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He studied her face a moment. “I’m not clever with small talk, but there’s always weather. Folks around here never get tired of talking about that, so I can probably hold up my end. Of course, we’re not as good at it as the English. They’ve elevated the discussion of weather to a fine art.”
“Have you been to England, then?”
“Briefly, a few years ago. Beastly weather,” he said, shifting flawlessly into upper-crust English. “Rained the whole bloody time.”
Surprise curled in the pit of her stomach. Why, he’s good-looking, she thought. His face was thin, but the strong cheekbones and eyebrows gave it character. As she saw him for the first time as a person instead of a hitch in her plans, her face relaxed into a more genuine smile. “I’m not sure how long I can talk about the weather, not being as well trained as you are. In Florida we don’t take much note of rain unless it’s horizontal and tree limbs are whipping by at seventy miles an hour.”
“I’d take note of that, too. Have you ever been through a hurricane?”
He’d claimed to lack skill at small talk, but he was very good at asking questions. And listening, truly listening, to her answers. As they talked, the nerves in her belly eased until at one point, when his eyes met her eyes in that direct way he had, she felt a sharp tug of pleasure.
Her eyes widened in surprise. It had been so long…not that attraction was appropriate. For heaven’s sake, this was Ben’s brother. But she couldn’t help being pleased. She was truly healing. Surely that meant she’d been right to take the steps she had.
Then she heard the front door open and all her nerves came rushing back. Before she’d thought about it, she was on her feet again. Facing the doorway.
“Smells good,” a deep male voice rumbled as the door closed. “We have company for supper?”
She knew his voice. It gave her a jolt. She hadn’t expected the quick hit of familiarity.
Then he was standing in the doorway, a big, solid man in a flannel shirt and worn jeans. He looked at his brother first, she noticed—a quick, assessing glance. Then he turned to her, a slight smile on his hard face, a question in his eyes. “You going to introduce me, Duncan?”
He didn’t recognize her. Humiliation burned like acid. “We’ve met. Though I see you’ve forgotten, so I’ll reintroduce myself. I’m Gwen. Gwendolyn Van Allen.”
Shock slapped the smile from his face. Good. At least he remembered her name. This would have been even worse if she’d had to remind him of what had happened between them five years ago. She pulled a photograph out of her purse and crossed to him, holding it out. “And this is your son, Zachary.”
Chapter 2
Cold air cut into Duncan’s chest with each breath he took. His feet thudded steadily on the hard ground beside the road. Overhead the sky was a dingy black, with a few shy stars peeking out where the cloud cover thinned. His sweatshirt clung damply to his chest and back beneath the denim jacket he’d grabbed when he’d escaped the house. His heart was slamming hard against the wall of his chest. His arm ached.
He needed to cool down. He’d been running about an hour—not long enough. He couldn’t go home. Not yet. She’d still be there.
So he’d walk awhile. He eased to a jog, then a walk as he crossed Elm.
Dammit, she wasn’t even his type. Too pale, too thin. Her hair was too damned short. He liked long hair on a woman.
But her image kept intruding on his run in fragments, vivid and raw like the jagged memories of an accident victim. He saw her hands, the thin fingers nervously rubbing together for warmth. The ring she’d worn where a wedding band would go—silver and simple, with a single pearl. The small mole on her neck, right where a man would taste her pulse. He saw the quick bloom of anger in her cheeks when Ben didn’t recognize her, and those silly silver shoelaces, a single note of whimsy in a polished package. He remembered the way she’d risen from the couch, drawn upward by the sound of Ben’s voice. Forgetting Duncan was even there.
He worked hard at not moving from remembered images to imagined ones. Like the way that delicate body must have looked locked in his brother’s arms.
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t. Whatever had hit him when he’d opened the door to her would fade.
A car slowed as it passed him, turned into the parking lot and pulled up at the gas pumps at the convenience store on the corner. Maybe he should fuel up, too. He could get a cup of coffee, drink it in the store where it was warm and let the sweat dry. Then run some more.
She’d had his brother’s child.
Or so she claimed. Maybe he shouldn’t take her words at face value. People did lie. And Ben was the owner of a successful construction firm—not a bad target for a paternity suit.
But he remembered the way she’d looked. The clothes, the makeup, the cropped hair—she’d had a shine to her, the kind of gloss that means money. Hard to believe a woman like that would need to trick money out of a man.
