скачать книгу бесплатно
As the oversize freight doors clanged shut and the elevator began its noisy and excruciatingly slow ascent, surreptitiously she eased her left foot out of its leather flat and felt instant relief. She looked up in time to see both Jim and Dan glance politely away.
Her beloved collection of size seven Manolos were a dim memory, Marilyn thought wryly. Ditto for her wardrobe of designer suits and dresses, all of which she’d seemed to balloon out of within days of learning she was pregnant. Once upon a time she’d concentrated on the label of a garment, but now she’d acquired the habit of riffling through racks of clothes, extracting a likely looking top or skirt, and tugging ruthlessly at the waist-line to judge how much stretch it had.
Of course, her shopping expedition today had been only a cover. She’d needed to get away from the office and come to some hard decisions.
She was a thirty-one-year-old expectant single mother. She’d lost her figure, her reputation and after what she’d discovered this morning, quite possibly her job. And she had to go to the bathroom like nobody’s business.
Joy soared through her, so pure and exhilarating she felt a prickling moisture behind her eyes. She was going to have a baby. She was going to have a baby.
“…bring a plate up to you later, if you’d like.”
She’d missed the beginning of Dan’s comment, but it was obvious from his expression that he hadn’t been expecting tears in reply. She mustered a shaky smile.
“Sorry, hormone overload. It’s gotten so bad lately I have to keep a box of tissues by the television in case a heartwarming advertisement comes on. What were you saying?”
“I’m making my special moussaka tonight. I thought if you didn’t feel like cooking—” He stopped as Marilyn hastily tried to erase the moue of instant nausea that had shown on her face. “Vine leaves and ground lamb not on the menu these days?”
“I’m finally over the morning sickness, thank goodness,” she said as the elevator lurched to a stop at her floor and the doors began to open. “But certain foods still seem to flick the queasiness switch with me. I’ll take a rain check on that moussaka for about six months from now, if that’s all right with you.”
Jim and Dan were good neighbors, she thought as she sped through her open-concept living area and clattered up the metal stairs. That was important, especially in an unconventional building like this. The former warehouse was divided into only three spacious loft apartments, one of which was vacant at the moment, its owners being away in Europe.
“And the best thing about them is that right from the first they were happy for me when I told them I was expecting,” she said out loud a few minutes later as she descended the staircase and bent with difficulty to pick up the shopping bags she’d dropped on her frantic way in. “Which is a whole lot more than I got from either the Langworthy or the Van Buren side of my family.”
She felt suddenly too weary even to unpack her purchases. Tossing the bags onto the sofa and dropping into an oversize velvet-upholstered club chair, she closed her eyes.
Immediately he was there, the way he always was when she let down her guard.
Sometimes she could almost persuade herself that that whole night three months ago had been a dream—an erotic, sex-charged dream, in which she’d acted with an abandon that was totally unlike her waking self. And Connor Ducharme fit the profile of a dream lover perfectly, right down to his lazy sensuality, his tall, leanly muscled build, his New Orleans drawl. If that night really had been only a dream she would have been able to handle it, Marilyn thought bleakly. But it had happened. She’d slept with a stranger—not once, but three times that night. And she’d loved it.
That was the part she found hardest to live with.
She opened her eyes. From the soaring ceiling twenty-odd feet above her swooped a perfectly balanced wire and metal mobile, its impressive span in keeping with the spaciousness of the loft but its delicate construction a counterpoint to the exposed brick and heavy wooden beams that were an indication of the building’s original function as a turn-of-the-century warehouse. A current of air caught the mobile and it swirled lightly, like a swallow changing direction in midflight.
She’d actually phoned the New Orleans police department a week later and asked for him. It had taken seven sleepless nights for her to come to that decision, and when she had she’d felt like the weakest of weak-willed females. She was well aware she’d sent him away, had told him she wanted to pretend the previous few hours had never happened, but illogically, that hadn’t mattered. She’d wanted to hear his voice. She’d found herself needing his touch. She’d craved him.
