Читать книгу A Father For Her Baby - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 14

Luke St. John? Sanders stared down at the name on the A-1 Rent-a-Ride rental form. St. John? Someone Derrick had hired? Now he wasn’t so sure. It was too much of a coincidence not to be a relative of Jason’s. Headed for Huntsville? He doubted that. But just seeing the name neatly printed on the paper, Sanders assumed that Luke St. John, whoever he was, knew about the plan to rent a limo and take Kit and the baby to Huntsville. How? But maybe more important, why had St. John used his real name on the rental agreement, as if he wanted Sanders to know that he knew?

No, Sanders thought, St. John wanted Derrick to know. Did Luke also believe that Derrick had killed Jason?

Sanders left, drove to the nearest pay phone and called the private detective Derrick had hired to find Kit when Sanders had failed. It gave Sanders no little satisfaction that the P.I. had been unable to find Kit.

Matthew Rustan, was a slimy, balding former high school basketball star with a paunch, a lousy attitude and a hungry look in his eye that made Sanders nervous. The first time Sanders had seen the man’s office, he could tell that all Rustan’s good years were behind him—in more ways than one. The walls were lined with high school trophies, yellowed newspaper articles and old team photographs. Still, the man was handy—and willing to work.

“I need you to go over my rental car,” Sanders said when Rustan answered. “I think there’s a bug in it.”

Thirty minutes later, the private eye slammed the rental car door and walked over to where Sanders stood waiting. “It’s clean now.”

“That’s it?” Sanders asked pointing to the cellphone size device the P.I. held in his hand.

He nodded. “This type works off a larger receiver, which can pick up pretty good as far away as five miles. Someone’s probably heard every conversation you’ve had.”

At least now he knew how Luke St. John had known so much. “One more thing. Can you run a check on a name for me?”

“Sure.”

Sanders reached into his pocket. He’d copied the driver’s license number off Luke St. John’s A-1 Rent-a-Ride rental agreement. Beside it had been written the word Montana, one of the states where the license number was usually the social security number. “Try this.”

* * *

LUKE ST. JOHN. Kit gasped in surprise at the name and felt herself go cold as she stared at him.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. As he handed it to her, he snapped on the overhead light. Kit looked down at the color photo on his Montana driver’s license, then at the name. Lucas St. John.

He leaned over the seat to flip to a graduation photograph of a young man. Kit felt her throat constrict. Her heart pounded louder than the rain on the roof. She recognized the man in the photo instantly. This was the man she’d seen with Derrick at the construction site. The man she’d seen her husband murder. Jason St. John.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. The young man in the photo had long, light brown hair and pale gray eyes. Intense, penetrating eyes, just like the ones gazing at her now.

“That answers at least one of my questions,” Luke said, taking the wallet from her numb fingers. “It was my brother you saw your husband kill. I figured it had to be something like that. It was too much of a coincidence when you disappeared on the same day as Jason—and you nine months’ pregnant.”

Kit’s gaze jerked up at a sound outside the car. She let out a startled cry as a man’s face appeared beyond the glass. He wore a bright yellow raincoat, the hood up, his features hidden in shadow.

“It’s all right,” Luke said, pocketing the wallet. “He’s getting rid of the limo for me.” He stepped out into the rain, leaving his door open.

Kit watched the man hand Luke two raincoats. She couldn’t hear what they were saying as Luke shrugged into one of the coats then reached back in to toss her the second one. Luke went around the back of the limo with the man, opened the trunk and extracted her single bag. The man took the bag and disappeared into the darkness.

She pulled on the raincoat, chilled more by his words than by the weather or the raindrops that splattered her skin from the wet slick fabric. He was getting rid of the limo because Derrick would be looking for it—and them. Derrick would be tracking her down like a dog. She felt the weight of that thought and knew she could never be rid of the man.

