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Ren sat back, letting out a caustic laugh. “Oh, that’s a wonderful environment for a child.”
Bo leaned forward, his lips curled in a snarl. “I knew you were going to say that. Like you have any business pointing fingers.”
Ren’s mouth dropped open. “Okay. That does it. What the hell’s going on with you?”
Bo pulled out a second stool and hopped up to sit at the table. He dropped his chin into his palm and muttered, “I like her.”
“The aunt? Or the hooker?”
Bo glared. “Sara.”
Perplexed, Ren reached for the photograph again. He’d never seen Bo behave in this manner. When involved in a case, Bo rigorously maintained a hard-nosed impartiality.
“Have you actually talked to her? Since that first time?”
“Yeah, yesterday.”
Ren’s solar plexus took another hit. They’d agreed that Bo’s surveillance would be from a distance. “Was that necessary?”
Bo sunk lower in the chair. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“The hooker’s.”
Ren smiled at the embarrassment he heard in Bo’s tone. Bo was a professional, one of the best. Ren could imagine Bo’s chagrin if someone had blown his cover.
“The big one or the little one?”
Ren almost missed the mumbled answer. “The little one, huh? Hmm. What happened?”
“She remembered me, okay? I can’t tell you the last time that happened. Maybe I need to work on my disguises—they get old, you know.”
Ren nodded, trying to keep from smiling.
“I didn’t think anybody noticed me Wednesday when I went back to take the pictures, but yesterday, right after Sara and Keneesha—the black hooker—returned from the park, I eased in behind a couple of shoppers—and wham. The little one—Claudie—nailed me. I thought she was gonna demand a strip search.”
Ren diplomatically covered his grin with his hand. “There’s an image.”
Bo shuddered as though recalling a harrowing experience. “It was so sudden. One minute I was standing in the Mystery section listening to Sara explain about some drumming group when—boom—Claudie grabs my arm and spins me around, feet apart, back against the wall. My hand was going for my piece—”
“You were carrying? Around m—a baby?” he corrected.
Bo scowled. “No. But old habits are hard to break, and she knew what I was doing. Believe me. I saw it in her eyes. She knows people. And she pegged me.” He sat back, shaking his head.
“What’d she say?” Ren was surprised when a smile crossed Bo’s lips.
“She said, ‘What’s this guy doing back again?’ And then Sara and the other one came up, and Sara told her, ‘We really need to work on your people skills, Claudie. Let the customer go.’”
Bo sat up straight. “You’ll never guess what happened next.”
“What?” Ren croaked.
“Sara invited me to join her gentleman’s reading group. Meets every other Wednesday at the store. So I figure I can keep an eye on things until you decide what you’re going to do about this.” Bo nudged the computer sheet toward Ren. “Have a look.”
Ren’s stomach contracted at the implication he read in Bo’s words and tone. His heart thudded loudly in his ear as he skimmed the page. “O-positive,” he said softly. “Same as mine.”
“Yeah, I know. I hacked your file, too.”
Neither man spoke. Ren stared out the window at a mockingbird strutting in his backyard. A black and white maitre d’ against a flawless green expanse. What does this mean? Another coincidence or am I a father?
Over the pulsing static of questions, strategies, legal precedents, moral obligations, terror and niggling hint of joy in his head, Ren heard Bo mutter something about reading books not being part of his contract.
Suddenly, the incongruous image of Bo in a literary setting struck Ren as hysterical. Laughing, he said, “A reading group. You?” The release loosened the pent-up emotions percolating in his chest, taking him beyond humor. Gasping for breath, he sputtered, “That’ll have Professor Neightman rolling over in his grave.”
Bo jumped off his stool and stalked to the door. “You know what you and Professor Neightman can do, preferably in public with your fiancеe watching,” he barked.
Sobering, Ren drew in a shaky breath and wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes. He regretted his jest. For a man who seemingly cared not a whit what people thought, Bo could be damn touchy about certain things, and his lack of formal education was one of them. Not that he hadn’t had his chance. But Bo hadn’t been in study mode during college; he’d been too busy partying.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry. I appreciate what you’re doing, really. I know you’re not crazy about this, but is there any chance you could get some better photos?”
“Why? You think she’s gonna get sexier?”
Ren flinched. “I’d like a shot of the child. Type O is pretty common. It could be a fluke, but if he—”
Bo shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”
Ren would have pressed the point, but Bo didn’t give him the opportunity. The heavy door swished closed, leaving Ren in silence.
He picked up the photographs and headed for his study, intending to go through his mail and pay bills. But once there, he laid out the photographs on his desk. Maybe his calling Sara plain had come from his need to see something of Jewel in her. According to the background information Bo had faxed him, the two women had different fathers. Julia’s had split shortly after her birth. Her mother had married Lewis Carsten a year later and he’d adopted Julia. He’d died when Sara was a toddler. Their mother—an alcoholic—died when Sara was 17.
