Книга - Between Love and Duty

Between Love and Duty
Janice Kay Johnson


There's a right way, then there's the wrong wayNobody knows that better than police captain Duncan MacLachlan. He has served and protected for years without bending to a middle ground he doesn't believe in. And he's not about to change. Certainly not for stubborn–and sexy–court advocate Jane Brooks. Her shades-of-gray view of the world clashes with his black-and-white one.Then a mission to save an at-risk teen has Jane's life on the line. Now she and Duncan must join forces despite their differences–and the flaring attraction that's too hot to ignore. It's Duncan's toughest challenge yet. Because keeping Jane safe is one thing…and keeping her out of his arms is another.







There’s a right way, then there’s the wrong way

Nobody knows that better than police captain Duncan MacLachlan. He has served and protected for years without bending to a middle ground he doesn’t believe in. And he’s not about to change. Certainly not for stubborn—and sexy—court advocate Jane Brooks. Her shades-of-gray view of the world clashes with his black-and-white one.

Then a mission to save an at-risk teen has Jane’s life on the line. Now she and Duncan must join forces despite their differences—and the flaring attraction that’s too hot to ignore. It’s Duncan’s toughest challenge yet. Because keeping Jane safe is one thing…and keeping her out of his arms is another.


“So tell me, Captain MacLachlan, what do you do for fun?”

Fun? Duncan had to think for a minute about Jane’s question. How often did he do anything that he could call fun?

“I play basketball.” Suddenly he was smiling. “I gave Judge Smithson a bloody nose with my elbow in one of our last games of the season.”

Jane chuckled. “And you had the nerve to appear in his courtroom.”

“He repaid me with an elbow to the gut. I dropped to my knees retching.”

Her full-bodied laugh rang out.

“Like that image, do you?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit how much I do.”

He was still smiling, something he hadn’t expected to do in her company. She was irritating, all right, but also…not as unlikable as he’d thought. Smart, edgy, amusing. Still not a woman he’d consider romantically. But sexually?

Maybe.


Dear Reader,

Stories grow from surprising moments. This trilogy came from an image that lurked in my mind. I live in a small town where people know how to celebrate the Fourth of July. Our parade is a big deal, and bagpipers play while marching in kilts. One particular piper has lingered in my memory. He was tall, striking, auburn-headed and solemn, a hero if I’ve ever seen one. One day that not-so-important memory sent up shoots. I imagined three brothers walking shoulder to shoulder, all playing the bagpipes that are their heritage.

Alas, heroes have minds of their own. Duncan MacLachlan, the oldest son, declined to play the bagpipe. He was taught by his father, whom he bitterly resents, and he chooses to reject everything that came from a man he despises. And, darn him, Conall, the youngest son, feels the same. Only Niall, the hero of the upcoming book From Father to Son, embraces his Scottish heritage.

Despite his defiance, I fell for Duncan. He’s a man to whom duty is all. He sacrificed his dreams when his brothers needed him. Romantic love is a foreign concept to him, and not one he intends to embrace. But aren’t responsibility and duty rooted in a deep sense of caring? And what is caring but a kind of love? Oh, yes, it turns out that Duncan is quite capable of loving...once he meets a woman strong and fierce enough to defy him, command his respect and gain his trust. He might have been able to ignore her, if only she didn’t need his protection. Naturally, Duncan feels it’s his duty to provide it. And love has everything to do with it.

These brothers, damaged by a painful childhood, are some of my favorite heroes.

Enjoy!

Janice Kay Johnson


Between Love

and Duty

Janice Kay Johnson




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

The author of more than sixty books for children and adults, Janice Kay Johnson writes Harlequin Superromance novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. Her 2007 novel Snowbound won a RITA® Award from Romance Writers of America for Best Contemporary Series Romance. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.

Janice enjoys hearing from readers. Please contact her c/o Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, ON M3B 3K9, Canada.

Books by Janice Kay Johnson

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

1332—OPEN SECRET*

1351—LOST CAUSE*

1383—KIDS BY CHRISTMAS*

1405—FIRST COMES BABY

1454—SNOWBOUND

1489—THE MAN BEHIND THE COP

1558—SOMEONE LIKE HER

1602—A MOTHER’S SECRET

1620—MATCH MADE IN COURT

1644—CHARLOTTE’S HOMECOMING**

1650—THROUGH THE SHERIFF’S EYES**

1674—THE BABY AGENDA

1692—BONE DEEP

1710—FINDING HER DAD

1736—ALL THAT REMAINS

HARLEQUIN ANTHOLOGY

A MOTHER’S LOVE

“Daughter of the Bride”

SIGNATURE SELECT SAGA

DEAD WRONG

*Lost…But Not Forgotten

**The Russell Twins

Other titles by this author available in ebook format


Contents

PROLOGUE (#u0eac6676-5785-5862-9d07-675a92d807dd)

CHAPTER ONE (#u5457ba4d-bae4-5f4b-9e03-095f4555c379)

CHAPTER TWO (#u5995bcb3-d55c-5b67-87b3-6ffd2929cb3c)

CHAPTER THREE (#u02f5109f-1d35-5629-bf54-8802cae2f496)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u4789a97a-1457-50ec-b890-ea47f88c22aa)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)


PROLOGUE

EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD DUNCAN MacLachlan saw from half a block away that his mother’s car was in the driveway. So she was home. He didn’t know if that was good or not. Man, he should have stopped to grab a burger somewhere. Mom wasn’t likely to cook dinner tonight.

He parked at the curb, killed the engine and winced at the jerk followed by a barely muted bang. Mr. Kowalski next door glared every time he saw him now. Duncan always waved hello, even while thinking, Live with it, dude. Every penny he was making this summer was going in the bank to pay for tuition. There was no way he could afford to replace the muffler. He’d sell the car before he left for college at the end of August, anyway. Kowalski would have peace and quiet then.

Duncan loped across the yard, but found himself hesitating on the porch. He wasn’t even sure why the reluctance. Who cared how many years Dad had gotten this time? Not him. They could throw away the key as far as Duncan was concerned.

Except, he guessed Mom did care.

Maybe. He frowned, his hand on the knob. She’d been strange lately. Worried about Dad, maybe, but…somehow Duncan didn’t think so.

He gave his head a quick, hard shake. What? He was cowering at the thought of another chapter in the MacLachlan family soap opera? The last chapter, as far as he was concerned.

Five more weeks, and he was gone.

The sweet thought of freedom loosened his shoulders and he opened the door. “Hey, Mom,” he called.

There was no answer. Surprised, he walked through to the kitchen and was more surprised yet to see that she was there, sitting at the table not doing anything. The radio was off; she didn’t even have a magazine open in front of her. And no, she wasn’t cooking dinner.

Dirty dishes in the sink showed that Conall had been around. So did the bread left on the counter, open so it could dry out. Peanut butter that should have gone back in the fridge. An empty milk carton lay on its side. Beside it was a crushed beer can. Duncan felt a rush of anger at the sight of that. Con was twelve years old. Twelve.

Was that what had Mom staring straight ahead, this weirdly unfocused look in her eyes?

Duncan didn’t move past the doorway. “Mom?”

Slowly, almost as if painfully, she lifted her gaze and blinked; once, twice.

“Um…are you all right?” he asked.

Her face contorted, then smoothed again. He saw her swallow. “Your father was sentenced to ten years.”

Duncan nodded. Dad had gotten five last time, got out early—the judge definitely was going to come down on him. He dealt drugs for a living; he deserved whatever they threw at him.

“Do you know where your brothers are?” she asked, in a seeming non sequitur.

Unease crawled up his spine with the quick flick, flick of a snake in the grass. Why was she so out of it? They both knew where Niall was. Duncan’s fifteen-year-old brother was in juvie for possession. Only for a joint—it could be worse. With Niall, it usually was worse. This time, when they called, Mom had said, “He can rot there,” and hung up the phone.

Around a constriction in his throat, Duncan said, “Conall was still asleep when I left this morning.”

Only twelve, Conall had been out late last night. Duncan had heard him come in sometime after one. Mom wasn’t even trying to control him anymore, which Duncan didn’t understand.

“I left a note asking, if he didn’t do anything else today, he could at least leave the kitchen clean.” Mom didn’t even look toward the mess.

Duncan said awkwardly, “I can clean up.”

Her eyes were focused now on his face. So intensely focused, he couldn’t look away.

“I’m afraid—” her voice cracked “—you’re going to have to.”

“Do you, uh, want to lie down or something?”

She shook her head. “I’m done, Duncan. I can’t take any more. Your father promised…”

He couldn’t imagine why she would ever believe anything Dad promised. And she must have known for at least a year that he was moving drugs again. Duncan hadn’t even heard them arguing. It was like she’d given up.

“I can’t do anything with your brothers. You’re an adult now. You don’t need me anymore.”

What was she talking about?

“I’m already packed,” she said. “I wanted to stay until you got home. To…explain.”

Explain what? He only stared.

“I’m leaving,” his mother said flatly. “Your aunt Patty is in Sacramento. She told me I could stay with her until I got on my feet. I don’t want anyone but you to know where I’ve gone.”

“You’re…leaving?” His voice cracked this time, as if he was a little kid and it was beginning to change.

“Yes. You should, too. Maybe Jed’s parents would put you up until you go in August.”

This was like an out-of-body experience. He watched himself standing in the doorway, gaping. Heard himself say, “But…Conall.”

She shrugged. “He’s not your responsibility.”

“He’s my brother.”

His mother had aged. Between the moment he walked in the house and now, she’d added ten more years. She only shook her head. “There’s nothing either of us can do for him, or Niall, either. Face it.” She rose to her feet; her voice hardened. “I have.”

“You’re just…taking off,” he said in disbelief.

“That’s right.” She walked toward him. He had to fall back to let her by. She paused briefly; he thought she kissed his cheek, although he wasn’t positive. “You’re a good boy, Duncan,” his mother murmured, so softly he might have imagined that, too. A moment later he heard the front door open and close.

Her car started. She backed out.

He hadn’t yet returned to his body. He was afraid to. The house was utterly quiet.

His father had been sentenced today to ten years in the Monroe Correctional Complex. His mother had driven away. Apparently she intended to keep going, all the way to California. She thought he should go upstairs, pack his things and leave, too, so that his brother Conall would come home to find no one.

There’s nothing either of us can do for him, or Niall, either.

But he’s twelve years old! A kid. Really, so was Niall.

Not your responsibility.

Then whose were they?

