Dylan saw something flash bright in those blue eyes of hers—some feeling, some emotion he couldn’t quite pin down. It was more than sadness, something closer to regret.
But what she said was right, of course. Stirring up memories served no useful purpose. How many times in the last two weeks had he told himself that same thing?
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he said after a moment, picking up the folders from the desk and handing them back to her. “I guess we all have things in our past that are better left forgotten.”
Marissa took the folders from him and turned her chair toward the credenza. She prayed that was what he had done—forgotten all about what had happened between them. If only she could do the same thing—just put it aside and move on. But that would never happen when every time she looked into her son’s face she was reminded of what she’d had, and what she’d lost.
Her son. From the moment she’d discovered she was carrying a child in her womb, she’d thought of Josh as her child. Josh was the one thing Dylan had given to her that could never be taken away, the one part of him she could keep with her forever. And even though she’d had to give Josh up temporarily, in her heart, she’d never stopped thinking of him as her son.
But perceptions had a way of changing, and hers had changed a lot since she’d come back. Seeing Dylan again made her realize that everything about him—his humor, his voice, his expressions and demeanor—served as a reminder that Josh was part of him, too…like it or not.
She rose quickly to her feet, disturbed by the troubled thoughts in her head, and reached for the documents he’d pulled from the files. “I’ll get these copied for you.”
Dylan stood then, too, handing her the registration forms and watching as she moved around the desk. Something had caused the soft line of her mouth to tense and tighten. She wasn’t the calm and efficient principal any longer. She was a woman—soft and vulnerable.
As she moved to pass, he reached out, slipping a hand around her upper arm and stopping her. “You look upset again.”
For a moment, Marissa, surprised by the sudden move, could do nothing but stare up into his dark eyes. He was so close, so close, she could see the tiny flecks of color in his dark eyes. It was as though suddenly all the air in the small office had been sucked away, leaving her gasping and breathless.
Memories became electric, assailing her with images and sending her heart to her throat. She remembered his lips on hers—searching, seeking, and his hands restless and desperate. She heard his voice in her ears whispering hungry, fervent words—I love you. I love you. I love you.
But of course, he hadn’t loved her. It hadn’t been her name he had whispered, her lips he’d wanted to kiss, or her love he’d sought. He hadn’t wanted her, he’d wanted Mallory. Marissa had merely been a substitute, a stand-in whose heart had gotten in the way.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, I’m not, I’m not upset.”
“But I can see it,” he insisted, his voice barely above a whisper. “In your eyes.”
“Dylan, please,” she whispered, pulling against his hold.
Dylan. Not “Sheriff” this time, but Dylan. The sound of his name on her lips sent a jolt of emotion running through him. He knew then he never should have touched her, because he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to let her go.
His hand around her arm flexed slightly, allowing him to feel her firm, smooth flesh through the fabric of her clothes. The sad, vulnerable look in her eyes had something flaming inside. He wanted to see them spark again, flare with fire and anger and passion.
The scent of her perfume swirled around him like a fragrant, heady cloud, filling his senses with its delicate scent. But its fragile aroma reacted like a powerful narcotic in his brain, infiltrating his thoughts and making him remember the fantasy.
He told himself he didn’t want to pull her into his arms, and yet he ached to do so. He didn’t want to ravage her mouth and muss up her hair. He didn’t want to kiss her. His gaze drifted to her lips, his hand on her arm pulled her a fraction of an inch closer, and he heard the roar of his own heart thundering in his ears.
“Marissa,” he murmured, watching her lips with his eyes, but tasting them in his mouth. He pulled her closer, feeling the softness of her breast against the back of his hand. “Marissa.”
Marissa watched him draw closer and closer, thinking somewhere in her consciousness that he looked as though he were going to kiss her. But she couldn’t allow that, she just couldn’t seem to make herself turn away.
“Hey, boss, how about a refill?”
