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“And when she did?”

“She went along with it for a while.”

“Until?”
Let me guess. Until he actually had to help some homeless or otherwise socially insignificant person and came home with low-class blood on his clothes.

That reaction wasn't like her. It was probably true—but still, not the way she would've thought two years ago. She'd always been more of a glass half-full kind of person.

“She walked when I told her I didn't intend to live in the mansion my parents planned to give us for a wedding present.”

So they'd gone as far as to get engaged. Something she'd never have the honor of doing with Scott.

“Why didn't you want the house?”

“Somehow, living a life of luxury didn't seem con
ducive to the job I had to do. It always comes down to those split-second decisions. I couldn't risk getting too comfortable, losing my edge.” He threaded his fingers through hers. She loved the feel of silk against the back of her hand.

Moving her fingers against his, Tricia fell in love with the man all over again. If she'd met him a few years before, knew that men with character really did exist, she might still believe in fairy tales.

Scott leaned forward, grabbing his beer, which had to be pretty warm by then, and took a long sip. He held on to the bottle. “I'm never again going to be that soft boy sitting beside his mangled Porsche by the side of the road, waiting to be waited on.”

“No, you aren't.” But not just because he'd given up a luxurious house.

He took another sip of beer. The CD changed, filling the room with Enya's evocative tones. Tricia laid her head against his shoulder.

“I'm curious about something.” Petrified, more like it, but pretending to herself that she wasn't.

Bottom line, she was on her own. Always would be. She could handle anything. Hadn't she already proved that to herself?

“What?”

“Why did you choose today to tell me all this? Your parents coming for a visit or something?”

His hand on her shoulder stilled. He didn't pull away, yet Tricia felt his withdrawal as completely as if he had.

“My parents have been on a cruise around the world for the past six months. They've called my cell phone a few times. They're due to return sometime next month.”

“So you have contact with them?”

“When they're in town, I talk to them, and to my brother, every week. Once they realized I was serious about my life choices, they gave me their full support.”

He talked with them every single week and she'd never known. That hurt.

And there wasn't one damn thing she could say or do about it.

She and Scott were a moment, not an item. There was no reason for her to know his family. She couldn't expect them to understand the terms of their relationship—that there was no future for them. It just made things too complicated.

And what if she liked them and they her? That would just make walking away even harder.

“Do they live here, in San Diego?”

He shook his head. “Mission Viejo. It's where I grew up.”

“So back to my question—why come clean today?”

He sat forward, clasped his hands in front of him.

“I attended a freeway accident yesterday. A single vehicle rollover.”

His distant tone scared her.

“The driver was a young girl, about Alicia's age….” Tricia almost slammed her hands over her ears. She
knew what was coming. Didn't want him to have to say it.

“We got her out. I did what I could. And watched her die anyway.”

Sliding a hand along his thigh, she reached for his hands. “Even the most world-renowned doctors lose patients sometimes,” she reminded him softly. “Sometimes it's just not up to us….”

“I know.” His answer, the accompanying compassionate smile, threw her. And relieved her.

“So…”

“It's not that I blame myself for her death,” Scott continued. Fear gripped her anew, more tightly, until her chest ached with it.

“What then?”

He turned to look at her, his eyes serious. “I'm never going to recover from Alicia's death.”

“I understand.” She did. She just wasn't sure why it mattered right now if it hadn't the day before.

“I didn't.” His words surprised her. “Not until I sat on the side of that road yesterday and felt the crushing weight of it all. Alicia's death. The guilt. I can't risk that again, Trish. Not even for you.”

He didn't have to hit her over the head with it. She got it. All the way through to the vulnerable little girl lurking inside her, hoping against hope to somehow find unconditional love.

“Of course not for me.” She had no idea where she found the strength to sound so normal. “We have an
understanding, buster,” she said, grabbing his hand, squeezing it. “No strings attached. No expectations. Today, but no promise of tomorrow. Remember?”

She hated it. Every word. But it was only under those circumstances that she could stay.

Face solemn, he studied her for long seconds while she held her breath. And then he nodded.

“Just so you aren't hoping for more,” he said.

