Watching from the corner of the doorway, she studied her unwanted trespasser with the hard-to-believe name. Were his parents high when they named him? Roman Bishop. Sheesh.
Her head shook, and she bit her lip at the same time because the arrogant name aside, the man was worth looking at. Why was that? Was it because of how he filled whatever space he occupied? Perhaps the way he moved? Whatever it was, she had a hard time ignoring him.
A tiny swirling nugget of anxiety pierced her center. It became increasingly hard to take in enough oxygen, and her legs tingled from the growing need to start running and not look back. Shifting side-to-side, foot-to-foot, she swallowed hard to keep her panic in check. Not being worldly didn’t have anything to do with a person’s intuition, and right now her gut was sending bullet messages in rapid-fire succession, none of them were in any way friendly.
Her eyes darted to the kitchen window. The snow was coming down faster now. At this rate, they’d be lucky if the foot and a half predicted didn’t turn out to be two feet plus.
Fantastic.
Wiggling the fingers on her sore hand, her mind took off like an athlete at the sound of the starting gun on a mad dash through the thousand problems being snowed in caused—all made more difficult because she’d been a clumsy fool and gotten hurt. Just now, tending to the animals had been difficult. It took her three attempts to grasp the bolt slider on the goat enclosure and push it closed.
The only saving grace was Matty being safe and sound with Sam and Ginny. Knowing how much the little boy liked hanging with them eased any worry. The couple, both entirely comfortable with the term ‘old hippies’, were surrogate grandparents to her and Matty. Hands down, no hesitation whatsoever, she trusted Ginny and counted on Sam. They’d been close to her mother; something Kelly suspected meant they knew a lot more about Debbie’s double life than she did. Knew things about Matty’s gene pool, and most likely hers too.
And he talked to them, which was a good thing because in another year he’d be in school, a luxury she’d never experienced, and then he’d have no choice but to talk. And join in. Be social. Make friends. Have peers. All the things absent from her hard-scrabble life. All the things she was working so hard on giving him.
A sound from the stove got her eyes swinging from the unwelcome winter wonderland swirling outside to find Roman Bishop awkwardly juggling a pot. She heard a sharp hiss and sincerely hoped he burned his damn fingers on the hot handle. He might be cultured and polished, but apparently the man knew shit about potholders.
When he finally managed to dump a stream of water into a mug sitting beside him on the counter, she exploded, choking out in strangled outrage, “What the hell are you doing?”
Gesturing at the cup filled with water his attitude suggested the answer was glaringly obvious. “You asked for tea,” he stated flatly.
Kelly felt her brow wrinkle from the sudden urge to tear into him for being a dimwitted kitchen klutz. But instead, she marched forward with a huff, grabbed the water-filled mug with her working hand and upended it into the dishpan of suds.
“Move,” she growled. All but shoving his stupid ass aside, she returned the pot to the stove and turned up the heat, giving him a double shot of side shade in the process.
“I’m sure where you come from there’s some fancy electric tea maker with a digital temperature option, but here we boil water the old fashioned way. In a pot.”
An unfortunate and clumsy whack of her already tender wrist against the edge of the counter sent a sharp zinging lance of pain straight to her neck and stole her breath.
She caught him narrowing his eyes and felt a warm tingle as he assessed her with a sweeping gaze. The way his lips thinned made him seem grim and a little dangerous.
Instantly straightening, she snapped to attention and challenged him with her eyes. He had another thing coming if he thought for one second she couldn’t take care of herself. Thank you very much. End of story. She didn’t need his damn help. Didn’t need anyone’s help.
Refusing to give him an opening, she hectored on with a dismissive brusqueness that was all an act.
“The operative word, Mr. Bishop, is boil. We boil the water.”
“But I did…boil the water,” he drawled with air quotes and a chuckle.
Her eyes narrowed, and she stared a hole through his thick skull. Was he stupid or just messing with her?
“Um, no,” she grated irritably. “To boil means bubbles roll on the surface. Did you see rolling bubbles?” When he didn’t answer right away, she stubbornly persisted. “I didn’t think so. A bit of steam and some bubbling snaps on the sides of the pot do not constitute a boil.”
“So what you’re saying is, the water should be molten lava hot. Not hot tub hot.”
