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Come to Me
Linda Winstead Jones


Of all the offices in all the world… Why did Lizzie Porter have to waltz into his? Wary loner Sam Travers always had a soft spot for Lizzie – and now she’s grown up, with the curves to prove it. But to move on his old partner’s daughter would be oh-so-wrong… Except that Lizzie won’t take no for an answer. She’s discovered that she might have a half-sister. And she’s not going to let anyone stop her on her search – even Sam!The plot thickens when someone takes a shot at Lizzie and Sam volunteers to move in with her – just to protect her, of course. And, as they puzzle out the truth, he wonders just when he’ll dare move out…










“I’m supposed to be seducing you.”

“You’ve been seducing me all night,” he said, leading her into the living room, slipping her purse off her shoulder and deftly tossing it aside.

“That dress, the way you smile, the curve of your neck, the way you plucked at your skirt in the car as we got closer to the house… all seduction.”

“I had no idea those little things could be considered seduction,” Lizzie said, and her mouth went dry.

Sam sighed. “Neither did I.” He sat on the couch and pulled her onto his lap. She did not land gracefully, but lost her balance at the last second and landed pretty hard. He caught her, held her, guided her into a leaning position and began to kiss her throat. One hand slid slowly up her thigh, just barely slipping under her skirt and then stopping. Now, this was seduction.








Dear Reader,

You hear it all the time. “Write what you know.” Well, I’ve never been a private investigator, never owned a taser, never had a nutcase come after me. But years ago I did paint my living room a lovely color—Blush—that my entire family (all male, I should point out) insisted was pink. And when I painted a room or two Sahara Sand not so long ago, I heard the same accusation. Pink. (They were mistaken both times. Sorta.) So when Lizzie started painting Sam’s office, that’s where I called on what I know.

And Edgar’s Bakery in Birmingham really does make the best strawberry cupcakes ever.

I truly enjoy a reunion story, a love that lasts. And who doesn’t love a man who will do anything for a woman? Anything at all. Love of family is something I identify with very strongly. These are the things I drew on for this story. Paint, cupcakes, family, and love. Always love.

I hope you enjoy Sam and Lizzie’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Linda Winstead Jones














About the Author


LINDA WINSTEAD JONES is a bestselling author of more than fifty romance books in several subgenres—historical, fairy tale, paranormal and, of course, romantic suspense. She’s won a Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence twice. She is also a three-time RITA® Award finalist and (writing as Linda Fallon) winner of the 2004 RITA® Award for paranormal romance.

Linda lives in north Alabama with her husband of thirty-seven years. She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own website, www.lindawinsteadjones.com.








COME TO ME

LINDA WINSTEAD JONES
























www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)










For Kira Sinclair and Kimberly Lang. I’m so honoured and thrilled to be around to see you both succeed, and to celebrate your accomplishments. I know there will be many more.




Chapter 1


“You weren’t at the funeral,” Lizzie blurted. It was an awkward way to start a conversation with a man she hadn’t seen in nearly eight years, but she had a bad habit of saying whatever popped into her head. It was a trait that had gotten her into trouble more than once in her twenty-four years.

Sitting on the other side of a massive, polished walnut desk, Sam’s sharply featured face revealed no emotion as he said, “I was out of town and didn’t find out about your dad’s accident until days after the funeral. I’m so sorry. He was a good man and a good cop. Did you get the card?”

“Yes. Thanks for the thought.” The card had arrived nearly four months ago—a week after the funeral—and she’d almost thrown it out in a childish fit. Since Sam had been away, she supposed he could be forgiven for missing the funeral. It wasn’t as if she’d gone to any trouble to hunt him down and share the news. She’d been in shock, at the time.

In a completely perverse manner, Lizzie wished this man she’d once had a heart-wrenching teenage crush on had gotten bald or fat or horribly wrinkled in the years they’d been strangers. She wished she could write off her memory of him as the perfect specimen of a man as childish fiction. She wished she could laugh at her stubborn and unwanted habit of comparing every man she met to this one.

Instead, Sam Travers, once her father’s partner with the Birmingham police force and currently a successful private investigator, carried the years well. Too well. He was as perfectly handsome as she remembered. His dark hair, cut fairly short but gently mussed, was as thick as ever, and his eyes were even bluer than she remembered. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his now-thirty-two-year-old body, and the only wrinkles she could see were very faint lines around his fantastically blue eyes, lines that only made him more attractive. He wore a perfectly fitted suit these days, instead of the uniform or jeans and T-shirts she remembered, and she was dying to ask him how he’d gotten the small, almost invisible scar on his right cheek—but she didn’t.

Lizzie squirmed in her chair, uneasy and questioning her decision to be here. When planning her wardrobe for the day she’d purposely dressed down, determined not to make herself attractive for a man who didn’t deserve such efforts. Now she realized she should’ve gone to someone else. Sam looked a little harder than she remembered. He wouldn’t understand. This would never work!

The problem was she didn’t trust anyone else. Not with this.

“I have a sister,” she said, carefully placing the letters she’d found in her father’s papers on Sam’s desk and, after a brief pause, pushing them toward him with both hands. “Half sister, that is. I should say probably a half sister. If you read the letters, you’ll see there’s some question about that, though Dad seemed pretty sure. Her name is Jenna. According to these letters she’d be twelve years old now.”

Sam glanced at the short stack of envelopes but didn’t pick them up. “I’m sure finding out that you might have a half sister was a shock. What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Find her,” Lizzie said sharply, perturbed that Sam hadn’t figured out that part of it for himself. Some private investigator he was! The word from her father’s old cop buddies was that Sam was the best, a fixer of momentous problems, a man for whom no case was too difficult. He took on the toughest court assignments as well as private cases, and had built what had once been a one-man business into a well-respected agency.

“And?” he queried, tapping one long finger on the top letter in an annoying and strangely sensual rhythm.

Lizzie shook her head, annoyed—mostly with herself. “And what? Just find her!”

Sam’s face remained emotionless, as if he were totally unaffected by her outburst, but there was a hint of something in his eyes that might’ve been irritation. Sam and her father had been partners for almost three years, the new kid and the veteran striking up a deep friendship in spite of their age and lifestyle differences. There had been plenty of fishing trips and cookouts in those three years, birthday parties and football Saturdays. For those three years, Sam had almost been family. Lizzie remembered him being handsome and funny and one of the good guys. She remembered how he’d casually winked at her on occasion, the same way he probably winked at every other female who crossed his path. She didn’t remember him being so steely.

He leaned back in his chair as if relaxing, but the muscles in his body remained tense. He was not relaxed. “Odds are this little girl knows nothing about you or the question about her parentage. You might stir up a lot of dust that’s best left settled.”

She wasn’t an idiot; she’d thought of that. “For now, I only want to know where the girl is and that she’s okay. I was only eleven or so when Monica was around, but I remember her fairly well.” Lizzie instinctively wrinkled her nose. “Monica Yates was one of the unfortunate string of inappropriate girlfriends Dad experimented with after Mom left. From what I recall, she wasn’t exactly brilliant mother material, so it only makes sense to check on the girl. If Jenna is happy and well cared for and in a safe place, I won’t shatter her world.” How dare Sam not even consider that a girl who was most likely her father’s daughter by another woman might want a big sister!

Stoic and unshakable, Sam stared at her. Sadly, Lizzie’s girlish crush on Sam Travers had not entirely dissipated. He was hot, even now. He was the kind of man who could give a girl shivers just by walking past or glancing in her direction. Maybe she should’ve dressed better and put on some makeup, after all. If he so much as winked at her now she’d probably tremble and tingle in all the wrong places. There might even be drool involved. She might embarrass herself completely with a nervous giggle. Too bad his wife was such a bitch.

“I can afford you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lizzie said, digging her checkbook out of her oversize brown leather purse and slapping it on Sam’s desk. “I have a successful business, and Dad left me some money, so paying your fee is not a problem.”