Duncan’s heart was thudding as though he’d sprinted the homestretch of a five-mile run. His breath came in great gasps, like an old-fashioned bellows. His hands had formed fists at his sides.

Not your responsibility.

Then whose? Whose? he raged silently.

Upstairs he had a packet from the university. He was still waiting for a dorm roommate assignment, but he’d already chosen his classes. He was this close to escaping. The freedom had shimmered in front of him since he started high school and understood what he had to do to attain it. Good grades, scholarships, and he was gone.

The promise was so beautiful, he stared at it with burning eyes, understanding now what his mother had seen as she sat there at the kitchen table. Not the here and now, but what could be.

If only he, too, agreed that his brothers weren’t his responsibility.

Duncan made an animal sound of pain and fell to his knees. He pressed his forehead against the door frame and hung on.

There was a reason college and escaping home and family had always shimmered before his vision. That’s what mirages did.


CHAPTER ONE

IT HAD BEEN A PISSER of a day, and Duncan MacLachlan’s mood was bleak. He had had to personally arrest one of his officers, a five-year veteran, for blackmailing a fifteen-year-old girl into performing an act of oral sex on him.

It didn’t get any worse than that. Rendahl had betrayed the public trust. He’d also been so stupid he had apparently forgotten that his squad car was equipped with a video camera and microphone that uploaded wirelessly. Duncan grunted. Stupidity was the least of Rendahl’s sins. Ugly reality was that he was a twenty-seven-year-old married man who’d blackmailed and terrorized an already frightened girl into fulfilling his sexual fantasy.

Duncan realized his teeth were grinding together and he made himself relax. The dentist was already threatening him with having to wear some damn plastic mouth guard at night. “Find another way to express your tension,” Dr. Foster had suggested.

Today, Duncan would really have liked to express it by planting his fist in that son of a bitch’s face. Hearing his nose crunch and seeing the blood spurt would have worked fine, if only as a temporary fix.

Instead, he’d gone by the book, because that’s what he did. He’d been his usual icy self. His only consolation was the way Rendahl and his attorney both had shrunk from him. They’d seen something in his eyes that he hadn’t otherwise let show by the slightest twitch of a muscle on his face.

To cap his perfect day, he’d held a press conference announcing the arrest while maintaining the girl’s privacy. He had had to ignore most of the shouted questions. How did you explain something like this when you couldn’t understand it yourself?

He’d come home and planted himself, cold beer in hand, in front of a Mariners game on TV. He’d gotten up for a couple of replacements, thought about dinner and settled for a sandwich. Purple and secretive, dusk finally crept through the windows. Duncan hadn’t turned on a light, inside or out. The game hadn’t worked any magic; he didn’t know the final score and didn’t care. At last he flicked the TV off with the remote and settled in his recliner, brooding.

How could such a lowlife have passed under his radar for five years? Gotten satisfactory ratings in annual reviews? Rendahl had fooled a lot of people. Duncan liked to think he knew the men and women who worked for him, even if there were seventy-four at last count. Knew their strengths, their weaknesses; what motivated them, what tempted them. Police Captain Duncan MacLachlan hadn’t gotten where he was by misjudging people.

Dusk became night, and still he sat there, disinclined to go to bed, uninterested in reading or finding out what might be on television. The darkness wasn’t complete, not with streetlamps, the Baileys’ front porch light across the street, occasional passing headlights. It suited his mood to feel as if he was part of the night, invisible. Anonymous.

The recliner was comfortable enough that Duncan began to nod off. Rousing himself enough to get to bed seemed like too much effort. If he woke up later, fine. He let himself relax into sleep.

The tinkle of shattering glass shot him into wakefulness, instantly alert and incredulous. Unbelievable. Somebody was breaking into his house. He immediately understood why. He hadn’t turned lights on and off the way he usually did. To somebody who hadn’t seen him pull into the garage at six o’clock, it would have looked as if nobody was home.

He might get a stress reliever after all, he thought with black humor.

Duncan didn’t lower the recliner; it might have creaked. Instead he reached for his weapon, which he’d earlier dropped on the side table along with his badge, and eased himself out of the chair. The fact that he’d kicked off his dress shoes was good. He could move far more silently in stockinged feet.

He used the light filtering in the front window to cross the living room without having to feel his way. The further tinkle of glass told him the intruder was brushing shards from the frame before climbing in. Or while climbing in. He knew it was the window in the utility room. Any second he’d hear…

Thud.

He’d left the wicker hamper of dirty clothes right in the middle of the small room. So his intruder didn’t have a flashlight, or hadn’t turned it on yet.

Duncan slipped down the hall and stationed himself to one side of the open doorway to the utility room. What he wanted to know was whether he had one trespasser, or more.

A dark shadow passed him. After a moment, he risked a look into the utility room. His vision was well-adjusted to the lack of light. Empty.

One, then.

He tracked the figure creeping down the hall then moved with a couple of long strides. Duncan slammed into the intruder and took him to the floor, where he held him down effortlessly and pressed the barrel of his gun against his neck.

“Police,” he barked. “You’re under arrest.”

“What the…?” A string of obscenities followed in a voice that was high enough that, for a moment, Duncan believed he’d just flattened one of the rare women who did breaking and entering. The next second, he thought in disgust, Oh, hell. It’s a kid.

“Hands behind your back,” he snapped, and grabbed both wrists when the boy obliged. Scrawny wrists. He realized the body he was holding down wasn’t very big. “All right, push yourself to your knees. That’s right. We’re getting to our feet.” He helped—roughly. He nudged the kid a short ways until they reached the light switch. “Face the wall,” he ordered. “Put your hands flat on the wall.”

He turned on the light and was momentarily blinded. He didn’t like that, but his intruder cringed from the brightness, too. Duncan waited until he could adequately see what he’d caught, then growled a profanity of his own.

“How old are you?”

Cheek ground against the wall, the Hispanic boy glared at him and stayed mute.

Duncan gave him a little shake. “Tell me.”

The boy muttered something. Duncan shook him again.

“Twelve.”

Well, damn. He hadn’t caught even a small fish tonight. This was a minnow.

Book the kid? Call the parents? What if there weren’t any?

He barely stifled a groan. Decision time.



THE BUILDING, DIVIDED INTO perhaps eight or ten apartments, was predictably ramshackle. Clapboard siding needed paint. Parking for tenants was on the street or in a very small dirt lot to one side, which was also home to a rusting hulk on cinder blocks. Another car, apparently ailing, had its hood up. Three men were bent over the engine. One had pants hanging so low, Jane Brooks could see way more than she wanted to. When she parked at the curb, another of the men glanced over his shoulder, but with a conspicuous lack of real interest.

She checked the folder on the passenger seat to verify the address. Yep, this was it. Number 203 was presumably upstairs. There was only one entrance, although fire escapes clung precariously to each end of the apartment house which, to her eye, didn’t stand quite square.

She’d been in worse places.

Jane locked her car and made her brisk way in, nodding and greeting a very young, very pregnant woman who was trying to maneuver into one of the downstairs apartments a playpen that didn’t quite want to fold the way it was supposed to. Jane held the door, smiled and chatted briefly in Spanish. She was lucky she’d taken it in high school. Currently, one-third of the kids in the local school district were Hispanic, up to half in two of the elementary schools, where instruction was in Spanish in the mornings, in English in the afternoons. She didn’t quite consider herself fluent, but she was getting there, what with her volunteer work at the alternative high school and then with the Guardian ad Litem gig.

She was acting today as a court-appointed Guardian ad Litem. Her task was to interview the adults involved, or potentially to be involved, in the life of a boy named Tito Ortez. Tito’s father was soon to be released from the Monroe Correctional Complex, and the judge would have to determine whether Tito could be returned to his custody. At the moment, the boy lived with his older sister, one Lupe Salgado, whose address this was. Eventually Jane would talk to Tito’s father, of course, Tito himself and perhaps even teachers. His report card suggested he wasn’t doing well in school.

The stairwell and hall were shabby but surprisingly clean. Upstairs she rapped firmly on the door displaying an upright metal 2, a listing 0 and a 3 that hung upside down.

“Venga,” a voice called, and after only a momentary hesitation Jane opened the door to find herself in a cramped living room.

Two young, black-haired children sat in front of the television, on which a small green dragon seemed to be trying to puff dandelion seeds but was, to his frustration, setting them on fire. Both children turned to stare at Jane. The girl stuck her thumb in her mouth. An ironing board was set up in the narrow space between a stained sofa and the wall. A Formica table with four chairs and a high chair was wedged into the remaining space. The spicy smell of cooking issued from the kitchen.

Jane raised her voice enough to be heard in the kitchen. “Hola. Me llamo Jane Brooks.”

A woman appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel and looking flustered. “Sí, sí. I forgot you were coming. Perdone.” In a flurry of Spanish too fast for Jane, she spoke to the children, then gestured Jane into the kitchen. She was cooking, she explained, and couldn’t leave dinner unattended.

She did speak English, but not well; Jane made a mental note that living in a non-English-speaking household probably wasn’t helping Tito’s school performance. Jane and the boy’s sister continued to speak in Spanish.

Jane was urged to sit at a very small table with two chairs while her hostess continued to bustle around the kitchen.

“You’re Lupe?” she asked, for confirmation, and the young woman nodded.

Like the pregnant teenager downstairs, she had warm brown skin, long black hair and eyes the color of chocolate. She was pretty, but beginning to look worn. Plump around the middle, and moving as though her feet hurt.

Jane knew from the paperwork that Lupe was twenty-three. There had been other children born between Lupe, the oldest, and Tito, the youngest, but they were either on their own and unable to help with Tito or were in Mexico with their mother. Tito, Lupe explained, had stayed with his father because Mama thought as a boy he needed a man.

She shrugged expressively. “Then, one year after Mama returns to Mexico, Papa is arrested. So stupid! I called Mama, but she is living with an uncle and it is very crowded. So she begged me to keep Tito. Which I’ve done.”

As if this household wasn’t crowded. “You have children of your own,” Jane said, with what she thought was some restraint.

“Sí, three. The little one is napping.” She stirred the black bean concoction on the stove. “My husband, he left me.” She sounded defeated.“I work at La Fiesta and a neighbor watches the children. I can’t depend on Tito. Maybe if he was a girl.” She shrugged again.

“Do you visit your father at the prison?” The Monroe correctional institute was nearly an hour’s drive away.

“Sometimes.” Lupe sent her a shamed glance. “The money for gas… You know how it is. And my children have to come, too. I take Tito when I can, but it upsets him, so maybe it is good that we don’t go often.”

