Читать книгу Gabriel's Honor - Barbara McCauley - Страница 8

The Victorian farmhouse sat quietly in the darkness at the end of the quarter-mile-long gravel driveway. The house was two-story, Cape Cod blue, though the clapboard siding hadn’t seen the wet end of a paint-brush for at least twenty years. A chill touched the night air like an icy hand; light from a half-moon shone down on the roof, which was missing more shingles than a professional hockey team was missing front teeth. The porch steps were a broken leg waiting to happen, and tall, spiky weeds choked what might have once been daisies in the dried-up front flower bed.

Gabriel Sinclair stood on the porch of the old house and frowned at the locked front door. It had been a long time since he’d broken into a house. Fifteen years, to be exact. He’d been twenty years old at the time, on a clandestine mission with his three younger brothers. Gabe had been appointed lookout while Callan waited in the getaway truck; Reese, the youngest at fifteen, found the open window, and Lucian, the most daring Sinclair—and only seventeen at the time—slipped inside Lucy Greenwood’s bedroom window and snatched a pair of her hot pink satin underwear.

By the end of that night, all eight Bloomfield County High School cheerleaders had found themselves minus one pair of panties. The Sinclair brothers were brought into the sheriff’s station and questioned, but later released due to lack of evidence. There’d been no proof, but everyone in town knew that the Sinclair boys were to blame. Who else would have even attempted—let alone pulled off—such a nefarious plan?

He smiled. Those were the days.

Gabe’s smile slowly faded as he remembered the lecture that his parents had given all four of their sons that night. What he wouldn’t give to hear one of those lectures now, Gabe thought. To see his father grim-faced and stern, dragging his callused carpenter’s hand through his coal-black hair while he paced back and forth in front of his sons, and his mother standing quietly by, shaking her pretty blond head.

Damn, but he missed them. Missed his mother’s soft laugh and her warm chocolate-chip cookies. Missed his father’s quiet nod of approval for a job well-done, hot Sunday afternoons and a family game of horseshoes in the backyard.

With a heavy sigh, Gabe turned his attention back to the problem at hand: finding a way into the house.

He jiggled the tarnished brass front doorknob one more time, but it was definitely locked tight and dead bolted. He let the rusted screen door squeak loudly shut, then moved to the front windows. They were latched, as well.

Damn.

I’ll leave the front door open, his sister, Cara, had told him earlier. If you can work up a rough list of necessary repairs and meet me at the tavern tonight, I’ll make dinner next Sunday, your choice.

Since most of Gabe’s bachelor-pad dinners were takeout, microwaved or sandwiches from his brother Reese’s tavern in town, the idea of a home-cooked meal was entirely too tempting to pass up. His mouth was already watering from the menu he’d picked out: A big, juicy roast, fluffy mashed potatoes smothered in butter and hot gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits like their mom used to make every Sunday. And then Cara’s supreme specialty—apple pie.

Inspired by the image of food, Gabe hurried around to the back of the house, made a mental note to check the overhead door on the detached garage. He didn’t even think that Mildred Witherspoon—the home’s now deceased owner—had a car, so Gabe assumed that the garage door would also be in need of maintenance.

Behind the garage, cornfields leased out and tended by a neighboring farmer rustled in the chilly night breeze, and Gabe paused for a moment to listen to the calming sound. He and his brothers had played in the cornfields by their house when they were kids; hide-and-seek, soldier, cowboys and Indians. When he was twelve, he’d kissed Linda Green in those cornfields. Linda was married with three kids now.

Smiling, Gabe shook his head at the memory, then jumped up the steps of the back porch and tried the door. It was locked, as well. And dead bolted.

So were all the windows on the bottom floor.

Strange.

Gabe frowned. Mildred Witherspoon certainly had believed in sturdy locks. Which was odd, because very few people in Bloomfield County ever locked their doors. Crime was practically nonexistent in the quiet town, unless you counted jaywalking or an occasional speeding ticket on the open highway crime.

Or panty-raids, Gabe thought with a smile.

