Читать книгу The Seal's Surrender - Maureen Child - Страница 11

He hated parties.

Give Chance Barnett a machine gun, and he was a happy man. Tell him to mingle, and you got a mean dog on a short leash.

But, Chance told himself, sometimes a man just had to bite the proverbial bullet. And this was a big one, in his humble opinion. Hell, it was damn near a mortar round.

He clutched his bottle of imported beer in a tight fist and made his way around the periphery of the party. His gaze narrowed slightly as he silently assessed his new family. A hell of a way to meet the relatives, he told himself, yet couldn’t think of a better way to handle it.

There probably wasn’t a good way to introduce him and his twin, Douglas, to the rest of the Connellys. Though to give them their due, they’d all taken the news of the twins’ existence a lot easier than they might have. After all, it wasn’t every day you met thirty-six-year-old illegitimate twin relatives, was it?

Though he had to admit that none of the Connellys had treated him and his brother as though they were somehow not good enough to be part of the family. Hell, even Miss Lily and Tobias had come home early from Palm Springs just to meet him and Douglas. Chance’s gaze shot to the older couple. Correction, he told himself silently, his grandparents. Weird. He smiled as he watched Tobias trying to slip past his much smaller wife, but Miss Lily, cane or no cane, was too fast for her husband and snatched that glass of whiskey from his hand.

Interestingly enough, the big man just gave her a smile and a peck on the cheek. What would it be like, Chance wondered, to spend your life with one person? To love that one person so much that some fifty-odd years later, the stamp of it was still clearly on your features?

Those two old people had somehow managed to raise a dynasty. Amazing really, if you stopped to think about it. Sure, the Connellys were practically American royalty. But they actually were real royalty as well.

And Chance and Douglas Barnett were a part of it.

He shook his head and moved on, drifting through the crowd like a finger of fog. A strident female voice caught his attention, and he slowed his steps, listening.

His half sister, Alexandra, a tall woman with raven-black hair, a too-important manner and sharp green eyes was center stage, where she seemed most comfortable. “I’m so sorry you won’t have a chance to meet my fiancé,” she was saying, “but Robert was called away on business.”

Everyone in her audience nodded sagely, but all Chance could think was, Lucky guy. At least the missing Robert had gotten out of attending this party. He moved on, turning a bit too fast and feeling the pull of the stitches in his side.

A reminder of the reason he was able to be here at this party. If he hadn’t been wounded on his last mission, he’d have been happily out trooping through a jungle somewhere. And as soon as he was healed enough, that was just what he’d be doing. Hell, he kept his duffel bag packed and ready to go.

Man, was he ready to go. He needed to get back to his SEAL team. Needed to get back where he belonged. He scowled to himself. He caught a glimpse of Doug, chatting it up with a few of their new relatives, and almost wished that he was half as at ease with people as his brother. Hell, he’d even heard his twin talking to one of their new cousins about his ex-wife and how the reason they’d broken up was because she hadn’t wanted the children Doug wanted so badly. Yeah. Chance’s brother was sliding right into this and didn’t seem to have any trouble at all stringing the name Connelly behind the Barnett they’d grown up with. But then, Doug always had been the reasonable twin. Which was probably why Chance had grown up to be a fighting man and Doug had become a doctor.

Okay, he thought, way too philosophical.

“Excuse me, sir.” A low-pitched voice came from right behind him and Chance spun around to face a tuxedo-clad waiter. “May I get you something from the bar?”

Chance held his beer aloft. “No thanks,” he said, shaking his head at the realization that these people probably dealt with in-house waiters and butlers all the time. “I’m covered.”

Maybe it was the military training and maybe it was just his own innate need to be in control at all times, but Chance rarely had more than one beer at a party. Even one like this, where he felt more out of place than a pauper in a palace.

The waiter moved off soundlessly into the milling crowd and Chance shook his head again. How had he wound up here? he wondered. And just how soon could he make a polite exit? He moved off into a corner of the room, kept his back to the wall and let his gaze slide across the people filling the cavernous room.

A SEAL in a Lake Shore mansion? He chuckled inwardly at the absurdity of it. Hell, nobody would buy that. He stood out from the elegantly dressed crowd. His U.S. Navy whites were startling in a sea of bright colors and black tuxedos. But for the first time in his life, he was also in a room filled with people he was actually related to.