For a moment, all Marissa could do was turn and stare at the young woman who stood in the doorway with a coffeepot in her hand. But Karen’s voice had been as effective as a glass of ice water in the face, breaking the mood and bringing reality back with a jolt.
“Karen,” Marissa stammered in a hoarse voice. “I thought…I didn’t know you were back.”
“I’m sorry,” Karen Hamilton said with an embarrassed smile, her full cheeks filling with a deep, florid red. “I didn’t know you had someone with you.”
Marissa realized Dylan still held on to her arm, still stood close. She and Karen were in the process of getting to know each other, and she didn’t even want to think what kind of picture she and Dylan made standing so close.
“The sheriff was here checking up on Josh,” she explained quickly, feeling the color in her own cheeks start to rise. She carefully pulled against Dylan’s hold, relieved when he offered no resistance and let her slip her arm free. She took a few shaky steps forward, holding the documents out in front of her. “Now that you’re back, do you think you could make some copies of these?”
“Sure, I’ll do it right now,” Karen said eagerly, grabbing the documents with her free hand and holding up the coffeepot she held in the other. “Could I bring either of you some coffee?”
“No,” Marissa said quickly, shaking her head. “Actually, the sheriff and I were just on our way out to the construction site.” She turned to Dylan, glancing up into his dark eyes for just a split second, and gestured to the door, “Shall we?”
Chapter 5
“How come you let him in here to harass us?”
Marissa pulled her gaze from Dylan, whose muscular frame was almost completely hidden behind Randy O’Riley’s broad, hulking one. The two stood beside a large stack of lumber on the far side of the construction site talking. She turned and looked up at Skip Carver, who towered behind her. The ruddy, youthful face beneath the shock of flaming red hair was twisted and distorted with anger.
“Is that why you think he’s here?”
“Well, isn’t it?” he demanded, holding a long screwdriver by the shaft and tossing it angrily to the ground. The tool made several slow spins as it fell, but failed to stick into the soft earth and rolled clumsily along the grass. Skip scowled and muttered, “He’s always poking around, trying to stir up trouble.” He lifted his gaze and glared across the common to where Dylan and Randy stood. Dylan had asked to speak with each of the boys individually, and Skip was waiting his turn. “Marshal Dillon needs to get a life instead of getting his jollies from harassing us.” He turned back to Marissa. “Shouldn’t you be protecting us from him?”
Marissa folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the low concrete-block wall that separated the maintenance yard from the rest of the campus. She’d heard Skip refer to Dylan as “Marshal Dillon” before, hoping to get a rise out of her, but she hadn’t given him the satisfaction. She’d learned early in her teaching career that when a kid was as angry as Skip, reprimands did little good. A more subtle approach was usually more effective.
“You know the terms of your probation,” she pointed out. “He has a right to be here to check up on you.”
“Torment is more like it,” Skip scoffed. He looked up at her, as though he were about to say something more, then shook his head. “Aw, forget it. You’re probably in on this with him.”
�
��In on what?”
“This…this plan Marshal Dillon has to keep his hooks in us.”
Marissa regarded the teen carefully. “Sounds like you think the sheriff really has it in for you?”
“Well, doesn’t he?” Skip demanded, bending down and picking up the screwdriver and tossing it again. It failed to stick again. “First, there’s his following us all over the place—just looking for something to pull us in for. Then those phony arson charges, and now this.” He gestured to the work site. “This is slave labor, you know that, don’t you—slave labor!”
Marissa laughed. She’d seen Skip’s aptitude tests. He was a smart kid—maybe too smart—and he was headed for trouble unless someone got to him soon. “Phony charges? Come on, Skip, you’re making this sound like a bad teen movie—the nasty old sheriff threatening to outlaw dancing at the prom. You expect me to buy that?”
“Don’t laugh, Miss Wakefield, it’s true.” He knelt down and snatched the screwdriver from the grass.
“You forget, Skip, I was in the courtroom. I heard them read the charges, and I sure don’t remember hearing you saying anything about being innocent.”
