Читать книгу Run to Me - Lauren Nichols - Страница 9

She didn’t know how she managed, but Erin spoke in a calm voice. “No. Are you afraid I’ll take off in the middle of the night with the good silver?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know you.”

Feeling a nervous flush creep into her cheeks, Erin turned away from him and began unpacking Christie’s clothes. “Then let’s remedy that right now. What do you want to know?” She was ready with her stock replies.

“All right. But keep in mind that this isn’t a personal attack. I just need to feel comfortable with the people who take care of Amos.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“Your van has Maine plates. You don’t have a Maine accent.”

She shook the wrinkles out of Christie’s pajamas and set them aside. “We were only there a short time.”

“You were employed there?”

“Yes, I’ve already told your grandfa—”

“Doing what? And why did you leave?”

Erin put down the tiny bib overalls she’d just plucked from the suitcase, then turned around, realizing that her answers might be better accepted if she were facing him. She hid a shiver of apprehension. The penetrating eyes beneath the shading brim of his Stetson seemed to see straight through her. But as she gazed deeper into those eyes, past the concern, past the strength and confidence there, she saw something else. Something that mirrors had reflected in her own eyes. This man had baggage, too.

She drew a breath. “My last job was waitressing at a small restaurant. It was fun. I enjoy working with people.” She got herself ready for the next lie. “I left because it took me away from Christie too many hours in the day.”

“You had to travel 2500 miles to find a position that kept your daughter with you 24/7?”

“No, Maine was beautiful, but cold. I decided we’d be happier in a warmer climate.”

“So you chose the Flagstaff area? Winters here can be—”

“This isn’t our last stop. I’ve never seen California.”

It was several seconds before he slowly nodded. Again the judgment and doubt in his dark gaze was a near palpable thing. “I assume you included the name and address of your previous employer in your list of references?”

“Yes.” She’d only offered two names—Millie’s and Lynn’s—and thank heaven, they were both confidantes and prepared for phone calls. It still stunned her that Amos hadn’t contacted either of them, saying that he was from the old school and judged people by the look in their eyes—and she looked all right to him. “Until last week I worked for Millie Kraft at Krafty Millie’s Café in Spindrift, Maine, just up the coast from Boothbay Harbor. Your grandfather has her number. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Again, that long, slow gaze assessed her. But apparently the inquisition was over because he thanked her and walked out of the room. “There’s a twin bed in storage at Granddad’s house,” he called over his shoulder. “I think I can squeeze it in here.”

Erin trailed him through the hall toward the front door. “You don’t have to do that. Christie will be fine, sleeping with me.”

“She should have her own bed,” he said firmly.

Suddenly Christie barreled out of the great room, a page from her coloring book flapping in her hand. Her tiny face was all smiles, her voice a high-pitched squeak. “Wook, Mommy!”

Smiling, Erin scooped Christie into her arms, then held the paper out in front of her. She gasped dramatically at the wild purple and yellow swirls and swishes. “Oh, my! Did you do this all by yourself?”

Christie nodded excitedly.

“It’s beautiful. We’ll have to dig out our magnets and put it on the refrigerator.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as Mac ambled back from the door. His deep voice gentled as he surveyed Christie’s handiwork, the way most adults’ voices did when speaking to a child. “Mommy’s right. This is a very nice picture. Can you tell me what it is?”

“Me!”

“I can see that now,” he replied chuckling. The skin beside his dark eyes crinkled. “Do you think you could make one for my grandpa’s refrigerator? I’ll bet he’d like that. I know I would.”

Beaming, Christie wriggled out of Erin’s arms and raced back to her crayons.

Mac’s gaze followed her. “How old is she?”

“Three. Well, she will be in three months. September.”

“She’s a cutie.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

His next words landed like a punch. “Her father must miss her very much.”

It was hard to breathe, hard to remain calm, hard to hide the jolt of fear that now accompanied any thought or mention of Charles. But she made it through the moment without betraying any of those things and stated simply, “He’s not with us anymore.”

“He passed away?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

When she didn’t offer more, new questions rose in Corbett’s eyes—curious questions—but apparently respecting her privacy, he didn’t ask them. Instead, the look in his eyes slowly began to change.

The difference was subtle, almost unnoticeable…but for the shortest of seconds, his gaze passed over her hair and the slope of her face—lingered for a heartbeat on her mouth. And Erin’s pulse quickened as awareness came tiptoeing back, all the more potent because they were alone, behind closed doors, and she now realized the attraction was mutual.

