Читать книгу: «Protector With A Past»
“I know you never wanted to see me again. But what either of us wants doesn’t matter a damn right now.”
Gently Cord shifted the tiny figure in his arms.
“Whose—whose child is she?” Julia forced the question out from between lips that felt as if they’d been frozen.
“She’s mine.”
Above her, his low voice delivered the information she hadn’t wanted to hear. Julia felt as if the ground beneath her was slipping away, letting her slide back into the void she’d so recently escaped.
She raised her head and looked at Cord. “Where’s her mother?”
One corner of Cord’s mouth hitched up in that wry half smile she’d never quite forgotten, but his obsidian eyes held no hint of humor. “I said she was my child, Julia.” He tightened his grip on the girl clasped to his chest. “I should have said she’s ours.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome to another month of hot—in every sense of the word—reading, books just made to match the weather. I hardly even have to mention Suzanne Brockmann and her TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS miniseries, because you all know that this author and these books are utterly irresistible. Taylor’s Temptation features the latest of her to-die-for Navy SEALs, so rush right down to your bookstore and pick up your own copy, because this book is going to be flying off shelves everywhere.
To add to the excitement this month, we’re introducing a new six-book continuity called FIRSTBORN SONS. Award-winning writer Paula Detmer Riggs kicks things off with Born a Hero. Learn how these six heroes share a legacy of protecting the weak and standing up for what’s right—and watch as all six find women who belong in their arms and their lives.
Don’t miss the rest of our wonderful books, either: The Seduction of Goody Two-Shoes, by award-winning Kathleen Creighton; Out of Nowhere, by one of our launch authors, Beverly Bird; Protector with a Past, by Harper Allen; and Twice Upon a Time, by Jennifer Wagner.
Finally, check out the back pages for information on our “Silhouette Makes You A Star” contest. Someone’s going to win—why not you?
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Protector with a Past
MILLS & BOON
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To David Brennan, the big brother I never really got to know.
HARPER ALLEN
lives in the country in the middle of a hundred acres of maple trees with her husband, Wayne, six cats, four dogs—and a very nervous cockatiel at the bottom of the food chain. For excitement she and Wayne drive to the nearest village and buy jumbo bags of pet food. She believes in love at first sight because it happened to her.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Julia’s scream echoed in her ears as she jerked bolt upright in the dark, her eyes wide open, her heart crashing painfully against her ribs and the last shreds of the nightmare still fogging her mind.
Dear God—the child! Save the child!
She snapped the small bedside lamp on with an automatic gesture and her frozen gaze rested uncomprehendingly on the familiar room around her. Then she felt a cold nose nudging worriedly against her tightly clenched fist and she came back to reality with shuddering abruptness. King whined and nudged her again, his eyes fixed on her.
“Same old, same old, boy,” she said shakily. Her voice sounded raspy and hoarse and she realized that she was speaking too loudly. She lowered her tone, feeling foolish. “Both of us should be used to this by now.”
Reassured by the sound of her words, the German shepherd beat his tail briefly against the wide pine planks of the floor and stood up expectantly. She smiled tiredly at him. “Yeah, you know the routine—hot milk for me, a dog biscuit for you. Let me get my slippers on.”
The sheets, wet with sweat and tangled around her legs like a hasty shroud, bore mute witness to her recent terror but Julia resolutely shut her mind to it. Like she’d said, she should be used to it by now, she thought grimly, peeling the sheets from her legs with distaste and reaching for the old chenille robe draped over a nearby chair. She shoved her feet impatiently into a pair of scuffs that, like the robe, had seen better days. She’d been having the nightmare for almost two years now, ever since—
She stood up and yanked the belt of the robe tightly around her waist. Pushing the damp tendrils of hair from her forehead with a trembling hand, she took a deep breath and deliberately let her gaze dwell on the comforting and homely objects around her. The dog stood beside her quietly, recognizing this as part of the ritual they always went through.
