A Daughter's Perfect Secret (12 page)

“I’m overjoyed to join the team,” Rafe said, truly meaning it. One of the biggest hurdles of gaining access to records was being trusted enough to work there. He’d just been given the golden ticket. “This Saturday to start?”

“Absolutely. Come an hour or so early so I can introduce you to your team and I’ll make them spring for donuts. Just don’t tell Heidi. She’ll have a fit about all that sugar, but once in a while isn’t going to kill you, right?”

“Everything in Moderation is my motto,” he said good-naturedly. “See you on Saturday, bright and early.”

Rafe exited his office, still crowing about his stealth victory, and was surprised to see Darcy hadn’t left. “Everything okay?” he asked, concerned.

“Actually I have a dilemma, and it’s a little embarrassing.”

“Oh?”

“I’m about to be homeless.”

Rafe stared, not quite sure he heard her correctly. “What happened to the hotel?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I used up the money I had saved for a place, and now I’ll need to save up again. In the meantime, nothing has come up for rent that I could afford.” He didn’t like where this was going, he could see it a mile away. He was already shaking his head, but she wouldn’t back down. “It would just be temporary, I promise. I’m between a rock and a hard place. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t truly need a place to stay.”

“I’d love to help but—”

“Would you really turn me out on the streets?” she asked, wounded.

He balked. “No, of course not, but—”

“But nothing, Rafe. I’m about to be tossed on my ear with nothing but what I came to town with, which isn’t much, by the way, and you’re looking like you would rather have a nail pounded into your foot than to give me temporary shelter. Come on, I won’t take up a lot of room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“There’s no one with a room to rent?”

“Not that I’ve been able to find,” she answered, biting her lip. His libido kicked to life and he shut it down with a ruthless shove. He didn’t mind helping her out, but he was having a hard enough time fighting his attraction now, after sharing the intimate space of his cottage. She appeared piqued as she said, “You know, I’m having a hard time buying the charitable volunteer bit when you can’t even let your receptionist crash on your couch for a few weeks.”

Good point. His refusal did smack of hypocrisy, which he hated. He withheld a sigh and said, “You’re right. Of course you’re welcome to stay with me. But this is only temporary, right?”

She snorted. “Of course. Rafe, you’re good-looking and all, but I’m not looking to pick out china or anything. I just need a place out of the elements.”

“I have a spare bedroom,” he admitted, letting loose the breath he’d been holding from apprehension. “You don’t need to sleep on the couch. It’s a cute place, came furnished, so I can’t take the credit or the blame for the decorating.”

“Great.” She smiled in relief. “You’re a lifesaver. I was really starting to stress. I thought you just might leave me to fend for myself, and that would’ve seriously damaged your good-guy image.”

His mouth twisted wryly, knowing he was making—quite possibly—a terrible error in judgment and said, “I’ll keep that in mind. I’ll have a key made and get it to you tonight.”

“Thanks,” she added with a cheeky grin, “roomie.”

Oh yeah…this had
bad idea
written all over it.

Darcy probably should’ve felt a smidge of guilt for playing Rafe so easily but this took care of two needs at once. First, she truly needed a place to live, the hotel scene was getting old and expensive; second, her gut was telling her to ferret out whatever secrets Rafe was hiding. Perhaps knowing what was driving him could lend a clue to her own puzzle. Of course this also helped with another problem she hadn’t thought would be front and center right away.

That creepy police chief was stalking her…or at least it felt that way. Every time she turned around, he was heading her way. It was taking some serious evasive maneuvers to circumvent his visits, and eventually her excuses would be exhausted and she’d have to, somehow, survive the presentation to Samuel Grayson.

But seriously, yuck. Aside from the fact that she was related by blood to Samuel Grayson, she didn’t find him attractive. He had a snake-oil salesman quality to him that made her skin crawl. There was something wrong about a man who made such a fuss about smiling and shaking hands when his eyes were colder than death.