He looked up at her and shrugged. “I said what my lawyer told me to say.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I wouldn’t have thought anyone could get you to say anything you didn’t want to.”
“It got me out of jail, didn’t it?”
Marissa raised a brow. “So what you’re telling me is that you didn’t have anything to do with torching the toolshed, is that it?”
He gave her a smirk, his pale green eyes narrowing. “Hey, nobody saw me lighting any matches, did they?”
“That’s not exactly the same thing, though, is it?”
He looked down at the screwdriver in his hand, and then back to her. “Maybe it was Josh who struck the match.”
Marissa’s glaze flicked to Josh, who was bent on all fours, working with Rick Mathers to smooth the wet cement they’d just poured for the shed’s foundation. She didn’t believe that. Josh had told her all about that night, how he’d been there with the others, and he’d done his share of vandalizing—breaking windows and spraypainting walls. But he hadn’t been responsible for setting the fire—neither had Randy. The fire had been all Skip’s idea.
She looked back at Skip, who’d risen from his haunches. His smug smile revealed more than he knew—his cockiness, his confidence, but also his vulnerability. She recognized a power play when she saw it. She also understood a veiled threat—and she wasn’t going to sit still for it, either.
Marissa walked over to where he stood, reaching up and snatching the screwdriver out of his hand. Without missing a beat, she tossed it down hard into the ground, its long shaft solidly piercing the soft earth, leaving the handle wobbling with the force.
“And maybe it would be in everyone’s best interests if all three of you just concentrated on fulfilling your obligation to the juvenile courts and getting on with your lives.”
Skip stared down at the screwdriver, then back to her, taking a step closer. He was tall and big—even for fifteen—and he knew how to use his size to intimidate. “That doesn’t bother you? I mean, that your precious nephew might be a firebug?”
“What I know about Josh doesn’t bother me a bit, Skip.” Her heart pounded loudly in her chest, but she held her ground. “Does it bother you?”
“The only thing bothering me is Sheriff James and this stupid job I’m stuck with,” he insisted.
Marissa bent down and pulled the screwdriver out of the ground. “Then you’ll take some consolation in knowing your friends are stuck with the same job.” Straightening up, she gave him a smile. “You all received the same probation.”
“Yeah, right, the same probation,” he muttered. “And I really believe you and Marshal Dillon are going to ride Josh as hard as you will Randy and me.”
“Well,” she said, slapping the handle of the screwdriver into the palm of his hand. “I guess you’re just going to have to stick around to find out, aren’t you.”
“Okay, Carver,” Dylan called from across the work site. “You’re up.”
Dylan let his gaze follow Marissa as she made her way across the maintenance yard toward Rick Mathers. He liked the way she moved—the motion of her arms, the set of her shoulders, the sway of her hips. There was a confidence to her movements, an assurance that enhanced that subtle air of sensuality. He thought of that moment in her office, that moment when she’d stood so close, when he could all but feel her body against his.
“So you and Mathers getting along okay?” he asked, watching as she and the industrial arts teacher disappeared into a trailer that served as a maintenance office, forcing his mind back to business. He turned to Josh, who sat on a huge bag of concrete mix absently tossing pebbles onto a weathered-looking football lying in the dirt in front of him.
“Okay, I guess,” he said, shrugging a shoulder.
“For a teacher,” Dylan added dryly.
Josh looked a little surprised. “Something like that.”
“Not working you too hard?”
Josh shook his head. “Not too bad.”
“How’s school going?”
Josh snorted, tossing a pebble and watching it spring off the football and land somewhere in the dust. “It’s school.”
Dylan smiled to himself. He remembered all too well long, boring classes that seemed to go on forever and dull, lifeless teachers whose monotonous monotones sent even the brightest minds wandering. Was it any wonder kids got into trouble? What was it about the school system that took so much of the pleasure out of learning? How many more young minds would go to waste before somebody woke up and changed things?