But Mildred would definitely have been safe from that infraction of the law. She’d been ninety-two when she quietly passed away in her sleep two weeks ago. A stoic, straitlaced woman whose manner was as Victorian as her house. When Mildred’s lawyer had read her will, it had been a surprise to everyone when they learned that the elderly woman had left her farmhouse and all of its contents to the Killian Shawnessy Foundation, an organization to help women in need. Cara was vice president of the foundation, her husband, Killian Shawnessy, was president.

The funds from the sale of the house and its contents would be well-used by the organization. Gabe had already promised a donation of labor from Sinclair Construction, the now five-year-old construction company that he and Callan and Lucian were partners in, but Cara needed some figures ASAP on the cost of materials for repairs.

So here he was, standing in the dark, hands in his pockets, locked out.

He looked up at the second-story windows.

The Sinclairs never gave up without a fight. They thrived on challenges, laughed in the face of adversity. And we’re talking apple pie here, folks, Gabe thought with a fresh burst of determination. Cara’s apple pie was definitely worth a few scrapes and bruises.

Muttering curses, Gabe climbed the front porch railing, held his breath at the crack of wood, then grabbed hold of the edge of the porch roof. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and crawled carefully to a second-story window where he yanked on the weathered screen. It held tight. He yanked harder. When it came loose, it slammed into his face and sliced across his cheek. He swore hotly and tossed the screen aside, then reached for the window.

It was open.

With a shout of male victory, he climbed through the open window into what appeared to be a large bedroom. In the darkness, he could almost make out a four-poster bed and a nightstand with a lamp on it. The room was musty, but Gabe also caught the faint scent of something feminine and floral. Probably sachet or potpourri, he thought, though this scent was much more pleasant than the frilly lace balls that Sheila Harper, his last girlfriend, had tucked into every drawer and closet of her house. When she’d asked him to move in with her, all he could think about was his shirts and socks smelling like a damn perfume counter. Knowing that Sheila was looking for much more than a roommate, Gabe had cooled that relationship faster than she could say “wedding ring.”

Not that he was against marriage. As long as it was someone else who did the marrying. His brother Callan had recently succumbed to the institution of matrimony, and his sister, Cara, had also gotten married a few months before Callan. The family was steadily growing, and he had no doubt that soon they’d be hearing the patter of little feet.

But Gabe was perfectly content with his life just as it was: single, no complications. Free as a bird. Socks and T-shirts that smelled like detergent, not flowers, thank you very much. And he was also content for the patter of little feet to be nieces and nephews. In fact, he looked forward to it.

He was reaching for the lamp’s switch when he heard the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the bedroom. He froze, then slowly turned toward the door and listened.

Footsteps?

The house was quiet around him; the only sound was the hoot of an owl from the trees outside. He waited, but there was only silence. Shaking his head, he turned back to the lamp.

And stopped.

There it was again. Not as loud as before, but he heard it clearly—the unmistakable creak of a wood floor. Then another.

The house was supposed to be empty. Mildred Witherspoon had lived alone, she’d had no children and had never been married. Her lawyer had searched for family members following the reading of the will, just in case some long-lost nephew or cousin had suddenly turned up, crying their eyes out over poor old Aunt Mildred, who they were certain wanted to leave them all her earthly possessions.

But the search had turned up nothing, and it seemed that Miss Witherspoon had indeed been completely alone. Which meant that if someone was in the house, they most certainly didn’t belong here.

He moved soundlessly toward the closed bedroom door, opened it carefully.

Squeak. Quiet. Squeak. Quiet.

They moved slowly down the stairs.

“Whoever you are,” Gabe said firmly, and his voice echoed in the house, “stop right where you are.”

The house went absolutely still, as if it had stopped breathing. Then the footsteps resumed, only this time at a run.

Dammit.

Gabe dashed into the dark hallway, made out the dim outline of the stairs to the left and ran toward them. He reached the top of the landing at the same instant his quarry hit the bottom. Gabe barely caught a glimpse of the intruder before he disappeared around the corner.

“Dammit, stop!”

Stumbling and cursing, he took the stairs three at a time, hit the bottom and rounded the corner into the dining room.

And stopped short when a fist slammed into his gut.

