His First Choice (3 page)

“Yes,” he blurted, embarrassed that he was still standing there like an imbecile, thinking about sex. “I'm Jem Bridges. What can I do for you?”

Was one of his men in trouble? He didn't know all their wives, but he'd met most of them at one time or another. And couldn't remember any looking like this.

So maybe she was a girlfriend...attempting to catch someone out in a lie... He gave himself a mental shake. Most of the world was not like Tressa.

“I'm Lacey Hamilton, Mr. Bridges.” She handed him a card. “I'm from child protective services.”

Jem's chin dropped. His gut knotted over the spaghetti he'd had for dinner.

Not a wife. Or a girlfriend. She was an agent from child protective services. And there could be only one reason she'd come to his house.

Only one child there. Only one child in his life. One child he knew well enough to answer for to any child agency.

With a mother who, on occasion, tried to make Jem's life hell.

Which meant only one thing to him. The beautiful woman standing on his doorstep wasn't there to feed his sexual fantasies. She was there to implode his life.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE
FIRST
THING
Lacey noticed from her spot on the front porch looking in was a clean home—at least what she could see of it. The father, not so much. He was clean-cut enough, but the red stains on the front of his white button-down shirt were a bit off-putting. His open blue gaze kind of captivated her—until she blinked, and broke the contact, and remembered that the man's lean, cowboy-type good looks had nothing to do with her reason for being there.

Other than giving her a sign that she wasn't dealing with someone currently drunk or obviously down on his luck.

Well-to-do, well-dressed, gorgeous fathers abused their kids. And cowboys with stained shirts could, too.

“May I come in?” she asked. If he refused, she'd get a warrant. Then there'd be a strike against him in her estimation.

“Of course.” He stepped back.

Once she was inside, she could see the living room and what looked like a smaller living area with books and a piano off to her right. The home was one of the older, antebellum-type houses that dotted the town of Santa Raquel. But where the big mansions on the beach, and across from the beach, carried seven-figure price tags, Bridges's home was farther inland. And not quite as large.

“What can I do for you?”

The contractor stood directly in front of her. Arms crossed. Defensive and possibly aggressive posture. Daring her to come in any farther?

She'd followed protocol, had logged her intent to make the home visit and had her phone's GPS location on. Her whereabouts could be traced. If he tried anything untoward, he'd get caught.

Still, she could have waited for another agent to accompany her. If she'd been so inclined. If she'd have been able to sleep without assuring herself that little Levi wasn't in immediate danger.

She could also have called the police—they often partnered on child protective services cases that involved anything of a criminal nature.

Looking around, taking her time to answer the man still standing guard over his home, Lacey assimilated as she'd been trained to do.

She didn't have definitive proof of illegal activity. But Mara had noticed finger-shaped bruising weeks ago.

A broken arm could indicate escalating injury. She wasn't frightened, just cautious by nature.

“My office received a phone call,” she started slowly, softly, as she heard sounds coming from a room in the back of the house. A utensil dropping on a table or counter?

“Is your son here?”

“Of course he's here. He lives here.”

“May I see him?”

Frowning, the man studied her. “I need to see some picture identification. Anyone can have cards printed up.”

Reaching into her black strapped leather satchel, she pulled out her badge and handed it to him.

Apparently he was cautious by nature, too.

Or stalling while he tried to figure out what to do?

Nodding, he handed the card back to her. “You said you had a phone call.”

Someone was tapping a rhythm—
thump, thump, thump
.

She nodded, taking a step toward the sound. “May I see your son?”

“Of course you can. But I'd like to know why first.”

“Clap along...nah nah nah nah das what you wanna do...” The faint sound of the childish voice interrupted them from the distance and Lacey stared in the direction her feet wanted her to go.

“Pharrell Williams,” she said. The song “Happy” was one she played full blast in her car on those days when her job seemed heavier than she was.

The tapping continued, not at all in rhythm with the words. The tune wasn't bad, though.