Time stretched out on tenterhooks.

The air between them quivered with a tension running just below the surface.

Then Mac abruptly jerked his gaze from hers and retraced his steps to the door. “I’ll see about that bed,” he said brusquely, exiting and closing the screen door behind him.

“Th-thank you again for your trouble,” Erin called.

“It’s no trouble. As I said,” he repeated, his growling baritone trailing, “she needs her own bed.”

Erin sank back against a polished pine wall. Their search for a safe haven was over. In a month or two they might have to look again, but they were all right for now. She stared through the screen at Mac’s broad shoulders and tapering back as he cut through the weeds bordering the pond on his way back to Amos’s…took in his trim hips and long muscular legs.

And suddenly she wondered if she’d traded one kind of danger for another.

Charles Fallon sat behind the antique desk in his opulent high-rise office, the glow of the setting sun coloring the Chicago skyline behind him. He adjusted the pocket silk in his Armani suit, smoothed his fine mustache and goatee, then steepled his fingers before him and called, “Come in” in answer to the soft rap at his door.

A good-looking young man with longish, sun-streaked blond hair and a pleasant smile entered and walked to Charles’s desk, his running shoes silent on the deep-orchid carpeting. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sports logo on the breast pocket, and while he was not muscular, he appeared fit. He did not offer to shake Charles’s hand, and they did not exchange pleasantries.

They were alone on the floor. Everyone who worked for him here at Fallon Financial Consultants had gone for the day.

With an economy of motion, Charles took a folder from his desk and handed it to John Smith. It contained photographs and every scrap of information Charles could recall or gather that might lead Smith to her. Her pathetic little hobbies and interests, her education, the foods she liked. Still on Charles’s desk were her high school yearbook and a list of friends and associates she’d made at the elementary school where she’d once taught kindergarten. There was even a list of her e-mail contacts.

Several minutes elapsed while Smith studied the folder, the only sound in the room the hollow bubbling of the aquarium built into the cherry-paneled north wall. Presently Smith glanced up from the private detective’s report. “She was last seen near Boothbay Harbor driving a 1999 white Ford Windstar?”

“Read on. The vehicle is current, but my private investigator frightened her into running again. He was able to pick up her trail but lost her again in Boston. He said she obviously knew she was being followed, the way she changed lanes and used the on and off ramps.” So unlike his mousy little wife, who’d rarely driven in city traffic.

The square-cut diamond on his right hand caught the setting sun’s rays as Charles flicked a hand at the folder. “It’s all in there.”

Charles stared at the boy-man as he continued to peruse the file. He was thirty years old, and his name was not Smith. But Charles didn’t want or need to know what it was. He only had to know that Smith was short on scruples, long on patience, and used whatever means he deemed appropriate—legal or not—to accomplish his assignments. Which would make him far more effective than the fool who’d lost her.

Smith paged back to the photos. “Your ex-wife’s very beautiful. Little girl looks just like her.”

Charles nodded stiffly, hiding his rage as their faces coalesced in his mind. Beautiful, duplicitous Erin, with her serious cobalt eyes and raven hair, courtesy of the black Irish father who’d never given a damn about her. And Christiana. What an insult that none of his features had been repeated in his daughter’s face. He was the strong one. His genes should have been dominant. She should have had auburn hair and green eyes.

He thought of the divorce in which Erin had aired their private differences—differences every man and wife had—and the absurd judgment that had awarded her full custody because the judge considered him abusive, unfit.

Her lies had made him a pariah with friends and associates. If she’d remained silent, he could’ve forgiven her her fanciful request for a divorce. Not granted it, but in time, forgiven it. Now…now she would pay.

“You know what I want,” Charles said coldly, standing and bringing the meeting to a close. He placed the yearbook and lists inside a messenger’s pouch, then indicated with a nod that Smith should add the folder he held, as well. When he’d complied, Charles handed him an envelope containing thirty thousand dollars.

“Half now, half when the job is done.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Of course.” Charles held Smith’s gaze. “Don’t do it in front of my daughter. When you’ve finished, call me.”

“I’ll be in touch,” the young man replied, smiling cordially and accepting the pouch.

Charles smiled back. “Danka.”

Erin wiped the tomato sauce from Christie’s mouth and hands, then lifted her down from the booster seat. She handed her her Raggedy Ann doll and a cookie. Ten feet away, in the spare room, the rattle and clank of metal framework told her that Mac would soon be finished assembling the twin bed he’d found in Amos’s attic. And she was grateful. She wanted him gone so her popping nerve endings would give her some peace.