The desk where she’d written her most private girlhood diary entries stood against the wall. A single round stone sat on one corner of the varnished maple surface, and almost unconsciously she reached over and picked it up, holding it tightly in her hand. It felt as silky and cool as lake water against her palm as she looked around the rest of the room, her breathing slowing to a steadier rate.
Earlier in the day she’d crammed a handful of yellow and purple pansies into a jelly glass, and now the warm pool of light from the lamp cast a velvety glow on them. On the wall just above the bedside table was an antique framed lithograph of two children walking hand in hand across a rickety bridge over a chasm; behind them an angel with flowing golden hair watched out for their safety. It had hung there for as long as she could remember. The photograph beside it had been there for years, too. It showed a skinny little boy in swimming trunks, standing on a dock and proudly holding up a trout as big as his arm.
She swayed slightly. King leaned his body solidly against her leg, his attention focused on her.
The overstuffed chair by the bed was covered in a faded maroon fabric, and there was a lump in the back where a spring had worked its way loose, but she’d read Gone With the Wind for the first time sitting in that chair. Besides, if she replaced it she’d have to throw out the small, drum-shaped maroon leather hassock that went with it so well, and she knew she’d never be able to do that.
She’d taken that hassock out of Davey’s room soon after it had happened, tugging it down the hallway with all her five-year-old might, just to have something of him close by in that frightening and confusing time. It still had the tiny rip in it from when one of his fishhooks had torn through the leather and he’d made her promise not to tell on him.
The stone was pressing into the bones of her hand, and she relaxed her grip on it slightly. The small bookcase by the easy chair, the dark green braided rug by the bed that King slept on, the leaf-patterned curtains at the window—everything was comfortingly familiar. They hadn’t changed since she was a child, and their very shabbiness was part of what she’d come back here for, two years ago.
Time stood still in this forgotten corner of upstate New York. If she got in her Jeep and drove down the rutted dirt road to town, if she took the turning just past Mason’s Corners that led to the highway, she knew that she’d find the rest of the world was spinning as erratically and as violently as she remembered. But she wasn’t going to take that drive, Julia thought with bleak determination. The outside world had come close to crushing her once, and only this sanctuary had kept her from self-destructing completely.
She was safe here. She wouldn’t allow anything to upset the fragile equilibrium she’d finally achieved. And if the nightmares were the price she had to pay, then she’d just have to deal with them one night at a time.
She slipped the stone into her robe pocket and dropped her hand onto King’s head. “No television, no newspapers, no phone. Just you and me and the lake and the woods, buddy. And that’s the way we’re going to keep it.” She absently ruffled the spot at the back of his ear that he never could quite reach himself, and he heaved a sigh of pure contentment. As she left the room he padded like a silent bodyguard behind her.
The electric clock on the kitchen wall showed almost three-thirty. In another hour she could walk down to the dock and wait for the sun to rise. Instead of reaching for a saucepan to heat milk in, Julia filled the battered tin percolator with cold water from the kitchen tap and spooned coffee grounds into the metal basket that sat inside. She switched on the stove burner and almost fell over King as she turned to sit down at the kitchen table. The brown eyes looking up at her held a hint of reproach.
“Oh—right.” She no longer worried that she sounded crazy, talking to him as if he could understand every word she said—if anything, having him as a companion had probably helped her stay sane. Besides, she wasn’t absolutely sure he didn’t understand English. “One late-night snack, coming up.” She opened the cupboard over the counter and pulled down the bag of Milk-Bones, and as she did her glance fell on the tall, square-sided bottle pushed to the back, half-hidden behind the bags of rice and macaroni. For a moment its contents caught the light and shone liquidly gold.
“Like a gentleman,” she said, holding out the biscuit. King obliged, taking the treat from her with almost ludicrous daintiness and then settling down in the corner by the door to the screened-in back porch to crunch it enthusiastically with his strong white teeth. She folded the bag closed again, put it back on the shelf and started to shut the cupboard door. Then she stopped.
