Bachelor By Design: Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort

A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”

His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”

Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”

She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”

“Frankie?”

“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”

“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”

“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”

Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”

“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”

“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”

“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”

He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”

“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”

Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”

“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”

Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”

“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”

Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in prison?”

Chloe heard both horror and pity in his voice. She didn’t care for either. “Yes. But she’ll be out in less than a month.”

He turned to her. “Exactly how many D’Onofrios are behind bars?”

She glanced at the ceiling as she mentally calculated the number. “Six, if you count Benson. But he’s not technically behind bars. Juvenile Hall is more of a rehabilitation facility.”

“Six,” he echoed, sagging onto the sofa.

“So you see,” she said, joining him there, “I do have some experience with criminal behavior. Ramon just doesn’t have it in him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”

His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” she bit out, wishing she’d bitten her tongue instead. Trace already thought badly enough of her brother without knowing he aspired to become a master jewel thief.

“Tell me.”

“It’s not important,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop it, already.

He just stared at her, waiting. Was that empathy she saw in his blue eyes? Compassion?

“Fine,” she said at last. “On one condition.”

“You’re hardly in any position to make conditions. You can either tell me right now or I pick up the telephone and call the police.”

So much for compassion.

“Go ahead and call the police,” she bluffed. “I’m not telling you anything.”

But instead of reaching for the telephone, Trace leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, his face still unnaturally pale. For a moment she regretted arguing with him in his condition. She knew in her heart Ramon wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, but someone had definitely hurt Trace. And there was a high probability that someone was a D’Onofrio. Pangs of guilt and regret shot through her.

“Can I get you something,” she asked, her tone softer now. “An aspirin, or maybe some ice for your head?”

“No, thank you.”

“How about some pot roast? It will only take me a few minutes to reheat it in the microwave.”

He cracked open one eye. “You cook?”

“Since I was twelve. Someone had to take over the meals after Mom went to prison the first time.”

“Twelve.” Trace sighed, both eyes open now. “I was seven when my Mom left. Only she never came back.”

“I’m sorry,” Chloe murmured, knowing firsthand the inadequacy of those words.

“Don’t be. We had Aunt Sophie, and she couldn’t have loved us more if we were her own sons.” His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Even when we messed up.”

“Then you know why I still love my family. They’re a little on the shady side, but they’re all I’ve got.”

“A little?”

“All right,” she conceded. “A lot. Except Ramon. He’s simply not a violent person.”

She waited for Trace to contradict her, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe she’d convinced him. Maybe he’d already changed his mind about calling the police.

Chloe set her jaw. When she found the D’Onofrio who had attacked Trace, she’d string him, or her, up by his or her toes. On second thought, she’d do something even worse—she’d make the culprit eat her cooking. Trace had asked her if she could cook, not if she was a good cook. In her case, there was a big difference.

Only she couldn’t do anything until she knew what Trace planned to do. Would he press charges against her brother? Or would he finally believe her assertion that Ramon was innocent?

“Chloe,” he said at last, with the tone of a man who has come to a decision.