Mustering a smile, she led Christie around the butcher block island in the middle of the spacious kitchen to a bright, multiwindowed corner where a few toys and books lay on her open Barbie sleeping bag. “Can you read your dolly a story for a few minutes until Mommy rinses the dishes? We mustn’t bother Mr. Corbett while he’s working.” She also didn’t want her getting hurt.

Ignoring Erin’s protests, Mac had decided that Christie not only needed her own bed, but her own room—even though it meant transferring a dozen sealed boxes to his computer room. Even though Erin reminded him they wouldn’t be here very long.

“Can Waggedy Ann have a cookie?”

Erin smiled. “No, Waggedy Ann is too messy. When I’m through we’ll do something fun, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Another thud came from the spare room. Drawing a shaky breath, Erin carried their lunch dishes—their very late lunch dishes—to the sink, amazed that she’d managed to gag down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Mac here. Christie’d had no problem at all with the small, microwavable container of macaroni and meat sauce from their bag of staple groceries.

She was running water in the sink and rinsing the milk film from Christie’s plastic cup when a deep male voice directly behind her said, “That should do it.” The cup flew from her hands, popping and rattling hollowly against gleaming stainless steel.

Hating her over-the-top reaction to him, she shut off the water and turned to face him. “Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome. Again.” He grinned down at Christie, who was chattering something unintelligible and grinding her cookie into Raggedy Ann’s painted mouth, then spoke to Erin again.

“I left a set of twin sheets and a couple of blankets from Granddad’s house on the bed. They’re clean, and the mattress was stored in a spare room, so it’s not musty smelling.”

His hat was gone now, and his dark-brown hair was mussed and…sexy looking. “Thanks,” she said, jerking her mind back where it belonged.

Mac waved off her gratitude, then strode to the refrigerator to check the crisper and meat drawers. In a moment he closed it again. “The only perishables in there are apples, and they look okay. Feel free to use them, and whatever you need from the cupboards.”

“That’s very kind,” Erin murmured, “but we pay our own way.” Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she looked for a wastebasket. Blood rushed to her face when he took it from her and deposited it in a stainless steel receptacle built into a lower cabinet.

“Your grandfather said he’d like me to start work tomorrow. Is that your understanding, too?”

“Yes. I’ll handle the meal tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you’d be at Amos’s by eight in the morning. I gave Martin—Martin Trumbull, our full-time clerk—the rest of the week off. He’s been putting in some long hours since the first housekeeper left, and he’s no spring chicken.”

At last, a familiar topic of conversation. “You mean the housekeeper who was interested in your grandfather?” she asked with a faint smile. “He said she’d…what was it? Set her cap for him?”

“That would’ve been nice if it had been true.”

“It’s not?”

“Amos tends to give answers he’s comfortable with,” he answered, then changed the subject. “There was no mention of it in our newspaper ad, but would you be able to drive him to his physical therapy sessions when I can’t get away from the store? We have two part-time high-school kids who help out, but I don’t like to leave them alone if I can help it.”

“Of course. Just give me directions. I’m not familiar with the area yet.”

“You’re sure? He has PT on Tuesdays and Fridays. I can take him tomorrow, but we’re expecting a fairly large shipment on Friday, and I need to be there to unload it. I don’t want Martin or the kids hoisting eighty-pound feed sacks.”

“I’m sure.” But she frowned suddenly, wondering if there might be a problem. “Will your grandfather be able to step up into my van?”

“Not without help. There’s a hydraulic lift that adjusts to any level off the back porch. I had it installed so he could ride in my Cherokee. Just steady him as he’s getting in.” Mac sighed wearily. “If he’ll let you. I prefer driving him myself so I can see and hear firsthand how he’s doing, but since I can’t, I’d appreciate it if you’d pay close attention to what—”

He stopped himself, massaged the furrows over his eyebrows. “Never mind, I can phone his therapist. As for directions, the hospital’s not hard to find. Amos can direct you.” He met her eyes. “Okay?”

It took that moment and that worn look to see that Amos’s illness had taken a very large toll on his grandson, too. “How long has it been since his stroke?” Erin asked quietly.

“Ten months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It’s been a long haul for him.” He glanced around as though he might say something else, but then his lips thinned. “I’d better get back. I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.”