Jane nodded. Having a parent in prison was difficult for a child of any age, but for a middle schooler it must be especially traumatic. He wouldn’t be the only kid in the school with an incarcerated parent, but he probably felt like he was.

“Is Tito any trouble to you?” she asked, and got a guarded response.

No, no, he was such a good boy, Lupe assured her, but then admitted that she didn’t see much of him. She worked most evenings; tonight was a rare night when she was home with her children, and she didn’t know where Tito was. With a friend, she felt sure. Would he be home for dinner? She didn’t know, but doubted it.

They talked for half an hour, until Lupe was ready to put dinner on the table and Jane realized she was in the way. She declined a polite invitation to join them and told Lupe she’d be in touch.

She was almost out the door when Lupe said, “Oh! I forgot to tell you about the nice policeman who has been spending time with Tito. Do you think you’d like to talk to him?”

Oh, yeah. She was definitely interested in hearing from him. Unless he was the father of a boy Tito’s age, Jane had to wonder how he’d gotten acquainted with Tito at all.

“His name is Don…Can Mack…Lack…Land.” Lupe tried to sound it out carefully, but grimaced. “That isn’t right. I have it written down. Un momentito, por favor.”

She returned with a scrap of paper on which a bold hand had written “Duncan MacLachlan” along with a phone number. With a small shock, Jane recognized the name. Captain MacLachlan was regularly in the news. He was the unlikeliest of all mentors for a twelve-year-old boy.

Jane copied the phone number and thanked Lupe, then, thoughtful, made her way to her car. Aside from the intriguing and possibly worrisome involvement of Captain MacLachlan, she wasn’t surprised by the visit, but she was dismayed. Clearly Tito couldn’t stay long-term with his sister. He might have been better placed in a foster home while his father was behind bars, but there were never enough good foster homes, and he’d been lucky to have a family member willing to take him. Lupe’s husband had probably still been around, too. Jane could understand why the placement had been approved, probably with a sigh of relief and a firmly closed file.

She drove a couple of blocks, then pulled over to make notes while her impressions were fresh. She jotted questions and directions to herself, too. What about the other siblings—perhaps one of them was now in a better position to offer a home to Tito? Find out what friends he was spending so much time with. Imperative to talk to teachers. Did he go to the Boys & Girls Club? After-school programs? Probably not at his age. Any other community organizations? She had no record that he’d been in trouble with the law, but she’d find out. Reading between the lines of what Lupe had said, Tito was ripe for exactly that. MacLachlan? she wrote in the margin. Was Tito in a juvenile court-ordered program of which the family court remained unaware?

The father’s release date was only two weeks away, and Jane wanted to have a good sense of other possibilities for the boy before then. And, of course, she would make the trip to Monroe to speak with Hector Ortez. She had to do all of this around running her own business, however.

Lucky, she thought wryly, she had no social life to speak of.

Driving home, she tried to recall what she knew about Duncan MacLachlan. She’d never read or heard anything to make her think he was “nice.” Although that wasn’t fair.

In the department, he was only one step below the police chief. He was exceptionally young to be in that position, still in his thirties, Jane had read. He looked older, she’d thought when she saw his picture in the paper or brief segments from press conferences on the local news. That might only be because he was invariably stern. If he ever smiled, the press had yet to capture the moment.

She was a little disconcerted by how easily she recalled his face. She did remember staring at a front page photo of him in the local daily. She’d left that section of the newspaper lying out on her table for several days for reasons she hadn’t examined but had to admit, in retrospect, had involved a spark of sexual interest. Not that she would have pursued it even if she’d met the guy in person—he was so not the kind of man she would consider dating even though courthouse gossip said he was unmarried. But that face…

The photo wasn’t from one of his staged appearances; she suspected it had been taken with a telephoto lens, as he strode away from a crime scene. He was listening to something another man beside him was saying. His head was cocked slightly and he’d been frowning, more as if he was concentrating than annoyed. His face was…harsh. It might be the seemingly permanent furrows between his dark eyebrows and on his forehead that aged him. She’d had the probably silly idea that he could have been a seventeenth-century Calvinist minister—unbending, judgmental, yet unswervingly conscious of right and wrong.

Those Calvinist ministers probably hadn’t had shoulders like his, though, or the leashed physical power that his well-cut suits didn’t disguise.

So, okay, she’d never heard anything to make her doubt his integrity, but that still begged the question: why in heck was he interested in Tito Ortez?

On the notepad, she circled his name. Twice.

She would most definitely be finding out what he had to do with a rather ordinary boy whose father was about to be released from prison.



“SEE IF YOU CAN MATCH that shot,” Duncan taunted, bouncing the basketball to the boy. He used the ragged hem of his T-shirt to wipe sweat from his face as he watched Tito move into position inside the free throw line and concentrate fiercely on lining up his shot. It was probably too far out for him; he was small even for his age and his arms were scrawny, but he didn’t like to fail, either. Duncan had come to feel a reluctant admiration for his determination.

He bent his knees, the way Duncan had taught him, and used his lift to help propel the ball when he released it from his fingertips. It floated in a perfect arc and dropped through the hoop, barely ruffling the net.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Tito did a dance, and Duncan laughed.

“Very nice.” He held up his hand for a high five, and the boy slapped it. “I’m being too easy on you.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Tito admitted. “It stays light so late. Now that I have my own ball.” Duncan had given him one. “There’s hardly ever anyone here in the evening. I have the court to myself.”

They played soccer, too, and Tito was better at that, but for reasons mysterious to Duncan the boy was determined to become an NBA-quality basketball player. His father, he had admitted, was only five foot nine, and his mother was little—he’d held up a hand to estimate, and Duncan guessed Mama wasn’t much over five foot tall—but he was going to be bigger than his father. He was sure of it. And he could be a point guard—they didn’t have to be as tall, did they?

No, but Duncan suspected that six feet tall or so was probably a minimum even for the high school team. Still, Tito was only twelve, and who knew? He might have a miraculous growth spurt. No matter what, he might excel in PE, and being good at anything could make a difference to him right now.

Besides…they were enjoying their occasional evening hour or Sunday afternoon on the concrete basketball court behind the middle school, or on the soccer field. Duncan often suggested pizza afterward, or sometimes a milk shake. Tito was slowly opening up to him, although Duncan was still unclear why he lived with his sister and where his parents were. He occasionally wondered uneasily whether the family might be here illegally; perhaps the parents were around, but avoiding the cop who was inexplicably befriending their son. He couldn’t be sure and had decided from the beginning that he wouldn’t go out of his way to find out.

Looking cocky, Tito passed the ball to him. Duncan drove in for a layup, easily evading the boy’s feint at him. Tito tried to copy the move and thumped the ball against the backboard nowhere near the iron hoop. Scowling, he retreated and tried again, and again.

Duncan’s cell phone rang. Irritated, he jogged over to where he’d left it outside the painted line on top of his sweatshirt. It was displaying a number he didn’t recognize. He almost didn’t answer, but a glance told him Tito was occupied, yelling at himself as he dribbled away from the hoop, then turned to begin a new drive.

Duncan answered brusquely, “MacLachlan.”

A very feminine voice said, “Captain, my name is Jane Brooks. I’m a Guardian ad Litem for the family court. I understand you know Tito Ortez.”

His gaze went straight to the boy, leaping to rebound another missed shot. Tito looked at him in inquiry, and Duncan held up one finger. Tito nodded and dribbled the ball in for another attempted layup.

“Yes,” Duncan said. “May I ask what your interest is?”

“As I said, I’m…”

“A Guardian ad Litem,” he interrupted. “I get that.” And didn’t like what his gut was telling him. Tito hadn’t said anything about being involved in a custody dispute. Unless this had to do with the sister’s children? Guardian ad Litems were always appointed to be a child’s advocate—in fact, they were deemed the one person involved in a court case whose sole concern was the best interests of the child. “Does the case involve Tito?”

“Yes.” She didn’t embroider the bald answer. “I’d like to meet so that we can talk.”

Tito had stopped and stood dribbling the ball, watching him, although he was too far away to be able to hear even Duncan’s end of the conversation. From the apprehension on the boy’s face, Duncan realized his expression must have given something away.

“I’m with him right now,” he said curtly. “Tomorrow morning…”

“Evenings are better for me.”

He raised his eyebrows. Guardians ad Litem were paid, if minimally; many worked out of counseling services or the like. It would be normal to conduct business during the day.

Silence was an unbeatable tool for interrogation. He employed it now, and finally, grudgingly, she said, “I own a business. Dance Dreams.”

He knew every business within the Stimson city limits, his jurisdiction, at least by sight. He’d never had occasion to step foot inside Dance Dreams, which sold dancewear, presumably including tap shoes and toe shoes, tutus and a lot of pink sparkly stuff that appeared in the window. Not his kind of place—and the juxtaposition of pink tulle and sometimes ugly dependency court hearings seemed to be a strange one.

Meeting Ms. Jane Brooks might be interesting.

“Evening, then,” he agreed. “Tomorrow?”

“That would be great.” She hesitated. “Shall we make it a coffee shop?”

“Why don’t you stop by my place? We won’t want to be overheard.”

She agreed and he gave her his address. Duncan ended the call and returned to Tito. He conducted a lightning-quick internal debate and decided to say nothing yet. He’d find out what was going on first.

“Business,” he said, then grinned. “What say we hang it up and go get something to eat? I didn’t manage dinner and I’m starved.”

“Pizza?” the boy said hopefully.

“Burgers.” Duncan laughed at his expression. “Pizza next time.”

Tito sighed with exaggerated disappointment. Somehow or other, he’d manage to force himself to chow down a cheeseburger, a good-sized helping of fries and a root beer float at a minimum.

Hey, maybe he’d have that growth spurt yet.


CHAPTER TWO

AT SEVEN IN THE EVENING, it was still full daylight in the Puget Sound area. Darkness wouldn’t fall until eight-thirty or nine. The day had been hot for early May, and the heat still lingered when Jane arrived at Duncan MacLachlan’s.

She loved his home on sight. It was distinctive enough she suspected it had been custom designed and built. The lot wasn’t huge, but the houses on his side of the street all backed up to Mesahchie Creek and the greenbelt that protected it. Right here in the city, he had his own slice of wilderness.

The house was one story, sided with split-cedar shingles. Trim was painted forest green. From the driveway she could see interesting angles, bay windows and skylights, and a wooden arbor over a flagstone paved path that led around the side of the house.

