Authors: Sally Berneathy
"And you."
She looked down at herself, then lifted one hand to the side of her face as if testing to be sure she really did exist.
"And me," she finally said.
He wanted to shake her, tell her to get on with her life, force her to realize that what happened all those years ago had no bearing on her now. But no one could have convinced him of that truth until he learned it for himself. Anyway, his last attempt to give her advice hadn't turned out so great.
"Okay," he said instead, "just a few more questions."
He obtained from Rebecca Patterson all the information she had. It wasn't a lot, but it would probably be enough. This case shouldn't be too difficult. Disappointing to the client, he suspected, but not difficult to resolve.
He followed her to the door, walking behind her, inhaling the scent of summer flowers that trailed after her, watching the play of light and shadows in the silky strands of her hair.
He'd heard the term willowy applied to women before but hadn't known exactly what it meant. Now he did. This woman reminded him of the branches of a willow tree...slim, graceful, moving with every breeze.
With his hand on the door knob, ready to open it, usher her out and get back to work, he hesitated.
"You know," he said, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing even as he spoke, "you were pretty damn lucky. Born to somebody who wouldn't—couldn't—keep you but left you with somebody who did. By your own admission, your parents were great. You had a good life with them, and now they're gone. I understand that you want them back, but you can't have that. No matter what I find for you, no matter who I dig up, it's not going to be that family. Maybe you should just go home, gather up your good memories and be happy you had them. Find a husband, make babies, start a new family."
She gazed up at him, her eyes the color of the blue grass he'd seen in Kentucky. Deep green but with hints of the sky somewhere in their depths. Looking into those eyes, he knew she wasn't going to take his advice. Right now this woman who wore her designer suit so elegantly, this Director of Human Resources who was undoubtedly accustomed to being in control, was feeling very lost.
"I appreciate your advice, Mr. Thornton, but you're wrong about my motives. I know I can't replace my parents. My real mother may not want me, and that's fine. I may not want her, either. But at least I'll know who I am. At least then I'll have an identity."
Jake didn't believe that brave pronouncement for one minute, but he nodded and opened the door. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything."
"Thank you."
She left, but her scent lingered behind. Or maybe it only lingered in his mind.
Summer flowers. Now where the heck had he come up with that description? What did winter flowers smell like?
He went over to the window and looked out at the parking lot, watched her exit the building. A willow blowing aimlessly with every gust of the hot summer wind.
And she thought finding a mother who'd specified she must never be found would somehow fix everything, give her life direction.
Though the sun shone brightly, a shadow seemed to overtake and surround Rebecca as she walked across the parking lot. Probably an optical illusion caused by the tinted glass of his office window.
Nevertheless, a black chill zagged down his spine. His own projections or the sixth sense he'd developed for survival in his years on the police force?
She got in her silver Volvo and drove away, and Jake returned to his desk. He flopped into his chair, picked up the notes he'd made on Rebecca Patterson and studied them then laid them back down.
After six years in uniform for the city and five in private practice, any remnants of optimism that might have survived his erratic youth had certainly been destroyed.
Rebecca Patterson was an attractive woman, but that had nothing to do with anything. His taste in women ran to the assertive, confident variety. Women who didn't need anything. Women who wouldn't shatter when it was time for everybody to go their separate ways. Rebecca Patterson was already shattered.
He couldn't possibly be attracted to her. That wasn't the explanation for his strange reaction, his peculiar urge to loosen those tense fingers, smooth her brow, dig up loving parents for her, make everything all right.
Maybe the moon was full. That made people do strange things.
He picked up his notes again, balancing them in the palm of his hand as if weighing the information there.
He'd probably be wise to turn this over to one of his associates. He had plenty of other cases to work on right now.
But he made no move to reach for the phone.
She wouldn't like that. She hadn't even wanted to tell the receptionist about her situation. She certainly wouldn't want to be passed around the office to someone else.
He should handle this matter himself. Handle it and treat it like any other case that came across his desk. That's all it was. Just another case. And Rebecca Patterson was just another client.
But the uneasy feeling continued to dart around the edges of his thoughts, refusing to go away, whispering to him that Rebecca Patterson shouldn't be so eager to find her mother.
Chapter 2
August 9, 1979, Edgewater, Texas
Mary Jordan lifted the lid of her crock pot and poked the roast inside with a long fork.
Almost done. By the time Ben got home and took a quick shower, it would be perfect.
She replaced the lid and leaned back against the counter, taking a long drink from her glass of iced tea. Not that there was much ice left in the tea, but at least it was wet. The big attic fan pulled air through the house, and the kitchen was well-ventilated with windows on two sides and a screen door on the other. Even so, it was unbearably hot. The air moving past her was warm and muggy and didn't feel the least bit cool.
She lifted her heavy blond hair off her neck and briefly considered returning it to the pony tail she wore during the day. But Ben liked it down.
She smiled to herself.
And she liked Ben. Loved Ben. After a year, she still marveled that he loved her. When he'd left their small town to join the Army, she'd been the skinny kid next door with a crush on the teen-age boy who sometimes pushed her in the swing but most often ignored her.
Then he'd returned with his strange friend, Charles, and they'd both gone to work for the Edgewater Police Department. And she'd been all grown up, and Ben had noticed her. Dated her. Loved her. Married her.
A blue jay squawked outside the kitchen window, the sound familiar and warm, recalling happy summer days when she was a kid, when her father was still alive and her mother was still...her mother, not lost in some strange land, unable to deal with losing her husband, soon following him into death.
