Hot & Bothered (25 page)

She gazed at him calmly. “But you didn't do it, did you?”

“No. But I was
this close.
”

“Close doesn't count.” She stood and crossed over to him. Staring solemnly up at him, she reached out to stroke a soothing hand down his arm. “The fact is, you didn't. You held on to your temper and neither told him he was a useless waste of space, the way his own father did, nor hit him.”

“This time,” he said flatly and stepped away. The trust in her eyes made his gut churn, because God knew he didn't deserve it. She might not fully appreciate what sort of stock he came from, but he did. “Don't break out any medals for me just yet, darlin'. Because who the hell knows what will happen the next time he pisses me off?”

 

T
HREE DAYS LATER
, E
SME
came running to Victoria, nearly in tears. “Mummy, John won't play with me!” She threw herself against her mother. “
Again!
I tol' him we could play Raccoon Ants if he wanted, but he said not now!”

“John is not here to play Barbie dolls with you, sweetie. He's here to do a job.” Victoria kept her voice placid, but inside she was far from calm. She was, in fact, about ready to tear her hair out by the roots. But reining in her frustration, she held her hand out to her daughter. “I realize it might not be on a par with playing reconnaissance Barbies with John, but why don't you come be my helper in the studio today?”

“I
guess
that'd be okay.” Esme wore a long face as she grasped the proffered hand, and she dragged her feet as Victoria piloted her toward the studio. She was by nature an optimistic little girl, though, and by the time they reached the garage she'd begun to skip alongside Victoria and regale her with the details of her earlier telephone conversation with Rebecca. As they let themselves into the studio she provided a word-by-word report of everything her best friend had said to her and her own clever responses.

Victoria um-hmmed and occasionally commented to show she was listening. Her thoughts, however, kept sliding back to John.

God, he was making her nuts. He actually believed that the incident with Jared proved he was on a par with his abusive father and no amount of talking on her part would make him listen to reason. Add in her own inability to concentrate on anything else for more than a minute or two at a time and you had serious ulcer potential.

Unfortunately, unless John decided to quit being an idiot, her stress levels weren't likely to magically correct themselves anytime soon. So acknowledging she wasn't at her sharpest, she got Esme tricked out in a voluminous apron and set her up with one of the scale models, a glue stick, and the package of roofing shingles she'd ordered in the wrong color. The latter could also be blamed on Rocket, since she'd placed that order the day after she'd discovered John Miglionni of Semper Fi Agency was none other than her onetime lover.

The way she felt right now, in fact, damn near everything wrong with the universe could be laid squarely at his long, narrow feet.

Once Esme was absorbed in her task, she picked up the hot glue gun and automatically began applying gin
gerbread shingles to the dollhouse she was making to replace the one she'd given P.J. Fortunately for her fingers, siding was a job she'd done dozens of times before, because she couldn't concentrate to save her soul.

The day before yesterday Jared had apologized to her. He'd been embarrassed and less than articulate, but she suspected that had quite a lot to do with having to place her and sex in the same context. From what she could glean from his rambling explanation, though, Rocket had spent the entire time he was struggling not to knock her brother's teeth down his throat defending
her.
It certainly seemed to have impressed the hell out of Jared, which she could understand, having seen their father in action.

But would John see that? Oh, no. He was still stubbornly convinced that he was just one argument away from turning into a child abuser. He'd distanced himself from both her brother and Esme, throwing up an emotional wall to prevent them from getting close. He was perfectly civil, but in a distant sort of way, taking extra care to keep both of them safely at arm's length.

Jared didn't seem to mind. The poor kid had learned the hard way not to expect too much from adult males, so any attention he received from John probably seemed like a lot to him. He appeared content enough just to know that the man he was clearly beginning to idolize wasn't mad at him anymore.

But Victoria had specifically removed Esme from her grandfather's sphere so the child would never have to learn the kind of emotional limits that Victoria and Jared had. And she was getting damn tired of seeing her daughter's unhappy confusion over the man who would play imaginative games with her one day, then blow her off the next.

A car engine started up in the garage below the studio and her mouth twisted as she recognized its distinctive growl.
Well, speak of the devil
she thought sourly. The rat was apparently deserting the ship.

