Gavin's Child

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Prologue (#ulink_b1329723-1a30-5ab5-aa06-110626a6cf95)

Someone was watching him.

Gavin Cantrell paused as he reached for the six-pack of beer. A prickle of primitive awareness crept up his broad, powerful back. It was so strong that he had to fight an uneasy urge to roll his shoulders.

Instead, he stood as still as a statue and tried to pinpoint the source of the feeling. First he narrowed his eyes against the artificial brightness of the fluorescent lights overhead. Next he blocked out the insistent voice on the grocery store’s PA system, which was requesting that shoppers be on the lookout for a missing toddler.

He eased back, two hundred and ten pounds of muscled aggression, and took a long look around.

The aisle was deserted.

Well, hell. There’s nobody here but you, Rambo.

The tension slowly drained out of him, and a wash of heat worked its way up his neck. He shook his head. How much longer was it going to take for the overactive defense mechanisms he’d learned at Colson to fade? How long before he stopped seeing enemies in every shadow and threats around every bend? Another month? A year? Ten?

He raked a hand through his dark hair and let loose a sigh of disgust. All right, so he’d overreacted. It was no big deal. He was just tired—and hot, sweaty and hungry after thirteen hours working full-out on the Ebersoles’ new house. His foot ached from the beam an apprentice carpenter had inadvertently dropped on it. And his shoulders stung because he’d foolishly worked barechested under the hot June sun.

All he needed was a cold drink, a long shower and a hot meal, then he’d feel more like himself.

None of which he was likely to get standing around here, he reminded himself. Any more than the twenty-mile drive north to the furnished room he called home was going to get shorter. Sighing, he reached once more for the beer—only to be brought up short as the sensation of being watched skated along his spine again.

Disgusted, he started to grab the six-pack anyway, determined not to be drawn into whatever crude game his psyche was playing. Suddenly a slight movement at the end of the aisle caught his eye. He dropped his hand—vaguely aware that the voice on the PA system was now droning something about blue rompers and red sneakers—and waited.

Ten seconds passed. Then twenty. He’d just about decided he really was imagining things when a child peeked around the corner. The little boy, barely bigger than a minute, had an angel’s face beneath a mop of silky, moonbeam-colored hair.

For a span of seconds he watched Gavin warily out of large, mischievous blue eyes, the color as clear and deep as Gavin’s own. And then he hooked his thumbs behind his ears, made a comically ferocious face and waggled his fingers.

The last of the tension seeped out of Gavin’s big frame. I’ll be damned. He looked around, confident that any second now some chiding mama or disgruntled sibling would appear and put an end to the kid’s horseplay.

And then he glanced down and registered the crimson color of the boy’s itty-bitty sneakers.

Well, hell. The good news, obviously, was that the PA system’s missing toddler hadn’t been abducted.

The bad news was that only he and the kid appeared to know it.

He considered his options. The most logical course of action would be to grab the little fugitive and haul him up to the manager’s counter. Yet as big as Gavin was—and, at the moment, as dirty and disheveled—such a move would probably scare the starch right out of the little guy. Gavin didn’t want any trouble—particularly not the sort he’d get if the kid kicked up a fuss at being manhandled and somebody got the wrong idea.

Gavin’s expression darkened. He knew all about wrong ideas. He should; he’d spent thirty-four months at the state correctional facility at Colson, courtesy of the State of Colorado, because the Pueblo County prosecutor had had one about him.

He could just imagine what the reaction would be in this situation if somebody found out he was an ex-con. Not to mention what might happen to his current freedom if he were accused of child abduction.

The thought of being locked up again made his stomach roll.

If he had a brain in his head, he would grab the beer and get the hell out of here. Except…what if the kid wandered off and ran into real trouble? Even though it wasn’t Gavin’s concern, and even though it’d serve whoever was accountable right to get a royal fright, he couldn’t very well let the kid pay the price for some adult’s lack of responsibility.

