Читать книгу Moment Of Truth - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 11

Hart spent a sleepless night in his suite’s king-size bed, wrestling with ghosts of the past.

Around six-thirty he gave up and shoved back the vanilla-scented sheets he suspected had been ironed. The Lone Star had an outdoor jogging trail, and he was determined to run until he was too worn-out to think.

Why the hell had the few details Spence had told him about Joan clung like a burr in his head for the entire night? Why had he lost sleep thinking about her being a widow? A mother? Those facts meant nothing to him. She meant nothing to him.

Dammit, he had let her go.

But he had never forgotten her, he conceded as he yanked on running shorts and a black T-shirt bearing CPD’s bomb squad logo. Not completely, anyway. Memories of her had lessened over time, but there were still instances when thoughts of her managed to slip uninvited into his mind.

Like every minute throughout the previous interminable night.

He grabbed a pair of white sport socks, then elbowed the drawer closed with more force than necessary. Fine, he thought. He had never forgotten her. It wasn’t much of a mystery why a man might carry around the memory of a woman who’d cut out his heart.

He blew out a disgusted breath. Instead of focusing on the past, he needed to think about the present. He and Joan were different people than they’d been ten years ago. He doubted she still spent her days lobbing balls across one of the Lone Star’s tennis courts. She was a business woman, the manager of a classy spa. A widow, raising a child. He no longer toiled as a country club groundskeeper, making sure everything looked presentable and ran smoothly for the cultured class. He was a cop, skilled in disarming explosive devices. All he and Joan had in common was the night they spent together. One night.

One night that had meant nothing to her.

“Dammit!” he muttered as he snagged his running shoes off the yawning expanse of closet floor. Before he’d met Joan Cooper he had never given away his heart. He damn sure hadn’t felt the least bit tempted to risk giving it away since. That didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Someday.

Lately he’d caught himself feeling a twinge of envy when he attended the bomb squad’s monthly cookouts and rubbed elbows with his co-workers’ families. With increasing frequency he found himself wanting a real home, a wife and kids. Hart gave a derisive shake of his head. He couldn’t exactly start down the path to getting those things when a casual conversation about a woman from his past had the power to make him toss and turn all night.

So, fine, that was an issue he needed to deal with.

Fate in the form of a bombing had brought him back to Mission Creek. He would consider that a sign, he decided while grabbing his watch and door card key off the nightstand. A sign that it was time to come to grips with all that had happened that long-ago summer. Time to put the past to rest so he could move on.

He was long overdue on letting Joan Cooper go.

He strode to the suite’s door, unbolted it, then stepped into the cool quiet of the long, carpeted hallway. Pausing, he let the door drift shut behind him while he strapped on his watch. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he turned his head in time to see Joan appear from a doorway three rooms down.

She pulled the door closed with a soft click while giving an idle glance down the hallway. The instant she saw him, her chin came up and her shoulders stiffened.

Hart’s eyes narrowed against an immediate stab of irritation. She had proven he meant nothing to her, so why did her nerves instantly go on alert each time she spotted him? Why the hell did she react to him at all?

When she reached behind her for the doorknob, he wondered if she might retreat back into the room until he disappeared down the carpeted hallway. Instead, she stood there, her fingers gripping the doorknob while they stared at each other across space. Across time.

He slicked his gaze down her trim, tidy turquoise suit, then on to those incredible legs that a blind man would have noticed. His eyes slowly resettled on her face. She looked elegant, classy with her dark hair pulled back in a smooth twist that emphasized the long, slender arch of her throat.

His hands fisted with the realization that after so long he still remembered the soft, warm taste of that flesh. Could again hear her raw, passionate moan when he took away her innocence and made her his.

Ten years ago, wanting her had been like a fever in his blood. In the space of a dozen heartbeats, he again felt something inside him stir. And realized it was the blood he’d let settle and cool over the years.

Don’t go there, he warned, and took a mental step back. Don’t go the hell near there.

The noise of the resort awakening around them slowly slid into his consciousness. A murmur of distant voices. The rattle of china on a room service cart. The far-off ding of an elevator. Finally Joan gave him a curt nod, turned and started down the hallway in the opposite direction, her long, wand-slim body flowing into the movement.

Hart hesitated. After the restless night he’d spent because of her—and the unsettling punch of lust he’d just experienced—it seemed wiser all the way around to keep his distance.

Hell, when it came to Joan Cooper he hadn’t ever been wise.

“Morning, Texas,” he said when he strolled up behind her at the bank of elevators.