He wished he’d seen the photograph of the boy. The second he’d realized just how personal her business with his brother was, though, he’d taken off. But he’d seen her face when Ben had made it clear he didn’t have a clue who she was.
He’d seen Ben’s face a moment later, too.
Ben believed her. Duncan’s lips thinned. Damn Ben’s righteous hide! How could he have fathered a child he didn’t even know about? Ben, of all people. His big brother was no saint, but on some subjects he was about as yielding as the mountains they’d grown up in. A man took responsibility for his actions. A man used protection every time, and if he was ever fool enough to forget that, he’d better head straight to the courthouse for a marriage license, because he couldn’t call himself a man if he allowed his child to grow up without a father.
Yet Ben had had a son by a woman he hadn’t even recognized. A son who’d done some of his growing up without a father. Duncan felt cold and wild inside. He wanted to smash his fist into his brother’s face.
There was a cop car in front of the 7-11. Duncan hesitated. But the wind was picking up, pushing a cold front ahead of it. He shivered, grimaced and told himself not to be an idiot. It would be a helluva note if he caught some stupid bug because he was so determined to avoid Jeff that he ducked out of sight every time he saw a police car. Ben would make his life hell if he got sick.
It was with a certain grim amusement that he saw his suspicions had been right. Jeff pushed the door open just as Duncan reached it. He was holding a steaming plastic-foam cup. He grinned. “Hey, there, GI Joe. You aren’t out running at this hour, are you?”
“Hey, copper. No, I flew in. Left my wings in the bike rack.”
Jefferson Parker chuckled. Jeff was a head shorter than Duncan, a lot chattier, several shades darker in skin tone and every ounce as stubborn. They’d been friends in high school, where Jeff had been one of very few black faces in the crowd—and the student-body president two years in a row. Which said a lot about his ability to get along with others and his determination to excel. “Better leave ’em parked or I might have to run you in for impersonating an angel. Not that anyone would believe it, between that ugly face of yours and those goose bumps you’re sprouting instead of a halo. You going to let me buy you a cup of coffee?”
Duncan eyed him. Jeff’s dark eyes were friendly and incurious. What a crock. The man was nosier than a hound on a scent and just as hard to sidetrack. It had been a huge mistake to take Jeff up on his offer of using the police firing range to keep in practice.
Still, he supposed he might as well see how long it took Jeff to get to the point this time. He didn’t have anywhere else he needed to be. “Sure.”
Jeff introduced him to the young clerk, Lorna, claiming she made the best coffee in Highpoint—an exaggeration bordering on outright falsehood, Duncan thought as he sipped the industrial-strength brew. His old friend kept up a steady stream of chatter that included the shy young woman. He was good at that sort of thing, never at a loss for words. People relaxed with him.
Probably a good trait in a cop, Duncan thought, watching.
“Well, how about that,” Jeff said as they left the store, stopping to stare in mock surprise at the bike rack by the curb. “Someone must have run off with those wings of yours.” He shook his head. “Criminals are sure getting bold these days.”
Duncan smiled slightly. Here it comes. The Highpoint police are looking for a few good men…
“That Lorna….” Jeff nodded at the clerk on the other side of the brightly lit window. “She’s nineteen, lives with her mom. Got a little girl her mother watches while she’s at work. Can’t afford day care, you know? She has to work nights because her mother works days down at Jenkin’s Drug.”
Duncan’s eyebrows lifted. Where was Jeff going with this? “No support from the father?”
“Bastard skipped town a couple years back when Lorna turned up pregnant.”
“That’s rough. She’s in school?” Jeff had asked her how her classes were going.
“She goes to community college two nights a week, works here the other five. Got her GED last year.” Jeff pulled a package of gum out of his pocket and offered Duncan a stick. Duncan shook his head. “We don’t have a lot of crime here, compared to L.A. or Houston. But Highpoint isn’t Mayberry, either. We’ve had two convenience stores hit in the past three weeks.”
Duncan glanced into the 7-11. Lorna was stuffing bills into a narrow white envelope. She had a pimple on her chin and pretty brown eyes bare of makeup. When she bent to slide the envelope through the slot into the safe, her hair fell forward. It was long, brown and shiny clean. She brushed it impatiently behind her ear, revealing a tiny gold earring in the shape of a cross.
The girl—little more than a child herself—had a baby girl waiting at home for her. Duncan looked back at Jeff. “Looks like she follows the rules, doesn’t keep much cash in the register.”
