by Julie Miller
She felt Gideon’s gaze slide over to hers at the mention of the word “victim.” She turned away from the painting she was admiring and smiled back at him. Daniel Kelleher was a blustery blowhard who was testy because his golf date with the mayor had been put on hold until after this meeting. Along with the buttery-smooth leather golf glove he wore on his left hand, his tan slacks and green, short-sleeved polo shirt bespoke wealth. But the muscles on his burly forearms indicated he’d worked hard to earn that money. Maybe he had a right to his attitude. She didn’t take it personally.
With a slight nod, Gideon returned his attention to Kelleher. “Yes, these are clear cases of arson. But until I have a man in jail, I’m not signing off on anything.” Gideon stood and pulled a photograph from his wallet. “Do you know this man?”
Kelleher glanced at the picture and snorted with contempt. “Sure. His picture was splattered all over the news this morning. Jack Quinton.” He handed back the picture and positioned his arms across his chest in a defensive front. “The police think he’s the one who burned down my buildings.”
“Would he have any reason to hold a grudge against you?”
“I’ve never met the man. But I’d like to talk to him. I’m sure Westin hired him.”
As Gideon ran through a list of potential connections between Kelleher and Quinton, Meghan crossed over to the glass-fronted display case that housed myriad plaques and trophies and photographs. Starting with the picture of his high school baseball team, the self-made millionaire had mementoes from a variety of sporting events that spanned more than thirty years.
Gideon’s probing questions and Kelleher’s heated answers faded into background noise as Meghan zeroed in on one photograph in particular. She’d seen it before. Those same people. That same logo on their shirts. Meghan closed her eyes and sorted through the past few days. A softball team. She slowly opened her eyes and matched the photograph to her memory. She’d seen that same photograph in the wreckage of a fire.
“C.B. Accounting,” she whispered out loud.
Meghan turned, in a bit of a daze, not realizing she’d spoken out loud until Gideon asked, “What’s that?”
She turned back to the display case and pointed to the picture. It had seemed familiar to her when it had been water-damaged and scratched by broken glass. Looking at the clear copy, she now knew why.
She pointed to the woman on the back row of the photo. Linked arm-in-arm with a younger, darker-haired Daniel Kelleher, she smiled confidently. “Who is this woman?”
Meghan’s somber, fearful mood had even affected Kelleher’s temper. Suddenly quiet, he crossed to the glass and studied the picture with her. There was nothing hard or accusatory in his tone when he answered. “Cynthia Burlington. She used to work for me.” He pressed his fingertips to the glass as if he were giving it a loving touch. “I divorced my first wife to marry her. I never did, though.”
Meghan squeezed her eyes shut, seeing Cynthia Burlington’s face as clearly as her own reflection in the mirror. “Why didn’t you?”
Kelleher sniffed and turned away. “She died. During our engagement. A car accident out on old Crackerneck Road in Independence.”
She could barely breathe, much less speak. “Crackerneck Road?”
Meghan sank into the nearest chair and let the memories come.
“Yeah. It was late. It was raining. There are too many turns and big trees on that road. When she rounded the corner and the other car was there, she had no place to go.”
“I’m sorry.”
Meghan was pulled into the swirling vortex of her past.
THEY ZIPPED around the curve. She clung to the armrest and stared at the ball mitt in her lap, too afraid to look over at the woman behind the wheel. She apologized again, wishing it would make a difference in the speed of the car or the temperament of the driver. “I’m sorry practice ran late, Aunt Rose.”
“Sorry, nothing. I told Pete I’d have dinner on the table when he came home. He’ll be pissed at both of us now.” Though Meghan had her permit, Rose had insisted on driving. She knew the roads better. She could drive faster.
“I’m sorry.” What else could she say? Rose’s foot pushed on the accelerator. Even with her seat belt on, Meghan slammed into the car door as they whipped around the turn. And saw the bright, huge beams of two headlights. “Rose!”
