Mackenzie's Promise. Catherine Spencer
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said, reaching over to pour more wine into her glass. “And now let’s talk about you. Do you have any other siblings besides your sister?”
“No.”
“Which of you came first?”
“I did, by six years.”
“Making her about twenty.”
“Twenty-two.”
“In other words, plenty old enough to have developed the smarts to steer clear of a man so rotten inside that he’d steal her baby.”
Linda’s hackles, temporarily soothed by that brief glimpse of his more human side, rose again in defense. “I no more like it when you pass judgment on my sister without knowing the first thing about her, than you did when I presumed to criticize your mother.”
“But I do know something about her,” he said, unruffled. “I know she’s an unmarried mother, and her relationship with the father didn’t pan out. She was probably spoiled as a child and never got over being the baby of the family. When things went sour with the boyfriend, she probably moved back home to be looked after by good old mom and dad.”
“And how do you arrive at those conclusions?”
“When I’m faced with a situation in which the mother of a missing child isn’t the one raising hell and putting a lid on it, there are only two conclusions I’m likely to reach. Either she doesn’t care, or she’s the passive, helpless kind who leaves it to someone else to go to bat for her.” He shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, now does it?”
Galled by his arrogance and the fact that, in June’s case at least and with very few facts to go on, he’d profiled her with uncanny accuracy, Linda said, “How fortunate you must feel, to be so blessed!”
“No. I’m smart enough to pick up the signs, that’s all. Take you, for example.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, uncomfortable at the idea of being the subject of his too-perceptive analysis.
His smile sent goose bumps racing the length of her spine. “Figuratively speaking only, cookie, so relax. You’re not my type, although—” he tilted his head to one side and surveyed her through narrowed eyes “—under different circumstances, it’s conceivable that I might find you satisfactory.”
Satisfactory? She almost choked on a mushroom!
“Would you like some water?” he inquired, starting up from his chair with phony concern. “Or is the Heimlich maneuver called for?”
“Keep your hands to yourself!” she spat, wiping her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “And just for the record, you’re not my type, either.”
“No?” He sat down again, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Time will tell. Meanwhile, getting back to our discussion, you’re the complete opposite of your sister. Proactive, stubborn, impulsive.”
“How you do you figure that?”
“You’re here, aren’t you, and going to extraordinary lengths to persuade me to help you, despite my less than encouraging response?”
“I’d say that’s pretty self-evident.”
“Yet I doubt, if it were your child that was missing, your sister would be sitting across the table from me now—mostly because you wouldn’t dream of entrusting someone else with the task, but also because she wouldn’t have the stomach for the job. She’s probably very good at weeping, wringing her hands, and drumming up sympathy, but basically useless in any sort of crisis. You, on the other hand, rush in where the proverbial angels fear to tread—without any sort of backup provision in place, should your first course of action fail.” He took a sip of wine and regarded her quizzically. “Well, how am I doing so far?”
She’d have lied if there’d been any point in it. Instead she watered down the truth. “Quite well, I suppose.”
“And that’s it?” He raised his brows in feigned surprise. “You’re not going to lambaste me for saying mean and nasty things about your poor, misunderstood sister? Have a tantrum and throw your plate across the room, maybe? What’s the matter, Linda? Didn’t your dinner agree with you?”
“I wouldn’t dream of abusing such beautiful china,” she said, striving for nonchalance. “Did you inherit it from your grandmother, as well?”
“Yes,” he said. “And stop trying to sidestep the question. How close to the mark am I with your sister?”
“Too close. Bull’s-eye close.” Defeated, she pushed aside her plate. “You’re right. June isn’t strong like me. She’s a gentle, passive soul who hates confrontations of any kind—which just goes to show how bad things must have been between her and Kirk that she’d walk out on him when she was expecting his baby.”
“What’s your impression of this Kirk?”
“Only what I’ve been told about him. She met him while I was in Europe. I’ve seen photos of him and know that he’s American, appears to have money and works in the computer field, but I’ve never actually met him or spoken to him in person.”
“You’re not going to be much help tracking him down then, are you?”
“No, Mr. Sullivan,” she said, folding her hands meekly. “That’s why I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”
“You’ll stand a better chance of getting it if you dispense with the annoying ‘Mr. Sullivan’. My name’s Mac.”
“I’ll try to remember that, just as I’m sure you’ll remember I’m Linda, the next time you get the urge to call me to heel.”
A scowl marred his handsome brow. “I bet you’re a nurse when you’re not on a mission. You look like the type who’d enjoy wreaking vengeance on a guy by stabbing a foot-long needle in his behind when he’s at your mercy.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but this time your fabled instincts are way off target. I’m not a nurse—but I am very handy with a knife, which you might want to remember. My sister might be guilty of bad judgment, but that’s her only sin, and I won’t sit idly by while you rip her character to shreds.”
“You can’t afford to be overly protective of her, either. If I’m to be of any use at all, I need to know everything about her—the flaws and weaknesses, as well as the strengths. And I don’t mind telling you, right now I don’t see a whole lot of strengths.”
He was hard. Inflexible. She saw it in the set of his jaw, the flat, cold light in his eyes. He wouldn’t have much patience with a woman like June. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake about someone—in a personal context, I mean?”
“Sure,” he said without a flicker of regret or emotion. “I made a huge mistake thinking police work and marriage went together.”
“You’re married?” The possibility struck a blow she’d never have anticipated. He seemed so self-reliant; so…single. And yet, was it really likely a man like this wouldn’t have a wife—or at least, a woman?
“Not anymore.” His smile struck her as uncommonly fond.
“Do you still care about your ex-wife?”
“Sure I still care. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because, as you just said, you’re divorced.”
“That doesn’t automatically make her the villain of the piece. The marriage is what didn’t work, and it wouldn’t say much for my judgment if I chose an outright bitch to be my wife.”
“Are you still in touch with each other?”
“Occasionally. We call each other on birthdays and Christmas—things like that. She checks up on me to make sure I’m not hibernating too long at a stretch. I give