“I have no idea what hot tub hot means,” she snapped, and then caught herself from launching into a high and mighty tirade when she realized he was teasing—trying to get a rise out of her.
She was raising a preschooler for heaven’s sake and had first-hand experience with falling for shit like this. He wanted to play dumb? Fine. She’d give him a lesson in tea basics to prove she had a practical point.
“Unless the water boils, what you’ll end up with is a cup of flavored water. Not tea. Tea leaves are delicate but to get the best from them, they require firm handling. Wishy washy makes for bland and boring.”
Something moved in his expression. The flash fire burning in his eyes singed her thoughts and made her tremble.
“Understood,” he half-growled. His voice was husky. The words deliberate. “You prefer strength to wishy-washy.”
“Because the tea is delicate,” she persisted in a nonsensical murmur, immediately regretting how lame she sounded.
“Yeah. Got it,” he replied.
The weird conversation had an undercurrent that she found confusing. And disturbing. Male-female interactions were not where she did her best work. The guys she knew from taking their money at Shorty’s didn’t count. Her rep as a pool shark gave her an act to hide behind. The fuzzy eight-ball hanging from Bandit’s rear view was a useful prop. Those unremarkable specimens of American manhood didn’t see her as a female. They regarded her as a competitor.
So what did that mean as far as how Roman Bishop looked at her?
Rubbing the back of her neck, she tried to ignore the big man sucking all the oxygen out of the small kitchen and set about making the tea. A proper cup of tea. Not whatever the hell he was making.
Reaching into a large ceramic canister adorned with tacky Italian motifs, she pulled out a bag by the tag and dangled it above the mug before draping the thin string over the side.
Angling slightly away from the big man’s watchful gaze, she picked up her supply of beverage sugar.
“What’s that?” he asked when she turned around holding the enormous glass jar of sugar rocks.
“Rock sugar. From the farmers’ market. It’s made from beets and molasses. Sweetens but doesn’t overpower. Want to try some?”
Carefully putting the breakable container safely on the counter, she motioned with her head for him to uncap the heavy jar and stood aside to give him room.
He laid the cap aside and leaned in for a sniff. “Reminds me of the rock candy we got at the state fair as kids.”
“Pop one of the nugs in your mouth and let it dissolve. Better than any candy you’ll ever buy.”
The pot of water started gently rolling, so she turned off the gas, lifted it with a potholder and deftly poured the steaming fluid into her mug without spilling a drop.
“That’s how we do… ” she murmured with a short, dismissive shrug. “Boiling water,” she drily emphasized, “and rock sugar. Cream when we have some.”
“Do you have a favorite tea?”
Scoffing at the absurd question she made a face to punctuate her reply. “Yeah. Whatever’s on the shelf at the dollar store.”
That certainly shut him up. Wearing a sheepish expression, he backed away so she could maneuver around the small space. When she finished and was satisfied, he grumpily took the steaming mug and moved it onto the kitchen table.
“Sit before you fall down.”
With pursed lips she reacted slowly, moving hesitantly to the chair he politely pulled out, annoyed as shit that she was secretly relieved he recognized how close to the edge she was.
“Thank you.” A waving arm and harsh gasp followed the perfunctory words as she painfully fell into the chair. She was exhausted.
“Easy does it, Carina. You’ve got nothing to prove.”
His last words were murmured close by her head when he leaned over to push the mug closer to her hand. A sharp, biting put-down clung to the tip of her tongue, but she said nothing.
In the seat across from her, he took up all the space. The effect of his brawny, solid presence filling her field of vision gave her the willies. Feeling small next to his overwhelming superiority rattled her cage.
“What does that mean?” she asked. “Carina? Is it a name?”
His slow smile made her tummy flutter. “Some of the guys I knew in the military will tell you it essentially means I’m fucked.”
Her brows bumped together. Sipping the tea, she studied his face. What the hell did that mean?
“But in this instance I believe my intention was observational rather than biographical. Carina. It’s Italian. My grandfather loved the word. In the lexicon of my family, it means sweet and pretty. Cute with a nod to size.”
She almost aspirated the hot tea, slammed the mug on the wood table and reflexively started spouting. “Are you calling me dinky? ‘Cause let me tell you something buster, five feet almost five is enough to kick your six one any day.”
