Maggie Undercover (11 page)

Like an obedient child he sat. She rose onto
her knees and brushed back his hair. She probed the small lump. Her
fingers felt cool, but the heat they generated against his skin
made him flinch.

"I'm so sorry. Does it hurt? Shall I kiss the
boo boo and make it better?"

Her innocent offer sent a shaft of longing
through him. Disgust warred with biology. The ache in his body was
a lot lower than his forehead. For a moment her gaze met his and he
saw a woman's awareness in her eyes. Lips moist and parted, she
swayed toward him.

Mesmerized by the need reflected in her eyes,
he leaned forward. As soft as a baby's breath he inhaled her
contented sigh. He'd wanted to do this almost from the first second
he'd seen her.

Wrong, his mind clamored. Right, his body
responded drowning out logic and common sense. When her hands slid
around shoulders and her eyes fell shut, his moment of idiocy
shattered. A hairsbreadth before their mouths touched he jerked
away.

Icy cold anger doused the heat.

When would he learn? Despite her age Maggie
McCade was no innocent child. She knew what she was doing. But did
he?

He jumped up.

Maggie bounced backwards on the couch.
Jared's angry gaze locked on her destroying the blissful haze
around her. She scrambled to her feet. His cool rejection sparked a
return anger. Anger at herself. "I'm going home now. Where are my
shoes?" What had she been thinking, throwing herself at the man?
Either the rumor of his attraction to young girls was overrated or
he didn't find her appealing. Though she was loath to admit it she
found herself hoping it was the former.

"You're not going anywhere."

She paused from searching for her shoes and
glared up at him. "What? Why not? And you're looming again."

"Your parents are out of town."

"So? I'm a big girl. I can stay home by
myself." Daniel and Jeanne had gone back to L.A. to touch base with
their office. They'd be back Sunday afternoon.

"Doctor Burton thinks you might have a
concussion. You can't drive. And someone needs to keep an eye on
you for the next twenty-four hours."

"I'm not concussed. I can drive. And how did
you get elected my keeper?"

"I think I liked you better unconscious," he
muttered and ran his hand around the back of his neck. Some of the
anger seemed to drain out of him. "Cindy Jackson offered to take
you home with her, but the doctor said it was better not to move
you, at least until morning."

"Well, I can't stay here." Why not? It's what
she wanted, wasn't it? It would give her a chance to poke around in
his computer. And put Jared Blake in a position where he would
incriminate himself. So why was she worried about his
reputation?

"Why not?" His words echoed her thoughts.

"Because it doesn't look right. I don't know
if you realize it or not but we live in a small town. By tomorrow
morning everyone will know I spent the night with you. What will
people think?"

He shrugged. "We'll know that it's innocent.
For too long I've lived my life based on what other people might
think. I refuse to do so any more. I'm going to bed now. I'll be
down to check on you every couple of hours." When she started to
protest, he held up his hand. "Doctor's orders. Get some
sleep."

She watched him turn and leave the room.
Despite the weary bow of his broad shoulders an air of confident
strength surrounded him.

She knew she should get up and leave, but her
head ached and when she tried to stand her stomach lurched. Maybe
after she rested a bit she'd be able to find her way home. Minutes
or hours later she woke with a start. Where was she? Years of
training and instinct kicked in. Motionless, she eased her eyes
open to slits and took stock of her location. Moonlight streaming
in through a large picture window lit Jared's living room with a
pearly glow. Memory returned. She relaxed.

An overstuffed couch cradled her body, and a
warm hand knit afghan covered her. She rubbed the soft yarn between
her fingers. Even in the dimness she could make out its bright,
bold colors. A heavy weight held her legs motionless. She looked
down and saw Samson curled across her feet. In the last two weeks
he seemed to have doubled in size. Jared was right; he was going to
be a big dog. He blinked at her then went back to snoring.

What had woken her? She glanced at her watch.
Three am. A soft beeping of a watch alarm caught her attention. She
searched for the source and her gaze landed on Jared. Still dressed
in his costume, he sprawled asleep in a chair off to the side of
the couch.

