Surprised to feel his lips twitch, Steven made himself look away from her violet eyes and concentrate on her ankle that was already starting to swell. As gently as he could he probed the ankle while watching her response from the corner of his eye. He didn’t miss the way her arms folded tightly across her chest, the way her breath caught, the way she bit down on her lips. She was in pain, but her ankle was probably not broken. Gently he placed her foot back on the tiled floor, trying not to notice the way her toenails were painted a soft pink, the way the silk stockings clung to her calves. Trying very hard not to remember she wore honest-to-goodness garters under her modest lavender skirt.
God. How many women wore real garters anymore?
He cleared his throat and hoped his voice sounded normal. “I’d say it’s just a bad sprain, but you might want to get it looked at,” he said, sitting back on his heels, looking away from her legs. He took note of her shoes, both lying off to the side. Black, open-toed, four-inch skinny heels.
Forcefully, he pushed the image of her legs in those heels from his brain, instead going for a tone of mild reproach. “A pair of more sensible shoes might have done a better job at breaking your fall.”
Her lips fell open. “Of all the—” Her violet eyes rolled again and she struggled to her knees, smacking his outstretched helping hand out of the way. She stared him in the eye, her hands plunking down on her rounded hips. “You, sir, have one hell of a lot of nerve. You run into me, knock me down, and then have the nerve to criticize my choice of shoes!” She grabbed her purse and started to shove her lipstick, keys, and other sundries back into it. “Like I wanted to buy the damn things anyway,” she muttered.
Steven picked up a shiny black compact and she snatched it from his hand with a scowl. “Give me that,” she snapped.
“Then why did you?” Steven asked, handing her a plastic bag filled with . . . He narrowed his eyes and stared. Dog biscuits? These, too, she snatched from his hand and shoved in her purse.
“Why did I what?”
“Why did you buy those shoes if you didn’t want them?” She stopped, her hand on her palm pilot. When she looked up, her dark hair parted like a waterfall and Steven felt his heart stop. She was smiling. Grinning, even. Frowning, she was striking. But smiling . . . She was absolutely beautiful. And her smile made his own lips curve up. Warmed him, inside and out.
“My friend talked me into buying them,” she answered. She reached for one of the shoes, holding it up for a rueful inspection. “I told her I’d probably fall and break my ankle.”
Steven laughed out loud, physically feeling the burden lighten from his shoulders. Not forgotten, not by a long shot, but lighter. For the moment. Suddenly uncomfortable, Steven stood up. Her eyes followed him, not looking away as he found himself wishing she would.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wasn’t watching where I was going and I ran into you as much as you ran into me. You’ve been very polite and I’ve been surly. I’ve had—” She shrugged. “A bit of an intense day. I know that isn’t a good excuse, but it’s the best one I’ve got. I hope you’ll forgive my bad manners.”
Steven cast his eyes around the school’s lobby seeing the papers still strewn about. “It’s okay. Let me pick up your papers.” He could hear the brusque note in his voice and hated it, just as he hated it every time it came out. But it had become a part of him, part of the shield that kept all nonessential people at bay. Still, he hated the way her violet eyes widened and her dark brows scrunched together, puzzled.
Jenna stayed where she was for a long moment, offensive shoe in her hand. The change in his expression had been abrupt, laughing one moment, then distant the next. She wondered what she’d said. He’d started picking up the strewn papers. As he leaned forward, his golden hair picked up the reflection of the overhead lights, taking on a reddish gleam. He was tall and powerfully built and she found herself mentally comparing him to Mr. Lutz as she set the shoe aside and began gathering papers. Both men were tall, but the similarity ended there. Lutz used his size and physical power to intimidate. The stranger had a gentle touch. After her initial surprise when he’d picked up her foot, she’d felt no fear at all. Lutz’s eyes had been cold as ice. This man’s were a warm brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed.
