Run to Me

The square-cut diamond on his right hand caught the setting sun’s rays as Charles flicked a hand at the folder. “It’s all in there.”

Charles stared at the boy-man as he continued to peruse the file. He was thirty years old, and his name was not Smith. But Charles didn’t want or need to know what it was. He only had to know that Smith was short on scruples, long on patience, and used whatever means he deemed appropriate—legal or not—to accomplish his assignments. Which would make him far more effective than the fool who’d lost her.

Smith paged back to the photos. “Your ex-wife’s very beautiful. Little girl looks just like her.”

Charles nodded stiffly, hiding his rage as their faces coalesced in his mind. Beautiful, duplicitous Erin, with her serious cobalt eyes and raven hair, courtesy of the black Irish father who’d never given a damn about her. And Christiana. What an insult that none of his features had been repeated in his daughter’s face. He was the strong one. His genes should have been dominant. She should have had auburn hair and green eyes.

He thought of the divorce in which Erin had aired their private differences—differences every man and wife had—and the absurd judgment that had awarded her full custody because the judge considered him abusive, unfit.

Her lies had made him a pariah with friends and associates. If she’d remained silent, he could’ve forgiven her her fanciful request for a divorce. Not granted it, but in time, forgiven it. Now…now she would pay.

“You know what I want,” Charles said coldly, standing and bringing the meeting to a close. He placed the yearbook and lists inside a messenger’s pouch, then indicated with a nod that Smith should add the folder he held, as well. When he’d complied, Charles handed him an envelope containing thirty thousand dollars.

“Half now, half when the job is done.”

“Plus expenses.”

“Of course.” Charles held Smith’s gaze. “Don’t do it in front of my daughter. When you’ve finished, call me.”

“I’ll be in touch,” the young man replied, smiling cordially and accepting the pouch.

Charles smiled back. “Danka.”

Erin wiped the tomato sauce from Christie’s mouth and hands, then lifted her down from the booster seat. She handed her her Raggedy Ann doll and a cookie. Ten feet away, in the spare room, the rattle and clank of metal framework told her that Mac would soon be finished assembling the twin bed he’d found in Amos’s attic. And she was grateful. She wanted him gone so her popping nerve endings would give her some peace.

Mustering a smile, she led Christie around the butcher block island in the middle of the spacious kitchen to a bright, multiwindowed corner where a few toys and books lay on her open Barbie sleeping bag. “Can you read your dolly a story for a few minutes until Mommy rinses the dishes? We mustn’t bother Mr. Corbett while he’s working.” She also didn’t want her getting hurt.

Ignoring Erin’s protests, Mac had decided that Christie not only needed her own bed, but her own room—even though it meant transferring a dozen sealed boxes to his computer room. Even though Erin reminded him they wouldn’t be here very long.

“Can Waggedy Ann have a cookie?”

Erin smiled. “No, Waggedy Ann is too messy. When I’m through we’ll do something fun, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Another thud came from the spare room. Drawing a shaky breath, Erin carried their lunch dishes—their very late lunch dishes—to the sink, amazed that she’d managed to gag down a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with Mac here. Christie’d had no problem at all with the small, microwavable container of macaroni and meat sauce from their bag of staple groceries.

She was running water in the sink and rinsing the milk film from Christie’s plastic cup when a deep male voice directly behind her said, “That should do it.” The cup flew from her hands, popping and rattling hollowly against gleaming stainless steel.

Hating her over-the-top reaction to him, she shut off the water and turned to face him. “Thank you. Again.”

“You’re welcome. Again.” He grinned down at Christie, who was chattering something unintelligible and grinding her cookie into Raggedy Ann’s painted mouth, then spoke to Erin again.

“I left a set of twin sheets and a couple of blankets from Granddad’s house on the bed. They’re clean, and the mattress was stored in a spare room, so it’s not musty smelling.”

His hat was gone now, and his dark-brown hair was mussed and…sexy looking. “Thanks,” she said, jerking her mind back where it belonged.