Hopping up from her puffy nest, Christie ran after them, and automatically Erin took her hand as they went to the door. But her thoughts were still on Mac. It had to be a strain, putting your life on hold to tend to another person’s needs, no matter how much you loved them. Although, she sensed this man wouldn’t have it any other way. Handing his home over to strangers probably wasn’t helping his peace of mind, either.

“See you in the morning, Terri,” he said, closing the screen door and heading for the steps.

“See you. Thanks again for setting up the bed.”

Then, out of the blue, Christie delivered a giggling announcement that drove the air from Erin’s lungs and threatened to dump her on the floor.

Slowly Mac reversed directions, his dark eyes sharp again. He repeated Christie’s innocently spoken words. “Terri is Mommy’s new name?”

Blood thudding in her temples, Erin scrambled hard for another lie. It came to her like manna from heaven. Swinging Christie into her arms, she laughed, “Not ‘new’ name, sweetheart, nickname.” She grinned wryly at Mac. “We had a talk this morning about the names we use being short for our given names. Apparently, she got things a little mixed up.”

But Christie’s little brow was still lined in confusion, and her rosebud lips were opening. Before she could breathe another syllable, Erin peppered her face and neck with noisy kisses that started Christie squirming and shrieking at the top of her lungs. “And now that you have a bed, Lady Jane,” she teased over the noise, “it’s time for your nap.”

“I’n not Wady Jane!”

“Shouldn’t that be your new nickname?”

“No!”

“Okay,” Erin agreed over the pounding of her heart. “I like the old one better anyway.”

When her daughter’s giggles had dissolved into a sparkling smile, Erin faced Mac again, praying desperately that he believed the performance he’d just witnessed.

He seemed to.

“If you need to reach us at Amos’s, use the intercoms. There’s one in my room, one at the desk in the computer room, and one just inside the great room. Just press the button and speak.”

“I’ll do that, thank you.” But as he climbed inside the old blue truck and drove off, she knew she wouldn’t. There was no point in giving him an opportunity to ask more questions.

Easing Christie back a bit, Erin released a lung-clearing sigh and touched the tip of her nose to her daughter’s. “Okay, chatterbox, let’s get a sip of juice and visit the potty, then take that nap, okay?”

“Are you ezausted, Mommy?”

Erin smiled wanly. “You have no idea how exhausted I am, precious girl.”

She considered having another talk with her about their new last name, but thought better of it. To tell her again that it was a secret that only they could know might confuse her all the more—and might invite yet another knee-buckling announcement. As the old adage went, it was best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Fifteen minutes later, with Christie curled warmly against her and softly snoring, Erin stared up at the ceiling from Mac’s bed. Varnished pine tiles in various sizes and shapes formed a lovely mosaic overhead and met smooth, pine plank walls, just as they did in the rest of the house.

They were in. They’d passed the test. They had a job and a home until Amos no longer needed them. And Christie… Gazing down at her slumbering child, Erin felt a rush of emotion that brought tears to her eyes and thickened her chest. Christie was happy and secure, now. There were no longer any signs of anxiety or fear. No furious thumb sucking, no cries in the middle of the night. She stroked her daughter’s glossy hair, smoothed back several damp strands from her temple and cheek.

Children should never be afraid.

Between household duties and keeping Christie entertained, Tuesday morning and afternoon flew by smoothly. The only glitch happened at breakfast when Mac walked into the kitchen, fresh from his shower in a hunter-green oxford shirt and snug jeans. But he only stayed long enough to shatter her composure, tell Amos to be ready at one o’clock for his appointment, and say goodbye. The butterflies that had gathered in Erin’s stomach left through the same screen door.

It was nearly six o’clock when Amos shuffled into the living room to his recliner and the evening paper, and Erin started the dishes. She’d pushed two vintage, chrome and red-vinyl kitchen chairs together so Christie could stand beside her at the double-bowl sink and “help.”

Christie was butchering a nursery rhyme and dumping water from a plastic cup to a metal pan when Mac walked up behind them, nearly soundless in his stocking feet. He slipped his coffee cup into the frothy soap bubbles, and his warm arm grazed Erin’s. “Supper was delicious,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Chills of awareness drizzled from the nape of her neck to the soles of Erin’s feet. Like a second shadow, the heat emanating from his body warmed her side and back.

“You’re welcome. I figured I couldn’t go wrong with chicken.” She hazarded a brief glance over her shoulder at him. He was standing so close, she could count every whisker in his end-of-day stubble, detect the faintest hint of a musky aftershave.

