Читать книгу Their Secret Son - Judy Duarte, Judy Duarte - Страница 10

W ith every call to a fire, a shot of pure adrenaline coursed through Joe Davenport’s blood and didn’t let up until the last hot spot was out. And this one was no different.

The scent of ash filled the air as Joe walked through the charred weeds that once blanketed the vacant lot on the corner of Tidal Way and Harbor View Drive. He was searching for a point of origin and he spotted it near a melted blob of blackened red plastic.

The blaze had taken only ten minutes to contain, but the situation could have become deadly if the flames had reached the Billings place, an old clapboard house that sat next to the burned property.

Edna Billings, whose arthritis confined her to a wheelchair, might not have escaped from the house in which she insisted upon living alone.

Dustin Campbell, a rookie fireman, strode toward Joe, his hand clamped on the shoulder of a kid who looked no more than seven years old. “We’ve got us a firebug, Joe. I caught him standing in the copse of trees, and he smells like smoke.”

The boy wore a crisp pair of khaki slacks with dirt and grass stains on the knees. A suspicious bulge rested in the ash-smudged pocket of a freshly pressed, white button-down shirt.

“What do you have there, son?”

The towheaded boy, whose clothing suggested he’d grown up in a well-to-do home, shrugged, then reached into his pocket, withdrew a gold, monogrammed cigarette lighter and handed it over without any qualms.

Joe had no intention of scaring the kid, but a serious talk about the dangers of playing with matches or lighters, followed by an offer to make the youngster a junior fire marshal usually worked like a charm.

He’d found that instilling a bit of fear and guilt didn’t hurt, either. A small flame became dangerous in the hands of a child. He assessed the boy with a narrowed eye of authority. “What’s your name?”

“Bobby.” The boy stood as tall as his seven-year-old stance would allow. The small, squared chin told Joe he’d have to practice his intimidation skills a bit more.

With a stubborn cowlick, a scatter of freckles across his nose and a dirt-smudged cheek, the boy reminded Joe a lot of himself at that age.

Joe had also been a cocky, towheaded kid, prone to trouble. But he shook off the comparison. “Did you start the fire?”

“Nope.” Bobby crossed his arms and shifted his weight to one side.

“But you must have seen it.”

The kid nodded sagely.

Joe continued to prod for some answers and a confession. “How big was the fire when you first saw it?”

The boy used his thumb and forefinger to measure an inch. “About that big. But I didn’t start it.”

Joe merely nodded at the pint-size explanation that had to be a lie. “Only that big, huh? You must have been the first one on the scene.”

Bobby shrugged his small shoulders in a flip defense that reminded Joe of his own run-in with the law after starting a fire in an abandoned building when he was a kid. Joe hadn’t meant to do anything other than draw attention to his father’s illegal activities.

His old man had been dealing crack from that warehouse for years, and Joe decided to do something about it, something that would make the firefighters and cops take notice. As a fourteen-year-old, he’d hoped the efforts of the authorities might cause a drug-addicted dad to see reason.

That day, nearly twelve years ago, had been a real turning point in Joe’s life.

Once charged with arson and delinquency, Joe Davenport was now well on his way to becoming a fire chief, thanks to the guidance of Harry Logan, patron saint of bad boys.

“How do you suppose the fire started?” Joe asked Bobby.

“It was my mom’s fault,” the kid said in his own defense.

Now the story was getting interesting. “Are you telling me that your mom started the fire?”

“Nope. But it was her fault.”

Joe remained focused and controlled, but a grin tugged at his lips. “Suppose you tell me why it was her fault.”

The boy took a deep breath, then blew out a sigh, as though frustrated he had to explain something that should have been apparent. “I got a model car for my birthday, and some of the little prongs that hold the parts together broke off. I asked her if I could use her nail glue, ’cause it works good enough to stick your fingers together forever, but she wouldn’t let me.”

Joe raised a brow, but refrained from showing any other expression. “So she set the field on fire?”

“No. I had to figure out another way to make it stick together. Then I remembered how plastic melts, cause once I stuck a plastic fork in the fireplace and it melted into a glob that got real hard. So I took my grandpa’s lighter, even though I’m not s’posed to play with it, but I was gonna be real careful.” The boy’s hazel eyes shimmered, and his bottom lip quivered in what looked like his first bit of remorse. “And the car caught the field on fire when it melted.”

At the boy’s defensive explanation, Joe considered turning his back so the kid wouldn’t see him grin at a child’s logic. How did parents deal with this stuff on a daily basis? This boy needed some firm, loving guidance.