“Two,” he smirked with a chuckle. “Six two. Two and a half if you want to split hairs.”
That was the moment all the oomph left her. She wasn’t sure which was worse; the rifle she’d been forced to abandon after sliding off the ice and snow covered path or dropping like a stone in front of a moving vehicle.
She inwardly groused. The specifics didn’t matter. What did was the unavoidable fact that she was banged up and out of her comfort zone, plus a total stranger was treating her like a little girl.
Dammit. If her lip started to wobble, that would be it. Hoping that a biting retort would restore her equilibrium, she gave him a snark-filled glare and said, “Only an idiot would compare being short to having a sweet disposition. And you don’t come off as an idiot Mr. Bishop.”
He laughed. “And you, Carina, do not have a sweet disposition.”
She sputtered and made about a dozen different faces, then sat back slowly and regarded the amused stranger with a critical eye.
In a purely physical way, he reminded her of a football player. Big and strong. It was hard to tell from what he had on, but she was sure the beefy arms were hard muscle.
His face had a rugged quality softened somewhat by an air of sophistication that didn’t merge believably with his just-another-guy act. There was a hint of mystery and intrigue about him that she found hard to ignore.
It was his eyes though that made her the most nervous—almost twitchy. Dark grey-green in color, she was sure from time to time she saw flecks of gold. They were extraordinary. Like him.
The conservative haircut and square jaw chiseled from granite covered by a week or more of beard gave him a commanding look. She stared at his neck, saw the movement of his Adam’s apple when he swallowed, and hastily glanced away.
When he spoke next, his tone was almost tender, and she had to wonder if the bone he threw her was because he knew she was at her limit.
“Drink your tea, and I’ll answer your question about who I work for.”
Her heart was pounding as the mug lifted to her mouth. She supposed her hand was trembling when she noticed the hot liquid splashing against the sides. That first sip was always her favorite. She drank coffee for fuel. Her tea time, though, represented something else. To her, the entire ritual offered a renewal in every cup. A chance to be who she was—not who circumstance forced her to be.
Fortune cookie babble? Yeah, probably.
The sweetened warmth slid into her throat and spread throughout her body. Without thinking, she yanked the elastic from her hair and shook the messy mane sending the long dark strands dancing around her shoulders. She needed the protective shield.
Her eyes met his. The same expression when she caught him checking out her ass matched the one he wore now, only with a bit more surprise on display. She bit her lip and silently willed her nerves to settle. Then she waited to see what he brought.
“Without a hint of patronization,” he began with a determined expression, “You really can trust me. I’m not here to cause you any harm, Kelly.”
The battle of restraint raging inside her made appearing impassive a challenge, but she hung on and stayed a blank slate.
“I work for somebody who,” he hesitated just a fraction, “knew of your mother’s unusual…situation.”
Well, that was saying a lot of nothing.
“Mmm hmm,” she growled. “This no-name somebody that knew of my mother’s sit-u-ation? How is it this know it all wasn’t aware that she’s dead? Hmm?”
He grunted and sat back in his chair, holding her eyes with his.
“He lost track of her.”
She gave him nothing. Nope. He was being a dick with his one-sentence non-answers. He could pound sand. The funny thing was, he didn’t seem to know what to do with her silence. Dammit. Biting down on her tongue wasn’t enough to keep a smug grin from tugging on her mouth.
He might be all big and bad physically, but fancy pants didn’t know shit and was totally off his game when someone else was in control.
Ahahahahahaaaaa!
All of a sudden he grabbed at the back of his neck and laughed. “Jesus Carina. Do you play poker ‘cause with that blank shit eating stare you’d clean the fuck up.”
A deflection with humor. Nice try, buddy. She calmly volleyed back.
“When they tell our tale in song, I’ll be Poker Face, and you’ll be Teflon.” She delivered this wisecrack with a straight face and a dry tone. He got her message and snickered.
Relaxing in his chair, a leg extended to the side, he dropped a hand onto the table. Tapping his fingers, he cocked his head and looked at her. “One of my dubious learned skills is interrogation.” He shrugged like the insider information was no big deal, but she suspected this particular bread crumb led somewhere dark and probably dangerous.