Her hands stilled. Brad Thatcher had dark hair and a slender build. But her student’s eyes were brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed. In fact, Brad’s brown eyes and warm smile were a lot like those of the man gathering her scattered papers. She closed her eyes as heat rose in her cheeks and she pressed her hands against her face. Brad’s eyes and smile were exactly like this man’s. Like father . . . like son. Oh, Lord, she thought, swallowing the groan that had started in her throat. This man was Brad’s father. She’d called him an incompetent idiot. And she’d practically shown him her underwear. Some first impression she’d made.
She looked up, unsurprised when she saw her purple folder in his hands. He was reading a test in the folder, his face a study in helpless, frustrated misery. He looked up and met her eyes and she felt as if she’d taken a rabbit punch to the gut. In his eyes she saw a riot of fear, disappointment, and a weariness that made her heart clench.
“You’re Brad’s Dr. Marshall,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “And you’re Special Agent Thatcher.”
He slid Brad’s test back into the folder. “I’m Brad’s father, yes.”
“We need to talk, Agent Thatcher.”
Friday, September 30, 4:30 P.M.
Leaning one shoulder to the wall, Victor Lutz watched the principal pace the threadbare carpet of his office with growing impatience. “It’s quite simple, Dr. Blackman. Overrule her.”
Blackman looked up, his scrawny face tight with anxiety. “I can’t do that,” Blackman said.
Lutz didn’t blink. “Why not?”
Blackman paced to the window and, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looked through the glass to where the Friday night football crowd was beginning to assemble.
Lutz shook his head. Blackman was a fool and Lutz was growing very tired of having to deal with him. He pushed away from the wall. “Blackman.”
The principal’s head whipped around at the curt address. “I asked you a question. Why not?”
Blackman swallowed and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Cleared his throat. “Because technically she’s right. Rudy is failing her class. School policy—”
“I don’t give a flyin’ rat’s ass about your school policy,” Lutz interrupted with a snarl. “I want Rudy to play. Today.”
“I can’t do that. Today,” Blackman added quickly. “I need time.”
“How much time?” Lutz asked, mentally planning to beat the shit out of Rudy for his sheer stupidity. It would have been so easy for him to pass that test. There were ways to manage situations like this. But did his blockhead of a son think? No. He walked into the class, unprepared, and handed in a blank sheet of paper. Idiot. Just like his mother.
“A few weeks.”
“Unacceptable,” Lutz bit out. “I want Rudy playing next week, Dr. Blackman, or you’ll find your plans for the new stadium severely underfunded.”
Blackman swallowed. “That stadium is not for my benefit, Mr. Lutz. It’s for the school.”
“Bullshit.” Lutz smiled and watched Blackman’s trembles creep up a notch or two. “Your promise to build a new stadium is the only thing keeping your contract negotiations open for next year. You lose your job, you lose everything.” He shook his head. “For a man who makes his living administrating, you’ve done a piss-poor job on your own finances. Here and at home.” Blackman’s face slackened in shock and Lutz chuckled. “I make my living based on obtaining information and using it most effectively. I know everything about you, down to the color of the boxers covering your pathetic skinny ass.” He placed his hat on his head. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He held up a finger. “One week. This time next week Rudy is back in the game.”
Blackman jerked a nod. “One week.”
Satisfied, Lutz took his leave, carefully closing the door behind him.
Friday, September 30, 4:40 P.M.
Steven helped Dr. Marshall to a chair at the worn table that dominated the teachers’ lounge and wordlessly pulled up a second chair for her foot. She lifted her foot to the chair, silently grimacing.
“You should ice that ankle,” he said.
She met his eyes, visibly smoothing her grimace to a smile, and once again he felt warmth curl around his heart. A man could get used to such a comfort. Unfortunately Steven Thatcher could not be such a man.
“We keep an ice pack in the freezer,” she said, gesturing to a refrigerator in the corner.
Easily he found it in the freezer door. Murmuring her thanks, she gestured to an empty chair.