Not a fist, of course, which was his own father’s way of dealing with a strong-willed child. Joe wasn’t an expert on child rearing, by any means, but he knew what didn’t work.

“Bobby!” a woman’s voice called from across the street.

So, the mother had arrived. Well, Joe had a little talk for mothers of small-fry firebugs, too. Gearing himself for a confrontation, he slowly turned around.

But nothing had prepared him for seeing Kristin Reynolds, a woman he’d dated eight years ago. She was still just as pretty as he remembered, tall and willowy, with hair the color of honey and eyes of emerald green.

The years had been good to her. Damn good.

She wore cream-colored slacks and a black sweater. Cashmere, most likely. And it fit nicely, showing off near perfect breasts, much fuller than he remembered.

They’d both been seventeen and balanced precariously on the cusp of adulthood when they first met.

Joe had been moonstruck that homecoming night in November. And he still found her attractive, stunning. More so, he supposed.

His heart slipped into overdrive, reminding him his blood was pumping in all the important places. There were some things time didn’t change.

The pretty socialite hurried toward them, distress in her expression, an expression that looked a lot like maternal concern.

Surely, Kristin wasn’t this kid’s mother.

“Uh-oh,” the boy muttered. He kicked the toe of his leather shoe at the dirt. “Here comes my mom.”

Kristin had only recognized her son, Joe realized, because her eyes hadn’t caught Joe’s yet, which was just as well. He wasn’t sure what to say to her anymore.

His heart thudded in his chest like a loose ball bearing, although he wasn’t sure why. Anticipation at seeing her again, he supposed. And awkwardness, too. Kristin Reynolds was the first lover he’d ever had.

Joe had broken up with her after pressure from her dad, a wealthy property owner who had never forgiven the kid who set that run-down warehouse on fire and drew a ton of unflattering media attention on the condition of one of the many buildings he owned.

Thomas Reynolds had made no secret about the fact that Joe Davenport wasn’t good enough for his daughter. When he went looking for Joe, demanding he stay away from Kristin, Joe hadn’t backed down. Not until the red-faced man threw Kristin’s happiness and her sky-is-the-limit future in his face.

At one time, Kristin had been an honor student and college-bound, but her grades had slacked and her interest in the fancy school her mother had once attended had waned.

“My daughter never lied to me before,” Thomas had said, “never snuck around behind my back. And now look at her.”

Joe hadn’t known that Kristin had lied to her dad, nor had he known that she had to sneak out of the house in order to see him.

“Do you want to drag her down to your old man’s level?” Thomas had asked.

That was the last thing Joe had wanted to do. The pompous bastard had been right, though. Kristin would be throwing her life away on a guy who would never be able to compete with her father or any of the other men in her social circle.

Joe had faked it pretty good that June day out at the ball field, when he told Kristin he didn’t love her. The lie had nearly torn him in two, but her father was right. Kristin deserved so much more than what the son of a drug-dealing scumbag could offer her. And letting her go had been the right thing to do.

So why, after eight years, was he having such a heart-banging reaction to seeing her again?

Her scent, something classy and exotic—expensive, no doubt—wrapped around him like a quilt of memories on a cold and lonely night.

Joe cursed under his breath. How could she still evoke this kind of reaction in him—both emotionally and physically?

It had been eight years since he’d last held her. And it had taken ages to get over her.

“I’m okay, Mom,” the boy said.

Joe looked at Bobby, and suddenly the similarities he’d seen in the kid slapped him across the face. His mind, although somewhat taken aback, did a quick calculation, starting with eight years and subtracting nine months.

The tall, honey-blond woman addressed her son. “You were supposed to be in your room, young man.” When she turned her gaze to Joe, she sucked in a breath, and her lips parted in recognition.

Kristin stared at an adult version of the high school senior she’d once loved, once given her heart and virginity to. The guy who’d thrown it all back in her face and walked away.

It wasn’t that she hadn’t expected to see him when she returned to Bayside to spend the summer with her ailing father. She just didn’t expect to see him now. Like this.

“What happened?” she asked, trying to regain her composure.

“Is this boy your son?” Joe asked.

Did he see the resemblance? Did he suspect?

How could he not? She’d been faced with the obvious every time she looked into those sweet eyes—amber-colored, like his father’s.

And she’d been reminded all over again of the heartache caused by the rejection of her first and, up until recently, only lover.