The squeal of brakes, the blare of horns, and then—no more.
“MEG!”
She snapped back to the present and found herself staring deep into Gideon’s eyes. The dark brown orbs blazed with that almost-psychic light of his, searching deep into her own for understanding. He was kneeling in front of her. He absorbed the trembling of her shoulders within the grasp of his hands. “What is it, sweetheart? Where did you go?”
“Is she okay?” That was Daniel Kelleher, standing off to the side.
Gideon’s hands were moving now, skimming across her hair and face, checking her for signs of renewed trauma. “She sustained a head injury yesterday,” was his brief explanation. “Are you with me?”
She nodded, then lifted eyes that felt raw toward Kelleher. I killed your fiancée, she wanted to confess. She remembered the pictures from the papers, if not the crash itself. I was there the night she died. Her hands went down to cover her belly. “I’m sorry about the accident.”
“Thanks. But you weren’t driving that car.”
“No, but…” Could a man still hold a grudge for ten years after losing the woman he loved? Guilt and grief hardened into something a little tougher. She swept her gaze along Kelleher’s arms. Looking. Remembering. Large hands. Black gloves. A struggle for her own life. Did he recognize her? Did he blame her for that night? Uncle Pete had.
“We’ll talk later, Kelleher. I need to get Meghan home.” Gideon pushed to his feet and pulled Meghan up beside him. With his arm anchored at the back of her waist, he guided her toward the door.
“Wait.” One small word, one clutch of her hand, and Gideon stopped. The dimple beside his mouth had creased into one long line, betraying his concern. Despite the baffled worry in his eyes, he let her turn around to face Daniel Kelleher. “One last thing, Mr. Kelleher. May I see your hand?”
His sentimental mood had been replaced by the cutthroat businessman once more. “I don’t think so.”
“The glove,” Gideon demanded, backing her up both literally and figuratively.
Kelleher shrugged off his defensive posture. “Whatever.” He unsnapped the wrist of his golf glove and slipped it off, holding both hands up for her to inspect. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.” She rallied her strength and looked up into his piercing green eyes. “Thank you.”
“Sure.” He followed them out the door and called down the hallway after them. “Get me the answers I need, Taylor. Or I’ll find them myself.”
Meghan didn’t relax until she was buckled up in the front seat of Gideon’s Suburban.
He turned on the engine, started the air-conditioning and turned to face her. “It’s your turn to share.”
“I was in the car crash that killed his fiancée.”
He reached across the seat and stroked her cheek. “I thought it might be something like that.”
As much as she loved his comforting touch, she discovered she didn’t have to doubt her own judgment or strength each time one of the terrible memories from her past tried to tear her apart.
“There are no bruises on his hands and arms.”
Gideon pulled away and leaned back against his door. “Okay, that one you can explain to me.”
She exhaled a cleansing breath. “I got in at least one good shot at the man who attacked me in the fire yesterday. That’s how I freed myself and got the glove.”
“So we’re not just looking for someone with big hands but—”
“—someone with big hands that have been in a fight.”
Gideon sat forward and shifted the engine into gear. “Damn. I wanted it to be Kelleher. The man’s an arrogant SOB.”
“And I wanted it to be Jack Quinton.” Despite Gideon’s assertion that he couldn’t be her attacker, she wanted to take a look at the man’s arms and hands, anyway. She pressed her lips together in a frown. “One man claims he loves me, but doesn’t want to share me with the world. Another might think I’m responsible for his fiancée’s death. It’s a little disconcerting to wonder if anyone else out there might have a motive for wanting me dead.”
“Try not to think about it right now. I’m taking you home.”
With her stalker still at large, and more unanswered questions than ever, Meghan felt that unsettling cloud of danger around her growing, slowly eating up the good things that were left in her world.
Home. Without Gideon at her side and children of her own, she wondered if she could ever truly find her way there.
