Live-In Lover. Lyn Stone
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outside in the churchyard after services. Jack couldn’t have picked a place with a larger audience of people who knew them, and she knew that the choice was deliberate on his part.
She hadn’t been nice in refusing him. He wanted her back, all right, and she knew why. To make her life a living hell. Again.
He had called the next day, more insistent, his tone more threatening than the actual words he used. “A woman shouldn’t live alone, Molly,” he’d said. “You know, all kinds of things might happen. Just you and your baby, all by yourselves in that great big house. It’s scary to think about, isn’t it? But I want you to think about it. Think hard.”
She shuddered, recalling the way Jack had laughed that grate-on-the-nerves chuckle that made her skin crawl.
Now when he called he never said anything, probably because he knew the court protection order was supposed to bar any communication. But he had found a way.
Jack was a master of intimidation. He had used fear to hold her once before, but Molly was determined not to cave in again.
Some days he parked outside, just sitting in his car, as though daring her to go out. When she did, he followed her until he caught her in a situation where he could apologize again, in front of her mother and several of their friends.
Jack had acted like a heartbroken husband who couldn’t bear to live without her. But Molly knew what he really wanted.
She could read his intentions in his dark, narrowed eyes, hear it in the promises that must sound tempting to anyone who didn’t know him as she did. Jack wanted revenge.
At first, he might have planned to take it privately, but she hadn’t been stupid enough to go back to him, thank God. Now that she’d made it clear she wouldn’t do that, he’d obviously decided on another method of retaliation. He would terrorize her until he grew tired of it, and who knew what he would do after that? Since the frequency of his calls was escalating, she feared she was about to find out.
Given his doubts about Sydney’s paternity, Molly feared as much for the baby as she did for herself. Maybe she should have insisted on giving him proof with a DNA test, but after Syd’s birth, she hadn’t wanted him to believe that he was the father. No way would she share her baby with that maniac. When Sydney was born, Molly was already in the process of divorcing him and he had been in lockup.
She curled into a ball on the end of the sofa near the loaded pistol. With all her might, she fought the exhaustion that threatened to close her eyes. A nap seemed too risky, as had sleep the night before.
“Hurry and come, Damien,” she pleaded with the man she had decided to trust. “Please.”
In spite of her efforts, Molly knew she had fallen asleep when the doorbell woke her. Sunlight spilled through the windows. She’d slept all night. Cursing herself for her lapse, she grabbed the gun.
Sydney stirred and would be waking soon for her breakfast. Molly prayed she would sleep a little longer. The doorbell chimed again before she reached it. Molly looked through the peephole.
With a huge sigh of relief, she slipped the chain off, unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open. “Thank goodness, I was afraid you’d change your mind. Come in, please.”
She stepped back to let him move past her, then hurriedly closed the door and fastened the locks. Suddenly she felt safer than she had in weeks.
“Allow me,” he said evenly, taking the pistol from her hand, “before you shoot one of us.” He clicked on the safety and slipped it into his jacket pocket.
Then he smiled wryly, just a slight stretch of the lips, the corners barely turning up. “Hello again, by the way.”
“Hi, yourself,” Molly replied, her gaze riveted on his mouth. She forced herself to blink and look away, embarrassed by her reaction to him. He was still a heart-stopper, even more so than the last time they’d met.
She shrugged and held up her hands, empty now of the weapon and feeling useless. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” She laughed at herself. “I mean…that hospital gown, you know… So, I see you’re well now. Aren’t you? Well?”
“Quite recovered, thank you,” he replied, and inclined his head. The smile was no wider, but his eyes warmed with humor.
Lord, his voice soothed like melted chocolate, she thought. Smooth, rich English chocolate, if there was such a thing. Just a faint accent that did funny things to her stomach.
He surely did look well. Fantastic, in fact. Molly tried to be less obvious in her scrutiny, but it was hard. The man was a hunk, no denying it. Shoulders like a fullback and a face that would wring sighs out of a zealous nun.
If she didn’t watch herself here, she’d be wallowing in a deep case of hero worship. Well, he was a hero. Hadn’t he come to save her and Syd? Just like that, he’d come to the rescue without even knowing all the details. A guy just didn’t get much more heroic than that, in her opinion.
Her right hand started up to brush that sun-streaked wave off his tanned forehead. She stopped just in time, inwardly cursing her eagerness to touch. He hadn’t retreated. Hadn’t moved or even blinked. He just watched her with an intensity that nearly mesmerized.
Lord, didn’t he have the bluest eyes she had ever seen? Azure. Her favorite color.
She yanked her attention off his face and stared past him toward the kitchen. If she didn’t curb this adolescent behavior of hers, he would never take her seriously.
“I was about to fix breakfast. You want some?” She asked.
“Just coffee if you have it. Or tea would be fine.”
“Tea? For breakfast? Oh, you mean hot…”
He smiled again, this time full-out, and Molly thought her heart might stop for good, once it quit bonging around in her chest like a Super Ball. She’d forgotten those perfect teeth. And the dimples. Good grief, no wonder she was babbling like an idiot.
“Whatever you’re having will be fine,” he said.
A loud, piercing wail erupted. Molly turned and dashed down the hallway into the den to get Sydney before she woke up the entire neighborhood.
“Okay, babe, hang in there. Juice coming up. Dry pants first.” Molly ripped the night diaper’s tapes loose and began changing her.
“Is it hurt?” he asked above Syd’s noisy fretting.
“What?” Molly asked, confused. It? “Syd? Oh, no, she’s fine. Just wet and hungry.”
She pressed down the last tape on the diaper and hefted Syd out of the playpen. Shifting her handily onto one hip, Molly headed to the kitchen. “Come on.”
Quickly she plopped the baby in the high chair, washed her hands and poured a sippy-cup full of apple juice. “Like shutting off a siren, isn’t it?” she asked with a laugh as Syd gulped the juice.
His mouth quirked slightly to one side as he watched.
Molly dropped several vanilla wafers onto the highchair tray. “Sit down,” she invited. “I’ll put on the coffee.”
She took the basket of yesterday’s blueberry muffins out of the microwave, uncovered them, and set them on the table. “You want eggs and bacon? I think I have some in the fridge.”
“No, thank you,” he said politely, clasping his hands together on the tabletop. “Shall we get down to business, Ms. Jensen?”
“Sure. And please call me Molly. I mean, as long as you and Ford are such good friends—”
He looked ready to argue, and Molly didn’t think it was about the first name issue. She supposed he thought asking for this kind of help was too much, even for the sister of a friend and fellow agent. And it was, of course. She had known that up front.
“Look, maybe I