He and Douglas had grown up alone, raised by a single mom who’d done her best. But she hadn’t been able to provide enough of her own presence to satisfy her boys—let alone provide relatives. So here he stood, a thirty-six-year-old man suddenly meeting cousins and half brothers and sisters for the first time.

Weird.

He took a sip of beer, swallowed it and silently admitted that family wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It was just going to take some getting used to. From across the room, Douglas caught his eye and gave him a “Do you believe this?” look and a half smile. Instantly, Chance felt more at ease. He and his twin had pulled each other through plenty of scrapes over the years. And as long as they could count on each other, then tacking the name Connelly on after the Barnett wouldn’t change much.

Still, he could do with some air.

Instinctively, he moved toward the sliding glass doors that led onto a balcony. The muted noise of conversation and softly-played piano music followed him as he skirted the crowd. But as he neared the glass partition, his plan for solitude fell apart.

A woman stood on the balcony in the late-afternoon sun, her short, light-blond hair tousled by the wind. He knew her. Jennifer Anderson, Emma Connelly’s social secretary. They’d met a couple of times in the last few days. She wasn’t very tall, but every inch of her looked to be packed to perfection. She wore a deep-green dress with a flippy sort of hem that stopped just short of her knees, displaying to their best advantage what looked to be excellent legs. Her breasts were high and full and her waist was narrow enough that he figured given a chance, he could span that distance with both hands. Her back was straight as she stared out at Lake Michigan, but he frowned as he noticed she kept one hand clapped across her mouth and couldn’t quite hide the droop in her shoulders.

Instantly, something inside him stirred to life. The protective instinct was strong and he felt it push him outside. He slid the glass door open, and the wind off the lake tried to shove him back into the party. But SEALs didn’t give up that easily. Chance ducked his head, stepped quietly onto the stone balcony and soundlessly closed the door behind him.

“Get a grip, Jen,” the woman muttered to herself before he had a chance to announce his presence. “Crying’s not going to help. It’s only going to make you look like hell.”

Well, he couldn’t resist responding to that.

“Lady,” he said softly, “all the tears in the world would have a hard time pulling that one off.”

She turned quickly, her body language letting him know that she wasn’t pleased at having been found giving in to tears. But she recognized him right away and the Keep Out sign in her eyes blinked off.

“You surprised me,” she said, lifting one hand to swipe away the telltale track of tears on her cheeks.

“Sorry,” he said, though he really wasn’t. “Old habits. I’m used to moving quietly.”

One blond eyebrow lifted into an arch. “This isn’t exactly the jungle, Commander,” she said. “Around here, most people knock.”

“Ah,” he said, walking closer, “but you knock when you want to come in. I was coming out.”

“Great,” she muttered thickly, turning her face back into the wind. “Semantics.”

Jennifer stared out at the horizon, deliberately ignoring him in the hopes that he’d go away. She couldn’t very well order him off. Not one of the long-lost sons for whom this party had been arranged. So either he left of his own accord, or she’d be forced to go back to the party and pretend everything was all right.

Please God, let him leave.

Apparently though, God wasn’t listening.

Chance Barnett Connelly moved up right beside her and curled his hands over the wrought-iron balcony railing. She glanced down at those strong, tanned hands and noticed that his knuckles whitened with his grip. Obviously, he felt as tense as she did. But their reasons, at least, were very different.

“So,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on the wall of clouds hanging just at the horizon, “what seems to be the problem?”

“Problem?” She straightened up. The last thing she wanted or needed was sympathy. Especially from a man she didn’t even know. Besides, he was a Connelly. If she told him, then soon everyone would know and she’d like to put that off for as long as she could. At least until she’d had a chance to talk to Emma Connelly first.

Along with being her boss, Emma was as close to a mother figure as Jennifer could claim. Her own parents had died years ago, and but for her daughter, Sarah, Jennifer was alone in the world. Which had never really bothered her. Until yesterday.

“Yeah,” Chance said, shifting her a glance, “when I see a beautiful woman alone and crying on a balcony while there’s a party going on not five feet from her…well, I naturally figure there’s a problem.”

