Between Love and Duty (17 page)

“Niall plays?” She looked delighted. “I’ll have to ask him about it the next time…” The glow on her face dimmed. “That is, if I see him again.”

She called him Niall, not Detective? Duncan was slammed with something he could only label as jealousy. It was unfamiliar and unwelcome.

“You got along with Niall?” he asked.

“Oh, sure.” She crumbled the remains of her cookie. “I mean, it’s not like we were chatting.”

Still in the grip of that unpleasant feeling, Duncan asked, “What would you call it?”

“An inquisition?”

At her tartness, he relaxed. Of course Niall hadn’t tried to come on to her. Even if he’d been inclined, he was too professional for that.

“Has he told you what he’s learned so far?”

She shook her head, her eyes anxiously searching his. “Do you know?”

“I talked to him this morning.” Fleetingly; Niall, before his morning cup of coffee, had been short to the point of rudeness. “He’s still trying to track people down. He’s eliminated a few.” Duncan dredged through his memory and mentioned a couple of names. She nodded. “He didn’t learn anything from your car.”

“Oh.” Her long, slender fingers were obliterating the cookie. “Um…did he say whether the blood was, well, real?”

He hated to see the anxiety on her face. “Paint,” he told her. “As you suspected. Maybe even from the same can as our guy used on your back door.”

“That makes sense.” She visibly processed it then relaxed. “Waste not, want not.”

Duncan’s mouth quirked. Nodding at her plate, he said, “I think the cookie is dead.”

She looked ruefully down. “Oh, dear. I could have taken it home for later.”

He was sorry then he’d said anything, because it seemed to have recalled her to the realization that they’d long since finished their lunches and perhaps it was time to go.

“This was nice,” she said after they bussed their table and he held open the door for her. “Thank you for suggesting it. I wasn’t really in a very good mood this morning.”

“Why not?”

“Oh…” Her gaze slid from his. “I don’t know. I probably got out of bed on the wrong side.”

Side by side, two kinds of awareness kicked in. One told him that she had…not lied, but evaded telling him something she didn’t want him to know. That she’d had a run-in with Hector, maybe? Duncan’s other reaction was entirely physical, triggered by the word
bed
. Picturing her in one came all too easily. He imagined her waking slowly, reluctantly, making grumbly little sounds as she fought off morning. He didn’t know why he was so sure his Jane wasn’t a sunny, bound-out-of-bed, loving-morning kind of woman. He was equally certain that she’d be sexy as hell while she peevishly roused to face her responsibilities. Her glorious hair would be tumbled all over her pillow—or did she braid it at night? Her eyes would be heavy-lidded, her mouth soft and sulky. He wondered if she liked to cuddle while she slept or would insist on complete independence. An odd thing for him to speculate about, since he didn’t know which way he’d tend himself. He went home after he had sex; he didn’t spend the night.

And the fact that he was painfully aroused only because he was picturing Jane waking up in the morning reminded him how long it had been since he’d
had
sex.

Too long, apparently.

Unfortunately, his body was convinced it wanted Jane, and only Jane. He already knew how complicated that would be.
She
was complicated, about as far as you could get from his ideal in a woman.

She stopped to look at something in the window of an antique store, and he frowned, watching her.

Did he actually have an ideal, beyond knowing he was interested only in temporary relationships? Maybe not, he conceded. Physically, she did it for him. Everything about her turned him on, starting with the fluid way she moved, the graceful line of her neck as she bent to look more closely at…

He followed her gaze and saw that she was staring at an ancient pair of ice skates. They looked homemade. Clumsy, and yet—Duncan looked again at her face, to see something wistful there.

“They’re too small for you,” he said gently.

“Yes, they were probably a little girl’s. Don’t you think?”

They weren’t white, so they could as well have been a boy’s, and he didn’t know enough about ice-skating to tell if the crude blade had been designed for hockey or figure skating. “Probably,” he agreed.

She sighed. “The figure skating is my favorite part of the Olympics. Actually, I watch the U.S. and World Championships, too.” More briskly, straightening away from the glass, she said, “After all, it’s another form of dancing.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

She didn’t look back. Duncan wondered what she’d seen as she studied those ice skates. Herself, twirling on a frozen pond at home in Iowa? He realized that, for all they’d talked over lunch, neither of them had mentioned their families, at least not until Niall’s name came up.

