Читать книгу Lock, Stock and Secret Baby - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 9

No matter how irritated she got, Eve had to accept the fact that Blake was well-trained for situations involving physical violence, and she’d be wise to follow his directions. Still, she didn’t want to be totally dependent on him and definitely wanted to have access to her own car while she was staying at his father’s house.

When he loaded her suitcase into the back of his station wagon, she said, “I’ll drive myself and meet you there.”

He slammed the car door closed. “Ever been in a highspeed pursuit?”

“No.”

“Do you have training in evasive driving tactics?”

She could see where he was heading. Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled a sigh. “I’m pretty good at dodging squirrels.”

“If those guys see you driving alone, they might try to apprehend you again.” He gave her a wink. “You ride with me.”

She groaned. Her life had become too dangerous for her to drive her own car. Too dangerous to sleep in her own bed. This was so unfair. When she glanced over her shoulder at her cozy little bungalow with the warm brown bricks and the clean white trim at the windows, an unwanted memory of fear tightened her gut. Those intruders had invaded her privacy, violated her home. Never before had she felt so vulnerable. She wanted bars on the windows and triple locks on the doors. Even then, she didn’t know if she’d feel secure. “There’s something I need to do before we leave.”

She marched up the sidewalk to the front door and went through the living room and dining room to the kitchen where she took a bag of dried cat food from the cupboard. The stray cats in the alley depended on her for food. She couldn’t abandon them. Nor could she leave the whole bag by the trash cans in the alley where the raccoons would carry it off.

Later she’d call her neighbor and ask him to take over for her while she was away. And how long would that be? A day? A week? Two weeks? So unfair!

As she went out the back door and down the narrow sidewalk to the gate in the white picket fence, Blake followed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking care of the wildlife. There’s a family of cats that live out here.”

Instead of scoffing, he spoke in a gentle voice. “You could call animal rescue. I’m sure there are organizations that take care of feral animals.”

“I’ve tried.” Four times she’d contacted humane groups. “These little guys don’t want to be caught. Even when the cat rescue people manage to pick up one or two, another litter of kittens appears. They multiply like Tribbles.”

“Like what?”

She squatted beside a blooming lilac bush and poured cat food into a plastic container. “Tribbles. You know, furry critters that reproduce exponentially. From Star Trek.”

“You’re a Trekkie,” he said. “That explains the T-shirt.”

When she’d changed out of her too-short skirt, she had put on black denim jeans and the least obnoxious T-shirt in her closet—blue with a subtle Enterprise emblem above her left breast. If she slipped back into her black jacket, no one would notice the emblem.

“I’m not a psycho fan,” she said. “But I’ve attended a number of science fiction and fantasy cons. You’d probably like them. G.I. Joe is popular again.”

As she watched, two gray-striped kittens peeked over the low-hanging lilac boughs and mewed.

“Hi, little guys.”

Eve sat back on her heels so she wouldn’t scare them. The kittens crept closer to the food, nudging each other. Their yellow eyes were huge in their tiny faces. Their pink noses pushed at the dry food.

Blake squatted beside her. “New members of the feral cat family?”

“I’ve never seen these two before.” The way she figured, there must be a couple of females who were constantly pregnant—no need for frozen embryos with these felines. “Tribbles.”

One of the kittens jumped and scurried back into the bushes. The other sat and stared at Eve. A brave little one. Would her child be courageous? And curious?

Slowly, she stretched out her hand, palm up, toward the kitten. The pink nose came closer and closer. With sharp little claws, the kitten batted at her finger, then darted away.

Babies—kittens, puppies and people—had the most remarkable innocence. And so much to learn. Would she be a good teacher? A good mother? Damn it, she couldn’t even take care of herself, much less a baby.

Tears welled up, and she bolted to her feet so Blake wouldn’t notice that she was crying. He already regarded her as less than useful in terms of his investigation, and she didn’t want him to add weepy to his list of complaints.

During the ride back to Denver, she intended to convince him that she ought to be his partner. It was only logical: two minds were better than one.

Sitting in the passenger seat, she waited to speak until they were on the highway and relatively free from the distraction of stop-and-go traffic. Without preface she said, “If Prentice warned you that I was in danger, he must have wanted you to protect me. Therefore, it’s unlikely that he sent those two intruders.”

Blake stared through the windshield, refusing to respond.

She continued, “Prentice also said that he might have accidentally caused the threat, which implies that he knows who sent them.”

Though he still didn’t comment, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

“And so,” she said, “Prentice must have communicated with someone after he spoke to me. Is there any way we can get his phone records? Or monitor his e-mails?”

Grudgingly, Blake said, “I can’t reach him. He won’t answer the phone when I call. Supposedly, he’s on vacation.”

“He talked to me.”

“I seriously doubt that he’ll set up a meeting with you.”

