Mary Baxter - His Touch

So many mistakes. But losing her was not one of them, except that it had affected Elliot and their relationship. Still, he didn’t have anyone to blame for that but himself, certainly not Marsha, although she had done everything in her power to keep that wedge between them.

His downfall had been letting her get away with it. No longer. He was ready to fight.

“Hello, Marsha,” he said into the growing, hostile silence.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her eyes pinging from him to Elliot, concern knitting her brows.

Elliot, in turn, kept looking down, as though he wished he were anywhere but there or that he could simply disappear. Brant didn’t blame him. His son had been caught in the middle his entire life.

That was also about to stop.

“I came to see Elliot.” Since you obviously haven’t bothered to give him my messages. Like so many other words, they remained unspoken.

“I can see that,” she retorted.

“We’re planning a time to get together for dinner.”

“I didn’t say that,” Elliot countered with defiance in his tone.

Brant clamped down on his emotions. “Well, I’m hopeful that will be the case.”

“Elliot, come on inside,” Marsha said. “I’m sure you have some homework.”

For a minute his son looked as if he wanted to argue, which was another crumb Brant snatched. But then Elliot muttered something under his breath, strode up the steps and slammed the door behind him.

“Thanks, Marsha. I really appreciate that.”

“No one gave you permission to come here.”

“Dammit, I don’t need permission to see my son, certainly not from you.”

“Ah, so now you’ve decided to become the model parent,” she spat, her tone as nasty as her features.

“That’s right. I made that promise to myself. I also promised I wasn’t going to have a verbal slinging match with you about Elliot.”

“What about Elliot?” she flared back.

“What about him?”

“He has no say-so in this. Right now, he’s a happy, normal young man who has a father. And it’s not you.” Marsha paused, as though giving him time to digest that thought. “It’s Preston. He’s taken your place in Elliot’s life.”

Those harsh words cut like she’d taken a knife and slashed his heart to pieces. Yet Brant never so much as flinched. “No matter what has happened in the past, Elliot is my son. And no matter how much you wish that weren’t true, it is.”

“I’ll continue to fight you.”

“That’s your prerogative. But I’m not giving up unless it comes from Elliot. You can hate me all you want, but I’m asking you not to let your hate spill over to our son.”

“Stay away from here, Brant.”

“For god’s sake, Marsha, you’re being unreasonable. Why not let Elliot make some choices on his own? He’s certainly old enough.”

“Because I don’t trust you not to hurt him again,” she said, her voice shaking with anger. “He’s suffered enough at your hands.”

“I swear to you, that won’t happen,” Brant said in a soft tone. “And while I might have done some unpardonable things in your eyes, I’ve never lied to you.”

“Somehow I take little comfort in that.”

“Can’t we just please reach a truce, for Elliot’s sake?”

“I’m making no promises, Brant, either way. I’ll talk to Preston.”

Brant clamped down on his lip so hard to stop his retort that he tasted blood. “You do that, but it’s not going to change things. Meanwhile, leave the boy alone. Use me as a whipping boy all you want, but don’t stand Elliot beside me. He deserves better.”

“And you can go to hell.”

“Thank you very much, but I’ve been there for some years now.”

For once Marsha didn’t seem to have a comeback. Instead, she let out a deep sigh, then said bitterly, “I doubt I’ll have much to say about it, anyway. As much as I hate to admit it, Elliot’s as stubborn as you when he makes up his mind.”

“Then let him make it up.” Brant stopped short of pleading.

“I told you, I’m making no promises.” With that she turned and flounced back into the house.

Brant remained rooted to the spot, feeling much like he had the day he’d gotten shot in the gut. Numb all over. That was when he noticed Elliot standing at the window, peering out, his face pinched in sadness.

Pain, as lethal as the strongest narcotic, shot through Brant’s system, almost sending him to his knees. Dejected, he turned and walked back to his vehicle.

The situation had worsened. Jessica didn’t think she would ever adjust to having another man in the house, especially a stranger. She kept telling herself something was terribly askew when one had to have a bodyguard.

The reality of that was appalling. Determined to reroute her thoughts, she opened the French doors onto the small balcony and stepped outside. Evening was settling in, and the temperature was quite pleasant. Soon, however, the heat from the brutal blast of summer would hit Texas with a vengeance, the Dallas area in particular, with very little rain to ease the pain.

Still, she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. This lovely, high-profile city was home, the place where she lived and worked, the most important thing in her life, the reason she climbed out of bed each morning. Since she had lost Porter, she’d had to refocus, though not a lot. Without children, it was logical and easy to focus on their careers—his more than hers, as she was the backbone behind him, or so he’d told her many times.

The pain of losing Porter had subsided, thank goodness. Time had taken care of that. Now she could think of him with fond, sweet memories that were to be cherished at moments like these, when she was down-and-out. A bird sang merrily in a nearby oak tree that draped over her small deck. The oak’s thick foliage served as an umbrella against the sun during the heat of the day.

Jessica heard a sound and leaned over the railing slightly, peering down. Immediately, her heart almost stopped beating. Someone was there. She leaned farther, but whoever it was had gone.

Brant? Had he been outside? Or had her imagination been playing tricks on her? Instead of thinking about him, she forced herself to peruse the vibrant annuals, their colors bursting from the various pots spaced around the area. But her thoughts refused to cooperate. Then she heard that sound again.

With her heart thumping at an even faster rate, Jessica moved slightly, then peered down once again. Brant in the flesh. Her breath caught, and every nerve in her body jumped to high alert.

He stood unmoving with his hand shoved into his pocket, staring into the twilight. Instead of the slacks he’d worn today, he was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Not sloppy, but definitely comfortable.

Jessica swallowed hard, feeling her heartbeat move from her chest to her throat, where it seemed to pound without mercy. She was behaving like an idiot, like someone totally out of control. She fought to remove her gaze. Nothing doing. It was like her eyes had been welded to him, embracing everything about him, from his tanned muscled arms to his powerful thighs. It hit her suddenly what the problem was: he was simply too male to suit her.

A dose of trouble wrapped in a sexy package.

She wondered how he perceived her, especially when those eyes seemed to touch every part of her body when he looked at her.

Jessica shivered.

That was when he turned and looked up. In the remaining light, their gazes met and held. Her cheeks blazed, and her mouth went dry. Words she would ordinarily have no problem speaking jammed in her throat.

This would never do.

“Nice evening,” he commented, then raked his long fingers through his dark hair.