Lost Cause. Janice Johnson Kay
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on them with saintly smiles. If they could see them now, what about the rest of the time? Had they seen him, locked by his adoptive father in the old outhouse for punishment, spending the night bloodying his fists trying to beat his way out? Had they seen him screwing women and leaving before first light? The idea both angered him and encroached on a sense of privacy that was important to him.
“When you’re ready, I’ll show you a packet of love letters that Dad wrote Mom,” Suzanne told him. “And Mom kept baby books for each of us with the dates of milestones. You know. First smile. Rolled over. Crawled. For you and me, first word. They even have locks of our hair from our first haircuts.”
The panic that felt like claustrophobia had been nudging at him, but now it swelled to fill his chest again. He took a hasty swallow of wine. Shouldn’t he be happy to know that he’d been loved as a little boy? Why did the knowledge fill him with resentment and something too much like the fear he’d felt when he lost it on that curve?
“If you want to go settle in…” Suzanne suggested.
He shot to his feet. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’ll do that.” He meant to leave the album on the table for now, to show himself if not them that it didn’t mean that much to him, but he couldn’t do it. “Thanks for, uh, doing this.” He gripped it, white-knuckle tight.
Carrie rose, too. “I’d better get going. But I’m sure I’ll be seeing you in a day or two.” She held out her hand.
He shifted the album to his other hand so he could shake.
“Big brother,” she said, with a saucy grin, then kissed Suzanne on the cheek. “Wow. This is amazing.”
“Amazing,” Suzanne echoed.
Okay. Yeah. He guessed it was. Suzanne hadn’t been that old in the last photo, and yet she’d held tight to a memory of them all together.
He envied her that memory, but was glad he hadn’t kept it to taunt him all those years.
He escaped to the bedroom while the sisters said goodbye and made plans for what to do with him while they had him. In the quiet after he shut the door, he set the album atop the dresser, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, his gut churning.
Give him a choice between another day like this and a dive from his Harley at seventy miles an hour, he’d take the dive. Without a second thought.
CHAPTER FOUR
REBECCA WAS SAILING down I-5 when her car died. Just like that, with the car still going sixty miles an hour, the power steering and brakes were gone.
Swearing, she wrestled with the wheel to steer onto the shoulder while she stamped on the brake pedal. She hated to think what a dead car in one lane would do to traffic. The wheel moved as if the column had rusted fifty years ago, but it did turn. The car slowed and finally came to a stop on the shoulder.
Whispering her thanks for small mercies, she sat shaking, adrenaline coursing through her body. It was several minutes before she felt steady enough to turn the key and try to start the engine again.
Absolutely nothing happened. It didn’t even make an effort. Did that mean her starter was out? But then why would the engine have died? Something electrical, she supposed. All she knew about cars was how to drive one and how to fill it with gas.
Great. Wonderful. She was stuck on the shoulder of the freeway halfway between Lynnwood and Edmonds, traffic whizzing by. Thank God for cell phones. Hers had sunk to the bottom of her purse, but she found it and called information, asking for a nearby towing company.
“Fifteen, twenty minutes,” the dispatcher promised.
Now she’d have to cancel the home visit at the Coopers. Rebecca opened her briefcase and pulled out their file. The phone number was in here…. She found it and pushed the keys. Before she completed the number, the roar of a motorcycle brought her head up.
A huge Harley-type bike was easing to a stop behind her car. Her adrenaline surged again. As she hit the lock button on her door, images of rape and murder flashed through her mind. Forget the fact that it was broad daylight and they were in plain sight of busy freeway traffic. She wouldn’t even crack the window, she’d just give her head an emphatic shake no.
The driver, in jeans, boots and a black leather jacket, set the stand and took off his helmet, revealing long dark hair and a face she recognized. She’d met him, she knew she had.
Her mind raced as she peered in the rearview mirror. Where did she know him from?
Suzanne Chauvin’s. That was it. He was the long-lost brother. The one whose mouth had curled ever so slightly when he said, “Ms. Wilson.”
Why had he stopped? Did Good Samaritans come in the form of bikers in black leather?
He swung his leg over the seat, hung the helmet on the handlebar and strolled toward her passenger door. A semi thundered by in the outside lane, whipping his hair, but he didn’t even glance sideways.
When he reached the car, she hesitated, then unlocked it. He opened the door and bent to look in. “Ms. Wilson.”
Damn, he was handsome. Chocolate-brown eyes and a narrow face with spectacular cheekbones might have made him movie-star sexy, but a mouth that didn’t seem to be made for smiling erased any hope of charm.
“Mr. Lindstrom.” Now, why had his name popped into her head so easily? she wondered with surprise. Usually, she had an awful time remembering names.
“Flat tire?”
She shook her head.
“I was driving and my car just…died.”
His heavy brows rose. “Power steering?”
She nodded and realized she still felt shaky.
“Have you tried to start it again?”
“Yes, but it won’t even turn over.”
“Then it’s not likely to be anything I can take care of here.”
“I’ve called for a tow truck. I’m just waiting for it.”
His gaze flicked to her plum-colored blazer and skirt. “Working?”
“Yes, I had a home visit scheduled.” She lifted her cell phone. “I was about to call and cancel.”
“Where do they live?”
“Mountlake Terrace.” She could see the exit up ahead. So close.
“I could give you a lift,” Gary Lindstrom suggested.
She was embarrassed by the knowledge that her eyes had widened. “On your motorcycle?”
The very corner of his mouth lifted in the sketchiest smile she’d ever seen. “You can wear the helmet.”
“The tow truck…”
“Call them back. Tell them you’re leaving your key.”
She did hate to cancel. She knew how eager couples were at this stage, how long they’d yearned for a child, how much time they probably spent getting their house to a point of perfection whether they’d deny it or not. Still, to arrive, windblown, on the back of a Harley-Davidson, her arms wrapped around the waist of a perfect stranger who happened to be dark, sexy and a little scary…
Oh, heck. It was a fantasy come true.
“If you mean it,” she capitulated. “I can call a taxi to take me home…”
“I mean it.”
While he waited, she phoned and arranged to leave her key under the driver’s side floor mat. There wasn’t anything in the car to steal, and unless they could throw it over one shoulder and carry it, no one would be taking her Tercel today.
A moment later, carrying her purse and briefcase, she followed him to his motorcycle.
“You