What had her mother seen in the man? A pang of sadness followed. She had no idea why her mother had fallen in love with Samuel Grayson, because she hadn’t been given the opportunity to know her. Were they alike in personality? Darcy was left-handed; had she inherited that characteristic from her biological mother? There were so many questions and not enough answers—not enough by a landslide.

Sometimes, like now, when she was lost in a painful melancholy over not knowing her biological mother, she felt she was betraying Louise for wanting more. In her heart, she knew that feeling was simply grief riding shotgun, disguised as guilt, but it didn’t make it any easier to handle. Louise had been a wonderful mother, and Darcy had enjoyed an unencumbered childhood. That was all her biological mother had wanted, right? Well, Louise had given that to her. So why did she have this heavy knot in her chest?

A selfish part of her wished she hadn’t started this journey, that she’d closed her eyes to the crazy, screwed-up world of possibilities that involved her biological parents and had just lived her life as a normal human being ignorant to the dirty truths she was bound to uncover.

But each time she imagined shouldering her pack and walking away from Cold Plains and everything it entailed, a nagging sense of unfinished business urged her to stay.

Darcy touched the pendant under her blouse, the familiar weight and feel of the St. Anthony golden medallion an instant comfort to her, not because she was overtly religious, but because Louise had given it to her during happier times on her seventeenth birthday. Just remembering that day brought a rush of bittersweet memories.

Louise had given the small, simply wrapped box to her before school. Darcy had opened it up with excitement, and when she’d lifted the medallion from the tissue, she’d smiled quizzically as her mother had never been one to cling to the dogma of organized religion. “You want me to start going to church?” she’d asked, half joking.

Louise had laughed and took it from the box to hold it up in the light. “No, silly. This is St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.” She gestured for Darcy to turn around and lift her hair for her while she adjusted the clasp. “I figured, as often as you get lost because you have absolutely no sense of direction, you could use all the help you could get.”

“M-om,” she’d exclaimed, laughing. “That’s not very nice.”

“But true.” Louise readjusted Darcy’s hair so it flowed nicely over her shoulders and studied the new pendant. There’d been a subtle wistfulness to her mother’s expression that hadn’t quite made sense at the time, but Darcy had naively chalked it up to Louise’s reluctance to watch her baby grow up. Little had she known what a terrible secret her mother had been carrying. And now the medallion made sad sense. Darcy was the ultimate in lost things. Tears pricked her eyes and she wiped them away. Patting the medallion as if gaining strength from its molded metal, she drew a halting breath and refocused. It was time to pack. Rafe would be here soon with a key and she wanted to be ready.

Rafe helped Darcy grab her suitcase and walked toward the front door. He called over his shoulder, “It’s not the Taj Mahal, but it’s comfortable enough. There’s a nice breeze from the trees and it’s quiet.” That’s what he liked most, the silence. It gave him a chance to puzzle out the many pieces that fell his way without having to filter out the noise that usually surrounded him. He rounded the corner to the guest bedroom. “This is your room,” he announced unnecessarily as she filed in behind him. The room was small, but at least there was enough space for a corner chair by the window, an antique nightstand and a matching dresser. It looked like an old-fashioned boarding room, like something you’d see from the 1930s. Hell, he didn’t know, maybe it had been in a previous life. He hadn’t cared to ask many questions when he’d been shown the rental before taking it with little fanfare. To him, it’d fulfilled basic requirements. Now, oddly, he wished he could fill the space between them with meaningless babble about the house. She gingerly bounced on the bed to test the springs. He arched his brow at the action. “Is it to your liking?”

“Perfect,” she said with a smile. “To be honest, the hotel bed was a bit soft. I need support.”

A dark thrill tickled at her admission and he gritted his teeth against the inappropriate imagery that happily danced in his head. Images such as how delightful it would be to throw his new “roomie” down on his king-size bed and strip her clothes from her body with his teeth. Afraid she might somehow discern the bent of his thoughts, he made for a hasty retreat but not before covering a gruff set of rules. “Any long-distance calls, I’d prefer you make on your cell phone. Feel free to make use of the kitchen and laundry room. However, please remember to clean up after yourself. I’m not a maid, nor do I have one. You do your part, I’ll do mine and we’ll get along just great.”

