by Carole Buck
“Leigh.” John’s voice was soft, yet threaded with steel. She looked at him, her heart thudding heavily. “I’m sorry. If I’d had any idea my showing up here would upset you like this, I wouldn’t have done it. I didn’t…think. I should have had Miss Jenkins phone ahead to ask if it would be all right. Or I could have gone to your bookstore and left a message. I—I stopped by there yesterday, as a matter of fact. Before Andy’s accident. Before I, uh, knew you had a son. I was driving around and I recognized the front window from one of the Greggs’ photographs. I had a conversation with your—ah—assistant, I guess she must be? Deirdre Bleeker?”
Leigh nodded slowly. He had to be telling the truth, she thought. The information he was providing was too detailed-and too easily checkable—to be anything but accurate.
And yet…
And yet, nothing! she decided with a sudden surge of emotion. John Gulliver had done nothing wrong. Quite the contrary. He’d come to the aid of her son. He’d looked after him like…like…Oh, Lord, there was only one way to describe it. He’d looked after Andy like a father. And he’d asked no reward for what he’d done. He’d even turned aside her belated efforts to thank him.
Still, he disturbed her. Deeply. There was no getting around that fact. But it wasn’t his fault. His behavior toward her had been above reproach. Whereas hers toward him—
“Leigh?”
The invocation of her name was accompanied by a gentle touch to the back of her right hand. The contact was brief, yet it sang through her nervous system like an anthem. She quivered, impulses she believed permanently deadened stirring to life.
“Mommy? Are you okay?”
Leigh inhaled on a tremulous breath and looked at her son. “Yes, Andy,” she said after a moment, her voice husky, her body humming. She knew she was blushing. “Mommy’s just fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not mad at John anymore?”
“No.” Leigh shook her head, intensely aware of the teasing brush of her hair over the nape of her neck. She was similarly aware of the stiffening of her nipples against the fabric of her bra. Her eyes met their guest’s yet again. She noticed for the first time that his dark brown irises held glints of gold. “I was never mad at John.”
Andy turned to the man sitting on his right. “Are you mad at Mommy?”
“Not at all, buddy.”
“Is anybody mad at me?”
“Oh, honey—”
John reached out and ruffled Andy’s toffee-colored hair. “Of course not.”
“So…everything’s all right, right?”
Blue eyes met brown ones. Again, Leigh felt the surge of connection she’d experienced in the examining room. And she could see that John felt it, too. The hard lines around his mouth eased. His nostrils flared. The flecks of gold she’d spotted just a few moments before turned molten.
“Right,” he said softly.
“Right,” the former Suzanne Whitney echoed, uncertain whether she was telling the truth but unable to answer any other way.
“Good,” Andy declared, smacking his tomahawk against the sofa cushion. He seemed much relieved. “Let’s eat lunch.”
The lawyer—a sleek, Ivy League rat with a cocaine habitwas nervous. Scared, even.
Taking this as a tribute to his power, Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 savored the signs of the other man’s weakness.
The stink of sweat that no designer after-shave could fully mask.
The tremor that kept messing up the oh-so-classy diction.
The twitchy movements of carefully manicured hands and the flick-flick-flickering shift of hyperbright eyes.
Forget the “earning respect” crap some talked about, Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 thought with an inward sneer. Instilling fear was the way to go. It was much more effective. Much more…fun.
“Tell me,” he ordered, nailing the lawyer with a look.
The other man swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the collar of the shirt Anthony Stone was willing to bet had been custom-made for him. He was also willing to bet the garment was sodden beneath its wearer’s armpits.
“There’s been an…accident…involving your package.”
Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 sat forward, his gut knotting, his hands gripping the edge of the table that separated him from his lawyer. He glanced up at the surveillance camera in the corner of the small room in which this tête-à-tête was taking place. Chill, he told himself.
“An accident?” he echoed after a moment, keeping his voice even. Although the confidentiality of this conversation supposedly was protected by attorney-client privilege, he didn’t doubt the feds were listening in. Hence the need for a calm demeanor and cryptic language.
“Yes.” The other man nodded. “No permanent damage, though. Still, your—uh—source thought you should know.”
“When?”
“The day before yesterday. Monday.”
“What happened?”
“Just…an accident.”
Anthony Stone snorted contemptuously, his mind flashing back to a night five and a half years ago. He knew about accidents. And how to cause them.
“Look.” The attorney made an uncharacteristically aggressive gesture. Maybe he’d suddenly gotten some guts. Then again, maybe he’d suddenly lost what few brains he had left after years of powdering his snotty-looking nose from the inside. “All I know is what your source told me. And if you don’t trust—”
“I don’t trust anybody,” Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 snapped. “Not even my own flesh and blood.” He paused, his mouth twisting. “Especially my own flesh and blood.”
“But—”
“What about my other piece of property?”
It took the lawyer a moment to switch gears. “Uh…fine,” he said, his flash of nerve fading. “As far as I know.”
“Not involved in the accident?”
“No. Apparently not.”
Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 eased back in his chair, anger beginning to bubble through his veins. What’s going on, Suzanne? he demanded silently. You know what I want of you. What I… expect. You’re supposed to be taking care of my son. Now I find out he had some kind of “accident” and you weren’t even around! So, where were you…? Off someplace, in bed with another man?
He didn’t want to believe it. He knew what Suzanne Whitney was, of course. He hadn’t been fooled by her protests the night he’d finally taken her. She’d been hot for it. And for him. She might look like an innocent angel, but she was really a slut.
Still, he’d been willing to give her the chance to change her ways. Having his son had purified her. All she’d had to do was keep herself clean until he came for her.
“Mr. Stone?” the attorney asked, properly deferential once again.
Federal Prisoner No. 00394756 made up his mind. He’d waited long enough.
“I want you to get in touch with our friend,” he said, staring at the other man. He allowed himself the fleeting luxury of imagining the lawyer pinned to a board, like a bug. “I want to reach out—personally—and take care of my own.”
“That…that may take some time.”
“Then what the hell are you doing sitting here?”
Chapter 4
John Gulliver had done a lot of difficult things in his life. Only a few of them had tested his mettle more painfully than staying away from Leigh and Andy McKay on the day following his first visit to their home.
His head had counseled that it was necessary to pull back, to keep the level of contact casual for the time being. Leigh’s skittishness was such that pursuing an acquaintanceship too obviously might alienate her completely. Even worse, it might send her running to the feds. Rebuilding their relationship—or was it more a matter of constructing a new one on the wreckage of the old?—had to be done carefully. Once he’d gained her trust, he would tell her the truth about himself and Nick Marchand.
Whether her trust would survive this truth
-telling remained to be seen.
His heart—his gut, his groin—had advocated a more precipitous approach. Claim what’s yours, they’d urged. You’ve been cheated out of five and a half years with the woman you love and the son you never knew you had. Don’t give up any more time!
In the end, caution had carried the day. But it hadn’t been an easy win. Indeed, there were moments when John wondered whether it might turn out to be a Pyrrhic victory.
Holing up in his hotel room, he kept himself occupied as best he could during his self-imposed period of separation. He was involved in a dozen enterprises besides Gulliver’s Travels and they all demanded some degree of attention. Two hours at the computer keyboard and on the phone took care of the day’s most urgent business. Another thirty minutes of electronic catalog shopping—with each purchase guaranteed for overnight delivery—augmented the very limited wardrobe he’d brought with him from Georgia.
From there he turned to the “discreet digging” he’d decided to do prior to Andy’s accident. What he discovered about Deirdre Bleeker in the course of his illicit sleuthing in cyberspace unnerved him. Given his initial reaction to her, he couldn’t say that he was wholly surprised by what he learned. But when he considered the implications of someone with her background being so close to Suz—
Leigh, he corrected himself for what seemed the millionth time, clicking the Save function on his PC. Adjusting to his former lover’s new name was almost as trying for him as adjusting to his new face. That he’d gotten through Tuesday’s visit without making a slip struck him as a minor miracle. The name “Suzanne” had trembled on his tongue more times than he could count. He’d swallowed it repeatedly, coming close to the choking point on several occasions.
He’d had to swallow the urge to confess his previous identity, too. In the end, Andy’s presence had kept him silent. As eager as he was to acknowledge his son, there was no way he could drop an “I’m your daddy” bombshell on an innocent little boy.
But back to Deirdre Bleeker. According to the files he tapped into, she’d been born to an unwed teenage mother who’d abandoned her as toddler. She’d spent her formative years bouncing between foster homes and juvenile facilities, racking up a long record of disciplinary infractions and petty crimes. She’d been arrested twice for solicitation, but had had the charges knocked down to misdemeanors both times. A bust for possession of a controlled substance at age eighteen had gotten her a mandatory two-to-five.
She’d gone through drug rehabilitation and earned her GED while serving her sentence. Her postrelease record—which dated back a little less than three years—looked squeaky-clean. She was gainfully employed, attended weekly group-counseling sessions and paid her bills on time. She even did volunteer work with some church group.
Much as it might have soothed him to do so, experienceboth personal and professional—prevented John from accepting this apparent redemption at face value. Yes, it was possible that Deirdre Bleeker had managed to straighten out her screwed-up life. It was also possible that her responsible new persona was some kind of con—that beneath the surface reformation lurked the same old rot.
And if it did…
And if that rot threatened Leigh or Andy…
No, he told himself, his muscles knotting on a primal surge of protectiveness. He was not going to let that happen. If Deirdre Bleeker was up to something, he would find out about it and stop her.
Ditto, Wes-the-Book-Orderer. A casual interrogation of the inn’s proprietor had garnered the information that “Wes” was Wesley Warren, a local boy who’d enlisted in the army after graduating from high school. He’d gotten out of the service a little more than two years ago and returned home with enough cash to buy a half interest in an auto-repair shop.
John clicked to another of the background files he’d created. The military records he’d loaded into it indicated that Wesley Warren had been assigned to the motor pool after completing basic training and done just fine. His evaluations had been solid but not spectacular. If he’d ever bent a regulation or broken the law, he hadn’t gotten caught at it.