Okay, that probably wasn't fair. Still, she glanced over at Esme, afraid her daughter would also recognize the sound of the car accelerating down the lane and have her hurt feelings resurrected. But Es had her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on pressing a miniature shingle next to several others she'd already glued in a lopsided line along the roofline. It wasn't until the reporters outside the gate began clamoring that she looked up.

“Is that the wuffs?” she asked.

“Yes.” A slight smile tugged at Victoria's lips. Jared calling the reporters wolves had stuck in Esme's mind.

“Why are they yelling?”

“One never knows with that lot, but I imagine it's because they tend to get excited when people leave or enter the estate.”

“Is someone here?” Esme hopped up and shoved her chair over to the window. She climbed up and stood on her tiptoes to peer out the window. When that didn't garner her the results she clearly expected, she started to climb up on its arms.

“Hey, hey, hey! What have I told you about chair safety?” Victoria walked over, scooped her daughter off the chair and set her safely on her feet on the floor. She cupped her palm beneath Esme's soft-skinned chin and lifted it in order to look into her eyes. “You can't see the gates from here, anyway, sweetie.”

“But who's here? Maybe somebody came to see us.”

“No.” She hesitated, then admitted, “John just left.”

Esme stared up at her for a moment, then nodded. “'Cause he's gotta work?”

“Yes.”

“'Kay.” She pushed her chair back over to the worktable. After clambering up to sit on it, she reached for the shingle she'd been applying a smear of waxy glue to before the reporters started yelling. “Good.” She slapped the shingle on the roof.

Victoria went back to her own glueing. “Good, huh? Why is that?”

“'Cause maybe he'll want to play with me when he comes back from his job.”

“Oh, Es. He still might not have the time.”

“Uh-huh. He will so.”

Damn John. She and he were going to exchange some serious words if he didn't straighten up and fly right in a big fat hurry. He simply could not persist in this nonsense—not if he wanted to have a place in his daughter's life.

She knew perfectly well he would never strike a child, in anger or otherwise. He had better realize it pretty darn soon, as well, because she would not put up with this. She'd had no choice but to grow up with a father who'd made it clear his time was much too valuable to squander on a mere child, but she could damn well make sure Esme didn't endure the same thing. She bent a fiercely protective glance on her little girl.

Because better no father at all than one who couldn't—or worse, wouldn't—return her love.

J
OHN SPENT THAT AFTERNOON
at the club, talking to the dining-room hostess, the pro shop manager and several of the caddies, walking a fine line to ensure his interviews came across as casual conversation. He rounded off his day by nursing a beer in the bar and jawing with the bartender. The tidbits the man let drop were filed away with the others he'd collected, and all of them, he noted, had to do with the quirks of individual personalities. Since it was his experience that information concerning people's behavior often led to figuring out who was likely to do what, he was content with that.

When he finally tipped the bartender and headed for his car, however, contentment was the last thing he felt. Instead, the foremost thought running through his mind was,
What the hell am I doing investigating a murder?

Being a Marine had taught him to go with his strengths, and murder was so far outside his area of expertise as a P.I. it wasn't even funny. It was one thing to have a knack for locating runaway and throwaway kids. Finding a stab-happy killer was something else again. He should have known better than to take the assignment in the first place. Hell, he had known better, but when it came to Victoria, his resistance seemed to be nil. The fact was, though, to be effective he needed the cooperation of
the local police, and at the moment he wasn't exactly Detective Simpson's favorite person. So even if he figured out who'd plunged the letter opener into Ford Hamilton's chest, what was he going to do about it, muscle the killer into confessing? A derisive sound slipped out of his mouth.
Sure thing, chief. That's likely to happen.

He had, as Mac had been calling daily to remind him, a business that needed his attention. And God knew that, so far, the only result of his professional help had been to locate Jared for Victoria. Well, that and generate a bill for her that would probably rival the national debt if one of them didn't get real here pretty soon.

He knew that person had better be him. Although he'd always known on some level that he and Victoria had come from different worlds, hanging around the club really drove home the fact that it was time to quit fooling himself it could somehow be otherwise. He couldn't even say why he'd believed a lasting relationship with her—not to mention being a real father to Esme—had struck him as a possibility in the first place.

The thought of not being a part of their lives, though, gnawed at his gut with razor-wire-sharp, poison-tipped teeth. And he sure didn't look forward to telling Tori. Not after he'd let her think they had the potential to be a unit.