Unable to repress a sigh, she got out. She was already afraid she was going to have the hots for him, and now she’d succumbed to his house before she even stepped inside.

I am unbiased, she reminded herself firmly. I’m being paid to think of Tito first, last and always.

She rang the doorbell and, as she waited, listened to the delicate music played by an unusual wind chime, long, thin shards of obsidian suspended from a branch of driftwood. It distracted her enough that she was startled when the door opened. She gave a betraying jerk, then felt her cheeks warm when she most wanted to be completely poised.

The man filling the doorway studied her thoroughly. “No wonder you opened the store. You were a dancer,” he said, in the deep, somehow velvety voice she recognized from television interviews.

But his words helped her get a grip. “No.”

“You look like one.”

“I never had the opportunity,” she said flatly. She held out a hand. “Captain MacLachlan.”

He didn’t smile. “Ms. Brooks.” His very large hand enveloped hers for the briefest possible time considered civil. “Please come in.”

She stepped inside, trying very, very hard to shut down her physical awareness of him, but not succeeding. It wasn’t that he was huge; at a guess, he was about six feet tall, maybe even a little less. At five foot seven herself, she shouldn’t feel dwarfed by him. It was that he had…presence. She couldn’t think of any other way to describe it. He was the kind of man people would always look at first, no matter how big the crowd. Even when, like now, he wore neither uniform nor the kind of suit he was usually photographed in. He must have changed when he got home, to well-worn jeans, athletic shoes and a long-sleeved dark blue T-shirt that hugged broad shoulders.

He did indeed have a great body—lean and athletic. Not overmuscled, not thin. Perfect. His face wasn’t model handsome, not by a long shot. He had broad, blunt cheekbones, a heavy brow, too many furrows and a crooked nose. His eyes were a wintry gray, clear and penetrating.

And, damn it, her knees wanted to buckle because he was right there, so close she could have touched him. I did touch him, she thought, and rolled her eyes at herself when he turned to lead the way into the living room. Apparently her inner teenager was alive and well.

Even though mainly focused on him, she was aware enough of her surroundings to know instantly that she loved the interior of his house as much as she had the exterior. Wide-planked wood floors, wooden blinds, cushiony leather furniture in a warm, chestnut brown underlaid by the contrasting elegance and color of Persian rugs. Bookcases, packed full, flanked a river-rock fireplace. For the walls, he favored art-quality photographs over paintings. Above the rough-hewn mantel hung a large framed photo of a bald eagle sitting on a snag above a river. The doors of an antique armoire stood open to display a large-screen television and, below, a fancy-looking audio system.

“Coffee?” Captain MacLachlan asked.

“Thank you.”

He excused himself and disappeared, leaving her to wander and examine his books—an exceptionally eclectic mix of science fiction, thrillers, historical fiction and nonfiction that covered a gamut of subjects.

He returned with a tray and gestured her toward the sofa then sat across from her in a recliner that rocked forward as he added cream to his mug of coffee. Jane doctored her own with both sugar and cream then straightened.

“All right.” His tone was abrupt, his expression uncompromising. “What’s this about?”

She cleared her throat, going into professional mode. “Has Tito told you about his living situation?”

“I know he lives with his sister. I’ve talked to Lupe a couple of times.”

Jane nodded. “Apparently his parents split up and his mother moved back to Mexico four years ago. She took three of Tito’s sisters with her. There are a couple of other older siblings somewhere in the area. Tito stayed with his father.” She gave a small shrug. “They both thought that because he’s a boy, he needed a father more than a mother.”

MacLachlan grunted. She couldn’t tell what he thought about that rather traditional view.

“What happened to the father?” he asked.

“Three years ago, he was involved in a brawl at a tavern. He knifed another man, who died.”

The police captain’s face changed then. Hardened.

Jane continued, “He was convicted of manslaughter and given a five-year term. However, he’s done what he needed to be released early.”

He leaned forward and set down the mug with a sharp click. “Don’t tell me anyone’s thinking of returning custody to him.” His incredulity was plain.

“He has every right to regain custody of his minor children,” Jane said, as sharply. “There are no allegations of abuse or neglect. He was convicted of a crime unrelated to his family. He has continued to write and call Tito and likely his other children. He sees Tito as often as Lupe can drive him to Monroe.”

“He’s a convicted felon. A man with a demonstrated history of violence. Have you even met him?”

“Not yet.”

MacLachlan made a disgusted sound. “But already you’re his advocate.”

That annoyed Jane enough to have her setting down her mug, too, so decisively that coffee splashed onto the glass tabletop. “I neither said nor implied that. I have been asked to assess possible placements for Tito. It’s possible that his father will be his best bet. In case you’re unaware, his current placement with his sister is far from ideal. There may be other possibilities, and I will consider those, as well. At the moment, I’m keeping an open mind.” Unlike you, she didn’t have to say.

They glared at each other. After a moment he gave a choppy nod, and she felt a glow of satisfaction because he was the one who had to back down. She was right; he was wrong.

“What I’m doing,” she said crisply, “is making time to talk to any adults active in Tito’s life. Lupe gave me your name, although she seemed unclear on how you’d come to be involved with him.”

He was exceptionally good at hiding his thoughts, which perhaps wasn’t surprising for a cop. Jane found it disquieting to have to wait, however, while he watched her with those cool gray eyes and apparently decided what and how much he was going to tell her.

He reached for his coffee again and took a long swallow. Jane dragged her gaze from his strong, tanned throat, and she was dismayed to feel her cheeks warming again. She silently blasted herself. What was wrong with her? She never reacted to a man like this. Think how hideously embarrassing it would be if he noticed!

“He broke into my house.”

Her eyes flew to his face. “What?”

He gave the faintest of smiles, and she bristled at the realization that he had enjoyed shocking her. “You heard me.”

Jane opened and closed her mouth a couple of times. At last, she said cautiously, “That’s how you met.”

“Yes.” Another of those smiles, barely a twitch of the lips. “The house was dark. I’d had a crappy day. When the Mariners game ended, I turned it off and I guess I fell asleep right here in my recliner. I heard the window break. I got my hands on him, discovered he’s only twelve. He claimed that he’d been dared to break into a house. He insisted he’s never done anything like that before.” His shoulders moved in a barely there shrug. “I gambled he’s telling the truth and didn’t arrest him.”

“Soo…” She drew the word out. “You became buddies instead.”

This smile approached the real thing and she could have sworn she saw a glint of amusement in his eyes. The combination was enough to make her glad she was already sitting down.

“Something like that. I told him I wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. I could still arrest him at any time. I gave him a choice—spend some time with me and let me assess how honest he is, or be booked into juvie. Tito’s a smart boy.”

It seemed that Captain MacLachlan wasn’t quite as hard-assed as he was reputed to be. Tito had, somehow, some way, gotten to him.

“You could have arrested him and recommended him for diversion.” The diversion panels were made up of ordinary citizens who’d volunteered to serve. In lieu of a judge, they saw kids referred for minor crimes and were able to assign punishments. The program took a lot of pressure off the juvenile court, ensured young offenders had immediate consequences for their actions and gave them a chance to avoid having a conviction on their records.

“I could have,” MacLachlan agreed. More slowly he said, “I probably should have.” He frowned. “He looks like he’s about ten years old.”

Jane hadn’t yet met Tito. She didn’t say anything.

After a minute, MacLachlan released a sound that might have been a sigh. “I have two younger brothers who got in trouble with the law as juveniles. Tito reminded me of them. I thought I could make a difference for him.”

The gruff, unemotional voice was completely at odds with what he’d said. With his actions. Given all the pressure of his job, he had still somehow found time to spend with a troubled twelve-year-old boy.

Unless, of course… He was unmarried.

Her eyes must have narrowed. His facial muscles tightened. “No, Ms. Brooks, I am not sexually attracted to boys. Or men, for that matter.”

Oh, man. Now her face had to be flaming red. It didn’t even occur to her to deny that the possibility had crossed her mind.

“I’m sorry…”

He shook his head. “I’d think you were naive if it hadn’t occurred to you. If you’ve been at this long, you’ve seen enough horrors that you should wonder,” he said, with surprising gentleness.

“It does alter the way you look at people.”

“Try my job,” he said dryly.

“I can imagine.” She hesitated. “I suppose that’s why I was so surprised that you were making time for Tito.”

“I’ve made more than I intended.” MacLachlan was quiet for a moment. “I’ve had a good time with him.”

“What do the two of you do?”

He shrugged. “Sports. Shoot some hoops, kick around a soccer ball. I feed him. I’ve eaten more pizza and cheeseburgers since I met Tito than I’d had in months.” He sounded rueful. “He’s so damn scrawny, I keep feeling compelled to try to fatten him up.”

“His sister is petite.”

“Yeah, the dad is short and the mother even shorter from what he says. I think some of the kids give him a hard time. PE has been tough for him.”

“His grades aren’t very good.” Jane shuffled through her folder and found the most recent report card, which she handed to the captain. Their fingers touched, and it took determination for her not to react. Dumb.

He glanced at it, grimaced, then tossed it on the coffee table. So their hands wouldn’t brush again? Jane picked it up and inserted it in the folder.

“He’s a good kid,” he said finally.

“Despite his nocturnal activities.”

“According to him, his one-and-only adventure.” A quick grin did amazing things to his face. “I scared the crap out of him.”

Heart drumming, she thought, you scare me, too.

Unclipping the pen from her folder, she held it poised above the notepad. “Please give me your impressions of Tito.”

“I won’t betray his confidences.”

Their gazes clashed.

“I wouldn’t ask you to.”

Although reluctant, he did talk. There were no great revelations here; if he was to be believed, Tito was a funny, smart boy who sometimes acted younger than his age as well as looked it.

“Hasn’t reached puberty,” she diagnosed.

MacLachlan nodded. “Definitely not. No sign of beard growth or a change in his voice. He sure isn’t adding any muscle.”

“I suppose puberty is as hard for boys as it is for girls.”

“It can be.” There was that faint, rueful tone again, the one that made him unexpectedly likable. “Not for the guy who is shaving by the time he’s in eighth grade and has all the moves on the girls. He’s not the one hoping no one notices him when he sneaks in and out of the shower after gym, or the one who’s trailing the pack on cross-country runs. The one shorter than all the girls.”

She chuckled. “That sounds personal.”

“No. It was my youngest brother. I suspect his lagging maturity contributed to him getting in trouble.”

“Trying to prove himself.”

He inclined his head. “The same way Tito was.”

“Did you tell him about your brother?”

MacLachlan shook his head. “We’re men. Men don’t talk about our bodies or how deep our voices are.”