Luke startled her, opening the door and climbing into the back of the limo. “There’s a fishing cottage just over the hill,” he said, reaching for the baby carrier. “We’ll go there.”

Kit glanced out into the night, unable to see a light or a building. She settled her gaze on Luke, wondering why he’d helped her, wondering what he wanted from her, suspecting she already knew the answer to that. She looked down at the baby in her arms. Andy had fallen back to sleep sucking his thumb; this kid could sleep through anything.

“Look,” Luke said quietly, “I’m tired, cold and hungry and the best cook in Texas is waiting someplace warm and dry.” He gave her a faint smile. It did something nice for his face, but it never reached his eyes. He didn’t like her. She felt that from him. It was so strong that it was unnerving, especially since, on the surface, he seemed so affable.

“My Aunt Lucille makes the best crab gumbo you’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice deeper, softer, cajoling.

Kit heard pride and tenderness in his tone at just the mention of his aunt’s name. It warmed her a little to him. She reminded herself that he’d lost his brother. And she’d witnessed the murder and run instead of going to the police. That was the frightening bond they shared. That and the fact that now Derrick Killhorn would be looking for Luke St. John as well as for her and Andy. No wonder this man didn’t like her.

She studied his face for a moment. At first she’d thought him ruggedly attractive, but now in the glare of the limo’s overhead light, she realized that he could have been handsome if his features hadn’t been so rigid, his gray eyes so cold.

“Well?” he asked, glancing out into the darkness with a nervousness she found contagious. “We don’t have a lot of time.” He handed her the diaper bag and her purse from the front seat, then held out his hands again for Andy. “You don’t know the terrain. It would be dangerous for you to carry the baby.”

Still, it was all she could do to put Andy into the man’s arms. But their lives were now in his hands, whether she liked it or not. Luke St. John had seen to that. She told herself that he had no reason to want to harm her or her son. In fact, he had every reason to want to see her stay alive. She hoped.

He covered the baby carrier with his uniform jacket, then he turned and ducked out of the car. Kit followed closely behind. She hadn’t gone far when she heard the purr of the limo engine as it pulled away into the night.

They hurried through the downpour. The air smelled wet from the rain and salty from the sea. As they topped one of the dunes, she could see a shimmer of light in the distance. The light grew as they neared a fishing cottage on stilts, the exterior weathered as gray as the fog. It appeared out of the rain, a single golden light shining from the porch. It pulled them through the darkness, promising warmth and shelter from the storm. And, if Luke St. John were true to his word, crab gumbo.

Kit felt uneasy as they neared the house, questioning why she thought she could take Luke St. John at his word—including the fact that Derrick wasn’t behind this abduction. For all she knew, the other limo would have taken her to Huntsville and safety.

* * *

“LUCAS ALLEN ST. JOHN,” the P.I. said, reading the report off his computer screen as a copy rolled out of the printer for Sanders. “Wow, who is this guy? Graduated at the top of his class from Montana Tech and went right to work as a structural engineer on some pretty impressive buildings around the world.”

Sanders snatched up the sheets from the printer and scanned down what read like a résumé. It was very impressive.

“I wonder what happened,” Rustan said thoughtfully. “Looks like he was good, really good. Then suddenly he drops out. Four years later he’s building furniture out of his shed in Podunkland. Believe me, there’s a story there. Something.” Rustan rubbed his jaw. “Makes you wonder what happened. Want me to try to find out?”

Sanders shook his head. He couldn’t care less about the man’s past. He was more interested in the man’s relatives. A brother named Jason. And Luke St. John’s current address: Big Sky, Montana. How about that?

Sanders carefully folded the papers and put them in his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”

“Don’t you want me to just put it on the bill I send to your brother?”

“No,” Sanders said, pulling out two hundred dollars from the wad Derrick had given him. “This doesn’t have anything to do with my brother.”

Rustan shrugged and took the money. “You say you don’t want me to keep looking for Kit Killhorn, right?”

“Right.”

