Leann blinked at Steve’s black-eyed, honey-skinned daughter. “Aren’t you just the sweetest thing. Was your mama from around here?”
Bailey gritted her teeth. “Trampoline,” she said. “Out back. I’ll show you.”
“Okay.”
Steve’s hands cupped his daughter’s shoulders. “Gabrielle’s mother was from Brazil.”
“Like the nuts,” Dorothy said.
“More nuts in Stokesville,” Bailey muttered. “We’re going out back. Come on, Bryce. Gabrielle?”
Collecting the older kids, she retreated to the backyard, leaving her sister in possession of the field.
Running away again.
No, not running away. She’d made a choice to protect this amazing kid. Looking at Gabrielle’s bright face as she climbed on the trampoline, Bailey thought their escape felt less like a rout and more like victory.
THAT little bitch Regan thought she controlled him. That she was using him.
But Macon prided himself on his control. And he had every intention of using her.
She huddled in a kitchen chair clutching a mug of coffee. She had received him and the police in a skimpy top and shorts Macon would never have allowed his own daughter to wear out of the house. Her layered blond hair was dragged into a ponytail. Mascara smudged her eyes.
Macon liked a woman to be put together. Marylou didn’t go to the grocery store without fresh lipstick and a tennis bracelet on. But the trashy look turned him on. Always had. He’d like to bend little Miss Regan over the kitchen table and fuck her hard from behind.
Later for that
.
“You’ll need help with the final arrangements,” he said smoothly. “Did Paul leave any written instructions?”
“I don’t know. I’m not his fucking secretary.”
Macon hid his impatience. “In his office, maybe?”
“The police took everything in his office.”
Macon’s gut tightened. “Everything?”
Her manicured nails tapped her cup. “Well, almost everything. His computer and notes and stuff. It’s all listed on the search warrant.”
“He might have videotaped a will,” he said craftily. “Or audiotaped it. I’ve had clients do both. I could look for you.”
“Why?”
That cool gaze from those Barbie blue eyes unsettled him. He had to think before he spoke. “I’m sure your mother’s life insurance reverts to you and your brother on Ellis’s death. But it would be good to know how the rest of his estate is disposed.”
“Yeah, because it would be so great if I could tell the police I had another motive for wanting the son of a bitch dead.”
Her crudeness offended him. Aroused him. Who would have guessed a girl from Regan’s background would have such a mouth on her? But the Poole side of the family had always been a little common.
“Or you might convince the police you had no motive at all,” he said easily. “All the evidence suggests Ellis killed himself anyway.”
“Or Bailey did.” Regan rested her head on her hand. She was pale this morning. “I told Detective Sherman the two of them were screwing around on my mother.”
And wasn’t that lucky?
Macon rubbed his chin. “Might be interesting to see if he left her anything in his will. Would she have a copy?”
“I don’t know. She took some boxes with her when I kicked her out. But I think it was mostly work stuff.”
Nerves tingled. “Do the police know?”
“Don’t think so. It was before they searched the house.”
Better and better.
“Where’s she staying? In case I need to be in touch with her about the estate.”
“Not here, that’s all I care about.” Regan’s mug clunked on the table. “With her family, I guess.”
Family could be a problem. Or not.
On a Saturday afternoon, George Wells would be behind the counter at the hardware and tackle store, dispensing bloodworms and advice to weekend fishermen. The mother would be . . . Macon tried to remember how his own wife spent the afternoon. Tennis? Grocery shopping?
The Wells girl was probably still at the police station.
He rubbed his palms on the thighs of his slacks. Everything would work out. With a little planning, a little luck, everything always worked out.
FIFTEEN-MONTH-OLD Rose fussed at being separated from her mother.
“She’ll settle down as soon as I’m gone,” Leann said, pausing to check her lipstick in the mirror. “You sure you don’t mind?”
“We’re fine,” Steve said shortly. “I know what to do.”
He could handle a toddler. Now, if he could just get her mama and her grandma out the door . . .
Hoisting the kid in his arms, he handed her a toy from the floor. Pouting, she tossed it back down.
“Nice throw,” he told her, and repeated the process until Leann and Dorothy realized he wasn’t going to play with them anymore and left.
The front door banged.
Rose’s eyes widened. Her lower lip stuck out.
“You want to find your Auntie Bailey?”
She stared at him mistrustfully.
“Let’s go.” He hitched her on his hip and walked through the empty house. “She said the backyard. So we’ll just—”
He glanced through the back window and his mind blanked.
Bailey was on the trampoline, flushed and laughing. Bouncing. Her feet were bare. Her hair flew. Her breasts . . . Jesus, had he ever thought her breasts were too small?
She was holding hands with his daughter, coaxing Gabrielle to laugh and jump with her while her nephew bounded around them. Gabby looked as giggly and relaxed as a nine-year-old should. And Bailey . . .
