Janelle Taylor (8 page)

“Spencer…”

He cowered into his pillow. “He’s coming to get me!
I want my mommy.” His words dissolved into a shuddering sob.

“Oh, Spencer.” Jordan pulled him close. He stiffened, but she didn’t let go.

Eventually, she felt his little body relax. She held him and stroked him and crooned to him until his eyes began to flutter closed again. When he lay back on his pillow, she pulled the covers up to his chin and began to tiptoe out of the room.

“Stay,” he said softly, and she turned to see his sleepy gaze on her. “Please?”

Warmth pooled within her, and she smiled. It was a small victory, but an important one. He wanted her here with him. For once, he wasn’t pushing her away.

“I’ll stay,” she whispered.

And she did, sitting on his bed long after he’d drifted off to a peaceful sleep at last.

As he walked up the steps to Jordan’s town house, Beau told himself that he was prepared for anything. But he knew that wasn’t true.

He wasn’t prepared to learn that there was a criminal side to Jordan Curry. That seemed as unlikely as a blizzard blowing into town tonight.

Beau hesitated in front of the door and wiped a trickle of sweat from his forehead. According to the televised weather forecast he’d seen earlier, the relative humidity tonight was almost a hundred percent, and he could feel every bit of it. He longed to be on the beach in the Outer Banks, with cool saltwater lapping his toes and a fresh ocean breeze in his face.

Well, it wouldn’t be long now. In no time, he would be leaving on vacation. Then he could put everything
behind him: the unbearably steamy weather, stewing about the breakup with Lisa, his work …

Jordan Curry.

Spencer.

And the newspaper article he’d just read.

Hell. No wonder she’d been so tense last night No wonder she hadn’t volunteered any information about the boy.

Beau took a deep breath. It was now or never, and never was out of the question. He couldn’t just go off on vacation knowing what he knew without doing something about it.

He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten o’clock. The porch lights were off, but he could see lamplight inside, filtering through the drawn draperies. She must still be awake in there.

He knocked.

He waited, but only a few seconds.

The door was thrown open more quickly than he expected. Either she had happened to be in the hallway, or she had rushed in from the other room.

Jordan stood framed in
the
doorway, the anticipatory expression on her face quickly changing to surprise—and then disappointment.

“I take it you were expecting somebody else,” Beau said dryly, hoping she couldn’t see his hands shaking as he jammed them into the pockets of his jeans with what he hoped was a casual gesture.

“Actually, I wasn’t expecting anyone, but when I heard the knock I thought maybe … well, I didn’t think it was you,” she finished awkwardly.

“Sorry, but it is me.”

“I see that.” She made no move to step aside or invite him in, just regarded him warily with her big green eyes.
She was wearing a pair of cotton boxer shorts and a sleeveless white cotton top that revealed more of her than he had seen yesterday… and more than he wanted to see now.

Damn it. He wanted to forget that she was a desirable woman. He wanted to forget that he was a lonely man.

No, what he really wanted to forget right now was that Jordan might be involved in an unimaginable crime. He wanted to forget that he had ever laid eyes on Spencer and that he had ever read that article in the paper. He wanted to forget that he had sworn off women and romance and passion.

But he couldn’t forget.

He couldn’t take her into his arms and kiss her. He couldn’t release the years’ worth of pent-up longing or the man he had once been.

So he did what he had come here to do. He said, fighting to keep his voice nonchalant, “Mind if I come in?”

She was clearly taken aback. “Now?” She looked down at herself, as if realizing for the first time that her attire wasn’t meant for a virtual stranger’s eyes.

“You know, you shouldn’t go opening your door at this hour of the night without knowing who’s there,” he pointed out.

“I know that. But I told you. I was expecting someone.
Else, “
she added purposefully.

“Actually, you didn’t tell me that. What you said was—”

“I know what I said.”

“Who were you expecting?”

“A friend.” She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye, as if daring him to ask her for more information.