The punch lacked power, but the surprise took his breath away. His assailant had already turned and was running away when Gabe leaped after him and caught his legs in a flying tackle. They both went facedown on the hardwood floor in a tangle of arms and legs. A dining-room chair turned over and landed with a crash in the dark room, then a small table went on its side and the clatter of metal on wood rang out.

When an elbow smashed into Gabe’s nose, he swore fiercely, then wrestled his attacker’s arms behind his back and pinned them there. There was plenty of fight, but no bulk to the guy, no muscle, and he was considerably shorter than Gabe’s own six-four frame. A teenager? he wondered and shifted his weight so he wouldn’t hurt the kid.

“Let go of me!”

Gabe went still at the sound of the furious, but distinctly feminine voice.

A woman?

She squirmed underneath him, and with him lying on top of her, her rounded bottom wiggled against his lower regions.

Oh, yes, definitely a woman.

Her legs were long, he realized, her body and arms slender, but firm. And though it was subtle, she smelled like a spring bouquet. The same scent he’d caught a whiff of upstairs.

“I said, let go of me.” She spit each word out with such venom, Gabe was surprised he didn’t see sparks fly with every syllable.

She started to struggle again, but he held her arms tightly, as much to protect himself against another elbow in his face as to give them both a moment to calm down.

“As soon as you relax,” he said, and she countered with a quick thrust of her body that almost knocked him sideways. When he tightened the pressure on her wrists—small, delicate wrists, he noted—she sucked in a sharp, deep breath, then went still, her breathing heavy and strained.

“That’s a good girl,” he said, easing his hold on her. “Okay, I’m going to let you up now, slowly. I don’t want to hurt you, but—”

“Please don’t hurt my mommy.”

Gabe froze at the sound of the tiny, frightened voice that came from a dark corner of the dining room. He felt the breath shudder out from the woman underneath him, heard her small choked-back sob.

A woman and a child? Hiding in the darkness in an empty house? What the hell was going on?

“I’m not going to hurt your mommy,” Gabe said softly to the child as he released the woman. “She just surprised me, that’s all.”

He stood, then reached down and took hold of her arm to help her up, but she shook off his touch and moved quickly into the shadowed corner of the room to join the small figure huddled there.

“It’s all right, baby,” Gabe heard her say. “I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

They stood there, all three of them, without speaking, letting the darkness smooth a quiet hand over the tension. Gabe drew in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “I’m going to turn on a light now. Are you going to run again?”

A long pause. “No.”

He didn’t believe her for an instant. He kept his gaze on the shadows as he ran his hand along the wall by the doorway, found the switch and flipped it on.

Light from a crystal chandelier poured into the room, but it still seemed dark. Dark wood paneling, dark green drapes, cherry wood dining-room table and buffet. The room had all the cheerfulness of a cave.

Wearing a long-sleeved, black turtleneck sweater and black jeans, and with hair the deep brown color of sable, the woman would have completely blended into the shadows of the room if not for her pale face and wide, thickly lashed eyes. For one brief moment, his gaze rested on her lips: wide, curved, slightly parted.

Damn, he thought, then quickly shook off the twist in his gut.

She stood in the corner, her shoulders stiff and straight, with her child behind her. He guessed her age to be somewhere in her mid-to-late-twenties. Her wary gaze lifted to his and held, and he could see that she indeed wanted to run, was merely waiting for the opportunity.

He moved between the two doorways in the room, effectively blocking her, but carefully keeping his distance.

“Who are you?” she demanded suddenly, catching him off guard. “What are you doing here?”

Gabe lifted one dark brow. “Funny, that’s what I was just going to ask you.”

“I’m a friend of Miss Witherspoon’s.” Her chin went up. “She was expecting my son and me.”

Gabe glanced down and watched a sandy-blond head peek out from behind the woman’s legs. Short, stubby fingers clutched tightly onto her slender thighs. Four or five, Gabe guessed the kid’s age.

Gabe looked back at the woman. “I didn’t see a car out front.”

“I parked it in the garage out back,” she said, placing a hand on the side of her son’s head. “I needed the overhead light to unload.”

