Читать книгу Live-In Lover - Lyn Stone - Страница 8

Damien Perry popped the cap off his bottle of Guinness, shook his head and laughed, a mirthless sound, as most of his laughs were these days. Sad commentary when a man had to check where a message came from to determine who he was supposed to be.

His thumb traced the postmark on the unopened envelope that lay on the bunk beside him. Nashville, Tennessee. Ah, yes, his role as an assassin.

He’d spent almost a decade now assuming other accents and identities, and the job was getting old. The Bureau loaned him out to other agencies for joint operations as if he were a piece of office equipment.

He had considered resigning. Government pay was atrocious, even with the hefty allowance for designer clothes on assignments such as his last one. The investments he’d made with his inheritance would insure he never had to work again.

But what would he do if he quit? Hang out a shingle and use his law degree?

Damien scoffed and took a good, long swig off his stout. He kicked off his deck shoes and got comfortable, determined to enjoy this leisure even if it killed him. If he didn’t gear down between jobs, he’d burn out for certain.

The plain white envelope lay there as if daring him to rip it open, so he did. No letter inside, just a small rectangle of beige linen card stock.

He smiled for real when he read the name on it. Marian Olivia Jensen. He only knew one Jensen from Nashville. It had to be her. What on earth could Molly want from him? He flipped the card over and read the handwritten message on the back. Please call. I need your help. This is urgent. M.J.

He lay back on the narrow bunk in the cabin of the Anna Louise and held the card aloft to examine it further. The line beneath her name bore the words “Freelance Graphics.” Below that a post office box, phone and fax numbers.

How had she gotten the address of the post office box where he occasionally docked? Few knew of it.

The Bureau had used the Florida address a couple of times to contact him since he had been working the boat thefts up and down the lower east coast.

Now that the DEA had rounded up the smugglers who had been appropriating private craft for their runs, Damien was taking six weeks’ leave on his rented sloop to wind down.

When he’d gone into the small post office branch to cancel the box this morning, the mail clerk had given him the envelope.

Michael Duvek, the regional director in Memphis, must have given Molly Jensen the address. Other than her brother, Duvek was the only person they really knew in common.

But Damien hardly knew her at all. They had met only twice while he was in the hospital in Memphis after that Nashville fiasco. The acquaintance was memorable for him, despite its brevity. A bright ray of sun on one of his darkest days there six months ago.

She had been visiting her brother, Ford Devereaux, the agent he had shared the semiprivate room with after they’d both been wounded. Absently, he ran a finger over the puckered red scar on his right side, just below his ribs.

Strange that she should remember him. Damien had just come from surgery and recovery and was barely conscious when Devereaux introduced his sister. What a smile to wake up to. Unforgettable.

The next time she had visited, they had gone down the hall together for coffee—no fun task in his barely ambulatory condition—to give Devereaux and his fiancée a little privacy.

So that was the extent of their acquaintance, his and Molly Jensen’s, a drugged-out how-do-you-do, terrible coffee, and a quarter hour of conversation.

But Damien could never forget a woman like Devereaux’s sister, no matter how short the association. Just thinking about her made him smile with remembered pleasure.

She was tall, a few inches shy of six feet. Lithe and graceful, but too energetic for a model. She’d moved more like an athlete. Perfect skin, auburn hair that shone like polished copper and a laugh that made her green eyes sparkle like gems. Such expressive eyes, he remembered.

Damien recalled how much he had wanted to touch her. Not sexually, exactly, though the idea certainly had merit. But just to see whether her joie de vivre was tangible, maybe even contagious. It had been.

As luck would have it, she had touched him first, just an arm beneath his to lend support. He’d been infinitely glad to be alive in that moment.

He looked at the card one more time and got up, sliding his bare feet into his shoes. What would she need him for so urgently? Though this certainly stirred his curiosity, answering her summons might not be a wise move.

She hadn’t mentioned a husband, but she was most likely married. He knew she had a very young child because she had whipped out pictures and bragged that day.

A baby girl who was not especially photogenic. A smile tugged at his lips. In the photos it had worn one of those ruffled garter-looking things around its bald head and a fancy dress to match. He clearly remembered the poor thing only had two teeth shining in that wide grin.

Now why had he wasted brain cells storing inconsequential details such as that?

Damien didn’t care much for children. At least, he didn’t think he did. As it happened, he’d never had the opportunity to know any close at hand. Judging solely on what others had said about them, they were messy little creatures, noisy and wildly unpredictable.

No, it definitely would not be smart to reply to this message of Molly Jensen’s, given that she was married and a mother and he had felt a definite attraction. Forbidden fruit always tempted him and Damien had learned the hard way to steer a wide course around it.