Mac waved off her gratitude, then strode to the refrigerator to check the crisper and meat drawers. In a moment he closed it again. “The only perishables in there are apples, and they look okay. Feel free to use them, and whatever you need from the cupboards.”

“That’s very kind,” Erin murmured, “but we pay our own way.” Wiping her hands on a paper towel, she looked for a wastebasket. Blood rushed to her face when he took it from her and deposited it in a stainless steel receptacle built into a lower cabinet.

“Your grandfather said he’d like me to start work tomorrow. Is that your understanding, too?”

“Yes. I’ll handle the meal tonight, but I’d appreciate it if you’d be at Amos’s by eight in the morning. I gave Martin—Martin Trumbull, our full-time clerk—the rest of the week off. He’s been putting in some long hours since the first housekeeper left, and he’s no spring chicken.”

At last, a familiar topic of conversation. “You mean the housekeeper who was interested in your grandfather?” she asked with a faint smile. “He said she’d…what was it? Set her cap for him?”

“That would’ve been nice if it had been true.”

“It’s not?”

“Amos tends to give answers he’s comfortable with,” he answered, then changed the subject. “There was no mention of it in our newspaper ad, but would you be able to drive him to his physical therapy sessions when I can’t get away from the store? We have two part-time high-school kids who help out, but I don’t like to leave them alone if I can help it.”

“Of course. Just give me directions. I’m not familiar with the area yet.”

“You’re sure? He has PT on Tuesdays and Fridays. I can take him tomorrow, but we’re expecting a fairly large shipment on Friday, and I need to be there to unload it. I don’t want Martin or the kids hoisting eighty-pound feed sacks.”

“I’m sure.” But she frowned suddenly, wondering if there might be a problem. “Will your grandfather be able to step up into my van?”

“Not without help. There’s a hydraulic lift that adjusts to any level off the back porch. I had it installed so he could ride in my Cherokee. Just steady him as he’s getting in.” Mac sighed wearily. “If he’ll let you. I prefer driving him myself so I can see and hear firsthand how he’s doing, but since I can’t, I’d appreciate it if you’d pay close attention to what—”

He stopped himself, massaged the furrows over his eyebrows. “Never mind, I can phone his therapist. As for directions, the hospital’s not hard to find. Amos can direct you.” He met her eyes. “Okay?”

It took that moment and that worn look to see that Amos’s illness had taken a very large toll on his grandson, too. “How long has it been since his stroke?” Erin asked quietly.

“Ten months.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah. It’s been a long haul for him.” He glanced around as though he might say something else, but then his lips thinned. “I’d better get back. I don’t like leaving him alone for too long.”

Hopping up from her puffy nest, Christie ran after them, and automatically Erin took her hand as they went to the door. But her thoughts were still on Mac. It had to be a strain, putting your life on hold to tend to another person’s needs, no matter how much you loved them. Although, she sensed this man wouldn’t have it any other way. Handing his home over to strangers probably wasn’t helping his peace of mind, either.

“See you in the morning, Terri,” he said, closing the screen door and heading for the steps.

“See you. Thanks again for setting up the bed.”

Then, out of the blue, Christie delivered a giggling announcement that drove the air from Erin’s lungs and threatened to dump her on the floor.

Slowly Mac reversed directions, his dark eyes sharp again. He repeated Christie’s innocently spoken words. “Terri is Mommy’s new name?”

Blood thudding in her temples, Erin scrambled hard for another lie. It came to her like manna from heaven. Swinging Christie into her arms, she laughed, “Not ‘new’ name, sweetheart, nickname.” She grinned wryly at Mac. “We had a talk this morning about the names we use being short for our given names. Apparently, she got things a little mixed up.”

But Christie’s little brow was still lined in confusion, and her rosebud lips were opening. Before she could breathe another syllable, Erin peppered her face and neck with noisy kisses that started Christie squirming and shrieking at the top of her lungs. “And now that you have a bed, Lady Jane,” she teased over the noise, “it’s time for your nap.”

“I’n not Wady Jane!”

“Shouldn’t that be your new nickname?”