Читать книгу Secrets of Paternity - Susan Crosby - Страница 8

Caryn Brenley waited until dark before staking out the beautiful home in San Francisco’s upscale Forest Hill area. She might be a rank amateur at such intrigues, but two things she did know: first, she had a better chance of seeing someone arrive home on a weeknight after five o’clock than before it, and second, night provided better cover for someone to sit in a car and observe unnoticed. This late in October, with the switch back to standard time, night came early.

She didn’t have to wait long before a silver van pulled up to the residence she was watching from across the street and down a few houses. The garage door opened and the van disappeared inside. Caryn clenched her steering wheel. Would the driver have to come outside and go up the stairs, or was there access from the garage to inside the house?

Her question was answered quickly when two children, a boy about eight and a girl about five, emerged from the garage followed by a tall, slender woman in a black business suit.

He was married. With children.

It changed everything.

Before the woman and children went into the house, a Mercedes pulled up beside them. The kids jumped up and down and waved. The woman smiled. Again the garage door opened—

A motorcycle pulled up behind Caryn’s Explorer. In her rearview mirror she saw a man in full biker gear climb off the bike and head to the nearest house, the one in front of which Caryn was hiding in plain sight. He grabbed the contents of the mailbox and jogged up the stairs.

She went back to watching the family greet each other, but she focused on the man in the business suit who’d just arrived across the street. Husband. Father. He wasn’t as tall as she would have imagined, although his hair was dark, as she expected. There was no way of checking out his eye color from where she sat, and his dark suit and overcoat didn’t show his physique well.

Now what? She’d come to satisfy her curiosity, to see him for herself. But short of marching up and asking his name, she couldn’t know for sure that he was James Paladin, her son’s biological father.

Maybe she should leave well enough alone—

No. As appealing as that sounded, she couldn’t. Paul made a promise nineteen years ago. He could no longer keep that promise, but he would expect her to. She expected it of herself. That’s why she was here, skulking like the amateur sleuth she was.

The family went into their house together, the man carrying the little girl, her arms wrapped around his neck. She gave him repeated kisses on his cheek.

The fire went out of Caryn. There had to be a more subtle way to get her answers than confronting the man to verify that he was James Paladin—someplace away from his family. Then when she knew for sure, she would tell Kevin. The choice had to be his, a tough decision for an eighteen-year-old, especially one who’d been to hell and back in the past year.

She drummed her fingers on her steering wheel as she considered possibilities, then decided to go home and come up with a solution for another day. Maybe she could come back in the morning, follow him to his work and see if there was a way to determine his identity there. She would have to call in sick, herself. Lose a day’s wages and tips, something she couldn’t afford to do.

Resigned, Caryn started her engine, shifted into Reverse and released the emergency brake just before she spotted the biker hurrying back down the steps. He looked straight at her. She grabbed the map from the seat beside her and buried her face in it, not wanting him to get too close a look, in case she had to stake out James Paladin again.

She heard his motorcycle rev but kept her map raised, waiting for him to pull away first. His engine cut out, then a sharp knock on her window startled her, panicked her.

The map went flying. Her foot slipped off the brake. The Explorer rolled backward.

“What the—? Stop!” He banged on the hood. “Hit the—”

She jammed on the brakes. Metal hit metal. Then came silence. Hot, heavy, condemning silence.

Even through her closed window she could hear him swearing, succinctly, menacingly. Her heart thundered, deadening his words.

What had she done? She’d never had an accident. Never had a ticket. And the one time she needed to blend with the surroundings—

She stopped the thought. Took a breath. Then she shoved the jumbled map aside and looked out her window at him. Okay, she thought as her heart thumped a little slower and her hearing returned. Okay. What was done, was done. While she stared at the man, he ripped off his helmet and tunneled his fingers through his dark hair. Eyes, green and direct, drilled her. The angles of his face sharpened beneath a several-days’ growth of dark beard.

She rolled down the window and tried to smile.

Given the driver’s reckless behavior, he expected a teenager. Instead the idiot who’d just creamed the fender of his two-month-old, custom-detailed Screamin’ Eagle Harley—which he’d just gotten out of the shop from a previous accident—was a woman, one closer to his own age of forty-two. He cataloged her, as he always did with people at first meetings: auburn hair, straight, chin length and with bangs. Slender and small boned. He couldn’t judge her height precisely, but average or a little taller. Hesitation hovered in her blue eyes as she said hello, her inflection turning the single word into a question.

He rested his fists against the top of her window frame, not trusting himself not to yell at her and turn her into a quivering mass of contrition. Terrorizing wasn’t his style—most of the time, anyway—but, damn, he’d waited almost a year for that bike. A year. And this was the second time in a month he’d been hit.

Finally he gave her a “stay-put” look and went to assess the damage. Fender bent straight into his tire, just like the last time.

He grabbed a notepad and pen from the saddlebag, copied down the woman’s license plate number, then stared at the asphalt until he was calm enough to talk to her.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as he approached.

