Friday's Child (9 page)

She'd never been to the restaurant Michael had mentioned, but she'd heard about it. It had a reputation for outstanding food, outrageous prices and snooty waiters. The narrow black dress she'd selected was the dressiest thing she owned. It had long sleeves and a scooped neckline and was made from a fabric that skimmed but didn't cling. She picked up two jet combs and fastened her hair back on both sides. Casting one last doubtful eye at her reflection, Kate left the bedroom before she could change her mind, and her clothes, again.

The pounding on her front door heralded Michael's arrival. She opened the door, and conscious thought deserted her.

She'd gotten used to seeing him in jeans and sneakers. She thought the casual wear must accentuate his strength, make him appear bigger, tougher, more dangerous. She'd been wrong.

The double-breasted gray suit he was wearing had to have been tailor-made for his muscled form. It fit his wide chest and shoulders to perfection. The white shirt and muted tie should have lent him an air of tamed civility. It failed to do so. Though his unruly tawny hair had been forced to a semblance of order, and he'd apparently recently shaved, he looked no less lethal. More so, really. All that power and presence forced into a polished package gave him a barely leashed energy that fairly crackled in the air between them.

Swallowing convulsively, Kate took an involuntary step backward. Michael followed, stepping into her hallway and immediately shrinking the area with his size.

His hazel eyes reflected the admiration in his voice. “You look fantastic.”

So do you, she thought a little wildly. Murmuring her thanks, she turned blindly to the closet, staring at the contents without seeing them. This was a mistake, a huge one. What had she been thinking? It would have been infinitely safer to confer about Chloe at school or on the phone, anyplace where she wouldn't have to face that megawatt energy focused totally on
her.
Used to having the force of his personality defused by Chloe's or Trask's presence, she'd allowed herself to forget the sheer power of his regard. It was like being caught in an electrically charged field.

His arm reached past her then, and she started a little. He pulled her long black leather coat from its hanger and held it out for her. When she didn't move immediately, his eyebrow climbed.

“Is this coat all right?”

Her gaze met his for an instant. “Yes,” she said, allowing him to help her with the coat. “Thank you.” She stepped away from him as soon as she was able, using the opportunity
to button up her coat. Michael wasn't wearing one, she noticed. Apparently that furnacelike heat he radiated was a sort of personal insulation.

“Kate?” His voice was quizzical.

Her gaze flew to meet his.

“Do you need anything else before we leave?”

She shook her head and then remembered her purse. Flushing, she backtracked to pick it up from the hallway table. He was holding the door open, waiting for her to precede him.

“We'll leave right away, if that's okay with you. I left the Jag running, and I'm double-parked. It will probably take us the full half hour to get to Masterson's. Do you have your house key?”

“Yes, of course, but there's no reason to worry. I keep a spare in back of the mailbox.”

A genuinely pained expression crossed his face. “You must know how risky that is.”

She walked by, leaving him to pull the door closed behind him. “Not as risky as finding myself locked out some night.”

Seated in the powerful car, Kate discreetly ran her hand over the smooth leather seat. The luxury was hard not to appreciate. Then Michael was folding his long length into the vehicle, and nerves began to cluster again. He put the car into gear and it moved forward smoothly.

“Would you mind putting a CD in?” he asked. “The case is on the seat next to you.” He flipped on a courtesy light, and she quickly made a selection and slipped it in the player. He pressed a button and they were shrouded in darkness again as the strains of the saxophone music filled the car.

“So, what did you do all day, since you didn't have to spend the afternoon engaged in slave labor for Chloe?”

Amusement laced her voice. “As taskmasters go, she's not quite up there with Simon Legree yet. But I had some free time, so I spent the day studying for my comps.”

“Your what?”

“Comprehensive exams,” she explained. “They'll complete my master's degree. I've already completed the course
work requirements. The exams will take place in another six weeks.”

“That's quite an accomplishment.” There was no mistaking the admiration in his voice. “You took courses while you were teaching?”

“One night a week during the school year, and two classes each summer.”

“Well, congratulations. Sounds like a lot of hard work. You'll really have something to celebrate when you finish up.” He launched into a hilarious recounting of his exploits during his college years, and it would have been impossible for her to remain on edge when she was helpless with laughter.

“I don't believe you,” she exclaimed after one particularly outlandish tale. “You could have been thrown out for pulling a stunt like that.”

