison had come to claim her again. Ria remembered clinging to Mother Dee's neck, terrified of the pale, skeletally thin woman with intense blue eyes who'd come swooping into her bedroom to smother her with wet kisses.
Let him come to you, she reminded herself firmly. But the need to touch him was nearly irresistible. To appease it, she smoothed the sheet, adjusted the pillow, and inhaled the warm scent of soap and warm little boy.
She felt something tear inside her, followed by a flood of emotion so powerful it took all of the control she possessed to sit quietly instead of snatching him into her arms. Soon, she promised herself. When he was ready to accept her love.
Though he was ignoring her, she smiled, knowing he'd hear it in her voice. "I'll leave the light on in the hall, just in case you need to use the bathroom in the night."
She waited, but the boy remained stubbornly silent.
"Would you like another glass of water? Or some juice?" She paused, then gave up. "Well, good night then, sweetheart. I love you."
He glanced up then, the eyes that were nearly identical to his father's filled with misery.
"How long do I have to stay here?" he muttered.
"This is your home, now, sweetheart," she said as gently as she could. "Tomorrow we'll start fixing up this room just the way you like it."
His gaze jerked back to his knees, and his mouth took on a mutinous slant. Ria's heart ached. Inside she was dying, but somehow she managed to ask lightly, "Guess this isn't a good time for your mommy to ask for a hug, huh?"
He shot her a startled look before sinking down into the mattress and turning over to bury his face in the pillow.
Ria's hand wasn't quite steady as she smoothed his hair. "Night-night sweetheart."
Telling herself tomorrow would be better, she got up and walked to the door where she paused to look back at the boy in the bed. He was so big. Twice as big as she remembered.
Her Jimmy, she thought as she turned off the light and stepped into the hall. Blinking away the sudden tears, she closed the door to a crack behind her. She would check on him again after Grady left.
It was quiet in the rest of the house, with only the hum of the central air breaking the stillness. As she walked into the living room, she felt a familiar tension gr
ipping her muscles. Dozens of questions swirled in her head, questions only Grady could answer.
She found him in the living room stripping off his wet T-shirt. She didn't quite suck in. After all, she'd seen this man naked countless times, had lain with her body against his, skin to skin. When they'd made love, she'd felt those powerful muscles bunch and flex beneath her. Yet somehow she'd made herself forget the physical beauty of his body.
He was older now. Broader, yet somehow even more potently male, with slab-hard muscles that she knew would feel warm and unyielding beneath her hands and an impressive symmetry of massive shoulders and tapering torso. Vitality seemed to radiate from his pores.
The sun-kissed hair covering his sculpted pectoral muscles seemed almost white against the burned-in tan. Her heart gave a lurch as she caught sight of the puckered scars that had faded with time, but would never disappear.
"Is your baby all tucked in?" he asked as she approached.
"So far, so good." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her denim skirt and looked around. "Is Flynn gone?"
"Just left." He wadded up his wet shirt, then squatted to shove it into a side pocket of the old duffel bag before rooting around inside the bag itself. Frowning, he went through three sadly wrinkled replacements before he finally settled on a pale blue polo shirt. He gave it a testing sniff, then offered her a rueful glance as he straightened to his full height.
"Agent Mendoza was partial to cheap cigars. Whole house reeked of smoke."
She was surprised to find herself smiling. "I assume he's not married?"
"Engaged. He claims they're negotiating house rules."
"What does she say?"
"Pretty much the same thing you told me before you agreed to taking me on. Quit or hit the road."
He pulled the shirt over his head and flipped down the collar before raking his hand through his hair, leaving it only less disheveled than before. Even dressed in a perfectly tailored suit with spit-shined shoes and a French silk tie, he looked more like a grit-and-grumble cowboy than a buttoned-up, cuff links and suspenders stockbroker sort of guy.
ONCE MORE A FAMILY Page 7