by Cait London
He intended J.T. to know who he was, where he came from, and to have a family. The problem was that Liam didn’t know how to enter a family—
After Reuben died, Liam was left with medical bills and the job of cleaning up old papers. There, in Mary Cartwright’s Bible, had been a small perfect letter for “My Son Liam.” And then he had learned how Reuben had substituted an orphaned baby for his own stillborn son.
Thunder rumbled on Tallchief Mountain, and the waves on Tallchief Lake would be lashed with whitecaps, the wind damp with rain. Mary, Liam’s foster mother, had been kind, but had passed away soon after Liam’s sixth birthday. Next, sweet Karen, Liam’s wife, had passed silently away after bearing J.T. And then old Reuben—Liam swallowed the tight hatred in his throat—the man who had picked him up from the river bank was tight with money, bitter with words and fast to use his hands on a child. But not on J.T.; Reuben had known better than to touch Liam’s son as he had hurt Liam.
Liam nodded, picking up J.T. in his arms and opening the door for the woman to enter his house. His son hooked an arm tightly around Liam’s neck, and Liam held him closer. “It’s all right, J.T.,” he said quietly, and closed the door of his plain, clean house behind the woman.
She entered with quick assessing glances, taking in the bare furnishings, the toys and trucks strewn across the floor, the shabby desk piled high with papers and bills. She frowned at the clutter of a disassembled carburetor on a side table—Liam’s work while J.T. slept. “I’ll wait here,” she said, sitting very straight in a battered chair. She clasped her huge leather, business bag on her lap as she glanced at her watch yet again.
Liam tossed aside the deliberate, impatient nudge. “If you want, you can use the bathroom to freshen up.”
Her body tightened within the fluid expensive suit, and he almost smiled at her distaste. While his towels and bathroom were meticulous—a contrast to the filth in which he’d grown up—there were no hand creams or special tissues available. “No, thank you. I’m just fine,” she said.
She stirred restlessly, and while he sat with J.T., he noted her obvious reluctance to change her mind. “Well, maybe I should just freshen up while you finish,” she said, holding her heavy shoulder bag tightly as she entered the bathroom. Her wary expression said she didn’t trust him.
Liam ate quietly, helping J.T. with his spoon and using a paper napkin to set an example. He knew little about trust, except his son’s.
When she came out, J.T. sniffed at the delicate flower scent, an oddity in the all male house. The little boy’s eyes widened as she produced a tube of hand cream and began working it into her hands. He sniffed again, unfamiliar with the feminine action. J.T. finished his chicken take-out meal, his gray eyes wary on the woman. Her eyes were as green as summer grass when Liam served her ice water. “Thank you very much,” she said very properly, and sipped the water. Then she was up on her feet, pacing in an odd, one-heeled way, a restless woman ready to be off and tearing through life. Liam recognized the type, well dressed, raised in a life of money, eager for more money, and little time for anything in between.
Breeding and money, Liam thought, as she handed the glass back to him. The diamond studs in those dainty ears cost enough to clothe J.T. for years. When J.T. was finished, Liam told him to get ready, and the boy solemnly went to the bathroom. He appeared moments later with his favorite red ball cap and toy truck, standing close to Liam.
After handing J.T. into the wrecker and buckling him into his car seat, Liam turned to help the woman up into the seat. Several feet off the ground, the high cab required the use of a handgrip and a running board. She hitched up her skirt with one hand and stepped onto the metal running board with her unshod foot. It was dainty, Liam noticed absently, small and narrow and perfect within the ruined, dirty hose. From the severe way she dressed, he wasn’t expecting the neatly lacquered dark-red toenails. She gripped the pipe handle on the side of the truck, and pulled herself up to the running board, balancing precariously.
In the next moment her high heel caught, and she twisted, tumbling back into Liam’s arms.
He hadn’t had a woman in his arms for years. The stunning softness of her hips and the softness of her breasts beneath his fingers shocked him. One glance down to her slightly parted suit jacket and the glimpse of quivering golden flesh took away his breath.
“Sorry,” she said, scowling up at him as the sensual vibrations held him trapped.
