He eased the car past the bookshop at a crawl. A light burned inside, towards the rear of the shop. His lips tightened. She was there. He swung his car left at the roundabout and headed for the parking space behind her shop.
He let himself in with the key Jaz had given him. ‘Hello?’ He made his voice loud, made sure it’d carry all the way through to the front of the shop. He rattled the door and made plenty of noise. He had no intention of startling her like he had last night.
‘Through here,’ Jaz called.
He followed the sound of her voice. Then came to a dead halt.
She’d started her picture of Frieda.
She was drawing!
He reached out and clamped a hand around the hard shelf of a bookcase as the breath punched out of him. She looked so familiar. A thousand different memories pounded at him.
She’d sketched in the top half of Frieda’s face with a fine pencil and the detail stole his breath. He inched forward to get a better view. Beneath her fingers, her mother’s eyes and brow came alive— so familiar and so…vibrant.
Jaz had honed her skill, her talent, until it sang. The potential he’d recognised in her work eight years ago—the potential anyone who’d seen her work couldn’t have failed to recognise—had come of age. An ache started up deep down inside him, settled beneath his ribcage like a stitch.
He wanted to drag his gaze away, but he couldn’t.
He found his anger again instead. What the hell was Jaz doing with his little girl? Why had Mel been seen with her every afternoon this week? And why hadn’t Mrs Benedict informed him about it?
His hands clenched. He’d protect Mel with every breath in his body. Mel was seven—just a little girl—and vulnerable… And in need of a mother.
He ignored that last thought. Jaz Harper sure as hell didn’t fit that bill.
Jaz exhaled, stepped back to survey her work more fully, then she growled. She threw her pencil down on a card table she’d set up nearby—it held a photograph of Frieda—then swung around to him, her eyes blazing. ‘I’m grateful for what you did earlier in the day—the loan of the computer, Mrs Lavender et cetera. You left before I could thank you. So…thank you. But you obviously have something on your mind now and you might as well spit it out.’
‘I mean to.’ He planted his feet, hands on hips. ‘I want to know what the hell you’ve been doing with my daughter every afternoon this week?’
The words shot out of him like nails from a nail gun, startling him with their ferocity, but he refused to moderate his glare. If she’d so much as harmed one hair on Mel’s head, he’d make sure she regretted it for the rest of her life.
‘Did you hear this from Melanie?’
‘Gordon Sears,’ he growled.
Jaz’s lips twisted at whatever she saw in his face. Lush, full lips. Lips he—
No. He would not fall under her spell again. He wouldn’t expose Mel to another woman who’d run at the first hint of trouble.
‘Still jumping to conclusions, Connor?’
Her words punched the air out of his body.
‘What on earth do you think I’ve been doing with her?’ She planted her hands on her hips—a mirror image of him—and matched his glare. ‘What kind of nasty notions have been running through your mind?’
Nothing specific, he realised. But he remembered the gaping hole Jaz had left in his life when she’d fled Clara Falls eight years ago. He wouldn’t let her hurt Mel like that.
‘One more day,’ she whispered. ‘That’s all I needed with her—one more day.’ She said the words almost to herself, as if she’d forgotten he was even there.
‘One more day to do what?’ he exploded.
She folded her arms, but he saw that her hands shook. ‘You haven’t changed much at all, have you, Connor? It seems you’re still more than willing to believe the worst of me.’
Bile burned his throat.
‘I needed one more day to convince her to confide in you, that’s what.’
To confide in him… Her words left him floundering. ‘To confide what?’
‘If you spent a little more time with your daughter, then perhaps you’d know!’
‘If I…’ His shoulders grew so tight they hurt. ‘What do you know about bringing a child up on your own?’ About how hard it was. About how the doubts crowded in, making him wonder if he was doing a good job or making a hash of things. About how he’d always be a dad and never a mum and that, no matter how nurturing and gentle he tried to be, he knew it wasn’t the same.
‘I…nothing.’ Jaz took a step back. ‘I’m sorry.’
The sadness that stretched across her face had his anger draining away, against his will and against his better judgement. She turned away as if to hide her sadness from him.
‘Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?’ To his relief, his voice had returned to normal.
She started gathering up her pencils and placing them back in their box. ‘I don’t suppose you’d trust me for just one more day?’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’ He tried to make the words gentle. He had to bite back an oath when she flinched. ‘I won’t take any risks where Mel’s concerned. I can’t.’
She smiled then and he saw the same concern she’d shown for Gwen last night reflected in her eyes now. His chest started to burn as if he’d run a marathon. If Jaz had gleaned even the tiniest piece of information that would help him with Mel…Mel, who’d gone from laughing and bright-eyed to sober and withdrawn in what seemed to him a twinkling of an eye.
Mel, who’d once chattered away to him about everything and nothing, and who these days would only shake her head when he asked her if anything was wrong.
‘Mel has been coming to the bookshop after school instead of Mrs Benedict’s.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I…yes, I do.’ She hesitated. ‘May I ask you a question first?’
His hand clenched. He wanted his bright, bubbly daughter back—the girl whose smile would practically split her face in two whenever she saw him. He’d do anything to achieve that, pay any price. Even if that meant answering Jaz’s questions first. He gave a short, hard nod.
‘Why is Melly going to Mrs Benedict’s after school? Please don’t get angry again, but…if you start work at seven-thirty most mornings, surely you should be able to knock off in time to collect Melly from school at three-thirty? Obviously I don’t know your personal situation, but it looks as if you’re doing well financially. Do you really need to work such long hours?’
No, he didn’t.
She frowned. ‘And who looks after Melly in the mornings before school?’
‘The school provides a care service, before and after school.’
She didn’t ask, but he could see the question in her eyes—why didn’t he use that service instead of sending Mel to Mrs Benedict’s?
‘You don’t want to tell me, do you?’
What the hell…? That mixture of sadness and understanding in her voice tugged at him. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her. It might even go some way to making amends for bursting in here and all but accusing her of hurting Mel.
He raked a hand back through his hair. ‘We had