She paused before turning, giving him an opportunity to skim his gaze down her back, over those long legs. “Good morning, Hart.”

Close up, he saw the smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes that made him think she hadn’t slept any better than he had. Although his ego would have preferred to think she’d lost sleep over him, common sense told him better.

Her glossed lips lifted slightly at the corners. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Lone Star. Be sure to let us know if you need anything.”

The cool politeness in her voice had him raising a brow. “That the standard company line? Or did you just come up with it off the top of your head so we’d have something to chat about while we wait for the elevator?”

“You’re our guest.” Reaching, she pressed the elevator’s already lit call button. “It’s important to every employee that you have a pleasant stay.”

He thought back to the sleepless hours he’d spent on a certain employee’s account. “So far I wouldn’t call my stay at the Lone Star pleasant.”

The comment earned him a concerned look. “I hope that’s because of your business here. I can imagine how awful it must be having to view bombing scenes where people have died and been injured.”

He stared at her for a long moment. He wasn’t complacent about his job. He couldn’t be, not when he worked in a world where the unexpected always showed up and where the threat posed by each bomb builder changed as fast as technology advanced. Yet, what he did for a living had been the last thing on his mind this morning. He had thought of her. Only of her.

Now he forced his mind to the devastation he had seen the previous afternoon in the Men’s Grill and the billiards room. Since Joan worked and lived at the Lone Star, the makeshift plywood wall with its padlocked door would no doubt serve as a constant reminder of how irreparably an explosion could change a person’s world. “You’re right,” he said, softening his voice. “Working a bomb scene is one of the unpleasant aspects of my job.”

Nodding, she lifted a hand to her throat. “It’s hard knowing that the person who set the bomb is still free.” Looking across her shoulder, she shifted her gaze down the hallway in the direction they’d come. “I hope you find who did it, Hart.” The sudden vulnerability that slid into her dark eyes sounded in her voice. “I hope you find him soon before he has a chance to kill or injure someone else.”

Her child, he realized. Of course she wasn’t concerned just for her own safety but that of her daughter.

“I’ll do everything I can to make sure the person who made that bomb winds up behind bars.” Pausing, he inclined his head toward the hallway. “I take it the room I saw you walk out of is where you live? You and your daughter?”

Joan’s hand slowly dropped from her throat. The vulnerability disappeared from her eyes, and her face took on a closed, blank look. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering, is all. When I met with Spence last night he mentioned that you’re a widow. That you have a child and you live here.”

Her eyes were now as cool as her tone. “Why were you and the district attorney talking about me?”

“No real reason.” He lifted a shoulder. “Your name came up in the conversation.”

“What about you, Hart?”

“What about me?” he asked, aware that she had changed the subject before answering his question.

“Is there a Mrs. O’Brien waiting in Chicago for you to come home? Some little O’Briens?”

“No. Getting married and having kids is still on my to-do list.”

“I see.”

His gaze flicked to the small brass name tag above her left breast. He replayed Spence’s explanation of why she still used her maiden name. Which, now that Hart thought about it, was odd since old man Cooper had endowed a wing at the hospital in his dead son-in-law’s name. Wouldn’t she want to be linked to something like that?

“Does your daughter go by Cooper, too?” he asked, just as an elevator chimed its arrival.

Something flickered in Joan’s face, then was gone. “Yes.” Very deliberately she turned and reached for one side of the double doors that slid apart, braced it open with her palm, then turned to face him. “I take it by the way you’re dressed you’re going jogging?” A thin smile accompanied the question.

“You’ve got a good grasp of the obvious.”

She inclined her head in the opposite direction from the one they’d come. “If you take the flight of stairs at the end of the hallway to the ground level, the door you’ll come to leads right out to the jogging trail.”

“Thanks for the tip.” Her blatant desire not to share an elevator with him had him taking a perverse step past her into the cab. “I’ll ride down with you, if you don’t mind,” he said, trying to ignore the punch in the gut that came with a whiff of the warm, subtle scent of Chanel No. 5. He leaned against the wall opposite her, wishing to God she didn’t look so beautiful, that just her presence didn’t play so perfectly on his senses.

She hesitated before using a pink polished nail to press the button for the ground floor. “Of course I don’t mind. You’re a guest here, Hart. You can use whatever elevator you like.”

“I’m also a cop, Texas.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Using a polite tone doesn’t make it any easier to get a lie past me.”

She turned to face him. “I wouldn’t think for one minute that lying to a police officer would be easy.”