It had taken years to forget Joe, but seeing him brought it all back to the forefront—the pain, the rejection, the humiliation of telling her dad she was going to have a child out of wedlock. The lie she’d told when asked who had fathered her baby.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m his mother.”

Joe’s eyes sliced right through her usual cool and formal demeanor. And she found herself at the awkward, gangly stage again, staring in wonder at the new boy in school.

Joe had matured, filled out and grown taller. His amber eyes, more sharp and piercing than before, studied her and Bobby with a keen assessment, threatening to peel away each layer of the lie until he discovered the truth, the truth she couldn’t allow to surface.

She brushed her moist palms against the hips of her slacks and prayed for a quick and easy escape. She had to get out of here, before the secret she’d kept for the past eight years muscled to the forefront.

Did Joe know?

Did he see what she saw everyday? A boy who was the spitting image of “that Davenport kid?”

Joe handed her the gold lighter she’d given her father two Christmases ago, then slid her a crooked grin. “It seems that this fire is your fault.”

“Mine?” Had her voice shrieked like a fishmonger’s wife? Surely not.

“That’s what Bobby told us,” Joe said. “He needed some glue for a model car that was broken.”

“Bobby,” she said, squatting to meet her son at eye level. “I can’t let you play with Superglue.”

“Lighters aren’t a good idea, either,” Joe said. “He tried to weld the plastic together.”

Having a bright and inquisitive child who was prone to mischief provided her once predictable life with one adventure after another. She could only wonder what other troubles were sure to come. Her instinct told her Bobby was just an active little boy, although her fiancé suggested she’d spoiled him by being too lenient.

“Bobby, we’ll talk about this at home,” Kristin said. Then she looked at Joe, caught the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes, the bad-boy smile that used to make her heart go topsy-turvy.

Used to? That was an understatement.

But she couldn’t allow those adolescent obsessions to interfere with her life plans. Not anymore.

For the first time in years, she’d found peace and contentment, not to mention a fiancé eager to marry her. And not just any fiancé.

Dylan Montgomery was a man who understood relationships, people. Children. He was a man who’d made a name for himself in the self-help market and was entering the realm of talk shows, the kind of man her father always dreamed she’d marry.

And speaking of her dad, she had his feelings to consider, as well as his health. A smoker for years, his idea of cutting back was to switch to a pipe, but his lungs were a mess and he had signs of emphysema. The overweight diabetic needed open-heart surgery, but his health complications prohibited the lifesaving procedure.

There was no way Kristin would subject him to the stress a truthful revelation would trigger at this point in his life. She might have spent the last eight years on the east coast, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t worried about her dad. That’s why she’d come home, to be with him, to talk to his doctors. To protect him, just as he’d always protected her.

Thomas Reynolds might seem to be an overwhelming brute at times, but that was because he was a successful businessman. Rumor had it that he wasn’t a man to be crossed, especially when it came to real estate sales and property development. And maybe there was some truth to that. There’d been a few lawsuits that she’d been aware of, litigations that her father had won, causing the financial ruin of at least one company. But that was business.

There was so much more to Thomas Reynolds than met the eye. He was Kristin’s father—the man who adored her. The man who lugged a video cam to every school function and sat in the front row, sometimes blocking the view of others when he stood to film his daughter’s attempts to perform. The man who created a goofy-looking butterfly costume for her to wear for the spring pageant, who listened over and over to her recite a poem in preparation for the elementary school speech meet.

The gentle giant who tucked her into bed each night and listened to her prayers. The brokenhearted husband who tried to compensate for his daughter’s loss of her mother.

If it took the rest of Kristin’s life, she wanted to make up to her father for the pain and disappointment he’d suffered because of her misplaced love and trust in Joe Davenport.

Joe touched her arm, chasing prickles of heat along her skin and jump-starting her heart. “We need to talk.”

“If you’re suggesting we discuss the past, there’s nothing to say.”

Joe looked down at her son, then back at her. “I think we have a great deal to talk about.”

No way would she get into a discussion with Joe about the past, their past. Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

“I’ll pay for any damages my son has caused,” Kristin said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to get back home. I left the potatoes on the stove, and unless you want to be called to a kitchen fire, I’d better go check on them.”

She took Bobby by the hand and started the long walk up the driveway that led to her father’s estate, intent on escaping the rugged fireman’s perusal and getting her son home before too many questions arose.

As she neared the house, a white three-story Victorian home built more than a hundred years ago, her lies came back to haunt her.