She inhaled sharply, taking the cold wind inside her, needing the bracing strength of it. Then, she forced a cheer she didn’t feel into her voice. “Thanks for asking, but I’m fine. Really.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye. “But you don’t believe me.”

“Nope.”

“Well,” she said, pushing away from the balcony railing, “that’s not my problem, is it?”

He reached out and grabbed her forearm. “Don’t go.”

His touch felt warm and strong and seemed to wrap itself not only around her arm, but around her bruised heart, too. Jennifer stopped short and lifted her gaze to look into amber eyes the exact color of fine, aged brandy. Her heartbeat stuttered slightly. His jaw looked as though it had been carved of granite. His nose had obviously been broken at least once sometime in the past. His brown hair was military-short, but even at that, there was a slight wave to it that made a woman want to stroke her fingers through it.

And good Lord, he was tall. With shoulders broad enough to balance the world. Today she could surely use a pair of shoulders broad enough to lean on. But Jennifer was too used to standing on her own two feet to take advantage of a near stranger in a weak moment.

As if he could read her mind though, he said, “I didn’t mean to intrude, but now that I’m here, why not let me help if I can?”

Tempting, she thought. Oh, so tempting. But no. She shook her head. “I appreciate it, but—”

“I’m a stranger.”

“Well,” she said, “yes.”

“Sometimes that’s better.” He kept his grip on her forearm as if he expected her to scurry for the door. Which she would have done, given half a chance. Then he smiled and her stomach flipped over. “Telling your troubles to a stranger is like talking to yourself. Only you don’t have to answer your own questions and run the risk of being locked in a padded room.”

A return smile tickled the corners of her mouth and she had to fight to keep it from blossoming. Which was a good thing actually, since she hadn’t had a thing to smile about since talking to her daughter’s doctors yesterday. And that stray thought was enough to wipe the beginnings of humor from her face.

A cold, empty well opened up inside her and she felt her heart slide into it.

“Hey,” he said, letting his hand slide from her forearm up to her shoulder, where his fingers squeezed gently. “Come on. Talk to me. Maybe I can help.” He dipped his head a bit and gave her another half smile. “I’m a SEAL. Trained to be a hero. So let me ride to the rescue here, okay?”

Jennifer glanced over her shoulder at the party just beyond the glass doors, then turned back to look at him again. What the heck, she thought. She could use a shoulder at the moment. And his were certainly broad enough to hold up under her assault.

“It’s my daughter,” she blurted before she could change her mind.

His gaze darkened slightly. “You have a daughter?”

“Yes.” Just the thought of Sarah brought up her image in Jennifer’s mind and she smiled to herself. Big brown eyes in a round little face that was usually smudged with dirt. Pigtails that were really no more than tiny wisps of light-brown hair caught up in barrettes at either side of her head. Small, pudgy hands and short, sturdy legs. Butterfly kisses and sticky-fingered hugs. Tickle bugs and belly laughs.

Doctors in white coats, long, dangerous-looking needles and Sarah’s tears.

“Oh, God,” Jennifer half moaned and clapped her hand to her mouth again, not sure if she was going to be sick or start screaming.

It was all just so damned unfair.

“Come here,” Chance said, turning her as he spoke, shifting to hold her, wrap his arms around her.

And because she needed a hug so badly, she went.

Nestled against that wide chest, she hung on for a long moment, wrapping her arms around his waist and drawing on the strength he so casually offered. She felt him awkwardly patting her back and for some silly reason, it helped. Though she knew it didn’t actually change anything, the physical act of being comforted soothed the frayed edges of her soul, and just for an instant, the world didn’t seem as terrifying as it had only minutes ago.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper coming from somewhere above her head. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Sarah,” she said, saying the words aloud for the first time since the doctor had so clinically outlined the trouble the day before, “my baby. She needs an operation. On her heart. There’s a small hole in it.”

“Aah…” A comforting sound, more of a deep breath released, maybe, but it too helped. She felt his sympathy in the gentle tightening of his grip on her. “How old is she?”

“Eighteen months,” she whispered, looking past him to the lake, but really looking at her mind’s eye picture of Sarah. “She’s so small. So tiny. This shouldn’t be happening.”

“No, it shouldn’t,” he said softly. “It sucks.”

Jennifer nodded. “Yes,” she said, grateful to hear someone else say what she’d been thinking, “it does.”