Hot & Bothered

Ford stilled. “What did you say?”

The fury in his father’s eyes made Jared’s heart pound so hard he could barely breathe, but he didn’t back down. “I didn’t want to join the stinking team in the first place, but you insisted it would build character and turn me into a team player.” And as it turned out, he’d discovered baseball was something he was pretty good at and had ended up loving the sport. But everyone else had family at the games to cheer them on. With Tori and the pip-squeak in London the past couple of years, his own cheering section was diddly-squat. Thrusting his chin a notch higher, he put forth his best I-could-give-a-rip curled lip. “Team player, my ass.” His voice cracked embarrassingly on the last word and he played with the sleeve of his jersey, uncovering the bottom half of his tattoo to distract the old man’s attention from that sign of weakness. “You talk the talk,” he sneered. “But what you really mean is that everyone else oughtta be a team player. Not you, though. You’re the frickin’ owner of the franchise, always too damn important to waste your time doing anything nice for anyone else.”

“I can’t believe I sired you.” Ford’s voice neither raised in volume nor exhibited anger. Yet like an arctic wind, it sliced an icy swath through Jared’s self-esteem. “You look like some punk off the street, with your tattoo and your earrings, and you’ve disgraced our good name by being tossed out of three schools.”

“Four,” Jared said, clenching every muscle in his body to prevent his father from seeing the way they’d started to tremble. “You always forget Chilton. And hey. At least I don’t keep marrying women young enough to be my daughters.”

Ford’s eyes turned more frigid yet. Leaning down, he murmured conversationally into Jared’s ear, “I really should have insisted your mother have an abortion. Things would have been so much better all the way around.”

Pain sliced deep and scalding tears rose in an unstoppable tide in Jared’s eyes. Feeling as if he were suffocating and would die if his father saw how powerfully the words had wounded, he reached out blindly with both hands to thrust Ford out of his way. He had to get out of there. Please. Just let him get out with a shred of pride left intact. Pushing past, his shoulder bumped the old man’s chest.

With an undignified yelp, Ford stumbled back. He bumped a table, scattering its contents across the Aubusson rug and his arms windmilled before he finally caught his balance. Yet even as he straightened, he took a step back with his left foot and rolled the heel of his tasseled loafer over a corner of the first edition leather-bound, gilt-edged classic that had tumbled to the floor. He pitched backward.

“Dad!” Jared leapt to catch him, but his fingers slid along the smooth, pampered length of his father’s hand, and he watched helplessly as Ford crashed onto his back on the floor. There was a sickening thud as the older man’s head came into contact with the marble hearth before he lay still.

“Oh, God, oh, man.” Jared squatted down. “Dad? I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I never meant to hurt you.”

His father didn’t move and Jared reached out. Ford’s head canted awkwardly against the edge of the pale veined marble. “Are you all right? Come on, Dad, wake up!” He felt for injury, but there was no blood from the contact site at the back of his father’s head, no soft spot that he could discern. But…that angle couldn’t be normal, could it? Bringing his fingers around to the front of his father’s neck, he pressed against the artery.

No pulse beat beneath the pounding blood in his own fingertips.

Jared snapped awake, sick horror pumping through his veins. He blinked in confusion at the rows of flowers that hovered overhead on either side of his prone body. Then he blew out a breath. Okay. All right. He knew where he was now: in the gardens of the Civic Center park in Denver.

Swearing under his breath, he sat up. Since hitting town, he’d slept in fits and starts, and then only during the day because he was scared to sleep at night. He lived in constant fear of getting rousted by the cops or—worse—by someone who’d just as soon slit his throat as look at him. The sun had definitely gone down, though, and not only had he dozed off, he’d had the damn dream again. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he relived those awful ten minutes that he wished more than anything he could take back and do over.

But, oh, God, he couldn’t, and no spin in the universe could get around the fact he’d killed his own father. Nauseated, he hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in the notch between his kneecaps, rocking in abject misery.