“It’s not. And it generally doesn’t get you anywhere but into trouble, so you can drop the polite act.” His mouth took on a sardonic curve as the door slid shut, closing them in. “The truth is, you mind like hell sharing this elevator with me.”

He saw a muscle tighten in her jaw. “All right, Hart, since you won’t let the matter alone, I’ll forget my customer service training for a moment. You’re right, I would rather not share this, or any other elevator with you. Does that make you happy?”

Her cool, even stare had the nasty mood he’d climbed out of bed with heat his temper all over again. “Yeah, it always makes me really happy when someone tells me the truth.”

Turning toward the control panel, she restabbed the button for the ground floor. “In fact, since we’re being honest with each other, why don’t we take this a step further? Let’s agree that we simply prefer to avoid each other.” Looking back at him, she raised her chin. “Perhaps your stay at the Lone Star will be more pleasant for both of us if we have as little contact as possible.”

With a faint hydraulic hum, the elevator reached the ground floor. The small chandelier that hung overhead tinkled with the movement.

Hart set his teeth. They had avoided each other for a decade, yet she still had the power to make him lose sleep. Make his blood stir while she stood only inches from him, looking as distant as the stars. She wanted space, he would give it to her. And while he was at it, he would somehow, some way sever those last connecting threads to her that had haunted him for so long.

Stepping toward the door, he halted inches from her, but didn’t touch her.

“Now that you mention it, Texas, our having no contact sounds damn good to me.”

Running into Hart that morning had, among other things, cut into Joan’s schedule, causing her to reach the spa only moments before the wife of a Texas state senator arrived. After introducing the client to Britta, the six-foot, blond Swedish therapist, Joan held a meeting with several senior staff members, took calls from two European wholesalers who supplied the exclusive beauty products the spa carried, then welcomed a second new client who had flown in that morning on her private Lear jet for a week-long herbal detoxifying program. Joan had sandwiched in a goodbye kiss for Helena who had dashed into the spa before leaving to catch her ride to school.

Now, three hours into her workday, Joan paused in Body Perfect’s opulent reception area, telling herself it was time to turn her attention to the paperwork in her office. A dozen pieces of correspondence sat on her desk awaiting her attention, as did several phone messages.

Still, she hesitated. She knew if she closed herself in her office that her mind would roam to Hart.

“Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Cooper?”

Joan turned toward the receptionist’s sleek console, with its top-grade computer and phone system. Sonji Dunaway, blond and buxom, gave Joan an expectant look while soft, soothing music played around them, harmonizing with a small splashing fountain.

Joan shifted her gaze to the small gold clock on the console beside a crystal vase of yellow roses, their light scent perfuming the air. “I was wondering if Mrs. Zink had arrived yet for her shiatsu massage.”

Sonji nodded. “She got here about ten minutes ago. I settled her into the therapy room with a cup of ginger-honey tea, then let Mariko know her client was waiting.”

“Good. Let me know when Mrs. Zink’s session is over. I have the information about the exercise regimen she asked me to put together.”

The receptionist sent Joan the bright smile that had endeared her to the staff and clients. “Will do, Ms. Cooper. Anything else?”

“No.” Joan gave the capable young woman an appreciative smile. “If you need me, I’ll be in my office dealing with paperwork before my meeting with Miss Delarue.”

Joan’s heels sank into the thick carpet as she headed down the central corridor with spacious offices and therapy rooms opening to either side. Her own office was roomy and elegant, decorated in the same soothing pale-pink and cream tones as the reception area. Sonji had left a thermal carafe of tea on the mahogany desk that sat in the center of an Oriental rug. To one side of the carafe was a stack of the spa’s signature-pink file folders. Documents awaiting Joan’s attention were set squarely in front of her chair, arranged in order of priority.

Joan had just pulled off the jacket of her turquoise suit and settled behind her desk when the intercom line rang. “Yes, Sonji?”

“Miss Delarue is here.”

Joan let out a breath. She and Maddie Delarue had scheduled the meeting to discuss the upcoming Pasta by the Pool dance. Yet, the Lone Star’s event coordinator was also Joan’s best friend and she knew the conversation she had put off having with Maddie would wind up squarely on Hart. “Send her in.”

“Tell me there’s more than one man in the world named Hart O’Brien,” Maddie stated when she swept through the office door. “Tell me that the Chicago bomb tech who arrived here yesterday isn’t the Hart O’Brien.”

Joan pursed her mouth. She had hoped they could get their business out of the way first. “I take it you don’t want to start out talking about Pasta by the Pool?”