Their families were, apparently, a sore point for both of them.

“Have you ever ice-skated?” he asked.

She laughed. “A few times, with friends in college. I can go forward without falling down. I didn’t get far enough to master going backward, never mind twirling or jumping.” She waited while he unlocked the SUV. “What about you?”

“No, although I always thought hockey looked like fun. No local rink, though.” He shrugged.

Her sigh was exaggerated. “Think of the missed opportunities. Maybe we both would have been stars.”

Amused, he shook his head. “You never know.”

But seeing the curve of her mouth as she climbed in, he thought,
Dreams.

Pretty damn fragile.

WAS IT A DATE? Or a collegial lunch? Jane wasn’t sure. He hadn’t kissed her, although there was a second, right before she got out in front of her house, when she wondered if he was thinking about it.

She might have been the one to kill the mood, because, panicking as he turned to look at her, she’d said, “Oh, by the way, Hector suggested Tuesday night. Pizza—to make up for today—and an arcade.”

Duncan had grunted. “Has it occurred to you that he’s spending one hell of a lot of money on these little outings?”

Yes, it had, but even so she bristled at his tone. He refused to see the positive in anything Hector did.

“He’s in the position of a divorced father who has to do something extra to make up for what he
can’t
offer. Besides, there are only so many ways to entertain a twelve-year-old in Stimson.” She’d looked a challenge at Duncan. “What do
you
do when you spend time with him?”

“Basketball. Soccer. Walks. I helped him with his math homework.” Pause. “I admit I feed him. I told you that.”

“Hector didn’t finish high school,” Jane said. “So maybe he can’t help with the homework. And he’s probably not a very good basketball player.”

Her last glimpse of Duncan’s face as she closed the door, he’d looked irritated, probably because she was defending Hector, whom he wanted to regard as indefensible.

Jane was disconcerted to discover she was absentmindedly sucking on a hank of her hair as she brooded. She yanked it out of her mouth and muttered, “I didn’t want him to kiss me, anyway.” Defiantly.

Lie.
And a lousy one besides. She might be
afraid
of what would happen if he kissed her, but that was different.

With a huge effort, she managed to focus again on the order she was trying to put together for hair accessories, a really successful sideline for her store. Some of the items were practical: hairnets and pins, for example. She should be using one herself right now to keep her hair out of her face, and mouth.

Others were designed for performances: glittering snoods, fancy tiaras, crystal-studded hair fans. She was getting low on some of the items, what with the shopping rush for the upcoming recitals.

Making a decision about a particular snood, filmy black decorated with tiny, diamond-bright crystals, she clicked 10 on the order amount and moved on to a new line of hair combs she hadn’t quite made up her mind about.

What would she recommend to the judge regarding Hector and Tito at the upcoming hearing? Hector
was
trying. Yes, he’d had his rebellious moments, but she couldn’t really blame him. Tito sometimes seemed to be quite happy in his father’s company.

She guessed what she was hanging up on was the fact that there were other times when Tito
didn’t
seem as happy.
It’s only been three weeks,
she reminded herself. His father had been nearly a stranger to him after three years in the correctional institute. And Tito was nearing puberty. Was it surprising that he wasn’t glowing with delight because his father had reappeared in his life?

No, but… It was the
but
she kept tripping over. Worrying about. Tito seemed to be more conflicted than she would like him to be.

Was that conflict heightened by Duncan’s presence on many of the outings? Easy answer: probably. But… In her worries, she’d cycled around again.

Sometimes, she thought Tito was disappointed in his father, perhaps thinking he didn’t measure up to Duncan.

Who did?
a small voice whispered. She shook it off.

She would love to see poor Tito filled with respect and admiration for his dad. That would be the ideal.
Lack
of respect and admiration were not legitimate reasons for her to hesitate, however. Parents sometimes—maybe inevitably—disappointed their kids. Didn’t measure up in their eyes. That was life. And, reality was, Tito’s situation with Lupe was maybe safe but otherwise pretty much lousy.

Frowning, Jane leaned back in her chair, not even seeing the array of glittery hair combs on the monitor.

