B.J. Daniels - A Father For Her Baby

Luke St. John? Sanders stared down at the name on the A-1 Rent-a-Ride rental form. St. John? Someone Derrick had hired? Now he wasn’t so sure. It was too much of a coincidence not to be a relative of Jason’s. Headed for Huntsville? He doubted that. But just seeing the name neatly printed on the paper, Sanders assumed that Luke St. John, whoever he was, knew about the plan to rent a limo and take Kit and the baby to Huntsville. How? But maybe more important, why had St. John used his real name on the rental agreement, as if he wanted Sanders to know that he knew?

No, Sanders thought, St. John wanted Derrick to know. Did Luke also believe that Derrick had killed Jason?

Sanders left, drove to the nearest pay phone and called the private detective Derrick had hired to find Kit when Sanders had failed. It gave Sanders no little satisfaction that the P.I. had been unable to find Kit.

Matthew Rustan, was a slimy, balding former high school basketball star with a paunch, a lousy attitude and a hungry look in his eye that made Sanders nervous. The first time Sanders had seen the man’s office, he could tell that all Rustan’s good years were behind him—in more ways than one. The walls were lined with high school trophies, yellowed newspaper articles and old team photographs. Still, the man was handy—and willing to work.

“I need you to go over my rental car,” Sanders said when Rustan answered. “I think there’s a bug in it.”

Thirty minutes later, the private eye slammed the rental car door and walked over to where Sanders stood waiting. “It’s clean now.”

“That’s it?” Sanders asked pointing to the cellphone size device the P.I. held in his hand.

He nodded. “This type works off a larger receiver, which can pick up pretty good as far away as five miles. Someone’s probably heard every conversation you’ve had.”

At least now he knew how Luke St. John had known so much. “One more thing. Can you run a check on a name for me?”

“Sure.”

Sanders reached into his pocket. He’d copied the driver’s license number off Luke St. John’s A-1 Rent-a-Ride rental agreement. Beside it had been written the word Montana, one of the states where the license number was usually the social security number. “Try this.”

* * *

LUKE ST. JOHN. Kit gasped in surprise at the name and felt herself go cold as she stared at him.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. As he handed it to her, he snapped on the overhead light. Kit looked down at the color photo on his Montana driver’s license, then at the name. Lucas St. John.

He leaned over the seat to flip to a graduation photograph of a young man. Kit felt her throat constrict. Her heart pounded louder than the rain on the roof. She recognized the man in the photo instantly. This was the man she’d seen with Derrick at the construction site. The man she’d seen her husband murder. Jason St. John.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. The young man in the photo had long, light brown hair and pale gray eyes. Intense, penetrating eyes, just like the ones gazing at her now.

“That answers at least one of my questions,” Luke said, taking the wallet from her numb fingers. “It was my brother you saw your husband kill. I figured it had to be something like that. It was too much of a coincidence when you disappeared on the same day as Jason—and you nine months’ pregnant.”

Kit’s gaze jerked up at a sound outside the car. She let out a startled cry as a man’s face appeared beyond the glass. He wore a bright yellow raincoat, the hood up, his features hidden in shadow.

“It’s all right,” Luke said, pocketing the wallet. “He’s getting rid of the limo for me.” He stepped out into the rain, leaving his door open.

Kit watched the man hand Luke two raincoats. She couldn’t hear what they were saying as Luke shrugged into one of the coats then reached back in to toss her the second one. Luke went around the back of the limo with the man, opened the trunk and extracted her single bag. The man took the bag and disappeared into the darkness.

She pulled on the raincoat, chilled more by his words than by the weather or the raindrops that splattered her skin from the wet slick fabric. He was getting rid of the limo because Derrick would be looking for it—and them. Derrick would be tracking her down like a dog. She felt the weight of that thought and knew she could never be rid of the man.

Luke startled her, opening the door and climbing into the back of the limo. “There’s a fishing cottage just over the hill,” he said, reaching for the baby carrier. “We’ll go there.”

Kit glanced out into the night, unable to see a light or a building. She settled her gaze on Luke, wondering why he’d helped her, wondering what he wanted from her, suspecting she already knew the answer to that. She looked down at the baby in her arms. Andy had fallen back to sleep sucking his thumb; this kid could sleep through anything.

“Look,” Luke said quietly, “I’m tired, cold and hungry and the best cook in Texas is waiting someplace warm and dry.” He gave her a faint smile. It did something nice for his face, but it never reached his eyes. He didn’t like her. She felt that from him. It was so strong that it was unnerving, especially since, on the surface, he seemed so affable.

“My Aunt Lucille makes the best crab gumbo you’ve ever tasted,” he said, his voice deeper, softer, cajoling.

Kit heard pride and tenderness in his tone at just the mention of his aunt’s name. It warmed her a little to him. She reminded herself that he’d lost his brother. And she’d witnessed the murder and run instead of going to the police. That was the frightening bond they shared. That and the fact that now Derrick Killhorn would be looking for Luke St. John as well as for her and Andy. No wonder this man didn’t like her.

She studied his face for a moment. At first she’d thought him ruggedly attractive, but now in the glare of the limo’s overhead light, she realized that he could have been handsome if his features hadn’t been so rigid, his gray eyes so cold.

“Well?” he asked, glancing out into the darkness with a nervousness she found contagious. “We don’t have a lot of time.” He handed her the diaper bag and her purse from the front seat, then held out his hands again for Andy. “You don’t know the terrain. It would be dangerous for you to carry the baby.”

Still, it was all she could do to put Andy into the man’s arms. But their lives were now in his hands, whether she liked it or not. Luke St. John had seen to that. She told herself that he had no reason to want to harm her or her son. In fact, he had every reason to want to see her stay alive. She hoped.

He covered the baby carrier with his uniform jacket, then he turned and ducked out of the car. Kit followed closely behind. She hadn’t gone far when she heard the purr of the limo engine as it pulled away into the night.

They hurried through the downpour. The air smelled wet from the rain and salty from the sea. As they topped one of the dunes, she could see a shimmer of light in the distance. The light grew as they neared a fishing cottage on stilts, the exterior weathered as gray as the fog. It appeared out of the rain, a single golden light shining from the porch. It pulled them through the darkness, promising warmth and shelter from the storm. And, if Luke St. John were true to his word, crab gumbo.

Kit felt uneasy as they neared the house, questioning why she thought she could take Luke St. John at his word—including the fact that Derrick wasn’t behind this abduction. For all she knew, the other limo would have taken her to Huntsville and safety.

* * *

“LUCAS ALLEN ST. JOHN,” the P.I. said, reading the report off his computer screen as a copy rolled out of the printer for Sanders. “Wow, who is this guy? Graduated at the top of his class from Montana Tech and went right to work as a structural engineer on some pretty impressive buildings around the world.”