“But you want me to keep looking for Jason St. John, but you want me to bill you instead of your brother?”

Was the man stupid? “I believe that’s simple enough.”

“Oh yeah, it’s simple all right. Just interesting.”

“Maybe you should try to curb your interest in other people’s affairs,” Sanders suggested.

Rustan laughed in his face. “People’s affairs are my business. It’s how I make a living, digging in other people’s lives. I’ll let you know if I find the answer to Luke St. John’s past.” He held up his hand before Sanders could protest. “It’s on the house. A freebie. Sometimes I just like to satisfy my own curiosity.”

Sanders left, his mind alive with worry. He didn’t like the P.I. and suspected Rustan would call Derrick the moment he left the office and sell him the same information. But he didn’t want any other outsiders involved in Killhorn business. Besides, he had more important things on his mind than Matthew Rustan. Why would this Lucas St. John kidnap Kit and the baby? Was he looking for his brother and thought Kit might know where Jason was? Or did he believe Jason had met with foul play?

Sanders felt his heart hammer harder. If Kit repeated that story about Derrick killing Jason…What would Lucas St. John do if he thought Derrick had killed his brother? Would he use Kit to try to get back at Derrick?

The possibilities terrified him. Then a new thought stopped him cold. What if this Luke St. John had kidnapped Kit to protect her from Derrick? Instantly, he rejected that theory as ridiculous. No one had to protect Kit from her own husband, nor the baby from his own father. Derrick might be a little out of control on occasion, but he’d married Kit, so he must have loved her. And more than anything in the world, Derrick wanted his son back.

Sanders glanced at his watch. By now Derrick was in Big Sky, waiting for his call.

* * *

LUKE ST. JOHN led the way up the steep wooden stairs. Before he reached the door, it flew open and a matronly woman wearing an apron took the baby from Luke’s arms and ushered them quickly inside.

Kit stepped into the warmth, surprised to find the place homey. A fire crackled in a woodstove in one corner, surrounded by an odd collection of comfortable-looking chairs. The opposite was lined with built-in bunk beds, with each covered with a worn handmade-looking quilt. Beside the bottom bunk was a white crib.

The kitchen took another corner of the room, where a delightfully spicy scent bubbled up from a huge pot on the stove. At the center of it all, a muchused high chair sat pushed up to a table set for three. Kit remembered seeing Luke on the car phone as they were leaving Galveston. They’d obviously been expected.

“I was getting worried about you,” the woman said as she looked down at the baby. “Oh, what an adorable child.”

Kit reached for Andy, surprised he wasn’t howling his head off. He usually didn’t like strangers, but he seemed to be intrigued by the woman’s wide, open face and her deep southern accent.

Before Kit could take Andy from the woman’s arms, Luke reached for Kit’s wet raincoat. She shrugged out of it, and he hung it on one of the hooks by the front door. “Aunt Lucille loves babies. Aunt Lou, meet Kit Kil—”

“Bannack,” Kit said quickly, surprising herself at the vehemence she heard in her tone.

Luke’s gaze flipped up to hers. “Kit Bannack,” he corrected, studying her. “And her son, Andy.”

“Well, come on in,” Lucille said, eyeing her nephew curiously. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Luke said nothing, but Kit felt her stomach growl. When was the last time she’d eaten? She started to relax just a little. Derrick hadn’t jumped out of any closets, and she was beginning to believe he wasn’t going to. The only question that remained was what Luke St. John hoped to accomplish by scuttling her and Andy off to this place.

“The gumbo is ready,” Lucille said, stealing another look at her nephew, worry on her face.

Andy began to whimper. “He probably needs to be changed,” Kit said.

“Oh, please, let me,” Lucille said. “If you don’t mind.”

Kit looked into the woman’s face and found herself nodding. Andy had taken to her right away. But Kit didn’t miss the look the woman gave her nephew—almost a warning look—before her gaze settled on Kit.