“I'm not.” Not in any way that could ever matter. Not now. Not with Leah missing and her heart still so raw and hurting for Scott and everything he'd told her that day. Not while she was suffering her own guilt for the lies she was telling. So she did the only thing that felt right, the only thing that had the power to dispel the darkness. She pulled his head toward hers and lost herself in a kiss that stirred every nerve in her body until there was no coherent thought left other than to assuage the ache between her legs.

And the hardness between his.

T
hursday morning brought more bad news. Senator Thomas Whitehead sat behind his mahogany glass-topped desk, hands steepled at his chin as he faced the best defense attorney on his team, Kilgore Douglas. Thomas still maintained a penthouse office at the downtown San Francisco high-rise that housed the law firm he owned—although he no longer practiced there.

“Kassar found reasonable grounds to issue search warrants.” Kilgore came right to the point after announcing that he'd just heard from Detectives Stanton and Gregory.

Judge Henry Kassar. Democrat. Openly opposed to every Republican branch in Thomas's family tree.

Sharp pain stabbed at Thomas's stomach, but only for the second it took his mind to take control, issue calm. “To search what?”

“Your home. Cars. Offices. Everything.”

“I have nothing to hide.” But it wouldn't look good to his constituents. And once doubt was cast…

Damn Kassar. Thomas had wiped the floor with his Democrat opposition—who'd been fully endorsed by Kassar—during last year's election. The man would stoop to anything to get his own back. He'd seen Thomas's remarks to the press as a personal attack. It wasn't personal at all. Publishing a man's accomplishments or lack thereof, as the case might be, was just part of politics.

Douglas, resting against Thomas's desk, glanced down at the papers he held, nodding. Thomas recognized the blue folder. It contained the complete record of Thomas's experiences with San Francisco's law enforcement—one traffic ticket when he was sixteen, and everything relating to Kate's disappearance.

The familiar jolt that shot through him as he stared at that folder, remembering his beautiful and spirited wife, hurt worse than usual today.

“I don't like it,” Douglas said. “You have an airtight alibi. They shouldn't still be poking around. I plan to appeal.”

Douglas was the best on his team, but only because Thomas, once the city's highest-paid defense attorney, wasn't practicing anymore.

Thomas shook his head. “Appeal on a warrant decision is so rare, it would play right into Kassar's hands, drawing even more attention to me. Besides, if we do that, some people are going to think I have something to hide.”

“You know as well as I do that your being clean won't stop them from finding potential evidence if they try hard enough.”

“They won't try. They don't have a case and they know it. They don't want to come out of this with egg on their faces, either. Kassar aside, as far as the D.A. is concerned, this is merely a formality. So he can tell the mayor, and the mayor can tell his voters, that it's been done. San Francisco's second wealthy young beauty has just disappeared. They have to turn over every stone on this one.”

These were all facts he was comfortable with. Still, out of curiosity…

“What were the reasonable grounds?”

“You're associated with both women.”

“What wealthy young woman in San Francisco
don't
I know?” Thomas asked. In the past ten years, he'd done enough campaigning, socializing, smiling and schmoozing to get elected president of the United States if he decided to make a run for that office. “What wealthy
person
don't I know?”

“You were the husband of one and escort of the other.”

Thank God that well-known fact was all they had to go on. He was innocent in both cases, but the prosecution might come to a different conclusion—the wrong conclusion—if they had all the facts.

“They're going to see if they can find something among my things—phone calls I've made, bills I've paid, food in my refrigerator, whatever—that might connect the two disappearances.”

He hadn't practiced courtroom law so successfully for seventeen years without learning how to outthink the prosecution.

“Leah and Kate were best friends.”

“So maybe they ran off together!”

Douglas chuckled without any real humor. “You don't really believe that.”

Thomas rubbed his hand across his face, an unusual display of weakness. Revealing emotion, especially negative emotion, was something he almost never did. A Whitehead kept up appearances at all costs. In his world, that rule had been the most important condition for sustaining life. Breathing came in a close second.