This time he wouldn’t. He wanted to see her again. If she happened to be off limits, so be it. Nothing said he had to pursue her.

Ignoring his better judgment, Damien slipped on a shirt and headed out to the phone booth by the marina. She’d stirred his curiosity. He would find out just why she thought she did need him.

The skills he possessed might be in demand in some quarters of the world, but surely not in that of a wholesome young wife and mother like Molly Jensen.

Molly wrapped her arms tighter around the sleeping toddler and pressed her lips against the silky curls on her crown. “Oh, Syd, what’s Mama gonna do?”

The phone rang for the fourth time and the answering machine kicked on. She listened to her own voice on the recorded message and waited for the beep. Molly dreaded hearing the laugh, that menacing, deep-throated chuckle. She had endured three of these calls already since noon. Their frequency was increasing.

If she answered, he might talk to her, offering more of those snide, oily questions of concern for her and Sydney that only she recognized as threats. That would be worse than these wordless messages, yet just knowing who it was on the line in no way lessened the terror.

“Hello, Mrs. Jensen,” a deep voice said. “Damien Perry here. I received your card. If you would like—”

She snatched up the receiver. “Wait! Don’t hang up! Hold on a minute, I have to put the baby down.”

She ran to the playpen, carefully laid the sleeping toddler next to her teddy bear, and hurried back. “Sorry. I would have answered right away, but I thought… Well, never mind that now. Are you here? In Nashville?”

“No, I’m not. I’m just responding to your—”

“How soon can you come? You can, can’t you? I mean, I’m at my wit’s end here, and I thought since you were a good friend of Ford’s and he’s not in country, and Mr. Duvek couldn’t—”

“Calm down, Mrs. Jensen. You’re speaking too rapidly for me to understand you. Are you in trouble?”

“It’s Ms. not Mrs. No, it’s Molly to you, but that’s not important. I really need your help—and right away if you can come. Please! It’s a matter of life and death.”

“Whose death?” he demanded, his words curt.

“Mine,” she said, swallowing hard to stifle a moan. “And maybe Sydney’s, too.”

“Sydney?”

“My baby. Remember? Please, will you come? I honestly don’t have anyone else I can turn to. It’s too much to ask, I know, but I can pay you for this. Whatever you charge, I can pay you. Maybe not all at once, but we can work something out.”

“Wait. Before you go any further, tell me exactly what it is that you want me to do.”

“Help me make him stop. I can’t stand this anymore. He’s called three times today and—”

“Do you know who it is?” he interrupted.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, shuddering. “My ex-husband.”

“Molly, listen to me,” the voice ordered. “Calm down. I want you to make certain all of your doors and windows are locked, and after that—”

“They are locked!”

“Fine. Now, have you informed the police? You’ll need an Order of Protection.”

“I have one, and I’ve called until I’m blue in the face, and even went down to the station and talked to them. They won’t do anything because I can’t prove it’s him. They can’t unless he does something and I can prove it. That could be too late. Are you coming or not?”

A long silence followed before he said, “Yes. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Thank God,” she whispered, clutching the phone to her chest with both hands. “Oh, thank you.” Soon now. Soon it would be over and she and Syd would be safe.

A small measure of her terror had lifted just hearing Damien Perry’s voice. That deep, velvety I-will-handle-it tone soothed something within Molly, made her able to close her eyes and breathe more deeply. It renewed her hope, a severely eroded commodity these past three weeks.

Not that she liked the idea of calling on a man to solve her problems, but she had exhausted all her own resources.

The police must think she was crazy, calling them about threats that, when repeated, seemed totally harmless. The best they could do was enforce a restraining order, which in itself was as useful as a boat full of holes. Even if the police hauled him in, Jack could be out on bond the same day.

She fastened her attention on Sydney, who still slept in the playpen in the corner by the television. Her precious baby, her Syd, the person she loved most in the world. The threat encompassed her, too, just because she was Molly’s weak spot.

How could she ever make people believe a man would threaten his own daughter? They had barely believed him capable of hurting his wife, and most people blamed her for that. Everyone but the judge.

The female judge who heard the case was the only one who had bought the truth about him. Thank God she had. But Molly was still the only one in the world who knew exactly what Jack Jensen was capable of.

Molly remembered how he’d approached her last month, the Sunday after they’d released him from jail. He had publicly begged her forgiveness and pleaded for a reconciliation. Right outside in the churchyard after services. Jack couldn’t have picked a place with a larger audience of people who knew them, and she knew that the choice was deliberate on his part.

She hadn’t been nice in refusing him. He wanted her back, all right, and she knew why. To make her life a living hell. Again.