“The dean was really never able to pin it on me,” he explained. “But I have to admit that particular prank had a profound effect on me. Scared me enough to keep me out of trouble for a while, anyway. I couldn't afford to lose my football scholarship over a goat.”

“Well, I'm glad you came to your senses about the value of your education,” she teased. “Even if it did take livestock to convince you.”

By the time they were ushered to a table in the restaurant and she was seated across from Michael, the fluttering in her stomach had calmed. Until she opened the menu and saw the prices. She swiftly calculated that the combined price of their meals would be a close equivalent to the amount she spent on groceries for two weeks.

“What will you have, Kate?” Michael inquired.

A coronary, she answered silently. Nothing could have pointed out so vividly the differences between them. He was a man used to money and the luxuries it could buy. Her idea of a meal out was pizza or fast food.

“If you're having trouble deciding, the seafood platter has a little of everything. I've had it here—it's very good.”

At her nod he gave their orders to the tux-clad waiter and
then turned back to her and grinned. “You know, when I was a grubby kid I used to dream about coming to places like this to eat. Now that I can afford it, I always have to fight an overwhelming urge to do something to shock the staff out of those professional masks of superiority.”

He surprised a smile from her. “I know what you mean. Where's a goat when you need one?”

He reached over and clasped her hand. “What could we do to force a human emotion from these tuxedoed wax stiffs, hmm? A run through the fountain, maybe? A tap dance on the buffet table?”

“Either should do the trick.” Growing serious, she asked, “Why do you come here if you don't like the atmosphere?”

“The food is great, but they don't do takeout,” he said simply. Spreading his hands, he added, “Believe me, I asked. And I'm not easily intimidated.”

That she could believe. If there was intimidation to be done, this man would do it. Although he wore his most charming persona this evening, she'd had an up close encounter with his temper and sensed the determination he was capable of. He would make a dangerous enemy.

He would make a dangerous lover.

The thought jolted her, suffusing her with heat. She wasn't in the habit of picturing men she barely knew in such a role. She wasn't, in fact, used to picturing
any
man in such a role. But the uncustomary thought brought her back to reality. It would be all too easy to let herself be lulled by her surroundings, to bask in his attention. But her purpose for coming here tonight was for Chloe.

As the meals arrived, she reached for her purse and withdrew two pamphlets and handed them to him. “I almost forgot. I picked these up for you.”

He read the title from one aloud.
“Preventing Bedtime Bedlam.”
His eyebrows rose. “You must have been spying on us.
Bedlam
is a good word to describe our house at eight-thirty every night.” His gaze shifted to the other pamphlet.
“Homework Habits.”
He looked at her. “Homework? She's a little young for that, isn't she?”

“Good habits take time to learn,” Kate replied. “Both of those brochures have tips helpful for all children, not just those diagnosed with ADD. I think you'll find them…”

Her voice tapered off as she realized his attention had shifted. The change in him was startling. His expression went set and still, and his entire body seemed to tense, although he didn't move a muscle.

“Well, Michael, I shouldn't be surprised to see you here.”

At the interruption, Kate turned to look at the man who stopped at their table. A well-preserved sixty-five, she estimated, with chiseled features and iron gray hair. In his dark blue suit he managed to look at once elegant and remote. It was his eyes, she decided. The pale blue gaze held all the warmth of the North Atlantic.

The man smiled, a cold, humorless stretching of his lips. “After all, sharks like their fish, don't they?”

Michael clenched his hand where it lay on the table. “An interesting analogy coming from you, Jonathan. You've always been the most ruthless predator I know.”

“Congratulations on that NASA contract, by the way,” Jonathan said. “I won't inquire as to how you won it. Heard it comes with a tight deadline. It would be a shame if you didn't make it, wouldn't it? I doubt those folks would be too understanding.”

“Your concern, as always, is touching,” Michael drawled.

“But you might want to spend a little more of it on yourself. From the looks of you, your fourth—or was it fifth—marriage was a rough one.”

“Not so rough, actually. I'm accomplished at extricating myself while holding on to what's mine.”

“Don't I know it.” Michael's voice was hard and bleak, and Kate looked at him, mystified. She didn't understand what was going on here, but the undercurrents of animosity were unmistakable.

