Lana's Lawman (13 page)

She was only slightly mollified. “And will you please ask me before you charge ahead, making decisions for me?”

He smiled. “I'll try to remember. That Serve and Protect stuff is pretty ingrained in me though. I tend to jump in first and ask questions later. But I'll try.”

That was all she could ask.

It suddenly occurred to her that they'd just agreed to boundaries for a relationship of some kind. Like they were going to be seeing each other on a regular basis. That wasn't something she'd really planned on. Could she backtrack if she wanted to? Did she want to?

She relaxed a little as the rest of the meal progressed on a slightly more predictable path. Sloan grilled the steaks. He and Lana sipped wine, talked about some of their high school friends and where they'd ended up.

As she was contemplating what she could scrounge up for dessert, she noticed how chilly she was, even wearing a sweater.

“I guess it's time to crank up the old furnace,” she said. So far the autumn had been so mild that she hadn't even needed to turn on the heat, but now appeared to be the time. The thermostat was in the living room, and she excused herself to take care of it.

But when she flipped the switch to Heat, nothing happened.

Sloan split the last of the wine between his and Lana's glasses. He could now freely admit he'd been out of his mind to go barging in there with his grocery bags. He'd only guessed Lana was lying about having a date. He hadn't been sure, and he'd risked the ultimate degradation of having some burly boyfriend flatten him on her front porch.

But his hunch had paid off. Dinner had turned out
even better than he'd expected, and his expectations had been pretty high. The only fly in the ointment had been their argument over the fireplace, and even that had helped him to understand her a little better, peel one more layer off her protective coating.

He couldn't imagine what that ass Bart Gaston had done to make her so suspicious of friendly gestures. All he knew was that Gaston had better hope he'd never meet Sloan in a dark alley.

He was taking another sip of wine when he heard a pounding on the wall between the living and dining rooms.

“Lana?”

“This … darn … thing!” The sentence was punctuated by more pounding.

Sloan slid into the living room. “Problem?”

“The heater won't come on. I just had the stupid furnace overhauled last year.”

He hesitated to ask, but he did. “Do you, um, want me to take a look? I know a little bit about furnaces.”

She gave a fatalistic shrug. “Since I already dug out the flashlight, why not?” She led him to a utility closet off the laundry room, where the electric furnace and the fuse box resided.

Sloan tried the fuse box first, but none of the breakers had been flipped. Next he took the furnace cover off and, with Lana holding the flashlight, methodically checked all the connections and looked for broken wires. The thing was practically an antique.

“I know it looks awful,” Lana said, “but I really did have it inspected last year. It was working fine.”

“Well,” he said after a fruitless search, “I don't know what the problem is. My guess is it's something simple, like a short. You'll have to call someone who has the right diagnostic equipment. Do you know a good repair company?”

Lana nodded, appearing almost relieved that he hadn't been able to fix the problem. “I'll call them first thing tomorrow. They probably charge extra for Saturdays,” she said glumly.

“What will you do tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

“It'll be cold tonight, maybe even freezing. I heard it on the radio earlier.”

She shrugged. “I'll bundle up with blankets. Sloan, don't look at me like that. I won't freeze to death. This is Texas. It's not even November. No one has ever frozen to death in Texas before November.”

“I could help keep you warm.” The words were out of his mouth before he could consider them. Given Lana's skittishness, they were probably ill-advised, he realized too late. Who did he think he was, Don Juan and Romeo all rolled up into one?

“I'll bet you could too,” she said as she led the way out of the laundry room and back to the dinner table. Was that a note of teasing he heard in her voice?

Relieved he hadn't made her mad, he said, “Offer withdrawn. Very impertinent of me.”

“That's what my mother would have said. Shall we finish the wine?”

“Never mind your mother. What do
you
say?”

“I say let's finish the wine.”

She hadn't said no, Sloan reflected as they sipped the Bordeaux. But he'd withdrawn the offer. Was it too late to reinstate it?

Forget it
, he told himself. He ought to consider himself lucky he was still welcome at her table. A man shouldn't rush with someone like Lana. She was no longer a naive eighteen-year-old.

She'd made it clear she wanted to be in control, and he would do his best to give her at least some say in how and when they progressed to intimacy.

But he wasn't willing to give her too long.

He wasn't sure when their making love had become inevitable. He only knew that it was. Sooner or later they had to finish what they'd started, see where it might lead. She was every bit as curious as he was.

The wine had warmed his stomach, but outwardly he was on the verge of shivering. He ought to be glad he didn't have to spend the night in this icebox.
Yeah, right.

“This was a wonderful dinner, Sloan,” Lana said. “I can't remember the last time I lingered over a meal like this. I was thinking about dessert, but the only idea I can come up with is ice cream, and that doesn't appeal right now.”

“Hot chocolate? We could go out to a coffee bar and pretend we're yuppies.”

“No, I'd better not.” She stood and began clearing the table, her hands trembling slightly. “I still have this Halloween costume to sew, and some reading to do tonight while I have the house to myself.”

Now,
that
was a no. Clear as day. “I'll help with the dishes, then.”

“You can help me load the dishwasher if you want. But don't blame me if icicles start to grow from your earlobes. I gave you your chance to make a polite escape to somewhere warmer.”