He had called the next day, more insistent, his tone more threatening than the actual words he used. “A woman shouldn’t live alone, Molly,” he’d said. “You know, all kinds of things might happen. Just you and your baby, all by yourselves in that great big house. It’s scary to think about, isn’t it? But I want you to think about it. Think hard.”

She shuddered, recalling the way Jack had laughed that grate-on-the-nerves chuckle that made her skin crawl.

Now when he called he never said anything, probably because he knew the court protection order was supposed to bar any communication. But he had found a way.

Jack was a master of intimidation. He had used fear to hold her once before, but Molly was determined not to cave in again.

Some days he parked outside, just sitting in his car, as though daring her to go out. When she did, he followed her until he caught her in a situation where he could apologize again, in front of her mother and several of their friends.

Jack had acted like a heartbroken husband who couldn’t bear to live without her. But Molly knew what he really wanted.

She could read his intentions in his dark, narrowed eyes, hear it in the promises that must sound tempting to anyone who didn’t know him as she did. Jack wanted revenge.

At first, he might have planned to take it privately, but she hadn’t been stupid enough to go back to him, thank God. Now that she’d made it clear she wouldn’t do that, he’d obviously decided on another method of retaliation. He would terrorize her until he grew tired of it, and who knew what he would do after that? Since the frequency of his calls was escalating, she feared she was about to find out.

Given his doubts about Sydney’s paternity, Molly feared as much for the baby as she did for herself. Maybe she should have insisted on giving him proof with a DNA test, but after Syd’s birth, she hadn’t wanted him to believe that he was the father. No way would she share her baby with that maniac. When Sydney was born, Molly was already in the process of divorcing him and he had been in lockup.

She curled into a ball on the end of the sofa near the loaded pistol. With all her might, she fought the exhaustion that threatened to close her eyes. A nap seemed too risky, as had sleep the night before.

“Hurry and come, Damien,” she pleaded with the man she had decided to trust. “Please.”

In spite of her efforts, Molly knew she had fallen asleep when the doorbell woke her. Sunlight spilled through the windows. She’d slept all night. Cursing herself for her lapse, she grabbed the gun.

Sydney stirred and would be waking soon for her breakfast. Molly prayed she would sleep a little longer. The doorbell chimed again before she reached it. Molly looked through the peephole.

With a huge sigh of relief, she slipped the chain off, unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open. “Thank goodness, I was afraid you’d change your mind. Come in, please.”

She stepped back to let him move past her, then hurriedly closed the door and fastened the locks. Suddenly she felt safer than she had in weeks.

“Allow me,” he said evenly, taking the pistol from her hand, “before you shoot one of us.” He clicked on the safety and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Then he smiled wryly, just a slight stretch of the lips, the corners barely turning up. “Hello again, by the way.”

“Hi, yourself,” Molly replied, her gaze riveted on his mouth. She forced herself to blink and look away, embarrassed by her reaction to him. He was still a heart-stopper, even more so than the last time they’d met.

She shrugged and held up her hands, empty now of the weapon and feeling useless. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” She laughed at herself. “I mean…that hospital gown, you know… So, I see you’re well now. Aren’t you? Well?”

“Quite recovered, thank you,” he replied, and inclined his head. The smile was no wider, but his eyes warmed with humor.

Lord, his voice soothed like melted chocolate, she thought. Smooth, rich English chocolate, if there was such a thing. Just a faint accent that did funny things to her stomach.

He surely did look well. Fantastic, in fact. Molly tried to be less obvious in her scrutiny, but it was hard. The man was a hunk, no denying it. Shoulders like a fullback and a face that would wring sighs out of a zealous nun.

If she didn’t watch herself here, she’d be wallowing in a deep case of hero worship. Well, he was a hero. Hadn’t he come to save her and Syd? Just like that, he’d come to the rescue without even knowing all the details. A guy just didn’t get much more heroic than that, in her opinion.

Her right hand started up to brush that sun-streaked wave off his tanned forehead. She stopped just in time, inwardly cursing her eagerness to touch. He hadn’t retreated. Hadn’t moved or even blinked. He just watched her with an intensity that nearly mesmerized.

Lord, didn’t he have the bluest eyes she had ever seen? Azure. Her favorite color.

She yanked her attention off his face and stared past him toward the kitchen. If she didn’t curb this adolescent behavior of hers, he would never take her seriously.

“I was about to fix breakfast. You want some?” She asked.

“Just coffee if you have it. Or tea would be fine.”

“Tea? For breakfast? Oh, you mean hot…”

He smiled again, this time full-out, and Molly thought her heart might stop for good, once it quit bonging around in her chest like a Super Ball. She’d forgotten those perfect teeth. And the dimples. Good grief, no wonder she was babbling like an idiot.

“Whatever you’re having will be fine,” he said.

