скачать книгу бесплатно
“But I’ll be fine,” she added on a rushed note, keeping her gaze averted from Holt Ramsey.
“Why don’t you have a seat, Maci?” Keefe said in his gentle tone. “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look well.”
Maci smiled her relief as she took his suggestion, holding her gaze steadfast on Keefe’s nondescript features, seeing him as a safe harbor.
“Holt, my boy, what can I get you to drink?” Seymour asked with exuberance.
“Nothing.” Holt’s tone was clipped.
Seymour’s brows shot up. “Why not?”
“This isn’t a social call.”
Seymour muttered under his breath and then fell silent.
Maci concentrated on smoothing a wrinkle out of her capri pants as distraction from the alarming thoughts going through her mind. A voice screamed inside her telling her this wasn’t fair. No one deserved two cruel twists of fate in a row.
“It’s good to see you, Holt,” Keefe said into the daunting silence before walking over and extending his hand.
Maci watched the exchanged handshakes but still couldn’t bring herself to look at Seymour’s son. Even thinking the word stepson was impossible.
“Likewise, Keefe,” Holt said in his low, rough-edged voice. His sexy voice.
Maci drew in a shuddering breath. This couldn’t be happening. Maybe if she blinked a time or two, he would disappear. Instead of blinking, she actually looked in Holt’s direction. He hadn’t disappeared, nor was he a figment of her imagination.
There he stood rock solid, and looking more gorgeous than he had two years ago with his fabulous head of blond hair and his blue-green eyes staring at her as though he’d seen a ghost. If anything had changed, he’d gotten browner and leaner, which made him seem taller. His was the commanding presence in the room. The other two men seemed to have shrunk.
Once she looked at him, she couldn’t take her eyes off him. He’d had this same effect on her in Jamaica. Her stomach was in a knot and she still felt dizzy.
“Did you sail here?” Seymour asked.
“No.” Holt’s tone was clipped.
“Then I’m assuming you’ll be staying here,” Seymour said, breaking the second long silence. “With us.”
Holt shrugged. “That depends.”
Maci saw her husband’s lips stretch into a thin line. “On whether you help me or not.”
Holt uncoiled his frame from against the door. “That’s right.”
“Sit down,” Seymour urged, gesturing toward a winged back chair. “We have a lot to discuss.” He turned to Maci. “I’m sure Holt’s ready for something to drink. Are you up to making him one?”
“Don’t bother,” Holt said, his eyes finally finding hers.
Maci held her breath. The physical attraction that had electrified her in Jamaica was still there, and from the look that jumped in Holt’s eyes, he felt it, too. She swallowed and shifted her gaze, her blood drumming in her ears. Seymour must never guess she and Holt had a past. Panic washed through her.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Keefe said in a nervous tone. “Your father desperately needs you.”
“That remains to be seen.” Holt’s tone was harsh with cynicism.
Seymour flushed, and his eyes narrowed on his son.
Maci knew he was having a difficult time keeping the lid on his temper. In fact, she was surprised that he had. Groveling was not Seymour’s style. But if Holt’s attitude prevailed, that was exactly what her husband was going to have to do.
Unless Seymour decided Holt wasn’t worth the effort.
Maci’s breathing faltered again, this time for a different reason. Seymour couldn’t go to prison. He just couldn’t. If Holt was the key to stopping that from happening, then he had to be persuaded to stay.
But how could she handle his constant presence? She couldn’t. That was the bottom line.
“Why did you come, then?” Seymour asked after taking a gulp of his scotch and water. His eyes never wavered from his son.
“I have my reasons.”
“Fine,” Keefe interceded quickly. “We won’t argue with that as long as you stay and hear us out.” The attorney didn’t bother to keep the guarded eagerness out of his voice.
“Look, son, I know—”
“Save it,” Holt cut in brutally. “It’s too late for that.”
Seymour’s eyes flashed. “Okay, you’re here, and I’m grateful. Having said that, your attitude sucks.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Maci’s gaze bounced between father and son while the air in the room crackled with tension. Her heart was hammering so hard she feared everyone could hear it.
“I’ll take it,” Seymour muttered.
Maci watched as relief settled over Keefe’s features. She, however, didn’t share it. And not because of her and Holt’s past, but rather because of Holt’s present relationship to Seymour.
Holt’s attitude did indeed suck. Under that circumstance, how effective would he be in representing his father on a murder charge? And why would he want to?
The answers to those questions weren’t readily apparent, so Maci would have to attempt to answer them later. While Keefe filled Holt in on the details of the case, Maci watched Holt’s reaction closely. Nothing was forthcoming. His features remained stoic, his eyes unreadable, and his thoughts hidden.
When Keefe finished, Holt turned to Seymour. “How long have you been hooked?”
“I’m not hooked,” Seymour declared in a huff.
“Yeah, yeah.” Holt’s tone was bitter. “That’s what they all say.”
“I resent you comparing me with the average street junkie,” Seymour fired back in anger.
Keefe cleared his throat, trying to defuse the mounting hostility. “Let’s stick to the facts, shall we?”
Maci let out a breath. “Maybe this evening isn’t the time to discuss this. I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Seymour said, facing her, his tone mollified. “But I’d rather know if I have to look for another attorney.” He turned back to Holt.
