Was Mallory right? Was she becoming paranoid? Or was it just that the truth had become such a heavy burden to bear—a lonely burden, an albatross she struggled with for the sake of her son?
“So, where did you want to start?” she asked abruptly, ignoring his humor and getting right to the point. She glanced up at the clock on the wall, running schedules in her mind. “Classes are over for the morning, but lunch should just be ending. All three boys will be reporting out at the construction site in a few minutes. Would you like me to take you there, or was there something you wanted to see me about?”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed, and he felt the chill from her blue eyes in every pore of his skin, every layer of muscle. She was all business—no more friendly smiles, no more idle chitchat or polite greetings. Apparently the lady had decided there was nothing more he could do for her, no special favor he could grant, and she’d established the ground rules accordingly.
He clenched his teeth together, working his jaw hard and telling himself it wasn’t disappointment he felt, but relief. After all, wasn’t that what he wanted, to keep it strictly business between them? Wasn’t he more comfortable with that? She’d been on his mind too much lately, in a way that had nothing to do with random security checks and devotion to duty, and the image of her standing at her bedroom window was one he’d just as soon forget. He understood the importance of keeping things in perspective, and it would be strictly business between them because it was strictly business between them.
“Actually, I’d like to see the registration forms and progress reports for all three boys,” he said, his voice all business now. “And maybe I could get some photocopies of those for the judge?”
“Sure,” she said, turning to the large filing cabinet along the back wall. “Why don’t you go into my office and sit down? I’ll grab what you need and be right in.”
Dylan nodded, moving past the open door marked Principal. He looked about the small cubical, surprised by the unadorned walls and sedate-looking furniture. It wasn’t what he’d imagined Marissa Wakefield would have for herself. The tiny office appeared functional enough with its uncluttered shelves and neatly stacked files, but he’d pictured her amid more lavish surroundings. After all, she was a Wakefield, and for almost three generations, the Wakefields had been setting the standard for opulence and elegance in the Mother Lode. Their imposing family home had been a fixture in the community for nearly a century, and Marissa’s practical and efficient little office hardly seemed to fit the standards.
He spotted a small potted African violet on the windowsill, looking slightly limp with sunburned leaves and faded blossoms, and two small framed pictures on her desk—one of a baby-faced Josh that looked like it had been taken about ten years ago, and the other of Mallory with a man he assumed to be her new husband—a tall Indian with a massive frame and incredibly long black hair.
Dylan noticed that the jacket that matched her skirt was hanging neatly from a hanger, and that on the credenza was a half-filled coffee mug with Meecher Teecher—I’m Miss Wakefield printed across it in bold red letters. Other than those personal items, it appeared at first glance that the small office revealed little about her. And yet, as he surveyed it with a cop’s eye, he noted that the plain, unadorned room said more about the woman than perhaps she’d intended—and what he saw surprised him.
Not that he should have been, he reminded himself as his gaze slowly prowled the room once again. It wasn’t the first time in the last two weeks the woman had surprised him. She’d surprised him by moving back to Jackson, by wanting custody of her troubled adopted nephew, and by choosing to live in the comfortable condominium instead of the family’s sprawling hillside estate. It all seemed to point to one thing—Marissa Wakefield was a person in her own right, independent of her family and her twin.
“Here we are,” she said, breezing into the office with two folders in her hand. She gestured to the straight-back chair beside her desk. “Have a seat,” she said, slipping past him and sitting in her chair. She laid two long manila folders on the desk, then turned and opened a file drawer in the credenza behind her. “Those are Skip Carver’s and Randy O’Riley’s records. I had Karen file Josh’s records here in my private files so they’d be handy.”
“Anticipating trouble?” Dylan asked dryly, walking to the desk and picking up the folders she’d set out for him. He had to admit she looked comfortable in her role as principal. He realized the woman didn’t need a plush office and opulent decor. Just sitting there, she lent her own air of elegance and style to the austere surroundings.
“No,” she said purposefully, looking up at him and scowling. “For convenience.” She pulled another file from her drawer and offered it to him. “Here’s Josh’s records. Just let me know what you want copies of.”
Dylan sat down on the chair beside her desk, aware of an odd sensation of déjà vu. How many times as a kid had he been sent to the principal’s office and had the riot act read to him? What a pain in the butt he must have been—cocky and insolent—not unlike Josh Wakefield and his friends.
Dylan peered over the top of the folder and watched Marissa as she absently fingered a paper clip on the blotter in front of her. What would it be like to have the prim and proper Miss Wakefield read the riot act? She might look cool and calm, but he suspected she could get fired up when she wanted, and she’d be a force to be reckoned with then. He could picture her—with eyes alive with fire and her body teeming with righteous indignation. It would be something to see, all right—almost worth getting into trouble for.
