Her Baby's Father

She dragged in a breath and let it out, fighting panic. What was she going to say now? It had to be something that made sense, but her mind stayed blank until she heard words coming out of her mouth.

“I was in love with someone. It was a very intense relationship. We were going to get married. Then he died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was very difficult for me to deal with.”

“I understand,” he said, and she knew he must be trying to imagine what that must have been like for her.

She went on quickly. “I’ve been kind of closed off since it happened. I guess you can say I threw myself into my work.”

“I understand,” he said again.

“When that gunman came at you, all I could think of was protecting you,” she admitted.

He reached for her again, holding her close, and she was overwhelmed by how much she was feeling—hope, turmoil, confusion, overlayed with panic that the past would repeat itself, after all. The urge to explain it all to him was like steam pressure building up inside her. But she knew she couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t believe her. She had hardly believed it herself when she’d woken up in the car outside the mansion. But it had gone on too long for her to doubt the truth.

If she couldn’t speak, she could allow herself the joy of holding on to him for a little while longer. Her hands crept around his back, and they clung together.

Finally, she knew that if she stayed any longer, she was going to end up in his bed.

“I should leave.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“We’ll see each other soon. You wanted me to look at that new building.” She made a snorting sound. “And we’re forgetting that we agreed to a romantic meeting at police headquarters to look at mug shots.”

“Funny how that slipped my mind.”

“It’s not exactly a fun expedition.”

“Yeah. But I can pick you up, and we can kill two birds with one stone. If that’s okay?”

“That’s fine. I don’t have any urgent jobs. I’ll be at the warehouse.”

“Okay.”

She fished one of her cards out of her purse and gave it to him. Then they both exited the car. He walked toward his front door and stayed there as she climbed behind the wheel, closed the door and backed up, before turning to wave at him.

Then she left, wondering if she had made a mess of everything.

Since the attack by the gunman, her mind had been spinning as she tried to weigh every word before speaking. Which wasn’t a good idea because that was going to make her sound like she was hiding something. Which she was.

She had told him that she’d loved someone, and he had died. That was Jack, of course.

And she couldn’t tell him that.

So what if he asked about her dead lover? Was she going to make up a name for him? Or was she going to say it was just too painful to talk about?

Hopefully the latter, if she could get away with it, because she hated lying. And she’d done it over and over all evening. Starting with her story about the hill on 108. When she’d realized where she was, she’d been terrified. She’d distracted Jack, and a car had almost plowed into them. The past meeting the present. Or the future meeting the present.

Her mind was half in tonight’s reality and half in the former one as she reached Route 144, where she waited for a truck to rumble past.

Her head was pounding from the details of the evening.

The man who had come at Jack was the same guy who had tried to kill him last time. Only in a different restaurant in a different town.

How had he even known where to find Jack? Or had he followed them from the house? Which would mean he’d known where Jack would be.

And then there was the big difference. Last time she hadn’t hit the man with her purse. Last time someone had come out of the parking lot and shouted at the gunman. The distraction had been enough for Jack to leap on the guy, like he did tonight. And after that, the outcome had been the same. The man had pushed Jack down and run away.

But tonight she’d been prepared with the pocketbook because it was later and she’d assumed nobody would be on the street.

She’d go to the police station with Jack, but they weren’t going to see the guy’s picture. At least she didn’t think so because she couldn’t be certain how things were going to work out this time.

Like, for example, Patrick hadn’t been there to make the call last time. A different police officer had shown up. And she certainly hadn’t ended up telling Jack that she’d had a lover who’d died.

That could turn out to blow up in her face. But it had seemed like the only way to keep from looking like a nut.

She took her bottom lip between her teeth, wondering what she should have said and done.

It was useless to keep second-guessing herself. She was just going to have to act as normal as possible. Normal for a woman who’d just met a man who interested her. Not normal for a woman who was meeting the father of her child. A man she thought was dead.

Only there was no baby. Not yet. That was in the future.

Could she keep from getting pregnant? That was a leading question.

Did she want to keep from getting pregnant?

In the darkness of the car, she shook her head. If Jack got killed again, she wanted to have his child.

“Stop it,” she almost shouted, then spoke more calmly. “He’s not going to get killed. That’s why you’re here. To stop it from happening.”

She wished she could be sure of that.

The problem wasn’t the guy with the gun. It was whoever had sent him.

At least she was pretty sure they wouldn’t try the same method again. Because they wanted Jack’s death to look like an accident or a random act of violence where he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Which meant two different robbery attempts wouldn’t seem like chance.

Or would they?

She gripped the wheel, wishing she could stop her mind from going in circles like a hamster running on an exercise wheel.

She turned into the industrial park where she lived. Not one of the country’s upscale areas, but the low rent was a big inducement for the tenants.

There were no cars in the lot, only a few trucks, and she was suddenly aware of how isolated the location was. Hers was one of a long row of warehouses with varying purposes. Most were rented by businesses that didn’t feel the need for showy premises. The man who owned the space next to hers sold garden furniture there, although his primary job was insurance agent. A few doors down was a carpet company. Next to that was a dealer in pinball machines and other old arcade games. Beyond him was a co-op artists’ studio with stained glass and pottery.

The industrial park was busy during the day. But she was the only tenant who lived here, and usually she was the only person around at night.