Untameable. Diana Palmer
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fastened him into the backseat and got in behind the steering wheel. Of all the things about modern life that she disliked, this was her pet peeve. A child should sit beside its parent, not isolated in the backseat. Yes, air bags saved lives and they were dangerous and could kill a small child. But when she had been small, Joceline had ridden in the front seat of her father’s pickup truck, strapped in like a miniature adult, happy and laughing. Someone should figure out a child seat that could withstand the air bags going off, and allow kids to be closer to their parents.
She sighed as she pulled out into traffic. Her boss was going to be all right. He was going to be all right. She had to believe that, to save her own sanity. Markie would be all right, too. Rourke would watch out for him. She didn’t have to like Rourke to know that he was good at his job—whatever it was, when he wasn’t doing favors for Kilraven. She started looking around to see if she could recognize the one-eyed lunatic in any passing cars.
“Mommy, are you looking for somebody?” Markie asked curiously.
She cleared her throat. “I’m just checking traffic, that’s all.”
“Isn’t your boss named Mr. Blackhawk? Somebody said he was shot. Is he dead?”
“No! He’s just wounded and in the hospital. He’s not dead,” she said at once.
“I’m glad. We played video games with him that night. I like him.”
She smiled sadly. “I like him, too.”
“Could we go and see him?” he asked.
Joceline, surprised, just stammered. “There’s an age limit, Markie,” she foundered. Well, there used to be. She wasn’t sure of modern hospital policy. It had been several years since she herself had been in one, when she’d had Markie.
“You mean I can’t see him?”
“Yes. That’s what I mean. His mother is with him.”
“Oh, that’s okay, then.”
Joceline had other thoughts about that, but she didn’t share them. “How about an ice-cream cone?” she asked.
“Wow! Could we?”
“Yes.” It was the little things, she considered, that made life bearable. Even the hard times were smoothed over by something simple and comforting.
She stopped at an ice-cream parlor and ordered two cones, strawberry for herself and butter pecan for Markie. She handed his to him with a smile.
He licked it and laughed up at her with sparkling eyes. He was going to be handsome when he was older, she thought. She thanked God every day that he looked more like her than his father.
When they got home, just after dark, the front door was standing open.
“Stay here,” Joceline told Markie firmly.
“What is it, Mommy?”
She didn’t answer. She went to a point where she could see the front door. Nothing was visible inside it. She knew better than to walk into the apartment. Someone had broken in. Someone who might still be in there, might be armed, might want to kill Joceline and Markie just for their closeness to Jon Blackhawk …!
“Well!” came a deeply accented voice from inside the apartment. “It’s a good thing you didn’t come home sooner.”
And Rourke appeared in the doorway, big and handsome and smiling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“ROURKE!” JOCELINE EXCLAIMED. “You idiot! You scared me to death!”
He strode down the steps, his hands in his pockets, whistling. He was tall and lean and muscular, with long blond hair in a ponytail down his back. He had one light brown eye. The other was hidden under a rakish black eye patch. “Now, darlin’, if I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d have had a very bad shock when you opened that front door. Hi, little feller. How are you?” he asked the small boy in the backseat in a very pronounced South African accent.
“I’m good,” Markie said. “Who are you?”
“Rourke,” was the amused reply.
“You only got one eye.”
“I noticed,” Rourke told him, not taking offense.
“I’m sorry.”
The man looked at the boy with a visible softening. “Nice of you to say that.”
“Did some mean man hurt you?”
“You might say that,” Rourke replied.
“I like your eye patch. You could be a pirate on Halloween.”
Rourke burst out laughing. “You know, I’ve been called a pirate a time or two.” He looked pointedly at Joceline.
“Why are you here, and what’s wrong with the apartment?” she asked worriedly.
“Nothing major. Step over here a bit.” He smiled reassuringly at Markie. But when he turned back to Joceline, his hard face was solemn. “Someone had a go at your desk. At a guess, they were looking for something. Any idea what?”
Her heart stopped. She had no important papers, nothing that would interest an outsider. There was only the usual things, bank deposit records, tax information, Markie’s birth certificate and her own, nothing … nothing … There was her diary!
She brushed past Rourke and ran into the apartment in a panic. She kept the diary in her bedside table, but it was under a mass of other objects, like paperbacks and a pad and pen, over-the-counter analgesics, booklets and instructions for electronic things like her clock. She fumbled in the drawer, horrified at some of the things she’d written down. It had never occurred to her than anyone would rob her!
She pulled out books, scattering them, scared to death. But then, there it was, at the bottom of the drawer, its small lock intact. It hadn’t been opened. She clutched it to her breast and shivered with reaction.
“Something damaging in there, I presume?” Rourke asked gently.
She looked at him with sick fear. “People write things that they never should.”
He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”
She drew in a harsh breath. “I’d better burn it, I think.”
“Put it in the bank, in a safe-deposit box,” he suggested.
She stared at him. “Along with my diamond collection and my gold bars.”
He laughed.
“Listen, I can barely pay the rent. There’s no money for extras. It’s better to destroy it. No good could come of keeping it, anyway.”
“Keeping what, Mommy?” Markie asked as he joined them. Rourke had brought him inside the minute Joceline vanished into the apartment.
She grimaced at her lack of instinct, leaving Markie alone in the car.
“It’s all right, I’ve got your back,” Rourke assured her with a smile.
“It’s just a diary, Markie,” Joceline told him. “I wanted to make sure I knew where it was, that’s all.”
“Can I read it?”
She swallowed. “When you’re older.” “Okay.”
Rourke was watching her through a narrowed pale brown eye. Something in that diary was enough to make her panic. He wondered what it was.
THE REST of the apartment was seemingly untouched, at first glance. Joceline was nervous. Someone had touched her things, invaded her privacy. She felt violated. Now she wondered if she needed new locks.
“Yes, you do,” Rourke said when she mentioned it. “I’ll install dead bolts tomorrow.