Jake's child (4 page)

"Now wait just a minute! I didn't shove my way in anywhere! And I didn't force your door open. Although with those flimsy locks I could have and, believe me, it would

have been faster than waiting for you to decide whether or not you wanted to let some sick kid into your house. Here," he dug deep into the pocket of his jeans, "here's a quarter." He flung the coin towards her. "Isn't that about the going rate for a public bathroom?"

The coin rattled on the floor. Sarah gasped.

Jake frowned. "Hell." Holding her still, he stooped to pick up the coin. He'd really screwed it up. Why had he grabbed the phone from her like that? Of course he'd scared her. But something nasty in his nature had wanted to scare her, mess up her pretty sheets, push against her. What a pig he was. He should have defused the situation, not poured kerosene on it.

When he'd seen her with the receiver at her ear, though, he'd known she was calling the police. He couldn't afford that. He should have reacted differently, but her softness and vulnerability triggered something in him he couldn't curb. If all that softness and smoothness and that tender blue stare hadn't knocked him for a loop when she first opened the door, he'd have been fine. He just had to kill this leap in his blood when he was around her. Staying angry wasn't the way. Anger could slide too easily into something else. He'd just had proof of that.

Why in hell had he flung the quarter at her like that, though? He rubbed the cleft of his chin and looked at the bit of shaving cream. Good thing he'd hurried. Hell to pay if the police had roared in. No, he couldn't have police showing up.

Holding the coin in his hand, Jake flipped it up and down while he thought. Heads. Tails. Heads. He flipped the coin one last time and held it in his fingers, turning it in the dim light. "I'm sorry I scared you." He handed her the coin.

Her fingers were icy as he folded them around the quarter, and he wanted to kick himself for being so cynical. "Can we go downstairs? This whole situation has gone cockeyed. I'm not going to hurt you," he insisted. "Believe

me, if I were going to do anything, I'd have already done it."

Sarah believed him. His voice rang with conviction. Thinking about his actions, she had to admit to herself that he'd been careful not to hurt her, but his very presence threatened her. "I guess so," she admitted, still uneasy.

Making up her mind, she slipped the coin into her pocket. Whatever he was up to, this hostile-eyed male wasn't going to attack her.

How she'd reached that decision, she wasn't sure. Maybe the way he'd waited for her to say something. Maybe the fact that he'd never really threatened her. Or maybe it was the way he treated his son. No, that was the problem. She rubbed the edges of the coin. The boy wasn't his son. That was why she'd scurried to the phone. She'd thought the boy was kidnapped. And the tires. That was what had frightened her out of her wits. The premeditation and violence.

When she'd seen the man's face, though, the situation had subtly changed. The rugged nakedness of his face had been angry but controlled. He'd been tense, intimidating but not violent.

Sarah motioned him down the stairs first. "Okay, we'll talk in the kitchen, but this whole situation doesn't make sense. Your actions don't add up. You arrive on my doorstep in the middle of the night, scare me to death, and—and you're rude!" She was talking too fast as adrenaline flooded her blood. "I'll listen, but ante up quick."

She relished the pop-pop-popping of rage in her. Oh, she was in a fine rage. She'd been such a mope, letting this thick-necked, thick-headed stranger push her around, take over, scare her witless. She'd decided a long time ago no one would ever treat her like that again, and still she'd almost fallen into the trap.

It was the night, the hour. That was all. Anybody would be muddled, and the sweet melancholy of the dream hadn't helped. "Sit." She yanked out a chair but didn't push him

into it. Her rage wasn't that foolhardy. His face was void of all expression. Was he laughing at her? She scowled. He'd better not. She'd brain him with a skillet if he laughed. "Talk."

Jake knew he was going to have to make it good. A quick, sideways glance showed him that pulse beating frantically at the side of her neck. Near panic, she'd doubt everything he said. What had sent her running to the phone? Had Nicholas let something slip?

Her lips were slightly pursed. Even tightened with anger, her bottom lip glowed, a soft pink fullness. He couldn't help noticing that softness. Didn't want to. He spread his hands flat on the table. "Ante up, huh? From where I sit, you hold all the cards." She blinked. Good. He'd surprised her.

