Hard To Handle

The man’s low bass somehow matched his brooding features. His short-cropped haircut accentuated the brutal lines and hard angles of his face. But it was his eyes that compelled attention. A pale color reminiscent of fine whiskey, they were trained on her now with the unblinking gaze of a hawk focused on prey. The utter lack of expression in them sent a chill chasing over her skin.

“A man wanted for questioning disappeared near here after some shots were fired. I want to talk to anyone who might have seen him.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Meghan saw the cab pull up to the curb out front. Turning to her nephew she said, “Go tell the driver I’ll be out shortly, will you?”

The boy opened the door and sped toward the vehicle. Gabe focused on the woman before him. It was no hardship. The bulky down coat she was wearing couldn’t disguise the femininity of the form it enveloped. If he’d been a sucker for big blue eyes and delicate bones his professional objectivity might have suffered. As it was, he allowed himself only one brief mental lament over the capricious weather that still caused sensible people to bundle up, and kept his gaze trained firmly on her face.

“I don’t think I can help you, Officer. I didn’t notice anything.”

“Detective.”

“Pardon?”

There was confusion in her wide blue eyes. He noted that her nose was a trifle upturned, her lips perhaps a fraction too full, as if nature had been compelled to stop just short of sheer perfection. A wise move on Mother Nature’s part, Gabe approved. Perfection was boring. Something told him that this woman was anything but.

“It’s Detective Connally.”

“Of course.” The woman’s smile appeared strained.

“But as I said, I didn’t see anyone. I was too involved looking at the merchandise.”

Gabe nodded and raised his notebook, flipped a page. “And your name, ma’am?”

“My name?”

Pen suspended above the paper, he explained, “In case we should have additional questions to ask you at a later date.”

Those full lips curved in a smile that tried to look casual. “Of course. It’s Tina Wilder.” He jotted down the name, as well as the phone number and address she gave him when pressed. And he wondered what possible reason this woman would have to lie to him.

A cop’s experiences, hell, a lifetime of experiences had trained Gabe to recognize the subtle signals people gave off when they were straying from the truth. A tremor in the hands for some, eyes too fixed and bright for others. There were thousands of tell-tale signs, as individual as the people themselves. He wasn’t even sure what tipped him off that Tina Wilder wasn’t being completely forthcoming. Maybe it was her tone, just a trifle too polite, or her expression, just a little too impassive.

But then he looked into those big blue eyes of hers, eyes that could scramble the senses of a less wary man, and there he found his answer. Because behind her deliberately blank expression flickered an emotion much stronger. Even more intriguing.

Desperation.

Recognizing that emotion, he took his time drawing a card from his pocket. He handed it to her, watched carefully as she visibly tucked back her reluctance and reached for it. “In case you remember something later, ma’am. You can reach me at that number or leave a message if I’m not in. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

When she nodded, he added, “I’d like to speak to the boy before you leave.”

Her back stiffened, one vertebrae at a time. “He can’t help you, either. He was much too interested in the toys to observe anything else.”

He tried for a rueful tone, tough for his low timbre, to soothe the nerves he suspected she was hiding. “You’re probably right, but I have to be thorough.”

Her lips curved, and he mentally revised his earlier estimation. They weren’t too full. They weren’t too anything. They appeared to be…just right.

“I’ll get him.”

“Detective.” The clerk’s voice distracted him from her retreating form for a moment. “This gentleman thought he heard something earlier.”

Gabe looked in the direction of the man the clerk indicated and said, “I’ll be right with you, sir.” Sending another glance outside, he gave a silent curse and yanked the door open, ran to the curb.

The cab was already pulling away.

“You gotta give me an address sometime, lady. This is costing you a fortune.” The driver adjusted the mirror, his eyes meeting Meghan’s. She hesitated, then recited her address. Her real address, of course. Not that of the fictitious Tina Wilder, which she’d manufactured for the detective.

She took a deep breath to calm her jangled nerves. Was there some sort of law against giving a false identity to a police detective? She was certain there must be. But like it or not, she was the only one Danny had left to protect him. And although the idea of her newfound guardianship could still lace her with mind-numbing fear, she’d do whatever it took to give the boy the stability that her own childhood had lacked. The stability his mother had failed to provide for him.

“Aunt Meggie?” She looked at her nephew, forced a reassuring smile, one that faded as he continued. “You ’member that guy I told you about? The one in the alley?”

“Hey, I thought we were going to discuss your birthday.” It was a topic guaranteed to shift Danny’s attention.

“I’m going to have a real party, right? You promised.”

His reminder was unnecessary, since he forced her to repeat the assurance several times a day. “I promised.”

Once he was on this particular subject, Danny was extremely tenacious. “That means candles and cake. And friends. How many friends can I invite?”

Not for the first time since Danny had come to live with her, Meghan felt hopelessly out of her depth. “I’m not sure.”

“How about six? That’s fair, ’cuz I’m gonna be six.”

Sheer terror seized her for a moment at the thought of dealing with seven six-year-olds. She drew a deep breath and released it. “I guess.” His reasoning sounded logical enough. What did she know, after all, about what was “fair” when planning a birthday party for a child? What did she know about any child, and Danny in particular? The answers were depressingly obvious.

“Sweet!” He bounced up and down in his seat, testing the restraint of his seat belt. She’d successfully sidetracked his thoughts from the man he’d seen in the alley. And from the compelling detective who had questioned Meghan. She wished futilely that her own attention could be diverted as easily.

The sight of her apartment building had never been so welcome. Meghan punched her code into the security system, anxious to reach the privacy of her home. Her relief might be unfounded, but she would feel safe there from the shrewd gaze of the detective and from questions that she’d be better off avoiding.

“Aunt Meggie?”

“Hmm?” The door swung open, and she guided Danny into the foyer of the building.

“Why’d that taxi guy want your pants?”

Her gaze jerked to meet the boy’s puzzled one. “What?”

“The whole time in the taxi, he kept thinking he’d like to get in your pants. I don’t see why. They wouldn’t fit him, would they?”

A sheerly feminine response had her sending a fuming glance after the taxi, which was already driving away. Then reaction set in and closed like a fist around her throat. It took more effort than it should have to to keep her voice calm. “Remember what you’re learning about not walking around in other people’s heads?”

He looked down and scuffed one foot along the floor. “Yeah. But I didn’t walk right in. It was more like he left the door open. I couldn’t help seeing his thoughts when they were spilling out all over the place, could I?”

She studied the boy, little more than a baby really. The feeling of helplessness threatening to swamp her was all too familiar. Her sister, Sandra, had never mentioned Danny’s father, but the boy was blond like his mother, like Meghan herself. Perhaps he’d gotten his coloring from her sister. Certainly he’d inherited Sandra’s psychic ability. The same ability she’d alternately ignored or exploited all her life.

She pushed away the accompanying flash of guilt and kept her voice firm. “You have to try. No mind games, all right?”

He nodded, his head still bent. Telepathic would be the best description of the infant ability he’d inherited from his mother, but Sandra had always called it mind games, as if the mental raids she’d made into other people’s heads had been playful entertainment for all involved. As if her gift hadn’t turned their childhood into a war zone.

As if it hadn’t ended up getting Sandra killed.