“No,” he said, looking up at his attorney and closest friend. “I don't believe that.” His voice broke and he stopped a moment to calm himself. “Kate and I…we—”

“I understand, buddy.” Douglas's hand on his shoulder kept him from making even more of an idiot of himself.

“Sorry,” he said, standing. The ability to detach himself had always served him well—in the courtroom and in life. He wouldn't lose it again.

“Hey, Thomas, this is me. No need to apologize.” Douglas rounded the desk, shoving the folder back in his hand-tooled leather briefcase. “Frankly, man,” he continued, his voice a little muffled as he bent over the chair in front of Thomas's desk, latching his case, “I don't know how you do it. If it were me and I'd lost Kate—let alone the baby—they'd have had to pull me out of the river. And now Leah. It's…unsettling, you know?”

“I know.” Arms crossed over his chest, Thomas stood beside his desk, nodding slowly.

Douglas straightened, stared at him for a long silent minute. “Yeah, I guess you do. Listen, you want to hit the club tonight? I could use a drink.”

“Maybe.” He'd be drinking, that was for sure. “As long as Mother's okay.”

“What's it been, six months now since your father died?”

Thomas nodded.

“How's she doing?”

“Like the rest of us, I guess. She has good days and bad ones. Nights are the hardest.”

Shaking his head, Douglas moved to the door. “You guys have had it rough lately, but you know what that means.”

“What?”

“That your turn's coming for something really big.”

Thomas was counting on that.

 

Scott's four days off made it difficult for Tricia to get to the paper every morning, but that didn't stop her from driving herself crazy until she had the most recent edition of the
San Francisco Gazette
in her hands. She hated lying to Scott, hated being impatient with him when he accompanied her and Taylor on their morning walks, and then suggested going to the Grape Street dog park so the little boy could run and play with the animals. For some reason, her son was smitten with dogs.
She'd never had a pet in her life and she'd certainly never considered having one that not only lived in the house but shed, drooled and didn't wipe after it went to the bathroom. But watching Scott and Taylor with the unleashed pets in the park, she couldn't help laughing.

And wishing that life was different—that she had a place where she felt secure enough to buy her son a puppy.

Still, she made excuses every day to get out of the house on her own. Thread she'd suddenly run out of. A quick trip to the grocery. A rush job that she'd forgotten had to be delivered.

He'd raised his eyebrows at that one, but had said nothing.

Which was pretty much what she got from the
San Francisco Gazette
. Nothing. Senator Thomas Whitehead had returned from an annual fishing trip. He'd stopped by the precinct the moment he'd heard about the heiress's disappearance and no arrest had been made.

He was in the clear. Again.

 

On Saturday, the last day of his off-rotation, Scott stood in the doorway of the smallest bedroom in his modest three-bedroom home, watching the woman he thought of far too often for his own good. She sat there, some kind of dark garment in her hand, doing nothing.

He always wondered where she went when she did that. But he didn't ask. The answer could very well take him into territory they'd agreed not to travel.

“You almost done?”

She jumped, bent her head for a second, and then turned to him, her ready smile in evidence. “Almost, why?”

Whatever had been on her mind, she wasn't sharing it with him. Not that it mattered. He had no business knowing what made her jump in the middle of the night—or in the middle of the day when her lover spoke to her from a doorway in their home.

Soon after Tricia had moved in with him—which had been right after he'd met her, six months pregnant, in a bar where he used to hang out with the guys on his shift—he'd given Tricia this room for her sewing. He didn't know anything about what she did, since he'd never seen his mother or his cousins so much as hold a needle, but even he could tell she was skilled at it.

He didn't mind giving up his office/weight room for the sewing machine the dry cleaner had lent her so she could work at home while her baby was young. In the almost two years that followed, they'd added a cabinet from the flea market to hold her growing collection of materials, threads, scissors and tape measures, buttons and fasteners.

And she'd painted the room yellow with white trim. Not his style, but around her it looked good.

“The little guy'll be up from his nap soon. How about a trip over to Coronado?”

As far as he could tell, it was her favorite place in the world—or at least in the San Diego area.

“To walk on the beach?” Her smile didn't grow, it relaxed. She was back with him.