So he'd do what any smart guy would do. He'd avoid her the rest of today and most of tomorrow. They were scheduled to attend a dance at the club tomorrow night—he'd tell her then.

It had nothing to do with cravenness, he told himself firmly. This was merely doing the right thing. The setting would simply give him the chance to help her see reason and put things in perspective while being surrounded by her own people. It was strictly for her benefit.

He wasn't cut out for this one-man/one-woman stuff. He'd known it for years, but for some reason he'd allowed himself to ignore the fact the past couple of weeks. Well, he was through fooling himself. And he sure as hell didn't have to be kicked in the head to realize he was about as far from suitable father material as a man could get. His run-in with Jared had merely strengthened a truth he'd never even thought to question until recently: a man who harbored violent impulses had no business being around kids. It was time he moved on.

Hell, when it came right down to it, he would probably be doing everyone a huge favor by going back to Denver.

Of course, it didn't negate the fact that breaking the news to Tori in a public place was still the wisest move. He had the same abhorrence for messy, emotional arguments as any other right-thinking guy, so why let this turn into an opera if he had another option? His buddies hadn't raised no fool—he knew enough to take advantage of the fact that she was much too polite to make a scene in public. Because God knew neither of them needed any more drama in their lives.

Arriving at his car, he slapped a decisive palm down on its hot metal roof. Yeah. It was much better to keep things simple. It didn't have a damn thing to do with cowardice.

And it sure as hell wasn't as if he were afraid to see her disappointment in him or anything.

 

T
HE LAST THING
V
ICTORIA
expected the following evening as she and John were about to leave for the country club was to see DeeDee come tripping out to the circular drive in her skyscraper heels. But the curvaceous blonde yoohooed from the entryway and headed straight for them, legs flashing with the motion in the split-to-the-indecent
zone skirt of her gown. Sashaying up to the driver's side of the car, she gave John's window a tap.

“Bum a ride?” she asked the minute the window glided down. “My car has a flat tire of all things and the service station can't send anyone out to fix it until tomorrow.”

Victoria had barely caught more than an occasional glimpse of John in the past thirty-six hours and really wanted to talk to him. Her manners were too ingrained to protest, however, when he shrugged his wide shoulders and said, “Sure, why not?”

“Well, now, isn't this cozy?” DeeDee said after John handed her into the backseat of his car. She waited until he shut the door before pulling together the two sides of her skirt.

Victoria had a feeling her face must have reflected some of what she was thinking, for the other woman shot her a malicious smile.

“Oh, don't worry, dear. I'm not planning to horn in on your evening. God knows I don't want to be stuck at a table with you any more than you do with me. I have…plans…for later, too, so I'll catch a ride back with someone else.” Then in blatant dismissal, she pulled out a compact and inspected her makeup. She turned her head from side to side until, apparently satisfied, she snapped the compact shut again and tossed it into her tiny evening bag.

Unlike Tori, who avoided making eye contact with the news people outside the gates as they drove past, DeeDee sat up straight, pulled her shoulders back and thrust out her chest. But she adopted a sad expression as she met the newshounds' avid gazes. Once they were no more than specks in the rearview mirror, however, she dropped the grieving widow expression and leaned forward.

“I have news that ought to brighten up your day,” she said to Victoria, who had swung around to watch her act in amazement. “I think it's time I moved out. I plan to find somewhere else to live by the fifteenth.”

Tori swivelled back to face front and a tiny smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Well, well. The evening was definitely looking up.

DeeDee was as good as her word when they reached the country club. The moment John brought the car to a halt, she climbed out and headed inside without them, freeing Victoria to pursue her own agenda.

“We need to talk,” she said a few minutes later, putting a hand on John's sleeve to stop him from escorting her into the main salon. Music and laughter poured out through its bank of open doors and men in summer tuxes and women in gowns that ran the fashion gamut from classic couture to up-to-the-minute trendy formed a kaleidoscope of constantly shifting colors. The annual Labor Day dance was kicking into high gear.

“I know.” John glanced into the salon, then looked down at her. “Let's go find our table. We can talk there.”

A table surrounded by partygoers didn't strike her as the ideal place for a serious talk and she glanced around the small reception area. “No,” she said decisively, spotting the club manager's small office. “Come with me.” She headed across the lobby.

“Tori, wait!”

But she was a woman on a mission and she walked right over to the slightly opened door and poked her head inside. Perfect—it was empty. She stepped in and turned to wait for John.