“She doesn’t. But that’s no guarantee.” Jeff peeled the foil from a stick of gum. “I stop by every night and the black-and-whites keep an eye on her when they can. That’s no guarantee, either, but this perp picks his times. He hit the other stores when they were empty except for the clerk. First thing he does is shoot out the security camera. Hits the lens square on, single shot with a .22 handgun.”
Duncan frowned. A .22 pistol was a couple of notches above a water pistol for accuracy. Maybe. “Where’s the camera?”
“Far left corner.”
He glanced back into the store, automatically calculating the angle. “Does he come in with his weapon drawn?”
Jeff shook his head, popped the gum in his mouth. “Draws from inside his jacket as he pushes the door open.”
“Then he’s a helluva shot.” Duncan could have made the shot himself. Not many others could.
“Yeah. He’s good, but jumpy. Killed a dog.”
“A dog?”
“When he was headed out of the last place he hit. A stray came around the corner of the store, startled him. He shot it and ran.” Jeff stuffed the empty gum wrapper in the trash can next to the door. “So we’ve got bullets, but not much more. We know he’s male, around five-seven, average build. He wore jeans, a dark jacket, gloves and a ski mask both times. No skin showed. We don’t know if he’s white, brown, black or yellow with blue polka dots.”
“No one made the vehicle?”
“One of the clerks thinks it was a dark compact, not new. She didn’t get much of a look at it. He makes ’em lie on the floor once they empty the register.”
“Did he…” Duncan stopped, shook his head. Damned if Jeff hadn’t gotten sneakier with his pitch. He’d nearly reeled Duncan in this time, gotten him involved enough to ask questions. “You’ll catch him sooner or later. If this guy was really bright, he wouldn’t be hitting convenience stores. They don’t have much cash.”
“Sooner’s better than later. A jumpy, not-so-bright gunman makes mistakes. People get hurt then.” Jeff started for his car. “You going to let me give you a ride?”
“I need to finish my run.”
Jeff nodded, reached for the handle, then gave Duncan a steady look. “What you’ve been doing—that’s important. No doubt about that. A cop doesn’t get much chance to save the world the way you army types do. Sometimes all we can do is drop in on a nineteen-year-old mother who works nights when she isn’t trying to learn bookkeeping. Maybe that will keep this perp from hitting this store, maybe not. We don’t get a lot of sure things in our line of work.”
Duncan’s mouth quirked up. “I remember when you used to try to get me to volunteer for some damned committee or other. Roped me in a few times, too. If you’d had the good sense to go into the army instead of the police force, you’d be their ace recruiter by now.”
A grin lit Jeff’s face. “I’m getting to you. Duncan, we need you. I know it wouldn’t be fun to be a rookie, not when you’re used to being a big-deal sergeant, but if you take some courses, you can move up quick. The chief’s keen on getting a sharpshooter.”
Duncan’s smile slid away. He gave a single shake of his head that combined refusal and warning.
“Okay, okay.” Jeff held up his hand as if to stop a flow of protests. “But you’ll think about it.”
Duncan watched his friend pull out of the parking lot and didn’t think about anything except whether he needed to stretch again. No, he decided. His muscles were still loose and warm.
He’d just started running again when a shot rang out.
He dropped and rolled, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. Then lay on his stomach on the cold concrete, his arm throbbing fiercely. Little by little, understanding seeped in. Along with humiliation.
Not a gunshot. A backfire. From a ’92 Chevy packed front and back with teenage boys, some of whom were staring and laughing. Yeah, pretty funny, all right, he thought as he pushed to his feet and slowly resumed his run. Watching a grown man nearly mess himself because your car backfired would be one hell of a good joke to kids that age.
He concentrated on keeping his shoulders loose as he ran. They had a tendency to tense up when his arm was hurting, which made the jarring worse. The Chevy turned west at the light.
It was a shame Jeff had already driven off. If he’d seen how Duncan reacted under fire these days—or anything that passed, to his screwed-up senses, for being under fire—he sure as hell would drop the subject of Duncan trading one uniform for another when his enlistment was up. Which would happen in two and a half months.
He very carefully didn’t think about that, either.
Ben was sitting in his favorite chair next to the fireplace, which still held the ashes of its last fire. His shoes were on the floor beside the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table. One of his socks had a hole started in the heel. A glass half-filled with bourbon sat on the table beside his feet. He’d poured it after Gwen left, then forgotten it.
He was holding the photograph. It was all he could see, all he could think about, the grinning boy in that picture.
Zachary. His son.