Now Sam really looked annoyed. His lips thinned and his eyes grew cold. “I don’t want your money.”

“But…”

“I won’t take your money,” he said sharply, “not under any circumstances.”

At least it sounded as if he was considering taking her case. “Well, I won’t take charity, not even from you.”

He leaned forward and drummed his fingers against the desk. His lips thinned a bit more. Yep, he was definitely irritated. Irritated and macho and apparently accustomed to getting his way in all things.

“How about a trade?” Lizzie dropped her checkbook into the bowels of her purse. “You find Jenna for me, and I paint your office.” She glanced with undisguised disdain at the flat off-white walls.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want a mural of any kind on my walls.”

“That’s good, because I don’t paint murals.” Not anymore. Yes, there had been a time when she’d been into landscapes and bowls of fruit, and between the ages of twelve and fourteen she’d painted an insane number of fairies and woodland creatures and kittens. Lots of kittens. She’d painted an awful fairyland mural on her bedroom wall at one point. She shuddered at the memory.

As an adult she’d all too soon recognized that she was a competent but mediocre artist. Maybe she could eke out a living painting Elvis on velvet or kittens with big eyes, but she’d discovered that her real gift was in reviving dull, lifeless rooms. “I paint interiors.” She shifted her gaze to stare at the wall behind Sam, and she let her mind go, the way she did when she worked. A calmness settled over her. “These walls would look great in cinnamon taupe. I’d do the trim in heirloom lace, I think. Maybe California cream or Carolina beach beige.”

“You paint walls.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

Sam shook his head. “Fine, we have a deal. I’ll find this maybe half sister of yours, and you paint my office. But…” He grabbed the letters and drew them toward him as he leaned slightly forward. “If this child’s life is settled and she’s happy and safe, you steer clear.” He used a voice that was cool and demanding. It was the voice of a man who expected his every word to be law. “It wouldn’t be nice to drop a bomb like this on a kid.”

Lizzie didn’t argue that she didn’t think of herself as a bomb of any sort. If she argued, Sam might change his mind. “Deal.” She stood and offered her hand across the table in a businesslike manner. Sam stood and took it. His hand was warm and large and strong, and she liked the way it felt around hers. To keep from sighing in delight, or perhaps jumping across the desk for a kiss, she asked, “So, how’s that bubbleheaded wife of yours?”

Sam dropped Lizzie’s hand. “I’m divorced.”

“Oh,” she said, blushing prettily.

“Six years now.” And the marriage hadn’t been good for two years before they’d ended it formally.

“That’s…” Lizzie stammered, she pursed her lips, her hazel eyes cut to the side and she shook her chestnut hair, most of which was currently caught in a long, thick ponytail. The bangs and wayward strands which had fallen out of the ponytail danced softly. “Heaven help me, I can’t say I’m sorry. I can’t force the words from my lips.” Her voice was quick, as if the words tumbled out of their own volition. “I can’t even say ‘that’s too bad’ because it’s not. Dottie Ann was nowhere near good enough for you. Gorgeous, yes, and heaven knows she had the kind of body you guys make yourselves fools over, but she didn’t have half a brain and she was so incredibly selfish. Dottie Ann, what a ridiculous name for a woman who’s under eighty. Dad told me she got weird on you after the shooting, which I completely understand. No, no, I don’t understand her reaction. I don’t get it at all. I understand what happened when you shot that guy, that’s what I was trying to say. Dad said you were totally justified. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me you got divorced. Six years.” She took a moment, perhaps lost in a flash of mental math. “I had just moved to Mobile and started school, and I guess Dad thought I didn’t need to know.”

Sam felt the ice settle in his gut. No one mentioned the shooting. That was in the past. Nothing had ever been out of bounds for Lizzie, though, and apparently that hadn’t changed. Her father had been one of the few who’d stood by him in those dark days, even though their official partnership had ended. Sam hadn’t seen Lizzie at all during that time. She’d been sixteen; he’d been angry and took to drinking too much, for a while. It was no surprise Charlie hadn’t taken him home during those bad days. He was surprised Charlie had talked about the shooting with his daughter at all. He’d always been determined to protect his little girl. Even from Sam, apparently.

Was that why Charlie hadn’t told Lizzie about the divorce? No, it was probably much simpler than that. Two years after the shooting he and his old partner had grown apart. They’d been busy; their lives had taken them in different directions. Later on—just a few years ago—they’d reconnected, but things had never been the same.

“He was so mad about that,” Lizzie continued. “That she didn’t stick beside you like any decent wife would’ve. That’s only one strike against her, in my book. That first time y’all were at the house together, not long before you got married, she told me that maybe one day I would be passably pretty if I lost some weight and outgrew my awkwardness and the rest of my face caught up with my nose and I grew or purchased boobs. Who says that to a fourteen-year-old?”

The conversation was not a happy one; it had stirred up a lot of memories best left buried, and still Sam smiled. “Same old Lizzie, I see. You never did have a problem saying exactly what you think.”

She pursed her lips together, as if physically trying to restrain herself.

Amy Elizabeth Porter had grown up to be more than passably pretty. She’d lost a little baby fat, though in spite of Dottie Ann’s cruel words she hadn’t had a lot to spare. Her face had most definitely caught up with her nose, and the long limbs that had once been awkward were now elegant and sexy—even though she obviously didn’t dress to call attention to herself. The jeans she wore were a little bit baggy, and the dark green button-up blouse was at least two sizes too large. Still, Lizzie had a model’s bone structure and legs that went on and on. She’d grown into herself very nicely—even if she didn’t have what anyone would call a curvaceous figure.

She’d changed dramatically, but for the mouth, which looked fine—more than fine, to be honest—but still opened too often and too freely.

Dottie Ann had been an idiot to say those things to a child. Why hadn’t he seen what she was like before it was too late? Ah, yes, thinking with the little head. His wife had always had plenty to say about his partner’s young daughter. She’d picked up on the crush Sam had been oblivious to, and for some reason she’d been jealous of a shy, gawky kid. Maybe Dottie Ann had seen what Sam had not; that Lizzie would grow into the beauty before him, that even as a child the barely teenage girl had something Dottie Ann never would. Quality. Character. Heart.

“I’ll read the letters and start doing some research.” Maybe Lizzie was right to be concerned. After his wife had run away from home like a petulant teenager, leaving her husband and her eight-year-old daughter behind, Charlie hadn’t exactly been the best judge of women. His heart had been broken and he’d pretty much given up. Some of his girlfriends in those early single-father years would’ve given Dottie Ann a run for her money, and Monica Yates had been among the worst.

“When can I start painting?” Lizzie surveyed his office, mentally dissecting the room.

“This weekend,” he said. The office would be pretty much deserted, so he wouldn’t have to worry about subjecting his employees and clients to paint fumes. By then he’d have all the information Lizzie wanted. He’d hand over the info, she’d slap some paint on the walls, and they could part ways one more time.

She placed a huge and heavy purse on her shoulder, thanked him, and then turned to leave his office. Near the closed door she stopped and turned, pinning calculating eyes on him. Hell, she had Charlie’s eyes, and they saw too much. Always had. Did she see too much now?

“You’ll call me if you find anything before Saturday?”

“Yes. I have all your information.” Address, phone number, cell number.

She nodded. “If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll see you Saturday morning. Sevenish?”

“In the morning?”

She laughed, and it was nice. Lizzie had a real, unfettered, no-holds-barred laugh. “Yes, in the morning. Too early for you? You have big plans Friday night?”

“No plans,” he said. Though he did like to sleep in on the weekends, if he wasn’t working a case.

“Interesting,” she said, rocking back on her heels a bit. “Sam Travers with no plans for Friday night. My, my, how the world has changed.”

He ignored the bait. “Sevenish it is.”