Holt spread out his hands in a sweeping gesture. “For your sake, that would be a wise choice.”
“Is that a no?” Seymour demanded.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?” Maci asked, then momentarily regretted butting in. This was between father and son. But it also involved the entire family. The stakes were high for her and Jonah as well. If Seymour were convicted, there would be definite repercussions for her and her son. “Either you agree to help him or you don’t,” she added on a defiant note.
“Well put, Maci,” Seymour said without looking at her. “So can I count on you?”
“For now.”
“I need more assurance than that,” Seymour said. “I need your word that you won’t bail out on me, like—”
“If you complete that sentence, you’ll regret it.” Holt’s tone was low and menacing.
Seymour shut his mouth, though he glared at Holt.
Not a pretty situation, Maci thought, biting down on her lower lip to steady it. Whatever had gone on between them must have been nastier than she’d thought. That left her to wonder again why exactly Holt had returned.
“So can we count on you?” Keefe asked, breaking the tension as his gaze swung from Holt to Seymour.
“Please,” Seymour added in a muffled tone.
Maci stared at her husband, shocked at the pleading note she heard in his voice. She had never seen Seymour in such a state or heard him reach the point of begging. Trying to ignore the fear coursing through her, she held her breath and waited for Holt’s reaction.
He walked deeper into the room. “I’ll need to know the rest of the story.”
“Are you really back in town?”
“Yes, Marianne, I’m really here.”
“So I guess I’d better get to the office first thing in the morning. Right?”
Holt heard the excitement in her voice even if he was sure it was lacking in his. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Marianne Foster was the perfect employee. A bonafide paralegal, she preferred to spend most of her time as a wife and mother of two teenagers, a job that kept her hopping. She agreed to work for Holt when he did return to town, and he paid her handsomely for her standby services.
“Everything is ready and in tip-top shape.”
“I know that,” Holt interrupted. “I have every confidence in you. But you know that, too.”
“Still, it’s always good to hear,” she responded a trifle breathlessly. “And to have you back.”
“Later then,” Holt said with more abruptness than he intended. If Marianne had a downside, it was her inability to control her tongue. She loved to talk more than anyone he’d ever known.
“Uh, are you here to work? Like try a case?”
Realizing he’d missed his chance to end the conversation, he added reluctantly, “Looks that way.”
“That’s great. I’m really eager to get back to work myself. Too much of my kids can be a bad thing.”
“I understand,” Holt said for lack of anything better to say.
“Will you be defending anyone I know?” she pressed.
Holt tried to hide his irritation. “My father.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Dr. Ramsey.”
Her response wasn’t a question, so he didn’t treat it as such. “One and the same.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to him.”
“Thanks.” Holt’s tone was terse.
Having obviously picked up on that, Marianne said on a rushed note. “Again, it’s good to have you back.”
Once he was off the phone, Holt walked to the window in his old bedroom and stared into inky blackness. He didn’t need daylight to visualize what was out there. As always, the grounds, covered with flowers, would be impeccably groomed. There wouldn’t be a stray leaf in sight no matter how hard the wind blew.
He thought about stepping onto his balcony, but it was still hotter than hell due to the humidity. He supposed he wasn’t used to this climate anymore; that was why he always felt so sticky, like he needed a shower.
Actually what he needed was several cups of chicory coffee, stout enough to make the hairs stand up on his chest. That might get him motivated.
He had no intention of going to bed since he knew already that sleep wouldn’t come easily. So much was going on inside his head that even if he tried to drown his woes in a bottle of expensive bourbon, he’d be wasting his time.
He rubbed the back of his neck trying to uncoil muscles that had tensed into one big jumble of nerves.
He had Maci to thank for that.
Admitting that did little to relieve his anxiety. He still could not reconcile the shock of walking into that room and stepping on a loaded stick of dynamite. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain his composure.
Yet seeing was believing. There she’d sat in the flesh looking as appetizing as she had the first time he saw her. All her best features were as he remembered: a gorgeous body with shapely legs and a tight ass, skin like white velvet, deep-set black eyes, apple-red lips and short black hair that would complement any man’s pillow. She was actually more appealing than he recalled.
Having a baby had ripened her body.
Blood surged into his groin and he grimaced. He’d had no intention of ever coming back to this house or seeing his father again, much less help him beat a murder rap. Now, after learning who “Mildred” was, he sure as hell didn’t want to be there. Remaining was actually an insane proposition.
Yet here he was. Committed.
He wished he hadn’t left his sailboat in Florida and flown here. Now he was expected to stay in the mansion, in his old room, too near to her.
He had never forgotten that night in Jamaica and had thought seriously of trying to find her numerous times, only to convince himself she was happily married with no possibility of a repeat performance of their time together.
Well, she was married all right. And she was his stepmother.
Holt muttered a double expletive. The little hottie from the night was now his stepmother. Go figure. He laughed a harsh laugh. Stranger things have happened, he guessed. Just not to him.
Once their eyes locked in that room for even a brief second, it was all he could do not to cross the room, jerk her into his arms and kiss her until the breath left her.