Her gaze rebounded to the plate she was washing. “The two of you left so quickly this afternoon, I didn’t have time to suggest a menu.”

“We eat anything,” he returned, settling a hip against the cabinet. “We’re not fussy.

“Still, you could have had a choice. What do you prefer?”

As she rinsed the plate and stacked it in the drainer to her left, Erin glanced at Christie. The front of her daughter’s pink-and-white shirt was drenched, and water slopped over the side of the pan as she stirred “water soup” with a big plastic spoon.

“Since Amos’s stroke, we’ve been trying to eat meals that are a little healthier.” He laughed softly, and his warm breath somehow carried to her neck. Or maybe she just imagined it. “Which only means,” he continued, “that I bought a bunch of those TV dinners with less fat and more vegetables.”

“I saw them in the freezer. I can serve those for lunch if your granddad likes them. I could also look for some reduced fat recipes—” a convenient thought struck her as she finished “—on the Internet.”

In time, she’d planned to ask a favor of him, but now that she had an opening, there was no point in putting it off. She hoped she wasn’t too early with the request.

Swallowing, she rinsed their silverware, placed it in the drainer’s cup and turned to face him. The sheer height and breadth of him still took some getting used to. He had to be six-two without his boots, seven full inches taller than she was.

“I have a laptop with a modem,” she began hesitantly. “But I won’t be here long enough to make subscribing to an Internet provider worthwhile. I was wondering if—”

He seemed to read her mind. “No problem. You’re welcome to use the computer in my office.”

“Thanks. Do you have any objection to my e-mailing a friend from time to time? I’ll pay any charges, of course.”

“There won’t be any. I have a local server. Just let me know when you want to use it. I’ll type in my password.”

Feeling like a child asking permission to do something wrong, Erin nodded her acceptance, then summoned a shaky smile. “Not to press the issue, but if you have a moment later, the sooner I dig up some recipes, the healthier you and your granddad will be eating.”

“Sure. I’ll come over after I bring in the horses and get Amos settled for the night. Probably around eight. He usually naps on the way home from PT, but he didn’t today.”

“Great.” She wouldn’t abuse his generosity. But she was afraid to use the phone or regular mail to contact Lynn, and after all her help, her friend needed to know that she and Christie were okay and settled somewhere new.

Thoughts of Lynn brought back the reason they were running, and an involuntary chill moved through her.

“Something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” she said with another quick smile. “I was just thinking it’s good that you have a lot of chicken and fish in your freezer if you want to eat healthy.”

Which had nothing to do with her shivering, but he didn’t call her on it.

“I wike fish!”

He smiled at Christie before his gaze rebounded to Erin’s. “I do, too, but we are going to have beef once in a while, aren’t we? Maybe the occasional pork chop?”

“Of course,” she laughed, “I work for you. You can have anything you like.”

The flicker of desire in his eyes brought back the disturbing flush that was now becoming second nature to Erin whenever she was around him. It was a look that made her think of warm nights and soft whispers, even though daylight still shone through the window over the sink.

Looking away, she busied herself searching for more silverware beneath the bubbles. “I don’t think an occasional steak or roast will do any harm.”

“Good,” he murmured. “I’d hate to think we were raising steers for the fun of it.” He pushed away from the sink. “I’m going to catch the news with Amos. Don’t dry the dishes—just leave them in the drainer. I’ll put them away later.”

“I can dry them. There aren’t that many.”

But Mac was nodding at Christie. “Leave them. Take her back to the house and get her into some dry clothes. It’s after six now. Your time’s your own.”

“All right,” she answered, realizing that Mac might want some private time with his granddad. She pulled the plug in the sink and lifted Christie down from the chairs, ignoring her flailing and whining for more playtime. “I’ll just finish up and see you in the morning.”

Mac’s gaze fell to the front of her shirt…and clouded.

Erin looked down.

There was a wet, child-size handprint darkening the light-blue fabric of her blouse. It couldn’t have been more strategically placed on Erin’s left breast if she’d handed Christie a diagram. Reddening, she looked back up at Mac, who finally realized he was staring.

Clearing his throat, he turned away, echoed her “See you in the morning,” then disappeared into the living room where Amos had suddenly turned up the volume on the TV set.

Erin swallowed hard as she dried the water splashes from Amos’s sturdy chairs, then returned them to the table. Because from the way Mac had stared at her, there was no mistaking the fact that, given the chance, he would have gladly made that wet mark on her breast man-size.