“Maybe you’d better take off your shoe—so it won’t cause you to fall again,” he offered roughly when he could catch his breath.
“Just look at my hose,” she said accusingly, as if he were the cause. She stretched out a neatly curved leg and pointed her toe. “If you think I’m going to let that happen, think again,” she stated, clearly offended.
Liam nodded and tried to focus on what he was supposed to be doing, but all he could think about was the soft, sweet-smelling woman in his arms and those stormy green eyes. Witch’s eyes filled with secrets and brewing enough heat to scorch him….
Expensive. Spoiled. High-class. The thoughts rapped at him as he managed to place her back on the running board. She tottered precariously, and Liam shook his head and closed his eyes momentarily. Then he placed a broad hand on her backside and pushed her upward. She lifted her skirt again, and from below Liam was presented with a mind-blowing view of long legs up to her thighs, and a neatly curved bottom. He blinked, trying to force away the image of a beige-pink lacy slip.
He blinked again, for the beige-pink lace matched the lace that had been exposed by her gaping suit jacket.
Liam suddenly realized that it was very hot in the late July sunset, and that he was feeling unstable and meltable.
“I’m ready,” she said imperially from feet above him, the queen to the servant. She met his look evenly. “You can stop scowling now.”
He slammed the door on her snooty tone and the intriguing view of her slender, curved legs.
He was just recovering, shifting gears and driving down the highway when she looked at him over J.T.’s head. “He doesn’t say much, and neither do you.”
She’d torn through his attempt at reclaiming silence and peace. The woman irritated and pushed, Liam thought doggedly. He didn’t like feeling nettled. “He’s fine.”
But J.T. was frightened, his little hand reaching out to grip Liam’s T-shirt. That small, tight fist sent a bolt of pain to Liam’s heart. As a boy, he’d known about fear, and he didn’t want J.T. frightened. Liam didn’t know how to share the boy, how to make him feel safe with others. He hoped that eventually J.T. would learn to trust others, because if anything happened to Liam, J.T. would be alone—
“You shouldn’t have brought him. He could get hurt. Couldn’t you have called a baby-sitter?”
“No.” Liam knew his answer was too harsh. But until J.T. settled in better—
“I would have thought any of the Tallchiefs—”
“We don’t mix much.” Liam watched a doe and fawn cross the highway, pointing to the animals for J.T.’s pleasure. Until six months ago, J.T. had grown up in Moss, a small Wyoming mountain town. Deer were plentiful near Moss and had always fascinated J.T.
“His mother, then.” The woman’s slanted green eyes flashed in the shadows; she was a fighter, determined to make her point.
Liam resented the need to answer, but she wasn’t the kind to let be. “We’re alone.”
The woman was checking her watch again, distracted by her misfortune. “I don’t have time for this.”
She rubbed her upper stomach in a gesture that Liam knew—the woman probably had an ulcer. But it wasn’t enough to distract her from him— “The Tallchief family is supposed to be very close. All that heritage thing going for them—kilts and Native American.”
“I wouldn’t know much about that.”
“You should. Your son deserves to know all he can about his heritage.”
“That’s our business,” Liam said too quietly, in a raised-hackl
es, hands-off tone that most people recognized. He’d heard about the Tallchief legend of how a Sioux chieftain captured a Scots bondwoman and how she tamed him. He’d heard of the contemporary Tallchiefs, how they dressed in kilts and tartans at family gatherings. He wanted J.T. to know about who he was, where he came from, but Liam didn’t know how to be a part of a family. He’d tried for his wife’s sake, and loving him, Karen had understood. He didn’t like being pushed; he’d had enough from old Reuben.
She sat straighter, her lips tightening, clearly wanting to say more. One darting glance at J.T. told Liam that, if not for his child, she would be tearing into him. Those green eyes flashed at him through the shadowy cab of the tow truck. Then she checked her watch again, eager to be away from a man who didn’t take good care of his child. Her slight sniff and the way she set her jaw said more than words.
That grated. So did the soft scent filling his cab, tantalizing over the grease odor and J.T.’s recent boat and bubble bath.