You’re what? her father had bellowed into the phone when she called him from college to break the news.

I’m pregnant.

The day she’d intended to tell Joe that she suspected she might be carrying his child, he’d beat her to the punch by saying he didn’t love her anymore. As far as she’d been concerned, there was nothing for her to do, other than leave for college a couple of months early. By Christmas break, her pregnancy had been impossible to conceal.

Who is the father? If it’s that Davenport kid, I’ll tear him limb from limb.

That’s when her first lie went into effect, the lie she continued to perpetuate.

The baby’s father is a guy I met here, Daddy. A member of the water polo team. But it was just a fling on my part. And I’m not going to marry him, no matter how hard he begs.

Her father had roared his disapproval and disappointment, but continued his financial support until she graduated with honors and took a teaching job on the east coast. Whenever her dad had suggested she come home to visit, Kristin gave him one excuse or another, prompting him to fly back east in order to see her and the grandson he’d grown to adore.

As they neared the gates that led to the house, she gave Bobby’s hand a little squeeze. Not having a man around had been tough on the boy. On his mother, too. But they were doing okay. And soon Dylan would step into the paternal role. She didn’t need Joe Davenport in her life.

But had he suspected the truth? She could have sworn he had. Was he still trying to sort things through? Or had he gone about his business? Put his questions aside, as she hoped he would?

Like Lot’s wife, Kristin turned around, unable to hold her curiosity at bay.

Was Joe still watching?

He was.

Her feet slowed like blocks of salt, and her heartbeat reverberated in her ears. She could read the suspicion in his eyes, the questions.

Kristin’s days of lying were over. But how could she tell Joe the truth without revealing the secret she’d kept from her dad for years? If her dad found out, the stress might trigger the coming heart attack that would kill him.

Maybe, she tried to convince herself, Joe would thank his lucky stars not to be strapped with child support payments and the responsibilities that came with being a parent. Maybe he’d just let his unanswered questions die a slow and easy death.

She would cling to that hope.

As Joe watched Kristin walk away, he cursed under his breath.

Was he Bobby’s father?

It was definitely possible.

“That’s some woman,” the rookie beside him said. Then he blew out a long, slow whistle. “She sure doesn’t look like any of the mothers I ever knew.”

“She’s pretty, but definitely out of your league, Dustin,” Joe told his younger buddy. “When a guy falls for a woman like that, the future is bound to be rocky and steep.”

And there’d never been a relationship facing a more uphill battle than the youthful affair he and Kristin had innocently embarked upon.

Growing up, Joe had often been referred to as “that Davenport kid,” a reference he’d tried hard to shake. Trying to live down his dad’s reputation hadn’t been easy. And if Harry Logan hadn’t stepped into Joe’s life, God only knew where he might have ended up.

The night of the fire, Harry had found Joe huddled near a Dumpster, scared out of his socks, but ready to defend his action to the death. He’d only meant to start a fire in the old warehouse, not cause a roaring blaze that would threaten other buildings on the block. But Harry had seen through the surly display of anger and zeroed in on the fear in Joe’s eyes, the pain in his heart. And instead of hauling his sorry ass to juvie, as many cops would have done, Harry took Joe aside. Put him in his patrol car, but not as a suspect or criminal.

Harry had sensed that no one had ever given a damn about Joe, no one had ever listened to him. And for the next hour or so, he just sat there, nodding in understanding. Asking questions when appropriate. Listening intently, and then letting a kid who’d tried so damn hard to be tough bawl his eyes out.

And when the tears and sobs had finally stopped, Harry offered Joe something no one had ever offered him before. A sturdy shoulder to lean on. Hope for the future. A friendship with one of the greatest guys in the world. A family that included him in holiday dinners, barbecues and touch football games on the lawn. And a brotherhood of terrific guys who’d once been hell-bent misfits and now had a purpose.

Thanks to Harry, Joe had turned his life around. Still, he supposed there might be some people who couldn’t forget his parentage or his shabby roots, particularly Kristin’s father. But that was too bad.

Early on, Joe Davenport had made up his mind to ignore those people who couldn’t quite forget who his daddy had been. And he damn sure wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life proving that he was good enough for Kristin Reynolds. For one thing, her dad would never be convinced.

But things were different, now.

There was a child involved. A child Joe hadn’t known about. A towheaded boy who might be his son.

If Joe was Bobby’s father, he’d do right by the boy.

No matter what Kristin or her dad had to say about it.