"/ do?" She narrowed her eyes in what he figured was speculation. Then her eyes strayed to his chest. Stayed there for a long moment.

He shrugged. "Sure you do." His chest warmed where her eyes lingered. "Look, can I put on my shirt before we finish this conversation?" Rising, he leaned over the table. "I think we'd both be more comfortable." He was feeling hostile again. It was those damned soft eyes looking at him, touching him with their nearsighted blue velvet.

"Oh. Of course. Yes." Her face was now as pink as her bottom lip.

He took his time getting a shirt from the bag he'd brought in earlier, thinking hard. What would she buy? Better to stick with the truth, as far as possible. Truth always sounded more credible. What were the weak spots in his story? The time, of course. The place itself. Why would he be in the Okeechobee area? Possibly visiting the Seminole reservation?

He rubbed his chin. Scraping off that damned beard had felt good. He should have done that as soon as he had got back in the country. He buttoned the last button as he reentered the kitchen.

She hadn't moved, but her expression had changed. She must have thought of some more questions. Hell. This might be a long, drawn out situation, and he couldn't lay any booby traps for himself farther up the trail. He folded himself into a chair.

Her husky voice confronted him. "Okay. I want to know about the tires."

Sheesh. Jake decided she was either very shrewd or naive. He had to admire her courage, though, in going right for the kill. "They're flat. I told you." He shielded his expression.

She sat up straighter. "You're lying."

"Now why on earth would I lie about something like that?" He smiled.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "I don't know. Nicholas said you cut the tires on your truck."

"Is that what this is all about? Nicholas said I cut the tires?" Jake laughed casually. "Kids. He saw me work out the spike I'd run over. Anyway, that's easy to check," he said, half rising. "Want to take a look? I'll wait here while you see for yourself." Her hesitancy amused him. She'd never make a poker player. "No?" He sank back into the kitchen chair.

"You lied about Nicholas," she persisted. "Nicholas said you're not his father."

"I never lied. I just said he was my boy." Jake frowned.

"You know what the phrase implies. You know what I thought." She concentrated her attention on him. Slicking a strand of autumn brown hair behind her ear, she continued, "So why lie—pardon me, imply, that he was your son if you didn't have something to hide?"

Buying time, Jake stretched out his legs, bumping her feet. There was the rub, of course. He did have something to hide. And he knew she had her own secrets. "Nicholas wasn't well, I didn't feel like going into a long explanation and I figured anybody running a fishing camp would be glad

to help out. How was I to know you were here alone?" Half-truth.

"But at midnight?" She wrinkled her nose.

Jake shifted in his seat. "Yeah, well, look, this is embarrassing. I got lost. We were headed towards Moore Haven and stopped off at the reservation, wandered around a while and I guess I got off the main drag." Was he overplaying it?

She rubbed her nose. The action was childlike and oddly appealing.

Jake crossed his ankles, his toes brushing hers under the table. They were small, cold, the way her fingers had been when he put the quarter in them. "I don't know this area. I got lost. No street signs."

She nodded slowly. "A lot of people get lost down here." She thought it through. "But what on earth possessed you to keep the boy out so late?" She was straightening with suspicion.

"You know how it is with kids." His words brought vertical white lines around her mouth. "One thing leads to another. It got late, dark. I didn't know where I was."

She frowned as she folded her hands in front of her on the table. The small ovals of her nails were glossy. "You look as though you always know where you are."

Damn. "Yeah? Usually I do. The Glades are different, though, aren't they?"

She nodded again. Then she returned to the original subject. "The boy's not your son?"

He shook his head.

"Who is he, then? What's he doing with you?"

And wouldn't he just love to tell her? Wouldn't that frost her punkins? "His dad was a friend of mine." The less he said, the better. Watch out, Donnelly, or your rear'll be out on the porch so fast your face'll be left behind.

" Wfas?" Her brows met in thought.

He'd interested her. Jake observed her closely. "He died recently. I wanted to get the boy away from everything. Give him a change of scenery."

"What about his mother? Why would she let him go off with you? Why wouldn't she want him with her, especially now? The boy must be grieving for his father. Surely this isn't the time to upset his routine? Why would his mother let you take him?" Her questions tumbled from lips gone white.

