Extreme Measures

And when he got out, he’d make Jonesy pay for ratting him out. He didn’t doubt for a minute that it had been Jonesy who had turned on him.

McIver had picked Jonesy up from Detroit on a mid-season trade. He’d scored seven goals in his first ten games with the Tornadoes, and after Duncan’s accident, he’d been moved up to Duncan’s line to fill the vacant position. It was supposed to have been a temporary move, just until Duncan was back.

But McIver kept Jonesy in the starting line. As the team neared play-offs, Jonesy was getting at least twice the ice time Duncan got.

He’d made the mistake of shooting off his mouth in The Thirsty Duck one night after their play-off run had ended. Not to Jonesy—he and the pretty boy from Michigan weren’t that close. But Jonesy had been there, and Duncan had been furious enough to rant indiscriminately about his intention to make McIver pay.

Jonesy must’ve figured he’d be guaranteed Duncan’s place in the lineup next season if Duncan was behind bars.

And now, because of a few ill-chosen words and the subsequent explosion at McIver’s apartment, Duncan was a guest of the local correctional facility on charges of uttering threats. He knew the cops expected to pin the bombing on him. He also knew that they didn’t have any evidence against him, nor would they find any. Because he hadn’t done it.

If he’d planned to blow McIver away personally, he would have bought a gun and been done with it. He might even have enjoyed it. But no way would he have tried to build a bomb. Hell, he’d known a guy in high school who lost two fingers on one hand because he’d been playing with a firecracker.

Duncan shook his head. It was too much of a risk. His hands were his livelihood, his life. He wasn’t as big as some of the guys, he wasn’t as quick on his feet as others, but give him the puck and he could skate circles around all of them. He’d been admired for his “fast hands” since he’d started playing junior hockey at fourteen years of age. No way in hell would he risk his biggest asset.

You had to be nuts to play around with explosives.

Which is exactly what he’d told the cop who’d arrested him.

As the excruciating pain in his back eased a little, he smiled up at the bare ceiling. No, he wasn’t the type who got his kicks playing with explosives—but he knew someone who was.

And Boomer had been more than happy to take care of Duncan’s problem. He didn’t worry about being ratted out. Boomer had been in the business more than fifteen years, with only two arrests and no convictions. He was a man who took pride in his work and his reputation, and Duncan trusted him to get the job done. Which was another reason he didn’t mind being locked up right now—he’d have an irrefutable alibi when McIver’s body was found.

Nikki was up with the sun Saturday morning after a sleepless night. She knew her conversation with Colin the previous evening had barely scratched the surface of the issue, and the next round of conflict was inevitable. So she was almost relieved to find him at her door before nine o’clock.

“Where’s Carly?” Colin asked.

“She’s spending the day with Arden.”

His cool gaze narrowed on her. “I want to see my daughter.”

“I wanted to be able to discuss the…situation without being overheard.”

Her explanation didn’t seem to placate him.

Nikki didn’t care. She was only worried about how Colin’s sudden appearance would impact Carly’s life. And concerned about the void that would be left after his inevitable disappearance again. Because as much as she wanted Colin to have a relationship with Carly, she knew he wouldn’t stay in Fairweather. He’d never wanted to before; there was no reason to suspect he would now.

“Do you want some coffee?” The offer was made in an attempt to buy time rather than because she had any real desire to pump more caffeine into her system.

“Fine.”

She could tell by the clipped tone that he was still angry. Furious, in fact, and she knew she couldn’t blame him for that.

She led the way into the kitchen, then busied herself pouring coffee into two mugs while she sought the words that would explain her actions. She added a splash of cream to his, cream and sugar to her own. The task gave her another precious moment to compose herself, organize her thoughts.

She turned back to the table and handed him the mug. His fingers brushed against hers and her tenuous composition dissolved, her supposedly organized thoughts fled. She chanced a quick glance at Colin, found his eyes locked on hers, felt the heated awareness that simmered between them.

Despite the enormity of the issues unresolved, the basic attraction was still there. Like the glowing embers of a fire, stoked by that simple, accidental contact of their fingers. It was just another distraction she didn’t need right now, a complication she couldn’t afford.

“I’m still trying to understand what happened, Nicole, why—in all this time—you didn’t tell me we had a child.”

Whatever excuses she’d used to justify the deception initially, the more time that passed, the harder it became to even consider telling him about their child. And the older Carly got, the more unreal the whole situation seemed. Maybe it would have been easier when Carly was a baby, or even a toddler. But how could she track him down to tell him that he was a father—to a four-and-a-half-year-old child?

She’d always fallen back on the excuse that if Colin had cared about her at all, he would have come back. She’d clung to that justification, reveled in it. After all, he’d been the one to walk out on her. But now he was back, and she’d run out of excuses.

“I wanted to tell you,” she admitted.

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because the day I found out that I was pregnant was the day I got served with divorce papers.” The memory of that day—both the overwhelming joy and the devastating pain—was still vivid in her mind.

“This was payback? Your way of punishing me for ending our marriage?”

She sighed wearily. “I didn’t think of it as punishment, but maybe it was. At first, anyway. I was hurt and angry, and I didn’t want to have any contact with you.”

“You couldn’t have got past your hurt and anger for two minutes at any time in five years to tell me I had a child?” he demanded.

“I tried to call you.”

“When?”

“The first time I held our baby in my arms.” Even now, thinking about that moment made her smile. “I wanted you to know about her—our beautiful, perfect little girl.”

“And?” he prompted impatiently.

“The number was no longer in service.”

Her response didn’t even slow down his attack. “Did you call directory assistance? Did you ask my brother? Did you make any effort other than that one phone call?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Why, Nic?”

“I thought I was protecting Carly.”

“How could you possibly use our child to justify your actions?”

Our child.

The words leaped at her, angry, accusing. Reminding Nikki that he had a valid and legitimate claim to the little girl that she’d kept to herself for so many years. It didn’t matter that her actions had been well-intentioned, that she’d given Carly all the love and attention and affection any child could need or want. Carly was his child, too, and she’d hurt all of them by denying it.

“What did you think you were protecting her from?” Colin demanded.

Nikki shifted her gaze, tried to keep her own temper in check. But it was hard not to respond in kind to his anger. “From being rejected by her father.”

He scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your damn obsession with hockey.” She practically shouted the words at him, relieved to finally speak them aloud. To finally admit the feelings she’d kept bottled up inside her for so long.