He glanced back at the papers in the folder, occasionally pulling out the documents he thought might be of interest to the judge, but his mind wasn’t on registration forms and progress reports. He was thinking about seeing Miss Wakefield all hot and bothered, about her blue-green eyes flashing bright, about the feel of her lips along his, and her chest rising and falling wildly with emotion. He was thinking about reaching up and grabbing the tight bun at the base of her neck, slowly unfurling it and pulling the long strands of hair free. He thought of running his hands through its silky softness, of burying his face in its scented mass. He thought of drawing her into his arms, of feeling her body heat with passion, of laying her back across the sterile-looking desk and pulling that prim and proper business suit from her slender, beautiful body, of—
“Finding everything okay?”
Dylan jumped at the sound of her voice, tipping one folder and sending the contents drifting silently to the carpet. He felt a deep flush creeping up his neck, and he reached down to retrieve the papers, cursing under his breath.
What the hell was he doing? What happened to perspective? What happened to strictly business?
“Yeah, this is fine,” he mumbled absently, stuffing the papers back into the files. He quickly finished looking through the first folder and opened another, determined to keep his mind on business. “So, things going okay?”
“Things are going just fine,” Marissa said, leaning back in her chair. “Of course, the summer term is just beginning. It’s too soon to chart any real progress. But I’ve alerted all the boys’ teachers, and they’ll keep me informed on their academic progress or any behavior problems that might come up.”
“Attendance?” he asked, keeping his eyes riveted to the pages in front of him.
“Attendance has been fine,” she announced proudly. “Perfect, in fact. Both in class and at the work site.”
“Well, classes have just started,” he grumbled, flipping quickly through the documents. He wanted to have this done with and get away from her and the effect she had on him.
Marissa’s smile faded. “But I certainly don’t anticipate any problems. I feel very hopeful.”
“Hmm,” he nodded, forcing himself to slow down and concentrate on the papers he was reviewing. Besides, he needed time to collect himself, to let the images in his head fade and disappear.
Marissa’s frown deepened; she was annoyed by his obvious skepticism. “In
fact, I have every confidence that all the boys will fulfill their obligation.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, slipping another document from the folder.
Marissa had the feeling he was only half listening, and bristled. She wasn’t crazy about the idea of him coming around here poking his nose in her business, anyway, but then if he wasn’t even going to have the decency to listen to her…She drew in a deep breath, raising her voice just a little. “And I think we’re off to a good start.”
“What?” he said, glancing up as though surprised to discover she’d said something. “Oh, a good start, well, yes…” He looked down at the folder again. “I guess it does appear that way.”
Marissa frowned again. “Appear that way? You have doubts?”
“Not really,” he mumbled.
“Then what really did you mean by that?”
The anger in her voice surprised him, and he looked up again. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been listening, exactly. It was just that keeping his mind on business had taken all his concentration. “Did I miss something here?”
She glared at him, completely frustrated. “What?”
He looked into her angry eyes, and shook his head helplessly. “Well, you’re obviously upset about something. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is I don’t like the implications you’re making.”
“Implications?” he asked, his dark brows arching. “About what? What are we arguing about?”
Marissa swallowed. What were they arguing about? That he’d expressed a few doubts, or that he wasn’t paying enough attention to her? He was right, she was upset—furious, to be exact. She felt like picking a fight, felt like confronting him—she just wasn’t sure it was for reasons she could discuss with him. The fact was, the anger had felt good, it had felt safe.
“About the boys’ attendance record,” she explained, it sounding foolish now, even to her.
He blinked, trying to remember what he’d said that had gotten her so angry. “All I meant was, it is a little early to tell about attendance, that’s all.”
“Well, the implication being that attendance will fall off as the semester goes on,” she insisted, now wishing she could just drop the whole thing.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“No, Marissa, I didn’t,” he said deliberately.
She glared at him, the fact that he’d used her first name only making her angrier. “Well, Sheriff, I think you did. As a matter of fact, I think you’d like it if Josh or one of the other boys screwed up. I think you’d like to see them violate their probation so you and Ron Cox would have an excuse to lock them up again. That’s what you wanted in the first place, wasn’t it?”
Dylan sat staring at her for a moment, feeling a little like a character in a Kafka novel—dropped into the middle of a situation and not entirely sure how he’d gotten there.
“Look,” he said in the same calm, rational voice he used to talk to unstable suspects. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here. Let me clear the air on a few things. I might not have agreed with the sentence the judge handed down, but look—that happens all the time in my line of work. He’s made his ruling, the sentence has been agreed on—it’s all water under the bridge as far as I’m concerned. I’m just here to do my job, nothing more.” He paused, leaning forward and noticing how the sunlight from the small window behind her shone brilliantly through her hair. “Despite what you might think, Marissa, I’m not the enemy. I want to see Josh make it, too.”
Marissa felt the emotion well up in her throat. She didn’t want to see the soft look in his eyes, didn’t want to think of him as concerned or caring—especially not about Josh. In a way, his quiet, candid words made her feel even worse. Now she not only felt stupid, she also felt contrite. She’d made a fool of herself, arguing with him, trying to make something out of nothing. Despite the circumstances of the past, there was nothing personal between them, yet she’d let her emotions talk herself into a corner, and now there was no graceful way out.