Maybe if he hadn’t been so strangely intent on Lizzie, he would’ve realized sooner that something was wrong. In the outer office a voice was raised. A door slammed.

And then something crashed. Lizzie’s head snapped around.

Sam rushed to the door and instinctively placed Lizzie behind him. Raised voices in the front office joined yet another crashing, crackling noise. He reached for the semiautomatic he wore in a leather shoulder holster.

“A gun?” Lizzie sounded surprised. She shouldn’t have. Maybe his jacket was cut to hide the fact that he was armed, but she knew what he did for a living. He found people and uncovered secrets. Most people wanted their secrets to remain buried, and now and then they got upset when he dug them up.

“Stay here,” he ordered, but it was too late. He heard quick footsteps in the hallway, as well as his receptionist Marilyn’s crisp order for the man to stop. Sam looked down at Lizzie, hoping she minded better than she had as a child. “Get under the desk.”

“Are you joking?” she asked.

“I don’t joke.” He gave Lizzie a gentle shove that sent her reeling back, and with a sigh she obeyed his order and turned for the desk.

Sam opened the door, the gun in his hand down and casually concealed behind his thigh. He didn’t intend to use it; hadn’t actually shot at anyone for years. But there was no threat like a confidently wielded firearm. “What’s all the commotion?” he asked calmly, his eyes pinned on the man who was striding toward Sam’s office with a baseball bat clutched in one hand.

Jim Skinner, who’d tried to scam an insurance company after “falling” in a chain store in a new upscale shopping center, had not been happy with Sam’s photographs and testimony. You’d think a man who was pretending to be laid up with life-altering injuries would know better than to take his girlfriend out dancing, but some guys weren’t bright.

“You meddling son of a bitch,” Skinner mumbled.

Sam maintained a calm voice. “I was only doing my job, man. Take it easy.”

“Take it easy? How can you tell me to take it easy?”

He raised the baseball bat, and Sam made an easy, smooth move that revealed his weapon. At the sight of the sleek semiautomatic, Skinner went still. At least he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could take on an armed man with a bat. “Big man with a gun,” he said softly. “Not that I’m surprised, you lowlife. I’ll bet there are hundreds of people in Birmingham alone that want you dead. You sleep with that thing?”

“Yep.”

Frustrated, Skinner raised his bat and took aim at the hallway wall.

“Stop!”

Sam and Skinner both went still at the sound of Lizzie’s commanding voice.

He was going to kill her. Hadn’t he told her to hide under the desk? She was just like her father. If anything happened to her…

“Who are you?” Skinner asked, obviously annoyed. His eyes flitted from Sam to Lizzie and back again. “Is this your girlfriend?”

“Good heavens, no. I’m the painter,” Lizzie said. “If you put a hole in that wall I’m going to have to patch it, and trust me, that’s not a fun job. Have you ever tried to patch a big hole in the wall? Little holes are no big deal, a bit of putty and sanding and you’re good. But you can never really get a big hole to look right again, no matter what you do.”

“He ruined my life,” Skinner said, his focus on Lizzie. “If I’d gotten that money, my girl wouldn’t have left, and I could’ve paid all my bills and started over. No one would’ve been hurt. These big companies have all kinds of money, and I just wanted a little bit. They never would’ve missed it.”

Lizzie snorted. She was so close behind Sam he could feel her body heat; she all but pressed up against him, glancing around his body to speak to the intruder. He made sure she remained behind him, shielded as much as was possible, given the circumstances.

As usual, she spoke her mind. “If your girl left over money, then she didn’t love you and you’re well rid of her. You look like a healthy, intelligent guy, so I’m sure if you try hard enough you can find a legal way to pay your bills.”

Marilyn and Danny crept up behind Skinner. No one else was in the office this afternoon, just one receptionist and one investigator taking care of paperwork. In the distance, sirens sounded. Marilyn had surely called the police as soon as she’d realized there was going to be trouble.

Skinner heard the sirens grow closer, too, and he panicked. Sam could see the fear on his face. “I don’t want to go to jail.”

“Then you’d better run,” Lizzie said.

Marilyn hung back while Danny took a silent step closer to the man with the baseball bat.

“You all saw me, you’ll report me and I’ll end up in jail. I’m already in enough trouble, thanks to you. I don’t need this.”

Lizzie gave another snort followed by a soft “Well, duh. You’d better run fast and far.”

A panicked Skinner lifted his bat into a threatening position and rushed forward. Sam raised his gun. Danny ran.

And Lizzie slipped her hand around Sam’s body and fired a Taser C2. A purple Taser C2, Sam couldn’t help but note. The small identifying papers flew from the cartridge. The probes found their target—midbody, perfect shot.

Skinner dropped to the ground. He let loose the bat and shook uncontrollably, making noises that spoke volumes about the misery he was in as electric volts worked through his body. He twitched and cursed and drooled. The sirens were now right outside the door.

Lizzie took her finger off the activation button, ending the stream of electrical current that had taken Skinner to the ground. When that was done, Danny took control of the man, moving the bat several feet away and taking the intruder by the wrist—even though at the moment Skinner was no threat to anyone.

Sam looked down at Lizzie, who stared at the gun in his hand. “Overkill,” she muttered.




Chapter 2


Lizzie still couldn’t get used to calling this house home. Her father had only lived in it for three years before his death four months earlier, so it had never been home to her. Sure, she’d eaten plenty of meals here, and she’d slept in the guest room for a few days when she’d moved back from school in Mobile, but still—she hadn’t grown up here.

The house was paid for. Her dad had planned for an easy retirement, and house payments were not on the agenda. He’d sold their old home and moved into this split-level, two-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath house south of Birmingham proper. This was the smallest house in a nice little neighborhood filled with young families as well as a retired couple or two and at least one other single person. She should’ve sold the house right away, but in a strange way she still felt her dad here, and she wasn’t ready to let him go. Not yet. So she’d given up her rented apartment and moved in three months ago.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” she asked, her eyes on the framed photo of her father, which she’d placed at the center of the kitchen table. She ate her soup and talked to him as if he were there. “Why didn’t you find Jenna after that wacko woman told you to leave them alone? Sure, Monica said they had a good life and that it was possible Jenna wasn’t your child, but how could you know she was telling the truth? If you hadn’t believed there was a very good chance she was your child, you never would’ve pressed the issue. Maybe she’s yours and maybe she’s not, but what if Jenna needs us?” If there was even an iota of a chance that this child was a blood relative—pretty much her only blood relative—she couldn’t let the matter go. For now, at least, she would think of Jenna as her sister. No more doubts; no more maybes.

Lizzie played with her soup. She’d been young when her mother had left and she wasn’t blind to the fact that yes, that traumatic event colored all her relationships. She was always waiting for the people in her life to leave, and like clockwork, they always did. Her sister deserved better; she would not abandon Jenna if there was any chance the girl needed her.

Maybe she had serious abandonment issues, maybe she was starved for family, and yes, maybe she wanted a sister so badly she was willing to look past all the trouble she was stirring up. Sam was right when he said news like this would turn a child’s world upside down, but it just didn’t seem right not to at least check on the girl.

Lizzie’s soup grew cool and still she stirred and took the occasional small bite. She’d always dreamed of having a sister. Someone she could talk to. Someone she could tell everything. Someone who would laugh with her and play jokes on Dad and help her choose clothes. Lizzie did not have the fashion gene. In the balancing ways of the universe, surely a sister would. In her fantasies this sister wasn’t twelve years younger and living God knows where, but if this was all she had, she’d make it work. If Jenna needed her, that is. If showing up wouldn’t ruin the girl’s well-ordered life.

“How could you not tell me?” she asked angrily, and then she turned her dad’s picture facedown on the table. She missed her father, she grieved for him, she loved him dearly. And still, she was furious with him for keeping this secret. If he’d keep one secret this big, how many others were there? What else didn’t she know?