Suddenly, the penetrating beam of the man's chilly blue eyes were turned on her. “As usual, Michael has forgotten his manners. Although we haven't been graced with an introduction, I'll do you a favor and give you a little advice.” He
leaned toward her, and Kate had to restrain herself from recoiling. “Don't trust him, not even for a second. He's the most ungrateful, ruthless bastard you'll ever meet, and the instant you take your eyes off him, he'll have the shirt off your back.” Straightening, he added, “Or in your case, that pretty black dress.”

Michael's chair clattered as he rose abruptly. His voice was low, icily controlled. “Your time just ran out, old man. I'd advise you to leave. Now.”

Jonathan gave her a wintry smile. “Remember what I said.” Then he turned and strolled away.

Michael remained standing, his gaze burning a hole in the man's ramrod-straight back. Time stretched, and still he didn't move. Kate grew concerned and touched the back of his hand. His gaze dropped to where her hand lay on his, and slowly, imperceptibly, he relaxed. She watched him reach for the rage that had enveloped him so briefly and tuck it back out of sight.

He sat down again and said grimly, “I'm sorry you had to witness that.”

When it became apparent he was going to say nothing more, Kate burst out, “Michael, what just happened? Who was that awful person?”

He gave her a terrible parody of a smile and reached for his wineglass. Toasting in the direction of the man who'd just left their table, he replied, “That ‘awful' person is Jonathan Garrett Friday.” He took a sip from his glass before adding, “My father.”

M
ichael reached across the table and tipped more wine in her glass. He took a few moments before he spoke again. When he did, neither his face nor his voice revealed his earlier anger. “As you could probably tell, the Fridays aren't a particularly close-knit bunch.” He picked up his fork and cocked an eyebrow at her. “What about you? What's your family like?”

Kate picked up her glass, considered the wine bubbling inside. Witnessing the earlier scene had left her shaken. And despite Michael's sternly controlled features, she was aware of the emotion still swirling beneath the surface.

“I'm the oldest of nine children.”

He paused, his fork half-raised to his mouth. “What was it like?”

“It was…poor.” Invariably people romanticized her childhood, imagining something out of an Alcott novel, with a house full of a noisy brood stringing popcorn together. She'd always been thankful that people couldn't know how wrong they were.

“Your parents?” Michael reached for a roll, breaking it apart to butter it, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Live in West Virginia, where I was raised. We moved several times when I was a child, always small towns, though, always in the state. Right now my father is a custodian for a rural church. My mother has never worked outside the home. She takes in sewing.”

“How many of your brothers and sisters are still at home?”

“Five. My youngest sister is ten.”

“Do you get to see them often?”

She almost flinched, as if he had touched a particularly painful bruise. “Not as often as I'd like.”

“I can't even pretend to imagine it. I was an only child and on my own a lot. I wished for brothers and sisters…well, mostly brothers.” He took another bite of lobster, chewed reflectively. “I imagine our childhoods had more in common than you think, though.”

Kate looked at him askance. “I can't imagine what that would be.”

He continued to eat, his face expressionless. “You said you grew up poor. When I was eight, my father walked out and took his money with him. My mother worked two jobs most of the time to pay the rent on our apartment.” He shrugged, as if his next words were of little consequence. “I spent the better part of the next twenty years hating him.”

 

Michael turned off the ignition and went around the car to open the door for Kate. When they reached her porch, he silently held his hand out for her key. She opened her mouth to protest, but one look from him silenced her. She handed it to him, and he followed the same routine that he had the last time he'd seen her home, entering the door ahead of her and doing a quick, thorough search of each room.

“You missed your calling,” she drawled when he finally joined her again. She slipped out of her coat and turned to hang it up. “You should be with the DCPD.” Even as she spoke, he went into the living room and pulled her curtains aside, examining the latches and frames on her windows.

“Hazards of the job. No matter what kind of security we're in, we tend to be paranoid.” He moved to the kitchen, leaving her to trail after him.

“Don't tell me. You're looking for a burglar in my pots and pans.”

He turned back to her with a quick grin. “No, I'm looking for a cup of coffee. What are my chances of having you offer me one?”

His tone was undeniably wheedling and had its desired effect. “All right. I'll make us some.”

Minutes later they were facing each other across the small kitchen table, sipping coffee.

“Déjà vu,” he said. “When I came here before you fed me cookies and milk.”

“I remember.”