A loud, piercing wail erupted. Molly turned and dashed down the hallway into the den to get Sydney before she woke up the entire neighborhood.

“Okay, babe, hang in there. Juice coming up. Dry pants first.” Molly ripped the night diaper’s tapes loose and began changing her.

“Is it hurt?” he asked above Syd’s noisy fretting.

“What?” Molly asked, confused. It? “Syd? Oh, no, she’s fine. Just wet and hungry.”

She pressed down the last tape on the diaper and hefted Syd out of the playpen. Shifting her handily onto one hip, Molly headed to the kitchen. “Come on.”

Quickly she plopped the baby in the high chair, washed her hands and poured a sippy-cup full of apple juice. “Like shutting off a siren, isn’t it?” she asked with a laugh as Syd gulped the juice.

His mouth quirked slightly to one side as he watched.

Molly dropped several vanilla wafers onto the highchair tray. “Sit down,” she invited. “I’ll put on the coffee.”

She took the basket of yesterday’s blueberry muffins out of the microwave, uncovered them, and set them on the table. “You want eggs and bacon? I think I have some in the fridge.”

“No, thank you,” he said politely, clasping his hands together on the tabletop. “Shall we get down to business, Ms. Jensen?”

“Sure. And please call me Molly. I mean, as long as you and Ford are such good friends—”

He looked ready to argue, and Molly didn’t think it was about the first name issue. She supposed he thought asking for this kind of help was too much, even for the sister of a friend and fellow agent. And it was, of course. She had known that up front.

“Look, maybe I was wrong to call you. I’ve really no right to involve you in this mess even if you are Ford’s buddy.”

Even as she let him off the hook with her words, she begged him with her eyes to consider helping her. Come on, Damien, please!

He considered what she’d said—and most likely her silent message, too—quietly, and at some length while Molly waited breathlessly for him to assure her he would help.

“You say you think your life is in danger?” he asked calmly.

Molly cleared her throat and looked away from him so she could think straight. “Yes, I do. I believe my ex-husband is insane.”

“And you believe him capable of violence?” he asked.

She raised her chin and faced him, mimicking his cool regard. “Yes, Damien, he certainly is capable of that.”

He nodded slightly and thought for another minute. Molly liked the way he considered the angles before making a decision. She wished she had that trait.

“Then we had better prevent that, hadn’t we?” he said.

“You are going to help us?” Before she could stop herself, Molly had reached out and grasped his hands. His large, wonderful, capable hands.

Only one eyebrow raised. “I would be delighted.”

He would be delighted. She had to smile at that.

Damien Perry just took her breath away. She loved to hear him talk. If only the subject matter were a little less macabre, she would just sit back and enjoy the daylights out of it.

But she hadn’t called him in on this because he sounded cute or because his fantastic looks made the backs of her knees sweat. She needed a man who could handle the situation. She had no doubt that when Damien Perry said he would—delighted or not—he surely would.

Suddenly she realized she was still holding his hands between hers and released him. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.

“Quite all right,” he said, flexing his fingers as though she had squeezed them too hard.

Molly rose, her movements deliberate and careful as she poured two cups of steaming coffee, placed them on the table and took her seat. She peeled the paper cup from a muffin, reached over and placed it on the tray of the high chair.

Sydney promptly christened it with apple juice, leaned over and bit off the soggy top.

“Have a muffin. I’ll fill you in on what’s happened so far.”

His aristocratic nose wrinkled the tiniest bit when Sydney grinned at him, her mouth full of purple mush. “Thank you, no. I believe I’ll pass on the muffin.”

Molly shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t fair to bring a friend of her brother’s in on this. But Damien Perry had struck her from their very first meeting as a man who could take care of business. Even wounded as he’d been at the time, he had projected an aura of strength and capability that impressed her.

She flatly rejected the thought that there might be another reason his name came to mind when she needed help.

So what if he was handsome as sin itself? Was it a crime to admire his good looks? She was human, wasn’t she? And an artist, too. One who appreciated beauty in all its forms. That’s all she felt for this man, admiration and appreciation.

All right, maybe she’d felt a little infatuation for him initially, but surely that was normal. Every woman he met must feel that. As soon as she got used to him, it would go away.

Damien was a man of the world and, she suspected, a loner. And that was fine with Molly. That signaled safety. She was definitely not looking for another man in her life when she couldn’t even dodge the mistake she’d made the first time.

All she wanted was Damien’s help. Then he could go on his merry way and she could enjoy a couple of secret fantasies about him now and then. No harm in that.

“Tell me about it,” he suggested softly.

Molly jerked her head up and stared into those azure eyes. She almost blurted out exactly what she was thinking, then caught herself. “Oh, you mean about Jack.”

He nodded, an all-too-knowing look in his eyes. “Of course. What else?”