“He's a little off beat,” Jeremiah Bridges said. “And he's supposed to be eating, so I need to get back to him before I have spaghetti sauce splattered on the walls in line with those beats.”

The sounds continued. And Lacey's suspicious mind wondered if Mr. Bridges had somehow triggered his son's impromptu performance for her benefit. Except that he'd have had no way to do so. He hadn't known she was coming. No one outside the logbook in the office had.

Of course, the boy could be programmed to begin the performance anytime the doorbell rang...

A far-fetched thought even for her.

“Don't let me stop you from getting back to him,” Lacey said. “I'm here to check on his well-being.”

“His being will be well until I return to him,” the man said with a confidence that could have been endearing if it didn't make her wonder just what made a grown man so certain that a little boy would stay at the table. “It's the walls I'm worried about.”

“He's confined, then?” she asked. Strapped in a booster? Or...heaven forbid, did the man keep a four-year-old in a high chair?

She'd seen it before. A mother who'd lost a toddler, not letting her second baby grow up. One of the saddest situations she'd had to oversee. Because in the end, she'd had to take the woman's second baby from her, too.

“No.”

“Then how do you know he'll be okay?” She was being difficult. She knew it even before she said the words. But the man was...bothering her.

“Because he gave me his word he wouldn't get down from the table.”

Impressive? Or oppressive?

“Now.” Mr. Bridges's arms were crossed again. “I want to know why child protective services is in my home checking up on my son. What's this phone call you mentioned?”

“Someone is concerned about Levi's welfare.”

“Nuh nuh nuh...” came from the distance.

“Someone.”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I'm not at liberty to tell you that, Mr. Bridges.”

“I'm his father. I have a right to know if someone thinks that another person is hurting my son.”

“Not while the investigation is ongoing.”

“The investigation...” His eyes narrowed and then widened. “Wait a minute. You think
I
hurt my son? I'm the one being investigated?” He sounded as shocked as any parent she'd ever heard.

And she'd heard some doozies—from the innocent and the guilty.

“Everyone in Levi's life is being investigated,” Lacey said, softening her tone in spite of how much the man was knocking her off her mark.

It was as though she'd known him before...in another life, or something as absurd.

“Well, I can tell you right now, no one is hurting my son. I'm with him every day. I'd know if he was being mistreated. Wouldn't I?”

The catch in the deep voice struck her as he uttered those last two words, lodging someplace in her chest.

“It's still my duty to check.” Her visit wasn't personal. Had nothing to do with her at all—other than as an agent for the state.

“By all means.” He stepped back. And then, when she made to move forward, stood in her way again. “If someone is hurting him, I want them stopped,” he said, his gaze flint sharp.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Lacey nodded.

“That's what I'm here for,” she told him.

And hoped to God the call was a false alarm.

* * *

H
E
WANTED
TO
grab his son out of his chair with both arms, shield him against his chest and run. But instead Jem led the drably dressed woman slowly down a hall to the old kitchen he'd remodeled himself in his spare time when Tressa had been pregnant with Levi.

He couldn't panic. Not yet.

Not if someone was hurting his boy. Possible suspects ran through his mind. The only people he knew who had access to Levi besides himself were preschool workers and his mother. No one who would hurt him.

And who'd called?

Tressa sprang to mind again. But would she really go that far? She'd pulled some questionable shit a time or two, but only to lash out at him.

As far as he knew, she didn't have any reason to be pissed with him right then. Things had been good. Better than they'd been in years...

And then something else dawned on him. Social services, child protective services, could take his son away from him if they felt the choice was warranted.

Surely Ms. Hamilton wasn't there with that thought in mind. Levi was his son. His life. No one was going to take better care of the boy than he did.

Or love him like he did.

She had to have some kind of real proof...

Didn't she?

Ready to grab the woman back, to haul her ass through his house and put her firmly but kindly outside his front door and then lock it behind her, Jem could only stand and watch as she rounded the corner, went through the archway to the kitchen and approached the table.

