Shaking her head, Kelly moved to the window and gazed down at the pool deck, now illuminated by hidden lights. Barely visible, in the distance the dark Atlantic Ocean stretched into an unseen horizon.
She leaned against the window frame. God, what a gorgeous piece of real estate. A laugh bubbled up as she considered the ludicrous proposition of her squad making a domestic call to this island paradise. Anyone in trouble would bleed out before the cops could manage to get on and off that slow ferry.
At the sound of voices, she refocused on the deck and stood up straight. Trey Wentworth, dressed in a black tux that fit him as if custom made—and likely was—spoke to a giant, muscled dude that looked as if he were straight out of special forces. She figured the big guy had to be a bodyguard or security of some sort, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Wentworth.
Smooth and sophisticated in black tie, he made her think of James Bond. South Beach style. God, but he looked good enough to eat.
Why was he so dressed up? But she knew why. Obviously the man had a date. That couldn’t be right. His son had been kidnapped, rescued—by her, thank you very much—flipped out and then drugged into oblivion, but Wentworth, obviously not a candidate for dad of the year, was going out on the town to some swanky shindig?
What kind of a father did that?
When he looked up at her window, Kelly jumped out of the way, hoping he hadn’t seen her. This family’s dirty laundry was none of her business.
She quickly changed into her clean running shorts and jog bra. Feeling better in her own clothes, she hurried back down the stairs only to encounter Wentworth striding across the loggia toward the front door—looking even more delicious in the brighter light. As his arm moved, she caught the flash of gold at his cuffs, and again stepped out of sight. Things were awkward enough between them without the man thinking she was a stalker.
Hans opened the door to the limo, and Wentworth climbed in. Kelly moved forward to watch the black vehicle drive away.
Well, do have such a good time, Mr. Billionaire. Oh, and don’t worry about your traumatized son. I’ll be here in case Jason wakes up and needs a parent to comfort him.
She whirled away from the disappearing tail lights and marched toward the gym. Man, did she ever need that workout.
HURRYING UP THE marble steps into his home, Trey focused on one thing: Jason. How was he? Had his son woken? Cried out for his mother or his father?
Probably not. Donna said Jase would sleep through the night and it was only 11:00 p.m.
He’d remained at the benefit the minimum amount of time, escaping at the first opportunity after less than two hours, ninety minutes of a frozen smile and feigning interest in a cause that was no doubt worthy but one he couldn’t care about right now.
All he cared about was his son.
At the top of the stairs, Trey slipped off his shoes so he wouldn’t make any noise as he approached Jason’s room. The last thing he wanted to do was wake him if he remained asleep.
Trey edged open the door to Jason’s room and exhaled a relieved breath. Jase lay on his side with his favorite stuffed animal, a pink, ragged chimpanzee named Chimpie, clutched against his body. His son’s chest rose and fell steadily. He looked like any normal four-year-old, happy, at peace with his world.
Trey prayed that tonight his son’s slumber wasn’t inhabited by violent nightmares.
Shutting the door, Trey headed toward the bar. He needed a drink. He’d held himself in check at the party, refusing anything but club soda, afraid alcohol might loosen his tongue and allow him to say things in public he shouldn’t. Things about his father.
The most heartless son of a bitch on the planet.
Trey removed his jacket, tossed it over a chair and poured himself an inch of his favorite whiskey. He downed the liquid in one swallow, welcoming the fiery burn that trailed down his throat into his belly and then poured another.
He was sick of people, of being polite and sociable. All night, every hand he’d pumped, every perfumed cheek he’d kissed, every lame joke he pretended to find amusing, all he could think about was whether Jason had woken up frightened and missing his daddy.
But he hadn’t. Jase was safe in bed and sound asleep. Trey drank his whiskey and added more to his glass. He could stop obsessing about his son and indulge in a little blessed solitude.
He longed to forget the present and return to a time when Jason had been a happy, well-adjusted little boy who adored his parents. Holding the crystal tumbler, Trey moved to the window and stared outside onto the illuminated pool deck. He wanted to forget a reality where his son despised him for taking away his mother. Where the world had warped to the point where Jason had latched on to a stranger and anointed her his absent mom.
When Jason woke up in the morning, would he still insist Kelly Jenkins was his mother? It couldn’t be good for Jase to allow him to carry on with that delusion. At what point did he bring it to an end?
What a terrifying mess. Trey removed his tie and slammed it to the bar.
Donna insisted time would heal his son’s wounds, but Trey wasn’t so sure anymore. And he was helpless to do anything for Jase. A father should be able to help his son.
Nursing his drink, Trey stepped outside. Maybe a little fresh air would make him feel better. He breathed in the scent of something blooming mingled with a salty ocean breeze. What he ought to do is turn on the court lights and whack a few thousand balls over the net. The idea appealed, but the growing effects of the whiskey made him doubt the wisdom of that plan. Maybe tomorrow.
At the sound of a splash, he turned toward the lit pool in time to witness two legs kick into the air and push off the wall, propelling a blur of crimson toward the other end.
Just who was swimming in his pool at this hour? He moved closer to the edge of the water and watched the swimmer’s efficient strokes.
It was Officer Jenkins, executing flip turns as if she were a professional. He took a deep breath. He’d told her to make herself at home and was pleased she’d been able to do so.
He moved back when she approached his end of the deck again, not wanting to get water on his pants when she flipped.
But she stopped. Breathing hard, she placed her hands on the side of the pool.
“Good evening, Officer Jenkins,” Trey said, his words coming out more slurred than they should.
She jumped back and raised her arms in a defensive posture, eyes wide, ready to fight. He’d startled her.
She lowered her fists. “Mr. Wentworth.”
“Trey,” he said. He took a sip of whiskey and gazed down at her. She had a classically oval and quite lovely face. His gaze lowered, but the rippling water obscured the rest of her body.
She nodded and glanced around as if looking for an escape route, no doubt embarrassed. “I’ll get out of your way,” she said. “I’m sure you wanted privacy.”
“You’re fine.” Surprised by her obvious discomfort, Trey sat on a lounge chair with a towel draped over the back. He didn’t care if she enjoyed his pool. Few guests ever did.
“You’re an excellent swimmer,” he said.
“Thanks.” Her answer sounded more like a question.
“But listen,” she blurted. “I’m grateful for the bathing suit. I figured if you provided one it was okay to use the pool.”
“Of