“Toilet seat up or down?” she asked.

He did a double take. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re a bachelor. I suspect you prefer the toilet seat up because there are no women in the house to consider. It’s your house, so I’m being respectful. Would you like me to return the toilet seat to its upright position when I’m finished doing my business?”

She said it with such perfect seriousness, he almost didn’t catch the subtle light of amusement in her eyes. In spite of himself, he actually chuckled. “Smart-ass. In deference to the lady in the house, I’ll lower the seat when I’m finished. My mother would tan my hide if it were any other way, bachelor or not.”

“Such a gentleman. I think I’m going to like having you as a roommate. So tell me, what’s the plan for dinner? I’m starved.”

“I usually grab a protein bar and some fresh fruit. I don’t like to eat late. Bad for the digestion,” he said, which was true but not the reason he often chewed on easy, grab-and-go bars. He didn’t want to waste the time it would take to cook something when it was just him, and each second that ticked by without finding his son was another second closer to losing him forever. However, at her look of disappointment, he said, “But I think there’s enough food to scrounge up something decent, at least for tonight. Do you cook?”

“Not really,” she admitted. “My mom always did the cooking. My mom’s love language was food. When I was sick, she’d make fresh chicken noodle. To even suggest something from a can was an insult. She would’ve made my school lunches for me until I graduated if I hadn’t put my foot down.”

Rafe heard a hint of sadness in the deprecating laugh, but he didn’t press even though he was curious. It was best to keep the lines drawn to avoid emotional entanglements. To know too much was an invitation to want more.

Like tangled sheets and rumpled clothing. His skin flushed and he wondered if the constant pressure was finally causing him to crack.

Of course he’d never expected the tension to manifest in a sexual craving that only intensified the harder he tried to smother it.

Honestly, this was ridiculous. He was a man of science, of medicine. He understood biology and the role it played in sexual attraction. Still, knowing all the ins and outs didn’t nullify the tight, burgeoning ache in his groin that heralded an erection if the wind so much as blew across his trousers. “Uh…you know what? I’m sorry,” he apologized, “but you’re going to be on your own tonight for dinner. I just remembered I have a mountain of patient files to go over before tomorrow and I just can’t spare the time. Do you mind foraging on your own?”

She smiled, puzzled by his abrupt change. “No problem. I’m good at foraging. Go ahead. You’ve done enough to help. Really.”

Guilt for leaving her to fend for herself in his kitchen caused all manner of conflict but he knew he needed to put some distance between them. The woman tripped his switch and tempted him to do things that were out of character. Abby had been the last person to cause him to override his judgment and throw caution to the wind. If he had any fuzziness in the brain, all he had to do was pull Devin’s picture from his wallet to remember everything had consequences. Not that he regretted Devin—how could he? But he’d sprinted from his old life and ran headlong into this new one, where everything felt tipped upside down and backward. He’d be lying if there weren’t moments when he just wished he could close his eyes and return to his uncomplicated former existence.

“Good night,” he called out, pausing by his desk to grab a stack of patient notes before disappearing into his room for the night.

He’d always considered himself a strong man, but being around Darcy reminded him that every man had a weakness.

And Darcy was fast becoming his.

Chapter 13

D
arcy wandered the small, cozy house but felt wholly weird drifting around Rafe’s place while he remained cloistered inside his bedroom. She wondered why he’d been so eager to get away. She tried not to let her feelings get in the way, but though she tried, she couldn’t ignore the bruising of her ego. The last time she’d checked she wasn’t a horrid person and certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes, but Rafe maintained a defensible space between them at all times. Even when she suspected there was more to the man than he let on, that there was quite possibly a very passionate individual hidden beneath that lab coat, he did a very thorough job of stuffing that side of himself far from prying eyes. Including hers.