“Hardly.”

Joan leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t think you would have heard yet about Hart being here.”

“So, it is him? Him?”

“Yes, it’s him.”

“I was afraid of that.” A few years Joan’s senior—red-haired where Joan was dark; petite where Joan was willowy—Maddie dropped into one of the visitor chairs in front of Joan’s desk. Dressed in a silk designer trouser suit in soft olive gray that complemented her voluptuous figure, Maddie looked her usual blue-blooded gorgeous. “I had breakfast this morning with Bonnie to get the ball rolling on the mystery night gala that the club’s sponsoring at the end of the summer. When she mentioned the bomb tech’s name I just about choked on my omelette. Why didn’t you call and tell me that the Hart O’Brien had shown up?”

“I planned to.” Maddie’s and Joan’s families had been lifelong members of the Lone Star and a close friendship had developed between the girls early on. Now with Joan’s mother dead and her father’s memory destroyed by Alzheimer’s, Maddie was the only other person who knew that Hart was Helena’s father.

“Maddie, I had no idea Hart was the bomb tech Bonnie told us about in the staff meeting until I ran into him in the lobby yesterday afternoon. When I saw him I felt like I’d fallen into a black hole. Maybe I thought if I didn’t call and tell you about seeing him that I would wake up this morning and discover it had all been a bad dream.”

“I guess that didn’t happen.”

“No. I ran into Hart again this morning, and he’s real. Very real.” She gnawed her lip, thinking about how as they’d stood inches apart in the elevator’s intimate confines her heart had pounded hard enough to rock her body. She had always responded that way toward him—and she knew from her reaction this morning that the chemistry hadn’t changed as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter how much time had passed or what else had gone on between them, she would always feel that thrumming, physical connection to Hart O’Brien.

Damn him.

Maddie ran a manicured hand up and down the thick gold links she wore around her neck. “If Bonnie’s description is accurate, the bomb tech is a real feast for the eyes.”

Joan pictured Hart as he’d looked a few hours ago, his mouth firm and unsmiling, his narrow, rawboned face made even more carelessly handsome by the dark stubble that shaded his jaw. And those inscrutable green eyes behind long, amber lashes. Just as they had ten years ago, his dark, go-to-hell looks had pulled at something deep inside her.

Feeling her throat go dry, Joan reached for the thermal carafe and poured two cups of steaming tea.

“For the record, Bonnie’s description hits the target. But Hart’s looks are the last thing on my mind.” Joan handed Maddie a tea cup. “Hart said he met with Spence last night, and for some reason, my name came up. Spence told Hart that I’m a widow and I live at the Lone Star with my daughter.” Joan clenched her fingers, flexed them. “I know it’s just a fluke, but Bonnie put him in the executive suite three doors away from ours. Maddie, you know how Helena has the run of the Lone Star. With Hart staying here, in a room so close to ours, he’s bound to at least catch a glimpse of her.”

Maddie’s perfectly plucked eyebrows slid together in thought. “His seeing her doesn’t mean a thing. Unless…”

Sipping her tea, Joan met her friend’s gaze over the rim of her cup. “Unless what?”

“I was at my cousin’s in California the entire time Hart worked here, so I’ve never seen so much as a glimpse of him. Does Helena resemble him? Can you look at the two of them and tell they’re father and daughter?”

“No, thank goodness. Hart’s hair is lighter than Helena’s and has a lot of auburn in it. Her eyes are brown, his are green.” And this morning, those eyes had looked as dangerous as his job, Joan thought. “Helena has my build, too,” she added. “Last night she and I went through some old photo albums for one of her Brownie projects. She looks exactly like I did when I was nine.”

“That’s something to be grateful for.”

“About the only thing. Maddie, Hart is a police officer. He asks questions for a living. Conducts investigations.” Joan sat her cup aside and rubbed at the headache building in her right temple. “He’s already had an occasion to tell me that lying to a cop generally doesn’t get you anywhere but into trouble. When he said that, I felt a premonition, like footsteps of the devil crawling up my spine.”

Maddie gave her a wary look. “Why the heck did the subject of lying come up?”

“Because I told him I didn’t mind sharing an elevator with him. He took exception to that. He was right, I did mind.” And her nerves were still scrambling from the experience. “My stomach knots at just the thought of being around him.”