“But nothing I learned prepared me for attempting an information transaction with a stubborn female. You seem to have a superpower.”
“Information transaction?” Okay. The laugh wouldn’t stay quiet. Did he have any idea whatsoever how absurd he sounded?
He reacted warmly to the crack in her reserve. “Hey.” His scoff was real and charming as all get out. “Don’t be hatin’. There are whole rooms of smarty pants people who sit around and think this shit up. Operation Cobra Strike? Operation Dragon Hammer? Huh? That crap doesn’t happen by itself.”
Charming as this break in tension was, she had enough on her plate at the moment.
“Mr. Bishop. I’m tired. My arm is killing me. I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’ve got to get ready for tomorrow. All that snow doesn’t signal a day off. And since you’ll be leaving in the morning…” her face emphasized the point she was making. “I suggest you get some sleep. You’ll be glad when you’re digging your way out.”
She stood up and marched to the sofa. “You can sleep here. I’ll get some blankets. Keep an eye on the fire, please. I’m kind of surprised there’s still power, but luck might not be on my side.”
He stalked after her and boxed her in with surprising ease. The impulse to shove him away almost got the better of her when he asked a direct question.
“Aren’t you even a little bit curious, Carina?”
Was she? No. No, she wasn’t. The past can’t be changed, and the future belonged to those who take the challenge. There wasn’t a single thing this man or anyone could say that would change one simple fact. All she and Matty had was each other and a secret stash of cash courtesy of their dysfunctional mom. They were a team. A damn good one.
Whatever or whoever Roman Bishop represented meant nothing to her. Not really.
“Nope. Can’t say that I am. Sorry fancy man but your trip to the woods is wasted time. Matty and I aren’t interested.”
She marched away with a dismissive wave and nearly stumbled onto her face when she heard him quietly ask, “Even if there’s a real good chance you could end up a very wealthy woman?”
What the fuck?
She turned slowly and glared at him.
What. The. FUCK. Oh my god was he ever barking up the wrong tree.
“Mr. Bishop. Let me make myself perfectly clear. I want you and the foul stench you brought off my property at daybreak. You are not welcome here, and no amount of money will change that.”
“Kelly…”
“No,” she snapped. “I’m not my mother. You can’t buy me. Go away.”
She was down the hallway and slamming her door with a vengeance before he could speak. Let him figure out the blanket situation. She didn’t care.
Filled with a blind rage, she pressed a fist against her mouth to stifle the angry, wounded bellow building in her core.
This was about her father, wasn’t it? Hers and Matty’s. Had to be. Nothing could infuriate her more. Dangling dollars as if she was a trained animal or a pet up for sale made her physically sick. Being ignored and denied for almost twenty-four years had a way of fucking with a person’s head. So did the fact that the miserable piece of garbage who worked Roman Bishop’s strings was who destroyed her mother’s life.
She already viewed the bonus cash her mom squirreled away as a form of hush money. That was bad enough, but to suggest she’d be susceptible to the suggestion of more? Who were these people that they held such a dim view of others?
Pacing back and forth between the fireplace and the end of the hallway to her bedroom, Roman logged a solid mile while his mind worked overtime.
Kelly Anne James was an uncommon female, that was for damn sure. Feisty, ferociously independent, and possessing more complicated and complex layers than a double batch of his much-loved baklava, she didn’t just meet him head on. He’d never seen anyone be quite so consistently in-your-face. In a lot of ways, she called the shots from the second they met. It put him in an unusual position and made him question if he relinquished control or if she just took it.
What was he supposed to make of her immoveable dismissal? “Jesus,” he quietly groaned aloud. “What the hell had she been through to make her so hard?”
The answering silence chafed his nuts. Figuring her out wasn’t going to be easy. It should be. Considering who the fuck I am, he thought, this whole thing should have been a piece of cake.
He stopped pacing and stared down the short hallway. Despite the closed bedroom door, he sensed her presence. Her agitated presence.
Dammit. He wanted her.
Pinching the bridge of his nose on a long deep inhale he closed his eyes and commanded his usually well-mannered libido to settle down. Letting his feelings muddy the waters wasn’t helping.
