“I’m going to check on the baby.” She reached into her bag, retrieved her cell phone and punched out Sharon Okano’s number.
Sharon picked up on the second ring and was quick to reassure her that Joshua was fine. He’d already eaten, been bathed and was in his footed jammies, currently fascinated by a mobile Sharon had erected over his playpen.
“I’ll be by to see him as soon as I can,” Randi said.
“He’ll be fine.”
“I know. I just can’t wait to hold him a minute.” Randi clicked off and tried to quell the dull ache that seemed forever with her when she was apart from her child. It was weird, really. Before Joshua’s birth she had been free and easy, didn’t have a clue what a dramatic change was in store for her. But from the moment she’d awoken from her coma and learned she’d borne a son, she could barely stand to be away from him, even for a few hours.
As for being with him and holding him, the next few weeks promised to be torture on that score. Until she was certain he was safe with her. She slid the phone into her purse and turned to Kurt, who was studying her intently over the rim of his mug. Great. Dealing with him wasn’t going to be easy, either. Even if she didn’t factor in that she’d made love to him like a wanton in the wee hours of this very morning.
They ordered. Two baskets of fish and chips complete with sides of coleslaw and a second beer, even though they weren’t quite finished with the first, were dropped in front of them.
“Why are you keeping your kid’s paternity a secret?” Kurt finally asked. “What does it matter?”
“I prefer he didn’t know.”
“Why not? Seems as if he has a right.”
“Being a sperm donor isn’t the same as being a father.” Her stomach was screaming for food but the conversation was about to kill her appetite.
“Maybe he should be the judge of that.”
“Maybe you should keep your nose in your own business.” She took a long swallow from her drink and the guys at the bar gave up a shout as one of the players hit a three pointer.
“Your brothers made it my business.”
“My brothers can’t run my life. Much as they’d like to.”
“I think you’re afraid,” he accused, and she felt the tightening of the muscles of her neck, the urge to defend herself.
“Of what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer as the waitress appeared and slid their baskets onto the plank table, then offered up bottles of vinegar and ketchup. Only when they were alone again did Randi repeat herself. “You think I’m afraid of what?”
“Why don’t you tell me. It’s just odd, you know, for a woman not to tell the father of her child that he’s a daddy. Goes against the grain. Usually the mother wants financial support. Emotional support. That kind of thing.”
“I’m not usual,” she said, and thought he whispered “Amen” under his breath, though she couldn’t be certain as he covered up his comment with a long swallow of ale. She noticed the movement of his throat—dark with a bit of beard shadow as he swallowed—and something deep inside her, something dusky and wholly feminine, reacted. She drew her eyes away and told herself she was being a fool. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, over a year now, but that didn’t give her the right to ogle men like Kurt Striker nor imagine what it would feel like for him to touch her again, to kiss her, to press hot, insistent lips against the curve of her neck and push her sweater off her shoulder...
She caught herself and realized that he was watching her face, looking for her reaction. As if he could read her mind. To her horror she felt herself blush.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
She shook her head, pretended interest in her meal by shaking vinegar over her fries. “Wouldn’t sell ’em for a penny, or a nickel, or a thousand dollars.”
“So tell me about the book,” he suggested.
“The book?”
“The one you’re writing. Another one of your secrets.”
How could one man be so irritating? She ate in silence for a second and glowered across the table at him. “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want to tell anyone about it until it was finished.”
“You were on your way to the Flying M to finish it when you were forced off the road at Glacier National Park, right?” He dredged a piece of fish in tartar sauce.
She nodded.
“Think that’s just a coincidence?”
“No one knew I was going to Montana to write a book. Even the people at work thought I was just taking my maternity leave—which I was. I was planning to combine the two.”
“Juanita at the ranch knew about it.” He’d polished off one crispy lump of halibut and was working on a second.
“Of course she did. I already explained, it really wasn’t a secret.”
“If you say so.” He ate in silence for a minute, but she didn’t feel any respite, knew he was forming his next question, and sure enough, it came, hard and fast. “Tell me, Randi,” he said, “who do you think wants to kill you?”
“I’ve been through this dozens of times with the police.”
“Humor me.” He was nearly finished with his food and she’d barely started. But her appetite had crumpled into nothing. She picked at her coleslaw. “Who are your worst enemies? You know, anyone who has a cause—just or not—for wanting you dead.”
She’d considered the question over and over. It had run through her mind in an endless loop from the moment her memory had started working again when she’d awoken from her coma. “I...I don’t know. No one has any reason to hate me enough to kill me.”
“Murderers aren’t always reasonable people,” he pointed out.
“I can’t name anyone.”
“How about the baby’s father? Maybe he found out you were pregnant, is ticked that you didn’t tell him and, not wanting to be named as the father, decided to get rid of you both.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“No?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t certain about many things, but she doubted Joshua’s father would care that he’d fathered a child, certainly wouldn’t go through the steps to get rid of either of them. She felt a weight on her heart but ignored it as Striker, leaning back in the booth, pushed his near-empty basket aside. “If I’m going to help you, then I need to know everything that’s going on. So who is he, Randi? Who’s Joshua’s daddy?”