“Hi, Levi, I heard about you, and your dad said it was okay if I came to meet you.”

He'd heard of a devil in sheep's clothing. Had quite possibly grown up with one, in the form of his older sister.

And hoped to hell he hadn't just let one into his son's world.

CHAPTER FOUR

“W
HAT
'
S
YOUR
NAME
?” Levi asked.

Lacey understood, the first second she heard that little voice, what Mara had been telling her about Levi's precociousness. In a perfectly serious tone, he sounded as self-assured as his father had done. All mixed in with soft
r
's and a spaghetti-sauce-smeared face.

It took her two seconds to put that sauce together with the stains on the front of Mr. Bridges's shirt. Had there been some kind of physical tussle with the boy? Was that how Bridges could be so certain his son wouldn't move out of his chair?

“I'm Lacey,” she said, taking a seat at the big butcher-block table with the little boy. His father's place, empty dirty plate with silverware sitting neatly in the middle of it, was within easy reach of Levi. “Lacey Hamilton.”

The boy stared at her. “You have blond hair.”

She said, “Yep,” and smiled. She was good with kids. Always had been. Which was part of the reason she'd chosen to go into social work.

“I have a broken arm,” he said, holding up his cast as he pursed his lips.

He'd been crying. She could see the streaks left by his tears. And had to wonder...

As if just noticing the telltale streak marks himself, Jeremiah appeared from over by the sink. “Let's get your face wiped up, buddy.” He had a wet paper towel in hand.

“I can do it.” Levi took it from his father, lifted his chin and scrubbed at his face. He then handed the cloth back to his father and held his hand up to him.

Jeremiah wiped each finger. “You through eating?” he asked. The plate in front of the boy was scattered with stray strands of spaghetti, but mostly empty.

“Is that enough bascetti for ice cream?”

“Yep.” The man didn't miss a beat as he took the cloth, the plate, and moved back to the sink, which was on the boy's side of the table.

Lacey had to give him points for letting her sit alone at the table with the boy, as though giving his consent to his son to be friendly with her and letting Levi know that she was friend, not threat.

But he'd been crying. Violently enough to leave stains down his face. Mara, who'd known him since he was three months old, who'd been caring for him all day most days ever since, said there'd been a drastic behavioral change in him.

An alarming change...

“How'd you break your arm?” Lacey asked. He'd brought it up, so it made the question natural enough.

The boy looked down. “I fell.” The words were barely discernible in the mumble that came out.

She leaned forward, wishing she could take that little body into her arms, lay his head on her shoulder and promise him that no one would ever hurt him again.

It was a reaction she hadn't had since her first years on the job. At least not often. It wasn't that she didn't care about each and every child who crossed her path. She did. Enough to keep the distance mandatory for her to do her job and make the hard decisions that would keep them safe.

“Fell how?” she asked when Levi's chin finally lifted off from his chest.

“Did the hospital call you?” Jeremiah Bridges, wiping his hands on a dish towel, came toward the table.

With a glance at the boy, back at him and then back to Levi, she ignored the question.

“How did you fall, Levi?”

“I dunno. I just fell,” Levi said, then looked to his dad. “Can I go play now?”

With a glance in Lacey's direction, Jeremiah left the decision up to her. She nodded.

The boy was well kept—was obviously used to washing up after meals, too—and well fed, at least that night. And every day, as well, judging by the lean strength in his four-year-old body as Jeremiah turned the chair and assisted as Levi hopped down from his booster seat.

“No video games,” he said as the boy walked slowly toward the archway. “And don't forget, no Batman or Superman for another day or two.”

“I know...” The boy's head hung again. But as Levi passed his dad, Jeremiah held his hand up for a high five and Levi gave him one.

Not the actions of a frightened child.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Jeremiah asked the boy. And then, with a nod of his head in her direction, he gave the boy a questioning look.

“Oh, yeah,” Levi said and turned to her. “It was nice to meet you, Lacey,” he said. He looked at his dad again. “Did I do it right?”