Lizzie had just started loading the dishwasher when the doorbell rang. Startled, she almost jumped out of her skin. Callers were not common here, not since the busy days following the funeral. She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and headed for the front door. How pathetic that a visitor was a shock! She was so wrapped up in her work that she didn’t have a very active social life. No boyfriends, only casual girlfriends since most of her pals had gotten married or moved away from the area, no neighbors she was particularly close to.

Finding Sam Travers on her doorstep was a surprise. Normally she might think it a pleasant one, but the way he was glaring at her, pleasant was not the first word that came to mind. He clutched the letters she’d given him in one hand.

“What’s wrong? I just left you two hours ago.” Hope welled up in her, almost a physical sensation. “Have you already found her?”

Sam stepped closer, and she moved back, and the next thing she knew he was striding into her house as if he lived there. That gray suit must’ve been made for him, the way it draped perfectly on his lean—but not too lean—body. He was grace and strength, hardness and beauty. How could a man in a conservative suit be so intimidating?

“Nothing is wrong,” he said, “you left me three hours ago, and no, I don’t have anything to report just yet.”

“Oh.” The hope that had surged through her died as quickly as it had been born. “Why are you here?” Lizzie longed for the comfort and boundaries of the big desk that had separated them at his office for the majority of her visit. Sam looked bigger, more intimidating in her living room than he had in his office, perhaps because she wasn’t prepared to face him here and now. Perhaps because she knew his jacket disguised a shoulder holster and a gun. Perhaps because he wasn’t exactly the man she remembered.

He turned accusing eyes to her. “I wanted to make sure you were all right after the excitement at the office.”

“After I shocked the guy who was coming after you with a baseball bat, you mean.”

“Yes,” he said crisply.

“I’m fine.” She smiled. “You look so surprised. Do you think my father would raise a daughter who wasn’t prepared for anything and everything? Do you think he didn’t teach me to defend myself?”

“You use the Taser often?” Sam snapped.

“This was my first time. First time to use a Taser on a real person, that is. Naturally I’ve practiced on targets and such. Well, once I practiced. I can shoot, of course, but I really prefer a nonlethal form of self-defense.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Her dad hadn’t made any secret of the fact that when Sam had taken down the shooter who’d killed a young cop and wounded two others, it had been a life-changing event. There were those—in the department and out—who thought Sam had acted too quickly and with unnecessary finality, that he should’ve tried to take the guy alive. No one had said anything so outrageous until they’d found out the shooter was barely seventeen, as if the victim would be less dead if the shooter was older. That one night, that one shot, had ended Sam’s time on the force. Apparently it had also eventually ended his marriage. “I didn’t mean…” she began, but Sam shrugged her off and changed the subject.

“We also need to talk about your situation,” he said. He sounded a little tired. “Before I go any further, are you sure…”

“I wouldn’t have hired you if I wasn’t sure,” Lizzie interrupted. “Why are you being so difficult? Isn’t this what you do? Don’t you find people for a living? Do you always try to talk clients out of hiring you?”

“If Charlie had wanted you to know about this child, he would’ve told you years ago.”

Lizzie shook a stern finger in Sam’s direction. “Don’t mention his name to me right now. I’m so annoyed with my father, I swear if he was here right now I’d… I’d…”

“Shoot him with your Taser?”

“Maybe,” Lizzie snapped. “He certainly deserves a good shock. He lied to me. You’re not supposed to lie to the people you love. You’re not supposed to keep secrets from your family. I have a sister, a sister I knew nothing about. Jenna is the only blood relative I have, outside my mother, and he kept her from me. Now I’m supposed to forgive him just because he’s dead?”

“There is some doubt about whether or not the girl is actually…”

“Until and unless you prove otherwise, I consider Jenna my sister. If there’s even the smallest chance that’s the case, I have to approach the situation as if there’s no doubt at all.”

Sam looked decidedly uncomfortable, and he changed the subject. “How is your mother, by the way?”

“How the hell should I know?” Lizzie turned and headed for the kitchen, angry that stinging tears had filled her eyes. “I haven’t seen her in two years, haven’t spoken to her since I called to tell her Dad had died. We don’t have what you would call a healthy mother-daughter relationship.” Too much information, too fast. “Can I get you some coffee? Maybe some soup?”

“No, thanks,” Sam said, but he followed her into the kitchen.

Sam walked to the kitchen table, where an almost-empty bowl of soup sat. “I interrupted your dinner.”

“I was finished,” Lizzie said, fiddling with the coffeepot so she wouldn’t have to face him and reveal her tears. He knew she was still fighting her emotions because she didn’t tell him what kind of coffee she was making, which mug she would choose and why, what kind of coffee she’d had that morning, and so on and so on.

He reached out and lifted the thin metal picture frame which lay facedown on the table, righting it to reveal the image of his old partner, his old friend. Lizzie must be really upset with Charlie to put his picture down this way. Sam figured now was probably not the time to tell Lizzie that he’d known about Jenna’s existence for years.

That wasn’t what Lizzie wanted to hear, not just yet. Hell, not ever.

Lizzie was so much like her father. Charlie had said almost exactly the same words, years ago. If there’s the smallest chance the child might be mine, I can’t turn my back on her. Unfortunately for everyone involved, Monica Yates had had other plans.

“I’m making decaf,” Lizzie said, her voice noticeably more steady than before. She’d chased away the tears, buried her emotion deep. “Since you’re still here and I don’t want to be rude and drink in front of you, would you like a cup?”

“Sure,” he said absently, righting Charlie’s picture. It wasn’t fitting for the man to be facedown on his own kitchen table.

For a moment Lizzie watched while the coffeemaker sputtered and spewed, and then she turned to face Sam, dry-eyed and chin held high. While he hadn’t been watching, the young girl he remembered had turned into a beautiful woman. The years hadn’t entirely erased the quirks and the awkwardness, but those traits had been softened. She’d bloomed. She’d matured. If she wasn’t Charlie’s little girl and if they’d met under different circumstances… Who was he kidding? Lizzie Porter was seriously off-limits. She was a client, and that was the beginning and the end.

“If you’re going to continue to try to change my mind, then walk away now and I’ll hire someone else,” she said, stubborn as she’d been as a teenager. “I’ve wasted enough time. I’m not going to waste another minute arguing with you or anyone else.”

He couldn’t allow her to hire another investigator. Half the P.I.s in town were hacks who were unqualified, dishonest or both. Besides, in the current position he had some control over what she learned, when and how. Sam was torn between what Charlie had obviously wanted and what Lizzie wanted—needed—to know. She was going to find out the truth, sooner or later, and like it or not, the news would come from him. Before he broke the news to her he wanted to know exactly what sort of situation Jenna was in. Charlie’s secrets, Lizzie’s pain, Jenna’s needs. He was going to have to weigh them all. “That won’t be necessary.”

“When will you get started?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“I suppose you’ll do a search on the Internet first. I tried, but I have no patience and it was so slow, and there was nothing on a Monica Yates that I thought might be the Monica I was looking for, and besides, I assume you have access to files and sites that I can’t touch with a ten-foot pole.” She gave him a smile that was slightly strained. “I wonder if Jenna lives very far away or if she’s still in Alabama. For all I know she’s on the other side of the world. It doesn’t matter. I want to see her.”

“Leave the details to me.” Sam didn’t think now was the time to tell Lizzie that her newly discovered sister lived not fifteen minutes from this very house.

Lizzie snatched her bowl of soup from the table, dumped the remains of her sad supper into the garbage disposal, rinsed the bowl and stuck it in the dishwasher. She didn’t lean on people; it wasn’t her way. So why was she tempted to fall into Sam’s strong arms and melt into him? Why did she want to make him part of her world?

Old fantasies died hard, apparently.

He remained silent while she finished cleaning up and then poured two cups of coffee. She remembered that Sam took his black, or at least he had years ago. She liked lots of sugar and cream in her coffee. When she placed the two cups at the kitchen table, where Sam sat as if he belonged there, she sighed, sat and said, “You’re right.”