Stepping away from the temptation of the hallway, he pushed down the urge to kick open her fucking door and force the issue. Now wasn’t the time to go cave man.
Kelly Anne James was at the top of the hands-off list.
“Think, ya’ dumb shit,” he muttered.
He’d made a mess of everything. Instead of playing it cool and laying believable groundwork, he jumped in right away. The hair-brained decision to venture into the hills while a snowstorm loomed wasn’t his best move. Add to that the fact that they had the compatibility of oil and water. Or maybe thunder and lightning. He wasn’t sure, but one of those was probably accurate.
And it wasn’t helping his frame of mind that a twenty-something little girl had him entertaining a whole host of salacious possibilities—the kind that would definitely float his boat but most likely send a youngling like Kelly straight to the exit.
He needed to get his shit together.
A hard glance around the small room brought the flat screen television into clear focus. Earlier, he’d thought it looked out of place.
“Fuck,” he muttered. The first clue had been there from the start, but he was too distracted by other things.
His eyes darted around the every inch of the cluttered interior. The lighthouse picture above the fireplace wasn’t anywhere near as old as everything else. Walking right up to the painted canvas he inspected the bottom corners until he found what he was looking for.
“K-A-J.” Hmph. Kelly Anne James?
Nothing else looked like it came from this century. The furniture was old. A quilt tossed across the back of the sofa was something from another era. Only the painting and the surprising TV were anywhere near new.
He walked into the kitchen. No microwave. Really? How had he not noticed that right away? An old school toaster sat on the counter. Besides that one small appliance, there were no kitchen toys anywhere in sight. Three bins sat side by side along the wall between the kitchen and the table. One held cans and bottles. Another was full of paper. The third was for trash.
Not a single paper towel or box of tissues was evident. The stack of cloth napkins on the table, all the kitchen towels looked like they’d seen better days.
He peered into every cabinet and checked out the pantry. The dishes and equipment screamed 80’s yard sale, and the food supply consisted of generic items, and a lot of home jarred things.
How the hell did someone who more or less existed off the grid and didn’t waste money on throw away items have a satellite dish and a flat screen?
Things weren’t adding up. His gaze swung to the painting once more.
For reassurance, he stuck his head in the mudroom where a washer and dryer were tucked into a corner and found what he expected. Older model appliances with a pair of pliers next to a missing control knob.
Marching quietly into the hallway he stopped in the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind him. Pink and black tiles from the 1950s livened up the tiny room. The polka dot shower curtain seemed new, but everything else down to the products on the tub ledge left a dollar store impression.
Making use of the immaculate porcelain, he relieved himself and was washing his hands at the sink when a battle broke out in his head.
Don’t be a wuss. It’s your job to check out everything. That was the rational, highly trained snotbag at the center of his personality weighing in.
He frowned at his reflection in the mirror.
Don’t do it, man, a different side to his conscience warned. Haven’t you trampled on her privacy enough?
He grimaced at the reflection mouthing “Fuck,” and then opened the medicine cabinet behind the mirror.
First aid supplies caught his eye first. He grunted when he saw the little box of powder ampules for pouring on an open wound to stop bleeding. That shit stung and burned like a motherfucker, something he found out first hand on many occasions during his war zone days. It bothered the hell out of him to see it in her supplies.
There wasn’t a single prescription, although he did find a small brown envelope with two capsules inside and a ripped sticker on the back. Antibiotics. The kind they handed out at the free clinics.
The toothbrush holder held two. One adult and one child sized.
Also missing from this non-treasure trove of clues was anything male. No razors, shaving cream, deodorant. Nothing. There also wasn’t evidence of contraception. No pill pack, diaphragm container, or condoms.
The weird satisfaction he felt did not sit well. He had to wonder what his reaction might have been if he found lube and a butt plug. Jesus. He was losing it.
Switching off the overhead, he peeked into the hallway. Her door remained shut, but a light was evident around the edges. Practically tip-toeing like a cartoon character up to no good, he carefully opened the second bedroom door and slid into the room.
Using his cellphone flashlight, he swept the room and smiled. Posters and pictures taken from magazines covered the walls—mostly of dinosaurs with the occasional appearance of Mickey Mouse.