Chapter Thirteen
“You got a minute?” Gideon set the last of the dishes on the drain board beside the sink and leaned one hip against the counter. Meghan, bent over at the waist, loading dishes onto the bottom rack of the dishwasher, afforded him a tantalizing view of her shapely rump.
“Sure. What’s up?” she asked, picking up another stack of plates and bending over.
He couldn’t pinpoint what it was—the lean curves of her body, her graceful athleticism, just the fact it was her—that transformed every move she made into a joy to watch. Even something as humdrum as cleaning up the kitchen became an erotic stimulus if Meghan was a part of it. When she put away the bread in the pantry and butted the door shut with a swish of her hip, Gideon had to close his eyes to temper his body’s lusty response to the innocently seductive movement.
He had to tread very carefully through the next few hours of his life or he could destroy everything that had ever truly mattered to him. As far as Meghan was concerned, their love affair had ended because a tragic twist of fate had set them on two very different paths. Maybe they didn’t have a future together. But he wouldn’t strip her of her self-worth the way her uncle had, simply because life hadn’t worked out the way he’d planned it. He’d already done her a terrible wrong and he had to make amends.
As she pushed her hair off her face, the exposed bandage at her temple reminded him of the scars on her belly and the ones hidden inside her that made her think she wasn’t enough for him. Her father’s abandonment and Pete Preston’s abuse had done their damage. But instead of understanding her sacrifice, instead of helping her heal, he’d mistakenly verified what she already believed about herself. He was the one who made her think she wasn’t enough woman for any man.
It would take him a hell of a long time to get over the guilt he stewed in because of his cold, speechless reaction to Meghan’s confession about her sterility. He needed to make things right between them, not just for her own safety now, but for her future.
His own future would be long and painful and empty if he failed.
Even their friendship was doomed to become a thing of the past, once her stalker was caught and he’d fulfilled his promise to stay with her until the case was solved. And neither their love nor their friendship would make any damn difference if he couldn’t catch the man who still wanted her dead.
The clock was ticking.
And he couldn’t afford to waste a moment of it.
She closed the dishwasher and called him on his pensive mood. “You’re staring.”
“It’s a nice view.” One that he’d miss forever. She seemed startled by the unexpected compliment, but said nothing. He might be her ex-boyfriend, her former best friend, her soon-to-be-out-of-her-life lover.
But he wasn’t dead.
And he didn’t lie.
Dorie had gone outside to watch the little boys while Alex and Eddie broke out the paint to finish priming the garage. He and Meghan were alone in the house and he wanted nothing more than to sweep her into his arms. To grab her by that lush little tush and set her up on the counter and kiss her and caress her until she understood what a perfect woman she was.
But that was a lesson that wasn’t his to teach anymore.
However, there was one wounded heart they might still be able to heal. “I need your help. I read the Grimes file last night. I want to talk to Matthew.”
Half an hour later Meghan was sitting on the sofa with Matthew securely tucked into her lap. Her fair head was bent low to snuggle against Matthew’s dark one. It was a sweet, stunning contrast that tugged at Gideon’s heartstrings.
That’s how it should be. For her. For him.
But it wasn’t. This was about Matthew’s needs, not his.
He hadn’t been sure quite how to handle this, but he’d tried to think of the serious talks he’d had with his father growing up. Nervous energy had him pacing the room as he tried to live up to Sid Taylor’s standard. He began his report three different ways, apologizing at the end of each fruitless attempt. Finally, Meghan motioned him to sit so he wouldn’t tower over the boy.
Matthew clung to Meghan, his chubby arms latched firmly around her neck. And while he didn’t cower when Gideon sat beside them, he didn’t turn around to look at him, either. Something close to the panic he’d felt when Meghan had disappeared in the fire tried to grab hold of him now. Matthew was just a little kid, barely thigh-high. And yet this was scary. This sitting and talking. Trying to reach the heart and mind of a troubled child.