“Right about what?” He grasped his mug but didn’t take a sip of the steaming coffee.

“I don’t want to turn Jenna’s life upside down. I don’t want to hurt her.” She saw the all-too-evident relief on his face, a face that had played a part in all her teenage fantasies—until he’d lost his mind and married a massively chested airhead. “That doesn’t mean I want you to drop the case.”

He didn’t look quite so relieved anymore.

“I want to see her. From a distance, if that’s all I can get. Maybe we can find a way for me to meet Jenna without telling her who I am, if she’s happy and well cared for.”

Sam seemed slightly reluctant, still, but he nodded in agreement before lifting the mug to his lips to take a sip of the decaf. Maybe he’d finish his coffee quickly and leave, since he’d failed in his mission to convince her to give up finding her sister. Maybe he wouldn’t finish it at all, but would take that one sip and then find a reason to leave. It was easy for people to do, she had learned, finding a reason to leave.

He put his mug on the table, looked her in the eye and asked, “So, how have you been, really?”

This was different than the conversation they’d had in his office. This was her home, her father’s home, and there was something intimate about sitting at the kitchen table. “Good,” she answered.

A slow grin spread across Sam’s face, transforming it, making Lizzie’s heart do strange things she hadn’t expected after all this time. “Since I’ve known you, and we’re talking a long time, you have never answered any question with a single word. Never. Good? That’s it?”

Something inside Lizzie uncoiled as she lost herself in that grin. A moment later she was telling Sam everything, from her stint at school in Mobile to the founding of her own business, to the funeral he’d missed, to clearing out her dad’s stuff and finding the stack of old letters from Monica Yates. He listened. His eyes never glazed over. He didn’t look at his watch, not even when she lost her train of thought and rambled a bit. The fading light through the kitchen window marked the passage of time; he refilled their coffee cups and brought sugar and cream to the table for her. It was comfortable and natural, as if the years had fallen away.

Only she wasn’t fourteen, there was no clinging, empty-headed wife hanging on his arm, and her father wasn’t here with them.

When she asked, he told her the latest news on his family—an oft-married mother who lived in Sarasota, Florida with husband number four, a workaholic brother who lived in Atlanta, a married sister with four kids who lived in Arizona. Sam’s father had passed away before she’d met him, before he’d joined the Birmingham police force. His family wasn’t physically close, but it sounded as if they e-mailed and spoke on the phone fairly often, and there were occasional reunions. She envied him his family.

After she’d basically filled him in on the past six years of her life and he’d skimmed over his, she asked him the question that had been plaguing her since she’d walked into his office and found him annoyingly handsome and appealing. “So, no girlfriend?”

He was surprised by her question, or perhaps by the blunt way in which the question was delivered. His eyes widened slightly, but then he smiled. “Why do you assume I don’t have a girlfriend?”

“You’re here. You haven’t checked your watch once. No annoyed and neglected woman has called on your cell to see where you are at this late hour. There were no personal pictures in your office, except one of you and Dad and some fish.”

“You’re quite the detective,” he said, and then his eyes hardened, the way they sometimes had during this long day. “No, there’s no girlfriend. I like my life as it is, and there’s no room in it for a permanent relationship. I’ve been married once and it didn’t work out well. I’m not the devoted husband and father type, so it’s just as well Dottie Ann and I called it quits before we made the mistake of reproducing. These days I answer to no one, and I like it that way.”

“Don’t you want to get married and have kids someday?” Didn’t everyone want that?

“That’s not for me,” Sam said easily, so she knew it was the truth. It was kinda sad that he actually liked being alone.

“I knew it,” Lizzie said calmly, determined not to turn this into a deep, serious, uncomfortable conversation that would send him running for cover. She opted for childish teasing instead. “The most telling clue of all is the fact that your socks don’t exactly match.”

Sam pushed away from the table and glanced down at his feet. “They do so match, dammit.”

Lizzie smiled. “Gotcha.”

Feelings that she didn’t need and he didn’t want were too close to the surface at the moment. A childish “made you look” would change the tone, and maybe even make her forget, for a minute or two, that although she’d never actually had Sam, she’d never gotten over him, either.




Chapter 3


Sam sat in a nondescript gray sedan, which was parked across the street from an impressive gated mansion. Finding out precisely where Jenna Aldridge lived hadn’t been very difficult, since all along he’d had information Lizzie had not—Monica Yates’s last name after she’d married her first husband, one elderly and insanely wealthy Harold Aldridge.

He’d had the information last night before he’d gone to Lizzie’s house with the intent of changing her mind about finding the girl who might be her half sister—a fool’s errand, and he should’ve realized that before he got in his car to go to her house. Lizzie was doggedly stubborn. She didn’t change her mind. At least the child he’d known had not, and from what he’d seen thus far, the woman was just as mulish.

When Monica Yates had gotten pregnant, Charlie had been determined to do the right thing. Problem was, Monica had no intention of marrying him. She never had. There was another man in her life, Harold Aldridge, and that was the man she intended to marry. She’d even told Charlie that she couldn’t be certain he was the baby’s father. Could be Harold, she said. Yeah, right. Sam had suspected all along that Monica had just used Charlie like a sperm donor, to do what Harold could not.

She’d begged Charlie not to tell Harold about their affair. She’d begged him to forget she and the baby existed. That hadn’t been easy for Charlie to do. He’d always been a man of responsibility, character and honor. It had taken a lot of phone calls and a few letters—letters Charlie had saved—to convince him that biologically his or not, the child was better off without him in her life. But once she had, Charlie had resisted his own emotional pull and only checked in on Jenna every few years.

Monica’s plan had worked well. Before Jenna turned four, her “father” died, leaving mother and child incredibly wealthy. A few years later Monica had remarried—another man with money—and not long afterward she’d passed away suddenly. The ambitious woman had a bad heart, and while she’d had the very best doctors, her surgery had not been successful.

Money couldn’t buy everything after all. That must’ve galled Monica to no end.

Jenna Aldridge had been left in the care of her stepfather, one Darryl Connelly. They were rolling in money, Jenna was enrolled in the most prestigious private school in Birmingham, they vacationed all over the world. When Charlie had learned about Monica’s death, he’d renewed his interest in Jenna, a girl who might or might not be his daughter. Like Lizzie, he wanted to make sure the child was in good hands.

In the end he’d assured himself she was safe and happy, and even though it had hurt more than he’d admitted to anyone, he’d walked away. All Sam had to do was convince Lizzie to do the same.

The front door to the mansion opened, and a young woman walked out. Jenna Aldridge was taller, more mature than she’d been in the last photo Sam had seen of her. Still, she was twelve years old. A child. A long black car crept slowly around the circular driveway, momentarily blocking Sam’s view of the girl. The driver, a large man who probably also served as a bodyguard, left the driver’s seat to open Jenna’s door. The two exchanged a few words. Both smiled. So far so good.

The car headed Sam’s way. There was a collection of survey equipment and a stack of very official-looking forms in the backseat, in case anyone decided to question Sam’s right to be here. He even had a very fine fake ID that would get him past a quick inspection.

But none of that was necessary. The long car transporting Jenna Aldridge to school drove past, and neither of the occupants gave Sam more than a passing glance.

Jenna Aldridge had everything any child could ask for, and to pop in and turn the girl’s world upside down with news she didn’t want or need would be devastating. Still, Lizzie needed to see what Sam had just seen; she needed to see with her own eyes that this child who might be her half sister was in good hands.

He took a quick picture of the house, not for a moment thinking it would be enough to make Lizzie back off.

Sam had pulled away from the curb and made it to the next corner when a white Jaguar convertible passed him. The blonde at the wheel was heavily made up and dressed in a snug-fitting lightweight sweater that matched her car. Jewelry flashed in the sunshine; bracelets, a gold necklace, a huge ring on the hand that rested on the steering wheel. He watched in the rearview mirror as she pulled into the driveway Jenna Aldridge’s car had just exited.