The bedspread was somewhat new. Prehistoric scenery of course. On the bedside stand was a framed picture. He leaned close for a better look. It was Kelly with a happy kid hoisted on her shoulders. They both wore big smiles. He wondered where they were and who took the picture.
A book on the end of the bed caught his eye. Sammy and the Dinosaurs. A pleasant warmth spread slowly in his chest. He bet she read to the kid every night.
Creeping silently from the room, he eyed her closed door one more time and returned to the living room. Crouched at the fire, he stirred the embers and added two hefty logs. Brushing ash off the hearth, he adjusted the safety screen and sat back on his heels.
What had he learned so far? Her truck was older than he was. For a woman with no discernible income except the meager amount her booth at the farmers’ market brought, she managed a satellite dish and a TV. The result of her pool sharking efforts? He doubted it. The painting pointed to a creative streak.
The kid was still a mystery, but nothing he’d seen so far indicated their situation was anything more than a young mother pulling a single parent gig. Hell. These days that sort of thing wasn’t even unusual.
She was definitely Liam’s blood sister. The eyes weren’t an accidental coincidence.
He pulled out his phone one more time and silently begged the gods of technology to grant him a little signal. Talking to Liam was imperative. He’d make him see that being overly cautious wasn’t what this situation needed. The sooner they brought her up to speed and got her and the kid under the protective wing he and Liam offered, the better.
Still no signal.
Balls.
As if on cue, the tiny house vibrated from the loud, jangling ring of a wall phone. His mouth dropped open. When was the last time he heard the ringing of a land line?
On the second ring, her door flung open with a loud bang, followed by the muffled sound of her feet pounding down the hallway. She blew past him where he stood and completely ignored his presence as she rushed to grab the phone.
“Matty?”
Her happy laugh when the person on the other end spoke made the hair on his neck stand up. The sound was joyous and authentic. He wanted to make her laugh like that. Wanted to lose himself in the sound of her happiness.
“Why aren’t you in bed, young man?” she scolded playfully. “Oh no you didn’t,” she giggled a minute later. “Yep, yep. Two quail!”
Roman’s head shook without him being aware that’s what he was doing. My god, he thought. What little kid cares about a hunting tally?
His head filled with visions of introducing Kelly to the joys of a shopping trek through Whole Foods. He thought of the oversized box of PG Tips tea leaves in his cupboard that Rhiann brought back from London and mentally wished for a chance to shower her with every awesome tea blend from around the world.
She kept her back to him through the conversation, but that didn’t stop him from admiring the view.
She’d taken off her boots and was parading around in a pair of thick pink socks. The jeans were the same, but she’d ditched the hoodie. A thin white t-shirt, neatly tucked into the waistband, clung to her torso. He traced the outline of her bra with his eyes and willed her to turn around.
So far he’d seen her bundled up in a snowstorm and hidden inside a large sweatshirt. He longed to know if her breasts were the handful he suspected.
When she bent over at the waist to fish something out of the cabinet beneath the sink, he had to count back from one hundred. The sight of the worn jeans molding to her body like a second skin got him hard in seconds. It wasn’t difficult to imagine her face pressed into a mattress as she offered herself to him with a beautiful arch in her back.
She chattered on and continued ignoring him. “I love you too. Don’t forget to be grateful, okay? Grateful prayers before bed. That’s the rule.”
He moved in closer. In bare feet, she fit him perfectly. Small and curvy in all the right places.
Did untamed have a smell? Being close enough to pick up her scent, he inhaled and let it fill his senses. The simplicity of soap and toothpaste was more pleasing than a thousand dollar fragrance. She was a combination of the natural world and something else.
She was fresh and wild and…shit. When she suddenly whirled around and found him practically on top of her, she reacted like a cornered animal. Swatting at the center of his chest, she shoved hard and growled, “Back off!”
No. He had no intention of backing off, but he did give her space.
Returning her heated glare, he made a series of rash decisions. She could fight him all she wanted but he was taking her away from this place, and none of her snarling or shin-kicking would make any difference.
That part was for Liam.
The rest was all him because he’d never been surer of anything in his entire life than he was about this female being his for the taking. Knowing it was wrong didn’t faze him in the least. He’d deal with Liam man-to-man. The person who was going to object the loudest and be the biggest headache wasn’t Liam. Or Rhiann. It was Kelly herself.