She kept it there to prove to herself that she could leave it alone. Being afraid to even look at it gave it the very power over her that she was trying to deny. She raised herself on her tiptoes, reached past the bag of rice and grasped the bottle by its neck.
It was full. She’d bought it two winters ago, on one of her infrequent trips to town, and the owner of the liquor store had rung her purchase up quizzically, obviously expecting her to be back later in the week. At the time Julia was half-convinced that his cynical guess would turn out to be right. She’d unpacked her groceries when she’d gotten home, and after she’d put everything else away she’d sat down and pulled the bottle out of its brown paper bag. She’d set it in the middle of the kitchen table—for some reason, she remembered, it had been vitally important that it sat in the exact right spot—and she’d stared at it.
Later that afternoon it had begun to snow, and the wind had whistled off the frozen lake in steadily increasing gusts. King had dozed fitfully at her feet, whining uneasily in his sleep, and she had continued to sit there, staring at the bottle and knowing that all she had to do was reach out her hand, unscrew the cap and pour herself that first drink to blunt the razor-like memories that were crowding in.
Outside, the sun had put on a brief, bloody display before sinking below the horizon, and then the shadows had deepened and strengthened into night. With total darkness had come the ghosts, as they always did, but this time she had been facing them alone. She’d been aware of them, just at the corner of her vision, grouped around her silently.
She’d known who they were and what they wanted. They wanted her to remember, but remembering would be fatal. Keeping her gaze fixed on the bottle in the exact middle of her kitchen table, she had fought two battles that night—one against a false ally and one against enemies who had never meant her any harm.
When morning had come, a thin gray light edging the far side of the lake, she’d still been sitting there but the bottle was unopened.
And all the ghosts except one had faded away.
He was with her now. He’d always be with her, she thought wearily. It had been his name that she’d screamed out in her nightmare, him that she’d been calling for, and it was his ghost that she’d never been strong enough to push away completely. Sometimes she thought that if she whirled around as fast as she could, she’d catch him standing behind her, that straight black hair falling into one dark eye the way it used to, that wryly devastating smile hitching up the corner of his mouth. Sometimes just before she fell asleep she was sure she could almost hear his voice—husky and incongruously soft for such a big man, as if he’d never found a need to raise it—calling her name.
Those nights were the worst.
The percolator began to rattle and looking over at the stove, Julia saw coffee splashing up like a miniature fountain inside the glass knob of the lid. She slid the pot off the element. He was gone. She had made sure of that herself, had left him no reason to stay with her. It had been deliberate on her part, and it had worked. He was gone, and she knew that after their last confrontation he would never come back. He was probably married by now, she thought, pouring coffee into an ironware mug. She closed her eyes and took a sip. He’d been the marrying kind. He’d wanted a family of his own.
The coffee that had been boiling only seconds ago flooded her mouth with scalding heat, and she put the mug down hastily, feeling the prickle of tears behind her eyelids in reaction. He’d be married, and his wife would be strong and uncomplicated, able to take whatever life threw at her without flinching. Julia wondered what she would look like. He’d moved to California the last she’d heard, and she imagined his wife to be tall and blond and lightly tanned, with smooth tennis player’s muscles in her arms and the clear blue eyes of someone who’d grown up beside the Pacific. He wouldn’t have chosen anyone who bore the slightest resemblance to the woman who’d ripped his world apart, so she definitely wouldn’t be fragile-looking and brown-haired, with shadowed hazel eyes. Her mouth wouldn’t look a little too wide for her face, and she’d probably be able to wear a low-cut dress without feeling like her collarbones were the most prominent feature exposed.
By the door King got slowly to his feet, his ears pricked forward alertly, but Julia was lost in thought.
They’d have children. It felt as if she’d taken a dull knife and twisted it in her heart, but she forced herself to go on. They’d have the children she’d vowed she’d never have herself, and whatever their mother looked like, the children would be smaller versions of him. Somewhere on the other side of the continent the Seneca heritage that had manifested itself so strongly in him would give his offspring high cheekbones and eyes so brown they almost looked black. His children would be beautiful.