“Yes, sport, you did it just fine,” Jeremiah said, grinning at Levi. “Now go play for a few minutes.”

The little body was almost at the archway when Levi turned back. “Just until time for ice cream, right?”

“Right.”

Jeremiah's grin was all for his son, but Lacey caught the tail end of it as he turned back to her. She started to respond before she caught herself.

He was looking at her full on by then. And he'd sobered completely. So had she.

“Tell me about that broken arm.” She kept her tone quiet. She itched for the tablet in her purse. She needed to type about the arm. And when they were done with that, about the cause of those tears.

Kids cried, sometimes daily. Most particularly the little ones. It was a part of life. The testing of boundaries, and the impromptu bursts of emotions that learning right from wrong elicited. Tears were no reason to suspect wrongdoing here.

Still, a vision of those particular streaks on those particular cheeks had burned itself in her mind.

“What's to tell?” Bridges asked, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed in front of him again. “He fell. And if that's what this is about, if someone is trying to make something out of the fact that a kid fell and broke his arm, I'd suggest they take a look at...well...” He shrugged. “Even I broke my arm when I was a kid. Boys do that. It's not a crime.”

The way his eyebrows were drawn—as if he was confused, lost—sent a mixed message, combined with the defensiveness of the rest of his posture.

His dark hair wasn't overly long. Or short, either. He reminded her of a citified cowboy, one who wore work boots instead of cowboy ones. He was a contractor, she knew, and owned his own business, which had rave reviews online: a Better Business Bureau endorsement, and a stellar record with the Registrar of Contractors.

She'd had a busy afternoon.

“Are you with me?” he asked now, switching from left foot crossed over right to the opposite, drawing her eyes to the jeans that fit those legs well enough to star in a commercial for...anything manly.

“I am,” she said. “I'm listening. Not just to what you're saying, but for what you aren't. It's my job to be observant.” She was going to stop there, but for some reason added, “And to make sure that I take enough time that I don't jump to conclusions.” The last was true. On every job. Just not something she generally shared with a parent under investigation.

“Do you fear you're doing that here?” he asked, his glance changing from lost to piercing. “Because I can save you some time. I have not, ever, even had a split-second urge to lash out at my son. Not in any way that could be considered abusive. I've gotten impatient. Spoken more sharply than I'd have liked. I've raised my voice to him. But I have never, ever lifted a hand to him or in any way trampled his spirit.”

It was one of the better “I'd never do that” speeches she'd heard. Maybe that was why she so badly wanted to believe him. But she had to have more than a statement of innocence. A four-year-old child's life could be at stake.

“How'd you break your arm?”

He blinked, stood up straight and uncrossed his arms. “What?” Then crossed his arms again in an arrogant expression of nonchalance.

She didn't blame him his defensiveness. Nor could she let it keep her from finding out what she had to know.

“I fell off my bike,” he said.

“See, now, that's a lie.” She probably shouldn't have said the words aloud. But she'd known instantly that he was lying. For the first time since she'd entered his home, he avoided her glance.

Or he was a master manipulator who was playing with her.

“No, I did,” he said, meeting her gaze now. “I was eight years old. Racing my older sister. Went up a curb and flew over the handlebars. I landed on my arm.”

She believed him. And where did that leave her? She'd been so certain a second ago that he was lying.

“Boys break their arms,” he said softly, almost as though he felt sorry for her. A heat wave passed through her, leaving her unsure for the time it took her to draw one deep breath.

She wasn't being paid to feel. Or sense. Or even “believe.” Certainly not at that stage. She was there to gather facts. As many as she could get. To look for inconsistencies along the way. And then to assimilate.

She was getting ahead of herself.

“You want to know what's bothering me?” She looked up at him, needing to stand and face him head-on. His entire demeanor seemed to dare her to do so. But she stayed in her seat to show him—and maybe herself—that he couldn't intimidate her.