Maybe, Gabe thought. Maybe not. He looked back up at the woman. “When?”

Her brow furrowed. “When what?”

“When was Miss Witherspoon expecting you?”

“Oh.” She blinked quickly. “Well, actually, we weren’t due to arrive until Friday, but I didn’t think she’d mind if we were a couple of days early. It seems, however, that she’s away at the moment.”

That was an understatement, Gabe thought.

“I didn’t think she’d mind if we waited for her,” she added. “The last time we spoke, she was looking forward to our arrival.”

The woman’s voice was smooth, Gabe noted, with rich, deep tones, still a little breathless from their scuffling. “When did you speak with Miss Witherspoon last?” he asked.

“When did I speak with her?” she repeated hesitantly. “I’m not sure. Several days ago. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. But I really don’t see what business that is of yours.”

“And that was last week, you say?”

“Give or take a day or two.” Her eyes flashed as she shook her thick, dark hair away from her face. “Look, I don’t appreciate your attitude. My son and I are invited guests here, and you’re the one who broke in and frightened us half to death.”

There was some truth in the woman’s words, Gabe believed. But there were lies, as well. Especially the part about speaking with Miss Witherspoon the previous week. That would have been quite a conversation, considering she’d died two weeks ago.

But anyone who knew Mildred Witherspoon, also knew that the woman had never, in the ninety-two years she’d lived in the town, ever, invited anyone into her home. Other than the monthly meetings and Sunday services she attended, Mildred had tucked herself away as tightly as the bun on top of her head.

Which most certainly meant that the woman standing ten feet away from him was lying through her pretty white teeth.

“Look, mister, it’s been a long day.” The strain was apparent in the woman’s thin voice and the tight press of her lips. “My son and I are tired. If Miss Witherspoon is out of town, then I’ll just leave her a note and we’ll be on our way in the morning.”

He supposed he could just let it go, let her stay here with her child without questioning her. He seriously doubted that she’d come here to steal anything, or that Mildred Witherspoon even had anything worth stealing. What did he care if this woman stayed here and was on her way in the morning? Who was he to begrudge her a night’s stay in an empty house?

But there was something in her eyes, something beyond the wary defiance. Something as quiet as it was fierce. Something desperate. And whatever that something was, it closed around him like a fist and squeezed.

Dammit, Gabe, just walk away.

Lord knew he didn’t need or want any complications in his life. He should just do what he came here to do, then turn around, walk out the front door and go to Reese’s tavern where he could toss back a beer or two. Not think about the frightened look in this woman’s eyes. She’d be gone in the morning, and they could both forget they’d ever seen each other.

That’s what he should do.

But he couldn’t, dammit. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.

“Miss Witherspoon died two weeks ago,” he said evenly. “Now do you want to try it again and tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

Her breathing seemed to stop, and her eyes closed with what appeared to be genuine concern. She drew in a slow, shaky breath, then opened her eyes again.

“How?” she asked quietly.

“She just went to sleep and didn’t wake up,” Gabe replied. “We should all be so lucky at ninety-two.”

“She seemed so much younger on the phone,” the woman said thoughtfully. “So full of life.”

“That’s one way to describe her,” Gabe replied. He could think of several other descriptions he’d keep to himself.

“I’m sorry about Miss Witherspoon,” the woman said abruptly, then straightened her shoulders. “And since it now appears that we’re imposing, my son and I will be on our way.”

She reached behind her, took her son’s small hand in her own and started for the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Come on, sweetie, we’re going to leave now.”

Gabe blocked her way. “You haven’t told me who you are.”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she said coolly and tried to step around him.

He stepped in front of her again.

Her eyes narrowed with anger. Gabe stood close enough to the woman now to see that her eyes were gray. Dove-gray, with a dark charcoal ring around the iris.

When he pulled out the slim cell phone tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, he watched that soft gray harden to the color of steel.

“Get out of my way,” she said tightly.

“I’m afraid not.” He punched the buttons on his phone. “And since you won’t talk to me, then we’ll just have to call someone you will talk to.” He pushed the Send button.