Curious, Sam turned around at the corner and slowly made his way back down the street. The Jag pulled up to the front door, and the blonde exited the flashy car with a bounce in her step. Before she could reach the front door it opened, and Darryl Connelly greeted her with a wide smile and open arms she rushed into with eagerness. Feeling as sleazy as he had in the early days when he’d had to take a lot of unsavory divorce cases in order to pay the bills, Sam lifted his camera and snapped a quick photo.

Interesting.

Lizzie arrived at Sam’s office bright and early on Saturday morning, a few minutes before the agreed time of 7 a.m. Sam was already there, going over paperwork, looking much too fresh and chipper for the hour. When had Sam Travers become a morning person?

No suit today, she noted. He looked more like the Sam she remembered, in jeans and a plain gray T-shirt. So where was the gun? She was quite sure it was handy. It was sad, that he felt he always had to have that weapon close. When he’d said he slept with the gun under his pillow, had he been exaggerating?

“Good morning,” she said as she rushed into his office with her toolbox and gigantic tub of putty and a roll of plastic. She was dressed for the job in an ancient pair of baggy jeans and an old tee that advertised a local bank. Both were paint splattered, revealing an array of colors she’d used in the past year. She was a walking advertisement for her own work.

Sam glanced up, took in her attire and smiled. “Did you manage to get any paint on the walls?”

“Very funny.” She carefully placed her things on the floor and surveyed the office, trying to decide where to start. The walls really were awful, with dings and dents and holes where pictures had once hung. Sam’s office wasn’t only dull, it was imperfect. It was seriously flawed. This she could fix.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked when Lizzie began to move the chairs on the east side of the room away from the wall.

“I’m paying for your investigative services,” she said, not bothering to look his way.

“You’re not moving furniture,” he insisted, and she could hear his chair scrape back as he stood.

“I am,” she said.

“You are not,” he replied.

Lizzie turned to stare at the stubborn man for a long moment. “Do you expect me to paint around the furniture?”

“I’ll move the furniture,” he said, almost, but not quite, clenching his teeth.

“It’s part of the job, part of my payment for your services. Geez, Sam, I work alone more often than not, and I’ve moved my fair share of furniture. It’s not like you have an armoire or a sleeper sofa. This I can handle.”

He stepped away from the desk. “Let me…”

“Am I going to have to ban you from your own office for the duration?”

He stopped short. “What duration? You’ll finish today, right?”

Lizzie grinned. “No way. I don’t just slap paint on a wall and call it done. This is at least a three-day job. Maybe four.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Five days minimum if you don’t let me get to work.”

He didn’t like the idea, but he did finally return to his desk, sit and grudgingly allow her to do what she’d come here to do. The east side of the room didn’t have a window, which made it a good place to start. She moved the furniture away from the wall—nothing heavy, just a small table with an artificial plant sitting on it and an uncomfortable-looking chair—and laid out her drop cloth. The putty she used wasn’t horribly messy, but sometimes she got carried away. Better safe than sorry. She tried to ignore the fact that Sam was in the room, but it wasn’t easy. She was going to have to tell him that he didn’t have to stay here and watch her the whole time. She liked to work alone. Usually she set up her portable CD player and popped in some music and got lost in her work. With Sam around, she couldn’t get lost in anything!

She took down the framed photograph of Sam and her dad after a long-ago fishing trip, as well as a generic landscape. When she started to remove the nails with the grooved end of her favorite hammer, he stopped her with a chilling question.

“What are you doing?”

Hammer in hand, she turned to face him. “I’m working. Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

“You don’t paint with a hammer and I have nowhere else to be but right here.”

She curled her lip, slightly. “Must I explain myself step by step?”

“Apparently so.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and there was something about the stance he took that made Lizzie’s heart skip a beat. When it came to men, she wasn’t exactly a novice. She’d dated guys in the past, one or two fairly seriously. She knew quite a few boys, some as friends, some as more than friends—though she’d been without a more-than-friend for a while now. She’d had a few boyfriends, some serious and some not so. Sam was no guy and he was no boy. He was one hundred percent man, and he affected her differently than any other man or boy or guy she’d ever known. He made her stomach turn over and her mouth go dry. He made her tremble deep down and crave things she should not, could not crave. Suddenly she felt a little defensive, as if she needed to build a wall between her and Sam just to protect her sanity.

“If you don’t understand the importance of prep work then I’m not surprised that you don’t have a girlfriend.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, Lizzie felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. When was she going to learn to think before she spoke? That wasn’t exactly the kind of wall she had in mind.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She tried to pretend she wasn’t embarrassed. Since she’d started the conversation, she might as well finish it. “Prep work, laying the foundation, building perfection, taking one’s time to make sure that a task is properly done. Detail, Sam, detail.”

“What does that have to do with me not having a girlfriend?” Frustration was clear on Sam’s face, and Lizzie wished once more that she’d kept her mouth shut. Keeping her mouth shut had never been easy for her.

“If you can’t figure it out for yourself I’m not going to tell you,” Lizzie said as she turned to face the wall before her. She slowly ran a hand across the surface, feeling every bump, every imperfection. Whoever had painted this wall last had simply slapped paint on over a dusty wall. “What trained monkey painted this office?”

Sam remained quiet, and Lizzie was forced to turn to look at him. He was all but steaming. “When we moved into this office building I painted the wall myself.”

“Oh,” Lizzie said, as she turned to resume her inspection. Yes, no wonder there was no girlfriend. A man who gave so little attention to detail would make a terrible lover. She glanced over her shoulder. Of course, there was nothing that said Sam couldn’t learn a thing or two about detail..

Prep work. No girlfriend. Trained monkey.

It didn’t take Sam long to figure out what Lizzie meant. Fortunately by the time it hit him she was facing the wall again, displaying an oddly sexy form in loose-fitting jeans and a T-shirt with paint splattered all over it. How exactly had she gotten paint on her back, anyway?

He’d show her prep work, dammit.

Sam had taken two steps from his desk before the force of his foolishness hit him. Lizzie was no longer a teenager with a crush, and the difference between twenty-four and thirty-two wasn’t impossible the way fourteen and twenty-two had been. But she was a client, and more important, she was Charlie’s little girl.

Charlie had wanted so much for his daughter. She’d deserved better than a mother who left without warning and a father who worked all the time. Maybe if Charlie had found a decent woman and married her, their lives would’ve been different. It wasn’t that he hadn’t met and dated any nice women, they just hadn’t lasted long. Burned badly by his wife’s desertion, Charlie had been unable to trust that what he saw in a good woman was real. The ones who were less than nice—at least they were honest. That had become his skewed way of looking at things.

Lizzie certainly deserved better than a private investigator who could never offer her a permanent relationship. Sam had given up on permanent the day his wife had walked out of his house and directly into another man’s arms. He’d given up on permanent when the citizens of the town he’d risked his life to protect had come out to picket the precinct after the shooting. He’d thought his marriage would last forever, that he would be a cop until retirement came along. But nothing was forever, he knew that now.

And kids? Forget it. Working child custody cases only made him glad that he wasn’t a father. He couldn’t imagine raising a child in this world.

Lizzie was young. She still believed in forever, and he hadn’t missed the spark in her eyes as she’d asked about him about wanting a wife and kids of his own. She idealized family and happily ever after; her heart was still whole—and he wouldn’t be the one to take that from her.

Though he would like to prove to her that he wasn’t entirely clueless when it came to handling women.

Sam grabbed his cell phone and made a quick and almost incoherent excuse before he left his office. He dialed Darryl Connelly’s number, wondering how best to approach the situation and absolutely certain that he needed to get this over with ASAP.

A young girl answered the phone with a breathless “Hello.”