Shifting restlessly in the cab, she ripped a cellular phone from the big business bag. “Eight o’clock in Wyoming. Amen Flats. I’m here. My car is dead, and I’m not happy. I paid a mint for it, and it’s sitting out here in the wilderness steaming like a boiling crab pot. I’ll call when I’m at Silver’s. Make certain that memo to Charleston Presents goes out in the morning. And a mass mailing out to all the applicants for the new opening. I worked overtime getting the text just right on the screening test. When those tests come back, create a file for each one. I’ll go over them when I get back. And have Hazel run a comparison of insurance health benefits and of the funds in our employees’ retirement packages. No, don’t call me. I’ll check in. I don’t want my friend’s household disturbed by my business. And see if you can send an extra supply of my favorite hosiery…. What? Again?”
When she punched off the cell phone, she sat back against the seat, her elegant hands locked in a white-knuckled grip upon her thick tote-bag. As if remembering something, she tore into the bag, rummaged and came out with an envelope. Her hands were shaking as she opened the letter, scanning it.
Liam concentrated on the winding mountain road. Her problems weren’t his, and he kept to his own life, he told himself as she placed the letter in the envelope and then in the bag too precisely, as if she were filing it away. He recognized her tight, closed expression; the woman wasn’t sharing her problems, and he wasn’t asking.
J.T. watched with fascination as she rummaged in the big tote again, produced a laptop computer and braced it on her thighs. After a moment of frowning and tsking and punching keys, she clicked it closed, replaced it in her tote and folded her arms over her chest. “My car is just around that bend.”
The silver luxury car was missing a part that would take days to replace, refusing to start. Liam pointed to a safe spot, and J.T. moved to stand quietly aside. “Starter,” Liam said, and J.T. nodded. When Liam finished attaching the car to the tow truck, J.T. stood beside him. J.T.’s small hands hooked into his cutoff pockets the same as Liam had hooked into his carpenter pants. He wore the carpenter pants for a reason—if his hands were busy at the grocery store or when paying a bill, J.T. was to grip the loop for the hammer and stay close. As a single father he’d discovered many ways to keep close watch on his son.
The woman blew a tendril of silky hair away from her nose. “He acts like you, right down to those fierce, scowling looks when he thinks I’m picking on you. Clearly he’s protective of you. You haven’t asked, but my name is Michelle Farrell. You’ll need my name for the bill. You don’t ask questions, do you? In fact, you don’t talk much at all. You need to talk more to your son, not just gesture and point when you want him to do something. Are you certain you know about attaching my car to your truck? You won’t break or dent anything?”
Liam had had enough. He usually shed comments like hers, but there was something about the woman that grated. “Do you have kids?” he asked abruptly.
Clearly startled, she blinked up at him. “Well, no. I was married, but I…I opted for a career, not children.”
“Well, then. I guess I’m more experienced at child care, aren’t I,” he stated—it wasn’t a question—and then picked her up and sat her on the fender of his wrecker. The slender indentation of her waist burned his hands long after he released her. “Stay put and out of the way. At least my son knows when not to talk and to stay out of danger.”
He turned away and wondered at the tiny rivulet of pleasure running through him. He wasn’t that accustomed to pleasure, other than enjoying J.T., but Michelle’s startled expression was a definite payoff after her pushing. She quickly adjusted to the situation, looking very much like the queen overlooking her servant as he worked.
Her long, crossed legs, one dainty foot in torn hose and the other clad in an expensive shoe, were hard to ignore. The slight rain began and, used to taking care of his son’s needs first, Liam lifted J.T. into the cab, strapping him into his car seat. Then because the boy looked uncertain, fearing that the woman would ask him prying questions, Liam kissed him and nuzzled his throat, making bear noises.
Through the window he spotted Michelle glaring at him. She’d taken off the rubber band, and her hair caught the mist, the rippling waves floating around her shoulders and lifting in the slight wind. The strands whirled gently around her, fascinating him for just a heartbeat. He sensed she wouldn’t ask for help—women like her were used to being cared for—and with a doomed sigh he went to lift her down from the fender.