“Sure. And maybe get a burger downtown. I promised Taylor some French fries.”

“Can you give me fifteen minutes to finish these?” She held up the dark garment—a pair of women's slacks. They were creased where she'd been holding them. “They're the last of an order, and we can drop them off while we're there.”

She looked so damned cute sitting there with minimal makeup on her flawless light skin, her long silky hair hanging down the white button-up shirt she was wearing over a pair of faded jeans. Compelled by something other than his own thoughts, Scott moved closer, catching and holding her gaze. Accepting the invitation he read in those deep blue eyes. He'd never seen such blue eyes on a brunette.

Or at least that was the reason he gave himself for the way they caught—and held—his attention even after nearly two years of living with her. Sleeping with her. Waking up beside her.

“Sounds good.” He finally uttered the words that were waiting to be said. He couldn't quite remember the question he was answering.

His lips lowered, touching hers as, eyes slowly closing, she lifted her chin and nodded. Adrenaline shot through him, a streak of energy igniting every nerve in his body on the way through. Her lips were so soft, almost innocent, and so intent on passion he shook
with it. She was moist and fresh and burning him all at once.

“Oh, God, woman, what you do to me,” he mumbled against her mouth, falling down to his knees between her legs, pulling her head with him. Tricia's hands slid up his shoulders, pressing into him, her touch sending chills across his skin.

“How long did you say it would be before he woke up?” Her voice was ragged, as was the chuckle that accompanied it.

He had no idea. Couldn't remember when he'd put Taylor down. Or what time he'd interrupted her.

“Ten minutes. Twenty if we're lucky.”

Hands on her waistband, Tricia raised her bottom off the chair, and slid the jeans, with panties inside, down over her bare feet. “Let's get lucky,” she said, her blue eyes glowing as she grinned up at him, her unsteady fingers meeting his at the button on his jeans.

He'd never known a woman whose hunger matched his. And that made him even hungrier. They'd done this in bed a few hours ago. It should have been enough.

“Hurry,” she said, the tip of her tongue gliding lightly on his neck.

He was so hard it hurt to shove the jeans down. Scooting her bottom forward on the chair, he tilted her just enough to fit him and then slid home.

Quickly. Again and again.

Thank God for home. It made life worth living.

 

“Mama, down!”

Laughing, Tricia leaned down to steady her son in the sand. With one hand wrapped firmly around his small fingers, she glanced up through her sunglasses to stare at her own reflection in Scott's mirrored lenses. “Seems to be his favorite phrase with me these days,” she told him.

“A guy's gotta see what he can do for himself,” he told her, bending to take Taylor's other hand. They were a family, the three of them, laughing and kicking up sand as they strolled barefoot, jeans rolled up their calves, along the Coronado beach line. A moment in time.

That was just about how long it lasted. Taylor tugged at their hands. Tried to run. Laughed when Scott scooped him up, throwing him into the air, and before she knew what was happening, Tricia found herself sitting on the sand, an observer, while Scott and Taylor played a baby version of football with a shell Taylor had picked up.

Mostly the game consisted of Scott letting Taylor “catch” the shell and then chasing after the toddler, whose legs tripped over themselves in the sand, ending in a tickle tackle that had him screaming with glee.

And filled his hair with sand, too, she was sure. Not that she cared. Taylor's squeals were so joyful they were contagious. She sat there grinning like an idiot when what she needed to do was get to a news
paper. She'd yet to see Saturday's issue. Turning, looking for a newspaper box, she suddenly noticed the tall man in the distance. Noticed him because his slacks and dress shoes were hardly proper attire for the beach? Or because he didn't seem to react to Taylor's joy?

He was staring at the baby, though, and all thought of newspapers, of football games and joy fled Tricia's mind. Taylor ran several yards up the beach with Scott in mock pursuit. Tricia followed their progress from the stranger's perspective. He was watching them.

And, she was fairly certain, her as well.

Heart pounding, she stood, cloaked herself with the protective numbness that kept her mind focused and moved slowly up the beach. Had he seen them together? Did he know that she and Taylor were a pair?