She didn’t realize she’d been shredding her napkin in her lap, but looked down and noticed all the pieces of red paper. She supposed she couldn’t take her secret with her to the grave, but letting the world know the truth made her feel more vulnerable, that she was somehow breaching a special trust she had with her son.
“My money’s on Donahue,” he said abruptly.
She froze.
He winked though his expression was hard. “I figure you’d go for the sexy-cowboy type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Don’t I?”
“Unfair, Striker, last night was...was...”
“What about it?”
“It was a mistake. We both know it. So, let’s just forget it. As I said, you don’t have any idea what ‘my type’ is.”
One side of his mouth lifted in an irritating, sexy-as-hell smile. Green eyes held hers fast, and a wave, warm as a desert in August, climbed up her neck. “I’m workin’ on it.”
Her heart clenched. Don’t do this, Randi. Don’t let him get to you. He’s no better than...than... Her throat tightened when she considered what a fool she’d been. For a man who’d seduced her. Used her. Cared less for her than he did for his dog. Silly, silly woman.
“Okay, Striker,” she said, forcing the words through her lips, words she’d vowed only hours ago never to utter. “I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, hating the sense of relief it brought to be able to confide in someone. “But this is between you and me. Got it? I’ll tell you and you alone. When the time comes I’ll tell Joshua’s father and my brothers. But only when I sa
y.”
“Fair enough,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, all interest in his remaining French fries forgotten.
Randi took in a deep breath and prayed she wasn’t making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. She stared Striker straight in the eye and admitted to him something she rarely acknowledged herself. “You’re right. Okay? Joshua’s father, and I use the term so loosely it’s no longer coiled, is Sam Donahue.” Her tongue nearly tripped over Sam’s name. She didn’t like saying it out loud, didn’t like admitting that she, like too many others before her, had been swept off her feet by the charming, roguish cowboy. It was embarrassing and, had it not been for her precious son, a mistake she would have rued until her dying day. Joshua, of course, changed all that.
Striker didn’t say a word. Nor had his lips curled in silent denunciation. And he didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow in mockery. No. He played it straight, just observing her, watching her every reaction.
“So now you know,” she said, standing. “I hope it helps, but I don’t think it means anything. Thanks for dinner.” She walked out of the bar and up the steps to the wet streets. The rain had turned to drizzle again, misting around the street lamps, and the air was heavy, laced with the brine from Puget Sound. Randi felt like running. As fast and far as she could. To get away from the claustrophobic feeling, the fear that compressed her chest, the very fear she’d tried to flee when she’d left Montana.
But it was with her wherever she went, she thought, her boots slapping along the rain-slick sidewalk as she hurried to her car. The city was far from deserted, traffic rushed through the narrow old streets and pedestrians bustled along the sidewalks. She carried no umbrella, didn’t bother with her hood, let the dampness collect on her cheeks and flatten her hair. Not that she cared. Damn it, why had she told Striker about Sam Donahue? Her relationship with Sam hadn’t really been a love affair, more of a fling, though at one time she’d been foolish enough to think she might be falling in love with the bastard. The favor hadn’t been returned and she’d realized her mistake. But not before the pregnancy test had turned out positive.
She hadn’t bothered to tell Donahue because she knew he wouldn’t care. He was a selfish man by nature, a rambler who followed the rodeo circuit and didn’t have time for the two ex-wives and children he’d already sired. Randi wasn’t about to try to saddle him with the responsibility of another baby. She figured Joshua was better off with one strong parent than two who fought, living with the ghost of a father whom he would grow up not really knowing.
She knew her son would ask questions and she intended to answer them all honestly. When the time came. But not now...not when her baby was pure innocence.
“Randi!” Striker was at her side, his bare head as wet as her own, his expression hard.
“What? More questions?” she asked, unable to hide the sarcasm in her voice. “Well, sorry, but I’m fresh out of shocking little details about my life.”
“I didn’t come all the way to Seattle to embarrass you,” he said as they rounded a final corner to the parking lot.
“That’s how it seems.”
“No, it doesn’t. You know better.”
She’d reached her Jeep and with a punch of the button on her remote, unlocked it once more. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re not finished? That you won’t be satisfied until you’ve stripped away every little piece of privacy I have.”
“I just want to help.”
He seemed sincere, but she’d been fooled before. By the master, Sam Donahue. Kurt Striker, damn him, was of the same ilk. Another cowboy. Another rogue. Another sexy man with a shadowy past. Another man she’d started to fall for. The kind to avoid. “Help?”
“That’s right.” His eyes shifted to her lips and she nervously licked them, tasting rainwater as it drizzled down her face. Her heart thudded. She knew in that second that he was going to kiss her. He was fighting it; she saw the battle in his eyes, but in the end raw emotion won out and his lips crashed down on hers so intensely she drew in a swift breath and it was followed quickly by his tongue. Slick. Sleek. Searching. The tip touched her teeth, forcing them apart as he grabbed her. Leather creaked, the sky parted, rain poured and Randi’s foolish, foolish heart opened.