Michelle scowled down at the man who had briskly, efficiently detached her car at his service station, as if he’d like to be freed of her as well. He’d driven her to Silver and Nick’s country home with only the sound of the windshield wipers slashing and the child stirring restlessly between them. He’d torn open the door, leaped to the ground, and now he jerked open her door and waited for her.
Liam Tallchief was gorgeous, standing in the rain, his T-shirt plastered to his broad chest, his long legs spread wide and clad in loose carpenter pants, his worn biker’s boots braced on the paved driveway.
She eased J.T.’s head from her shoulder, and with a sigh, the child slept deeply. His raven hair and lashes an exact match to his father’s. The adorable child was one matter, his father another. She hadn’t liked Liam from the moment he’d opened his house door. He’d been too brooding, too silent, and his dark, fierce expression—those stormy gray eyes narrowing at her between his long, black glossy lashes…Or maybe it was the lock of his jaw, his set mouth that set her nerves humming.
“Coming?” he asked in a slow, deep voice with just the touch of insolence to set her off.
“If I find one dent—”
“Uh-huh. You’ll sue.”
“If I ran Dover’s human resources branch like you run your business—”
“Uh-huh. Does all that hair get wild and curly as sunlit witch’s silk when you get mad?”
Sunlit witch’s silk. The romantic image knocked the air from her. She moved her lips, and nothing would come out. She blinked when he ordered, “Jump. I’ll catch you. That’s a whole lot easier than you falling into my arms.”
Michelle’s thoughts ran across her mind like a digital printout: she ran an office staff of twenty-five people; she organized conferences, testing and training programs, dealt with personnel problems and issued reports. An expert profiler, she drew an ungodly salary, and this service station hero was insinuating that she was a klutz? Taking a deep breath, Michelle prepared to tell him off.
His black hair gleamed with rain as he tilted his head to one side, studying her. She tried with dignity to work her way out of the cab, her shoe slipped on the wet running board and she tumbled into his arms. “Uh!”
He held her tight against him, looking down at her through the heavy rain as though she were a prize he could carry off. The cool damp air quivered between them, and the strong shoulder she had grabbed as she fell flexed beneath her palm. Liam’s gray eyes slowly ran down her body, paused at the crevi
ce of her breasts, nestled in her gray suit jacket, and he trembled, holding her tighter.
There in the slashing rain, he was like no other man she’d ever known—his skin gleaming damply, his cheekbones harsh and his jaw unrelenting. She dug her fingers deeper, wanting to keep this fierce man close, to study him, to feel that raw, stormy essence—
A real man, she thought, no pretense, just the thin veneer of civilization. He could have been a warrior carrying off a bride as Tallchief had carried Una Fearghus—Michelle shivered and licked the raindrop from her lip, and his gray eyes seared her mouth. She sucked in air, catching the scent of rain and of man and a mystery that she had to unravel. Liam Tallchief’s expression darkened as the wind whipped her hair around her, a strand clinging to his cheek.
The fierce, elemental storm circling them seemed meek when compared to the electricity leaping between them as gray eyes locked with dark green—
“Michelle!” Silver’s voice startled her, breaking the spell, and Liam tensed. Then in the next moment he was running through the rain, carrying her to the Palladins’ front porch. He returned to the tow truck, extracted her two large designer suitcases from the back and ran through the rain, carrying them easily.
She had just finished hugging Silver and was preparing to tell him off, when he grinned and knocked away her breath. “She’s mad as a wet hen,” he said to Silver, and reached to stroke away a strand of hair from Michelle’s cheek.
Then he frowned briefly, quickly turning and hurrying back to his sleeping son…and leaving her heart pounding wildly, inexplicably.
“Okay, let’s have it. You usually handle unexpected situations easily. You’re very capable. It isn’t the car breaking down, is it? It’s something to do with Liam Tallchief,” Silver said as Michelle stalked the length of the guest room, dressed in black satin pajamas. Nick and Silver’s three-month-old daughter, Jasmine, was asleep in her crib, and Nick was washing the dishes and settling the house. A basket of diapers sat on Michelle’s bed, waiting for Silver to fold them.