She had to laugh. “Unless you’re taunting each other.”

Another flash of a grin came and went so fast she almost missed it. “Yeah. Unless.”

She bent her head and, in self-defense, concentrated quite hard on her notes. “Is there anything else you’d like to add, Captain MacLachlan?”

“Duncan.”

She looked up in surprise. “What?”

“You can call me Duncan.”

“Oh.” The name did suit him, sounding as gruff as the man. “Duncan.”

“What’s the next step?” he asked.

“I interview teachers, any of his other siblings, any other adults. Scout leaders, Boys & Girls Club employees and the like.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think he’s involved in anything like that. My impression is, he’s been forced to be a loner. His sister is too busy to push him into activities that might change that.”

“Perhaps their priest…”

“She does drag him to church.”

“Of course I’ll be sitting down with his father. And, naturally, Tito himself.” She hesitated. Maybe she didn’t have to say this, but she felt compelled, anyway. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss my visit with him. Or attempt to prejudice him in any way.”

“You mean, suggest he might be better living with someone besides his ex-con father.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

His face had returned to its earlier granite facade. “I think I can manage to keep my mouth shut, Ms. Brooks. Is the hearing date set?”

“Yes.” She told him when.

He nodded and rose to his feet. “If that’s all…?”

It was completely ridiculous to feel hurt because he was eager to get rid of her. Especially since she was relieved at the prospect of escape, too.

“Thank you for the coffee,” she said formally, although she’d scarcely taken a sip.

He didn’t bother with an insincere “You’re welcome.” All he did was walk her to the front door, say, “Ms. Brooks” and close the door firmly in her face.

Cheeks flushed again, this time with both humiliation and aggravation, Jane hurried to her car. Jerk, she thought, and refused to let herself remember those two astonishing grins.



WHEN SOMEONE HE DIDN’T KNOW wanted to talk to him like this, Tito knew it meant something bad was happening. After Mama went away and then Papa was arrested, lots of social workers came to talk to Tito and Lupe. Mostly they ignored Tito, though, even when they were supposedly asking him questions. He could tell that, in their eyes, he was only a little kid, so they didn’t care what he said.

This time it was because Papa would be getting out of that place soon. Tito knew his father thought Tito would be living with him. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Three years was a long time. He’d been so young the last time he lived with his father. He hated going down there, to the prison. Tito hadn’t admitted to Lupe how much he hated it. He always slumped in the chair and mumbled when Papa asked about school or friends or whether his sister was taking good care of him and feeding him enough. Tito could tell Papa thought she wasn’t, and that made him feel bad.

And now Lupe had taken him to the public library to meet with this Miss Brooks, who Lupe said had already come by the apartment to talk to her. Tito burned with resentment because Miss Brooks didn’t know anything but would be able to decide things about his life. It made him mad that she’d talked to his sister at least a week ago but not to him until now.

“Tito,” she said, when they went straight to the table in a quiet corner of the library where she had already been sitting. She gave him a big smile. He’d seen smiles like that before. He didn’t return it.

“Lupe, thank you,” she said. “Do you mind if I talk to Tito alone?”

This woman did speak Spanish, at least, he thought grudgingly. Lupe seemed to like her, but then she liked everyone except for that idioto, Raul, who lied every month and said he couldn’t find a job only so he didn’t have to pay child support. What kind of man did that make him? Not much of one. Tito worried that Lupe needed the money the state paid her to take care of him.

He sat down unhappily, across the table from the social worker woman, and his sister left them.

Miss Brooks said, “Tito, you can call me Jane. Would you rather speak in Spanish, or English?”

He shrugged and focused on the tabletop. Someone had written some bad words in ink. He rubbed a finger over them, and they smeared.

“Then let’s make it English,” she said, switching. “Since that’s what you have to speak at school.”

He shrugged again.

“You know your father will be released in two weeks.”

She waited and waited, until he finally mumbled, “Yes.”

She explained that the judge had asked her to talk to him and his family members and any adult friends—even his teachers—and recommend where she thought he should live.

“I know you’re used to living with your sister now,” she said, in a nice voice. “But she doesn’t have much room, and she works evenings. It would be better if you had someone who could spend more time with you.”

He did wish Lupe worked days instead. Tito didn’t like Señora Ruiz, the neighbor who came over evenings. She ignored him and mostly paid attention to the little kids.

“How do you feel about it?”

Tito looked up at last. “What do you care?”

Her eyes were soft. Kind. They were pretty, too, blue but not cold. More like a flower.

“I do care. I want what’s best for you, Tito. You don’t know me, and you have no reason to trust me, but you can. I promise. Te prometo.”

There was a lump in his throat. He struggled against it and finally nodded.

He still didn’t answer very many of her questions. He didn’t know if he wanted to live with his father! How could he know? And who else was there? Yes, he had a brother, Diego, but he was only twenty and worked the fields. He had dropped out of school early—not that much older than Tito was now. He never stayed in one place, and he didn’t have a wife. Tito saw him only every few months.

When Miss Brooks said, “I spoke to Duncan Mac-Lachlan,” Tito looked at her in alarm.

“He didn’t tell me.”

“I asked him not to.”

That tasted bad, like broccoli. He had trusted Duncan, who had caught him, el stupido, breaking into his house. What had Duncan said to her?

“He told me he wouldn’t betray any confidences.” She fumbled for another way to say that, but Tito understood and relaxed. He wished secretly that he could live with Duncan, but, of course, he wouldn’t want a boy like Tito. Why would he? Tito wondered all the time why he was being so nice.

“Do you like spending time with Duncan?”

Tito smeared the words on the table some more, but he also nodded.

“He did tell me how you met.”

Tito’s head shot up, but she was smiling.

“Don’t worry. It has nothing to do with where you live. I won’t tell anyone else.”

That lump was again in his throat. “Gracias. Thank you.”

Still smiling, she said, “Here’s my phone number, Tito. It’s a cell phone, so you can reach me day or evening. If there’s anything you want to say.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be speaking to your father next.” She asked him if there were other adults she should talk to, but he shrugged. He had friends, sí, but he didn’t even know their parents. Truthfully, he didn’t have many friends, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

She signaled and Lupe came over to them. Tito hadn’t known that his sister had stayed. She looked so tired. He wondered if Papa could help her, once he got out. Would he be able to find work? If he couldn’t, how would he be able to take Tito?

What would Papa think of Duncan? Tito felt a heavy sensation in his chest at the idea of not being able to play basketball and soccer with Duncan anymore, but if he had to live with Papa and Papa said no…

“Was it all right?” Lupe asked him on the way home, and Tito only hunched down in the car seat and shrugged.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t remember what “all right” was.



TELEPHONE TO HIS EAR, Duncan rotated his big leather office chair so that he was gazing out the window at the sky. His office was on the second floor of the new redbrick jail and police station. Right next door, attached by a glassed-in walkway, was the matching courthouse.

On the fourth ring, a woman said, “Dance Dreams.”

Jane Brooks, of course. She had an intriguing voice. A little husky. Smoky. Sexy, damn it.

“Ms. Brooks. You’ve been dodging my calls.”

A couple of weeks had passed since she’d come to his house, and never another word from her. He’d left her four messages on her cell phone. They had been increasingly testy, he knew.

“Yes, I have, Captain MacLachlan. As I thought I’d made clear to you, I’m unable to discuss my recommendations until I make them to the court. I’d welcome new information. However, you didn’t sound as if you had any to offer.”

He restrained a growl. “Have you talked to the father?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And?”

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss…”

He didn’t even try to restrain this growl. “Ms. Brooks, do you or do you not want what’s best for Tito?”

“That,” she retorted with a snap in her voice, “depends on whether we’re talking about what’s best for Tito as pronounced by you, Captain.”

“I’ve read the original police report on Hector Ortez’s crime.”

“As have I.”

That surprised him.

She continued, “The trial transcript, too. Have you read that, Captain MacLachlan?”

He hadn’t.

She waited politely. “No?” she said after a moment. “Since you’re so interested, you might want to do so.”

“I intend to.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.”

He didn’t know whether it was more insulting to think that she was lying about the existence of those customers, or that she wasn’t.

Either way—she was gone. “Bullheaded woman,” he muttered, hanging up the phone.

Duncan didn’t like being bested by a pretty, feminine little thing who made her living selling, of all damn things, tutus.

Maybe not little, he conceded. She had the look of a dancer. Slender, small-breasted, graceful and long-legged, with the swanlike neck and unusually erect carriage he’d expect of one. In appearance, she was just plain feminine, with that mass of glossy hair the color of hand-rubbed maple wood, a sweet face and eyes of the darkest blue he’d ever seen.

All that, and the personality of a police dog on the job. Outwardly well behaved, sharp-eyed and ready, at the slightest excuse, to go for the throat.

He’d have expected as much if she’d been a defense attorney. But the proprietor of a dance shop?

Duncan might have been amused if he hadn’t been so pissed. She’d made up her mind, all right. He suspected she had from the beginning, whatever she said to the contrary. She had every intention of handing Tito back to his father, whose main virtue seemed to be a lack of any history of domestic violence calls. Never mind that he’d stabbed a man to death in the parking lot of a tavern at two in the morning.

From the ache in his jaw, Duncan could tell he was grinding his teeth again. Swearing aloud served to relax his jaw. Maybe he’d recommend the technique to his dentist for other patients.

The rest of him hadn’t relaxed one iota. He continued to brood when he should have been working.

At first sight, he’d had the passing thought that he might like to take Ms. Jane Brooks to bed. No more. He didn’t care what color her eyes were, or how much he’d liked her long-fingered, graceful hands. He didn’t object to social workers on principle, but he did object to idiots who believed in blood ties at the cost of common sense. He didn’t have to feel a whole hell of a lot to enjoy taking a woman to bed, but he drew the line at one he held in contempt.

He swiveled in his chair and pulled out his computer keyboard. If Jane Brooks had kept him in the loop, he might have shared his intentions with her. As it was, she might be surprised by some opposition.

In his present mood, he hoped she was.


CHAPTER THREE

“THANK YOU FOR YOUR recommendations, Ms. Brooks.” The Honorable Judge Edward Lehman peered at Jane over the top of his reading glasses. The judge had already greeted Hector Ortez, Lupe and the Department of Social & Health Services caseworker present in the small courtroom along with the recorder and bailiff.

