The woman whirled so fast her coffee sloshed over the sides of the cup and her big dangling earrings jangled like bells. Her eyes were as wide as saucers—huge dark eyes, lined in black, darkly shadowed lashes so thick they had to be fake. Lips so plump and red they looked like juicy ripe berries. He didn't think he'd ever seen so much makeup on one face before—'cept maybe on the dancing girls in Vegas. She didn't say anything, just took a step backward and reached for something. He heard rattling.
"Didn't mean to startle you, ma'am." He held up both hands, starting toward her. "I mean, I'm not gonna call the police or anything. Just curious as to what you're doing in my house in the middle of the night. Besides making coffee, I mean." He moved still closer.
She lifted a butcher knife. He saw it, went still and noticed her long, long nails, the bright red polish and the little glittery stones affixed to each one. "You're, uh...not from around here, are you?" he asked her.
"Who are you?" she asked him. "What do you want?"
"What do I want?" He shook his head, his humor fading fast. "Put the knife down."
She only lifted it higher.
"Okay, fine, I'll start. And I'll talk over the knife." He glanced sideways at the phone. Wondered what his chances were of dialing Garrett's place before she could sink that blade into his back deep enough to kill him. Wondered why the hell she would want to. "I'm Luke Brand. And this is my place."
She shook her head fast. "You're lying. Rose-bu—my mother left me this house in her will. It's mine, not yours, and I want to know what you're doing trespassing."
"Whoa, whoa, just a minute. Okay, it isn't my place...yet. But I do live here." He followed her gaze to the papers strewn all over the table. "You see, this place is about to be auctioned for back taxes. You've made some kind of mistake. Now, I'm not gonna hold a grudge. You just put the knife down and gather up your papers and be on your way."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He took another step toward her, and she brandished the knife, slashing with it, though he was pretty sure she didn't have any intention of cutting him. Still, it pissed him off. "Hell, that's about all of that I can take," he said. His hand shot out, capturing hers at the wrist. She punched him in the belly with her free hand, so he snapped his arm around her waist and pulled her hard against him, holding her empty arm pinned between his body and hers. Her knife-wielding hand was still in his grip.
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, panting. "Let me go," she whispered.
He stared right back down at her. "Drop the knife."
"Never."
Luke shrugged. "Fine. I can hold you like this all night." But the words made him uncomfortably aware of her body there against his. Firm, tight little body, he thought. She felt like an athlete in his arms.
"Drop the knife," he said again.
"Go to hell," she replied.
Chapter 4
* * *
THE MAN WAS LONG AND tall and hard all over. Lean, and strong. Not soft and fleshy like the men she was used to fending off after hours at The Catwalk. She wouldn't be able to best him in a fight. But she wasn't going to surrender her only weapon, either, leaving Baxter defenseless in the next room.
The man held her for a long time. He was warm and clean. He smelled like the air here. Fresh and sweet, but with a subtle musky scent underlying all that—man scent. With his shirt open and his chest bare, it would be impossible not to notice. Especially since, at the moment, he was holding her pretty firmly against that bare chest. Her nose was almost touching it, her lips only a breath away.
Finally, with a sigh, he said, "I'm gonna be mad as hell if you slice me with my own knife, lady."
"I won't cut you unless you give me reason," she said.
"I won't give you reason. Hell, I like women."
She swallowed hard, certain he was up to something. "How stupid would I have to be to put the knife down?" she said. "I'm a woman, alone in the house with a man I don't know. So just let me go."
He seemed to think on that for a moment "You know, you have a point there. Although it's a twisted one, being that you're the one who broke into my house—"
"I didn't break in. It was open. And if it hadn't been, I'd have used my key. Which I have—because it's my house."
He sighed, gnawed his lip. His heat was seeping through her clothes now, and this was way too close to be held to a man she'd never met. Way too close. And feeling way too little like a threat and too much like an embrace. Stupid, yes. But he wasn't hurting her. And she wasn't struggling to pull free.