“There are no cookies this time, of course,” he went on, shamelessly hinting.

“No,” Kate said firmly, her eyes meeting his. “No cookies.”

He smiled and shrugged, unembarrassed to be caught begging. “I have an acquired appreciation for baked goods,” he said. “Trask, despite his many fine qualities, doesn't claim to be a cook.”

“Just what is it that Mr. Trask does for you?” Kate asked curiously.

“Not ‘Mr.,'” Michael corrected. “He's just Trask. He started out as my security adviser. He became much more.” He stopped, considered for a moment. “Since Chloe's come to live with me, he more or less runs the house, keeps track of appointments.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Had you made the conference appointments with him rather than me, he'd have made sure I got to them.”

“You don't have a secretary to do that for you at work?”

He grimaced. “My secretary and I don't always communicate effectively. But speaking of Chloe, we never did. Finish, I mean.”

Kate wrapped both her hands around her mug. “No, we never did,” she said steadily.

“I've made an appointment for her to be seen by a pediatrician,” he said bluntly. He waited for her startled gaze to meet his. “I still have a lot of doubts, but I remembered what you said. I figured too much information is rarely a problem.”

He paused for a moment to enjoy the sudden transformation as her smile lit up her face. A corresponding heat bloomed low in his belly. That smile of hers should be outlawed. It had the impact of a thousand volts of electricity and, aimed at him, was damn near lethal. He basked in its glow for a moment.

“I'm so glad, Michael,” she said, impulsively leaning forward to touch his arm. “I know you won't regret it.”

He stared at the slim, elegant hand lying on his broad forearm. His gaze followed the slender line of her arm up to her shoulder and across the delicate hollows of her throat and settled, finally, on her mouth. It was getting more and more difficult to remember his plan, his strategy to go slow. Especially when she looked at him like that. Touched him like that. As the moments stretched, her smile wavered and faded away. But when she would have withdrawn her touch, he covered her hand with his.

“I'm not promising anything else,” he warned. “Just that I'll get a medical opinion and listen to my options. Even if Chloe is diagnosed with ADD, I'm nowhere close to agreeing to medication for her. Right now, I can't promise any more than that.”

“For right now, that's enough.”

He looked down to where his large hand completely covered her much slimmer, more delicate one. “I made the appointment with Dr. Sachar. Do you know her?”

Kate thought for a moment and then shook her head.

“She's supposed to be very good. Her office is downtown D.C., and we're on a standby list. She was booked two months ahead, but if I agree to very little notice, I can get in when she has a canceled appointment.” And it had taken fifteen minutes of his most persuasive coaxing to convince the receptionist of that idea. But once he'd reached the decision that he would proceed with a medical evaluation, he
hadn't wanted to wait two months. “I'm going to have to talk to Deanna about it soon.”

“How will she react?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I'm not sure.” He hadn't ever really known what to expect from Deanna. He'd been wrong when he'd thought they shared the same interests, the same dreams. He'd been wrong about a lot of things.

“Does…your father…ever see Chloe?”

“No.” He released her hand and pulled away from her touch. Her eyes were wide, somber, and he knew she was judging him, weighing him. As he'd so often weighed himself. “To tell you the truth, I'm not sure he's aware of her existence. I know damn well he wouldn't care.”

“How do you know that?”

He simply looked at her, wondering if she could begin to understand. She'd come from a large family. Though she'd said they hadn't had money, there must have been plenty of love to make up for the lack. His own experience was just the opposite.

When he spoke again, it was without passion, the resentment safely buried again. “He didn't care about his own son when he left. Hell, I'll say this for him—he didn't make me a bunch of empty promises that he never delivered on. The only vow he left us with was when he told my mother she'd never see another nickel of his. That was true enough.”

“He didn't keep in touch with you?”

“I didn't hear from him again until I was sixteen. I was making a name for myself in high school football, being mentioned in the papers.” He lifted a shoulder. “I don't know what was going through his head. Maybe in some weird way he thought I'd proven myself worthy of his attention. Because all of a sudden, that's what I got. He started sending me things, issuing invitations.” He fell silent then, the taste of remembered bitterness filling his mouth. If the old man had shown him even a fraction of that attention after he'd left, maybe it would have had some effect. A boy of eight or ten would have been dazzled by the authentic athletic jerseys, the
autographed game balls. But at sixteen, Michael hadn't been a boy.

