His Touch

Jessica’s features turned pensive. “I wish I could be sure of that. Sometimes I feel like daggers are being thrown at me. Sort of paranoid, I know, but—” She broke off with a small shrug.

“Trust me,” Tony said in an adamant tone, “that’s not the case. You did the right thing. Don’t forget that.”

“Thanks for those encouraging words.” Jessica smiled. “I needed them. Thanks again, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“I’m not leaving until I check the house.”

A few minutes later Jessica bolted the door behind Tony and headed to her bedroom for a quick shower. She’d had a soaking bath before going to the art exhibit, but for some unexplainable reason, she felt the need for a hot shower. Maybe it would calm her fractured nerves.

She hadn’t said anything to Tony, but during her meanderings through the exhibit she’d felt certain she was being followed, as if evil eyes and footsteps followed every step she took. Of course, she hadn’t been able to spot anyone who appeared out of the ordinary. But that hadn’t meant anything; when it came to stalkers, she would be easy to fool.

All the more reason why you need protection, she told herself.

Thrusting that unwanted thought aside, Jessica peeled off her silk black dress and hung it up. That was when the phone rang. She froze, chills running through her. But after checking the caller ID, she breathed a relief of sorts.

It was her stepson. Since it was late, his calling couldn’t be good news. This wasn’t the first time he’d pulled such a stunt, either. “Hello, Roy,” she said as pleasantly as possible.

“Where have you been?”

Jessica squelched her tart reply, not up to having a verbal slinging match with him. She already had too much friction and discord in her life to add him to the list. “At a charity function, doing my job.”

“Look, I want to come over.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“No, Roy, you can’t. It’s too late.”

“It’s only eleven o’clock, for chrissake.”

“That’s late for me.”

“Make an exception.”

“Is something wrong?” Perhaps this time there was a legitimate reason for his call, not just one of his pleas for extra money.

“Yeah, there’s a lot wrong. I want my money.”

Jessica sighed silently, turning a deaf ear to the desperate note she heard in his voice. He was up to his same old tricks, and she refused to be hoodwinked again.

“I don’t want you here,” Jessica stressed, though she hid her anger. “So don’t waste your time.”

“I’m coming anyway.”

“Go ahead,” she said in the same tone, though she firmed it up a bit. “But I won’t let you in, and if you cause a ruckus, I’ll call the police or someone else in the complex will.”

“Dammit, Jessica—”

“You can damn me all you want, Roy, but I’m not going to talk to you in person tonight.”

“You can go to hell.”

With that, he slammed the phone down in her ear. Wearily, Jessica eased down on the bed and ran her hands back and forth though her thick hair.

She didn’t know when her relationship with Roy had begun deteriorating. Yes, she did: soon after Porter died and Roy found out she’d been made executor of his trust fund. When the will was probated, Roy had been sure he would get his inheritance in one lump sum. Porter had made sure that hadn’t happened, which had stirred bad feelings.

Still, Roy had moved in with her for a few months, trying to get on his feet after starting a new job. Then he moved out. She guessed the only reason that brief time together had worked was because he was never there, so they had rarely seen one another.

Apparently, though, his animosity toward her had been silently festering and she hadn’t realized it. Porter had never taken the time to discuss his will. She had assumed she would inherit her share and Roy his, with no strings attached to either. Well, there had been strings attached, all right, and Roy had never forgiven his dad for what he saw as a betrayal. He hadn’t forgiven her, either, for not relinquishing her hold over his money.

Too bad. Roy would just have to continue to live within his means instead of outside them. After all, he was thirty-three years old, with a responsible job at a respected computer firm, making good money. And he wasn’t married. She couldn’t imagine why he was always broke.

Booze, she suspected. Or worse.

But that wasn’t her problem. He wasn’t her problem, and she refused to let herself worry about him. While she would help him, had helped him, she refused to further indulge his taste for the high life. If she did, he would soon be broke.

Holding to that thought, Jessica got up and finished undressing, then stepped into the shower. Shortly afterward she climbed into bed, but sleep eluded her.

Tossing back the sheet, she crossed to the computer and reached for the switch, only to hesitate. Then, furious with herself for letting her nemesis win, she clicked it on. If there were any messages from him, she would have to face them sooner or later.

She had several messages, the last one from her cowardly enemy. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to read the words.

You Stink-Ass Bitch. You’re Not Much Longer

For This World.

Another threat. Sick to her stomach, Jessica shut down the computer and began pacing the floor. Brant Harding? Was he the answer? The only answer? Just thinking about him and his strong appeal made her uneasy, though certainly in a different way. Yet she had to admit, there was also something about him that made her feel safe and secure. Her instincts told her he would take care of her.

Or did that feeling stem from something else—a more basic instinct?

Shrugging that absurd thought aside, Jessica paused in her thoughts and in her pacing. It was just that she felt so alone, so incredibly lonely. So frightened. Maybe if she and Porter had had a child… What was wrong with her? Her husband hadn’t wanted another child, nor had she. She had never thought of herself in terms of motherhood, anyway, probably because her own mother hadn’t set all that great an example.

Jessica’s eyes darted to the picture of her mother, father, sister and herself that she kept on the secretary in her bedroom, the only picture still in existence of them as a family. She had hidden this one from her mother’s vicious rampage. She had never figured out why, since that time in her life had been one of the most painful.

Even now, just thinking about that fateful day when she’d learned her father had abandoned them, her breathing turned labored and the room spun. Time had never softened that blow.

She had been barely seven years old and had walked into the kitchen one summer morning to eat breakfast. Her mother had been sitting at the table, sobbing.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” she had asked, racing up to her.

“Your father’s gone, that’s what,” Opal had spat. “The sorry coward just walked out, leaving nothing behind but this lousy note.” She held it up, then proceeded to rip the paper into tiny pieces.

“Don’t cry,” Jessica pleaded. “He’ll be back. He’s just gone to work.”

“No, he hasn’t!” Opal cried again, then, grabbing her, shook her until her teeth banged together. “Don’t you understand? He’s gone forever.”

“No,” she whimpered, after her mother turned her loose, though her little heart was beating so hard she found it difficult to speak. “He loves us. He wouldn’t do that.” Huge tears spilled from her eyes and soaked her cheeks.