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The Daughter Merger
Janice Kay Johnson
The terrible twos are nothing compared to the traumatic teens.David Whitcomb is a good father and once upon a time, his thirteen-year-old daughter Claire adored him. But times have changed and Claire seems intent on running away to live with her mother–a woman who's unable to look after her.In desperation, David turns to Grace Blanchet, the mother of Claire's best friend. Grace agrees to foster Claire while father and daughter work things out. She knows this is what's best for Claire. She's just not sure it's best for her. Does she really want to "play house" with a man who, much as she's attracted to him, reminds her of another man–one she'd prefer to forget?
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“Tell me about your stipulations, Grace.”
“That you become very involved in her life. Take her places, join us for dinner, call her, look over her schoolwork… Be her father.”
David scrutinized her for the longest time. “I’d be over here constantly.”
“That’s okay.” Was it? she asked herself, with a faint sense of panic. Too late.
“Claire won’t want me here.”
“But that’s the deal,” Grace said firmly. “She has to promise to work at being your daughter. One of my rules is that we’re all polite to guests.”
“Guests.” He tasted the word as though it was questionable wine.
And who could blame him? His position would be awkward, to say the least. His daughter was choosing to live with someone else. He gave one of those off-putting nods. “I’ll talk to Claire.”
Grace hardly had time to say goodbye before he was gone, leaving her with the horrifying realization that she’d gotten herself into something she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to do.
It should have been Claire she was thinking about. Unsettled, Grace had to admit, if only to herself, that she was far more worried about dealing with the grim father than with the sulky teenage girl.
Dear Reader,
The Daughter Merger came naturally to me, and let me tell you why: I have two teenage daughters. The bickering, the repartee, the gossip about school, all are the stuff of daily life for me. The rehearsals are familiar, too, since both my daughters act and I am, of course, their chauffeur.
Let me hasten to say here that my girls have more in common with Linnet than with Claire. They’re top-notch students and my best friends. So here’s my real secret: I was Claire, not Linnet. At twelve, my mother tells me, I was a nice kid. At thirteen, I woke up one morning a monster. I wept at sad songs, I stormed at my parents’ refusal to let me date, I screamed at them, I spent the night at friends’ houses and… Well, never mind. My mother might read this, and I wouldn’t want to horrify her too much! Fortunately, at about fifteen, I awakened one morning to discover I’d grown up.
The point is, Claire came from my memories of that sad, tumultuous age. She has some reasons to be sad, as her father has reasons for his emotional detachment. Those of you who have read my previous books know that I love heroes who have difficulty expressing emotion—the strong silent type. What makes David Whitcomb a hero is his willingness to learn, to risk and, ultimately, to love passionately. This guy is one of my all-time favorite heroes. Claire is a lucky kid.
Now that you’re in on my secrets…
Janice Kay Johnson
P.S. You can reach me at www.superauthors.com
The Daughter Merger
Janice Kay Johnson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For Nan Hawthorne, Jim Tedford and the real gang: Lemieux, Stanzi and Kitkat
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u2195d734-e2f8-52fa-95e7-27ac79d5ca3b)
CHAPTER TWO (#ueae63675-570e-5e27-ab86-c7beee460c8e)
CHAPTER THREE (#uadc7b08f-5ba8-5270-a92d-a8a27d604e14)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u162c6473-a0a8-5263-ac42-9b437d522671)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
NOTHING LIKE FINDING OUT your teenage daughter had cut school to foul up your day. David Whitcomb’s mounting tension was laced with anger. He didn’t have time for this.
But fear was his strongest emotion. Had Claire hit the road again? How far would she get this time?
His gaze found the dashboard clock. Eleven forty-three. School had started at 7:10. That gave her a four-hour head start. If the Attendance Office had notified him sooner…
The garage door was already rising in response to his signal before he turned into his driveway. David killed the engine, set the emergency brake and leaped out, his long stride carrying him into the house.
“Claire?” he bellowed. “Are you home? Claire?”
The kitchen was quiet and dark; a cereal bowl sat in the sink. Loading it into the dishwasher was beyond her. At least she’d had breakfast.
“Claire?” He took the stairs two at a time. No pounding beat of music welcomed him. He slammed open her bedroom door, already knowing what he would find: an empty room.
Covers were tidy, but he knew better than to think Claire had made the bed. She was a quiet, still sleeper, had been since she was a baby. He remembered, with a pang he ignored, how she had sometimes scared him when he checked on her and at first glance thought she’d quit breathing.
Closet doors stood open, and clothes spilled out of drawers. Damn. Her binder and a social studies text lay on the desk. So she never had set out for school. The day pack was gone, as was the framed photo of her mother that usually sat beside her bed.
Fear finally swamped his anger. A thirteen-year-old girl, out on her own, trying to—what? hitch-hike?—to California. Last time she’d made it to Portland before an alert cop had picked her up. What if some psycho found her first?
He’d have to call the police. But for an instant David stood looking around his daughter’s bedroom, bafflement and helplessness holding him captive. What was he doing so terribly wrong that she wouldn’t even give him a chance?
The police came and went, as they had the previous two times Claire had run away. They promised to put out a bulletin, but this time they kept asking questions and David felt the rising tide of suspicion and judgment.