Almost worse was the way he’d run afterward without even stopping to call 911. It probably would have been too late to save his dad anyway, but he’d never know that for certain because he’d panicked, showing only enough foresight to grab the brandy bottle and his backpack before hauling ass for the front door. He’d had it in his mind that his father’s guests were about to walk out of the dining room at any minute. The thought of one or two or maybe even the whole frickin’ lot of them staring at him with knowing eyes as they pointed accusing fingers and called him murderer had filled him with so much terror there hadn’t been room left for anything else.

For a second he desperately wished for his mother, but the desire passed as quickly as it had come upon him. The truth was he’d been so young when she died that all he really knew of her were the stories Tori had told him in an attempt to keep her memory alive.

What he really wanted was Tori. God, he wished he could call her, but not only did he hate the thought of making her an—what?—accomplice or witness or whatever in his crime, he didn’t have her number with him and doubted he could get a London number by calling 411.

Besides, what would he say—Sorry, but I offed Dad?

Snatching up his backpack, he leapt to his feet. He had to get out of the park, had to go someplace where other people hung out, even if he didn’t talk to anyone. He needed noise to drown out the voices in his head. Exiting onto Colfax Avenue, he headed for the 16th Street Mall.

Lost in misery, he failed to pay attention to the slight figure that detached itself from the shadow of the Greek amphitheater and followed him.

VICTORIA PAUSED IN THE doorway of Ford’s second office the next afternoon and watched John as he sat with the telephone receiver clasped between his ear and a hunched-up shoulder, scribbling furiously on a legal pad that sat at an angle on the desk in front of him. She didn’t understand why her father had felt the need for two offices, but the south wing that housed this one had been added while she was abroad, so perhaps he’d had plans to turn his old office into something else. That wasn’t really important, anyway. She only knew she’d chosen this room for Rocket’s use because it was farther away from the heart of the house than Father’s original study.

Which hardly explained why she was standing there staring at John’s muscular shoulders and the bunch and release of the sinews in his forearm as he wrote with the twisted, upside-down awkwardness of a leftie. You’d think she’d never seen silky black hair feathering a guy’s arms before. Shaking off a niggle of unease that whispered she’d never found any features on another man quite so virile as this one’s, she stepped into the room.

And heard him murmur, “You’re the woman, Mac. You sure you won’t change your mind about running away with me?”

Well, there’s a reality check for you. The guy was a lady-killer and she’d be wise to keep that in mind. Composing her features to reveal nothing beyond polite disinterest, she waited until he’d hung up the phone before saying, “You wanted to see me?”

His head jerked up and she froze as something hot and dangerous flashed in his eyes. Then his face went neutral and, setting down his pen, he reached for his coffee cup. Bringing it to his lips, he took a sip, and looked at her over its rim. “I thought you might like a progress report.”

She took an eager step toward the desk, her momentary discomfort forgotten in a wash of anticipation. “Have you found Jared, then?”

“No, not yet. But I will.”

Swamped with disappointment, she nevertheless gave him an apologetic grimace as she pulled out the chair across from him and sank onto its edge. “I guess it was naive to jump to that conclusion in the first place. I know it’s too soon to get my hopes up.”

“It’s too soon for me to have much to report, as well, but I’ve found that most clients appreciate being kept up to date. So if you’re interested…?”

“Yes. Please. My imagination has conjured up some truly horrendous scenarios, so to have something—anything—else to think about would be helpful.”

“I talked to Jared’s friends Dan Coulter and Dave Hemsley. Unfortunately he hasn’t contacted them.”

Her disappointment deepened. “Could they be lying? Perhaps they think they’re protecting him, or that telling you where he is would break that unwritten adolescent code not to rat out your fellow teen.”

“It’s possible, Tori, but I’ve interviewed a lot of teenagers over the years, and it’s taught me to pay attention to their body language and the nuance in their conversations. Kids are my specialty and these two struck me as a couple of straight shooters whose biggest secret was having attended a rave and a few beer blasts.”