“Yeah,” he said, surprising her as he suddenly pulled out a chair and sat with her. “If you want to know the truth, I really do want to know what's bothering you. I'm sitting here having dinner with my son, helping him deal with the grave disappointment he's experiencing for missing out on something he's been looking forward to for six months, and suddenly here you are, disrupting our lives in a very unpleasant way. I think I deserve to know why.”

Wow. The man sure knew how to deliver his punches. Funny thing was, she didn't feel like she'd been hit. At least not by anything that smacked of evil, or even foul play.

Stick to your known purpose. Don't let him pull you off course.
The words of a mentor from her early days in social services surfaced in her mind.

“What's bothering me is that neither you nor your son have told me how he came to fall. When I asked you how you broke your arm, you didn't just say you fell. You said you fell off your bike. And then when I challenged you, you provided detail that was aimed at convincing me you were telling me the truth.”

He was assessing her. But she had no idea what he was thinking.

“I can't tell you the details about my son's broken arm.”

Aha. Now they were getting somewhere. “Why not?” Because they would incriminate him? Half expecting to hear him say that he needed to call his lawyer, she waited.

“Because I don't know them.”

Disappointed, not because there'd been no lawyering up, but because she'd thought he was being honest with her, Lacey figured she was wasting her time there. If she'd had her tablet on, she'd have shut it off.

“Levi was with his mother when it happened.”

No. Don't lie to me. You're going to force me to take a harsher stance if you lie...

“The emergency room report said that you were the one who brought him in.”

“She called me. I went and picked him up. She's not good with medical stuff.”

“And neither one of them told you what happened?” Did he really expect her to believe this?

“I know my ex-wife's version. And frankly, I didn't explain more completely because I didn't want you finding fault with her. She's a good person and doesn't react well to being hassled. She's a bit of a drama queen. But she loves Levi and would never do anything to harm him.”

Lacey sat up straighter and clutched the strap of her bag. Ex-spouses throwing each other under the bus was a classic. Common.

And here she was, disappointed in him for playing the card. For being on a potential abusive parent investigation, she had far too high an expectation of this guy.

He'd soon be telling her that his ex-wife lashes out. That she responds physically to anger and then regrets her actions. Or some version thereof. She knew the ropes.

“Can you be more specific?” She led him down his trail, thinking only of Levi now, of what resources would best help the boy. Family counseling? A caseworker—her—stopping by on a regular basis?

The state of California was pretty firm on its stance to remove kids from their homes only as a last resort.

In rare circumstances, an in-home advocate could be placed on a temporary basis...

“Levi was climbing up her bookcase to get a video he wanted to watch. I've suggested to her that she keep his videos on the lower shelves where he can reach them, but she says that that makes them too accessible to him and he'd be watching them all the time.”

She waited, listening in between the lines. Clearly Bridges was experiencing a gap in parenting philosophy with his ex-wife, which could create stress and confusion for a child. But the gap alone didn't break arms. Or bruise little bodies.

“When she saw him up there, she got scared that he might fall and grabbed him to help him down.”

Then what, she dropped him? The story was almost believable. Lacey waited for the fall.

“Unfortunately, instead of grabbing him around his middle, Tressa just grabbed his arm...” His voice fell off, as if that explained it all.

“You're trying to tell me that your ex-wife's grasp was so strong she broke your son's arm in two places?”

“No. She didn't have a firm enough grip to support his weight, and he fell off the shelf. It was an accident. Believe me, if Tressa had been rough with him, if I thought that she would in any way hurt him, I'd be in court to sue for full custody yesterday.”

It was hard not to believe him. But...

“So why won't Levi talk about it?”

“Because he knew he wasn't supposed to be climbing up on the shelves. He's already been firmly spoken to about misbehaving and knows that he's living with the consequences of having done so. I think at this point he just wants the whole thing to go away. He doesn't want anyone else reading him the riot act. Levi's usually a great kid. He takes it personally when he screws up.”