Roman felt the satisfied smile before it moved on his face.
Let the game begin.
“Who’re you talking to, Kik? Is someone there?”
She gathered every ounce of bad attitude she had and pinned fancy man to an imaginary wall with her eyes. Growling at him when he jumped her from behind had been a stupid move because now Matty would play detective.
Aw, come on. Can nothing ever be easy?
When her trespassing tormentor smiled at her like she was a twenty-ounce steak in an eating contest, she had difficulty swallowing and even more trouble answering.
Before she got a squeak out, Ginny grabbed the phone and said, “Say goodnight.” She could hear her directing Sam to take Matty to the bathroom to brush his teeth.
It only took a handful of heartbeats for Ginny to jump down her throat. “What’s going on Kelly? Is someone there? Are you okay?”
The near panic in the woman’s voice made her nervous. It was so unlike her.
“I’m fine,” she assured Ginny with a pointed smirk at the man staring a hole through her. “A, uh, guy from town got stranded by the snow. No need to worry.”
“What guy? Stranded where? Should I call for Sam?”
“No, oh my goodness, Ginny. Relax. It’s fine. Really.”
A worried friend. The plot thickens. “Tell your friend Jimmy can vouch for me.”
Kelly flipped Roman the bird but grabbed onto the life vest and repeated his words for Ginny’s reassurance.
“He’s a friend of Jimmy’s. I found him lost in the snow when I came down from the peak. It’s not a big deal. I’m all right.”
“Let me talk to her,” he drawled.
She swatted his hand away when he reached for the phone.
“It’s the man from the other night, isn’t it? Put him on the phone Kelly.”
Was this a joke? How the hell did she end up stuck in the middle? Ginny’s terse confrontational tone and Roman’s droll approach put her on the defensive with both people.
Covering her mouth and the receiver with one hand, she turned away and murmured, “He knows something about Debbie.” She heard Ginny’s gasp and quickly added, “But he doesn’t know everything.”
Roman snapped his fingers and gestured for the phone. She handed it over and crossed her arms. He was crazy if he imagined she intended to back off.
Speaking with grave authority, he announced into the phone, “My name is Roman Bishop. Who am I speaking with?”
She groaned. Good god. He sounded like he’d never been anything but in complete charge.
She watched him listen to what Ginny said. His expression never changed. Finally, he responded, “Miss James is completely safe in my care Mrs. Martin.”
He went silent again, and she was sure the ruddy hue on his cheeks was the suggestion of a blush.
“Yes, I do and it’s not what you think. He’s not a threat. Clearly we need to talk.” He didn’t say much after that except for the occasional one-word response. When he handed the phone back to her, she noticed right away that something in his attitude had changed.
“Ginny,” she murmured into the phone. “What’s going on?”
The other woman’s long sigh sounded like a harbinger of things she wanted no part of.
“There are things you need to know, Kelly.”
“About Deb?”
“Yeah. And um, your uh, father.”
“Oh Jesus,” she spat. “Please say you’re joking. Please.”
Ginny sounded on the verge of tears. “I wish I could, hon. You know,” she said cautiously, “me and Sam always knew this day would come. Too many secrets and lies. Your mom was a complicated mess. It was inevitable that one day everything would catch up.”
“What’s everything, Ginny? What else is there?”
“Sweetie,” Ginny wailed. “I’m so sorry to do this on the phone, but you need to know. This Roman Bishop? I don’t know who he is but he knows about your father, and Kelly, there’s another.”
“Another what?”
“Another brother. He’s also illegitimate.”
The world started to spin in front of her eyes. This wasn’t happening. Couldn’t be happening.
“Honey,” Ginny murmured. “Your mom knew, and despite all her crazy thinking, she left you a clue. So you’d know for sure if ever a time came when the whole story came out.”
“Oh god,” she murmured. “What?”
“Your older brother? His name is Liam.”
Matty’s homemade birth certificate exploded in her brain. So did the memory of their mother laboring over the hand-lettered document announcing the February birth of Matthew Liam James.
The phone slid from her hand as the kitchen faded to black and she dropped to the floor like a rock.