Lisa Childs - Sarah's Secrets

“Sarah?” Dylan squeezed her shoulder and followed her gaze. “Oh. Sarah, this is Royce Graham. He’s an old friend. Royce, this is Sarah Mars—uh, Hutchins.”

No relief rippled through her stomach. Maybe Dylan called him a friend, but she gleaned that she never would. His hard-looking mouth stayed in an uncompromising line, no smile of welcome softening the firm lips. Yet, his name struck some distant chord of memory.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hutchins.” He didn’t extend his hand to her but kept them both shoved in his jeans pockets, tightening the worn material across his lean hips.

She nodded and dismissed him again by turning back to Dylan. “I left it in the car, in the console, where I found it.”

“At the new-home site?”

She nodded again.

“Who was there?”

“Just the builder and I. I stayed for a while by myself, and I’d left the car doors unlocked. Although I didn’t see anyone drive up, the stud walls are up, and I was inside. With the waves drowning out any sound…” She had been distracted, too, with maudlin thoughts about the past. Nothing good ever came of looking back.

Her gaze slid to the soccer field. Jeremy lifted his head from the game, stared at her for an assessing moment and then waved. With a trembling hand, she waved back. “Thank God he’s okay. This must just be some sick, practical joke.”

A deep voice rumbled out of the chest pressing against the black polo shirt. “I know this is none of my business…”

She turned to the stranger. “No, it’s not.”

“Sarah.” Dylan sighed. “Royce is more than a friend, he’s a pro. We might need him.”

Her gaze flickered over his unshaven face and the hair that flirted with the collar of his shirt. Other women might consider his surfer look sexy. Not her. Nor did she consider him trustworthy. But she’d learned to trust Dylan. She owed him. She bit back another smart retort as the chord struck her memory again, and she recognized the name.

Due to the days’ growth of beard, the face had changed somewhat. He didn’t wear the suit and the short haircut, but he was the FBI agent publicly canonized for his work in finding missing children. A shiver raised the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. How had he known?

But he wasn’t with the FBI anymore. He had his own agency and all the notoriety that went with it. She’d seen him recently on the news, dark-blond hair slicked back with rain, overcoat hiding his clothes. He had just rescued a kidnapped businessman from desperate rebel fighters in some third-world country.

Dylan sighed again. “I’m sorry, Royce. You’re here for a job. Something personal. I can’t impose. Just stay here a minute while I grab the letter from Sarah’s car.”

She fought the desire to scramble after Dylan’s long strides. She didn’t want to be alone with Royce Graham. Despite his fame, he was still a stranger, and she was too vulnerable while her emotions overflowed. Anxiety. Relief. Anger. Joy. She could hardly identify each as it rolled through her heart and her head. The force staggered her, and she stumbled back.

Strong fingers closed over her elbow, burning through the thin silk of her blouse. “Careful now, you almost fell. Are you okay, Sarah?”

The sound of her name in his husky voice brought on a shiver. Then she stiffened. With Dylan gone from hearing, it wasn’t Mrs. Hutchins but Sarah that he called her.

“I’m fine.”

A sigh slipped through his lips, his breath feathering through her bangs. She glanced up to find him close, his head bent to hers. In his dark glasses, mirrored images of her stared back. Pale face. Wide, horrified eyes.

Pride had her bristling against the image and him. “I told you I’m fine.” Shaking her arm didn’t dislodge his firm hold.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am, you’re not.”

Intending to pry him loose, her fingers closed over his. Warm, rough skin slid under her palm, sending tingles up her arm, inciting her anger. “Let go of me.”

“No.”

Her head snapped back. No one talked to her like that, no matter how much respect the rest of the world had for him. “Who do you think you are?”

“The only thing keeping you from falling on your face. You’re shaking.”

She couldn’t deny the obvious, or hold onto her anger. He’d done nothing to incite it. “Yes, I am.”

“This note really rattled your cage.”

Caged was how she lived her life now, keeping her emotions in check. Until now… “You don’t have children of your own, do you, Mr. Graham?”

“No!” He cleared his throat after his sharp retort then sighed, his warm breath caressing her skin with the scent of butterscotch. “And I don’t intend to.”

She nodded. “That’s good that you know that now, before it’s too late and an unwanted child is brought into the world.” As she’d been. A throwaway. Until the Marses had adopted her.

He lifted a dark-blond brow above one of the lenses of his sunglasses. “You’re not talking about your son. I saw you wade into those kids and hug one. I couldn’t see which one, but—”

“No!” She drew in a quick breath. “I love my son very much. That’s why this note…”

“What does it say?”

Her fingers still lay over his on her elbow. She squeezed them, taking a moment’s comfort in his warmth and strength. Turning her head, she gazed over the soccer field where Jeremy’s golden hair glowed in the afternoon sunshine.

Her heart clenched, fear rippling through her veins again as it had when she’d read that note. “It says, ‘We have your son.’”

His hold on her elbow tightened as if he expected her to faint at his feet. “But they don’t. He’s one of the kids on the field.”

She nodded, a sob of relief threatening to escape her throat, and swallowed hard. “Yes, he’s safe.”

“For now.”

She shivered and tugged her arm free of his grasp. “Why would you say something so awful?”

He ran his fingers along the unshaven length of his jaw. “I’m being realistic. I’ve had some experience with situations like this.”

She stared into his face, wishing she could see behind the dark lenses to what lay in his eyes. “Yes, Dylan called you a pro.”

And she knew why but saw no reason to stroke his probably oversize ego by admitting it.

He nodded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I used to work for the FBI Crimes Against Children Division.”

Despite the warm caress of the sun, she shivered. Crimes against children. What he must have witnessed…. Memories of one of his earlier interviews flashed through her mind. His grim face, his admission of how the child was found. Dead. Was that why he didn’t want any of his own?

She again longed to stare into his eyes. But she fought the ridiculous urge to comfort him. Nothing about him begged for comfort. A haircut and a shave, maybe…

“So what does your experience tell you about this?” she asked.

He rolled a shoulder. “Usually the kidnapping of a child involves a parent, a vengeful ex.”

Her lips twitched, but no humor tickled her. All she enjoyed was a moment’s satisfaction in proving him wrong. For some reason she imagined few people ever did. “I’m a widow, Mr. Graham.”

His face didn’t soften with sympathy. She expected no condolences and wasn’t surprised when he brushed off her admission.

“There are more than ex-spouses. Ex-lovers get vengeful, too. Kidnappings are usually personal, at least in this country they are.”

She slid her hands over her upper arms, trying to dispel the chills. She didn’t know this man. And his inference of an ex-lover showed he knew nothing of her. “That’s not the case. It must be someone’s sick idea of a joke.” She had almost convinced herself of that.