Her son accepted her slight nod as agreement and finally moved away from the door to his grandfather’s room. “Does Grampa like ‘nilla ice cream or chocolate or cookie dough or …”
The kid was an ice-cream connoisseur, his list of flavors long and impressive. And Josie’s stomach nearly growled with either hunger or nerves.
She interrupted him to ask, “Do you want to press the elevator button?”
His brow furrowing in concentration, he rose up on tiptoe and reached for the up arrow.
“No,” she said. But it was too late, he’d already pressed it. “We need the down arrow.” Before she could touch it, a hand wrapped around her wrist.
Her skin tingled and her pulse leaped in reaction. And she didn’t need to lift her head to know who had touched her. Even after more than three years, she recognized his touch. But she lifted her head and gazed up at him, at his thick black hair that was given to curl, at his deep, turquoise-green eyes that could hold such passion. Now they held utter shock and confusion.
This was the man who’d killed her, or who would have killed her had the U.S. marshal and one of her security guards not diffused the bomb that had been set inside the so-called safe house. They had set it off later to stage her death.
Since he had wanted her dead so badly, he was not going to be happy to find her alive and unharmed—if he recognized her now. She needed for him not to recognize her, as she wasn’t likely to survive his next murder attempt. Not when she was unprotected.
If only she’d listened to that inner voice …
The risk had been too great. Not just to her life but to what would become of her son once she was gone.
Would her little boy’s father take him or kill him? Either way, the child was as doomed as she was.
Chapter Two
For more than three years, her memory had haunted Brendan—her image always in his mind. This woman didn’t look like her, but she had immediately drawn his attention when he’d stepped out of the stairwell at the end of the hall. Her body was fuller and softer than Josie’s thin frame had been. And her chin-length blond bob had nothing in common with Josie’s long red hair. Yet something about her—the way she tilted her jaw, the sparkle in her eyes as she gazed down at the child—reminded him of her.
Then she’d spoken to the boy, and her soft voice had hit him like a blow to the stomach. While he might not have recognized her body or face, he could not mistake that voice as anyone’s but hers. Her voice had haunted him, too.
Before he could recover, he turned his attention to the child and reeled from another blow. With his curly red hair and bright green eyes, the child was more recognizable than the woman. Except for that shock of bright hair, he looked exactly like the few childhood photos of Brendan that his stepmother hadn’t managed to accidentally destroy.
He didn’t even remember closing the distance between them, didn’t remember reaching for her. But now he held her, his hand wrapped tightly around her delicate wrist.
She lifted her face to him, and he saw it now in the almond shape and silvery-green color of her eyes. What he didn’t recognize was the fear that widened those eyes and stole the color from her face.
“Josie …?”
She shook her head in denial.
She must have had some cosmetic work done, because her appearance was different. Her cheekbones weren’t as sharp, her chin not as pointy, her nose not as perfectly straight. This plastic surgeon had done the opposite of what was usually required; he’d made her perfect features imperfect—made her look less movie-star gorgeous and more natural.
Why would she have gone to such extremes to change her identity? With him, her effort was wasted. He would know her anywhere, just from the way his body reacted—tensing and tingling with attraction. And anger. But she was already afraid of him and he didn’t want to scare the child, too, so he restrained his rage over her cruel deception.
“You’re Josie Jessup.”
She shook her head again and spoke, but this time her voice was little more than a raspy whisper. “You’re mistaken. That’s not my name.”
The raspy whisper did nothing to disguise her voice, since it was how he best remembered her. A raspy whisper in his ear as they’d made love, his body thrusting into hers, hers arching to take him deep. Her nails digging into his shoulders and back as she’d screamed his name.
That was why he’d let her fool him once, why he’d let her distract him when he had needed to be focused and careful. She had seduced and manipulated him with all her loving lies. She’d only wanted to get close to him so she could get a damn story. She hadn’t realized how dangerous getting close to him really was. No matter what she’d learned, she didn’t know the truth about him. And if he had anything to say about it, she never would. He wouldn’t let her make a fool of him twice.
“If you’re not Josie Jessup, what the—” He swallowed a curse for the child’s sake. “What are you doing here?”
“We were gonna see my grampa,” the little boy answered for her, “but we didn’t wanna wake him up.”
She was the same damn liar she had always been, but at least she hadn’t corrupted the boy.
His son …
JOSIE RESISTED THE urge to press her palm over CJ’s mouth. It was already too late. Why was it now that her usually shy son chose to speak to a stranger? And, moreover, to speak the truth? But her little boy was unfailingly honest, no matter the fact that his mother couldn’t be. Especially now.
“But we got out on the wrong floor,” she said. “This isn’t where your grandfather’s room is.”
CJ shook his head. “No, we watched the numbers lighting up in the el’vator. You said number six. I know my numbers.”
Now she cursed herself for working with the three-year-old so much that he knew all his numbers and letters. “Well, it’s the wrong room.”
“You said number—”
“Shh, sweetheart, you’re tired and must not remember correctly,” she said, hoping that her son picked up the warning and the fear in her voice now. “We need to leave. It’s late. We need to get you to bed.”
But those strong masculine fingers were still wrapped tight around her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“You have no right to keep me,” she said.
With his free hand, he gestured toward CJ. “He gives me the right. I have a lot of rights you’ve apparently denied me.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why the hell would she have told the man who’d tried to kill her that she was pregnant with his baby? If his attempts had been successful, he would have killed them both.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Josie.”
CJ tugged on her hand and whispered loudly, “Mommy, why does the man keep calling you that?”
Now he supported her lie—too late. “I don’t know, honey,” she said. “He has me mixed up with someone else he must have known.”
“No,” Brendan said. “I never really knew Josie Jessup at all.”
No.