Hector had been released a few days before. The decision had been made to hold this hearing immediately, before he had a chance to reestablish his relationship with his daughter and son on his own. Jane had had to hustle to finish all her interviews so quickly and put together a report for Lehman, but she was satisfied with the result if less than thrilled with any of Tito’s options. She’d tried very hard not to consider Captain MacLachlan’s outrage when she interviewed Hector at the correctional institute, but his voice and scathing gray eyes had stuck with her whether she liked it or not.

Now the judge continued, “I’ve received an additional opinion that I hadn’t anticipated… Ah.” He looked past her. “Captain MacLachlan.”

With a sense of inevitability and rising aggravation, Jane turned her head to see Duncan MacLachlan entering chambers. Speak of the devil. Or was it think of the devil. The smallish space immediately shrank. He wore a crisp blue uniform today, as if he’d wanted to emphasize his position in the law enforcement community.

“Your Honor,” he said with a nod.

Jane supposed the two men knew each other. Well, so what. She knew Judge Lehman, too. He was her favorite of the several family court judges with whom she’d dealt. She shouldn’t leap to assume the two men were comembers of some kind of old boys’ network.

“Apparently no one is represented by an attorney today,” the judge observed, continuing after everyone shook their heads in agreement. “Ms. Salgado, do you speak English?”

“Sí. Yes, but not…” Lupe hesitated.

“Fluently? Perhaps we need a translator.”

“I’m happy to translate anything Señora Salgado doesn’t understand,” Jane offered.

He determined that Jane was acceptable to Lupe as an interpreter and they moved on. He questioned her first. Was she able to keep Tito in her home if necessary? How did she feel about her brother returning to the custody of their father?

She explained that Tito could stay with her if necessary, but that it was difficult, given that she had three young children of her own, that she worked nights, that he had to sleep on the sofa.

“Yes,” Jane translated faithfully, “I am happy if my brother can live with Papa again. I have tried to make sure they saw each other often enough so that they still know each other.”

She heard a sound from her right that she strongly suspected was a snort from Captain MacLachlan, pitched low enough to escape being heard by His Honor.

The judge transferred his gaze to Tito’s father, a short, sturdy man who she suspected might have Mayan blood. There was something about his face—the breadth of his cheekbones—perhaps, that made her think of statues she’d seen at a traveling exhibit of Mayan antiquities at the Seattle Art Museum.

Interestingly, Hector spoke better English than his daughter did. He’d been in this country longer, he explained; initially he had left his family behind in Mexico and come up here for work, then brought them when he could. He was an automobile mechanic. Lupe was his oldest child, and she’d found the language difficult and had left school when she was fifteen.

“I have already talked to the man I worked for, and he wants to hire me again,” Hector told the judge. “He liked my work.”

“So you do have employment.” Lehman made a note. “Where are you currently living?”

He was staying with a friend, sleeping on the floor. The apartment was small and cramped, he admitted; two men shared it, and another was currently living there, as well. He would get an apartment or small house once he’d received his first few paychecks, but no one would rent to him until then.

Jane all but quivered, waiting for another snort—which didn’t come. Apparently Captain MacLachlan had more self-control than to indulge himself a second time.

The judge talked to Hector at some length, and finally seemed satisfied. He flipped through papers in the file open before him and peered at one for a moment, then looked up.

“Ms. Brooks, appointed by this court as Guardian ad Litem to represent the interests of Tito, believes those interests may be best served by living with you, Mr. Ortez, once you’ve found steady employment—which it sounds as if you’ve done—and established a stable living environment, which may be weeks to months away. She feels it would be best for Tito to remain close to his sister, as he’s been living with her for so long now, and to stay if possible in the same school. Ms. Hesby, do you disagree?”

The caseworker shook her head. “I’m fully aware that Señora Salgado has done her best, but I, too, believe Tito would benefit from more attention from a parental figure than she has been able to provide.”

The judge addressed Hector. “Will you be living here in Stimson?”

“Yes,” Hector said firmly. “This was my home before. My job is at Stan’s Auto Repair on Tenth Street. Tito could walk there from school.”

“Very good.” He looked toward Duncan, which gave Jane an excuse to swivel slightly in her seat and do the same. “Mr. Ortez, are you aware that Captain MacLachlan has been mentoring your son?”

Jane thought there was some tension in Hector’s nod even though he was smart enough to keep his thoughts hidden.

“The captain has expressed concern about the possibility of Tito living with you. He feels your conviction for a violent crime makes you an unsuitable role model for a young boy.”

Streaks of red now slashed across Hector’s high cheekbones. “I was defending myself only. I didn’t mean to kill anyone. I don’t usually fight. I’m not that kind of man.”

Duncan said, “And yet you didn’t deny, even in your trial, that you had stabbed Joseph Briggs. That he’d made you, I quote, very mad.”

Hector’s brown eyes were hot now. “I served my time. I shouldn’t lose my family, too.”

“Can you keep your temper with a teenage boy who doesn’t think he has to listen to his father?”

Hands planted flat on the table, Hector half rose. “I have other children. Ask Lupe! I have never hit my children.”

“But you had a wife then.” Duncan’s tone was barely shy of badgering. “You earned the money and she raised the children. Isn’t that right, Señor Ortez? But now you find yourself a single…”

Judge Lehman cleared his throat loudly. “Captain, Mr. Ortez, you may recall that this is a courtroom, not a forum for open debate.”

Flushed, Hector sank into his chair. Duncan MacLachlan’s expression didn’t change. Jane could swear, even so, that he was basking in satisfaction because they had all—the judge in particular—seen the flare of rage on Hector’s face. The captain glanced at her, and there it was in his eyes, unmistakable. He thought he’d introduced enough doubt in the judge’s mind to swing the decision away from Hector.

“Captain, you’re aware, I’m sure, how difficult it can be to find appropriate foster care placement for a teenage boy. Particularly if we insist that he stay within this school district.” Judge Lehman’s voice was ever so slightly sardonic. “Have you considered becoming licensed so that you could offer a home to Tito?”

It was all Jane could do not to applaud—or to laugh out loud. Instead, she turned a pleasantly interested face to Duncan, whose eyes had narrowed.

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” he said. “You’re aware, I’m sure, of how long and erratic my working hours can be.”

The judge nodded. “I assumed as much. Very well. At this point, I believe our goal should be to reunite Tito Ortez with his father.”

A broad grin broke on Hector’s face. Duncan stiffened.

“However, I’d like to see the transition take place slowly. For the present, Tito shall continue to live with his sister. Mr. Ortez, I’m granting you generous visitation rights. However…” He paused, leveling a look over the glasses that had slid down his nose. “For the present, all visitation will be supervised. Ms. Brooks, are you available to do that supervision?”

She’d done that once before, in a contentious custody case involving two preteen children. “Evenings and weekends,” she said, ignoring MacLachlan’s incredulous stare.

The judge did the same. “Good. Mr. Ortez, I’m going to rule that you can see Tito only when Ms. Brooks is present, or in your daughter Lupe’s home when she is present—if, for example, you were to join your family for dinner. However, I ask that you not spend the night in your daughter’s home.”

Jane murmured a translation to Lupe, who listened intently.

“Do you understand?”

Hector nodded somewhat unhappily. He was no longer smiling.

“Tito cannot live with you until you have a suitable home in any case. This will give you an opportunity to build a relationship with your son. Let’s reconvene in one month and at that point I’ll speak to Tito, as well. I’ll consider then whether you might be allowed unsupervised visitation or even whether Tito feels ready to live with you.” He lifted his gavel and brought it down on the table with a brisk whack. Without ceremony, he gave a friendly nod, stood and strode from the room.

The bailiff guarded the door through which the judge had disappeared. The recorder paid no attention to anyone remaining in the room. After a moment, Jane pushed back her chair and stood, followed shortly by the others. Lupe and Hector hurried out, speaking in low-voiced Spanish. The caseworker waited for Jane and they chatted as they followed. Jane was very conscious of Duncan MacLachlan behind them.

She excused herself, said goodbye to Jennifer Hesby and slipped into the ladies’ restroom, hoping she’d find herself alone when she emerged.

No such luck. Duncan was leaning against the wall waiting for her, his expression baleful.

He pushed away from the wall. “How can you kid yourself this is the right thing for Tito?”

“Children need their parents. Any social worker or psychologist will tell you that, for a child, maintaining a relationship with a parent is critical....”

“We’re not talking about a relationship.” He’d advanced far enough to be standing entirely too close to her. Aggressive. In her face. “This is a kid who has already demonstrated reckless behavior. You’re talking about leaving him to the sole guidance of a man just released from prison after serving a term for a violent crime. Take off the rose-tinted glasses, Ms. Brooks.”

She was damned if she’d retreat even a step. She met his angry stare with one as bland as she could make it. “I don’t believe that any man’s character is determined by a single act. I understand that you see enough of those single acts to…” She sought the right word. “To sour you. The fact remains, Hector Ortez has served his debt to society. He deserves a fair chance, and for Tito’s sake I’m going to help make sure he gets one.”

His eyes glittered with fury, surely out of proportion to their discussion. “For Tito’s sake? Fairness to Hector has nothing to do with his kid! Tito needs someone who sticks to the straight and narrow. Someone who doesn’t lash out every time he gets pissed. Someone who can set a good example and hold him accountable if he screws up.”

She thrust her chin out a little farther. “Hold him accountable? Like you did? You cut him a break instead. Isn’t that what you said?”

Plainly, he didn’t like that. His shoulders went rigid. “You think what I did was wrong.”

“Actually, no, I don’t. I think what you did shows heart. You didn’t judge Tito by one act. So why can’t you do the same for his father?”

“Tito did something stupid. Hector murdered a man in cold blood.”

“A man who was trying to kill him.”

“Who had threatened him,” he corrected. “You can’t tell me there weren’t alternatives. Would you have grabbed a knife and stabbed the guy if you’d been in that spot?”

Of course she wouldn’t have. “His judgment was affected by alcohol.”

His face was inches from hers now, his lips drawn back to show his teeth. “Hector hasn’t had a drink in three years because he couldn’t get one. You trying to tell me you have faith he won’t drink at home? That he’ll always be sober when he’s dealing with Tito? Have you ever seen what a kid looks like after his drunken father beats on him?”

She swallowed, then knew immediately he saw it as a sign of weakness. Of course she’d seen the aftereffects of parental abuse, but no, she didn’t see the children until later, when the outward bruises had healed. But did he really think she didn’t weigh risks? Damn it, she couldn’t let him bully her; she couldn’t.

“I don’t think anyone is perfect,” she said, and felt weariness. If only she could feel shining faith in someone. Anyone. “I do believe Tito’s father is his best hope.”