Interesting that she should be so intense. "Whoa. One thing at a time." Jake looked around the kitchen. "Could I impose for a cup of coffee? Anything?"

Her frown was scornful. "I don't think it will hurt you to wait, okay? Let's get the questions answered first."

"Cautious little thing, aren't you? Not that I blame you." He scratched his chin. "How about a glass of water? Or is that too much trouble?" Deliberately he made his tone derisive.

"Don't be unpleasant. It is, actually, under the circumstances, but all right. And another thing," she glared at him over her shoulder as she ran the faucet full blast, "don't patronize me by calling me a * little thing,' okay?" Water slopped onto the floor as she slammed the glass in front of him.

He sipped. Brackish, like the lake.

"I'm waiting." Water had splashed down the front of her blouse and through wet white spots skin glistened pink and shadowy.

"Okay, I'm responsible for him right now. His mother wasn't available."

"You're still lying." She stood up hastily.

Oh, hell. Jake rubbed his head hard. "Look, that's the third time you've said that. Don't accuse me of lying again unless you're ready to put your money where your mouth is." He glanced irritably at her pink lips. "And sit down, will you? You make me nervous jumping around like a

scalded cat. It's the truth. The boy needed to get away from the situation he was in. I helped out. That's all there is to it, no big deal."

Her fingers rubbed the wet cotton, lifting it away from her skin. "You're leaving something out."

Jake drained the glass of water and banged it down. "Of course I am! Who are you to think you have the right to know this kid's personal tragedies, huh? I asked you for simple human kindness, and you're taking on like a mystery dropped in your lap! Helping out doesn't buy you the kid's history, understand? He's got a right to privacy."

He planted his fists on the table and leaned over her, forcing her to look up at him. "Doesn't he?"

He'd embarrassed her with the accusation of nosiness, but she blazed ahead. "You haven't answered my question, you know," she reminded him anxiously. "You're not being straightforward with me."

Damn right he wasn't. Damn right he wasn't going to answer all her clever little questions.

"I may not have the right to intrude on a private tragedy, but you've intruded on me and I want some assurance that you have the right to this child." She tapped one finger on the table. "I don't believe you'd hurt me, but I'm not satisfied with your explanations."

"Look," he sighed, "I've been as straight as I can be. I don't know what you want me to say. I'm tired, hungry—in spite of that wonderfully generous sandwich of yours," he added with evident sarcasm. "What I want is to curl up somewhere and sleep for a week. If it'll make you feel better and calm your tidy little—sorry—soul, I'll sleep out in the pickup. I don't give a rat's good damn where I sleep right now, if you take my meaning!" He shoved the chair under the table. "You do what you want, but I'm crashing somewhere in five seconds flat."

At his vehemence, she made a small, troubled sound. He'd done the best he could. That was that, cards on the

table, face up. Well, not completely face up, but it was showdown time for sure. Jake stomped towards the door.

"Wait!"

His bluff had worked.

"You'll need your boots." With a casual wave, she motioned upstairs. A gleam of mischief deepened the blue of her eyes.

So it hadn't worked. He'd overplayed it. "Yeah," he growled, taking the stairs two at a time. So he'd sleep in the truck. She'd made that clear earlier. He hadn't lost any ground, and it could've worked out worse. He didn't think she was going to call the police now. And for some reason, she'd decided to drop the questioning.

Too bad he hadn't been able to lull her doubts, though. He'd give a new dollar bill to know where he'd gone wrong.

Sitting on the bottom step he tugged on his boots. The pickup wasn't going to be comfortable. He stomped towards the door again, her muted laugh following him into the dark.

Jake draped as much of himself on the front seat as he could and then stuck the leftovers out the window. He was going to be paralyzed in the morning. He was much too old for these shenanigans. He'd really landed in the manure this time, damn it. Folding his arms over his chest, he sighed and went to sleep, the sound of voices on the lake floating in to him.

Sarah watched his tall form yank open the pickup door and slouch inside. She almost called him back. He was going to be cold, uncomfortable. Maybe she should have let him sleep inside, after all, but she hadn't pinned down that false note in his story. It was too late, though, and she was too tired to think about it anymore. Calling her a "little thing." He was lucky she hadn't poured the water on his head.