What niggled at her was a suspicion that Tito might be at least a little bit afraid of his father. And
that
was a problem. Despite all her bravado, she’d been afraid of hers, and she never wanted to see a child who had to be.

Tito had seen Hector angry three or four times, but he’d also seen Duncan lose his temper. Tito had definitely been scared that day on the beach. So the question was, why did he seem warier of his father than he did of Duncan? Who had also, she remembered, drawn a gun on him.

Good question. One, she felt quite sure, Tito wouldn’t be prepared to answer if she asked. Tito might not even know the answer.

Did he secretly dream that Duncan might yet change his mind and take him home as a foster son? She’d have to ask Duncan if Tito had hinted at any such thing. Unfortunately, she couldn’t ask Duncan if he’d noticed that the boy was more nervous than he ought to be around his dad.

All roads lead to Rome…

Here she was, picturing Duncan’s face, not exactly mobile or easy to read but still somehow…expressive. To her, anyway. He could convey an alarming amount with a twitch of those dark eyebrows or a deepening of the furrows on his forehead.

Maybe, she thought, the trouble was that it was awfully hard to look away from him when he was there. She thought she’d seen him close to relaxed a few times—sitting at the picnic table that day at the state park, for example—but the intensity never let up.

Niall’s force field said
Keep away.
Duncan’s said
Reach out a hand and touch—if you dare.
Or maybe
she
was the only one foolish enough to be tempted, Jane thought with a sigh.

Hair combs, she urged herself. Quit thinking about Duncan MacLachlan. She wasn’t interested in any serious involvement with a man of any kind, and certainly not with one used to giving the orders and being obeyed. A man who did not like, ever, having to bow to her will. He brought back too many memories.

His reasons were entirely different from her father’s, but were as set in stone. The
reasons
didn’t matter; the result did.

Never again.

CHAPTER TEN

THE COURT HEARING TO SETTLE custody of the Jones children was hideous. None of the attorneys could control their clients. The judge had only recently risen to the bench and spent a lot of time banging his gavel uselessly while voices rose.

Jane had come to sit in near the door, not expecting to be asked to weigh in. She’d hoped to go unnoticed, but, of course, it didn’t work that way.

If looks could kill,
she thought, when heads turned her way after Judge Ritchie laid out the Guardian ad Litem’s recommendation that the mother be awarded custody, the father visitation and the grandparents extremely limited visitation. She had a queasy memory of the word
Bitch
crudely painted on the door of Dance Dreams, the scarlet paint dripping like blood. Was one of these people responsible for it? She found herself, thanks to Detective Niall MacLachlan’s cynicism, looking at Grandma’s hate-filled eyes and thinking,
Yes, I can see her doing it.

Despite shouting and the threat to file an appeal, the judge so ruled, and Jane fled, glad to have been closest to the door. Cowardly, maybe, but she couldn’t think of a reason in the world to stay to chat.

She’d have liked to use the restroom but didn’t dare. All she had to do was remember the Ortez hearing, when Duncan had lain in wait outside the door.

She hurried down the carpeted hall, out the double doors and into the parking lot, doing her best to look like someone late for an appointment and not someone running for her life. Which, of course, she wasn’t, even though her heart was thudding and she felt a dreadful urgency to get away before either the father or the grandmother could come after her.

She all but ran into, of all people, Niall MacLachlan, dressed in sport coat and tie. For a court appearance?

“Ms. Brooks,” he said in surprise. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I…” She heard the approach of footsteps and went rigid.

His eyes narrowed on a point over her shoulder.

Reluctantly, she turned. Glenn Jones, a well-dressed businessman who had been too arrogant to bother trying to charm Jane on first meeting, looked only slightly taken aback to find she wasn’t alone. Face flushed with anger, eyes boring into hers, he said, “If you thought you’d sneak away without getting a piece of my mind, you’re wrong…” His gaze did shift then to Niall. They all heard the unfinished quality to his sentence.
Bitch
was what he’d wanted to say. It quivered before her eyes, dripping in blood red, formed from crudely cut letters glued to paper.

Niall gently set her to one side and stared at the other man. Quite deliberately, he drew his sport coat aside enough to reveal the badge and weapon worn at his waist. Glenn’s gaze dropped to them. At last displaying the first hint of caution, he retreated a step.