So she’d set aside her pride and phoned, and at first she’d had the terrible suspicion that he’d duped her. The desk sergeant had asked her to repeat the name of the detective she was inquiring about, and had put her on hold for what seemed an eternity. At long last he’d come back on the line, only to inform her that Ducharme wasn’t in the precinct building at the moment.
But by then she’d lost what little courage she’d had. She’d hung up without leaving her name.
She’d never attempted to contact him again, not even when she’d found out she was pregnant.
Connor Ducharme was a dangerous man. He’d seemed to know instinctively what she’d wanted that night and he’d let her believe he could give it to her. But although he’d made her melt, although his mouth, his hands, his whole body had brought her to mind-shattering ecstasy, what made Detective Ducharme so very, very dangerous was that he’d known just how much more she’d needed. He’d pretended to give her that, too.
For a few delirious hours he’d made her believe she was loved.
Marilyn closed her eyes again. Her right hand slid unconsciously to the swell of her belly, and despite the confusing ache in her heart and the problems she knew she was facing at Mills & Grommett, the beatific smile she’d once so envied on Holly’s face crept over her own.
And immediately faded.
“I thought I knew what she was going through, but before now I had no idea,” she whispered. “Sky was her whole world, and he’s still missing. I’d die if anyone tried to take my baby—”
A loud clanking, the signal that another arduous ascent had begun for the freight elevator, drowned out the rest of her words. Almost grateful for the interruption, with an effort she pushed herself out of the chair and began gathering up her shopping bags for the second time.
A visitor for Jim and Dan, she surmised as the clanking continued. She couldn’t remember the last time the elevator had stopped at her floor with a guest, and as far as she knew the Dickenson’s apartment above hadn’t yet been sublet.
She put her idle speculations aside as her gaze lit upon a fuchsia sleeve dangling from one of the bags. Heart sinking, she pulled the garment out. It was a blouse, made of some silky blend and with ruffles spilling down the low-cut front. The black pants that went with it were what the salesgirl had called a yoga style—stretchy and form-fitting, with a very slight flare at the bottom. The low-rise waistband was meant to sit below the swell of her belly.
What was I thinking? These aren’t me at all, for heaven’s sake, she thought in exasperation. For starters, I could hardly have chosen a more attention-getting top. And those pants don’t hide a thing. I might as well hang a big Baby on Board sign around my neck.
She was going to have to return them. Sighing, she began to cram them back into the bag, but then she paused.
This pregnancy, unplanned as it might have been, was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her. The baby she was carrying was that most precious of all miracles, an evolving little human being. Why would she want to hide it?
“And those pants were a whole lot more comfortable than the ones I’ve got on.” She glanced down in sudden distaste at the navy suit she’d worn to the office that day. Just as suddenly, she began unbuttoning the jacket.
Moments later she was padding barefoot across the carpet to the full-length mirror by the door. She stood in front of it and took a deep breath.
The navy suit’s boxiness had made her look bulky rather than pregnant. But the clinging fabrics of the fuchsia top and the yoga pants hugged her curves—all of her curves, she realized. The ruffled V-neck of the blouse skimmed silkily over breasts that were fuller than she’d ever known them to be, and then stretched even more over her stomach. The low-rider style of the black pants made no apology for the roundness of her belly, but the lean cut also accentuated the length of her legs.
She looked pregnant…and in what she was wearing, pregnant looked sexy. In the mirror she saw faint heat touch her cheeks, and hastily she turned away.
The elevator clanged to a halt outside her apartment.
“Oh, no,” she muttered, aghast. She whirled back to the mirror and her reflection, but even as she fluffed the petal-like ruffles toward the vee of the blouse’s neckline the door buzzer sounded.
The ruffles fell back into place. Exasperated, she gave it up as a bad job, and jabbed the intercom button with her thumb.