He should be ashamed of himself, ogling her while he held a baby in his arms. But Bailey looked amazing, her slim shoulders and delicate collarbone exposed by that skinny black tank top, her breasts . . .
Steve blew out a short breath and thanked God for gravity and summer. Bailey looked hot.
And he was getting hotter by the second.
He jerked the back door open to get some air. Hot air. It rose from the grass like a breathing beast and gripped him in a sweaty fist.
Bailey’s head turned. She widened her stance, finding her balance on the shifting trampoline as the kids jumped around and behind her.
“Hey.” She smiled, pushing her hair back from her face, and everything inside him quivered and went still. “Are they gone?”
“Yeah,” he said hoarsely.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She didn’t look like a skinny, slightly neurotic New York publishing professional. She looked glowing. Vital. Pretty pink cheeks, pretty naked feet. She wore a silver toe ring. Now why the hell did that turn him on? He was thirty-eight years old. Too damn old to discover a sudden foot fetish.
Her smile faded. “Is everything all right? You look—”
“Daddy! Watch me! Look what Bailey taught me.”
His heart, which had been pounding in his chest, catapulted into his throat as his daughter grabbed the side of the trampoline and flipped over and off.
She landed on her feet and came up grinning. “Isn’t that cool?”
He cleared his throat. “Very cool.”
Bailey frowned. “I told you not to do that without a spotter.”
Unabashed, Gabrielle switched the smile to her. “Sorry. I forgot.”
She flipped back on the tarp, and Bailey slithered off.
Desire slapped him. Her skinny little shirt clung to her breasts and ribs. Her pants rode low on her hips, exposing a pale line of smooth stomach. With the sun on her hair and a sheen on her skin, she smelled like every summer he’d spent experimenting with sex behind the bleachers of the football stadium.
He forced his gaze to her face. “Thanks for watching out for her.”
“I really did tell her to use a spotter,” Bailey said.
“I meant before. With your sister.”
“Oh.” Her already pink cheeks got pinker. He wanted to test their temperature with his thumb. “Leann didn’t mean anything by it. Sometimes my family can be a little . . .”
Tactless?
Prejudiced?
Self-absorbed?
“Oblivious,” she said.
“Tough on you,” he observed.
“Oh, no.” Her protest was automatic and, he thought, sincere. “I’m used to it.”
He smiled at her. “That’s what I meant.”
The moment stretched between them, shimmering like the heat rising from the grass.
Rose snapped it, wriggling in his arms. “Jump!”
“No, you don’t.” He collared her as she flung her small body at the trampoline.
Bailey cleared her throat. “Nice catch.”
“This age is easy.” He adjusted the toddler on his hip as his gaze sought Gabrielle, laughing and chasing Bryce around the trampoline. “The hard part comes later.”
“Jump!” Rose demanded.
“I can take her,” Bailey said. “It’s almost time for her nap anyway. Hey, munchkin. Want some juice?”
He transferred the squirming toddler to her hold, his gut tensing as her hair brushed his arm, as the back of his hand pressed against her breast.
Stepping back hastily, he hooked his thumbs in his back pockets. Rose patted Bailey’s face with starfish hands, poking tiny fingers into Bailey’s mouth, giggling when she pretended to bite.
Steve appreciated the picture they made, the blond, plump-cheeked toddler in the arms of the dark, thin-faced young woman. They had the same eyes, dark brown, wary, and nearly identical smiles.
Yearning raked his heart.
He’d wanted more kids.
An only child himself, he had dreamed of a brother or sister for Gabrielle.
We’re too busy,
Teresa had protested.
Your job, mine, the house, the baby . . .
He hadn’t pushed. They had plenty of time.
“You ever want kids?” he asked.
Bailey blinked, removing Rose’s fingers from her mouth to answer. “I guess. But there were other things I wanted more. Or wanted first. I always figured there’d be time, you know?”
Plenty of time,
they told themselves.
And then Teresa was diagnosed with cancer, and there was no time at all.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.” She smiled ruefully as she met his gaze. “Only now I’m twenty-six-years old, and I haven’t been on a date in six months, and I’m beginning to wonder if my mother is right about my biological clock.”
He glanced—he couldn’t help it—at her pale, flat belly above the black drawstring of her pants. She was worried about her biological clock?
“So you should start dating.”
That was smooth. Almost as smooth as his suggestion last night that they make a fresh start.
“It’s not that easy.”
He raised his eyebrows. “There are no men in New York?”
“Plenty of men. Even straight, single men. And lots and lots of women. And everyone is concerned with where you live and how you get to work and whether you accessorize well with their job or their friends or their image. Do you put out? Do you fit in? Do you measure up? Because if you don’t, they cut their losses and move on.”