“Please sit, Mr.—I’m sorry. Agent Thatcher.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” He sat. And waited.
For a full minute she stared down at her hands before lifting her head. “You saw Brad’s test,” she said abruptly and Steven could only nod. His voice seemed stuck in his throat. She leaned forward, her expression now earnest. “Brad was in my basic chemistry class last year, Mr. Thatcher. He made it a year I’ll never forget. He loved to learn. He was always prepared. He was polite, alert. Now he’s not any of those things.”
Steven closed his eyes and massaged his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes. “When did you see him change?”
He felt her fingers close around his wrist and pull his hand from his face. He opened his eyes to find hers narrowed and worried. “Are you okay, Mr. Thatcher? You look pale.”
“Just a headache. I’ll be fine. It’s just stress. Really,” he added when she looked unconvinced. “When did you first notice a change in my son?”
She settled in her chair, back to business. “Four weeks ago. When school started in August I was thrilled to have him in my advanced chemistry class this year. Then right after the Labor Day break he was different.”
Steven frowned. “Different, how?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Restless at first. He missed simple questions. We had a test the Friday after Labor Day. He got a D. I was stunned. I thought I’d give it a few weeks, see if he snapped out of it.” She shrugged again. “Then today I graded his latest test and he failed it. He’s grown more isolated every day. I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to call and let you know.”
Steven made himself ask the question that had kept him awake most of the nights over the last four weeks. “Dr. Marshall, do you think my son has gotten involved in drugs?”
She pressed her fingertips to her lips and sat quietly for a moment that stretched on and on. He thought she wasn’t going to answer at all when she sighed. “Good kids can get involved in drugs, Agent Thatcher.” She met his eyes, her gaze sympathetic. “But you knew that already. The truth is I don’t know. I hope to heaven he’s not, but we can’t afford to believe he’s not.”
Steven watched her bite her lip and felt a strange calm settle around his shoulders. We. She’d said we. He still didn’t have the slightest idea what to do about Brad, but knowing this woman shared his frustration and seemed to genuinely care for his son provided a foothold, a place to rest, if only for the few minutes he sat across from her. “Then where do we go from here?”
She smiled, so gently it made his heart clench. “The guidance counselor would be a good place to start. He’s a friend of mine and very experienced.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase and wrote a name and phone number. “Call Dr. Bondioli on Monday. He’s expecting you.”
Steven folded the paper and slid it into his pocket. “You were sure I’d be willing to talk to him.”
“Brad’s a good kid. Good kids rarely raise themselves.” “Thank you. Believe it or not, I feel just a little better.”
Dr. Marshall stood, balanced her weight on one foot, and extended her hand. “I’m glad.”
He pushed himself to his feet and shook her hand, feeling a reticence to let go that was foreign to him. He abruptly released her hand. Foreign, unwise, and unwanted. “Thank you for agreeing to see me tonight. How’s your ankle?”
She put some weight on it and winced. “Better.”
Steven hesitated. “Is there someone you can call to get you home?” His eyes dropped to her left hand, quite of their own volition. No ring. No husband. No way, he thought. Don’t go there. But he had. He wondered if his face was as heated as hers had become. Her eyes dropped to her feet.
“No, I’m afraid not,” she murmured, almost as if to herself, and he wondered if he’d hurt her feelings. But when she looked up, her smile was firmly back in place. “No significant other. Just my trusty dogs.” Briskly she gathered her belongings. “No worries, though. My car’s an automatic and my right foot’s still good, but I could use some help getting to my car if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” He took her briefcase and offered his arm, steeling himself for the warm feel of her touch.
She isn’t married. Gritting his teeth, he pushed the thought aside and with it the little spark it lit inside him. He needed to focus on getting her to her car and then getting home to find out what the hell was wrong with his son. That’s what he should be focusing on. If he were a good father that’s what he’d be focusing on. He must not be, he thought grimly, because what he was focusing on was the way her shoulder barely brushed his as she limped across the tiled lobby floor.