"Okay, I'm gonna let you go now," he said at last. "I'll just take a step backward and let you go, and then you can explain to me what's going on here, okay?"
Her eyes affixed to his, she nodded slowly, every muscle coiled and ready for action. If he so much as looked like he might try anything...
He let go of her waist first, stepping back, away from her, before he released her wrist.
She lowered her arm, still clutching the knife to her side. He drew a breath, watching her. It occurred to her that he seemed as wary and suspicious of her as she was of him. Never taking his eyes off the knife, he spoke, as carefully and softly as if he were speaking to a wild animal. "You say your mother left you this place in her will."
She nodded toward the table. "I got that package from her lawyer the day before yesterday. See for yourself."
He glanced quickly at the papers strewn on the table. "Do, um, you mind if I get a cup of that coffee first?"
She narrowed her eyes on him. "Sit. I'll get it."
He lifted his brows. "Either you're overcome with the irresistible urge to wait on me or you don't want me near the knife drawer," he said, but he kept his tone light, even attempted a shaky smile. She didn't respond, and his smile died. "Fine. I'll sit."
She kept the man in her peripheral vision as he went to the table, sat down and began to sort through the paperwork. But he was still nervous. He would look at the papers, then at her, back and forth, rapidly. He was probably afraid she would slip up behind him and slide her blade into his back. She was almost enjoying being the one in a position of power over him. It wasn't often she had the upper hand with a man. She poured him coffee, and picked up her own mug, carrying both in one hand, the knife in the other. She set his cup down, then took the seat opposite him.
"So, uh...you're Jenny Lee Walker?" he asked.
"Yes."
He held her gaze for a moment. Pursed his lips.
"What?"
"Nothing. You just...don't exactly look like a Jenny Lee to me."
Hell, neither had the real one, she thought. Aloud she said, "People change. I haven't used the name in years."
"No? What name have you been using?"
She could have said Rosebud. But sticking as close to the truth as possible had its benefits. It would only confuse Baxter to hear this man call her Rosebud. "Jasmine," she said finally.
He blinked. "Jasmine? Really?"
"What's wrong with Jasmine?" she asked, instantly defensive.
He shrugged. "Nothing. It...uh...it was my mother's favorite flower is all." He sighed and glanced at the papers again. "Well, Jasmine, your mother made this will over two years ago. According to the pages from the lawyer, Buzz Montana— he's local, by the way, so you can talk to him yourself if you want to—he's been renting the land out to defray the expenses of keeping it up and to cover his own fees. In fact I know the ranchers who've been using the land to graze their cattle. Apparently things got bad enough that he decided to rent the house, as well. That was about the time I came along looking for a place. But it still wasn't enough to pay the taxes."
She blinked. "Taxes?"
"Property taxes. Look, this lawyer, he's been looking for you for two years. Where have you been?"
"That's none of your business," she said sharply. "I'm here now. And the place is mine."
"Not if you can't pay the back taxes, it's not. The state's going to auction the place off to get their money."
"Then it's mine until they do. It hasn't been sold yet, has it?"
"No. Not until a week from now. But—"
"Then for a week it's mine." And that, she told herself, would be long enough to figure out what the hell to do next.
He rose from his chair very slowly. "Look, lady, I don't even know if you are Jenny Lee Walker. For all I know you could have mugged her and stolen this envelope, along with her wallet"
She lifted her brows, getting to her feet, as well. "Oh, so I look like a mugger to you?"
"Or worse."
Her jaw dropped. She blinked in shock, because the slam was so unexpected. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday, honey. I've seen a lot of women like you in a lot of truck stops around this country. They come knocking on the sleeper in the middle of the night, asking if you want your windows washed."
"You think I'm a whore?"
He shrugged. "You sure as hell look like one."
She smacked him. Hard, right across the face, and her long nails dragged over his cheek, leaving marks. Then they stood there, facing off across the table. She wasn't usually violent, but she'd been through hell the past two days. She'd seen a murder. She'd dodged bullets and seen them narrowly miss her little boy. She'd lost her best friend when she had been the real target. And she'd driven for hours and hours almost nonstop. She was tired, hungry and scared to death, and just when she had finally found what was supposed to be a haven, this redneck had to rise up and get in her way.
