Читать книгу Her Favourite Holiday Gift - Lynda Sandoval - Страница 9

Colleen glanced up from her laptop screen when her mom padded into the dark kitchen, yawning.

Moira Delaney stopped short, clapping her hand over her heart. “Lord, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Colleen croaked, before clearing her throat.

“Sweet pea, what on earth are you doing up at this hour?”

“I’m working, Mom,” Colleen said, her voice hoarse from exhaustion. Tension. “What else?”

“But it’s nearly four!” her mom exclaimed, glancing at the wall clock. She pulled a tumbler out of the cabinet and filled it with filtered water from the fridge door. “You need your sleep.”

Colleen wanted to disagree, but her eyes felt scrubbed with steel wool, and her limbs ached deep into the bone. She simply hadn’t been able to tear herself away from the mother lode of information she’d dug up on Drake Thatcher. Eric had been correct about one thing—Thatcher was dirty, and he had a history of trying to take the Hansons down. The question remained, was her client mixed up in any of it?

If so, she’d be screwed. Utterly screwed.

She needed to talk to Ned, get to the bottom of this fiasco before it blew up in her face, and she was intent on gathering as much background data before she dragged his sorry ass into her office tomorrow morning.

Robby Axelrod came off as squeaky clean.

As did Eric, naturally.

She sat back and rubbed her palms over her face, then slapped her cheeks, hoping for a jolt of alertness so she could draw out a game plan. It didn’t come.

Her mom poured a second tumbler of water and set it on the table next to Colleen’s computer, then brushed her daughter’s hair back with a gentle hand. It had to be exhaustion, because the sweet, motherly touch nearly brought Colleen to tears, and she wasn’t usually susceptible to sentiment. Especially not from her mother. Thanks to seeing Eric again, thanks to his typical altruistic gesture of bringing Thatcher to her attention, her deeply buried emotions had risen to the top of her skin like raw sores. Usually, her mother’s innuendos that she worked too hard—even something as innocuous as bringing her water or brushing her hair back—would irritate her, perhaps provoke an argument. Right now, she felt too vulnerable to react in her usual mode.

She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“I know you’re working an important case, okay? But go to bed. Whatever it is you think you have to finish will wait a few hours. And you’ll be better able to handle it if you’re rested.”

Colleen nodded, bit her bottom lip. As she powered down her laptop, she asked, “Why are you up?”

“Oh, the knee.” Mom tightened her robe around her waifish middle. “Just a little ache.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes.” Moira smiled. “You can go to bed. I’ll be fine in about half an hour. I’m just going to watch television until the painkiller kicks in.”

The mood felt so intimate, so neutral, so unlike their norm, Colleen ventured further into the emotional minefield she usually avoided. “You need to get out more now that your knee’s almost healed, Mom. Enjoy the city. Visit a museum.”

“Oh, well…”

Colleen closed the top of her computer. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I thought I’d tidy up. Read some.” She avoided her daughter’s gaze.

“Are you depressed?” Colleen asked, in a soft tone. “The doctors said that can happen after a surgery like the one you had.”

Moira Delaney sighed, raked her fingers through her hair, crossed her arms. “Do you want me to move out? Is that it?”

Colleen stood and held her hands up, palms forward. “No. No, Mom. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. I just want you to…I don’t know, enjoy life.”

Those cornflower-blue eyes so much like her own pierced Colleen. “Do you enjoy life?”

Wow. Hadn’t seen that blow coming. It landed right in the sweet spot and made her see stars. “Yes. Of…of course. My work is—”