The big question was where he’d obtained the money to put into the garage when he’d returned to civilian life. As far as John could determine, the six-figure sum involved hadn’t been a loan or a legacy.
Could Wes have saved enough from his military salary? Oh, it was doable, John conceded, studying his PC screen with a critical eye. But it would have required squeezing nickels until the Thomas Jeffersons stamped on them squawked in protest. Legends of Yankee frugality notwithstanding, he found such a scenario hard to buy.
So where had the cash come from? he asked himself, frowning. Was someone bankrolling the Norman Rockwell-esque Mr. Warren? If so, who? And why? Not to get rich quick, that was for certain. While the financial records he’d tapped into showed that Wes’s garage was doing all right, it hardly qualified as a gilt-edged investment.
Could somebody be using the place as a front for some kind of money-laundering operation? John wondered, remembering the syndicate Saint Nick had helped bring down. He clicked to another file, scanning the rows of numbers that appeared on the screen with a critical eye. Mmm…Probably not. The cashflow patterns were wrong for that kind of scam.
A chop shop? he mused further. Maybe. But if that was the case, wouldn’t the volume of vehicles going in and out have tipped somebody off? Using a busy urban garage to strip and ship stolen car parts was one thing. Setting up business in a garage in a town where traffic seemed to travel at a horse-andbuggy pace was something else entirely.
Okay, he decided. Forget the chop-shop theory for now. What about a smuggling drop? The Canadian border wasn’t that far away. In fact, if he remembered the road map he’d picked up at the airport correctly, it was pretty much a straight shot on 91.
John turned the idea over in his mind several times, probing for weaknesses. Yeah, he finally told himself. Smuggling was definitely a possibility. Drugs. Booze. Cigarettes. He would definitely have to keep checking.
Closing the file he’d been studying, he let his thoughts drift from speculation about the true nature of Wes Warren’s business to a review of the information he’d gathered about Leigh’s bookshop. He’d done a cursory check of her bank statements and credit records the previous night. By his calculations, she was keeping her financial nose above water and that was about it.
Assailed by a sudden flash of anger, John expelled a harsh breath and slumped down in his chair. His parents had died in a plane crash when he was twenty-five, leaving him in sole possession of a small but solid fortune. He’d expanded that fortune considerably since that time. Leigh should have been sharing in his wealth during the past five and a half years, not scrimping to make ends meet! And as for Andy—
The truth hit him anew, resonating deep within his soul.
Andy.
He had a son named Andy.
John closed his eyes, replaying the moment when he’d looked down the McKays’ front hall and spotted his little boy coming toward him. Temporarily bereft of speech, he’d found himself searching for some imprint of his paternity. He’d stared, trying to reconcile childish features with memories of an adult visage that no longer existed.
The shape of Andy’s blue-gray eyes and the set of his mouth and chin had reminded him of Leigh. So, too, the seemingly poreless skin and silken hair. But if his son resembled him—him as he used to be—he hadn’t been able to detect it.
Whatever disappointment he’d felt because of this had been swept away by his reaction to the beaming, baby-toothed smile Andy had offered him. He’d been pierced to the heart by the unguarded warmth in that dimple-bracketed grin. The rush of emotion he’d experienced had nearly knocked him to his knees.
And later, when Andy had hugged him…
Dear Lord.
There were no words to describe the effect that impulsive, thank-you embrace had had on him. Or if there were, the man who’d once been Nicholas Marchand wasn’t familiar with them. He’d
been stunned by the profundity of what he’d felt. Too stunned, frankly, to hug the little boy back.
Which probably had been for the best, all things considered. Because if he had managed to put his arms around his newly-discovered son, instinct told him that he would have had a lot of trouble letting go.
Heaven only knew how Leigh would have reacted to that!
Well, no, John amended, opening his eyes and straightening his spine. Not only heaven. He had a pretty accurate notion of what Leigh’s response would have been, too.
She’d been disturbed by the way Andy had taken to him. He’d seen it in her fair, fine-boned face. He’d heard it in her cool, contralto voice. Although she’d become more skilled at disguising her emotion over the years, his attunement to the nuances of her expression and tone was still acute. If she’d gotten the impression that he was trying to stake some special claim on her son…
She would have fought him, he thought grimly. No matter the debt of gratitude she clearly believed she owed him for the aid he’d given Andy. No matter the attraction her blushes and body language made it clear she felt toward him. She would have fought him, tooth and nail.
There was a tempered strength in Leigh McKay that he’d never sensed in Suzanne Whitney, John reflected, his body beginning to stir. Which wasn’t to say that Suzanne had been weak. She hadn’t been. As Drake Nordling had pointed out on that fateful day in his hospital room, she’d been fending for herself since her late teens. That had taken spirit. And smarts.
Still, for all her intelligence and independence, the woman who’d given herself to Nicholas Marchand had been fundamentally ignorant about the ugliest realities of life. This naïveté had shielded her from those realities in some ways. It had made her shockingly vulnerable to them in others.