She wanted to be stoic. She meant to be stoic. But she couldn’t prevent the low moan that slipped past her compressed lips.

“Heeey,” he crooned, leaning forward. “This is not the end of the world. It eliminates the easiest possibility, but it also gives us more eyes and ears around town. I stressed the seriousness of Jared’s situation to his friends, as well as the danger he could be in, and asked them to put out the word. Jared doesn’t have a girlfriend, which is unfortunate, since teenage boys often tell their girls things they’d never say to their buddies. But kids talk, and Dan and Dave swore they’d call me if he gets in touch with anyone they know.”

“So if he isn’t hiding out at a friend’s house here in town, what now?”

“I go talk to the cops. I generally do that right off the bat, but decided to talk to his friends first this time instead.”

“The police seemed pretty determined to make Jared their prime suspect when I talked to them.” Her stomach flip-flopped at the memory of that conversation.

John merely shrugged. “If they don’t feel like sharing, I’ll go talk to the cab companies and see if any fares were picked up in this neighborhood on the night of your father’s death. If I get a hit, I’ll talk to the cab driver and show him Jared’s picture. And if that doesn’t produce anything, I’ll take his photo to the airport and bus station to see if anyone remembers selling him a ticket.” He reached across and stroked gentle fingertips atop the hands she hadn’t even realized she’d clasped tightly on the smooth cherrywood surface of the desk in front of her. “I will find him, Victoria.”

She appreciated the reassurance, but his touch registered clear down to her toes, and she sat back in her chair, easing her hands out from beneath his long fingers. Looking around the office to avoid meeting his eyes, she found the distraction she sought and frowned in puzzlement. “There’s something wrong with this room. I can’t quite put my finger on it—whether it’s a dimension or a spatial aberration, or maybe it’s just the color scheme, which isn’t my cup of tea. But something about the office is off. It bugs me that I can’t figure out what.”

He leaned back, his dark eyes bright with interest. “That’s right—you’re an architect. As I recall, you were on the fast track at some hotshot firm when I knew you. You were in line to become…an associate, wasn’t it? Did that happen for you?”

“No. Well, they offered me the position, but I had to turn it down.”

“You’re kidding me!” Straightening, he stared at her. “I remember you being totally psyched about that promotion—wasn’t it your design or something that landed a big contract?”

“Yes.” She smiled at the memory.

“So, why the hell would you turn down something you’d been working so hard to attain?”

“Esme.”

“You walked away because you had a kid? That’s kind of a fifties attitude, don’t you think? News flash, darlin’, lots of women actually handle both.”

“Well, thank you for the tip, Miglionni.” Anger erupted and for once it didn’t occur to her to try to contain it. “You think it was an easy decision? I loved that job and I was damn proud of my work. But it also required putting in more than sixty hours a week and I’ve got a little news flash of my own, darlin’. I know what it’s like to have a parent whose work is more important than his kids. I wanted better for my child.”

Feeling agitated and restless, she climbed to her feet. She had to get out of here. Somehow Rocket pulled a multitude of feelings and sensations out of her without even trying, and she wanted no part of them. The last time she’d felt this way had also been with him, and in the end it had nearly broken her heart. So she was so gone. But first…

She stared down the length of her nose at him. “I have a suggestion for you. Go talk to those women who do it all. Ask them if they’d stay home with their children if they could afford it. You might be surprised at how many would leap at the chance. I know I’m fortunate to have the resources that gave me a choice, so guess just how much your input means to me? You’re the last person I’d ever solicit an opinion from on parenting. My God, you bullied your way into moving in here with unfounded accusations that I never in a million years would have thought to do. Not to mention that subtle threat to make things ugly for everyone involved if you weren’t given the opportunity to get to know your daughter.” She ignored the fact that she was using him in return for protection.