“No.” She stared at the phone, her eyes suddenly wide with fear. “Please don’t call the police. Please.”

“I’m out at the Witherspoon house,” Gabe said into the phone a moment later. “Get over here as soon as you can. Bring two of Reese’s best.” He paused, then said, “Yeah, I’ll explain when you get here.”

Gabe hung up the phone, watched the fear on the woman’s face turn to panic as she gauged the distance to the opposite doorway. Even without a small child, she never would have made it. When her gaze swung back to his, the look of defeat in her eyes stabbed sharply into his gut.

She didn’t want his help, that was for certain, Gabe thought with a sigh, but she sure as hell was going to get it.

Trapped.

Her heart pounding, Melanie Hart stared at her captor and fought back the dread welling up in her stomach. He was much too tall for her to outrun; those long legs of his could easily overtake her. And she’d already experienced firsthand the power and strength of his well-honed body, a body she would have greatly admired under different circumstances. He was solid muscle under his faded blue jeans and chambray shirt.

But she couldn’t let herself be caught. Couldn’t let the police find her and Kevin.

She took a step toward the doorway again, but the man moved with her, slowly shaking his head.

How could she fight him? Especially with Kevin clutching so tightly to her legs. Determination glinted in the man’s dark green gaze, and the stubborn set of his strong jaw gave her no hope. The sight of blood on his angled cheek startled her. Had she done that in their scuffle? Guilt tugged at her, but she quickly shrugged it off. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, but if necessary, she would. What choice did she have?

Lifting her chin, she drew in a slow breath to steady her nerves. “This is kidnapping,” she said with a calm that amazed herself. “You have no reason, and certainly no right, to keep me and my son here. I want you to know I intend to press charges.”

“Fair enough.” He lifted a dark brow, then gestured toward the doorway leading to the living room. “In the meantime, why don’t we go sit down? Filling out all those forms will be tiring.”

Once again she thought about running, but the futility of escape loomed as dark as the night. She’d have to find some way to distract this man, or perhaps reason with him, though that possibility appeared to lie somewhere between slim and none.

He stayed close behind as she moved out of the dining room with her son, effectively squelching any ideas she might have had about dashing out the front door as they passed through the entry at the bottom of the stairs. When they stepped into the living room, he flipped on a small brass table lamp.

The room was spacious, high beveled ceilings, tall windows, hardwood floors. A fireplace big enough to drive a Volkswagen into. Oil paintings, mostly landscapes, hung on off-white walls. Two Queen Anne chairs and a long sofa were slip-covered, tables and desks and chairs of various styles and woods completed the room. Like the rest of the house, the scent was musty and stale.

Her captor gestured for her to sit. She glared at him, then took her son’s hand and moved to the sofa.

How could she have known that Miss Witherspoon had died? She had spoken with the woman, though it had been four weeks ago, not last week. Melanie had known that the woman was elderly, but she’d sounded so fit, with too much grit and pluck to die. When she’d driven up a little while ago and discovered the house empty, Melanie had simply thought that the woman was away.

She knew that she’d made a mistake lying about Miss Witherspoon inviting her here, a big mistake. Dammit. She blinked back the threatening tears. She couldn’t afford to make mistakes.

But she was tired. So incredibly tired. And so was Kevin. After leaving California, she’d taken her time zigzagging across the country. But the trip was taking its toll on both her and Kevin, not only the traveling and moving around, but the constant worry, the fear, was mentally exhausting.

But she couldn’t stay here, especially now, with the police coming. She had no criminal record, but if she was charged with breaking and entering, then she would have one. And that might leave a trail she couldn’t afford to leave. “Look, mister—”

“Gabe.” He sat down on the arm of a Queen Anne chair. “Gabe Sinclair.”

Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”

“Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”

“It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.

“You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.

But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.

And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.

If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.

Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.

Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.

As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.

The only question that remained was, how?

When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.

It had to be now.

She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.

With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.

Now or never.

In one fluid movement, Melanie grabbed the statue and rushed the man, swinging the heavy bronze at his head. With an oath, he ducked, then reached out and plucked the statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.

When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.

“Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”