Zachary Van Allen. Not McClain.
The front door opened, then shut. He lifted his head, scowling, and saw Duncan standing in the doorway, staring at him with no expression on his face.
Ben didn’t try to read his brother’s expression. Even as a boy Duncan had been good at tucking everything away out of sight, and the older he’d gotten, the better his poker face became. But he saw the tense way Duncan stood and the stiff way he held his left arm. And he saw his bare head.
“Damnation,” he growled, rising to his feet. “I thought they operated on your arm, not your thick skull, but only an idiot would go running for hours with a half-healed wound. And in this weather, without a hat! I don’t know what they taught you in Special Forces, but a jacket isn’t enough. Half your body heat—”
“Not tonight.” Duncan’s voice was hard. He advanced into the room, voice and body taut, like a big cat ready to strike. “I’m in no mood for your bloody nursemaid act tonight.”
Ben took a deep breath, fighting back a surge of temper. Nagging Duncan to take better care of himself was the wrong way to go about things. He knew that. But in the past Duncan would have greeted Ben’s bossiness with a raised eyebrow, maybe a polite “yes, ma’am” or some other nonsense.
He’d changed. Ben didn’t know what had happened on this last mission, but it had damaged more than Duncan’s arm. “It must be close to freezing out there,” he said in the most reasonable tone he could muster.
“Believe it or not, the army doesn’t make us stay in at night when the weather’s bad. But we aren’t going to talk about my sins tonight. We’re going to talk about yours.” His pause was brief. “Her car is gone.”
Ben’s empty hand closed and opened again. This was going to be hard. “I offered Gwen a room here, if it’s any of your business. She preferred to stay at a hotel.”
Duncan just looked at him. He’d never been one to fill the air with words, and seldom used two when one would do, or one word when a nod or a glance was enough. Right now, though, his silence felt crammed with accusation.
Ben’s scowl returned. Damned if he was going to put up with any lectures—silent or otherwise—from his younger brother. “She didn’t tell me. I didn’t know the boy existed.”
“I know that,” Duncan snapped. “There’s no doubt in your mind that he’s yours?”
Duncan’s irritation reassured Ben. At least he hadn’t needed to be told that his older brother would never have ignored his son if he’d known the boy existed. He answered Duncan’s question by crossing to him and handing him the photograph.
Duncan’s eyes widened, then clouded with some emotion Ben couldn’t read. After a long moment he handed the photo back. “Poor kid. He looks so much like you it’s scary.”
“Yeah.” Ben couldn’t say anything else right away. He didn’t know what to do, what to think—his emotions were so full, so contradictory, he was afraid he’d start cursing. Or maybe bawl like a baby. He cleared his throat. “Not that I would have thought she was lying, even if he hadn’t turned out to look like me.”
“You knew her well, then?”
There was a subtle insult in the tone. Or maybe the insult lay only in Ben’s mind. “No. Not exactly. Hell.” He ran a hand over his hair. “It was pretty much a one-night stand, all right? We met, we hit it off, and… You remember that vacation Annie nagged me into taking a few years ago? Gwen and I met then. We spent a couple days together.” And one night.
“Then you walked away without realizing you’d fathered a child.”
“She could have told me.” Ben began to pace. “She should have told me. I’ve missed so much… He’s four. Four and a half years old.” His voice held wonder and loss and anger.
“So why didn’t she tell you?”
Ben felt all the weight of his own guilt in those softly spoken words. “That’s between her and me.”
“When I think of all those Friday-night lectures you used to hand me and Charlie about responsibility and safe sex…” Duncan’s mouth tightened. “Dammit, Ben. What the hell happened? How could you not know there was a chance you’d started a child in her?”
The disillusion in Duncan’s eyes was harder to face than his anger. Ben stopped by the big picture window. He’d forgotten to pull the drapes, and his own reflection stared back at him from the night-darkened glass—a big, dark man in worn jeans and an old flannel shirt. “I knew,” he admitted gruffly. “We used protection, but…” He couldn’t bring himself to go into detail, but the fact was, she’d put the condom on him. Only she hadn’t gotten it on right, and he hadn’t noticed until afterward, too intent on what he felt, what he wanted.
Just the sort of thing he used to warn Duncan and Charlie against.
He grimaced. “The odds of her getting pregnant were pretty small. When I didn’t hear from her, I assumed everything was okay.” He’d convinced himself of that. He hadn’t wanted to think about her. Or the way he’d ended things between them almost as soon as they began.