Fully aware that he could ask and that she wouldn’t
tell, he took a step forward. She held her ground, not stepping back to allow him access. He was aware of her nearness. She was so close that he could smell honeysuckle wafting from her hair.

He was overcome by the completely irrational urge to move closer still, close enough to touch her. Close enough to bury his face in her neck, in her hair, to breathe her heavenly scent…

He found himself taking another step forward.

Still, she didn’t move.

He was in the doorway now, but he didn’t dare cross the threshold. Not yet. He needed to win her trust.

“I just wanted to talk to you about something, Jordan. Can I come in? Please?”

She narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest as if to conceal herself. “I was just getting ready to go to bed….“

“Where’s Spencer?”

The mention of the child’s name brought a flicker of apprehension to her eyes before she shifted her gaze away from his. “He’s sleeping.”

“Look, we really need to talk, and it’ll only take a minute. Please?”

She shook her head and reached for the doorknob. “I just… I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She’s afraid,
he realized, caught off guard by her shaking hand, and by her sudden vulnerability.
She’s thinking that I might be here to harm her.

A wave of emotion swept through him. He recognized it—recognized an overwhelming protective instinct he hadn’t experienced in years. Not since …

Not since he’d met Jeanette.

He pushed the thought aside. Jeanette was part of
the past. For now, for this moment, it was crucial that he focus on the present. On Jordan.

Because suddenly, as he comprehended that his instincts were telling him to keep this woman safe, to trust her and to win her trust, Beau knew that she was innocent. There was no longer a shred of doubt.

Whatever had happened in Philadelphia, and whatever the child was doing in her care …

He was sure there was a logical explanation.

“Jordan, I want to help you,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not here to hurt you. You can trust me. Just let me in so that we can talk.”

Still, she didn’t move. Still, her guarded expression didn’t falter.

“What do you mean, you want to help me?” she asked nervously. “Help me with what?”

“Whatever you need,” he said simply.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She put her hand on the doorknob, pulling it toward her a fraction of an inch.

He reached out and put his hand on the door, stopping it. “Don’t close it,” he said. “Please. Just tell me what’s going on. Maybe I can help.”

“What are you talking about?” She sounded bewildered, but the shadowed expression on her face told him that she somehow suspected what he meant. That she knew he was referring to Spencer.

“Look, I saw the paper tonight. I saw his name, and Philadelphia, and I figured …”

She just stared at him, shaking her head slowly, her brow furrowed as if she was searching for meaning in his words.

“But it wasn’t just that,” Beau pressed on, watching
her carefully. “It was the picture—he wasn’t in it, but I could see him in their faces.”

She genuinely looked confused. Again, she pulled the door toward her. Again, he stopped it.

“Beau, I don’t know what you’re saying. You’re not making sense.”

He had to say it straight out. What else could he do? He sensed that she was on the verge of slamming the door in his face.

He took a deep breath. “Jordan, I know. I know that kid upstairs is Spencer Averill. And I know what happened to his parents. What I don’t know is why he’s here and whether you were involved in their murder.”

It was as though Jordan had toppled into a bottomless sea, floundering, then sinking quickly.

Everything around her was suddenly blurry, distorted, distant She couldn’t breathe, and when she tried to move, her limbs seemed to accept her command in slow motion only.

She took a leaden step back, away from Beau, away from the horror of what he had just said.

She felt her legs give way beneath her. She sensed herself beginning to fall, saw Beau reaching for her.

As he steadied her, she managed to come up for air, sputtering, struggling to grab hold of something that made sense.

“Jordan, are you all right?”

She couldn’t speak.

“You didn’t know. My God. You didn’t know.” Both his hands were on her upper arms, and he was holding her so that she couldn’t move. Through the roar of incomprehensible thoughts swirling in her mind came
one coherent one: that she should feel threatened by this stranger’s presence—yet somehow, she didn’t.

“No,” she managed to say. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s him, right? He’s Spencer Averill?”

She nodded mutely.

“And his parents were Reno and Phoebe Averill?”

Were.

The word slammed into her, just as
murder
had.

“What happened?” she asked him, her voice little more than a croak.

