Mary Baxter - His Touch

Not as unnerving as Jessica herself. What he had to keep in mind was that she might as well be the First Lady. That was how off-limits she was to him. Not that he wanted it any other way, he assured himself quickly. He didn’t, though it made him more uneasy with each passing day that his awareness of her only seemed to be heightening.

Was it only yesterday that he’d found his eyes locked on her breasts when she’d thrown her head back and laughed? When it had dawned on him what he was doing, he’d jerked his gaze away and let loose an expletive.

He’d been alone too long, he guessed. That was the only feasible explanation he could come up with for his unorthodox behavior. Maybe this torture would end sooner rather than later, so he could get back to his life.

But not before he spent time with his kid.

Which was why he was sitting across the street from Elliot’s house on the off chance he might catch him when he came home from school, then talk to him face-to-face. Brant knew it was a long shot, but he had to do something. He’d thought about waiting at the school, but since he didn’t even know what kind of car Elliot drove, it would be like hunting a needle in a haystack.

He had no idea if Marsha had been relaying his phone messages to Elliot or not. Brant suspected she hadn’t, though he couldn’t swear to it.

His son knew he was in town and had his cell number. So far, Elliot had made no effort to contact him. Brant rubbed the back of his neck, then peered at his watch.

Was this opportunity going to be wasted after all? Time was getting away from him, and he hadn’t made any headway. If only he could grab his boy and they could head back to Arkansas for a couple of weeks together. He would teach him how to fish, hunt and garden.

Brant almost laughed at that last thought. Elliot would probably think he’d lost his mind. Most kids would, and Brant suspected his own wouldn’t be any different.

His urge to laugh suddenly dried up. His son was seventeen, and he didn’t know anything about him, what he liked to do, what he liked to eat, what he dreamed about.

Nothing.

Brant gripped the steering wheel with his strong, tanned hands and squeezed. God, if only he could undo the sins of the past, what a difference it would make in his life. Unfortunately that was not the way things worked.

His screw-ups had started a long time ago. When Marsha had divorced him, Elliot had been nine. Most of those nine years, he’d been gone. And afterward—well, he rarely ever saw his kid. In a nutshell, he’d never known his son—not as a baby, a toddler, an adolescent or a teenager.

Brant’s gut twisted, and sweat dotted his upper lip. Somehow, he had to rectify that. He didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t. He glanced at his watch again, trying to temper his growing anxiety. Rarely did anything shake him. For the most part he was steady as a rock, or had been before he was shot. Since then, he’d had to work just to keep body and soul together. That was another reason why he hadn’t wanted an assignment.

He didn’t feel he was ready. But when Thurmon put the squeeze on him, he hadn’t had much choice. At least it gave him the opportunity to see his son, an opportunity he wouldn’t have had otherwise.

“Damn,” Brant muttered, lurching upright.

While he’d been deep in thought, Elliot had driven up and was getting out of his Mustang. For a second paralysis seemed to hold Brant in his seat. His eyes feasted on the one human who was part of himself. Pride rose in him. Even from this distance, he could see what a good-looking young man Elliot had become. Tall and strapping, just like he’d been at that age, with the same profile. His hair, however, was light brown, like his mother’s.

Forcing himself to move, Brant jumped out of his vehicle and crossed the street. “Elliot, wait up.”

His son whirled and stared at him wide-eyed; then his dark eyes narrowed and his lips thinned. Brant’s heart faltered as he thought Elliot was going to turn his back on him.

“Hello, son,” Brant forced himself to say before his own nerve failed.

“Hi,” Elliot muttered, shifting his gaze.

“I hope you don’t mind me stopping by,” Brant said, hearing the awkwardness in his voice and hating it.

Elliot shrugged. “Whatever.”

Brant strove for a decent breath. This was going to be even harder than he’d anticipated—for both of them. He was sweating like he’d been chopping logs at the cabin, and it wasn’t even hot.

“You know I’m going to be close by for a while.”

“Yeah, right.”

Brant refused to be defeated. “I thought maybe we might get together soon, maybe go out to dinner.”

“Whatever,” Elliot said again, finally looking at him.

The pain and confusion mirrored in his son’s eyes almost brought Brant to his knees. What if he couldn’t fix their broken relationship? What if the gulf was too wide to breach? No. He wouldn’t think like that. He would make things work. Whatever it took.

Now that he’d seen his son, no way was he leaving, even if Jessica Kincaid fired his ass tomorrow.

“Look, Elliot, I want a chance to make things right between us.”

Elliot’s eyes flared. “Why?”

“Because you’re my son.” And because I love you. But for some reason those words stuck in Brant’s throat. “I want us to get to know one another. I want to find out what you’re up to, where you plan to go to school.” He broke off. “Stuff like that.”

Elliot’s mouth took a bitter turn. “Don’t you think it’s a little late?”

Brant ignored his sarcasm and kept his voice calm. “No, I don’t.”

“You never cared before.”

“I always cared, Elliot,” he said with patience. “It’s just that—” Brant broke off, refusing to make any more excuses for the way he’d treated his son.

“Look, you’re right on target with your contempt of me. I’ll admit that. And I know saying I’m sorry won’t do the trick. Instead, I want to show you.” He paused, trying to gauge Elliot’s reaction, only he couldn’t. His features were as blank as a stone wall. “So what do you say?” Brant pressed. “You have any free time?”

“I’ll call you,” Elliot said, pawing at the ground with the toe of his left running shoe.

That wasn’t the answer Brant wanted, so his initial response was to say no, to set a time and place right then. Beg, if necessary. But he held his tongue. If he pushed, he sensed Elliot would push back. Get further away. At least Elliot hadn’t told him to get lost. And while that was a mere crumb, he was grateful for it.

“Calling me will work,” Brant said at last, blowing out his pent-up breath. “That’ll work just fine.”

Elliot nodded, shoving both hands down in the pockets of his jeans and not responding.

“You have my cell number, right?” Brant asked. He felt foolish, but he was loathe to end the conversation. Just being near his son gave him a new lease on life.

“Elliot?”

Brant froze. Marsha. He hadn’t even known she was home, but then, he hadn’t cared. When he’d darted up the driveway, he’d had tunnel vision. Everything else had fled his mind. Now, looking up and seeing his ex-wife standing outside the front door brought reality home with a bitter jolt.

She hadn’t changed much in the years since their divorce, except that her hair was more frosted, probably to cover up the fact that she was getting older and grayer. Perhaps she’d put on a bit more weight as well. Yet she was still attractive in an ordinary sort of way. She was short and curvy, with a reserved manner.

Her main goal in life had been to marry and have a home and children. She had resented his job from the get-go, mainly because he’d been away from home so much. Back then, he’d blamed her for that, throwing it back in her face how much she liked to spend the money he made.