“Let’s just drop it, shall we?” she suggested stiffly, embarrassed and angry—with herself this time. “I admit, I might be a little sensitive. It’s not just a professional thing for me—it’s personal, too.”
“I understand, no problem,” he said, thinking it was a whole lot more personal for him, too, than he cared to admit.
It took only a few minutes more for him to finish with the last folder. He found the documents he wanted and stacked them with the others.
“I think these are all I need,” he said, glancing over Josh’s registration form a last time. “If you could just point me in the direction of the copy machine, I’ll just…” His voice faded as something on the form caught his attention.
Marissa waited for a moment, nervously fingering the paper clip in her hand and feeling the hair at the base of her neck start to tickle. “What is it?”
“What?” Dylan glanced up, then gave his head a little shake. “Oh, uh—nothing really. I guess I’d just assumed Josh was born here in Jackson.”
The paper clip slipped from her hand and landed silently on the blotter below.
“Oh? Did you?” she said noncommittally, feeling the muscle just above her lip begin to twitch. She’d handed Dylan Josh’s file without considering what information was in it. He was a cop, used to looking below the surface, used to questioning things. Would he figure out Josh was really her son? Would he make the connection between Josh’s birth date and the time they’d been lovers?
“Yeah, it says here he was born in Maryland.”
She nodded, turning to the open file drawer and busying herself by rearranging a few files. “That’s right, he was.”
“Huh,” Dylan mused, watching her pull out several file folders from the drawer, then slip them back into place again. “Isn’t that where you got that scholarship for our last year of high school? Some private school in Maryland?”
She turned to him, remembering the story her parents had circulated to explain away her reason for leaving home. “Yes, it is. The Hardwick School in Maryland.”
He gave her a deliberate look. “That’s kind of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
She shrugged, feeling a cold line of sweat form along her upper lip despite the air-conditioned room. “Is it?”
“You don’t think so?”
“Not really,” she said, giving him another careless shrug and thankful her voice wasn’t trembling as badly as her legs were. “You were aware Josh was adopted, weren’t you?”
“Sure, I thought that was pretty much common knowledge.”
“I think it is,” she said, pushing the file drawer closed. “Caleb and Penny certainly never kept it a secret. Did you also know I have an aunt who lives in Maryland?”
“Didn’t you live with her while you were there, or something?”
“That’s right, in Bowie,” she explained, taking a deep breath. “Anyway, Aunt Bea knew that Caleb and Penny were interested in adopting. It was through her that they heard about Josh.”
Dylan slid the folders down onto her desk. “She kind of put things together?”
“Something like that,” Marissa murmured, trying to read his expression, trying to determine just what it was he was thinking, but it was impossible. His dark eyes and rugged features revealed nothing.
“So your Aunt Bea knew Josh’s birth parents, then?”
Marissa’s heart pounded so loudly she was actually afraid he might hear. She’d already made a fool of herself once by letting her emotions run away with her, she couldn’t risk doing it again. But his questions frightened her. Did he suspect something? Had the dates of the registration form started him thinking, had him putting two and two together, made him suspicious?
“I don’t know that she knew them, exactly,” she said nonchalantly. “I don’t know if I was ever clear on all the details. It wasn’t really any of my business. Why?”
Dylan shrugged casually. “No reason, I just wo
ndered now with both Penny and Caleb gone, if Josh would ever want to find out about his past.”
“What?” Marissa chocked, surprised.
“You know—find his birth parents.”
“Whatever for?” she demanded, nerves making her respond with more emotion than she’d intended. “Why would he want to do that? He has all the information about his past that he needs. We’re a family now—he and I. He doesn’t need anybody else in his life.”
Dylan glanced up at her slowly, the vehemence in her voice surprising him just a little. “I just thought…forget it.”
Marissa sucked in a deep breath. What was happening to her? She was doing exactly what she’d told herself not to do—letting her emotions get the best of her. She had to stop, had to start thinking about what she was doing, or everything was going to fall apart. Dylan was smart, and as a cop he was used to dealing with people who were often less than honest. The last thing she needed was to appear like a person with something to hide.
Letting out a long sigh, she gathered her composure and forced a smile across her face. “No, look, I’m sorry. It’s been kind of crazy around here the last couple of weeks, I’ve been under a lot of pressure. I guess it’s got me overreacting a bit.”
“Well, I wasn’t suggesting anything,” he added quickly. “Or implying anything.”
Marissa smiled. “I know. I’m just a little sensitive where Josh is concerned. I want it to work out for us, and there’s so much I want to do for him—things I think I can help with.” She stopped and shook her head. “Looking into the past just isn’t something I’d want to encourage right now. There’s been enough upheaval in his life in the last couple of years, and who knows what he’d find if he started asking questions about his birth parents.” She stopped for a moment, forcing herself to take a breath and not come on too strong. “Maybe someday, just not now. Besides, things happen for a reason. I don’t think stirring up the past will solve anything.”
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