He stood there, not rocked in the least, it seemed, by the blow, even though tiny red beads were appearing now on his cheek.
"If you think you're gonna walk in here in the middle of the night" he said, "and throw me out of my own house—"
"My own house," she corrected.
"Tell you what. You show me proof you're Jenny Lee Walker and I'll let you stay."
"I don't have to prove anything to you. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? I own this place. I don't have to answer to you. You're the one trespassing here."
"I've paid my rent for the month," he snapped. "And I can prove that. You couldn't throw me out if you wanted to."
"Oh, trust me, I want to."
"Well, it ain't gonna happen. The only person being thrown out of here is you, lady. Now. Bag and baggage." He looked around. "Where is your baggage, anyway?"
"Still in the car," she lied. She couldn't very well tell him she'd arrived without much besides the clothes on her back, could she? He already suspected too much.
"Good. That should make this easier." He reached for her arm, closed his hand around it. "I don't want your kind hanging around here. So let's go. Come on."
"Mommy?"
The man's face changed. His smug, cynical sneer vanished. He looked as if he'd just been hit between the eyes with a sizable hammer.
Jasmine snapped her head to the left and saw Baxter standing in that big open archway, the blanket from the sofa wrapped around him and trailing behind. He'd gotten up and put his glasses on. She jerked her arm free of the stranger's grip and went to Baxter, knelt in front of him. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry I woke you up with all that noise. It's okay, honey, I promise. It's okay." She hugged him.
He was looking past her, though, at the man. She sensed it the way mothers sense so many things about their sons. And she felt his fear, too. "Is he one of the bad men, Mommy? Is he one of the—"
"Hush, baby. Hush, it's all right" She held her boy closer, praying he would say no more. She didn't need this stranger knowing her business.
She heard the stranger's voice as he muttered something under his breath. She thought he was cussing softly, but she couldn't really hear enough to be sure. Then his footsteps, soft and nearly soundless on the floor. And the next thing she heard was his voice again, coming from closer than before—and in a totally different tone.
"Hey there, kiddo," he said. "My name's Luke Brand. What's yours?"
"B-Baxter."
Jasmine straightened, picking Bax up, holding him tight to her and turning to put his back to the man, but Baxter twisted in her arms to face him anyway.
"Well, Baxter, I don't know what...what bad men you're talking about—" he slanted a brief glance at Jasmine "—but I promise, I'm not one of them. We don't allow bad men out here."
"You don't?"
"Nope. Cross my heart. Your mom and I were just trying to straighten out some mix-ups, that's all."
"Oh." Baxter looked at Jasmine. "Do we really have to leave, Mom? It's still dark outside, and I'm scared. I don't want to go back out there. And we've been in the car for such a long time already, and—"
"Nobody has to go anywhere tonight," Luke Brand said softly. He met Jasmine's eyes, held them this time. "And there's nothing to be afraid of. Not around here." He reached out and tousled Baxter's thick, dark blond hair. "Okay, Baxter?"
Baxter smiled and laid his head on his mother's shoulder. "Okay," he said.
Jasmine watched the man for signs of a con, but he seemed perfectly sincere, which was, of course, ridiculous. He was after something. He had an angle. She just hadn't spotted it yet. She would have expected him to be twice as eager to be rid of her once he realized she had a kid in tow. Most men were. Instead, he'd changed his attitude entirely. The hostility had vanished. And this Mr. Nice Guy routine had fallen into its place.
"Top of the stairs, Jasmine. First door on the left. That's the only bedroom made up for actual use at the moment. You and Baxter go on up there and get some rest. We can figure the rest of this out in the morning."
His bed? He was giving her his bed?
She licked her lips, lowered her head, but didn't say thanks. She held Baxter a little tighter, snatched up her shoulder bag, turned and headed up the stairs without a backward glance.