He met her gaze. Turquoise eyes, he noted, not blue. And she wore red lipstick. He hated red lipstick.

“You startled me when you banged on my window. My foot slipped—”

“I knocked,” he said, correcting her. “Not even loudly.” So much for being a Good Samaritan. He’d seen the map and thought she was lost.

He flipped open his notepad to an empty page. “Your tailgate is dented, by the way.”

“Bad?”

“You can see for yourself.”

She didn’t budge. Was she afraid to get out of the car? He looked that intimidating?

“We need to exchange insurance information,” he said.

After a few seconds her body language changed, not in a sexual way but a casual can-we-be-friends pose—except she looked too nervous for it to be real. What was going on?

“Could we just keep this between us,” she said, “instead of involving the insurance companies? I’ll pay cash for the repairs.”

Ah. Afraid of being canceled by her insurance company—or maybe having her license pulled? Should he sanction her game by going along with her? Or would the world be better off without her on the road?

While he debated how to answer her, he peered into her SUV. Spotless. Not a single scrap of paper or water bottle or straw wrapper. She wore a white blouse and black knee-length skirt, like a waitress’s uniform. Not the serial-accident type, at least not at first impression. So, what was her story? A husband who wouldn’t tolerate another accident?

He dropped his gaze to her left hand. No ring. As he looked, she touched her thumb to the vacant spot, as if a ring was still there.

He’d made her wait long enough, he decided. And his silence hadn’t made her tip her hand, anyway. He admired that—grudgingly. He widened his stance and crossed his arms. “You want to pay cash, it’s fine with me.”

Her shoulders dropped, her relief palpable. “How much do you think it will cost?” she asked.

He shoved the notepad and pen toward her. “Why don’t you put down your name, address and phone number. I’ll send you the bill.”

He knew by her expression she wouldn’t write down anything, even though she poised the pen above the paper. After a few seconds, she angled the tip away.

“Could you get an estimate over the phone now?” she asked.

“Doubtful.” He didn’t know why he was stringing her along. He knew the answer, probably to the penny, if the damage was what it had been the last time. He was just reluctant to let her go. Maybe it was the way she wouldn’t back down even though he seemed to terrify her.

“Can you try?”

He was entertained by her discomfort. She obviously wasn’t used to intrigue or she would’ve realized he could track her down through her license plate, whether she gave him her name or not.

He unzipped his jacket, pulled out his cell phone and pressed a button until the right number appeared on the screen. The phone rang twelve times before it was answered. “Yo, Bronco,” James said. “It’s Paladin.”

Her face paled. She busied herself with closing the pad of paper, as if the task was huge, aligning the edges of the tablet precisely, one side then the other, her fingers shaking. He figured he should just tell her what he did for a living—that she didn’t have to be afraid of him.

“Jamey! How’s that baby runnin’?”

“Could be better. There’s been an accident—” He held the phone away as Bronco shouted a few choice words. From her wince, James figured the Harley wrecker had heard them, too.

“Some woman driver hit you?” Bronco asked when he ran out of steam.

“As a matter of fact.” He was glad the woman in question couldn’t hear the sexist statement.

One more curse blasted the airwaves. “What’s the damage?”

“Same as before.”

“Drivable?”

“Not until it’s fixed.”

“I’ll come take a look in a while,” he said with a sigh.

He turned his back on the woman responsible and massaged his forehead. “Got a loaner?” he asked quietly.

“You on a job?”

“Yeah.”

“I can scrounge up something. Won’t be an Eagle. It’ll have some muscle, though.”

“Works for me. Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He snapped the phone shut and tucked it in his pocket before he turned back to face the woman and gave her an amount. “That’s if there’s no structural damage.”

She swallowed. “Plus you won’t have it as transportation.”

“Right.”

She looked at his house as if assessing his net worth. She also seemed to have calmed down. “You don’t have a car?” she asked.

“That’s not the point.”

A small fire flared in her eyes. “Look, I’m not denying my responsibility. I’m sorry you’ll be inconvenienced. I’ll go to the bank right now and bring the cash back to you, then I’ll stop by again in a few days to see if there are further costs. Will that be okay?”

“No.”

She gave him a long, cool look, which interested him as much as the heated one had.

“You said you were okay with my paying cash.”

“I am. But I’m going with you to the bank.” James wasn’t about to let her out of his sight yet. He wasn’t worried about finding her again, since he had her license plate number, but, well, frankly, she intrigued him—from her red lipstick, to her ringless finger that she continued to use as a touchstone, to her modest skirt and blouse.

“I don’t give rides to strangers.”

Implied in her tone was the fact he looked like part of a biker gang, which was his job at the moment—but she wouldn’t know that unless he chose to tell her. Not yet, he decided.

“You’re welcome to follow me,” she said primly.

He almost laughed. Damn, she was cute with her hackles up. “You won’t give me the slip?”

She went rigid. “I keep my word.”

He’d already figured that out, which is why he found it mystifying that she wouldn’t give him her name and phone number, at least, if not her address and insurance information. She was a contradiction. He liked contradictions.