She kissed the rogue back, slamming her mind against thoughts that she was making the worst mistake of her life, that she was crossing a bridge that was burning behind her, that her life, from that moment on, would be changed forever.
But there, in the middle of the bustling city, with raindrops falling on them both, she didn’t care.
Chapter 7
Stop this! Stop it now! Don’t you remember last night?
Blinking against the rain, fighting the urge to lean against him, Randi pulled away from Kurt. “This is definitely not a good idea,” she said. “It wasn’t last night and it isn’t now.”
His mouth twisted. “I’m not sure about that.”
“I am.” It was a lie. Right now she wasn’t certain of anything. She reached behind her and fumbled with the door handle. “Let’s just give it a rest, okay?”
He didn’t argue, nor did he stop her as she slid into the Jeep and, with shaking fingers, found her keys and managed to start the ignition. Lunacy. That’s what it was. Sheer, unadulterated, pain-in-the-backside lunacy! She couldn’t start kissing the likes of Kurt Striker again.
Dear God, what had she been thinking?
You weren’t thinking. That’s the problem!
She flipped on the radio, heard the first notes of a sappy love song and immediately punched the button to find talk radio, only to hear a popular program where a radio psychologist was giving out advice to someone who was mixed up with the wrong kind of man, the same kind of advice she handed out through her column in the Clarion, the very advice she should listen to herself.
First she’d made the mistake of getting involved with Sam Donahue and now she was falling for Kurt Striker... No! She pounded a fist on the steering wheel as she braked for a turnoff.
Cutting through traffic, she made a call on her cell phone to Sharon, was assured that Joshua was safe, then stopped at a local market for a few groceries.
Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the parking lot of her condo. Now away from the hustle and bustle of the city, the dark of the night seemed more threatening.
The parking lot was dark and the security lamps were glowing, throwing pools of light onto the wet ground and a few parked cars. The parking area was deserted, none of her neighbors were walking dogs or taking out trash. Warm light glowed from only a few windows, the rest of the units were dark.
So what? This is why you chose this place. It was quiet, only a few units overlooking the lake.
For the first time since moving here, Randi looked at her darkened apartment and felt a moment’s hesitation, a hint of fear. She glanced over her shoulder, through the back windows of the Jeep, wondering if someone was watching her, someone lurking in a bank of fir trees and rhododendron that ringed the parking lot, giving it privacy. She had the uneasy sensation that hidden eyes were watching her through a veil of wet needles and leaves.
“Get a grip,” she muttered, hoisting the bag and holding tight to her key ring. As if it was some kind of protection. What a laugh!
No one was hiding. No one was watching her. And yet she wished she hadn’t been so quick to put some distance between herself and Striker. Maybe she did need a bodyguard, someone she could trust.
Someone you can’t keep your hands off of?
Someone you’ve made love to?
Someone that even now, even though you know better, you’d love to take to bed? In her mind’s eye she saw the image of Kurt Striker, all taut skin and muscle as he held her in front of the dying fire.
Oh, for the love of St. Peter! Hauling her laptop, the groceries, her briefcase and her rebellious libido with her, she made her way to the porch, managed to unlock the door and snap on the interior lights. She almost wished K
urt was inside waiting for her again. But that was crazy. Nuts! She couldn’t trust herself around that man.
“You’re an idiot,” she muttered, seeing her reflection in the mirror mounted by the coatrack in the front hall. Her hair was damp and curly with the rain, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright. “This is just what got you into trouble in the first place.” She dropped her computer and bag near her desk, shook herself out of her coat and heard a pickup roaring into the lot. Her silly heart leaped, but a quick glance through the kitchen window confirmed that Striker had returned. He was already out of the truck and headed toward the condo.
She met him at the front door.
“You don’t seem to take a hint, do you?” she teased.
“Careful, woman, I’m not in the mood to have my chain yanked,” he warned. “Traffic was a bitch.”
He was inside in a second and bolted the door behind him. “I don’t like it when you try to lose me.”
“And I don’t like being manhandled.” She started unpacking groceries, stuffing a carton of milk into the near-empty refrigerator.
“I kissed you.”
“On the street, when I obviously didn’t want you to.”
One of his eyebrows lifted in disbelief. “You didn’t want it?” He snorted. “I’d love to see what you were like when you did.”
“That was last night,” she reminded him, then mentally kicked herself. Lifting a hand, she stopped any argument he might have. “Let’s not talk about last night.”
He kicked out a bar stool and plopped himself at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Okay, but there is something we need to discuss.”
She braced herself. “Which is?”
“Sam Donahue.”
“Another off-limits subject.” She pulled a loaf of bread from the wet sack.
“I don’t think so. We’ve wasted enough time as it is and I’m getting sick of you not being straight with me.”