Sandra Marton - Ring Of Deception

Luke smiled. “That must have been cool. Nope, I don’t make boats. I build houses.” It wasn’t a complete lie; he had done just that a long time ago, on the reservation. “And I build things that go inside houses, like shelves and cabinets.”

“Can you make toy chests?”

“Emily!”

The little girl looked at her mother. “I need a toy chest, Mommy. You said so. And you said you couldn’t find one to buy that didn’t look like it was made out of garbage.”

“Emily,” the brunette said again, and blushed.

She’d blushed this morning, too, Luke recalled. It was a nice thing to see in a woman. As far as he knew, women didn’t blush much anymore.

“I’d be happy to make you a toy chest someday, Emily.” Luke shot a quick look at the brunette. “Your mom and I can discuss it.”

“We cannot,” Abby said quickly. “I mean, thank you for the offer, Mr.—”

“Sloan. Luke Sloan.”

He held out his hand. She looked at it. For a couple of seconds, he thought she was just going to let it go at that, but then she held out her hand, too. His fingers closed around hers, swallowing them up.

“Abigail,” she said, with what he knew was reluctance. “Abigail Douglas.”

“Abigail. Nice to meet you.”

He smiled. She hesitated, then offered a smile in return. It wasn’t a real smile, but it pleased him. Not because she was a good-looking woman, but because he didn’t need the mother of one of the kids at Forrester Square watching his every move just to make sure he wasn’t some kind of pervert up to no good . . . . Although he supposed some might say the “no good” part could be construed as accurate, considering he was lying about who he was and why he was here.

“My mommy’s name is Abby,” the little girl said helpfully. “Nobody calls her Abigail.”

“Well,” Katherine said, clearing her throat, “why don’t we all go inside?”

Suddenly Abby thought of how she’d run out of the jewelry shop, dropping the pin on the counter, leaving the case unlocked, leaving Mrs. Halpern standing there in confusion . . . .

“I really can’t,” she said. “I mean, I don’t . . . ”

“Please, Mommy?”

She looked down at Emily. The child’s cheeks were flushed. Her daughter had spent a bad few minutes, and it was her fault. For the past two years, she’d lived in fear of Frank coming after them or sending someone else to do the job. Despite that, despite her lectures to Em about not talking to strangers, she’d never frightened the girl. Now she had, and for no reason. Luke Sloan was just a carpenter. He was harmless.

She looked around. Luke was making eye contact with the couple of people still standing outside the wrought iron fence, watching the scene and waiting for the action to start again.

“It’s all over, folks. Move it.”

He spoke softly, but it was enough. He was big. Leanly muscled. Powerful-looking.

People scurried away.

Harmless, Abby thought again. She’d thought Frank was harmless, too.

“Mommy?”

She looked down into Emily’s pleading face.

“Come inside, Mom, just for a minute.”

Abby nodded. “Just for a minute,” she said, taking her daughter’s hand.

They all went into the center and made small talk about nothing in particular for a few minutes. Then one of the teachers called out to Katherine, who made her apologies and went to talk with the woman. Emily gave Abby a big hug and a smacking kiss, and ran off to join her play group.

Abby watched her go.

Her little girl was going to eat ice cream.

She was going to eat crow.

She’d had one faint hope—that Luke Sloan would wander off once they were alone. He had work to do, after all. But he didn’t move. He stood there, motionless, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes fixed on her.

“So,” he said, “we all squared away?”

Abby nodded. “Yes.”

He took his hands out of his pockets and folded his arms over his chest.

“You’re sure?”

Abby nodded again. “Yes.”

He was waiting. She knew the reason, knew she had to get it over with.

“I guess—I guess I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said . . . ” Abby lifted her chin. “You heard me, Mr. Sloan.”

He had. He’d also heard the way she’d delivered that apology. What was it with this woman? Better still, what was it with him? Last night, a babe with twice her looks had practically thrown herself into his lap. This one had taken a tenth of a second to decide he was little better than something she might see floating belly-up in the bay.

So what? Why should it bother him? As long as she wasn’t going to point her finger at him and scream loud enough to call attention to him whenever their paths crossed, what did it matter?

Luke gave a sigh, relaxed a little and tucked his hands back into his pockets.

“You’re right, Mrs. Douglas. You apologized already. I should have accepted it the first time. It’s just . . . Here’s the thing, Mrs. Douglas—”

“Ms.”

“Sorry?”

“I said, it’s Ms., not Mrs.”

“Ah.” He nodded, wondering what that meant, whether she was divorced, widowed, had never been married . . . . He wondered, too, why it should matter to him. “About what happened here . . . ”

“I already said—”

“I know. I just want you to understand why I reacted so strongly. I’d never hurt a kid. Never. If you only understood how—” How cops feel about the kind of man you thought I was, he wanted to say. How we wish we could take the law into our own hands when we arrest the bastards who get their kicks out of hurting women and children . . . “I come from a big family,” he said, knowing that would have to suffice. “I have lots of cousins, a couple of them probably just about Emily’s age. So when you thought . . . ”

“I’m sorry,” Abby said, and he could tell that she really meant it this time. “It’s just that it’s such a crazy world . . . .”

“Sure. I understand.” Luke smiled. “Okay, then. Now we really are squared away.”

Abby smiled, too. “Yes. We are.” She was the one who held out her hand this time. “Goodbye, Mr. Sloan.”

Once again, Luke’s fingers closed around hers. “Luke.”

“Luke.”

“Goodbye, Abby.”

She tugged lightly on her hand. He let go of it and she turned quickly, went through the door and was gone.

Luke stared after her. Then he smiled, pursed his lips and whistled softly as he made his way to Katherine’s office, where his good mood vanished in an instant.

“Mr. Sloan,” Katherine said in a voice that was enough to freeze him in his tracks.

“Luke,” he offered as she stepped past him and slammed the door shut.

“ Detective Sloan,” she said with deliberate emphasis, “if you think you can come to Forrester Square and disrupt everything—”

“Hold on.” Luke held up his hands. “I didn’t disrupt anything. That woman—Abby Douglas . . . ”

“Yes?”

He’d been going to say Abby had overreacted, but how could he know how a mother would feel if she thought her child was in danger? He’d been on the police end of a couple of child-missing cases, and as hard as such things were on cops, they had to be twice as tough on parents.

“It was a screwup,” he said. “Nobody’s fault, just one of those things that happen. Trust me, Katherine. You don’t want the kids upset, and I don’t want to call attention to myself. Okay?”

“This is exactly why I said I’d only cooperate if they sent me a female officer.”

“Yeah,” Luke said, straight-faced, “but could she build you shelves that will make you drool?”