Luke watched the woman go up the stairs and stood there for a long moment after she was out of sight. Hell. He felt as if he'd just been awakened by a hurricane that had only just blown itself out. Or maybe he was in the eye, because she would sure as hell be ripping and roaring in the morning.
The woman was a puzzle. Small and sexy as they made them. She had a centerfold's body and dressed to show it. Tight tiny domes. Too much makeup. Talons that would make a bald eagle jealous. Big, big hair. And she'd been packing so much heavy metal that she jingled and jangled with every move. Necklaces, bracelets, no less than a half-dozen pairs of little earrings to complement the big ones. No other piercings though. None visible, anyway. That didn't mean they weren't there.
He'd thought he had her pegged.
Then he'd heard that little voice calling her Mommy, and his theory got blown to hell. Oh, maybe it could have held its own if she'd reacted to that plea with a scowl, or by snapping at the kid. But no. Her face had gone all achy. Like that little voice calling her name was all it took to break her heart to bits. Her eyes even welled up. And then the way she picked the boy up and held him so protectively. She'd looked fierce then. Like she would claw Luke's eyes out if he so much as looked at the kid wrong.
That look was the one that got to him. Because that look was one he knew too well to ever mistake it. He'd seen it far too often—in his own mother's eyes. That fierce, single-minded devotion, the protectiveness that warned outsiders to stay clear. Luke's mother had loved him like that. Because he was all she'd had. Hell, she had almost ruined him with that fiercely protective love.
Jenny Lee—if that was her real name—loved her son utterly. That had been obvious to Luke in the few moments he'd seen them together. And any woman capable of loving a child that much, well...she rose a notch in his book. Hooker or no, she couldn't be all bad. Whether she loved him too much—enough to damage the kid—well, that remained to be seen.
The little boy, now there was another puzzle. Because that kid had been scared. No two ways about it And who were these "bad men" he'd been afraid of?
Of course, no matter how devoted a mother Jasmine was or how frightened a
child Baxter was, one truth remained that made them both Luke's enemies, in a manner of speaking. They had come to lay claim to the home he was in the process of making his own. They had come to derail his new start. They had come to take away the only thing he'd ever wanted badly enough to give up his rig for. He had sold his prize possession for this place. That couldn't be undone. There was no way he would give up without a hell of a fight
Luke sat down, drank his coffee and pondered on the two wanderers for a while, giving them plenty of time to fall asleep as he continued to peruse the legal papers on the table. Then he slipped outside to the car. It was a ten-year-old station wagon, with plenty of rust. She'd locked it, of course, and the key was more than likely tucked into that oversize shoulder bag she'd taken to bed with her. But it was a car that had no trunk, so he figured if there was any luggage to be seen, he'd see it. Only he didn't. Because there wasn't any. It seemed to him that the woman had come here with nothing more than the clothes on her back and whatever she'd managed to cram into that shoulder bag of hers, which couldn't be much.
Illinois plates. She'd come a long way, then. He made a note of the number. Garrett could easily check it out. Having a cousin who was a small-town sheriff could, he realized, come in handy. He peered through the glass of the driver's door. He saw empty pop bottles and fast-food wrappers. Every one of them from some kind of "kid's meal" They'd eaten on the road. Or Baxter had, at least. Hadn't the woman eaten at all?
Sighing, he went back inside, settled himself down at the dining room table and proceeded to read every remaining scrap of paper in the large envelope she'd brought with her. He read until his head ached and his eyes watered, but he still couldn't find the truth she was hiding. And it was obvious there was one.
Hell.
He waited till six o'clock to call Garrett, knowing his cousin's house would be bustling with life by then. Garrett liked to get up before his wife and make a pot of coffee. He would pour her a cup when he heard her coming down the stairs. Claimed it was best to do this silently, give the caffeine a chance to kick in and then attempt human conversation. Of course, that was just a cover. Chelsea was head over heels for the big guy. Garrett probably just liked to have those few quiet minutes in the morning with his wife all to himself before little Bubba had to get up for school and the real world came crashing in.
Texas Homecoming Page 4