Ordering himself to put aside any memory of Jewel, he studied Sara’s image. Her jawline was strong but not harsh, her nose perky and small. He liked the shape of her eyes, her thick lashes a shade darker than her hair. In the black-and-white picture, her heart-shaped lips reminded him of an old-time movie heroine—innocent yet sensual.
He could tell, even in the blurry image, that she wore no makeup—a practice that set her apart from other women of his acquaintance. Perhaps he’d done her an injustice. She was pretty, and if she changed hairstyles—hers was straight and plain—she could probably turn a man’s head. However, that didn’t alter the fact that she projected not one iota of the sexual chemistry her sister had exuded.
A sudden knife-like pain sliced through his gut, making him bend over. Tears rushed to his eyes, and he choked back a cry that had been lurking in his subconscious for days. He lowered his head to his desk and wept—for the loss of someone he barely knew, but who’d touched his life with a kind of unfettered passion he’d never experienced before. He hadn’t loved her, this enigmatic Jewel, but on that one night she’d given him…freedom.
THE RAUCOUS SQUABBLING of two blue jays in her neighbor’s sycamore tree reminded Sara of Claudie and Bo, the most recent recruit to Sara’s gentleman’s reading group. It had taken Sara until this Sunday morning, when the mindlessness of scraping paint freed up her random access memory, to place him—the customer who had asked about first editions for his friend. At the time, she’d brushed him off with a flip answer.
“Sara, is it okay if I give Brady a peanut butter sandwich?” Amy Peters asked. The thirteen-year-old wasn’t a terribly experienced baby-sitter, so Sara only used her when she was home and needed some relatively uninterrupted time.
“Sure. You know where everything is, right?”
“Yeah, but it looks like this will be the last of your bread.”
“Darn. I forgot to buy some last night. Oh, well, Brady and I will walk to the market before his nap.”
Amy dashed back inside. Brady was a pretty good toddler, but he had a mischievous streak in him—he loved to be chased. And just lately he’d discovered he could send Amy over the edge by hiding.
With a sigh, Sara tackled her task. A good mile of gutters encircled Hulger’s house. Unfortunately, the original painter had failed to prime them adequately; the brown paint flaked like dandruff in some spots, yet resisted her most vigorous scraping in others. Another reason she hated her brother-in-law’s house.
After the accident, Sara had given up her apartment, which was within walking distance of the bookstore, and had moved into Julia and Hulger’s twenty-eight hundred square-foot house because she hadn’t wanted to uproot Brady. Although it meant a difficult commute twice a day, she’d welcomed the security the gated community offered. But now she was regretting her decision.
“Hello, Miss Hovant,” a grave voice said.
Only one person called her that—Mary Gaines, her neighbor to the left. “Sara, Mrs. Gaines. Please, call me Sara,” she said, striving for patience. Sara didn’t even bother trying to correct the woman on her last name.
“I see you’re finally getting that gutter painted,” the white-haired woman said. Her emphasis was clear.
“Just scraping. I’m still waiting for a bid on the painting. The painter was supposed to meet me yesterday but didn’t bother showing up.” After the scathing message she left on the painter’s machine, Sara doubted she’d ever hear from him again.
“I can give you the name of a man, but he’s not cheap,” her neighbor said, turning to leave. “I just hope you get something done before the next association meeting.”
Sara waited until the woman was gone, then sighed heavily. The homeowners’ association took its job seriously—too seriously for Sara’s taste. But she didn’t think it was right that she had to pay for Hulger’s mistakes. And in her opinion, the entire house was a mistake.
Hulger had had the house built as a wedding present for Julia. Then he’d devoted the five years before his death to imposing his taste on every decorating detail, inside and out. Sara still could never understand how a woman as strong-willed and self-sufficient as Julia had tolerated such an autocratic husband. Another mystery of life, she figured.
In many ways, Julia was an enigma. Sara blamed their mother for that. When Audra was incapacitated by drink and couldn’t run a can opener let alone a household, Julia had become a surrogate mother to Sara, making sisterly confidences impossible.
Julia’s stormy relationship with her husband had never been open for discussion. Danish-born Hulger once told Sara his role in life was to make money and visit his parents once a year; Julia’s duties, according to Hulger, included looking beautiful for his friends, entertaining in lavish style and accompanying him to Denmark.
Julia had tried to do justice to her role, working out at the gym to stay fit and taking exotic cooking courses, but she’d missed her nursing career. Sara had been privy to enough arguments between the couple to know this was a huge issue in their marriage.
Sara had hoped things would turn around once Julia found out she was pregnant, but Brady’s birth seemed to add a new kind of tension to the marriage.
Sara sighed. She missed her sister every single day. Living in Julia’s house was a mixed blessing—reminders of Julia abounded, but so much of her taste was overwhelmed by Hulger’s bizarre, unwieldy legacy.
An hour or so later, Sara strapped Brady into his stroller and started down the street. Although she’d invited Amy to join them, the teen said she intended to use her baby-sitting money to take her mother to the movie as a Mother’s Day treat. Sara had completely forgotten about the holiday.
“Well, Brady, love, what should we do to celebrate?” she asked, giving the stroller a jiggle. “Shall we buy an ice-cream cone?”