“Why, look at her, this woman is soaked to the skin,” Lucille exclaimed. “Go warm up next to the fire,” she told Kit. “Luke, get her a change of clothing,” she ordered as she headed for the crib with Andy.

Luke obeyed, going to a built-in drawer and pulling out a pair of sweats. He held them up for Kit to inspect. They looked soft and comfortable, warm and way too large.

She went to take the clothes from him, knowing they would swallow her small frame. Which made them perfect. They would hide her figure, which was just fine with her. She’d always been thin. Since the baby, she felt too rounded, too full in places she’d never been full-figured before. She felt at odds with this new body, as if she hadn’t yet grown into it—and might never do so.

Luke pointed her to the back of the house. She stepped through a doorway into what appeared to be a combination artist’s studio and bedroom. Watercolors lined the walls, along with photos of weddings, baptisms and newborn babies. She stopped before a photograph, recognizing the man in the picture as the one now in the next room.

The photo had been taken on the beach—and not that long ago. And what made it so unusual was how different the smiling Luke St. John looked in the photo. The eyes weren’t hard-as-steel gray, but soft, almost seductive. His rugged features weren’t etched in unforgiving granite. He was handsome in a strong, very masculine way that had a strange effect on her. But it was the look on his face that drew her in, in a way she would never have expected. Luke looked happy. And that expression on Luke St. John was the most alluring of all.

Is this what he’d been like before his brother’s death?

Then she saw the photograph next to it, and her heart thudded in her chest. It was of Jason at about age sixteen, squinting at the camera as he held up the huge fish he’d caught. He looked too serious for his age.

* * *

“SHE SAW HER HUSBAND kill Jason,” Luke said the moment Kit had left the room.

Lucille covered her mouth with one hand, and her eyes swam with tears. “Dear God. You’re sure?”

He nodded and reached over to take his aunt’s hand. He squeezed it, then pulled back, as unable to give comfort right now as he was to receive it. “Jason’s dead. Murdered.” His jaw tightened. “And she saw the whole thing.”

Lucille wagged her head, her gaze settling on him like an arm around his shoulders. “Oh, Luke, this must be killing you.”

He looked away. “I have to see that this man gets what he deserves.”

She brushed at her tears. “I know how angry you must be.”

He doubted that. He’d never felt this kind of rage before. It thrummed through his body, vibrating inside him, causing a constant hum inside his head. He’d banked all but his frustration during the months he’d searched for Kit, waiting with infinite patience to find out exactly what had happened to his brother, not letting his suspicion that Derrick Killhorn was behind his brother’s disappearance become any more than that: a strong suspicion.

Although he’d never met him, Luke knew who Derrick Killhorn was, had known people who’d worked with him in construction who’d found him pompous and often ruthless. Luke had seen Killhorn’s photo in the Lone Peak Lookout a few times, where the man was always referred to as a prominent citizen and businessman from an old Montana family.

But Luke had only seen him once in person, outside a motel in West Yellowstone with a woman who was not his wife. Luke didn’t like the man, nor did he like Jason working for him.

But when Luke heard Kit tell Sanders what she’d witnessed, he’d felt something explode inside his head, a time bomb that had been ticking for seven months.

Almost instantly, his rage had splintered, encompassing not only Derrick Killhorn but his wife, the woman who’d run and hid for months instead of going to the authorities. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to remain in the trees when he’d heard her admit what she’d seen. He’d felt such wrath that he’d wanted to burst from his hiding place and—

And what? He balled his hands into tight fists. “I heard her tell her husband that she has evidence that can convict him.”

“Dear heaven,” Lucille said.

Luke nodded as he turned to look again at his aunt. “The woman had evidence and still she didn’t come forward.”

“She must be horribly afraid of her husband,” Lucille said.

