Lynnette Kent - Luke's Daughters

Just outside the door to their hotel room, Kristin paused, getting herself under control. She couldn’t burden Matt with her own regrets.

But the door opened before she was ready. “It’s about time.” Matt caught her hand and drew her inside, into his arms. “I wondered if you would make me wait forever.”

His hands roamed her shoulders, slipping the straps of her tank top out of the way. He pressed kisses on her eyelids, her throat, her ears, until she was half crazy with the need to kiss him back.

Catching his lean cheeks with her palms, she held him still. “You’ll never have to wait, Matt. Never again.” Then she brought him close enough that she could capture his mouth with her own.

But she kept her eyes open, for fear of what—who—she’d see if she let them close.

WHEN LUKE HADN’T heard from Sarah about the pictures by Wednesday night, he considered calling. He’d thought about her for two days, hoping she’d phone or come by, disappointed when she didn’t. But he didn’t want to pester her. She would get to the pictures when she had time.

After a solitary dinner and a solitary movie, he went to work on the late shift—cruising the beaches and the downtown streets, looking out for trouble. The boardwalk was still busy after midnight, and the bars on the ocean-front stayed open late.

He heard the fight before he pinpointed its location—a crash of glass and the eruption of swearing gave him his first clue. As he ran toward the noise, a struggling ball of humanity rolled out of the Blue Flamingo’s door. Luke radioed for backup, then joined the general chaos.

“Police! Get back—” He pulled a couple of bystanders away. “This is the police—fun’s over, boys.” Grabbing the tail of a T-shirt, he yanked hard. “Time to go home.”

Sirens announced the approach of the backup. Luke had all the wrestlers pretty much separated by the time reinforcements arrived. The guys were too drunk to protest as they were read their rights and loaded into cars.

“You don’t look like much of a cop.”

Luke turned toward the voice and saw a young man he was sure was drunk…and was equally sure wasn’t old enough to drink. “You don’t look like much of an adult, either. Do your parents know where you are?”

“Sure, man.” But the bleary gaze slid away.

“Want to show me some ID?”

The boy shrugged. “Lost it, man.”

“Sure. So give me your address.”

“Aww…”

“Or spend the night in jail. You choose.”

An hour later, Luke drove away from the boy’s home, having awakened a mother who explained at great length how the whole problem was her ex-husband’s responsibility. The rest of the night passed quietly enough, giving Luke too much time to think about how much influence a father could have on his child’s life. Whether he was there or not, whether he cared or didn’t…a little kid’s whole world might depend on his—or her—dad.

What kind of repercussions would Erin and Jenny face because of the choices he and Kristin had made?

FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Luke remembered Sarah saying she used the darkroom at the camera shop where she’d been mugged. Maybe he would find her there. It was worth a try.

A bell jingled as he stepped into the dimness of Sawyer’s Photo Shop. The walls and ceiling were painted black, the windows shuttered against sunlight. At one end of the narrow space, dusty shelves held picture frames and photo albums, equally dusty. A sales counter stretched across the other end, with cameras and film displayed in cubbyholes behind.

The long wall on either side of the door exhibited framed and signed photographs. Luke moved closer, wondering if the pictures were Sarah’s. They certainly looked professional, and he found himself absorbed in unique perspectives of everyday places and things.

Behind him, cloth rustled. Hoping for Sarah, he blew out a short breath when he turned to see a man step through the black-curtained doorway.

“Can I help you?” A fairly young guy stood behind the counter, his expression polite but not exactly friendly.

“These are great pictures.” Luke gestured toward the photographs.

A real smile brightened the round face. “Thank you. I take a lot of pleasure and pride in my work.”

“They’re yours?”

“Yes. I’m Charles Sawyer. Can I help you with something? Film? A camera?”

“No, thanks. Actually, I’m trying to track down someone who works here.”

“I run the shop alone.”

“But Sarah Randolph develops her photographs here, right?”

The smile on the man’s face faded. “Yes.”

“Is she around?”

“No. She had…an accident last week and is recuperating at home.” Charles’s tone didn’t drip with sympathy. “Do you need some photography done? I’d be glad to assist you.”

“No, thanks. I’m Luke Brennan, the cop who took her to the ER last weekend to get patched up. I just wondered how she’s doing.”

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “A cop?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No. No, not at all. But as I said, I haven’t seen her all week.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No.”

“Aren’t you worried about her?”

“Not really.” Sawyer chuckled. “Sarah’s a photo-journalist, you know—one tough lady.” He paused, lips pursed. “Or she was, anyway. She worked for Events magazine until a few months ago, when she collapsed in the middle of a job and had to be shipped home. She hasn’t worked since coming back to the States. Or even taken any meaningful photographs.”

Oh, yes, she has. “Well, thanks. I guess I’ll track her down somewhere else.”

“If I do see her, I’ll be sure to tell her you were here.”

“I’d appreciate it.” The bell on the door clanked again as Luke pulled it open. “Have a good day.” A final glance at the chubby man behind the counter registered outright hostility.

For whatever reasons, Sawyer obviously had problems with Sarah. Big enough problems that he’d attack her? The guy seemed like a jerk, but was he a criminal, too?

A background check wouldn’t hurt, Luke decided. Most victims of assault knew the perpetrator. Why not Sarah Rose?

Meantime, he still hadn’t found her. If she didn’t call tonight, he would forget his reservations about pestering her. With friends like Charles Sawyer, Sarah definitely needed a cop on her side.

SARAH SPENT the week secluded in her condo.

If asked, she could have pointed out that she needed to be there when the locksmith came. That the doctor had suggested staying out of the sun while she was taking the antibiotic. Even that the bruises on her face had gone from bad to worse, from red and blue to a horrible mottled purple, and she didn’t want to scare children and animals.

Sarah recognized those reasons as excuses. Good ones, but still rationalizations. Going out would take too much effort. She simply didn’t have the energy.

And so she stayed in, wearing her pajamas. Several good movies showed up on television, several times a day. She slept when she wanted, many hours at a time. Food didn’t seem very important—she survived on ice cream, popcorn and buttered toast. She’d eaten much worse in Africa.

The manager sent up a locksmith to change the door locks, so she felt safer. She could check on the Jeep from her window, but those locks would have to be changed at the dealership. That would require going out.

As if cooperating with her agenda, the phone didn’t ring. Her agent didn’t check in—there were no deals to talk about. Her editor at Events only needed her if she could work. A photojournalist who refused to leave the house didn’t get many job offers.

And Luke Brennan didn’t call.

Not that she should expect him to. She was supposed to contact him, to bring the pictures to his house—pictures she hadn’t yet developed. But going to the darkroom at the photo shop meant seeing Chuck, taking his jibes, trying not to mind his mockery. Sarah couldn’t face that prospect, either, even though it meant she wouldn’t see Luke.