“Don’t be frightened, Daniela, we’re Federal agents.”
Federal agents? Men in Black, or in this case a lovely charcoal gray? In safe and solid Mill Works Ridge, the same community known affectionately as Maternity Row? Hysterical laughter bubbled in her throat. She fought it down. Later, she would fall apart.
“If you’re IRS, you’re wasting your time. The old blood and turnip thing. I’m the turnip.”
She thought he chuckled before she remembered that government types had no humor. “Good thing we’re Treasury, not IRS, then.”
He loosened his hold but kept his arms around her. After straightening carefully, she pushed back her hood so that she could see his face. At the same time he lowered his head so that his gaze met hers, and for a moment she felt as though she were poised at the top of a ski run, with a pristine slope of freshly-groomed powder falling away in a dizzying drop below.
She knew that face. Oh, how she knew it! Once she’d held it in her mind so that she would fall asleep thinking of him. After he’d left her, his image had tormented her in dreams for months.
The proud angles and strong planes were more sharply chiseled now, but still breathtaking. Beneath slashing brows the color of sun-washed sand, his eyes were an unusual sage green with sun crinkles at the corners and dense lashes. His chin was solid, with a hint of a cleft, his features boldly drawn, as though with swift, angry strokes on an imperfect canvas—all but his lips which had the smallest of curves at one corner. Like the beginning of the sweetest of smiles.
It wasn’t really a smile, but a scar, one she’d put there herself when she’d been six and he’d been eight. He’d caught her crying because her brothers had gone fishing and left her behind, so he’d taken her to his own favorite spot along the Little Applegate.
Instead of a steelhead, she’d hooked him, then in her dismay jerked hard on the line, slicing his mouth as the hook pulled free. Blood had spurted like a fountain, and she’d gotten hysterical. He had ended up comforting her.
“My God, Rafe?”
His mouth slanted. That same cleanly defined mouth that had brushed hers in her first real kiss. “So you do remember. I’m flattered.”
Remember? How could she forget? Suddenly cold to the marrow, she shivered violently.
His face changed, growing hard. “Give me your hand. You need to get inside.”
Somehow she drew herself taller, pitting her five foot four inch admittedly out of shape form against six feet three inches of hard-bitten, decidedly intimidating muscle. “I’m not moving an inch until you tell me why you’re suddenly on my doorstep after twenty years.”
“We’ll talk inside.”
“Oh no we—”
His gaze narrowed, acting remarkably like a whiplash. She refused to be afraid. “Inside, Daniela. Maybe you’re immune to pneumonia, but I’m not.”
Without waiting for permission, he slipped the strap of her briefcase from her shoulder and slung it over his own, before tucking a big hand beneath her elbow. She started to turn, only to have his hand tighten.
“Gresham!”
Startled by the sudden bark of command, she glanced up to find him looking over his shoulder. As though conjured by Rafe’s will alone, a tall, dark-haired man appeared, his suit blue instead of gray, his tie knotted in the same full Windsor Mark had preferred.
Ice blue eyes in a tanned, aristocratic face met hers with frank curiosity as he inclined his head a polite two inches then waited while Rafe performed a perfunctory introduction.
“Dr. Daniela Fabrizio, meet Special Agent Seth Gresham, of the Greenwich Greshams.”
The young agent’s mouth curved into a boyish grin. “A pleasure, ma’am.”
“Agent.” Her voice came out too thin, and she took a fast breath. Heart thudding, she willed herself to calm down. Adrenaline wasn’t good for the baby. It wasn’t all that good for the baby’s mom, either, she realized, as the dull headache that had gotten worse while she stood in the checkout lane took on a sharper edge.
“I need to get Dr. Fabrizio inside,” Rafe informed his partner curtly. “Make sure that rubbernecking cabby’s not thinking about calling out 911 on us, then get the damn groceries.”
“Yes sir.” Gresham shifted his gaze to her, then asked politely, “Ma’am, are you square with the driver?” His voice was Eastern, the diction perfect.
“Unfortunately, yes, the jerk.” She drew back to glare at the cab driver who was leaning forward, staring white-faced through the passenger’s window. “Took my tip, then refused to move his fat…self to help me.”
Rafe’s gaze flicked toward the cab. “Might be a good idea to rattle his chain a little, make him rethink the way he treats his paying passengers.”
“Be a pleasure,” Gresham said, his grin flashing white again before he turned away. The wind blew his coat back, revealing a gun in a holster hugging his side.
“Are you sure he’s old enough to carry a gun?” she muttered, feeling more ancient by the moment.
“He’s old enough.” Rafe tightened his grip and helped her up the two short steps to the brick walk.
Grateful for his support, she concentrated on sidestepping the puddles formed by the walk’s uneven surface. Water from the gutter squished in her sodden shoes, and her last pair of panty hose were now spattered with mud. To add insult to injury her mashed toes hurt like the very dickens, making her limp.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded after only a few steps.
“I was attacked by a can of tomato juice,” she shot back impatiently.
“Why the hell didn’t you say so?”
“Because it’s silly and—” Her voice ended in a gasp as she was suddenly swept off her feet and into his arms.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re supposed to take care of yourself when you’re pregnant?” he grated close to her ear.
Only everyone from her father and her doctor, Luke Jarrod, all the way down to Bruno of automotive repair fame, she thought peevishly. “I am doing my very best, I assure you,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.
Behind her, she heard the cab roar away, leaving more foul air behind. Though it wasn’t quite six-thirty, the gloom had caused the streetlights to wink on. The rain was coming down harder, now, driven sideways by the wind.
“Is your daughter home?” he asked as they neared the small porch with its rose-covered trellis.
“No, Lys is…” She stopped abruptly and narrowed her gaze suspiciously. “How did you know I have a daughter?”
“It was in the file,” he said as he climbed the three steps to the porch.
“What file?”
“Later.” As he swung her around, her sleeve brushed one of the lavender roses climbing the terraces, and she caught a whiff of its perfume. Roses in the rain, her favorite scent.
“Where’s your house key?”
“In my briefcase. If you’ll just put me down, I’ll—”
“Gresham, get your butt over here and unlock the damned door!”
She winced. What did he have to be so angry about? She was the one whose life was imploding. Reminding herself that she was a responsible, mature adult and not an hysterical six-year-old, she drew back her head and treated him to her coolest shrink look. “Wouldn’t it be more sensible if you just put me down and let me unlock the damned door?”
“Probably.”