Lisa Childs - Watching Over Her

Otherwise, he would have been listed as missing. Blaine knew that. But for some reason he had wanted to think the worst of Andy Doremire. He’d wanted proof that her dead fiancé wasn’t the saint that Maggie thought he was—he wasn’t a man worth loving for the rest of her life.

But he was a better man than Blaine was. Andy wouldn’t have willingly left her alone and in danger.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. “How badly did he hurt you?”

She brushed her fingertips across her cheek and dismissed the injury. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine. He could hear the pain in her voice. But he wasn’t sure whether it was physical or emotional pain. He suspected more emotional. She hadn’t wanted to come here—to Andy’s childhood home. And now he understood why.

“He needs to be brought in,” he said. “I need to arrest him.” Actually he only intended to hand him over to the officer outside to make the arrest and process Mr. Doremire.

“Please don’t,” she beseeched him, her big brown eyes pleading with him, too.

“You never want me to arrest anyone,” he said. “You make it hard for me to do my job.” He had ignored her and arrested Susan Iverson anyway. He was tempted to do the same with Mr. Doremire. “I need to question him.”

“Let me question him,” she said.

He settled the older man back into his chair. The guy collapsed against the worn cushions. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture left in the nearly empty house. In fact, the Cape Cod made Ash’s little bungalow look almost homey.

Blaine had no intention of letting Maggie question him. But before he could ask, she already was. “When did you see Mark last?”

“Mark?” The older man blinked his bloodshot eyes, as if he had no idea whom she was talking about.

“Mark is your oldest son,” she prodded him. “His wife, Tammy, said he was here—visiting you.”

He shook his head in denial. “I haven’t seen that boy for months. He’s not like Andy. Andy keeps coming around to check on me.”

Did he have his sons confused? Even Maggie thought they looked a lot alike. He shared a significant glance with her as they both came to the same realization.

“When was Andy here last?” she asked. “When did he come see you?”

Doremire’s eyes momentarily cleared of the drunken bleariness, and he stared at her with pure hatred. “You have no right to say his name.”

The old man would have reached out again; he would have swung his arm if Blaine hadn’t squeezed his shoulder and held him down onto the chair.

“She has every right to say his name,” Blaine insisted. “They were engaged.”

The older man shook his head. “She never would’ve married him. She didn’t care about him...”

“That’s not true,” Maggie said, but her voice was so soft she nearly whispered the words.

“She loved him,” Blaine said. “You know that. You have the letters she wrote to your son. Where are they?”

The drunk blinked in confusion, the way he had when she’d asked about Mark. “Letters?”

“ My letters,” she said. “The ones I wrote to Andy when he was overseas. Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “His mother probably took them—like she took everything else when she left.”

Blaine could see that she had taken most everything. And he could see why she had left, too, if the man had been like this with her. If he had been abusive...

“Where did Mrs. Doremire go?” Maggie asked.

“She took all Andy’s life-insurance money and bought herself a condo.”

That money should have gone to Andy’s fiancée and his unborn child, but Andy must not have listed her as his beneficiary yet. Knowing she was carrying Andy’s child, his family should have given her the money, though. It would have been the right thing to do.

But this family obviously didn’t care about what was right. Or honorable. Or legal.

He had to find Mark Doremire—had to catch him before he got beyond Blaine’s reach.

“Where is her condo?” Maggie asked.

Andy’s father named some complex that had her nodding as if she knew where it was. “It’s not that far from here,” she said. “We can go there now.”

Blaine had no intention of taking her anywhere but to a bed. To rest...

But the thought of a bed reminded him of that morning, of her flicking back the covers to reveal all her voluptuous curves. The woman was so damn sexy.

“Tell that witch that she didn’t break me,” Mr. Doremire said. “Tell her that I’m fine...”

He was anything but fine. The former Mrs. Doremire was probably well aware of that, though.

“I hope you will be,” Maggie said. After how the man had treated her, how could she wish the best for him?

Blaine had met few women as sweet and genuine as Maggie Jenkins.

But the old man stared up at her again with stark hatred. “I hope you get what you deserve.”

It wasn’t so much what he said but the venomous tone with which he said it that had Blaine protesting, “Mr. Doremire—”

“And you, Mr. Agent, I hope the same for you. Maybe you two deserve each other...”

Blaine knew that wasn’t true. Maggie deserved a better man. He should have protected her better than he had. So, finally, he guided her toward the door.

“But don’t go thinking you’re going to be raising that baby together,” Mr. Doremire yelled after them. “Andy’s going to take that baby. He’s going to raise his son himself.”

Maggie sighed. “Andy’s gone...”

“He’s not dead,” the older man drunkenly insisted. “You’re going to see when he comes for his baby boy. You’re going to see that he’s not dead.”

Maybe he wasn’t dead—in his father’s alcohol-saturated mind or in Maggie’s heart. Blaine wished he was man enough to deserve her love. But he suspected she had none left to give anyway.

* * *

ONCE BLAINE SAID it was too late to see Mrs. Doremire, Maggie feigned falling asleep in the SUV. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to even look at Blaine. Her face was too hot, and not from Mr. Doremire’s slap but with embarrassment over all the horrible things that old drunk had said in front of Blaine.

Maybe he hadn’t heard everything; maybe he’d been outside during the worst of it. But he had come running back when she’d screamed. He had saved her—as he always did.

Mr. Doremire hadn’t been wrong about how she looked at the FBI agent. Despite not wanting to fall for him, she was falling. She had more love to give than she’d realized. But Blaine wouldn’t want her love—or anything else to do with her, for that matter—once the bank robbers were caught.

The SUV drew to a stop. Then the engine cut out. A door opened and then another. Hers.

Blaine slid one arm under her legs and another around her back, as if he intended to lift her up the way he would a sleeping child. She jerked back.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’m up,” she said.

But he didn’t step back; he didn’t give her any room to step out of the SUV. He was too close, his green gaze too intense on her face.

Her skin heated and flushed. She wished he wouldn’t look at her. She lifted her hand to her face.

But he beat her to it, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. “I don’t think it’ll bruise,” he said.

She shrugged. She couldn’t have cared less about her face. The man’s words had hurt far more than his slap. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.” Blaine pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “I knew he was drunk. I never should have stepped outside.”