MacLachlan swore and finally—finally!—swung away from her. She held herself straight, resisting the temptation to sag with relief. He swung around as quickly to face her, but this time he was five or six feet away.

“Expect company, Ms. Brooks, when you supervise those visits. You want your solution to work. I don’t trust you to recognize that it isn’t. I’ll expect to be kept apprised of each and every appointment. Is that clear?”

Anger rolled over her, starting with a hot glow beneath her breastbone and spreading with stunning speed. “Certainly,” she said. “If Judge Lehman instructs me to include you, I’ll do so. Otherwise… If Tito doesn’t invite you, it isn’t happening. Is that clear?”

They glared at each other. After a moment, she gave a sharp nod, turned and walked out of the courthouse, refusing to hurry.

She was a little surprised, as she unlocked her car, to hear herself growl. A passing man, carrying a briefcase, gave her a startled glance. She was probably blushing as she got into her car and bent to rest her forehead on the steering wheel.

She couldn’t remember when anyone had made her as mad as he did.

The only gratification that she could find—and it was tiny, barely a seed of pleasure—was a suspicion that she made him as mad,and that the experience was no more common or welcome for him than it was for her.



THREE DAYS LATER, Duncan found himself stalking along in the wake of Hector and Tito Ortez and Jane Brooks. Jane was chattering to Hector as if they were best friends. Hector responded occasionally with a nod or comment. Tito, to his credit, was the only one who seemed aware of the weirdness of the situation. Slinking along, trailing his father by a step or two, he was halfheartedly kicking his soccer ball. His head was bent, his thin shoulders hunched. He had, earlier, given Duncan one desperate glance and nod.

He and his father were apparently going to play soccer in the field at the middle school. Duncan didn’t like anything about this father/son happening. He especially didn’t like the father. He was annoyed that Hector had chosen an activity that was one of the things Duncan usually did with Tito.

Most of all, he did not want to be physically aware of Jane Brooks. In the three days since the court hearing, Duncan had made up his mind that he wouldn’t be. She was attractive. So what? She irritated him. He didn’t like her. Dislike trumped a pair of great legs or breasts that would nestle like small birds in his hands. A throat so long and pure he could only imagine how it would taste to his open mouth. An elegant back and subtle curve of hip. A perfect ass…

He tore his gaze from just that and let loose a string of silent profanities. He didn’t make a habit of letting his dick do his thinking and he wasn’t going to start now. The fact that he was semiaroused because he was following her from the middle school parking lot and she walked like a dream was no excuse.

When they reached the sideline, Jane stopped, letting Tito and his dad go on toward the soccer goal and well-worn ground in front of it. Gaze fixed grimly on the duo, Duncan stopped a few feet from her.

Hector stole the ball from his son, raced ten yards and kicked it resoundingly into the goal. His teeth flashed white as he grinned at Tito, who was staring in astonishment. Hector gesticulated; Tito said something, maybe asked a question. Within minutes they were talking, then playing in earnest.

Without even looking at him, Jane said, “Lighten up.”

“What?”

“I can feel you. You’re a thundercloud.”

“I can think of things I’d rather be doing this morning.”

“Then do them,” she said tartly. “Please.”

“I told you I’d be here.”

She made a huffing sound. “Do you really think I’m going to let anything bad happen to Tito? I may not carry a gun—” she aimed a pointed look at the one he conspicuously wore at his waist “—but I am quite capable of chaperoning, I assure you.”

Duncan crossed his arms. “Cheering them on, you mean.”

Tito whisked the ball by his father and scored a goal. Evidently delighted by the timing, Jane clapped and whistled. Her sidelong glance met a glower. Duncan clenched his jaw.

“Haven’t you been playing soccer with him?” she said cheerfully. “You should be proud of him. Why aren’t you cheering, too?”

Because I should be playing with him, not his father. Duncan believed that, but was also discomposed by the realization that he was feeling a pang of jealousy. He sure as hell wasn’t admitting that to Jane Brooks.

“How often are we going to be doing this?” he asked, sounding grumpy even to his own ears.

“We? I will be doing this as often as I can. We’ve agreed to aim for twice a week, and Hector will be having dinner with Tito, Lupe and her kids a couple of additional evenings. I understand Tito’s big brother, Diego, is around for a few weeks, too.”

Duncan grunted. Tito had told him as much. The boy had sounded…wistful. He loved Diego and perhaps felt slightly in awe of him, but had said enough for Duncan, reading between the lines, to guess that Tito was also disappointed that his brother wasn’t making more money or doing something important. Duncan had let the conversation drift so that the connection wasn’t obvious before talking about how important Tito’s grades in school were.

“You’ll never get a really good job without going to college or getting training in a trade,” he’d said with a shrug. “No employer wants to hire a screwup. Someone who can’t finish what they start.”

Tito had looked thoughtful, for what that was worth. He was only twelve, not an age when he was likely to deeply contemplate life choices. Duncan knew that he was unusual in having set his eyes on his goal by the time he was ten or eleven. He had known he wanted success, respect, authority. He’d been determined to make good money so life wasn’t uncertain. He’d been willing to sacrifice to get where he wanted. So it was possible. Tito probably didn’t like feeling insecure, not knowing what the future would bring, any more than Duncan had at that age.

“I should have brought a lawn chair,” Jane remarked. “I’ll have to think of myself as a soccer mom. Snacks wouldn’t be a bad thing, would they?” She pursed her lips. “A book, maybe.”

She couldn’t seem to resist needling him. Duncan said sardonically, “I thought you were being paid to keep your eyes on the father/son bonding process.”

“I try to keep some distance when I do this kind of court-ordered supervision. I’m here, but not intruding on their time together. Fortunately, I’m really good at doing two things at once.” Her smile was like a glint of sunlight catching a gun sight, serving as the same kind of warning. “I’ve been known to do three or four things at a time. I’ve read that women tend to be better at that. Probably because we’re biologically programmed to watch the kids even while we’ve got dinner simmering on the fire and we’re hanging the laundry out on the bushes to dry. Men, apparently, have tunnel vision in comparison. The studies are interesting, don’t you think?”

“I can chew gum and walk at the same time, Ms. Brooks.”

“Do you?”

At his fulminating stare, she widened her eyes innocently. “Chew gum, I mean. I hardly ever see adults chewing on gum.”

What an unbelievably aggravating woman. “No,” he said. “I admit I don’t. I was speaking metaphorically.”

“Oh.” This smile was even sunnier. “And I had the loveliest picture of you in your uniform blowing a great big pink bubble.”

He actually wanted to laugh. Duncan managed to focus instead on the soccer players; at the very moment Hector swept his laughing son into a hug. Any desire to laugh died.

“I’m going to sit,” Jane announced, and lowered herself gracefully to the ground. She crossed her legs and bent to pluck blades of grass.

Duncan found himself wondering if she could do the splits. The way her knees relaxed open as she leaned forward made him suspect she could. Not many women in their late twenties or early thirties remained that flexible. Had she been a gymnast rather than a dancer?

He moved uncomfortably. He didn’t think he’d ever made love to a woman as limber as this one. He imagined lifting her legs over his shoulders as he…

Oh, hell. In self-defense, he walked away from her along the sideline, pacing almost to the end of the field before he turned and came back. She was watching him, he saw, although he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. By the time he reached her, she’d turned her head and appeared to have put him out of her mind as she stuck her two middle fingers in her mouth and whistled her approval of something Tito had done with the soccer ball. Damn it, even that was sexy. How many women could whistle like that?

Spending time with Jane was not a good idea, Duncan was forced to realize. Annoying as she was, he did want her. But he was a man who lived by the rules he’d set for himself, and one of them was to make sure to never get involved with a woman whom he’d have to keep seeing when they were done. Jane’s involvement with the court definitely put her on the other side of the line. But the alternative to spending time with her in the coming weeks was giving up on Tito, and he wasn’t prepared to do that.

He could move ten feet away and pretend she wasn’t there.

And look like a socially maladroit idiot, he thought ruefully.

With a sigh, he dropped to the ground a few feet from Jane and sat with one leg outstretched, the other knee bent.

“The kid’s not bad, is he?”

“No, and neither is his father. Hector was telling me that he kept playing at Monroe. He says he was on his village team when he was growing up. He was good, but not quite good enough to go professional, to his regret.”

“Tito and I have played more basketball than soccer.” Man, did that sound defensive. Like he didn’t have the guts to compete head-to-head with Hector. Angry with himself, Duncan continued, “I think maybe they’re spending more time on basketball in phys ed. Tito obviously felt lacking.”

She wrinkled her nose. “He’s awfully short.”

Duncan made a sound of agreement. “He’s taken to shooting baskets for hours every evening. He’s got determination, I’ll give him that.”

“It’s a good sign.”

“Yes.”

Without turning his head, he could feel her gaze. He was reluctant to meet it. Sitting this close, he didn’t like to think how he’d react to the rich, deep blue of her eyes.

“Why a dance shop?” he asked abruptly. “If you weren’t a dancer.”

She turned her head, began plucking grass again so that her shiny brown hair swung down to shield her face. Duncan waited patiently. It had to be a full minute before she said, “Because I wanted to be one.”

“Then why weren’t you?”

Jane straightened and tucked her hair behind her ear. If she’d been feeling something she didn’t want him to see, she’d hidden it now. “Not all kids have those kinds of opportunities. I doubt Tito’s sisters did, for example.”

Was she saying her parents hadn’t had the money to pay for classes? Duncan supposed that made sense. Those kind of extras were undeniably a luxury for a lot of families.

“By the time I was…free to do it on my own, I was too old for dance to be anything but a hobby.” There was a tinge of something that he couldn’t quite read in her voice. Regret? Or was it more acid? Bitterness? “I actually take classes now,” she admitted, and this time she sounded a little shy. “For fun. And for exercise, of course.”

“What kind of classes?”

“I started with ballet. Now I continue that at home. I have mirrors, a bar and mats. So I take other stuff. Jazz. Tap. Modern dance. Even belly dance.”

Duncan heard the air escape his throat. He really wished she hadn’t told him that.

“Although I’m not exactly the sultry type.” She gave a one-sided shrug. “I guess I’m too skinny. And, well, not what you’d call exotic. I’m more girl-next-door.”

“You?” He gave her an incredulous look. “I never had any girls next door that looked like you.”

She blinked. Her eyes really were beautiful, emphasized by long, thick lashes only slightly darker than her hair. Which meant she hadn’t had to use mascara.

