His Touch

by Mary Lynn Baxter

  “Isn’t there someone else in Thurmon’s office who could do the job?”

  Silence hummed through the line.

  “Not as well as Brant.” Veronica sighed. “Do you just not like him or what?”

  Jessica was reluctant to admit that, fearing it might lead to much more probing questions, questions she wasn’t prepared to answer. Yet she had no intention of lying to her friend, not now, not ever.

  “For some reason, he just rubs me the wrong way.”

  Veronica chuckled. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “Then why on earth did Thurmon pick him?”

  “He’s told you already. Brant’s the best at what he does. And since you’re my dearest friend, I’m determined that you have the best.”

  Jessica sighed. “While I love you dearly for your care and concern, I’m just not sure I can handle his strong personality.”

  “You’re one to be talking. I can see why you two would butt heads.”

  “It’s just that he’s so…” Jessica’s voice faded as she realized how whiny and childish she must sound. Veronica, of all people, shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of her dilemma.

  “Bossy and strong-willed? Was that what you were going to say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, you’ll get adjusted, but not in one day. You’re expecting too much, too soon.”

  “You’re right, I know. Still…” Again Jessica’s voice faded, while her frustration rose.

  “Still nothing. Just chill and go with the flow. It’ll all work out, maybe much sooner than expected. If Brant’s as good as my better half says, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, he’ll find the jerk who’s dealing you all this misery and deal him some misery of his own.”

  Jessica blew out her breath.

  “Where’s Brant now?”

  “In the downstairs guest room.”

  “So…out of sight, out of mind?”

  “Right.”

  “Look, you can face this mess again tomorrow. Tonight you need to get some sleep, knowing you’re in safe hands.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Let me hear from you.” Veronica paused with a chuckle. “Don’t be too hard on the poor guy, okay?”

  In spite of herself, Jessica smiled. “I’ll get you for that.”

  “Later then.”

  After she replaced her phone in its case, Jessica’s good humor fled. Somehow, she would endure. That was what she’d done all her life, and her inner strength wouldn’t fail her now.

  Clinging to that thought, she turned over and closed her eyes.

  Eight

  He hadn’t wanted to take Thurmon up on his offer, but he had. Desperation had been the driving force. Marsha had given him the runaround long enough. He still hadn’t seen or talked to his son, because every time he called, he either didn’t get an answer or his ex-wife picked up. He’d had enough.

  So when Thurmon had told him he would cover for him with Jessica that afternoon, he’d said okay. Brant’s features twisted. He knew Jessica wouldn’t be upset. On the contrary, she would be relieved.

  They had been together for several days now. And while those days had been uneventful as far as threats went, the tension between them had continued to mount.

  He was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. He sensed that she flat out didn’t like him and wasn’t comfortable with him under her roof. Well, he felt the same way, only he was careful not to let that show. He’d been trained not to reveal his emotions while on the job.

  However, with Jessica Kincaid, that was hard to do. He was too damn aware of her as a woman. That was the problem. Her perfume drove him nuts. Everything about her drove him nuts. When she walked into a room, it seemed to come alive. She had that type of infectious personality. Laughter would ring from her office one moment, and the next she would ream someone out for not doing his duty.

  She was definitely a contradiction, which made her all the more exciting. But though he admired her professionalism and her personality, most of the time he wanted to throttle her.

  Jessica wasn’t into rules and regulations. Unless she set them. He’d learned that. He’d also learned she was fearless. He still wasn’t convinced she realized just how much danger was lurking around her, especially now that the pervert had backed off for a few days. That unpredictability was unnerving.

  Not as unnerving as Jessica herself. What he had to keep in mind was that she might as well be the First Lady. That was how off-limits she was to him. Not that he wanted it any other way, he assured himself quickly. He didn’t, though it made him more uneasy with each passing day that his awareness of her only seemed to be heightening.

  Was it only yesterday that he’d found his eyes locked on her breasts when she’d thrown her head back and laughed? When it had dawned on him what he was doing, he’d jerked his gaze away and let loose an expletive.

  He’d been alone too long, he guessed. That was the only feasible explanation he could come up with for his unorthodox behavior. Maybe this torture would end sooner rather than later, so he could get back to his life.

  But not before he spent time with his kid.

  Which was why he was sitting across the street from Elliot’s house on the off chance he might catch him when he came home from school, then talk to him face-to-face. Brant knew it was a long shot, but he had to do something. He’d thought about waiting at the school, but since he didn’t even know what kind of car Elliot drove, it would be like hunting a needle in a haystack.

  He had no idea if Marsha had been relaying his phone messages to Elliot or not. Brant suspected she hadn’t, though he couldn’t swear to it.

  His son knew he was in town and had his cell number. So far, Elliot had made no effort to contact him. Brant rubbed the back of his neck, then peered at his watch.

  Was this opportunity going to be wasted after all? Time was getting away from him, and he hadn’t made any headway. If only he could grab his boy and they could head back to Arkansas for a couple of weeks together. He would teach him how to fish, hunt and garden.

  Brant almost laughed at that last thought. Elliot would probably think he’d lost his mind. Most kids would, and Brant suspected his own wouldn’t be any different.