He followed her but halted on the other side of the door. Shoving his hands into his slacks pockets, he
hunched his shoulders and stared at her. “Come on, darlin', let's go into the salon. We can talk there.”

“It's too public.”

A flash of what almost looked like panic flashed across his face. “Public's not so bad,” he said. “We'll talk low.” He glanced at the brass nameplate on the door. “This is someone's office. We probably shouldn't be in here.”

“Right.” A skeptical laugh escaped her. “You being a guy who spends so much time worrying about what other people think and all.” She reached out and grabbed his forearm, which was warm and hard beneath his tux sleeve, and tugged him over the threshold. “It's here or nowhere, Miglionni.”

“Shit.” He stepped into the room but left the door open.

Reaching past him, she pushed it shut—then locked it for good measure. Starting to pick up a definite vibe, however, she looked up and met John's hooded gaze. “Why don't you want to be alone with me?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” But he squared his shoulders, slid his hands out of his pockets and slowly straightened until she had no choice but to tip her head back in order to retain eye contact. “Okay,” he admitted, “maybe I do. The truth is, I really hoped to have this talk somewhere you'd hesitate to make a scene.”

“
Excuse
me?” She couldn't decide whether she was mortally insulted…or just plain scared. Given the grim determination on his face, it didn't take long for scared to be the runaway favorite. Finding that unacceptable, she scrambled to disguise the emotion by raising her chin and utilizing her iciest tone. “Hamiltons don't make scenes. So why don't you just say whatever it is you have to say.”

“I'm going back to Denver.”

No!
She backed up until her thighs bumped against the
utilitarian desk. Gratefully she perched her rear upon it, and not a moment too soon, for her legs suddenly lost all strength. Gripping the edge on either side of her hips, she welcomed the slight sting of wood digging into her palms. “For a day or two?” she asked hopefully.

“For good.”

“For good,” she repeated without inflection. For a moment a red-hot sea of pain seemed to flood the vicinity of her heart. Then to her relief, icy anger settled over her, forming a numbing seal over the hurt. A host of possible reasons for his sudden defection raced through her mind and she narrowed her eyes at him when one thought abruptly screeched all the others to a dead halt. “My God,” she said. “You really played me for a fool, didn't you?”

“What are you talking about?” He gave her the expressionless look she thought of as his military face. “I've never been anything but straight with you and that's all I'm trying to be now.”

“Oh, baloney.” She shook her head in disgust. “And to think I honestly believed our relationship was somehow different from the week we had in Pensacola. The only thing that's truly changed is my failure to understand how much
you
want to be the one to walk away this time.”

He took a hot step forward before he caught himself. But his cool lack of expression disappeared and he bent a fierce glare on her. “That's bullshit and you know it!”

“Do I? Well, okay, I will hand it to you—this time lasted longer than a week. But the fact remains, you wanted me for a finite period of time that's apparently over now. What's the story with that, John? Do you have some internal clock or something that tells you when it's time to move on?”

“No!” John stared at her in frustration. How had she
managed to turn everything around? “Damn, where is this coming from? I've told you before and I meant it—I changed after meeting you. So it's time I return the favor I owe you and get the hell out of your life.”

“How very noble of you.”

Her bitter skepticism flicked him on the raw. “Just what did you
think
was going to happen between us, Tori?” Anger wasn't going to accomplish anything, though, so he reeled himself in. He forced his brows to unclench and managed to say with credible lightness, as if he didn't give a good goddamn, “You're champagne, baby; I'm beer. Not that I don't do pretty well for myself, but I'm sure as hell nowhere in your league. So what did you think was going to happen in the end? Were you planning on giving up the mansion, the country club, the nice cars, to come live with me in my little apartment?”

She surged up off the desk and they were abruptly nose to nose. He jerked back from the fury blazing out of her moss-green eyes.

“You patronizing, arrogant jerk,” she said, underscoring each word with a poke to his chest. “Until Father died, I lived in a three-bedroom flat—and only had the third room because I needed to combine my home with a workspace! And who said I had a burning desire to live with you, anyway?” An unamused laugh escaped her. “My God. You can't even commit to being Esme's father—you think I'd trust any promise you made for the future?”

“Now wait just a damn minute!” His blood surging hot, fast and furiously through his veins, he got right in her face. No one impugned his honor and just boogied away scot-free.