Her Baby's Father. Rebecca York
Читать онлайн книгу.
reached for her, pulling her into his arms, feeling her tremble.
She whispered his name in a way that made it sound like they’d had a whole lot more shared experiences than just what had happened today.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I am now. I was so scared.”
“But you didn’t lose your cool.”
She nodded against his shoulder, clinging to him, wrapping her arms around his back and pressing close.
Holding her in his embrace was wonderful. And he had the odd feeling that it wasn’t for the first time. There was a familiarity about her that sent a wave of contentment—and longing—through him. He wanted her, even when he knew that letting her get close to him could lead to disappointment.
He stopped worrying about that as he hugged her to him. He’d wanted to feel her body against his all evening. He hadn’t thought he’d get an excuse so quickly, although this wasn’t the kind of reason he’d have elected, if he’d had a choice.
He slid his hands up and down her back, wishing he could do more. He wanted to kiss her. More than kiss. He wanted her in a bed. Which astonished him. She’d see the scars on his body. The scars that reminded him of the worst day of his life. The scars that had shocked another woman.
But he couldn’t do the things he craved now. Not out here on the street. Not with the restaurant owner looking at them and the cops on the way.
She must have understood that, too, because she eased away from him, her gaze going to his.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” she said.
“Same here.”
“The gun was pointed at you.”
“You put yourself in danger.”
“I was terrified for you. I just acted instinctively.”
Patrick cleared his throat. “Both of you just had a pretty nasty experience. Come inside and sit down.”
“Yes. Thanks,” Sara answered.
She followed the restaurant owner into the building, where chairs were now upside down on the tabletops. Quickly Patrick reached for the closest group and pulled four of them down.
His wife came out of the kitchen, looking concerned when she saw two of their diners had returned, both appearing somewhat the worse for wear.
“What happened?”
“Attempted robbery,” her husband said.
“You poor things,” she sympathized. “I’m Laura Walsh,” she said to Jack.
“Jack Morgan.” He looked from her to her husband. “Has there been a lot of crime down here?”
“Not a lot. But it happens from time to time. I’m so sorry you got into trouble right outside the restaurant.”
“Not your fault,” Jack answered.
“Can I get you some brandy?” Patrick asked.
“Yes. Thanks,” Jack answered.
Patrick stepped behind the bar and poured two glasses of Azteca de Oro and brought them over.
Jack took a sip. “Good stuff.”
“My best.”
Sara also took a small swallow. “Yes, this is good.”
“How are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Better. Thanks.”
The casual conversation stopped when the door opened and a uniformed officer stepped inside. He was young and fit, and had that confidence a uniform gave you until something bad happened. Jack knew all about that from his time in Afghanistan. He’d gone over there thinking the U.S. Army could whip the asses of the Taliban. He’d found out they didn’t give in easily. And they had no problems with fighting dirty.
“You called in an attempted robbery?” asked the officer, whose name tag said Robards.
“Yes,” the restaurant owner answered.
“We were the ones he assaulted,” Jack said, gesturing toward Sara and himself. “We’d just finished dinner and stepped outside.”
Robards looked at Sara. “You’re the woman who stages the houses, right?”
“How do you know?”
“My wife has taken me to a couple of showings. I saw you at one of them.”
Sara nodded. “I was working on a job all day. Jack and I came down here for some dinner—and to unwind.”
Jack laughed. “It didn’t turn out quite the way we expected.”
“It did until a few minutes ago,” she answered, her gaze searching his.
“Yes.”
Again, he forgot that they weren’t alone, until the police officer said, “Let me get some basic information.”
He took their names, phone numbers, addresses and email addresses. “Can you tell me what happened?”
Jack gave an account of the incident.
When he finished, Robards looked at Sara. “You were taking a chance with that purse stunt. He could have shot you.”
“I guess that’s right.” She shifted in her seat. “I just reacted when I saw the gun pointed at Jack.” Even though she told the cop the same thing she’d told Jack earlier, there was something about her expression that gave him an odd feeling, as though she were holding information back.
“What did the man look like?” the cop asked.
Jack raised one shoulder. “There wasn’t anything remarkable about him. He was medium height. His hair was thinning. But mostly I saw the gun.”
“What kind of gun?”
“An automatic.” Jack looked at Sara. “You kicked it under the car. Maybe it’s still there.”
“Show me where,” Robards said.
They all got up and went outside. Sara pointed to the spot where the weapon had disappeared. It was lying against the curb, and the officer was able to retrieve it and put it into an evidence bag.
“Good,” he said. “Anything else you can add to his description?”
She nodded. “Like Jack said, he was medium height. Thinning hair. A high forehead. A wide mouth. One of his front teeth was a little crooked.”
“You noticed that?” Jack asked.
“I was thinking he ought to get it fixed.”
“Anything else?” Robards asked.
“Bad skin. Well, you know, teenage acne scars.”
“Yeah,” Jack chimed in. “I forgot to mention that.”
Sara spoke again. “He was wearing dark slacks. A dark, long-sleeved knit shirt. His shoes were dark. I guess he was hoping to make himself inconspicuous.”
“Did you see his eye color?” the cop asked.
“They were light,” Sara said. “I don’t know exactly what color.” She thought for a moment. “Except for the scars, his skin was very pale. I don’t think he goes out much. And, uh, he didn’t sound like he was from around here. More like a New York accent.”
“He didn’t say much,” Jack answered.
“I know. Just an impression I had.”
“Had either of you seen him before?” Robards asked.
“No,” Jack answered.
Sara