  His urge to laugh suddenly dried up. His son was seventeen, and he didn’t know anything about him, what he liked to do, what he liked to eat, what he dreamed about.

  Nothing.

  Brant gripped the steering wheel with his strong, tanned hands and squeezed. God, if only he could undo the sins of the past, what a difference it would make in his life. Unfortunately that was not the way things worked.

  His screw-ups had started a long time ago. When Marsha had divorced him, Elliot had been nine. Most of those nine years, he’d been gone. And afterward—well, he rarely ever saw his kid. In a nutshell, he’d never known his son—not as a baby, a toddler, an adolescent or a teenager.

  Brant’s gut twisted, and sweat dotted his upper lip. Somehow, he had to rectify that. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t. He glanced at his watch again, trying to temper his growing anxiety. Rarely did anything shake him. For the most part he was steady as a rock, or had been before he was shot. Since then, he’d had to work just to keep body and soul together. That was another reason why he hadn’t wanted an assignment.

  He didn’t feel he was ready. But when Thurmon put the squeeze on him, he hadn’t had much choice. At least it gave him the opportunity to see his son, an opportunity he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

  “Damn,” Brant muttered, lurching upright.

  While he’d been deep in thought, Elliot had driven up and was getting out of his Mustang. For a second paralysis seemed to hold Brant in his seat. His eyes feasted on the one human who was part of himself. Pride rose in him. Even from this distance, he could see what a good-looking young man Elliot had become. Tall and strapping, just like he’d been at that age, with the same profile. His hair, however, was light brown, li
ke his mother’s.

  Forcing himself to move, Brant jumped out of his vehicle and crossed the street. “Elliot, wait up.”

  His son whirled and stared at him wide-eyed; then his dark eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. Brant’s heart faltered as he thought Elliot was going to turn his back on him.

  “Hello, son,” Brant forced himself to say before his own nerve failed.

  “Hi,” Elliot muttered, shifting his gaze.

  “I hope you don’t mind me stopping by,” Brant said, hearing the awkwardness in his voice and hating it.

  Elliot shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Brant strove for a decent breath. This was going to be even harder than he’d anticipated—for both of them. He was sweating like he’d been chopping logs at the cabin, and it wasn’t even hot.

  “You know I’m going to be close by for a while.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Brant refused to be defeated. “I thought maybe we might get together soon, maybe go out to dinner.”

  “Whatever,” Elliot said again, finally looking at him.

  The pain and confusion mirrored in his son’s eyes almost brought Brant to his knees. What if he couldn’t fix their broken relationship? What if the gulf was too wide to breach? No. He wouldn’t think like that. He would make things work. Whatever it took.

  Now that he’d seen his son, no way was he leaving, even if Jessica Kincaid fired his ass tomorrow.

  “Look, Elliot, I want a chance to make things right between us.”

  Elliot’s eyes flared. “Why?”

  “Because you’re my son.” And because I love you. But for some reason those words stuck in Brant’s throat. “I want us to get to know one another. I want to find out what you’re up to, where you plan to go to school.” He broke off. “Stuff like that.”

  Elliot’s mouth took a bitter turn. “Don’t you think it’s a little late?”

  Brant ignored his sarcasm and kept his voice calm. “No, I don’t.”

  “You never cared before.”

  “I always cared, Elliot,” he said with patience. “It’s just that—” Brant broke off, refusing to make any more excuses for the way he’d treated his son.

  “Look, you’re right on target with your contempt of me. I’ll admit that. And I know saying I’m sorry won’t do the trick. Instead, I want to show you.” He paused, trying to gauge Elliot’s reaction, only he couldn’t. His features were as blank as a stone wall. “So what do you say?” Brant pressed. “You have any free time?”

  “I’ll call you,” Elliot said, pawing at the ground with the toe of his left running shoe.

  That wasn’t the answer Brant wanted, so his initial response was to say no, to set a time and place right then. Beg, if necessary. But he held his tongue. If he pushed, he sensed Elliot would push back. Get further away. At least Elliot hadn’t told him to get lost. And while that was a mere crumb, he was grateful for it.

  “Calling me will work,” Brant said at last, blowing out his pent-up breath. “That’ll work just fine.”

  Elliot nodded, shoving both hands down in the pockets of his jeans and not responding.

  “You have my cell number, right?” Brant asked. He felt foolish, but he was loathe to end the conversation. Just being near his son gave him a new lease on life.

  “Elliot?”

  Brant froze. Marsha. He hadn’t even known she was home, but then, he hadn’t cared. When he’d darted up the driveway, he’d had tunnel vision. Everything else had fled his mind. Now, looking up and seeing his ex-wife standing outside the front door brought reality home with a bitter jolt.

  She hadn’t changed much in the years since their divorce, except that her hair was more frosted, probably to cover up the fact that she was getting older and grayer. Perhaps she’d put on a bit more weight as well. Yet she was still attractive in an ordinary sort of way. She was short and curvy, with a reserved manner.