“Iceee,” he cried enthusiastically.
She pushed fast to avoid looking at Hulger’s unfinished landscaping. In her opinion, the empty concrete fishpond resembled a giant diaphragm, which complemented the stunted marble shaft that was supposed to support an ornate fountain. Sara had petitioned the estate lawyer—a close, personal friend of Hulger’s who treated Sara like some greedy interloper—for the funds to complete the work, but he’d spouted something about long-term capital investments overriding short-term needs. Feeling utterly intimidated, she hadn’t even bothered asking for help with the gutters.
Sara pressed down on the handlebar of the stroller, leaning Brady far enough back to look up at her. “Whee,” she said, pushing him over the speed bump. His high-pitched chortle made her heart swell. She loved the sound of his laugh. Her favorite time of the day was his bath. Invariably she’d wind up soaked, but it didn’t matter because they’d laugh from start to finish.
“Fas,” Brady demanded. “Mommygofas.”
She took two quick steps. “This fast?”
He shook his head, his curls dancing. “Mo’fas.”
She sped up. “This fast?”
He leaned forward, pushing his little body back and forth as if his movement could increase the speed. “Mo’fast.”
His reward for saying the word right was an all-out run, which lasted until Sara became winded. Brushing her bangs out of her eyes, she hauled in a deep gulp of air. “No mo’fast. Mommy tired.”
With a slower pace, she walked to the market, singing a silly song for Brady. “When you’re happy and you know it, shake your feet…”
Brady’s fourteen-dollar sneakers bounced just above the pavement. “Another ‘short-term’ need, I suppose,” she muttered under her breath. I wonder whether that lawyer would manage if he had my income instead of his.
BO SQUEEZED OFF THE LAST of his exposures. Even through a telescopic lens, he could tell Sara looked tired, but the shots of her laughing as she pushed the kid in his stroller ought to get Ren’s attention. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked like a teenager. Not exactly sex-goddess stuff, but he’d included a few shots of her nicely shaped legs displayed by snug denim shorts, for good measure.
After a stop at the one-hour processing lab, he could wash his hands of this job. It was one thing to tail a stranger, but for some reason he didn’t think of Sara that way. Bo blamed that on her open, friendly manner. He had a feeling Ren would like Sara, too, but Bo doubted the feeling would be mutual once Sara found out about Ren and her sister.
Bo shook his head sadly. He wasn’t the kind of guy who believed in happy endings, but this one looked worse than most.
CHAPTER THREE
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY EVENING, Bo parked the Mazda a block-and-a-half from the bookstore, then hunkered down to wait. The Unturned Gentlemen’s reading group was due to begin in fifteen minutes. His stomach rumbled—a two-front nervous rumble.
First, the more time he spent in Sara Carsten’s company, the more Bo admired her. The duplicity of befriending her while running a background check seemed shoddy, but the longer Bo was around Brady, the more convinced he was that the little boy was part-Bishop.
Granted, Bo knew squat about kids, but Brady had an imperious manner that shouted, “I’m important!” Pure Babe, some Ren.
The second source of anxiety stemmed from the slim paperback resting on the seat beside him. He couldn’t decide if he was more amazed by the fact that he’d actually read the thing or that he’d enjoyed it.
A rap on his passenger window startled Bo, until he saw the smiling face of Sara Carsten, who was bending down to look at him. Busted, he groaned silently. He picked up his volume of Endurance: Shackleton’s Incredible Voyage, then opened the door and hauled himself to his feet.
“Hi, Bo. I’m so glad you could make it. Did you like the book?” Sara asked. At her side, a far less cordial Claudie watched him warily.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I liked it. Half the time I couldn’t believe it was true, but no writer would be that cruel to his hero, right?”
Sara sobered. “True. Real life’s often bleaker than fiction.”
Claudie snorted. “The guy was a jerk. He deserved what he got. Why the f—heck would anybody go to Antarctica in the first place?”
“Challenge. Adventure. Accomplishment,” Bo returned.
“Men things,” she muttered. “Only men would be stupid enough to think those things mattered.”
Before Bo could reply, Sara laughed and said, “Now, now, children, if you can’t play nice, you don’t get any cookies.”
“Cookie?” a voice chirped from the navy-blue stroller.
Bo walked around the front of the car and squatted, eye-level with Brady. “Hey, kiddo, out for a ride?”
Brady kicked his feet and twisted to one side, shyly hiding his face in the soft fabric. “We had a picnic supper in Capitol Park. Brady walked all the way there, but petered out on the way home,” Sara said.
“It was them squirrels that wore him out,” Claudie added.
Sara poked at a crumpled bread wrapper stuffed in the top pocket of the stroller and explained, “He likes to chase the squirrels. Brady loves animals—but what little boy doesn’t?”
“I bet he didn’t,” Claudie muttered.
Bo decided it was time to confront her. Rising, he faced her squarely. She barely came to the top of his shoulder, but she lifted her chin defiantly and met him eye-to-eye.