“Or still in love with him,” Luke added, finding it almost impossible to hold back the contempt he felt for Kit Killhorn. Fear or love, it really didn’t make a difference to him. Either way, he damned Kit Killhorn for what she’d done, adding her to his dark thoughts and, ultimately, to his plan.

“Luke, I know how upset you are, but do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve kidnapped this woman and her baby. What are you planning to do with them?”

“Whatever I have to.” He could feel her gaze boring into him.

“I know you want justice for this terrible crime, but surely not at the cost of that woman and child.” She sounded uncertain, as if she didn’t know him anymore.

He didn’t know himself anymore. “She’s all that stands between Derrick Killhorn being punished or getting away with murder.”

“Is that how you see her?” Lucille asked in shocked disbelief.

“That’s all I can afford to see. She’s an eyewitness,” he said, fighting to keep his voice down, fighting to hold back his frustration. All these months of looking for her, and for what? He’d finally found her, heard her admit she’d seen Derrick kill Jason, and what good did it do unless he took her back to Montana and made her take her evidence to the authorities?

“Luke, she’s a victim of this Derrick Killhorn just like Jason was. Can’t you see that? A woman who runs and hides all this time isn’t protecting her husband, she’s scared to death of him.”

He didn’t pretend to understand the mind of a woman. And right now he saw nothing but his own rage, his own need for vengeance. “She married him, had his child. Surely she knew the kind of man she was marrying.”

“Maybe not. And what about that child?” Lucille demanded. “My God, Luke, you’ve decided he’s dispensable too because he’s Killhorn blood?”

Luke turned at the sound of the studio door opening behind them. They abruptly stopped their conversation as Kit came back into the room. She halted, her gaze on them, no doubt aware they’d been talking about her. He watched her as she headed for the crib and her son. Derrick Killhorn’s son. Luke clamped down his jaw, looking at her through unforgiving eyes.

“How are the clothes?” Lucille asked, her voice sounding strained to Luke’s. “Oh, they’re huge on you.”

The sweatpants puddled at Kit’s ankles, the sweatshirt billowed around her like a balloon. She looked almost comical, the clothing was so large on her slight form. Then he narrowed his eyes as he watched her pluck at the loose-fitting top, tugging it away from her breasts as if self-conscious about the curves that even the huge sweats couldn’t hide. Her discomfort surprised him. And drew his attention.

He tried to remember what she’d been wearing before. Something bulky. Not that he’d really noticed. He’d been too anxious, too single-minded in his determination, too angry with her to care about anything but getting her into the car and getting away.

Now as he watched her move around the living room, studying his aunt’s art work, he speculated about the body that was hidden under the clothing. The sexual nature of the thought amused him, but he reined in his thoughts. He was more interested in what else the woman was hiding from him.

Almost absently, she uncoiled her hair and shook out the waves of fiery red. They tumbled down to the middle of her back, thick and rich, with a texture that at one time would have made him want to run his hand over it, just as he would a fine piece of wood.

She turned, the movement accenting the swell of her breasts beneath the baggy sweats, the rounded curves of her hips. He was stunned by a sudden stab of longing that pierced his angry shell like an arrow.

But he recovered quickly and smiled to himself as he brushed the feeling away, finding it insignificant in light of his other emotions—disdain for Kit Killhorn being at the top of the list. She could call herself “Bannack” but to him she was Mrs. Derrick Killhorn. The name alone damned her.

He’d never before thought of himself as vengeful. But he’d never before dealt with the pain of losing a brother. That loss, coupled with the injustice of Derrick Killhorn going unpunished for the crime, burned within Luke stronger than any desire he’d ever felt—or thought he ever would. And this woman, he reminded himself, stood between him and the vengeance he demanded.

He concentrated on how Mrs. Kit Killhorn was going to help him. One way or the other. With the evidence she had and her eyewitness testimony, Derrick Killhorn would probably go to prison for most of his miserable life. But was that enough? No, Luke thought, as he looked at Kit. Not nearly enough.