Rebecca York - Her Baby's Father

Jack laughed. “It didn’t turn out quite the way we expected.”

“It did until a few minutes ago,” she answered, her gaze searching his.

“Yes.”

Again, he forgot that they weren’t alone, until the police officer said, “Let me get some basic information.”

He took their names, phone numbers, addresses and email addresses. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Jack gave an account of the incident.

When he finished, Robards looked at Sara. “You were taking a chance with that purse stunt. He could have shot you.”

“I guess that’s right.” She shifted in her seat. “I just reacted when I saw the gun pointed at Jack.” Even though she told the cop the same thing she’d told Jack earlier, there was something about her expression that gave him an odd feeling, as though she were holding information back.

“What did the man look like?” the cop asked.

Jack raised one shoulder. “There wasn’t anything remarkable about him. He was medium height. His hair was thinning. But mostly I saw the gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“An automatic.” Jack looked at Sara. “You kicked it under the car. Maybe it’s still there.”

“Show me where,” Robards said.

They all got up and went outside. Sara pointed to the spot where the weapon had disappeared. It was lying against the curb, and the officer was able to retrieve it and put it into an evidence bag.

“Good,” he said. “Anything else you can add to his description?”

She nodded. “Like Jack said, he was medium height. Thinning hair. A high forehead. A wide mouth. One of his front teeth was a little crooked.”

“You noticed that?” Jack asked.

“I was thinking he ought to get it fixed.”

“Anything else?” Robards asked.

“Bad skin. Well, you know, teenage acne scars.”

“Yeah,” Jack chimed in. “I forgot to mention that.”

Sara spoke again. “He was wearing dark slacks. A dark, long-sleeved knit shirt. His shoes were dark. I guess he was hoping to make himself inconspicuous.”

“Did you see his eye color?” the cop asked.

“They were light,” Sara said. “I don’t know exactly what color.” She thought for a moment. “Except for the scars, his skin was very pale. I don’t think he goes out much. And, uh, he didn’t sound like he was from around here. More like a New York accent.”

“He didn’t say much,” Jack answered.

“I know. Just an impression I had.”

“Had either of you seen him before?” Robards asked.

“No,” Jack answered.

Sara said the same thing, but she was a beat behind him.

“Are you willing to come in and look at some mug shots?” Robards asked.

“Yes,” they both said at the same time.

“Can you come in tomorrow morning?”

They both agreed.

By the end of the interview, Sara was looking wiped out.

“I’ll drive,” Jack said when they returned to her car.

She flopped into the passenger seat, leaned back and closed her eyes, but he saw her hands were clasped in her lap.

He started the car, pulled out of the parking space and headed toward home.

“Your quick thinking made a difference,” he said.

“Don’t give me too much credit,” she murmured. “You beat him up, and he ran away.”

“I think he’d have shot me if you hadn’t reacted.”

She nodded.

“Then you came up with a lot of details I didn’t notice.”

Her eyes snapped open. “I’ve trained myself to think about details. That’s part of my job.”

“Yeah. When the cop asked if you’d seen the guy before, you hesitated.”

She turned her head toward him. “I was trying to think if I had seen him.”

“And I assumed I hadn’t.”

“I guess it’s just the way we think about things.”

“Right,” he answered, still mulling that over. He hadn’t thought about his powers of observation until tonight.

Sara closed her eyes again, and he wondered if she wanted to sleep—or to avoid talking about their answers to the cop.

It was only a short ride to his house, which was a fifty-year-old rancher on a couple of acres off Route 144. The property had appealed to him because he hated the way the county was being built up with houses crammed onto tiny lots.

He shared a long driveway with several other home owners who also wanted some privacy. When he pulled up in front of the house, Sara opened her eyes and looked around. A security light had gone on, illuminating the low, rectangular front of the house, and he saw her looking at it.

“Not very impressive,” he said.

“I’m guessing you didn’t buy it to impress anyone.”

He laughed. “That’s for sure. I just wanted a place to live where I could be by myself.”

She nodded, and he wondered if he had given too much away with that answer. No use explaining that his parents had invited him to move back in to their mansion, and he hadn’t wanted the obligation of making conversation. Or having anyone comment on his physical-therapy schedule.

Jack knew that Mom and Dad were being protective of him. They hadn’t liked him joining the army. They’d been sick with worry when he’d gone off to Afghanistan. And they were still worried about his physical and mental shape.

He understood all that. Maybe he was making a dramatic improvement tonight. At least mentally.

He’d intended to tell Sara that he knew she was tired. Instead he heard himself say, “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” she murmured. “But I think I shouldn’t.”

“Because you decided this isn’t going anywhere?” he asked, wanting to get the disappointment over with in one fell swoop.

“Because I know it is. And if I come inside, there’s no telling what will happen. Then you’ll think I’m the kind of woman who…” She stopped and laughed. “I’d better not make suggestions, but I’m thinking we’re safe out here.”

As she spoke she reached for him across the narrow console, pulling him into her arms. “Oh, Jack,” she sighed, as she clung tightly to him.

“We both had a frightening experience,” he answered.

“It’s not just that, and you know it.” She pulled back so that her eyes could meet his.

“Yes.” He held her gaze for a long moment, then moved in closer again, lowering his head to cover her lips with his.

He was out of practice kissing. Out of practice with any kind of intimacy. But as soon as their mouths touched, he knew exactly what he was doing.

She made a small sound as his lips moved over hers, the friction setting up a vibration through his body.

He hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he knew that the two of them could have died on the street outside the restaurant. Or he could have, if she hadn’t been with him.

Would he just have handed over his wallet if he’d been alone?

Probably not.

Since he’d come home, his mood had been reckless. He hadn’t cared much about what happened to him. That had changed as they’d sat over dinner. Changed even more when the man had come at them with the gun.

“Something could have happened to you back there,” he whispered against her mouth.

“Or to you,” she answered, turning her head so that her lips rubbed against his, then settling down with a more steady pressure.

He didn’t have to ask her to open for him. She simply did it, giving him access to her sweetness.

He liked the faint taste of brandy in her mouth. He liked the way she kissed. Loved the way she was doing exactly what he wanted. Like she was reading his mind. She couldn’t be, but they’d clicked in a way that was almost magical.

He stopped trying to analyze the attraction or his reactions or anything else. He simply wanted to enjoy this moment with her—to enjoy this woman.