Every few hours he'd come down and woken her
throughout the night. The last time he must have fallen asleep in
the chair.

She sat up and tested her head. If she didn't
make any sudden moves, the ache was bearable and her stomach
remained calm. She reached over and pressed the tiny button to turn
off his watch alarm. The beeping stopped. Jared didn't stir. Her
hand lingered against his skin. Fine, black hairs tickled her
fingertips. She used the time to study his face.

Asleep his strong, masculine features
softened. The stubble of beard covering his jaw gave him a raffish,
boyish charm. The slight crook in his nose saved him from being too
pretty for a man. The bruise peeked out from under a lock of black
hair that fell over his forehead to touch his thick eyebrows. Sleep
relaxed the lines of tension that always seemed to pull his
sculpted lips downward.

He shifted and she jerked her hand back. But
he settled deeper into the chair and sleep. His kindness and
concern touched her. She didn't welcome the pain of feelings and
needs she'd thought dead and buried stirring to life. Her conscious
stabbed at her. Why was he willing to risk his reputation to care
for her?

She curled back under the afghan and touched
the matching lump on her forehead. A stab of pain brought back
memories of another knock on her head with a rush.

Mom and Dad were fighting. Drunk.
Ten-year-old Maggie usually found a way to hide when they started,
but one night she got caught in the middle.

Mom, as usual, was passed out on the couch of
their dingy one-room apartment. Beer cans and other trash littered
the floor around her. When Dad came home drunk he woke Mom and
ranted about the mess. Angry words made Maggie cower in her corner,
hands over her ears.

The fight escalated from words to fists. Mom
screamed and hit back. They stumbled around the room. Maggie tried
to scurry out of the way, but Dad tripped over her.

Though neither were fit parents, Mom at least
made an attempt when she wasn't drinking. Dad only noticed Maggie
when he was drunk or high, and then to berate her for being born
and ruining his life.

"Damned little brat. Always underfoot. A man
can't even move in his own home without tripping over her. Come
here, brat." Dad slurred his words as he stalked her around the
room.

Fear kept Maggie moving.

"Leave her alone, Rich. She ain't done
nothing." Mom tried to intervene. He pushed her aside.

"Nothin' 'cept getting born. 'bout time she
learned her place." He lunged toward Maggie.

His hot, sweaty hands closed around her upper
arms. She struggled against his hold without making a sound. Long
ago she'd learned that screaming and crying gained her nothing. No
one in this ratty tenement building listened or cared.

Mom pleaded with Dad to let her go, but he
just shrugged her away.

He'd slipped over the edge. He was going to
kill her. Maggie kicked out. Her foot caught him in the groin. He
squealed like a wounded rabbit and threw her away from him. She hit
the wall. Sharp pain lanced through her head. For a while things
were blurry, sound faded in and out.

Mom kicked Dad out that night. Maggie never
saw him again. She had a vague remembrance of the bus trip to the
hospital. For hours her mom sat by her side, stroking her head and
speaking soft words of apology.

After that Mom tried to clean up her act, to
be a better mother, but years of drinking and drugs had taken their
toll on her mind and body. She died just before Maggie's sixteenth
birthday. Wild and rebellious, hurt and angry, Maggie had skipped
the funeral. She'd never taken the chance to say to goodbye to her
mother. Never cried for her loss.

Tears seeped out from under her eyelids. She
clutched the afghan to her chest and struggled not to cry for past
pain.

"Are you hurting?"

Jared's gentle question and soft touch
against her cheek broke the dam. A wrenching sob broke free.

"Ah, Maggie," he whispered. As if she were
Alex he gathered her into his arms.

Sobbing, she curled against his chest. Her
fingers gripped his shoulders. Tears streamed unchecked down her
cheeks to soak his tunic.

His strong, warm hands stroked up and down
her back, soothing and comforting her. He murmured nonsensical
things into her ear until her sobbing eased and she started to
listen.

Spoken in a low singsong way the words
rumbled over her. "Mad Maggie McCade muddled many men marvelously.
She showed Sam silly string and sang strange songs. She fried
Fred's fish and toppled Ted's tall tower. David danced daringly
while Ned knitted nervously."