“According to the paper, they were probably killed on their boat. Execution-style murders, the paper said. Their bodies were found floating near the scene, but their son’s was missing.”

Killed. Execution. Bodies. Missing.

She grappled with what he was telling her, but none of it made sense.

“The police are assuming Spencer was killed with them and that his body hasn’t surfaced yet, Jordan. You need to tell me how he came to be here, and what you know.”

“I don’t—I don’t know anything—” She faltered. Again she felt his grasp steadying her.

“Let’s go sit down,” he suggested.

She was aware of Beau closing the door behind them. He locked all the locks, then ushered her into the living room, where he helped her into a chair. The whole time, she felt as though she were watching the scene from a great distance rather than living it.

Her best friend was dead.

Phoebe was dead.

Somebody had killed her.

It was impossible, and yet it wasn’t. Jordan buried her face in her hands, remembering Phoebe’s palpable
dread that night. Had it only been forty-eight hours earlier?

“She told me it was life and death,” Jordan murmured over the lump in her throat “But I didn’t realize…”

“You didn’t know she was in trouble?” Beau’s voice asked. She looked up to see him crouched before her. He was still touching her, his hands reassuring on her shoulders.

“I thought she might be in trouble, but I never…” Jordan shook her head, wondering what she could have done differently.

“Was she a friend of yours?” Beau asked.

A friend? The lump rose to choke her words. “A friend. Yes. We grew up together. Then she got married, and I moved….” She took a deep breath, trying to get hold of her errant emotions.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Friday night. She showed up here out of the blue with Spencer, and she said she had to leave him.”

“For how long?”

“She wouldn’t say. She wouldn’t say anything except that I couldn’t tell a soul that he was here.” Jordan’s gaze locked on Beau’s. “And then you showed up.”

“I’m the only one who knows?”

“That he’s here? Yes. As far as I know.” Jordan wiped hot tears from her eyes. Her mind was awash in memories of Phoebe. Swinging on the old metal play set in the backyard. Baking Christmas cookies for the Girl Scout caroling party. Passing notes in social studies class …

Gone. How could she be gone?

The irony was, Phoebe was the person to whom she would normally turn if paralyzing grief struck her. Now
Phoebe’s loss was the cause of the grief, and there was no one Jordan could lean on. Even her parents were a world away, on a ship somewhere off the coast of Alaska. She felt utterly overwhelmed—and alone.

“Are you okay?” Beau’s gentle voice startled her.

She looked at him, not seeing him, blinded by streaming tears.

“No.” The word was little more than a whimper, and then she found herself sobbing in his arms.

He held her and comforted her just as she had held and comforted Spencer upstairs, and Jordan, like Spencer, resisted at first, then found solace in the human contact. She didn’t know this man; she didn’t
want
to know him, yet in this moment she needed him more desperately than she had ever needed another living soul. He was all she had.

Finally, her torment subsided. She was left feeling queasy, weak, shaken, as though she had been violently ill.

Beau produced a clean handkerchief. A handkerchief? Some part of her was startled by the gesture. She recalled Andrea MacDuff calling him an old-fashioned Southern gentleman.

The handkerchief was crisp and felt expensive. It smelled like clean linen, and like him. She buried her face in its musky masculine aroma, hiding in it, really, lest he somehow sense
the
inappropriate thoughts that suddenly rippled through her. How could she be thinking of him in that way at a time like this?

“We have to go to the police,” she said into the handkerchief, forcing herself back to grim reality.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Jordan.”

Startled, she lifted her face and looked at him. “Why not?”

“Phoebe didn’t go to the police. She came to you. She knew her family’s lives were in danger, but she only trusted you. Not the authorities. She must have had a reason.”

Jordan nodded slowly. He was right. Yet… “But the police are looking for Spencer. Isn’t that what you said? “

“They think he might have been murdered along with his parents and that his body wasn’t found yet. But Jordan, whoever killed Phoebe and Reno knows that their son wasn’t on the boat with them. They know he’s still out there somewhere.”