Besides, he thought gruffly, slanting the child an exasperated glance, he really was a cute little guy…

He sighed as a possible solution struck him. It wasn’t much, and, God knew, just the idea made him feel like four kinds of fool.

On the other hand, if it kept the kid from wandering off until some good, respectable, law-abiding citizen showed up to rescue him, he supposed it was worth a try.

Which wasn’t a hell of a lot of comfort for how ridiculous he felt as he turned his head and stuck out his tongue.

The child’s hands stilled. His eyes opened wide with surprise. Then he hastily ducked back around the corner.

Gavin slammed his mouth shut, nearly swallowing his tongue. Terrific. He’d scared the kid off and now—

The boy popped back around the corner. A devilish gleam in his bright blue eyes, he screwed up his little face in concentration and stuck out his tongue.

Relief flooded Gavin. He matched the boy’s action—and crossed his eyes, as well.

Again, the child looked startled. Then his entire face lit up in a shy, lopsided grin, and he laughed.

The high, bright sound was irresistible. So was that smile. Yet Gavin frowned, swept by a sudden, inexplicable sense of recognition. Puzzled, he studied the boy, taking in the sturdy little body, the pink and cream complexion, the winged brows, the button nose, the rosebud mouth. The kid was a charmer, no doubt about it, but Gavin was sure he’d never seen him before. Still, there was something about that smile, about the way it crooked up at one corner that—

“Sam!”

The frantic feminine voice at his back blew his train of thought right off the rails. In the next instant a woman rushed past, leaving the faint scent of white lilacs in her path.

Gavin watched, transfixed, as she slid to her knees and scooped the child into her slender arms.

“Oh, Sam!” She gathered the toddler close and buried her face in the crook of his neck. Her hair, the same thick, silver gilt as the child’s, was caught up in a high ponytail that spilled down her back like a cascade of silk. It exposed the creamy, vulnerable curve of her nape and the slim, delicate line of her back. “You scared me half to death, sweetie.” A tremor went through her as she fought for composure. “You know you’re not to ever, ever go where I can’t see you. And—” she lifted her head, setting the child away just enough so they could see each other “—you’re not supposed to talk to strangers. Remember?”

Eyes huge, the little boy nodded. “‘Kay.”

“Good.” She immediately gave him another fierce hug, then turned her head slightly, for the first time acknowledging Gavin’s presence. “I’m sorry if he was bothering you,” she said, struggling a little as she got her legs beneath her and hefted the child up. “I only looked away for a moment, and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t find him. He’s so fast, like quicksilver—” She stopped and swallowed. Hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to him…”

Gavin knew what she’d look like before she turned. He knew her nose would be small and straight, her cheekbones elegant, her mouth lush, her eyes big, dark and mysterious. He knew she would have the sort of cool, quiet beauty that made a man burn, that haunted his days and bedeviled his nights, that ruined him for anyone else.

She gave a shaky, self-conscious laugh. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. It’s just—” she twisted around, a tremulous, apologetic smile on her full mouth as she finally raised her eyes to him “—he’s all I—oh!” Her face drained of color, leaving her skin sickly pale beneath her smooth golden tan. “Oh…no.”

His mouth twisted at her reaction. “Hello, Annie.”

“Gavin.” She stumbled back a pace.

The child, clutched tightly in her arms, squirmed restlessly. “Mama!” he complained. “You’re squishing me!”

Mama? Gavin frowned, a V forming between his brows. His gaze skated over her, snagging on her slender hands, which were clasped together to support the child’s weight. An embossed silver-on-gold wedding band stood out starkly on one slim finger.

A ring he himself had slipped on her finger.

His gaze shot back to her pale face, to the stark panic she couldn’t disguise.

And suddenly it all fit.

The ring, her distress, the little boy’s bright blue eyes and familiar grinFamiliar because it was the spitting image of his, seen captured in photos and reflected in mirrors for his entire thirty-four years.