The enormity of what Gideon was trying to do made choosing the right words difficult. “I know it sounds technical, but the fire at your house was caused by a plugged-up flue on your heating stove. The pipe was loaded with creosote that caught fire and burned through the main wall of the house before the alarms or anyone even noticed it.”
Matthew slipped him a sideways glance and frowned as if Gideon had muttered a foreign incantation.
Try again. Meghan mouthed the words. Gideon nodded, needing her encouragement as much as the boy did, though he was envious of Matthew’s needy clutch on Meghan. It was a very different sort of comfort than what she’d offered him that night in his apartment, but Gideon knew that Matthew felt safe and loved within the circle of her arms. He had.
He tried to think like a four-year-old to figure out the best way to make him understand the truth. “I work with scientists who can tell that the stove in your house got too hot and made the fire. I know matches are interesting, and maybe you play with them sometimes when you shouldn’t. But you didn’t burn down your house.”
Meghan hugged the boy tight in her arms. “It’s not your fault that your mom and dad died.”
Gideon reached out to touch the silky mop of dark brown hair. He was so small, so delicate. “If that’s what you’ve been thinking, don’t. Sometimes bad things happen…” His gaze slipped over the boy’s head and locked on Meghan’s. The tears glistening in her honey-colored eyes made this that much more difficult, that much more important. “But it doesn’t make you a bad person.”
Matthew squinched his shoulders and scooted away from Gideon’s touch. The rejection stung, but he didn’t push it.
Planting himself on the far side of Meghan’s lap, Matthew turned to look at Gideon. The bow-shaped circle of his lips opened. But no sound came out. Instead he sidled closer to Meghan. But Gideon recognized a boy-to-man willingness to listen. And it filled him with hope.
“Now it’s important to understand that fire—even the little ones that a match or lighter makes—is always dangerous. I don’t want you to scare Meghan or Dorie or me again by playing with those things.” Enough lecturing. He offered the boy a gentle smile. “You did a very brave thing by taking your little brother to the neighbor’s house when you heard the alarm. I can tell you practiced your safety drill.” The brown eyes continued to watch him. “I’ll bet your mom and dad are very proud of you.”
Meghan pressed a kiss to Matthew’s hair. “I know they are.”
The therapist had said an official report from a real fireman might be the thing to help Matthew move past the guilt and fear that had rendered him silent. No matter how it
was phrased, Matthew and Mark Grimes had been through an unspeakable ordeal. But hopefully the facts, and the calm reassurances of two caring adults, would give him the courage to come back to life and be a child again.
Since he didn’t want a maudlin dwelling on the topic, Gideon had nothing else left to say beyond offering his support. “Do you want to come outside and help Alex and Eddie and me work on the garage tonight?”
Matthew simply blinked.
Gideon tried again. “I’ve got a paintbrush with your name on it.” Matthew frowned in confusion. “That’s just a figure…” He looked to Meg for help. “How do I explain figure of speech to a four-year-old?”
She smiled with a serene Madonna-like expression on her softly freckled features. “We can write his name on it.”
Gideon stood and extended his hand. “You wanna come?”
Matthew hesitated. He looked up at Meghan, who simply nodded. Was every male a sucker for her sweet, sweet smile?
With that bit of encouragement, he climbed down from her lap and took Gideon’s hand. Again, he marveled at how small Matthew was. His hand barely fit into Gideon’s palm. But he held on with an expectant trust that humbled him.
As he walked out the back door with the little boy at his side, he could hear Meghan sniffing back tears. Something warm and moist pricked at the corners of his own eyes. And he knew that she might be the only one who understood how much this meant to him.
This is what the best parts of fatherhood would be like—this is what losing Meghan had denied him.
Unexpected moments of love and pride and joy.
WITH THE RUMBLINGS of thunder in the distant sky to warn them, they’d packed up the paint supplies, cleaned up, and piled into Gideon’s Suburban to go for ice cream. The wall of night was approaching, led by a line of dark clouds that charged the air and cooled the temperature to a balmy seventy-eight degrees. A storm was coming.