“I went with him once. My mother made me. Said he owed me, owed both of us. I think I was supposed to be impressed when he took me sailing. Instead, I kept thinking that for the cost of that damn boat, my mother and I could be living in a real house, in a decent neighborhood. Maybe even have a car that actually ran.” Maybe she could have quit one of her jobs. Perhaps the lines would have faded from her face, the weariness lifted from her shoulders.

“So you refused to go with him again,” Kate guessed.

Michael reached for the coffeepot and refilled his mug.

“Yes. But people don't say no to Jonathan Friday. Six weeks later my mother was slapped with a summons. He took her to court to sue for custody.” It had been an ugly, vicious battle. The old man had had a set of witnesses bought and paid for to testify to his former wife's supposed lack of morals, her unfitness as a mother. It had made a lasting impression on Michael. Money, when used callously, could buy almost anything.

Kate's gaze was sober and steady. “Did you have to live with him?”

He shook his head. “I was plenty old to have a say in the proceedings, and I told the judge in no uncertain terms where I wanted to live. He must have believed my mother and me, because he allowed me to stay where I was.”

“That's it, then? That's the reason he seemed so hateful to you this evening?”

“Oh, I have no doubt he hates me, all right.” His voice was carefully blank. “I started my own business right out of college. I worked hard to get ahead, acquired some contacts who helped me.” He held her gaze deliberately, wanting to watch her reaction to his next words. “And the first company I ever took over was my father's.” He'd dismantled it piece by piece, raided the solvent funds and sold it off in parcels. And he'd enjoyed every second of it.

“I had my mother quit her jobs. I took some of the money from the old man's business and I bought her a house on a
golf course. One of those country club places, you know. A couple of cars…” His voice trailed off. He'd gone about setting his mother up in the life the old man had robbed her of when he'd dumped them both. His mouth twisted. “Very Freudian, huh?”

He didn't see the horrified fascination in her eyes that he'd learned to expect. Didn't see the pity that he'd learned to despise. The absence of either nearly undid him. Her voice was soft when she replied, “Human, at any rate.”

It would be all too easy to lose himself in her clear blue gaze, which reflected the easy warmth that was so much a part of her. There was compassion there, the kind that had a man blurting out his life story, that made a man feel he was better than he was. He wondered how much understanding he'd see there if she realized how close he'd come to the abyss. How close he'd come to turning into a heartless SOB, just like his father.

She looked past him at the clock on the wall. “It's late.”

He wondered—hoped—he heard a tinge of regret in her voice. Surely he had enough regrets for both of them. Regret for the way the evening had ended and for giving her a guided tour down his own personal path of grief. She could tempt a confession from a closemouthed priest.

Discomfit filled him. This hadn't been part of the plan. By baring his soul like that, he'd risked making her even warier of him. For the first time it occurred to him that his plan for luring cautious, sexy Kate Rose closer wasn't going to be as clear-cut as designing a dispassionate corporate takeover bid. When he was with Kate, emotion crept in. And emotion clouded logic, turned objectivity aside. When he had a goal in his sights, retaining his objectivity was imperative.

He got up and followed her to the front door. When she reached the hallway, she turned around, seeming unsure about what to do with him. He crooked a smile at the flicker of uncertainty on her face. It wasn't as strong as the full-blown trepidation she'd worn when she'd opened the door to him tonight. As the evening had worn on, that expression had eased. Now an echo of it was back, just enough to let him
know that she wasn't all that comfortable with a man in her apartment after midnight. The knowledge was primitively satisfying, and rather than moving toward the door, he deliberately stepped toward her.

He recognized her reaction in the way her mouth trembled for a moment before she made a visible effort to firm it. His gaze lingered on the combs holding back her hair, and he let his imagination go for just a second as he wondered what she would do if he reached over and released them.

He remembered the last time he'd left her like this, and the frustration he'd carried with him that he hadn't given in and tasted her, just once. He didn't want to scare her, didn't want to give her a reason for the anxiety to bloom into real fear of him. His goal for the evening had already been accomplished. She'd agreed to spend a few hours with him, alone. They were closer than they had been before, even if things hadn't progressed exactly as he would have liked. Michael was a careful man, one who'd never been accused of rushing his fences. A retreat was in order now, a little space in which Kate might wonder, might crave more.