“Who is it?”
Marilyn found herself hoping her unanticipated caller was her brother, Josh. Throwing his hat into the political ring seemed to have brought out the stuffed shirt in him and although his recent engagement had loosened him up a little, she was pretty sure the gubernatorial hopeful for the State of Colorado would be none too thrilled with his sister’s pregnancy being flaunted front and center where the electorate couldn’t help but see it.
Except her mystery guest wasn’t Joshua. Even though he didn’t identify himself, she’d heard those burnt brown sugar tones often enough in her dreams these past three months to recognize them immediately.
“Let me in, cher’,” the voice on the other side of the door drawled. “That way you get to tell me to go to hell to my face.”
She’d been planning to contact Connor Ducharme tonight, she thought hollowly. It seemed now she wouldn’t have to.
TRUST HER Beacon Hill upbringing, Marilyn told herself ten minutes later. Grandmother Van Buren had always haughtily held that a real lady never admitted to an awkward situation, and it seemed her lesson had sunk in. On the sofa across from her, Con balanced the bone-china cup of tea she’d offered him on a carelessly crossed knee, and so far neither one of them had been crass enough to tell the other to go to hell.
But she had no illusions. She’d seen the flicker of reaction in his eyes when she’d opened the door and he’d seen she was pregnant. Beneath the veneer of civility they were like two prizefighters circling cautiously, each waiting for the starting bell to ring.
No matter what his original reason for coming here, the possibility that he could be the father of the child she was so obviously carrying had to be in his mind. She needed to dispel that idea before it took root. She knew next to nothing about the man, but it wasn’t inconceivable that he might be attracted to the notion of playing daddy on a part-time basis, and she had no intention of standing by and letting that happen.
No child of mine is going to grow up caught between two worlds, and never fitting fully into either one, Marilyn vowed fiercely. Grandmother Van Buren’s rules of etiquette be damned, it’s time to get a few things clear here.
But she’d left it too late. Before she could speak he beat her to it.
“You once told me you were a coward, cher’.” Leaning forward, he set his cup and saucer on the large Moroccan leather hassock she used as a coffee table. Under dark brows his green gaze held hers and his mouth quirked up wryly.
“Truth is, it’s me you should pin that label on. No matter what you said you wanted at the time I shouldn’t have left things the way I did between us, but every time I thought about contacting you I lost my nerve. I took advantage of the situation that night. It wasn’t anything I felt too proud about the next day, and I figured you’d have every right to slam the phone down on me if I called.”
His self-deprecating honesty took her by surprise. “We both know it wasn’t that simple,” she said slowly. “I pretty much threw myself at you that evening in my office. I accept half the responsibility for what happened.”
She hesitated, and then went on, her heart in her mouth. “This—” she spread her fingers wide over her belly “—isn’t a result of what we did together, in case you were wondering. I know we were insane enough not to take precautions that third and final time, but the dates don’t work out. I would have already been pregnant when we—when we—”
She floundered to an halt.
“When we made love, cher’?” Taking her by surprise again, he shook his head. “Hell, I know I’m not the father, sugar. Tony Corso is, isn’t he?”
Her brother had asked her that same question, but in a furious tone of voice. She’d refused to give him an answer, knowing full well that her silence would seem to him to be confirmation of his suspicions, and since she’d had no intention of telling Josh that she’d slept with a stranger his assumptions had suited her just fine.
As Connor Ducharme’s same assumption should, she told herself. She didn’t want him to wonder if he was the father of her baby, so why should she feel even the slightest pinprick of disillusion that he was so easily bowing out from the position?
“Tony’s the father,” she agreed tartly. “But what made you so sure you weren’t in the running even before I told you, Detective? Was it a smidge of relief on learning that if anyone’s going to get slapped with a paternity suit, it’s not going to be you?”