She fit well at his side. She was tall, taller than his wife had been, and the comparison stung as much as the memory. He tried to squelch the memory, to push it down deep where he could pretend it didn’t exist, but once begun it continued to roll. There was a time, long ago when the boys were small, when Melissa would nuzzle her cheek to his chest ...He’d lower his head, smell her hair ...A sharp pain struck him square in the heart. He couldn’t allow himself to remember anymore.
Melissa was gone, taking . . . no, stealing everything comfortable with her. Damn you, Mel, he thought, anger sweeping away the yearning.
Steven straightened so abruptly that Dr. Marshall looked up in surprise, her sudden movement sending her black hair swinging over her shoulder.
“Did I step on your foot?” she asked. He could see she was in pain. Her lips curved, but the smile was for polite show only.
He shook his head. “No.”
Her eyes questioned, then dropped back to her feet when it was clear he would say nothing more. Her head lowered and her hair fell forward to hide her face. Quickly she tucked it behind her ear. Coconut. Her hair smelled like coconut. Beaches and suntan lotion. And bikinis. God.
She smelled good. He didn’t want to notice it any more than he wanted to notice the curve of her jaw or the straight line of her nose. Or her full lips. Or her legs that went all the way up to her shoulders. He didn’t want to notice any of her attributes, but he found them impossible to ignore. He drew an appreciative breath before locking his jaw.
The last thing he needed at this stage of his life was the distraction of a woman. Normally ignoring distracting women was one of the things he did best, much to the dismay of his aunt Helen. But it seemed harder today. Today he was feeling very... vulnerable. He grimaced. Just thinking the word left a bad taste in his mouth. But it was true, be it the emotionally taxing experience with Samantha Eggleston’s parents or the fact that his son’s life was falling apart and there didn’t seem to be anything he could do.
Dr. Marshall paused as he opened the front door of the school for her. Her hand that so gently grasped his arm for support gave a single soft squeeze.
“It will be all right, Mr. Thatcher,” she said quietly. “You need to believe that.”
He needed to believe that. He almost did. Almost wished he could have someone like her at his side, giving him the same kind of encouragement day in, day out. Almost.
He nodded once. “Do you think you can drive yourself home?”
She tilted h
er head as if to sharpen her focus and he felt suddenly exposed, as if she could see his most acute fears. He expected more wisdom, but instead she simply answered the question he’d asked. “Yes. As I said before, my right foot’s fine and my car’s an automatic. I’ll be fine.”
“If you give me your keys I’ll bring your car.”
He watched as she fished in her purse, coming up with a set of keys. “It’s a red Jag.”
He blinked. “You have a Jaguar? On a teacher’s salary?” “I inherited it,” she said and pointed to the far corner of the parking lot. “It’s over there.”
He took the keys from her hand and helped her down the flight of stairs leading from the school. At the bottom she released his arm to grab the iron guardrail. And he felt bereft. He didn’t like the feeling.
Distraction. Brad’s Dr. Marshall was definitely that. Brad needed to get his act together and fast, both for his own sake and to keep his father from needing to see his teacher again.
FIVE
Friday, September 30, 4:45 P.M.
BRAD THATCHER SAT ON THE EDGE OF HIS BED, his head in his hands. He’d failed his chemistry test. He knew it even though he hadn’t stayed in class long enough to get his test back. One look at Dr. Marshall’s face told him everything he needed to know. He hated disappointing her after everything she’d done for him. He thought of his last test, the way she’d put the test paper on his desk, facedown. He’d always felt sorry for the kids who slipped their test into their backpacks without turning it over to see the grade because they knew they’d flunked. Because they were losers.
Like me, he thought. “God, I’m such a loser,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his unshaven face, the stubble making his palms sting. After that first D, his first D ever in his life, Dr. Marshall had asked him to stay after class. She’d asked him what was wrong, what she could do to help. Reminded him if his grades continued to slip he’d lose the scholarship he’d wanted so much.