“I can’t believe I sired you.” Ford’s voice neither raised in volume nor exhibited anger. Yet like an arctic wind, it sliced an icy swath through Jared’s self-esteem. “You look like some punk off the street, with your tattoo and your earrings, and you’ve disgraced our good name by being tossed out of three schools.”
“Four,” Jared said, clenching every muscle in his body to prevent his father from seeing the way they’d started to tremble. “You always forget Chilton. And hey. At least I don’t keep marrying women young enough to be my daughters.”
Ford’s eyes turned more frigid yet. Leaning down, he murmured conversationally into Jared’s ear, “I really should have insisted your mother have an abortion. Things would have been so much better all the way around.”
Pain sliced deep and scalding tears rose in an unstoppable tide in Jared’s eyes. Feeling as if he were suffocating and would die if his father saw how powerfully the words had wounded, he reached out blindly with both hands to thrust Ford out of his way. He had to get out of there. Please. Just let him get out with a shred of pride left intact. Pushing past, his shoulder bumped the old man’s chest.
With an undignified yelp, Ford stumbled back. He bumped a table, scattering its contents across the Aubusson rug and his arms windmilled before he finally caught his balance. Yet even as he straightened, he took a step back with his left foot and rolled the heel of his tasseled loafer over a corner of the first edition leather-bound, gilt-edged classic that had tumbled to the floor. He pitched backward.
“Dad!” Jared leapt to catch him, but his fingers slid along the smooth, pampered length of his father’s hand, and he watched helplessly as Ford crashed onto his back on the floor. There was a sickening thud as the older man’s head came into contact with the marble hearth before he lay still.
“Oh, God, oh, man.” Jared squatted down. “Dad? I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I never meant to hurt you.”
His father didn’t move and Jared reached out. Ford’s head canted awkwardly against the edge of the pale veined marble. “Are you all right? Come on, Dad, wake up!” He felt for injury, but there was no blood from the contact site at the back of his father’s head, no soft spot that he could discern. But…that angle couldn’t be normal, could it? Bringing his fingers around to the front of his father’s neck, he pressed against the artery.
No pulse beat beneath the pounding blood in his own fingertips.
Jared snapped awake, sick horror pumping through his veins. He blinked in confusion at the rows of flowers that hovered overhead on either side of his prone body. Then he blew out a breath. Okay. All right. He knew where he was now: in the gardens of the Civic Center park in Denver.
Swearing under his breath, he sat up. Since hitting town, he’d slept in fits and starts, and then only during the day because he was scared to sleep at night. He lived in constant fear of getting rousted by the cops or—worse—by someone who’d just as soon slit his throat as look at him. The sun had definitely gone down, though, and not only had he dozed off, he’d had the damn dream again. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he relived those awful ten minutes that he wished more than anything he could take back and do over.
But, oh, God, he couldn’t, and no spin in the universe could get around the fact he’d killed his own father. Nauseated, he hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in the notch between his kneecaps, rocking in abject misery.
Almost worse was the way he’d run afterward without even stopping to call 911. It probably would have been too late to save his dad anyway, but he’d never know that for certain because he’d panicked, showing only enough foresight to grab the brandy bottle and his backpack before hauling ass for the front door. He’d had it in his mind that his father’s guests were about to walk out of the dining room at any minute. The thought of one or two or maybe even the whole frickin’ lot of them staring at him with knowing eyes as they pointed accusing fingers and called him murderer had filled him with so much terror there hadn’t been room left for anything else.
For a second he desperately wished for his mother, but the desire passed as quickly as it had come upon him. The truth was he’d been so young when she died that all he really knew of her were the stories Tori had told him in an attempt to keep her memory alive.
What he really wanted was Tori. God, he wished he could call her, but not only did he hate the thought of making her an—what?—accomplice or witness or whatever in his crime, he didn’t have her number with him and doubted he could get a London number by calling 411.
Besides, what would he say—Sorry, but I offed Dad?
Snatching up his backpack, he leapt to his feet. He had to get out of the park, had to go someplace where other people hung out, even if he didn’t talk to anyone. He needed noise to drown out the voices in his head. Exiting onto Colfax Avenue, he headed for the 16th Street Mall.
Lost in misery, he failed to pay attention to the slight figure that detached itself from the shadow of the Greek amphitheater and followed him.
VICTORIA PAUSED IN THE doorway of Ford’s second office the next afternoon and watched John as he sat with the telephone receiver clasped between his ear and a hunched-up shoulder, scribbling furiously on a legal pad that sat at an angle on the desk in front of him. She didn’t understand why her father had felt the need for two offices, but the south wing that housed this one had been added while she was abroad, so perhaps he’d had plans to turn his old office into something else. That wasn’t really important, anyway. She only knew she’d chosen this room for Rocket’s use because it was farther away from the heart of the house than Father’s original study.
Which hardly explained why she was standing there staring at John’s muscular shoulders and the bunch and release of the sinews in his forearm as he wrote with the twisted, upside-down awkwardness of a leftie. You’d think she’d never seen silky black hair feathering a guy’s arms before. Shaking off a niggle of unease that whispered she’d never found any features on another man quite so virile as this one’s, she stepped into the room.
And heard him murmur, “You’re the woman, Mac. You sure you won’t change your mind about running away with me?”
Well, there’s a reality check for you. The guy was a lady-killer and she’d be wise to keep that in mind. Composing her features to reveal nothing beyond polite disinterest, she waited until he’d hung up the phone before saying, “You wanted to see me?”
His head jerked up and she froze as something hot and dangerous flashed in his eyes. Then his face went neutral and, setting down his pen, he reached for his coffee cup. Bringing it to his lips, he took a sip, and looked at her over its rim. “I thought you might like a progress report.”
She took an eager step toward the desk, her momentary discomfort forgotten in a wash of anticipation. “Have you found Jared, then?”
“No, not yet. But I will.”
Swamped with disappointment, she nevertheless gave him an apologetic grimace as she pulled out the chair across from him and sank onto its edge. “I guess it was naive to jump to that conclusion in the first place. I know it’s too soon to get my hopes up.”
“It’s too soon for me to have much to report, as well, but I’ve found that most clients appreciate being