Sam was momentarily speechless. He’d expected Connelly himself to answer. Maybe a butler or a maid.

In a crisp, businesslike voice, he asked, “May I speak to Mr. Connelly, please?”

“Sure.” Jenna barely moved her mouth away from the receiver to shout, “Dar—Dad? It’s for you.” Sam instinctively moved the phone away from his ear.

His ear was still ringing when Jenna turned her attention back to the caller. “He’ll be right here. I hope you don’t keep him too long. I have a soccer game and I’m supposed to be there in fifteen minutes. None of the other girls are driven to the games by drivers. Their parents take them. It’s so embarrassing to be delivered to the school field and dropped off when everyone else shows up with their families. Darryl, I mean Dad, well, he’s actually my stepfather but he likes me to call him Dad, he promised he would take me to today’s game, so whatever you do don’t keep him on the phone too long.”

Sam took a deep breath. If there had ever been any doubt that Jenna was Lizzie’s sister, it had just flown out the window. He quickly dismissed that thought. Many young girls rambled, related to Lizzie or not. “I can see that I called at a bad time. Please tell Mr. Connelly I’ll call him on Monday to discuss his insurance needs.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jenna said. “I gotta run. Wish me luck!” With that, the call ended. Sam leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. This was what Lizzie needed, what she’d hired him to do. It wasn’t his business if Lizzie got her heart broken. She’d hired him to find the kid, not guarantee a happy ending. He didn’t see many happy endings in his line of work.

He stood there for a few minutes, wishing he could make this case go away, wishing he didn’t have to deal with a grown-up Lizzie Porter. Best to get this over with. Before he had time to talk himself out of it, he stalked back into the office, walked straight to Lizzie, grabbed her arm and said, “You want to see this girl you think might be your sister? Let’s go.”




Chapter 4


“I can’t meet her like this!” Lizzie said as Sam ushered her out of the building and locked the door behind him.

“You’re not going to meet her. You’re going to see her from a distance. There’s a soccer game at her school and she’s playing.”

“How do you know that?” Lizzie asked as Sam took her arm and led her toward the parking lot and his boxy gray car.

“I’m a private investigator. It’s my job.”

He sounded so curt! He was probably still annoyed about the “no details” discussion they’d just had. Men could be so sensitive, especially when it came to their lovemaking skills or their manliness. Sam Travers was a star when it came to manliness. She couldn’t even begin to guess about the other, and it would be best if her mind did not go there.

Sam was silent as he drove, and for once Lizzie was silent, as well. What did Jenna look like? Were there sisterly similarities or was she her own person, distinct and individual? Maybe Jenna wouldn’t even like Lizzie. Maybe she’d think a fully grown sister was lame and unnecessary. Maybe they had nothing in common; maybe they weren’t sisters at all.

Jenna had a family—maybe even other siblings by now; she didn’t need a sister popping up out of nowhere. Lizzie’s physical reaction to the idea of confronting the girl was much like the one she had when she looked at Sam too closely. Jitters. Squirming. Shaking. Only this wasn’t quite so… pleasant. She was terrified that her plans were about to go very wrong.

“Turn the car around,” Lizzie said abruptly.

“We’re almost there.”

“This is a mistake.” Boy, was it a mistake. Going to Sam’s office, digging into old secrets, thinking she could manufacture a family out of thin air… all mistakes, one after another.

“Are you still worried about the way you’re dressed?” Sam asked. “Jenna won’t see you, I promise. We’ll stay back and watch, that’ll be it for this time.”

Lizzie shook her head. “No, the whole thing is a mistake. Dad was right to keep Jenna’s existence a secret. If I meet her I’ll blow it, somehow. I always do. I’ll open my mouth and say something stupid and that’ll be it. Jenna doesn’t need me. She already has a family.”

Sam didn’t argue, but he didn’t turn around, either. He turned into the parking lot of a very nice private school, one Lizzie knew to be very expensive. Talk about exclusive! The lot was pretty full, so they had to park at the far end. He pulled into a space away from the other cars, turned off the engine and faced her, one casual hand on the steering wheel, his eyes not at all casual.

“You know that I believe revealing your possible relationship to the girl would be traumatic for her.”

Lizzie nodded, the move jerky and too fast. “You were right all along,” she said quickly. So let’s get out of here already!

Sam’s face remained even and calm. Did he never show emotion? Did nothing ruffle his feathers? “I also believe you need to see her, even if from a distance. If you don’t, you’ll regret it later.”

She didn’t immediately agree or disagree. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was best to get it over with, to get a look at the girl and move on with her life. She was curious, after all. A little curiosity wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “A quick look, then.”

“Just a look.”

Staring into Sam’s calm blue eyes made Lizzie feel calmer herself. Everything would be okay. She’d just have a look to prove to herself that Jenna was well cared for and happy. She flung open the passenger door and stepped out of the car before she could change her mind.

Lizzie was drawn to the sounds of shouting and cheering and the occasional whistle. Sam fell into step beside her, too close, not close enough. She wanted to reach out and take his hand and clutch it, but she didn’t. He’d think she was a total wuss if she clung to him just because she was about to get a long-distance look at the girl who might be her sister.

The soccer field was well-groomed, and the girls that played upon it were dressed in blue-and-gold or red-and-white uniforms. The metal bleachers held a collection of parents. Most of them watched the game with genuine interest and excitement. A contingent of younger siblings played in the grass beside the bleachers. It was a scene right out of a Norman Rockwell painting, a healthy slice of family life. If Jenna had a perfect existence, who was she to mess it up?

Not far from the edge of the parking lot, in the shade of an ancient elm tree, Lizzie stopped. “Which one is she?”

Sam studied the players for a moment, and then he pointed. “There, in blue and gold. Brown ponytail. Number 8.”

Lizzie’s eyes were glued to number 8 when the girl took control of the ball and turned. It was difficult to tell from a distance, but did she look a little bit like their dad? Lizzie’s heart thumped. Did she have Charlie Porter’s longish nose and narrow eyes? Jenna had that coltish look girls of her age sometimes had, leggy and thin and awkward, on the edge of turning into a young woman, but yes, there was a definite resemblance.

Jenna’s brown hair didn’t have quite the same slightly reddish tint Lizzie’s had, but there wasn’t but a shade or two of difference. Not that there weren’t thousands upon thousands of girls and women with the same color hair.

Lizzie didn’t realize she’d reached for Sam’s hand and grabbed on until he squeezed. She knew she should end the contact, let go and maybe take a step away from the man at her side. But she didn’t.

“Jenna’s mother passed away four years ago,” Sam said. “She lives with her stepfather, Darryl Connelly, in what can only be called a mansion. She attends this school, plays soccer and takes ballet, and her yearly allowance is probably about the same as my annual salary.”

“Monica died?” Lizzie had never thought Monica Yates would make a decent mother, but for Jenna to lose her mom so young had to be traumatic. Her stomach knotted. At the age of eight they’d each lost their mother—in very different ways.

“Heart troubles, difficult surgery.” The explanation was simple, but it was enough.

“Which one is Connelly?” she asked, her eyes turning to the parents.

Sam motioned, this time to the bleachers. “Top row, to the right.”

Unfortunately Connelly was one of the parents who weren’t watching the game. He gave the attractive woman at his side much more of his attention. Lizzie was incensed, for Jenna’s sake. When she’d played softball, her dad had been the loudest, most belligerent parent in attendance. He’d embarrassed her countless times, which was as it should be. This guy didn’t even care about the game.

Jenna scored and her team celebrated. Someone sitting near Connelly had to punch him on the arm and tell him that his daughter had scored a goal. He smiled and clapped dutifully, and so did the woman at his side.

Too late.

So Jenna had money. Money was nice; Lizzie wished she had more of it herself, but cash alone wouldn’t make anyone happy. She and Charlie had never had much money when she’d been growing up, but they’d gotten by just fine and they’d been happy. Most of the time.