The green eyes across from her darkened. As if he felt suddenly restless, Con got to his feet and took a few steps into the middle of the room before halting beneath the mobile swaying gently above. His hands in his pockets, he tipped his head back to look at it.
“I never understood men who needed to get their asses hauled into court before they’d pay support, honey,” he said softly. “I always saw children as a gift. I’d like a whole houseful of them, with a mama to go along with them.”
Still looking up at the mobile he went on, his tone devoid of emotion. “But that’s not in the cards for me. I know I’m not in the running, cher’, because I can’t be in the running. An illness when I was a boy took care of that particular possibility for me.”
She stared at him. “But how can that be?” she began unguardedly. Before she could continue he turned to her.
“Just the luck of the draw, I guess,” he said, his jaw tight and his gaze unreadable. “From what I’ve been told, the consequences could have been a lot more serious. Does Corso know he’s going to be a father?”
There was an added watchfulness in his gaze as he waited for her answer. This was the reason he’d sought her out, Marilyn realized suddenly. He was still hunting Tony Corso. This was an official visit.
But of course it was, she told herself a heartbeat later. What had she expected—that he’d brokenly confess she’d haunted his sleepless nights, that his search for Corso was just an excuse to see her again, that he’d fallen hopelessly in love with her during those few hours they’d spent together and he hadn’t been able to stay away?
She was a damn lead in his investigation. Their unplanned tryst in her office had been an unforeseen perk to him, nothing more.
She didn’t owe Con Ducharme anything.
“Tony and I slept together once,” she said flatly. “He wasn’t the love of my life and I obviously wasn’t his, since the next day I found he’d not only walked out on me but on his job at Mills & Grommett. No, he doesn’t know I’m pregnant, and if I knew where to find him, I still don’t think I’d tell him. But Tony’s not planning on being found, Detective.”
“Something’s happened.” His gaze narrowed. “When I first came to you asking about Corso you made it clear that you didn’t believe he was guilty of any criminal conduct. Now I get the feeling you wouldn’t put anything past him. When did your opinion change?”
Why couldn’t the man have stayed in New Orleans? Marilyn thought hopelessly. What she was about to tell him would have been hard enough over the phone as she’d planned. She wasn’t sure if she could go through with it in person.
But she had to.
“Today,” she said. She looked down at her lap, not wanting to meet his eyes. “Because today I realized beyond a doubt that when Tony left Mills & Grommett so hastily he helped himself to a severance bonus from the company…except what he took from M & G went way beyond the fraud you told me he’d committed in Louisiana.”
“That fraud I told you about—” he began, but she didn’t let him finish. The next sentence was going to be the worst, she knew. Best to get it out as soon as possible.
“He stole viral stock.” Even to her own ears her voice sounded strained. “We’re a pharmaceutical firm. That’s one of the things our research department works with—viruses, some of them deadly. And somehow Corso got into my computer and authorized the transfer of a batch to a nonexistent company.”
Now she did meet his eyes. “Either he intends to sell it on the black market, or…” She’d been wrong, Marilyn thought sickly. This was the sentence too terrible to finish.
But the dark-haired man in front of her seemed to have no qualms. “Or he’s got his own plans for the stuff,” Con said.
He held her gaze, his features so grim they seemed carved. Like emeralds on fire, his eyes blazed with some incendiary emotion in the tan of his face.
That emotion was hatred, Marilyn realized with a sudden chill—a hatred so deep and all-encompassing that it seemed almost an entity in itself. If Con Ducharme’s hatred didn’t consume his enemy, she thought slowly, it would end up not only consuming him but everything he held precious.
Fear ran through her. Her hand spread protectively over the child growing inside her.
“You know what that plan is, don’t you?” Her voice cracked. “You know what Tony used me for.”
Just for a second the emotion in those green eyes darkened to compassion. Then it blazed up again, and when Con answered her his tone was devoid of any feeling at all.
“It’s not his plan, cher’, it’s his mobster uncle’s. And Helio DeMarco would only want to get his hands on experimental viral stock for one reason.” He gave a humorless smile.
