Run to Me

Feeling a nervous flush creep into her cheeks, Erin turned away from him and began unpacking Christie’s clothes. “Then let’s remedy that right now. What do you want to know?” She was ready with her stock replies.

“All right. But keep in mind that this isn’t a personal attack. I just need to feel comfortable with the people who take care of Amos.”

“I understand. Go ahead.”

“Your van has Maine plates. You don’t have a Maine accent.”

She shook the wrinkles out of Christie’s pajamas and set them aside. “We were only there a short time.”

“You were employed there?”

“Yes, I’ve already told your grandfa—”

“Doing what? And why did you leave?”

Erin put down the tiny bib overalls she’d just plucked from the suitcase, then turned around, realizing that her answers might be better accepted if she were facing him. She hid a shiver of apprehension. The penetrating eyes beneath the shading brim of his Stetson seemed to see straight through her. But as she gazed deeper into those eyes, past the concern, past the strength and confidence there, she saw something else. Something that mirrors had reflected in her own eyes. This man had baggage, too.

She drew a breath. “My last job was waitressing at a small restaurant. It was fun. I enjoy working with people.” She got herself ready for the next lie. “I left because it took me away from Christie too many hours in the day.”

“You had to travel 2500 miles to find a position that kept your daughter with you 24/7?”

“No, Maine was beautiful, but cold. I decided we’d be happier in a warmer climate.”

“So you chose the Flagstaff area? Winters here can be—”

“This isn’t our last stop. I’ve never seen California.”

It was several seconds before he slowly nodded. Again the judgment and doubt in his dark gaze was a near palpable thing. “I assume you included the name and address of your previous employer in your list of references?”

“Yes.” She’d only offered two names—Millie’s and Lynn’s—and thank heaven, they were both confidantes and prepared for phone calls. It still stunned her that Amos hadn’t contacted either of them, saying that he was from the old school and judged people by the look in their eyes—and she looked all right to him. “Until last week I worked for Millie Kraft at Krafty Millie’s Café in Spindrift, Maine, just up the coast from Boothbay Harbor. Your grandfather has her number. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

Again, that long, slow gaze assessed her. But apparently the inquisition was over because he thanked her and walked out of the room. “There’s a twin bed in storage at Granddad’s house,” he called over his shoulder. “I think I can squeeze it in here.”

Erin trailed him through the hall toward the front door. “You don’t have to do that. Christie will be fine, sleeping with me.”

“She should have her own bed,” he said firmly.

Suddenly Christie barreled out of the great room, a page from her coloring book flapping in her hand. Her tiny face was all smiles, her voice a high-pitched squeak. “Wook, Mommy!”

Smiling, Erin scooped Christie into her arms, then held the paper out in front of her. She gasped dramatically at the wild purple and yellow swirls and swishes. “Oh, my! Did you do this all by yourself?”

Christie nodded excitedly.

“It’s beautiful. We’ll have to dig out our magnets and put it on the refrigerator.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks as Mac ambled back from the door. His deep voice gentled as he surveyed Christie’s handiwork, the way most adults’ voices did when speaking to a child. “Mommy’s right. This is a very nice picture. Can you tell me what it is?”

“Me!”

“I can see that now,” he replied chuckling. The skin beside his dark eyes crinkled. “Do you think you could make one for my grandpa’s refrigerator? I’ll bet he’d like that. I know I would.”

Beaming, Christie wriggled out of Erin’s arms and raced back to her crayons.

Mac’s gaze followed her. “How old is she?”

“Three. Well, she will be in three months. September.”

“She’s a cutie.”

“Thank you. I think so.”

His next words landed like a punch. “Her father must miss her very much.”

It was hard to breathe, hard to remain calm, hard to hide the jolt of fear that now accompanied any thought or mention of Charles. But she made it through the moment without betraying any of those things and stated simply, “He’s not with us anymore.”

“He passed away?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

When she didn’t offer more, new questions rose in Corbett’s eyes—curious questions—but apparently respecting her privacy, he didn’t ask them. Instead, the look in his eyes slowly began to change.

The difference was subtle, almost unnoticeable…but for the shortest of seconds, his gaze passed over her hair and the slope of her face—lingered for a heartbeat on her mouth. And Erin’s pulse quickened as awareness came tiptoeing back, all the more potent because they were alone, behind closed doors, and she now realized the attraction was mutual.

Time stretched out on tenterhooks.

The air between them quivered with a tension running just below the surface.

Then Mac abruptly jerked his gaze from hers and retraced his steps to the door. “I’ll see about that bed,” he said brusquely, exiting and closing the screen door behind him.

“Th-thank you again for your trouble,” Erin called.

“It’s no trouble. As I said,” he repeated, his growling baritone trailing, “she needs her own bed.”

Erin sank back against a polished pine wall. Their search for a safe haven was over. In a month or two they might have to look again, but they were all right for now. She stared through the screen at Mac’s broad shoulders and tapering back as he cut through the weeds bordering the pond on his way back to Amos’s…took in his trim hips and long muscular legs.

And suddenly she wondered if she’d traded one kind of danger for another.

Charles Fallon sat behind the antique desk in his opulent high-rise office, the glow of the setting sun coloring the Chicago skyline behind him. He adjusted the pocket silk in his Armani suit, smoothed his fine mustache and goatee, then steepled his fingers before him and called, “Come in” in answer to the soft rap at his door.

A good-looking young man with longish, sun-streaked blond hair and a pleasant smile entered and walked to Charles’s desk, his running shoes silent on the deep-orchid carpeting. He wore jeans and a white polo shirt with a sports logo on the breast pocket, and while he was not muscular, he appeared fit. He did not offer to shake Charles’s hand, and they did not exchange pleasantries.

They were alone on the floor. Everyone who worked for him here at Fallon Financial Consultants had gone for the day.

With an economy of motion, Charles took a folder from his desk and handed it to John Smith. It contained photographs and every scrap of information Charles could recall or gather that might lead Smith to her. Her pathetic little hobbies and interests, her education, the foods she liked. Still on Charles’s desk were her high school yearbook and a list of friends and associates she’d made at the elementary school where she’d once taught kindergarten. There was even a list of her e-mail contacts.

Several minutes elapsed while Smith studied the folder, the only sound in the room the hollow bubbling of the aquarium built into the cherry-paneled north wall. Presently Smith glanced up from the private detective’s report. “She was last seen near Boothbay Harbor driving a 1999 white Ford Windstar?”

“Read on. The vehicle is current, but my private investigator frightened her into running again. He was able to pick up her trail but lost her again in Boston. He said she obviously knew she was being followed, the way she changed lanes and used the on and off ramps.” So unlike his mousy little wife, who’d rarely driven in city traffic.