“I… Thank you?” she said hesitantly. “If that was a compliment?”

“It was.” He had to clear his throat to relieve the gruffness.

“Oh. Well.” There was a pause before she murmured, “Who’d have thunk?”

Once again, he almost laughed. She’d had to ruin the touching moment between them.

“I’m full of surprises,” he agreed.

Her smile was merry and less…sharp than the earlier ones. “Yes, you are. So tell me, Captain MacLachlan, what do you do for fun?”

Fun. He had to think for a minute. How often did he do anything that he could call “fun”?

“I play basketball.” Suddenly he was smiling. “I gave Judge Lehman a bloody nose with my elbow in one of our last games of the season.”

Jane chuckled. “And you had the nerve to appear in his courtroom.”

“He repaid me with an elbow to the gut. I dropped to my knees retching.”

Her full-bodied laugh rang out.

“Like that image, do you?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit how much I do.”

He was still smiling, something he hadn’t expected to do in her company. She was irritating, all right, but also not as unlikable as he’d wanted to believe. Smart, edgy, amusing. He might enjoy spending time with her if he wasn’t so attracted to her. The combination was too threatening to a man who knew his limitations.

“Oh, it looks like they’re done.” She scrambled to her feet.

For an instant, Duncan had no idea what she was talking about. He was too busy taking in the sight of her long legs looking coltish even as she rose with the same grace she did everything. Skinny? No, she was willowy, slender, but definitely not skinny, which implied bony. Her curves were perfect, feminine.

Tito and Hector. That’s who she was talking about. Duncan’s head turned sharply and he saw the man and boy walking toward them. Tito had regained some reserve with his father, but not as much as when they arrived at the field. There was visible warmth between them, Duncan saw with narrowed eyes.

And he’d done a piss-poor job of observing them. He’d been too busy lusting after Tito’s Guardian ad Litem, the woman who’d decided a murderer was a fine and dandy father for a boy already flirting with trouble.

Damn, Duncan thought in shock. Maybe she was right. He was known for his intense focus. Maybe he couldn’t do two things at once.


CHAPTER FOUR

DUNCAN CALLED IN THE LATE afternoon a couple of days later to let Jane know he couldn’t make it to Hector and Tito’s second outing. She was disappointed, she knew, only because the whole thing was so ridiculously awkward. With Duncan there, her position felt less awkward. He was a distraction. Without him, she was left lurking like some kind of Peeping Jane.

Hector had taken Tito to a game arcade, which had the boy really excited. Hanging around the arcade, as noisy as it was, pretending she was interested in other people playing games while really keeping an eye on her targets, pretty much sucked as an evening’s entertainment. She so didn’t fit in. Plus, she’d been on her feet all day, and now for close to two additional hours, and she was beat and hungry and getting grouchy.

Finally she saw the two heading toward her. “You’re still here?” Hector said, when they reached her.

She knew darn well he’d been aware of her presence. “Of course I am,” she said with a smile that felt fake.

He rolled his eyes, letting her know what he thought. He appeared oblivious of the anxious look his son gave him. “We’re going for pizza now.”

“Where?”

He told her, then walked out with Tito. Technically the boy should ride in her car, not with his father, but she was willing to give them the three minutes or so it would take to get to the pizza parlor. She saw them get into a battered pickup truck, then jumped into her own car and followed them out of the parking lot. Her cell phone rang as she turned into the pizza place behind the pickup.

She groped for the phone.

“This is Duncan,” he said brusquely. “Is Tito still with his father?”

“Yes, we’re going out for pizza now.”

“I’ll join you. Where are you?”

She rolled her eyes and probably looked as adolescent as Hector had, but she was conscious of relief, too, as she told Duncan where to find them. She hadn’t been looking forward to sitting in a booth by herself. Maybe, she thought optimistically, Hector would invite her to join them. He’d already had time alone with Tito. If he wanted to impress her, he’d be a little friendlier.

But no. Father and son walked into the pizza parlor without even giving her the courtesy of a glance. She trudged after them. They had a spirited consultation and ordered, neither apparently interested in the salad bar. Then they headed for a booth, leaving her to order her own food.

Would Duncan be hungry? Would he want to share with her if he was? Who knew? She decided to be gracious and order a pizza large enough for both of them. If he didn’t want any, she’d take the leftovers home.

She’d gotten her salad and drink and plopped herself into the booth right next to Tito and Hector’s when she saw Duncan come in. He swept the room with a glance and homed in first on Tito and then her like a heat-seeking missile.

Jane waved him over. “I ordered a pizza. It’s got pretty much everything on it. If you want to share, you’re welcome. Anything else, you’re on your own.”

“Fair enough.” He went to the counter, and soon returned with a salad, as well, and a drink. He slid into the booth across from her.

Jane had decided to let him sit facing the other booth in hopes he wouldn’t be close enough to eavesdrop. She’d been trying, but was frustrated by the rapid-fire Spanish father and son were speaking.

Duncan was as intimidating as ever. Today he must have been wearing a suit, although he’d left the coat in the car and had pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned the top button on his white shirt, which was rumpled. She was a little surprised to see that he looked tired. His hair was disheveled and his eyes bloodshot. He let out a breath that was almost a sigh as he leaned back in the booth.

“Bad day?” she asked.

“Average to lousy.”

“Which part was lousy?”

His eyes met hers. “Do you really want to hear about my day?”

“We have to talk about something,” she pointed out.

He grunted, displaying his excellent male communication skills. “What are they talking about?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed, keeping her voice low. “Well, I’m getting the gist of it, but they’re talking fast.”

“In Spanish,” he realized.

“Yes.”

“You speak it.”

“Yes, but not well enough to keep up when somebody is chattering away at full speed.”

His eyes narrowed. “Which makes you a lousy chaperone.”

“There’s no requirement that I have to hear every word they exchange.”

With clear disapproval, Duncan said, “He shouldn’t be talking to Tito in Spanish. He needs to improve his English.”

Jane sympathized, but felt compelled to argue. “Spanish is their native language.”

“Which Tito can’t use in school.”

Suddenly tired herself, Jane pushed her half-eaten salad away. “Should I turn around and demand they switch languages so we can understand them?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

She studied him in fascination. “You’re grinding your teeth. That can’t be good for you.”

He quit grinding and clenched instead. Strong muscles flexed in his jaw. Finally he set down his fork. “Thank you for pointing out the obvious to me.”

Jane smiled. “I take it I’m not the first.”

“No.”

“Oh, well. I guess we all need a bad habit.”

His expression relaxed and she thought she saw a glint of humor in his eyes. “What’s yours?”

“Oh, I’m sure I have dozens.” But did she want to admit any of them to Police Captain MacLachlan? “Ice cream.”

One of those fascinating half smiles curved his mouth. “In large quantity?”

“When I’m in a bad mood, a pint of mint chocolate chip makes me feel way better.”

“Since it’s obviously not going to your hips, that doesn’t sound like a bad habit. Only a habit.”

“I suck on my hair.”

He stifled a laugh. She loved what that did to his face. “You what?”

Oh, why had she told him? Resigned, she lifted the hank, a little bit stiff and clumped together, that provided her with comfort. As a kid, it had been the tail end of her braid.

The laugh burst out of him, low and deep. “Now that I have to see.”

“I only do it when I’m by myself,” she said with fraying dignity.

“That’s worse than grinding your teeth.”

“No, it isn’t. I’m, well, soothing myself. It’s like cracking your knuckles or nibbling on your fingernails. It’s a nervous habit. I’m not suppressing an overflow of anger or hostility like you are.” So there.

“If you had my job, you too might have some hostility that needs suppressing.” Apparently unperturbed, he ate hungrily.

A number was called and Tito hopped up.

Duncan laid down his fork and said, “Hey, kid.”

Tito looked embarrassed. “Hola, I mean hi.”

Jane was aware that, behind her, Hector had turned to watch his son.

“Your pizza ready?” Duncan asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” All amusement had left the wintry gray eyes when they apparently met Hector’s over Jane’s shoulder. “I hope ours will be soon. I’m starved.”

The boy shuffled his feet and finally took himself off to fetch the pizza. Duncan kept staring what was plainly a challenge at Tito’s father. Jane let it go on longer than she should have. Finally losing patience, she kicked him, hard, under the table.

“What the…?” He switched the hard stare to her.

She glared at him. “Enough already.”

Tito returned, triumphantly bearing pizza. Jane looked away from Duncan long enough to smile at the twelve-year-old, who smiled shyly in return.

She realized that her number was being called, and slid out of the booth. “Will you behave yourself while I’m gone?” she asked.

Duncan’s look reminded her painfully of ones all too familiar from her childhood, the kind that had once hammered at her self-confidence. Wow. And she’d been glad he was joining her. What had she been thinking?

He’d finished his salad by the time she returned with the pizza and two plates.

She didn’t say a word, only helped herself to a piece and then reached for a napkin from the holder.

After a minute, Duncan said, “Thanks for ordering for both of us.”

“You’re welcome.” But she didn’t mean it.

“My day was lousy because the city council is pushing us for layoffs and because one of two teenagers who were in a car accident last night died this morning.”

“Oh, no.” The morning news had mentioned the accident. A boy who’d barely gotten his license had been taking his fifteen-year-old girlfriend for a drive, even though in Washington State he wasn’t allowed to have minors in the car with him unless an adult was also along. He’d apparently been showing off by speeding. They’d left the road and rolled several times before coming to rest in a large drainage ditch. “The girl?” Jane asked.

Duncan shook his head. “The boy. The girl’s still hanging in there.”

“Oh, dear. I’m sorry.” She made a face. “When I have a lousy day, it means my receipts are down or an employee called in sick. Not that someone died.”

Duncan took a bite and didn’t say anything else for a long time. Somehow she knew he intended to, however, so she waited.

“The boy’s mother is a dispatcher. She was at work when…” He stopped.

“Oh, no,” Jane whispered again.

“Oh, yeah.” He sighed. “It really brings it home. You know?”

“I can imagine.”

He told her about how hard the responding officers were taking it, about how the car had been nearly flattened, about calling the boy’s parents himself. And then he talked about the proposed budget and about the maddening inability of city council members to grasp the needs of the police department they took for granted. His voice grew hoarse. Jane ached to reach across the table and take his hand in hers, but she kept hers on her own side of the table.

We are not friends, she told herself, and had to repeat it. We are not friends.

Uneasiness stirred in her. She hardly knew Duncan. They were strangers sharing a pizza. So how had this conversation morphed into something so…intimate?





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