“Ms. Brooks,” Niall asked, “is this gentleman on my list to investigate?”

She opened and closed her mouth, finally settling on an evasive, “Detective MacLachlan, this is Glenn Jones. We, er, had a family court hearing this morning.”

“I see.” He studied Glenn coldly. “And what is it you wanted to say to Ms. Brooks, Mr. Jones? I think I’ll stay to hear it.”

Glenn was too enraged to retreat. “She knows nothing about my family! Nothing.” His voice was a low snarl. “But she stuck her nose in, anyway, and did her best to steal my kids from me. All that fat slob of an ex-wife of mine wants is to pay me back for losing interest in her. She doesn’t give a damn about the kids. And you!” His glower found Jane. “You somehow convinced the goddamn judge to let her have
my
children.”

Jane knew better than to try to argue. Truly, she did. But cowering behind someone else wasn’t her style, either. “That might be because Renee gives some thought to what they need, not what
she
needs,” she returned, as coolly as she could.

He took one aggressive step forward. “I’ll get them back. Don’t kid yourself I won’t!”

Niall took a step, too, all but freezing the shorter man with a wall of ice. “Watch your tone!”

“And who the hell are you to tell me what to do?”

“Detective, is there a problem?” another voice asked.

Jane turned her head to see two uniformed officers had stopped beside the small tableau. It was one thing she liked about the courthouse; she was never truly alone.

“No,” Niall said, his expression hard. “I believe Mr. Jones felt the need to vent.
And
he’s now done that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Jones?”

Face now beet red, Glenn muttered, “I’ve said what I meant to,” and started to turn away, then apparently couldn’t resist being stupid. “But don’t think we’re done,” he said, with one last snarl over his shoulder.

Niall moved with shocking speed, grabbing the man’s shoulder and spinning him around. In a very, very soft voice, he said, “I believe that could be construed as a threat.”

For the first time, Glenn had the sense to look alarmed. “What are you talking about? I’m filing an appeal! How’s that a threat?”

Niall released him with a contemptuous flick of his hand. “I do suggest, Mr. Jones, that in the future you keep your distance from Ms. Brooks. Since you’re now on record issuing what, as I said, can easily be construed as a threat.”

“You’re crazy!” he exclaimed, and hurried toward the courthouse.

With a nod, the two officers continued on. Jane and Niall were left standing there, Niall watching with a chillingly speculative expression until Glenn disappeared into the courthouse.

“Did you know a former employee of his alleged that he raped her?” he said.

Jane nodded. “Yes. There have been other allegations of sexual harassment. Unfortunately, nobody ever quite pins anything on him. He really is a creep.”

Niall turned his head to look at her. “Is the fifty-year-old grandma we discussed his mother?”

“I’m afraid so,” she said with a grimace. “I expected her to chase me out, too.”

The detective frowned. “Was she contesting her own son as well as her former daughter-in-law for custody?”

“Yep. Once you meet her, you almost find yourself feeling sorry for Glenn.”

His rumble of a laugh reminded her of one of Duncan’s; reluctant, as if he didn’t do it often.

“I really don’t think Glenn is the one threatening me,” Jane said thoughtfully.

“I don’t know. He’s pretty pissed.”

“So is his mother.” She couldn’t help a shiver, remembering that vicious stare.

“There have been no other incidents?”

She shook her head.

He contemplated her for a minute. “If I hadn’t been here, I suspect he would have threatened you. Or worse.”

“He’s all talk.” She was sure enough of that to be embarrassed at the way she’d been running away. If not for the anonymous threats, she’d have walked calmly out and had whatever conversations she’d needed to have right there in the courthouse. She explained, “This—today—it’s how he operates. He intimidates people. And no, he doesn’t like it if you don’t let yourself be intimidated, but he always seems surprised and…I don’t know. Confused. I doubt he has any follow-through in his repertoire.”

Niall shrugged. “You may be right.” His gaze was sharp. “If you had to take a wild guess as to who sent you that note and whacked your windshield, who would it be?”

Her fingers tightened on her purse strap. “I…really don’t know. I’ve had quite a few people say a lot nastier things to me than Glenn Jones did.”

