Live-In Lover

He could do that, but he wouldn’t, of course. Was it possible that she thought he would? He had no idea what her brother had told her about their brief encounter.

Six months ago he had gone undercover as an assassin for hire to apprehend right-wingers who wanted rid of a senator visiting in Nashville. One of the Bureau’s informants had blown that scheme out of the water while Damien was recuperating from a gunshot. Good thing, since Damien’s cover had evaporated with the shooting and resulting publicity. Once he’d recovered, he had gone down to Florida on his next assignment.

Molly might think that his badge made him immune to prosecution, that it would allow him to act as judge, jury and executioner. He’d have to set her straight on that. Intimidating Jensen into behaving himself was about the best he could offer in this situation.

“We’ll think of something,” he assured her. He would have a talk with the police, then throw a scare into Jensen. That should take care of it.

Those long, graceful fingers of hers worried her trembling lip a second or two before she spoke. “It…it’s not as though I did anything to deserve all this, you know?”

Damien almost reached for her then, but clenched his fists instead. “No, no, of course you didn’t! The thought never entered my mind.”

With a sigh she crossed her arms and faced him again. “I’m not imagining this, really,” Molly told him. “He nearly succeeded the last time he tried to kill me.”

“He what?” Damien demanded, straightening in his chair.

“Tried to kill me,” she said with a shiver. “And he meant business. You should have seen his eyes.”

Damien noted the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeves where she grasped her upper arms. She paid no attention to the child who was rhythmically banging her palms on the tray of the high chair.

“Find a paper and pen. Begin at the beginning and tell me everything, in minute detail,” Damien ordered curtly. “I want dates, times, names of anyone who was involved.”

Molly pulled a magnetic notepad and pen off the refrigerator, ripped off her grocery list, tossed the leaf in the trash bin and sat down. She pushed the ballpoint and small tablet across the table to him.

“Well, you see, we had this fight,” she said, avoiding eye contact as though the fact embarrassed her. He watched her absently rub the side of her head with two fingers. “Jack did two years in County for assaulting me. He swore I set him up but I had a great lawyer and a very sympathetic judge. She gave him the maximum sentence. When he got out, he called and said he wanted to get back together. I said no.” She uttered a mirthless little half laugh. “Actually, I phrased it a little more harshly than that.”

Damien tensed. Two years? What the hell had Jensen done to her? “How badly were you hurt?”

Molly smiled and made a fist, massaging the backs of her knuckles with the other hand. “I gave almost as good as I got. Landed a good one on his jaw. Amazing what you can do when you’re cornered.” She shook her fist as though it still ached from the blow she had delivered.

“He hit you,” Damien growled.

“Mmm-hmm. And choked me. After I broke away and slugged him back, he got in the parting shot.” She shrugged. “I fell backward and hit my head. Bled quite a bit and had a…concussion. Guess I looked pretty bad.”

Damien clamped down the sudden, murderous fury that shook him and struggled to remain objective. Molly was no frail victim. She was tall, strong, and courageous as hell. But she was still a woman. And, judging by the age of the child, she must have been pregnant at the time of the attack.

Damien decided he had better not dwell on the incident or he’d come totally unhinged. He cleared his throat and concentrated on taking notes.

“After you refused to reconcile, has he done anything overt to make you think he might resort to violence again?”

Molly looked down and flexed her long-fingered hands with their short, unpolished nails. “Oh, yeah. After I had a date.”

“A date,” Damien repeated, writing it down. “Which date and with whom?”

“My first and only since the divorce. The date took place a week ago. I went to a concert with Joe Malia, a guy who worked at the museum where I was a receptionist.”

Damien looked up at her. “I thought you were in graphic arts.”

“I freelance. Brochures, logos, illustrations for ads and such. My day job was part-time at the state museum downtown. I got fired yesterday. Jack’s responsible. Or rather, his father is. The man has connections on the board.”

Damien understood that Molly would probably attribute everything bad that happened to her to her ex-husband and his family. A natural assumption, and he wouldn’t argue it just yet. It might be true.

“You used past tense for the man you dated. Was Malia fired, as well?”

Molly looked directly at him then, her eyes darkened with sadness and roiling anger. “Joe died two days after we went out together. Hit-and-run.”

Damien almost broke the pen. “Murder, you think?”

“Well, Jack called me the next day and warned me nicely to be extra careful crossing the street.”

When Damien said nothing, she swallowed hard and went on. “Look, Jack was always insanely jealous, but I swear he had no reason to be. He wouldn’t believe that, though, and accused me of having someone else’s baby. That’s what the fight was about, the one that he was jailed for.”

The one he was jailed for? That indicated it was not an isolated occurrence.

Damien stared down at the notepad, hoping she couldn’t detect his rage. All she needed was another irate male around her. He had to remain calm about this and get all the facts.

“I see,” he said finally, though he didn’t see at all. How could she have stayed with the man after the first episode of violence? He had never understood it. Why would any woman do that, especially this one?

Damien could understand a man being jealous of Molly, but he doubted Jensen had gone after Malia with a car. The hit-and-run was most likely an accident and Jensen had merely used it to frighten Molly when he heard Malia was dead.

Using a vehicle to murder someone left too much to chance. No one with any sense used that method. Then again, Jensen certainly could be homicidal without being sensible.

The baby broke the silence. Her dainty hands continued to pound the layer of purple pudding she had concocted out of the muffin and juice mixture.

Slowly, Molly got up and began to clean up the mess as though it was a morning ritual. “I really need to get Syd and my mother out of town as soon as possible. Only I can’t think of where they could go that Jack couldn’t find them. He knows everybody we know. Well, except you, of course.”

“That would be wise. I’ll handle it,” Damien said.

Arranging for a safe place would be relatively easy. Getting Molly to go and then stay with them might pose a problem.

“Thanks,” she said quietly with a look of profound gratitude, and reached out to squeeze his hand.

The brief touch, just like the others, triggered something unfamiliar inside him. Not lust. Desire was already a given and had been since she had opened the door this morning. Maybe even before that, if he were honest with himself. There had been a stirring of it when he’d received her message in Florida and remembered her from their first meeting. This other not-lust thing, however, he didn’t want to examine too closely.

He silently observed while she microwaved a bowl of instant oatmeal with cinnamon and sat again, this time to feed her daughter properly with a spoon.

“My mea,” the child announced, sticking her finger in the bowl and addressing Damien directly for the first time.

“Yes, I see,” Damien answered, unsure how to converse with anyone that age but glad for the momentary diversion.

“Seeee!” she parroted, spewing fine bits of the oatmeal through her teeth and onto his favorite jacket.

“Stop that, Sydney!” Molly ordered firmly. “Don’t spit on the nice man.”

She shot him an apologetic look. “Sorry, Syd’s only nineteen months, but I think she’s hitting the Terrible Twos a little early.”

Damien watched the small lips quiver. Poor little thing. She hadn’t meant to spit.

“It’s all right, really,” he said, hoping to avoid another test of his tolerance for high-pitched sound. “She did stop when you said she should.” He smiled at the child to reassure her he wasn’t angry.