They could have been hers.
She could hear the wind sifting through the topmost branches of the maples that surrounded the house, and somewhere in the woods an owl must have fallen from the blackness onto its prey, because the silence of the night was split with a faraway, high-pitched cry that was choked off abruptly. She flinched. Then she set her shoulders with fatigued determination. It was still well before dawn, but suddenly she knew she couldn’t stay inside a moment longer. Tonight had been one of the bad ones. She was edging perilously close to the abyss, and it had taken her too long to climb out the last time to risk falling in again.
She picked up the bottle briskly and started to put it back in the cupboard. Behind her, King whined strangely, and his nails scrabbled at the screen door in excitement.
“In a minute, boy.” She glanced over her shoulder and saw the figure standing on the other side of the screen.
It was just as she’d always thought—if she turned around fast enough he’d be there, watching her. But in her imagination he’d always been alone.
He was holding a small child to his chest. Tiny arms were twined around his neck in a desperate grip. He wasn’t smiling and he looked as if he hadn’t slept for days, and Julia knew with icy certainty that he wasn’t a hallucination.
He was real. He’d come back. He’d brought a child with him.
The bottle fell from her nerveless fingers and smashed into pieces on the kitchen floor.
“What are you doing here?”
Her whisper was cracked and harsh. The sharp fumes of the whiskey overpowered the smell of coffee in the kitchen, but she hardly noticed. King pressed his nose against the screen and wagged his tail furiously.
“He remembers me. Let me in, Julia.”
His words were spoken softly, and he made no move to un-latch the screen door and walk in uninvited. She didn’t have to do it, she thought swiftly, meeting his gaze. If she told him to leave, he would. She knew that, because the two of them had lived through a scene similar to this before, and when Cord had realized that she’d meant what she said, he’d turned around and walked out of her life.
But this time he had a child with him. And even though he couldn’t have known that was the worst thing he could do to her, after that first quick glance she couldn’t bring herself to look at the tiny figure in his arms.
“I know you never wanted to see me again. But what either of us wants doesn’t matter a damn right now.”
Against all her expectations, he shifted the child gently and used his free hand to open the screen door. He stepped inside, and those strong brown fingers that she remembered so well dropped briefly to the top of King’s head. The dog grinned up at him, his tail wagging with pleasure.
“Whose—whose child is she?”
She forced the question out from between lips that felt as if they’d been frozen. Without waiting for his answer she reached under the sink for the small dustpan and whisk broom she kept there for emergencies, and avoiding his eyes, she started sweeping the shards of glass up. The whiskey was an amber pool that spread halfway across the kitchen floor, and the smell was so pungent that she felt as if she was going to throw up.
“Get her out of here, Cord. There’s nothing I can do for her, so just turn around and take her away. You never should have brought her here.”
Her head bent over her task, her words came out in a wrenching undertone and her vision blurred suddenly. The next moment she felt a slicing pain and through the sheen of tears she saw the blood already welling up from the ball of her thumb.
“I can’t do that. She’s mine.”
Above her, his low voice delivered the information that she hadn’t wanted to hear, had never wanted to know, and suddenly the pain in her hand was nothing. Julia felt as though the ground underneath her was slipping away, letting her slide back into the void that she’d so recently escaped, but this time she knew she’d never be able to climb out again.
It was true, then. He’d made a child with someone else, started a family that belonged to him and some unknown woman. She’d wanted him to do that. She’d wanted to be part of his past, to be left alone by him, but his confirmation of what she’d previously only guessed at was too much to bear.
Oblivious to the slow crimson drops that were falling from her hand and turning to bright umber as they hit the spilled liquor, she raised her head and looked at him.
“Where’s her mother?”
One corner of Cord’s mouth hitched up in that wry half smile that she had never quite forgotten, but the obsidian eyes held no hint of humor. “I said she was my child, Julia.” He tightened his grasp on the silent little body. “I should have said she was ours.”
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