“Oh, I can believe that. Let me walk you to your car, Ms. Brooks.”

“Thank you,” she said, and he fell into step with her. “You can call me Jane, you know.”

“All right. Since I gather you’re a friend of Duncan’s.”

“A friend?” Her mind boggled. “I’m…not quite sure about that.”

He laughed again, and she thought maybe he did it more often than she’d suspected. “With Duncan, who is?” Something dry and almost, but not quite, hostile leaked into his voice.

Jane tried to tell herself she was imagining that weird tone. Duncan had called Niall the other night; he must trust him. And why would Niall work in his brother’s department if he disliked him?

She thanked him for his intervention and drove to Dance Dreams, where she set about unpacking a shipment of spring- and summer-weight women’s leg warmers in an array of delicious colors. She decided to put a couple pairs in the front window and a display of the others on a table that currently held a rather artistic arrangement—in her not unbiased opinion—of a dance bag, a couple of leotards, pointe shoes and half a dozen shoe ribbons laid out like rivers of color. She liked to change the display every few weeks.

Somehow it didn’t surprise her when Duncan called a few hours later.

“Niall told me about the SOB who got in your face outside the courthouse.”

“Hello, Duncan.”

There was a momentary silence. “Jane.”

“Yes, Mr. Jones decided to express his displeasure with the judge’s decision, specifically my role in it. There wasn’t anything new in that. It was nice of Niall to intervene, though.”

“It sounds like it was lucky he was there. Damn it, couldn’t you get an escort out to your car?”

She sighed. “Yes, I probably could, but as I told Niall, I really doubt I was in any danger. The man only wanted to yell at me.”

He mumbled something she couldn’t make out. Which was probably just as well. He probably sympathized with people who yelled at her. “For your safety, have you considered getting a concealed weapons permit?”

“I have never been attacked.”

“You could be,” he grumbled.

“Do you recommend every prosecuting attorney carry a gun? Every social worker? We all face disgruntled people on a regular basis. I’m sure I could think of a dozen other professions with the same problem. As a police captain, is that really what you want to see?”

“Damn it, you’re a woman!”

He was stepping onto dangerous territory. If he suggested she was less capable because she was a woman…

“Yes, I am,” she said levelly.

She heard his breath gust out. “You have no sense of self-preservation.”

“I don’t live in inner-city New York! This is a peaceful town.”

“Not as peaceful as you’d think.”

Well, he’d know. And Niall, too. What was it Niall had said?

You might be surprised.

She’d really rather not be. Or not any more than she already had been, with the string of unpleasant messages.

“I’m careful.” Jane tried to sound firm.

He grunted, told her he’d see her tomorrow night at the arcade, and rang off.

Jane was left wondering exactly why he’d called.

DUNCAN HADN’T PLAYED a video game in years, not since… He had to think about it. Since Conall was fourteen, fifteen maybe. It occurred to him suddenly that his youngest brother’s birthday was approaching in May. He’d be… Thirty. Duncan gave a rough laugh. His baby brother would be passing the big Three-O. Who’d have thought they would both live to see it?

There was a time he’d sent birthday cards and the like to whatever address he had for Conall. He hadn’t done that in several years. This birthday, though, he thought he would, if Niall had an address for him. Not that Conall ever responded in any way, but…it seemed the thing to do. Or maybe it had to do with these unexpected pangs of emotion he’d been feeling lately. Reawakened sentimentality?

On impulse he bought a roll of quarters and challenged Jane to a few of the simpler games, including an old-fashioned pinball machine. She got into it, hunching fiercely over the machines as she operated the controls, letting out growls of frustration when she was defeated.

La guerrera
indeed, he thought in amusement. Even Tito got a few laughs at her expense, which she acknowledged with good humor.

Sitting across from her at the pizza parlor felt different this time. They’d crossed some invisible divide when he had taken her to lunch. Now, everything they did together felt as if it might be a date. Except when he annoyed her, she’d become a little shyer with him, and for every time he studied her mouth, say, wondering how it would taste, he’d catch her eyeing him in return, then blushing when she was caught.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted more than that, but a kiss would be a start. Duncan was past caring whether it was a good idea or not. Once again, he was blitzed at the end of the evening with the realization that he’d barely glanced Hector and Tito’s way.