  Her main goal in life had been to marry and have a home and children. She had resented his job from the get-go, mainly because he’d been away from home so much. Back then, he’d blamed her for that, throwing it back in her face how much she liked to spend the money he made.

  So many mistakes. But losing her was not one of them, except that it had affected Elliot and their relationship. Still, he didn’t have anyone to blame for that but himself, certainly not Marsha, although she had done everything in her power to keep that wedge between them.

  His downfall had been letting her get away with it. No longer. He was ready to fight.

  “Hello, Marsha,” he said into the growing, hostile silence.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes pinging from him to Elliot, concern knitting her brows.

  Elliot, in turn, kept looking down, as though he wished he were anywhere but there or that he could simply disappear. Brant didn’t blame him. His son had been caught in the middle his entire life.

  That was also about to stop.

  “I came to see Elliot.” Since you obviously haven’t bothered to give him my messages. Like so many other words, they remained unspoken.

  “I can see that,” she retorted.

  “We’re planning a time to get together for dinner.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Elliot countered with defiance in his tone.

  Brant clamped down on his emotions. “Well, I’m hopeful that will be the case.”

  “Elliot, come on inside,” Marsha said. “I’m sure you have some homework.”

  For a minute his son looked as if he wanted to argue, which was another crumb Brant snatched. But then Elliot muttered something under his breath, strode up the steps and slammed the door behind him.

  “Thanks, Marsha. I really appreciate that.”

  “No one gave you permission to come here.”

  “Dammit, I don’t need permission to see my son, certainly not from you.”

  “Ah, so now you’ve decided to become the model parent,” she spat, her tone as nasty as her features.

  “That’s right. I made that promise to myself. I also promised I wasn’t going to have a verbal slinging match with you about Elliot.”

  “What about Elliot?” she flared back.

  “What about him?”

  “He has no say-so in this. Right now, he’s a happy, normal young man who has a father. And it’s not you.” Marsha paused, as though giving him time to digest that thought. “It’s Preston. He’s taken your place in Elliot’s life.”

  Those harsh words cut like she’d taken a knife and slashed his heart to pieces. Yet Brant never so much as flinched. “No matter what has happened in the past, Elliot is my son. And no matter how much you wish that weren’t true, it is.”

  “I’ll continue to fight you.”

  “That’s your prerogative. But I’m not giving up unless it comes from Elliot. You can hate me all you want, but I’m asking you not to let your hate spill over to our son.”

  “Stay away from here, Brant.”

  “For god’s sake, Marsha, you’re being unreasonable. Why not let Elliot make some choices on his own? He’s certainly old enough.”

  “Because I don’t trust you not to hurt him again,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “He’s suffered enough at your hands.”

  “I swear to you, that won’t happen,” Brant said in a soft tone. “And while I might have done some unpardonable things in your eyes, I’ve never lied to you.”

  “Somehow I take little comfort in that.”

  “Can’t we just please reach a truce, for Elliot’s sake?”

  “I’m making no promises, Brant, either way. I’ll talk to Preston.”

  Brant clamped down on his lip so hard to stop his retort that he tasted blood. “You do that, but it’s not going to change things. Meanwhile, leave the boy alone. Use me as a whipping boy all you want, but don’t stand Elliot beside me. He deserves better.”

  “And you can go to hell.”

  “Thank you very much, but I’ve been there for some years no
w.”

  For once Marsha didn’t seem to have a comeback. Instead, she let out a deep sigh, then said bitterly, “I doubt I’ll have much to say about it, anyway. As much as I hate to admit it, Elliot’s as stubborn as you when he makes up his mind.”

  “Then let him make it up.” Brant stopped short of pleading.

  “I told you, I’m making no promises.” With that she turned and flounced back into the house.

  Brant remained rooted to the spot, feeling much like he had the day he’d gotten shot in the gut. Numb all over. That was when he noticed Elliot standing at the window, peering out, his face pinched in sadness.

  Pain, as lethal as the strongest narcotic, shot through Brant’s system, almost sending him to his knees. Dejected, he turned and walked back to his vehicle.

  Nine

  The situation had worsened. Jessica didn’t think she would ever adjust to having another man in the house, especially a stranger. She kept telling herself something was terribly askew when one had to have a bodyguard.

  The reality of that was appalling. Determined to reroute her thoughts, she opened the French doors onto the small balcony and stepped outside. Evening was settling in, and the temperature was quite pleasant. Soon, however, the heat from the brutal blast of summer would hit Texas with a vengeance, the Dallas area in particular, with very little rain to ease the pain.

  Still, she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. This lovely, high-profile city was home, the place where she lived and worked, the most important thing in her life, the reason she climbed out of bed each morning. Since she had lost Porter, she’d had to refocus, though not a lot. Without children, it was logical and easy to focus on their careers—his more than hers, as she was the backbone behind him, or so he’d told her many times.

  The pain of losing Porter had subsided, thank goodness. Time had taken care of that. Now she could think of him with fond, sweet memories that were to be cherished at moments like these, when she was down-and-out. A bird sang merrily in a nearby oak tree that draped over her small deck. The oak’s thick foliage served as an umbrella against the sun during the heat of the day.