“I’ll get my car out of the garage and follow you,” he said, backing away. “Don’t leave without me.”

“You’d better hurry. They close in twenty minutes.”

James deliberately chose his BMW convertible instead of the Taurus he kept for surveillance work. Okay, so he was grandstanding a little. He liked the contradiction he was showing her, as well.

Think I’m some kind of gang member, do you? Someone to be afraid to give your phone number to? Well, here’s another side of me. What would you have done if you’d hit the BMW instead, and I’d been wearing a suit and tie, and was clean shaven?

Knowing the answer—or figuring he did—he followed her up the street, uncharacteristically enjoying the fact she was nervous around him, he who usually made the effort to put people at ease.

A little intrigue. Maybe it was just what he needed while he waited to hear from the child he’d never met.

Somehow Caryn had prevented herself from hyperventilating. Had she written down his address wrong? She couldn’t imagine making that kind of mistake, but how else could she have been watching the house across the street? The wrong house.

On top of that confusion, however, James Paladin was a puzzle, she thought as she pulled into the parking lot of her bank. A contradiction. A…big problem, frankly. Obviously he was a risk taker, like her late husband, Paul. And a man used to taking charge and giving orders, also Paul’s MO. Paul had ridden a motorcycle—and he’d died in an accident on the bike he cherished a year ago.

She was beginning to see why Paul had chosen James to provide the sperm for Caryn’s artificial insemination almost nineteen years ago. She’d never met him, had only learned of his existence last week, and now they were about to turn each others’ lives upside down. And Kevin’s.

Was he married? Did he have children? She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on his finger, but he also seemed the type to shun public displays of, well, possession, for lack of a better word. He seemed…unpossessable.

She parked the car and turned off the engine, saw him pull in a few spaces away. She wished she could tell him who she was, what their connection was. She couldn’t. If Kevin decided he didn’t want to meet the man responsible for his existence, it was his choice, as per a written agreement between Paul and James made all those years ago. Caryn had found it only last week while cleaning out the paperwork she’d dumped from Paul’s desk into boxes for her move back to San Francisco. Then she’d discovered a letter James had sent last year with his current address—the wrong address, apparently—and his phone number, nothing more.

That note had been mailed a week before Paul’s death to a private mailbox of Paul’s that Caryn hadn’t known existed. That hurt still lingered. How many other secrets had he kept that she hadn’t uncovered yet?

As for the potential relationship between James and her son, she couldn’t intrude. Kevin alone held that key.

She didn’t know whether she wanted James in her life or not. Everything was finally settling down for her. She’d been prepared to have Kevin’s biological father become part of his life—assumed that he wanted to be part of Kevin’s life—but that was before she met the man, when he’d been just words on paper, not a flesh-and-blood person. A man in full biker regalia. A man who made her hormones come out of a long hibernation.

He came up beside her, his sheer size in his boots and leathers making her feel like a background singer to a rock star.

“You don’t need to go inside with me,” she said.

“I have nothing else to do.”

She met his innocent gaze. Up close he was even more attractive, his eyes a lighter green than she’d first thought, his hair not just dark brown but thick and shiny. Only the scruffy beard detracted.

“I won’t walk up to the teller with you,” he added.

He seemed to be enjoying the moment. She didn’t know why she thought that, because he wasn’t smiling, but something lurked in his eyes, some sense of mischief at the absurdity of what they were doing. Cloak-and-dagger stuff. She smiled. She couldn’t help it. Oh, the irony. The first man she’d been even the slightest bit attracted to since Paul died, and he happened to be…well, who he was.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, as they entered the bank just before closing.

The security guard locked the door behind them then stood at his post, letting each person out as they finished their business.

“Just in the nick of time,” she said.

“That’s funny?”

She shrugged. Let him wonder.

He lingered a distance away as she withdrew a huge chunk of her savings and asked the teller for an envelope to put the money in, which she then passed to James. The guard gave him the once-over, his gaze shifting from James to Caryn and back, as if trying to match them as a couple—or perhaps trying to determine if James had coerced her into giving him money.

She smiled at the guard. He unlocked the door to let them through, bade them a good night. James walked with her to her car.

“I’ll need a receipt,” she said to him.

He pulled his pad of paper from his pocket, scrawled something on it, signed it, ripped it off the wire spiral and presented it to her. “How about taking me to my mechanic’s shop in the morning to pick up my loaner?”

“You have no friends?”

“Of course I have friends.”

She studied him. Mischief was back in his eyes. “Take a cab,” she said. “Add the fare to my bill.”

He grinned. She felt her face heat and tried to draw his attention from the fact. “I’m gathering that this wasn’t the first accident you had with your bike.”

He cocked his head. “It’s the second, and very similar.”

“Seems to me you should learn to park your bike differently.”

He laughed, then after a brief hesitation he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a business card, passing it to her. “I’ll see you in a few days, Ms…. Mysterious.”

He walked away. She looked at his card. James Paladin, Investigator, ARC Security & Investigations.

Well. Maybe he wasn’t like Paul, after all.