A giggle bubbled up through her sobs. She
hiccupped. "Knitted starts with a K not an N," she managed to
whisper.

"But it sounds like an N, so it doesn't
matter."

She released her grip on his shoulders and
pulled back to look at him. In the moonlight his face looked like
sculpted marble, all smooth curves and sharp angles. "What is
that?"

He lifted his shoulders. "Just silly little
tongue twisters. I used to use them to put Alex to sleep when she
was a baby, before the divorce. My mother always said them to me
when I was a boy and was upset. You needed comforting. It was the
only thing I could think of."

She cupped his cheek in the palm of her hand.
"Thank you."

He put his hand over hers and moved it from
his face. His gentle rejection speared her with guilt. He eased her
off his lap back onto the couch.

"Want to tell me what you were crying about?
Does your head hurt that much?"

Pulling the old afghan his mother had
probably knitted around her, she scooted into the far corner of the
couch. She looked down at her hands.

"My head feels fine. Just old memories."

"Want to talk about them?"

"No, that wouldn't be a good idea."

"Sometimes it helps to talk things out. If
you keep past hurts inside they can fester and spoil present
joys."

Maggie couldn't answer for the knot in her
throat. Long ago, with Daniel's help and counseling, she'd found a
way to forgive her parents and moved on with her life. But she had
never found a way to stop longing for what they'd denied her – a
family. Love. She stared out the window into the night.

Outside a single candle burned in one of
Widow Larkins' pumpkins, a lone flicker of light in the early
morning darkness cocooning them. With a clank and the faint smell
of burning dust the house's old furnace rumbled to life. Warmth
blasted from a decorative iron grate against the wall, but it
didn't touch the chill deep inside her.

She heard as he settled back into his chair
and felt his gaze on her. After a few minutes he began to
speak.

"When I was young I knew what my life would
be. I'd get my degree and come back to Council Falls to teach.
Unlike my brothers and sister I never wanted to leave. My roots and
my heart are here. But when difficulties arose I wasn't strong
enough to face the challenge. Instead of fighting for my dream, I
turned and ran. But you can't run away from yourself. Whatever's
troubling you, you don't have to face it alone. Your mother and
father love you. Don't shut them out. Let them help you. Let me
help you, if I can."

"Oh, Jared," she whispered. If you knew. She
sucked in her breath and drew on what little inner strength she had
left. "I'm fine. Just a reaction to getting bumped on the head. Go
back to bed." Please, she pleaded silently, afraid if he said or
did more she crumble into his arms and beg him to hold her
forever.

"If you're sure." His dark gaze searched her
face.

"I'm sure." The words caught in her throat,
but she kept her gaze steady.

After he left, she burrowed beneath his
mother's afghan and cried for all the things that never were and
everything that could never be. She didn't push Samson away when he
crawled up close to her chin and licked away the tears.

When she awoke sunshine streamed into the
room. She blinked against the bright light and tear gritty eyes.
Despite the tenderness of her forehead and her emotional outburst
last night, she felt good as if a wound had been lanced and the
poison drained away. None of her problems were gone, but she felt a
flicker of hope that things might work out.

Sounds filtered from the kitchen, a clank, a
rattle, and footsteps. Tantalizing aromas wafted beneath her nose.
She sniffed. Bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. Her stomach gave a loud
gurgle of anticipation.

"Breakfast. Rise and shine," a gruff female
voice called.

Maggie popped up and looked over the back of
the couch in time to see the Widow Larkins disappearing down the
hall. "What the heck?" she mumbled.

Still wearing her leotard from the night
before Maggie followed her nose into the kitchen. Her back to the
door, Widow Larkins stood at the stove. She wore a full-length
flowered apron over faded bib overalls and a denim shirt. Heavy
black work boots completed her outfit. Like steel wool pads her
hair was wrapped in braids around her head. Samson wiggled at her
feet eager for any of the good smelling stuff to fall.

"'bout time you got up. Breakfast is near
ready," she said without turning. "Sit yourself down and close your
mouth before you catch flies."