“Considering your past, that’s understandable. But you should look at things this way. You haven’t lied to Hart about anything. In fact, you haven’t really lied to anyone,” Maddie pointed out. “The instant you told your parents you were pregnant they sent you packing to your aunt’s in Dallas. It wasn’t until you brought Helena back here to live two years later that you found out your parents made up the story about how you eloped with some fictional guy named Thomas Dean days before he died in a car wreck.”

“You’re right, I didn’t know. But when I found out about that story, I didn’t do anything to change it or stop it, either.”

“Why would you? Hart O’Brien whispered sweet nothings in your ear, then rolled out of town like a tumbleweed in a tornado. Your parents wanted to protect you and their grandchild. So, instead of everyone looking at you like you were a woman scorned and your daughter illegitimate, you became a widow and your child avoided being labeled. What were you supposed to do at that point? Tell everybody in Mission Creek that your parents lied? That they made up Thomas Dean because you spent a night with a man who did a ‘conceive and flee’ on you?”

Joan couldn’t help but smile at Maddie’s term. “You’re right, spreading the word that my parents had invented a combination husband for me and father for Helena wouldn’t have accomplished anything.” Even so, Joan had lost count of the nights she’d lain awake, smothering in guilt. Wondering if someday that lie might catch up to her and affect her relationship with Helena.

“And not only did your parents make up Thomas Dean,” Maddie continued, “they went to considerable effort breathing life into him. Endowing a wing at the hospital in his name. A couple of stained glass windows in the church in his memory. The children’s park. The artwork. They did all that to protect you and Helena.”

Joan knew those seemingly philanthropic acts were only part of her parents’ motivation. They believed that their only child had thrown away her future by spending what they viewed as a sordid night with a groundskeeper at the country club. The shame of that had been almost more than her class-conscious parents could bear. Still, no matter the reasons behind Zane and Kathryn Cooper’s subterfuge, in the end their actions had protected Helena.

Helena, who had changed everything. Nothing had prepared Joan for the love she felt for her daughter, something so deep and unfathomable it was undefinable. She would do anything for her child. Anything to shield Helena from harm. So, Joan had let her parents’ lie live and breathe for ten years.

She glanced down at the pink file folders on her desk, many of which contained schedules for clients who had contracted for Body Perfect’s services. People came to the spa to forget their responsibilities for a while. To forget the clock’s ticking, forget that they had a life they had to get back to. For however long they were there, the spa was a place without time.

For Joan, Body Perfect represented just the opposite. Her responsibility to Helena had brought her here. The need to make a secure life for her daughter had forced the pampered country club girl, who had once dreamed of a life that included daily tennis matches and society lunches, to mature and transform almost overnight into a responsible parent.

A parent realistic enough to acknowledge that someday the time would come to tell Helena the truth.

“Maddie, you know that I’ve always planned on telling Helena about Hart,” she reminded her friend quietly. “But not for years, not until she’s old enough to understand. Right now she’s just too young.”

“No matter when you tell her, it won’t be easy for her to figure out how her daddy gave you up.” Maddie sipped her tea. “I sure can’t.”

“Hart didn’t give me up. He never wanted me.” Joan picked up a gold pen off her desk blotter, laid it back down. “His being here is such a shock because I never thought I would see him again. Never thought he would walk back into my life.”

Maddie leaned forward, sat her teacup on the desk. “He hasn’t exactly walked back into your life, has he? He came to the Lone Star because the D.A. brought him here to do a job. Hart O’Brien is here solely on business. When the bombing gets solved, he’ll go back to Chicago. Maybe forever.”

Joan stared across the polished span of desk and saw compassion in her friend’s blue eyes. Maddie was right. Hart hadn’t come back for her. Motherhood and the passage of time had erased the yearning that he do so from Joan’s heart. Yet, even now, she wondered what her life would have been like if Hart had remained in Mission Creek. If the loving words he had whispered against her heated flesh on that long-ago night had been true. If he hadn’t chosen to stay away for nearly a third of her life.

Joan shoved away the thoughts that even now had the power to make her heart ache. What-ifs, might-have-beens, if-onlys—they had the power to drive a person crazy. Hart was, and could only ever be, a dream from her past. She needed to remember that, Joan thought, pulling her defenses more closely around her.

Now Helena was the only one who mattered. She was the one whose feelings had to be considered. If she knew Hart was her father, if he told her he wanted her, loved her, then turned his back on her, the safe, secure world she knew would shatter.

Because Joan intended to protect her child by holding tight to her own secrets, Hart would never know Helena was his daughter. He wouldn’t get a shot at hurting her, of wounding her so deeply that her heart lay ripped open and bleeding for years.