“Skip seems to think you guys are being pushed a little too hard, that you got too much work.”
Josh’s mouth twisted into a crooked smile as he bent down and scooped up another handful of pebbles. “Skip thinks any work is too much.”
Dylan studied him carefully. From his conversations with the other two boys, he’d picked up on some tension. “You and Skip been spending much time together outside school?”
Josh stopped and looked up, his face stiff and defensive. “Look, I haven’t done anything wrong. If there’s something going on, it’s not me.”
Dylan gave him a dubious look. “Is something going on?”
“I don’t know,” he insisted, his voice cracking just a little. “That’s what you said.”
Dylan shook his head. “I just asked if you and Skip see much of each other outside school—simple question.”
Josh took a deep breath and shook his head. “No.”
“You two still friends?”
“Kind of.”
“Randy tells me Skip seems to think you’re getting special treatment around here—because your aunt’s the principal. You think that?”
“No,” Josh insisted angrily. “It’s not like that. Skip’s just full of sh—”
“I get the idea,” Dylan said quickly, cutting him off. “Tell me about home. Everything going okay with you and your aunt?”
“Oh, sure,” Josh said, his voice softening.
“The two of you getting along okay?”
“Yeah, Aunt Mar’s great.”
Dylan thought of Marissa, of her soft eyes and smooth, flawless skin, and forced her image from his mind with a shake of his head. “So it doesn’t make it awkward for you—her being principal?”
“Maybe a little.”
“Like with Skip?”
Josh looked up at him. “I can handle Skip.”
Dylan nodded thoughtfully and took a few steps into the yard. He surveyed the concrete pad that had been poured earlier. “Looks pretty good.”
Josh glanced across the yard in the same direction. “Yeah, wasn’t as tough as I thought it would be. Actually, it…”
Dylan looked back around when Josh’s voice trailed off. “You were saying?”
Josh glanced down, flipping a few more pebbles in the direc
tion of the football. “Nothing—just that, well…it wasn’t all that bad to pour the stuff and smooth it out. It was kind of…fun.”
Fun. Dylan turned that over in his mind. It was almost a strange concept—fun. In his line of work, he’d almost begun to believe the only fun kids believed in anymore was causing trouble.
He watched as Josh reached down and grabbed up another handful of pebbles and began tossing them again. Josh Wakefield and his friends had been a giant pain in the neck and had kept the switchboard at his office lit up like a Christmas tree on a pretty regular basis. He’d come to think of the kid as a spoiled brat, a wise guy, a punk with an attitude.
But watching him now as he sat alone, away from his friends, away from the attitude and the wisecracks, he didn’t look much like a punk. He just looked young—very young. Like a kid who could help pour a pad of concrete and discover it could be…fun.
“You ever toss that thing?” he asked, gesturing with his chin in the direction of the football.
“Sometimes.”
Dylan bent down, snatching up the ball and dusting it off. He placed his hands carefully into place around it. “I used to be pretty good with one of these.”
“Oh, yeah?” Josh said, his interest picking up. “My dad used to play.”
“Yeah.” Dylan nodded, lifting the football over his shoulder and making a few imaginary passes. “I remember—of course, that was a little before my time.” He lowered the ball, feeling muscles in his shoulder he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. “You ever think of going out for the team?”
Josh gave him a deliberate look, motioning to the school building behind him. “Sutter is a continuation school, remember. No football team.”
Dylan grimaced, nodding. “I forgot.”
Just then, Marissa stepped out of the maintenance trailer with Rick Mathers in tow. Dylan squinted his eyes, watching as they stood together, talking and laughing, and felt his stomach muscles tighten. Suddenly Mathers reached over, settling his hand at Marissa’s waist, pointing to something at the work site. Rick Mathers stood only a scant few inches taller than Marissa, so when she cocked her head to look in the direction he pointed, it brought them nearly face-to-face.
Father Figure Page 6