Did he know why his daughter was so determined to leave his home? Here they scrutinized him carefully. Had he considered counseling? Did she have friends in whom she confided? Had he contacted her mother in California? Did he discipline Claire physically?
Hell, no, he didn’t know why she hated his guts. David did understand, sort of, that Claire felt her mother needed her, that he was the bad guy who was keeping mother and daughter apart. Yes, he’d tried counseling, but Claire wasn’t cooperative. Friends? Reluctantly, he decided he would have to call the mother of the one close friend Claire had made in the four months she’d lived with him here in Lakemont. No, he hadn’t yet contacted his ex-wife. No, he never laid hands on his daughter. Literally, as she wouldn’t accept even a hug from him.
Assuming he’d felt comfortable offering one.
The pair of police officers left, and David picked up the phone. He had only a home phone number for Claire’s friend Linnet, but the answering machine suggested that if he urgently needed Grace Blanchet, he should try her work phone number. He did, and she answered.
He had met the woman a couple of times when he was at her town house picking up Claire. What little he knew about Grace Blanchet had been extracted from his sullen daughter. She was a legal secretary for some high-powered firm in neighboring Bellevue. She was a widow, Linnet was her only child.
His lightning impression had been of a tall, slender woman with shiny, thick, light brown hair cut at shoulder length and worn tucked behind her ears. The hair danced when she moved, distracting the eye from a face a man might call plain. Pretty eyes, though, he recalled: a deep blue. And her smile was warm enough to make him feel like a jerk for his cool, answering nod.
“Grace Blanchet,” she said now in a rich, distinctively husky voice. One that, upon first hearing it, had instantly made him imagine darkness and a throaty laugh, tangled sheets and satin skin.
It had the same effect this time, despite everything.
Disbelieving and annoyed at himself, he said, “Ms. Blanchet, this is David Whitcomb. Claire’s father.”
“Yes?” She waited, not making it easy. Apparently she had noticed how cool his previous greeting had been.
“Claire didn’t go to school today,” he said bluntly. “I think she’s run away. I’m wondering if you can find out whether she told your daughter anything.”
“Oh, dear.” That voice resonated with compassion. “Linnet told me that Claire has done this before. She’s so young!”
“Yes.” Images flashed before him. His small, dark-haired daughter beside a busy highway, her thumb out. A truck slowing, stopping. Fear and resolution on her face before she gave a nod and climbed in with two men.
He squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must be terribly worried. I’ll call the school and have them get Linnet. Are you at home?”
He didn’t want to be. He ached to do something. Anything. Check out the Greyhound bus station. Cruise the freeway entrances. But he knew Claire was probably half a state away by now. The cops were looking. They’d found her before.
“I’m home,” he said. “In case she tries to…” Get in touch with own father? Never.
Grace Blanchet promised to call the moment she’d spoken with her daughter.
David dialed again, this time his ex-wife’s number. The very sound of her on the answering machine message was enough to make his teeth grit. In contrast to Grace Blanchet, Miranda managed to imbue even her voice with a feminine plea that pushed every man’s buttons. What can you do for me? her voice seemed to ask. Her big, velvet-brown eyes had asked the same question. Men fell in line to answer. David had trouble believing he’d been dumb enough to fall for it himself.
Sometimes he wanted to shake Claire and say, Can’t you see how she uses people? She has no damn right to use you!
He clamped down on the words every time. Miranda was Claire’s mother. A child should grow up with some shred of respect for her own mother. He wouldn’t be the one to take that from her.
A call to the police gave him what he’d expected. Yes, sir, they had checked the bus station. No, sir, no sign of a girl answering the description of his daughter.
David called his office to find out what chaos was brewing there, but though he got so far as sitting down in front of his computer, he couldn’t work. Pictures of Claire trudging down the shoulder of the freeway kept intruding.
Damn it! She was so small, so childish, even for thirteen. Too childish to interest a rapist, he tried to convince himself but knew better. David tried to focus on the future, when—when—she was home again. A different counselor? She hadn’t given the first or second one a chance, and the latest wasn’t showing any more promise. A nanny who escorted her to school and picked her up afterward? He knew how that would go over.
“I’m not some stupid little kid!” she liked to yell at him, just before she stormed off to her bedroom. “Quit treating me like I’m in kindergarten!”
David was restlessly pacing when the phone rang. He pounced. “Yeah?”
“Mr. Whitcomb?”
Grace Blanchet. No mistaking that voice.
“Yes,” he said tersely. “Were you able to talk to your daughter?”
“I was, but she doesn’t know anything about Claire’s plans.” She sounded apologetic. “Linnet assumed she was home sick.”
“And you believed her?”
A momentary pause told him he’d offended even before she said crisply, “My daughter does not lie to me.”
David bowed his head and rubbed his neck. “I’m sorry. She was my best hope.”
Her voice softened. “I understand.”
Strangely, he suspected that she did. Damn right he preferred to think her kid was lying. He didn’t want her to be everything his daughter wasn’t. He didn’t want to give up hope that she knew how he could find Claire.
“If there’s anything I can do…” Her sympathy and kindness were as tangible as a touch. Most people didn’t mean it when they said that. She seemed to be an exception.
“There’s nothing.” David hated his own brusqueness but couldn’t seem to help himself. “The police will find her.”
“Yes. Of course they will. Please do let me know. We’ll…worry.”
We. Her good little girl and her.
David swore as he hung up the phone.
