Luke's Daughters. Lynnette Kent
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I will. How about you?”
“Yes, please.” The first cabinet he opened contained the glasses. He chose tall ones—as she would have—and added ice, just as she liked it. She’d had the same experience last night in his kitchen—she’d known exactly where things would be, as if their minds worked in the same pattern. Sarah thought such instant closeness should be scary.
Instead, she felt grateful to have found a friend like Luke.
“That’s the last of them?” he asked as she clumsily hung up the phone.
“I think so.”
“Did they report any large charges since last night?”
“None for days.”
“Good—we stopped him before he got started.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Do you have a phone card?”
“A—” Sarah stopped herself from repeating his words, like a lost child. “I do, as a matter of fact. I’ll call the phone company.”
When she hung up this time, he had picked up the framed photograph she kept on the table by the couch. “Is this your brother? Boyfriend?”
“James Daley. I…worked with him.”
“James Daley, the journalist?”
“That’s the one.”
Luke gave her a searching look. “Daley’s pretty good. I like his stuff for Events.”
“James always told the story as he saw it.”
“Told?”
Sarah braced herself to say the words she’d practiced so often. “He was killed by a stray bullet in Afghanistan, about seven months ago.”
“You were there?”
“I was his photographer.”
He set the frame gently back on the table. “I should know your work, too, shouldn’t I?”
“Not necessarily—my name is usually in the small print at the end of the article.”
“So when you took pictures of Jen and Erin, you were doing us a favor—not just out to make a quick buck.” Luke’s cheeks reddened. “I apologize for misunderstanding.”
“Not at all.” Sarah carefully carried her drink between her fingers and sat on the couch beside him. “Saturday wasn’t the easiest day you’ve ever had.”
“Still…”
“I was just glad to get the shots. And the pictures were everything I hoped. But he took them when…” Her mind’s eye flashed back to last night, to a knee in her back, the sudden impact with graveled ground, rough hands dragging her portfolio out from under her body.
“Oh, damn.” She put her head back, willing the tears not to fall.
Luke took her glass away, then his arms surrounded her, nestled her against his firm chest as he stroked her hair, avoiding the bandages. “It’s okay, Sarah,” he whispered. “It’s okay to cry.”
Sarah resisted the urge to pull away. She let her cheek rest on him, breathed in the clean scent of his black T-shirt. How long had it been since anyone had put their arms around her? Longer than she could remember.
Longer, still, since being held had felt so right. For all his talent and intelligence—or maybe because of his exceptional gifts—James had never been a comforting person. He’d accepted the truth, dealt with it head-on and expected everyone around him to do the same. Sarah had prided herself on meeting that expectation, on functioning independently. Until James died.
Since then, her life seemed to consist of fragments—like the shards of a broken mirror—none of which she could fit together. And there was no one who cared enough to help her try.
So she stayed quiet for just a few minutes, soaking up the solace Luke offered. Long before she was ready, she sat up out of his arms and summoned a smile. “Thanks.” She pushed her hair back with fingers that shook. “You really are a good friend to have around.”
His hands lingered on her shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Sarah nodded. “I’m fine, now. Let me change clothes and get the key for the car. I’ll be just a few minutes.”
He toasted her with his glass of juice. “Take your time.”
But she hurried through the process of dressing, avoiding her reflection as much as possible. She’d been assaulted twice before—in other countries, by people involved in activities they didn’t want recorded. She knew how to survive the pain, realized that the bruises would fade, the scrapes would heal.
Ignoring the ache in her ribs and shoulders, she found dark brown linen pants to cover the bandages on her legs and a light, long-sleeved tunic which did the same for her arms.
The problem came with her hair. She couldn’t lift her arms much above her waist, let alone hold a brush tight enough to pull out tangles and knots.
Did she dare…?
As she stepped back into the living room, Luke glanced up from a copy of Events. “You look much better.”
“I’m feeling much, much better.” She swallowed hard against her nerves. “I have only one more favor to ask.”
“What’s that?”
Sarah held out the brush. “Would you?”
“Be glad to.” He stretched to his feet. “Sit in one of those tall chairs at the counter.”
Standing behind her, he took the brush and picked up the weight of her hair. “You’ve got a handful of curls here, don’t you?” His gentle tug on the ends was more delicate than she could possibly have managed. Sarah barely felt the pull on her bandages.
“I usually keep it braided and out of the way. I don’t know what happened last night—how it came undone.” The tension in her shoulders began melting away as he stroked her hair back from her face. She closed her eyes.
“Do you want me to braid it for you?”
“Can you?”
“I braid Erin’s and Jen’s all the time. It’s a survival skill for fathers of little girls.”
“What are they like, your girls?”
He chuckled. “Erin’s the wild one—adventurous, independent, stubborn. She goes after what she wants, no matter the risk. She likes the ocean and bicycles and science books.”
“Does she take after her dad, maybe?”
He went completely still for a second, then resumed brushing. “Sure. Jen’s gentler, quieter, but just as stubborn when she wants to be. She plays dolls and has tea parties, wants to hear fairy tales and dress up like a princess.”
As she had been on her mother’s wedding day. “How old are they?”
“Erin will turn seven this summer. Jen’s four.” Luke put the brush on the counter. “Here goes.”
He touched the crown of her head softly, gathering hair, tugging a bit against the bandage, but Sarah hardly noticed. The play of his fingers on her scalp set up small waves of pleasure, like the lap of the sun-heated ocean in a tidal pool on the beach. She took a deep breath and released it slowly. Now she knew why women enjoyed having their hair styled. So relaxing, so soothing, so…so seductive.
“Finished.” He draped the end of the braid over her shoulder. “Do you have a band?”
She slipped it off her fingers, struggling to stay casual. “If you ever get tired of being a cop, you should consider braiding hair for a living. Thanks.”
When she faced him, he’d stepped back and hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his