“Probably not.” Their conversation hadn’t been friendly. “He can’t just disappear. Someone at his clinic in Aspen must know where he is.”

“They won’t rat out their employer. Even if we find him, he’s smart enough to use an untraceable phone or encrypted computer.”

They were sharing information, and that pleased her. As long as she didn’t talk about his father, she figured Blake would work with her. “When I talked to him, his voice got tense when I hinted that I might give the baby up for adoption. For some reason, Prentice and the person who sent the intruders want me to be a real mother and raise this child. I’d like to find out who was working on this study.”

“You think another scientist wants to continue the experiment through you.”

“It’s possible,” she conceded.

But genetic engineering—both the concept and the practice—had greatly evolved over the past twenty-five years. The Prentice-Jantzen study was archaic when compared with new research on the human genome. It simply didn’t make scientific sense to continue with an outmoded methodology. “If I give birth to the second generation, who benefits?”

“The father.”

His quick response surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. The existence of a male sperm donor was, of course, necessary to create a viable embryo. But she had avoided thinking about that part of the equation.

If her child truly was second generation, the father had to be someone else in the initial study. They needed to know the identities of the original superbabies. “We need to see your father’s notes on the Prentice-Jantzen study.”

“Can’t,” he said. “That data was stolen in the robbery.”

Dr. Ray was murdered and his notes stolen. Surely, not a coincidence.

BY THE TIME THEY GOT BACK to Denver, sunset had colored the skies with fiery red and yellow. A few years ago in Kenya, Blake had seen the body of an elder burned on a funeral pyre in a solemn ceremony. The flames purified and released the soul from the body.

He had buried his father today. And yet, he felt no sense of closure.

Outside his father’s house, only a few extra cars were parked on the cul-de-sac. Apparently, most of the mourners had already paid their respects and gone home. “We’ll leave your suitcase in the car. It’s easier than explaining. I’m pretty sure that Aunt Jean won’t approve of you spending the night.”

“If you’re worried about your reputation,” she said coolly, “I’d be happy to tell your aunt that there’s no hanky-panky going on.”

“Just don’t say anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

She snapped off a sarcastic salute. Oh, yeah, Eve was definitely an army brat. Also a math nerd and genetic genius. And pregnant. His dad had picked one hell of a difficult woman for him to protect.

When he opened the front door for her, he heard Rhapsody in Blue being played on the grand piano in the living room. He took two steps on the polished hardwood floor before the music stopped him like an invisible wall of sound. The gliding crescendos held bittersweet memories. “This is one of my dad’s favorites.”

“Dr. Ray had good taste.”

His mom had been the real musician in the family. Almost every day, she practiced at the piano, sometimes Mozart but more often Cole Porter tunes. His dad loved to sing along. Blake remembered the two of them sitting on the piano bench, humming and laughing.

When he was growing up, Mom had tried to include him in their music. First, by teaching him the basics, which he stumbled through. Then, she had learned songs she thought he’d like. He smiled at the memory of her playing Backstreet Boys and Busta Rhymes while she had rapped in her angelic soprano voice.

After she had died, his dad’s life had been greatly diminished. Blake should have made more of an effort to get home and spend time with him. Under his breath, he said, “I could have been a better son.”

“The down and dirty truth,” Eve murmured.

“Did he talk to you about me?”

“He loved you and was proud of you.” She tossed her head and her blond hair bounced. “But when you said that you could be better, that was true. Human behavior can always be improved upon.”

“Not like math, huh? Numbers are perfect.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “You really don’t want to get me started on this topic.”

The musical selection concluded, and they went into the front room. Seven people stood beside the gleaming rosewood instrument, applauding the pianist. Among the audience, Blake recognized General Stephen Walsh. His close-cropped white hair stood at attention. The array of medals and decorations—evidence of a long, heroic career—dated back to Vietnam when he was an enlisted man. Though General Walsh and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye on the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder in veterans, they had remained friends and occasional golf partners. Walsh was a good man to have as an ally.

The pianist was David Vargas. Blake had only met David briefly but suspected that he might be another of the superbabies in the Prentice-Jantzen Study.

His aunt swooped toward him. “Where on earth have you been? Everyone has been asking about you.”

When he introduced Aunt Jean to Eve, his aunt eyed her casual black denim pants and loafers with disdain. “I saw you at the funeral. And you were at the house earlier.”

“I had to leave because I was feeling ill.” Eve pulled her black jacket to cover the Trekkie symbol on her T-shirt. “I changed clothes and I’m much better now. Looks like you could use some help putting away the food from the buffet table.”

“I certainly could.” Aunt Jean smoothed her soft brown hair into the bun at the nape of her long neck. “I’d like to pack most of this up and take it downtown to a mission my church runs. Is that all right with you, Blakey?”

“Sure.” He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten today. Must have. Aunt Jean had been pushing food at him since he got out of bed.