“DeMarco intends to use it as a weapon against whoever gets in his way. And that includes anyone who might be too close to discovering what he’s done with your nephew, Sky Langworthy.”
Chapter Four
“You never wanted Tony at all, did you?” Marilyn looked up at Con in dawning comprehension. “The mobster’s the one you’re really after.”
“Helio DeMarco.” He’d drawn something from his pocket, she saw. It gleamed between his fingers as he passed it back and forth, and she realized it was a silver coin. He smiled tightly as he noticed her watching him. “You’re right. I’ve been hunting the bastard for eight months now, ever since he killed a friend of mine. One of these days I’m going to find him, and then—”
The silver dollar flashed upward as he tossed it carelessly into the air. It came down, and he caught it. He spread his palms wide for her inspection, and she inhaled sharply as she realized the coin was nowhere to be seen.
“And then Helio DeMarco’s going to disappear, just like that,” Con said softly. “That’s New Orleans justice, cher’.”
Something in his tone shook her. “Where I come from that’s vengeance,” she said unevenly. “No police force would countenance one of their own taking revenge like that.” Her gaze widened with swift doubt. “Unless that was a lie, too. Are you really a detective with the New Orleans Police, Con?”
For a moment she wondered if he was going to answer her. Then he grinned with real amusement. “Does this sound like a Minnesota accent, sugar?” he drawled. “Sure I’m with the New Awlins authorities, cher’. But I’ll bet you checked me out already, didn’t you?”
“As a matter of fact, I—”
Marilyn stopped, the words dying in her throat. That grin. It was absolutely devastating. And why hadn’t she noticed before that instead of being completely green, in a certain light those emerald eyes of his seemed sparked with gold? He was definitely too much, of course, with one wayward strand of raven-black hair falling across his brow and thick lashes casting shadows on those hard-cut cheekbones. Even his choice of attire, austere as his dark suit and white shirt seemed at first glance, was a world away from both Boston and Denver. His vest was a black on black brocade. His shirt wasn’t cotton, but creamy linen.
He was a throwback. Even as the thought occurred to her she knew she’d hit upon the key to the man. Con Ducharme was pistols at dawn, bourbon on the verandah, a risky dalliance with another man’s wife in a jasmine-scented and moonlit garden. He was a quick temper flaring over a card game. He was heated hours entwined in satin sheets.
He was wearing a gun.
Hard reality returned in a rush as she glimpsed the sliver of worn leather briefly revealed under his jacket. He’d as much as confessed to her that he intended to kill a man. That lazy charm camouflaged a resolve as cold as bare steel.
“As a matter of fact, I did check up on you,” she said slowly. “But tell me, aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction? You said it yourself—it’s New Orleans justice you’re dispensing, and Denver’s a long way from the Big Easy.”
“I had some time coming to me. I took it. This is a private hunt, not an official one.” He looked away. “You’re right, from the first I was only after Corso because I hoped he’d lead me to DeMarco, and when I found out he’d left his position at your company I got a real bad feeling. When I learned that Mills & Grommett dealt with viral material and that the family who owned the company had just had a child kidnapped, the bad feeling got worse.”
He met her confused gaze, his own shadowed. “But I needed a solid link between his nephew’s disappearance and Sky’s abduction before I could know for sure he was involved, and there didn’t seem to be one until this week when the Denver police forwarded the reports I’d requested on the kidnapping. I’d told them it sounded similar to an unsolved case I’d worked on years ago,” he added.
And why did you feel you needed to give me that information? Marilyn wondered, watching as he looked briefly away again and then back at her, his gaze once more steady and clear. He was lying, she thought with sudden certainty. Not about everything, maybe not about anything important, but it hadn’t happened the way he was telling her.
Still, he was a police detective talking about a case, whether it was officially sanctioned or not. Maybe he was holding back details he couldn’t—