She smiled that golden-girl smile, and he suffered heart palpitations. That was one thing that hadn't changed about Lana, her warm smile. It was one of the qualities that had first dazzled him about her because it seemed so real, not some fake-beauty-queen toothpaste commercial.

He rinsed while she loaded the dishwasher. Sloan was more and more aware of the cold, and he wondered how Lana would manage. When he could stretch his visit no further, he thanked her for having him over and headed for the door. She followed, saying all the polite things a good hostess says.

He reached for the doorknob. She did too. Their hands collided.

“Oh, excuse me.”

“Sorry.”

Then she was in his arms and he was kissing her again, because he couldn't stand the thought of leaving without tasting her again, feeling her warmth against him.

This was dangerous territory, he knew; last time he'd been the one to find sanity first, and he wasn't sure he could be that strong a second time. He buried his fingers in the honey-gold silk of her hair and
groaned at the exquisite torture of holding her and knowing he couldn't have her, not that night.

The blaring of the doorbell served as a bucket of ice water, and they sprang apart with surprised gasps. Lana laughed as she pulled open the door. “Goodness, you'd think we were doing something wrong,” she said with a nervous laugh. Then, turning to the porch, she asked, “May I help you?”

The door blocked Sloan's view of the visitor.

“Are you Lana Gaston?” a man's voice said. Sloan didn't like the sound of this.

“Yes.” The screen door squeaked. Lana reached out and accepted something.

“Thank you, ma'am,” the voice said.

She closed the door, staring at a white envelope in her hand, her brow furrowed.

“What is it?” Sloan couldn't help asking.

“Something official. That guy was a process server, I think. What on earth?”

“You haven't done anything lately to prompt a lawsuit, have you?”

She shrugged. “Not that I know of. Well, let's have a look.” She picked up a letter opener from the hall table and slit open the envelope. The paper rattled as she unfolded it with shaking hands.

Sloan refrained from looking over her shoulder. She would tell him if it was something she wanted him to know.

“Oh, my God.”

“Lana?” She'd gone as pale as the paper she held. He went to her mostly out of fear that she would keel
over, sliding an arm around her waist. “What is it, honey?”

“That bastard.”

“Who?” As if he didn't know already.

“Bart. He's suing me for custody.”

 SEVEN

Lana didn't question the fact that there was a warm, solid man standing behind her. She was just grateful; she leaned into Sloan's strength and tried to absorb some of it. The response was automatic.

“Why would he do this?” Sloan asked, sounding almost as bewildered as she felt.

“I don't know. Maybe because he resents paying child support, such as it is. He grits his teeth every month when he has to write that check, even though I know it's less than his car payment. He even had Rob taken off his health policy when his insurance company raised the rates. He claims he told me about it and that I said I'd add him to my policy, but I don't remember.”

“Then the hospital bill …”

“Is all mine. I signed the papers, so Bart refuses to pay a dime.”

“That's criminal.” Sloan balled his fists. “He shouldn't get away with it.”

“Oh, I don't care about that. That's little stuff, compared to what he's pulling with this.” She rattled the offending papers.

“You don't … I mean … how do I ask this politely? You don't try and keep father and son apart, do you?”

“No, of course not. Bart was the one who wanted to limit the visitation to two evenings a week and one weekend a month. He claimed that with his ‘busy schedule' he would rather concentrate on quality time than quantity. Then he's never home during visitation anyway, and he relies on his housekeeper or his girlfriend to baby-sit. I can't believe he suddenly has some burning desire to spend more time with his son.”

Sloan gently guided Lana back to the living room, where they could sit down. “You were probably right the first time. It's the money.”

“Or …” She sat gingerly on the sofa because she felt like she might break if she sat down too hard. “He could be doing this because he's angry with me. We had an argument the other night.”

“About what? Not that it's any of my business.”

“Oh, I don't mind telling you. It was about you, in fact. Rob told his dad you were fixing the roof, and Bart wanted to know everything about you, what our relationship was. I politely told him it was none of his business. He went ballistic because I dared to question his authority in front of Rob. As if he doesn't do that to me all the time.”

“Would Bart really retaliate over something so trivial?”

“Yes,” Lana answered without hesitation. “Bart's whole life is measured in trivialities. There's nothing of substance there. He plays with people's lives every day like they were pieces on a chessboard. He thinks nothing of lying to a judge to keep his clients out of jail, but if they do go to jail, he immediately forgets about it and moves on to the next client. Taking Rob away from me might just be a game to him, a chance to one-up me.”

She was shivering. Sloan grabbed an afghan from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her shoulders. Then he slipped his arm around her, and she snuggled into his warmth. It seemed very right that he should be there with her. She didn't know how she would have faced this blow alone. Normally she would have called Callie or Millicent, but Callie was on her honeymoon, and she just couldn't burden Millie. She had too many problems of her own to deal with in the aftermath of her husband's death.

“Surely he doesn't mean this,” Lana murmured. “He might just be doing this to scare me, so I'll toe the line. So I'll
behave
, so I won't get any notions about who's really in charge here.” She turned her head to look at Sloan, finding his face surprisingly close to hers. “I know I must sound like a bitter, mean-spirited divorcée.”

“You have every right to be furious.”

“Bart hasn't been all bad. At least he's involved in his son's life, if only sporadically. He's not abusive, he pays his child support—”

“Not physically abusive. I call what he's doing right
now emotional abuse. He's trying to take away the one thing you cherish the most. Don't make excuses for him.”