Jenna’s teammates congratulated her, and soon the girls lined up at the center of the field to resume play.

“Seen enough?” Sam asked softly.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.”

He squeezed her hand again and then dropped it, taking a step away from her—as she’d known she should but had not. Lizzie tore her eyes away from Jenna and stared up at Sam. She was suddenly much more certain about what she had to do. “It’s not enough. I can’t seriously doubt that she and I are related. She looks so much like Dad, and maybe even a little bit like me. Jenna is my family, like it or not. How am I supposed to tell from a distance if she’s happy?”

“That fact that she bears a subtle resemblance to Charlie is hardly proof,” Sam said sensibly.

Lizzie was in no mood for common sense! “It’s proof enough for me.” At least for now. “How am I supposed to know that she’s happy?”

“Trust me, she’s…”

Frustrated, Lizzie interrupted. “She has a big house, she goes to a great school, she can buy herself anything she wants. That doesn’t mean anything!”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t want to shake up her life.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

“If your father had thought for a moment that Jenna wasn’t safe and content, he would’ve done something about it years ago,” Sam argued.

“Dad let her go as a baby,” Lizzie said reasonably. “He couldn’t have known whether or not she was okay now.”

“Dammit, he did,” Sam said sharply. “You’re not going to like it but here’s the truth. After Jenna’s mother died, Charlie kept very close tabs on the kid. If he didn’t think it was right to stir up her neat little world, what makes you think you should do it?”

Lizzie no longer stared at her sister. Instead she glared up into Sam’s traitorous blue eyes, and her heart broke as certainly as it had at fourteen, when he’d married an unkind, unworthy woman, whose only claim to fame had been her freakishly large boobs.

The only way Sam could’ve known that her father had kept tabs on Jenna was if he’d known about the child himself. He’d known all along.

Lizzie was pissed, perhaps rightly so. He should’ve told her up front that he knew of the girl’s existence. Instead he’d tried to spare her feelings; he’d tried to make things easier for her and still honor Charlie’s wishes. But at some point he’d decided he didn’t want to lie to her anymore, not even by omission.

Ten minutes after leaving the school grounds, after enduring ten minutes of absolute silence, Sam pulled into a bakery parking lot. Lizzie’s normally warm hazel eyes shot daggers at him. “You want a doughnut, hotshot, you wait until after you’ve taken me back to my car.”

“No,” he said, opening his door and stepping into the spring sunshine. Lizzie remained in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, eyes straight ahead. Sam walked around the car and opened her door as if they were on a date and he was being a perfect gentleman. When she didn’t move, he offered her his hand.

“You’re fired,” she said, ignoring his steady hand. “In case you haven’t already figured that out for yourself, Mister Big Shot Private Investigator.”

“We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.”

Sam stood there, hand extended. Lizzie continued to ignore him. “Your purse is back at my office.” Lucky for him, considering that there was a Taser in that purse and at the moment Lizzie looked as though she’d gladly use any handy weapon on him. “You don’t have your cell phone, cash, credit cards or the keys to your car, which means that until we get back to the office you’re at my mercy.”

“Cruel and a liar.”

“I’ll buy you a cupcake. That’s hardly cruel.”

“I don’t want a cupcake.”

“You always want a cupcake. I also plan to explain myself, if you’ll let me.” Hell, he was all but begging. Others in the parking lot were starting to stare. If Lizzie didn’t hurry up and take his hand, he was going to drag her inside and force-feed her that damn cupcake.

Yeah, that would go over well.

She used one hand to shoo him back, and then she stepped out of the car, moving regally in spite of her baggy, paint-splattered attire, her displeasure evident in every move, every glance. How was it that all women knew how to do that? Was it in their DNA or was there a secret class the men of the world were not privy to? How to make a man feel two inches tall with a single glance 101.

They walked into the small bakery and were assaulted by the scents of baking bread and sweets and coffee. A handful of customers were waiting at the counter. Along one window sat a half-dozen small, round tables, each with two hard chairs. All but one was empty, since most of the customers were getting their orders to go. Sam motioned to the nearest table, and Lizzie turned in that direction. She walked past the table he’d indicated and continued on, taking the table farthest away, as if she couldn’t stand to be any closer to him.

It was going to be a long conversation.

Eventually Sam reached the counter, where he ordered two coffees, a strawberry cupcake, four chocolate chip cookies, a piece of peanut butter fudge and a blueberry muffin. Ten years ago strawberry cupcakes had been Lizzie’s weakness. He couldn’t be sure what she preferred now, and he wanted to be prepared.

When he had his order in hand, Sam turned away from the counter, not a hundred percent certain he’d find Lizzie where he’d left her. She was mad—rightfully so, he supposed. Knowing her, she might hitchhike to his office and break into the building to retrieve her purse. She could borrow a cell from a stranger and call a friend to collect her. She could walk home. The walk would take her half a day, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. He didn’t for one minute think she was helpless. If she stayed, it was because she wanted to hear what he had to say.

His eyes fell on the empty table where Lizzie had once sat, and he groaned. He’d hoped she might be willing to listen. He’d hoped she’d have an open mind. Yeah, he’d hoped she’d be where he’d freakin’ left her. His eyes flitted to the parking lot, but if she was gone then she’d left minutes ago, while he’d been dealing with the girl behind the counter. She wouldn’t stick around and give him the chance to catch up with her and try to change her mind.

As Sam’s heart sank into his stomach, Lizzie brushed by without sparing a glance for him or his purchases. She held a stack of napkins, stirrers, sugar and little containers of creamer in her hands. She returned to the table where he’d left her, slapping the napkins onto the center of the table and then sitting, lifting her head to glare at him once more. How to tell a man he’s scum without ever saying a word.

He smiled.

She didn’t like it.

Sam placed the coffee and goodies—which were all stored in a large white bag—on the center of the round table. Lizzie took one of the coffees and removed the lid, fixing it as she liked, with lots of sugar and creamer. She didn’t look at him while she stirred, not until he sat, reached into the bag and drew out the cupcake, which was large and pink. The thick frosting was dotted with tiny bits of real strawberries.

It wasn’t his imagination that her expression softened a little. “You remembered.”

“How could I forget? While we were working together, your dad brought me here every year on your birthday so he could buy your favorite strawberry cupcakes.”

She took the sweet from him and began to gently pull away the paper cup to expose the cake. “Fine. The cupcake has bought you a brief reprieve. You can explain now.” She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “It had better be good.”

Lizzie picked at the cupcake while Sam talked. It had been foolish of her to make Sam Travers any more than he was, in her apparently irrational mind. He was no knight in shining armor, no noble and perfect man whose honor would never allow him to tell a lie. He was just a man like any other, skating through life the easiest way he knew how, lying when it was convenient, doing whatever was necessary to get his way.

He told a good enough story, she supposed. Whatever he’d done, he’d done for her father, who really had been a good man. Noble and all that. Charlie hadn’t wanted his little girl to know that he’d screwed up so royally; he hadn’t wanted her to know she had a sister she could never meet. Her father had been trying to spare her the pain he experienced in having a child he couldn’t claim; Sam had been trying to spare her the pain of realizing how completely her father had lied to her. So, who was going to spare her the pain of dealing with overly protective men? No one, apparently.

Charlie had been certain, it seemed, that Jenna would be better off without them. She had a decent stepfather; all that money; a nice, stable, privileged life. Sam had kept that secret until now because Charlie had asked him to keep the secret.

Sam even suggested that Charlie had been afraid that if he pushed the matter there would be a paternity test, and what if it turned out he wasn’t Jenna’s father after all? He’d come to love the child from a distance, and to be dragged into court and have the belief that the girl was his daughter ripped away would’ve been more than he could bear. Too, he was thinking of Jenna. They wouldn’t have been able to keep the suit a secret, and she’d know what kind of woman her mother was.




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