But all the bad was in the past now, over and done with. Happiness was hers again. She had a husband who loved her and a home. A small one, true, an old house with no air conditioning, but it belonged to them. Well, them and the mortgage company.
The yard was huge, large enough to add on to the house later and still have a big yard with a swing set and tree houses and plenty of room for their kids to play. That was all she and Ben needed to complete their family. Babies. Lots of babies. And the way they loved every night, that shouldn't be too far in the future.
She opened the refrigerator, took out two more ice cubes and plopped them into her warm tea, then reached for another. Leaning her head back, eyes closed, she ran the third ice cube around her neck, under her hair then in front, letting the cool liquid trickle between her breasts. Thank goodness for the fashion of shorts with halter tops and no bra!
A knock on the screen door brought her upright.
A uniformed police officer stood on the back step.
"Charles? What are you doing here?" She dropped the remaining ice into the sink. She no longer needed it. A cold chill spread over her, sending goose bumps down her spine.
Without being invited, her husband's partner and best friend opened the screen door and came in.
"Where's Ben?" A sudden fear struck her, the fear that all wives of policemen lived with constantly. "Oh, God! He's not—"
Charles shook his head. "Ben's fine. He got tied up with paperwork at the station and wanted me to come by and tell you."
Relief washed over Mary in huge waves. "Thank goodness!" She smiled, restraining the urge to laugh giddily.
Charles returned the smile, but his was unctuous. Mary looked away from him, lifting the lid and checking the roast again though it didn't need to be checked. Charles affected her like that, made her nervous, apprehensive...made her skin crawl just by the way he looked at her sometimes, and this was one of those times.
"Why didn't Ben call me?" she asked.
Charles didn't answer.
Against her will, she turned back toward him.
His pale eyes stroked down her body, making her wish she had on something more than the halter top and frayed cutoffs she'd been blessing only a few seconds before. If she'd known Charles was coming, she'd have worn an overcoat even in this heat.
Ben said she was imagining things, that Charles respected her and loved her like a sister. He got irritated when she mentioned her reservations about Charles, the man who'd saved his life in battle and was now his partner on the police force. No man could resist ogling his beautiful wife, Ben said, teasing her, but making it clear he thought she was overreacting to Charles' friendliness.
Charles shrugged. "Ben knows I pass right by here on my way home. I told him I'd be glad to stop and tell you in person."
"Well, then, thank you." She forced herself to walk toward him, to place one hand on the wooden door, indicating she was ready for him to leave, ready to close the door behind him as soon as he was gone. And she was. Even with the attic fan laboring mightily to pull in a breath of the sultry air, she'd close the door and lean against it and suffer the heat just to know it separated her from Charles.
He ignored her action, pulled off his cap and raked an arm across his brow. "These new uniforms get awful damn hot in the summer. I sure could use a drink of cold water."
Mary stood stock still for a long moment, her mind racing frantically to come up with some excuse, some reason to get this man out of her house, to deny him even a drink of water.
Her husband's best friend. His partner. Without him she wouldn't have Ben. He'd be lying dead in a jungle halfway around the world.
"Of course." She turned away and opened the refrigerator.
Behind her she heard the wooden door close.
She tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that crept up from the pit of her stomach and spread over her chest, making it hard to breathe. He was closing the door because he'd seen her start to do it and assumed that was what she wanted.
To lock him outside, not inside with her!
She took down a plastic glass and filled it with cold water from the pitcher. "Take it with you," she said, handing it to him. "You can bring it back next time you come by."
His fingers closed over hers. "What if I forget?" His voice was strangely husky. He stood so close she could smell the cloyingly sweet cologne he always wore as well as the dark, slightly musty scent he never seemed quite able to cover up no matter how much cologne he wore.
He was too close.
She tugged her hand loose. "It's an old glass. I don't care." Her voice was breathless.
Frightened.
That was absurd. Charles might disgust her, but he would never harm her.
He raised the water to his lips, and she turned away, again checking the roast. "Thank goodness for crock pots," she babbled. "I couldn't bear to turn on the oven in this heat."
His hand slid under her hair, over the bare skin on her back.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't."
He lifted her hair and pressed his lips to her neck.
She whirled on him, brandishing the fork she'd used to turn the roast. "Stay away from me!"
Laughing, he grabbed both her wrists and pushed her against the counter. "Don't give me that. You've been taunting me ever since you married Ben, swinging that sexy ass in front of me, wearing those little tops and no bra so I can see your big nipples."
She strained against his hold, surprised at his strength. He wasn't as tall as Ben, but he was stocky and strong.
He pinned her to the counter, his body hard and aroused.
"Charles, you don't want to do this." She tried to sound calm as she twisted sideways, seeking to escape the wild look in his eyes, fighting the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
"Oh, yes, I do. And you want me to." His mouth descended on hers and she felt bile rise in her throat.
***
Mary huddled in the corner, sobbing quietly, her body and soul bruised and aching. Charles' dark, sickly sweet scent clung to her, nauseating her.
From behind her she heard the sound of a zipper.
"You better go clean up before your husband gets home," Charles said, his voice perfectly normal, as if they were discussing a messy accident. "I think we should keep this our little secret, don't you?"
His hand came down, clamped on her chin and forced her to look up at him. "Don't you?"
She jerked away from the slime of his touch.
"If you want to keep your husband, I'd suggest you don't force him to choose between the man who saved his life, the man who's his partner and best friend, and the whore who seduced that best friend."