Secrets and Desire: Best-Kept Lies / Miss Pruitt's Private Life / Secrets, Lies...and Passion. Barbara McCauleyЧитать онлайн книгу.
the mother wants financial support. Emotional support. That kind of thing.”
“I’m not usual,” she said, and thought he whispered “Amen” under his breath, though she couldn’t be certain as he covered up his comment with a long swallow of ale. She noticed the movement of his throat—dark with a bit of beard shadow as he swallowed—and something deep inside her, something dusky and wholly feminine, reacted. She drew her eyes away and told herself she was being a fool. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, over a year now, but that didn’t give her the right to ogle men like Kurt Striker nor imagine what it would feel like for him to touch her again, to kiss her, to press hot, insistent lips against the curve of her neck and push her sweater off her shoulder…
She caught herself and realized that he was watching her face, looking for her reaction. As if he could read her mind. To her horror she felt herself blush.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
She shook her head, pretended interest in her meal by shaking vinegar over her fries. “Wouldn’t sell ’em for a penny, or a nickel, or a thousand dollars.”
“So tell me about the book,” he suggested.
“The book?”
“The one you’re writing. Another one of your secrets.”
How could one man be so irritating? She ate in silence for a second and glowered across the table at him. “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want to tell anyone about it until it was finished.”
“You were on your way to the Flying M to finish it when you were forced off the road at Glacier National Park, right?” He dredged a piece of fish in tartar sauce.
She nodded.
“Think that’s just a coincidence?”
“No one knew I was going to Montana to write a book. Even the people at work thought I was just taking my maternity leave—which I was. I was planning to combine the two.”
“Juanita at the ranch knew about it.” He’d polished off one crispy lump of halibut and was working on a second.
“Of course she did. I already explained, it really wasn’t a secret.”
“If you say so.” He ate in silence for a minute, but she didn’t feel any respite, knew he was forming his next question, and sure enough, it came, hard and fast. “Tell me, Randi,” he said, “who do you think wants to kill you?”
“I’ve been through this dozens of times with the police.”
“Humor me.” He was nearly finished with his food and she’d barely started. But her appetite had crumpled into nothing. She picked at her coleslaw. “Who are your worst enemies? You know, anyone who has a cause—just or not—for wanting you dead.”
She’d considered the question over and over. It had run through her mind in an endless loop from the moment her memory had started working again when she’d awoken from her coma. “I…I don’t know. No one has any reason to hate me enough to kill me.”
“Murderers aren’t always reasonable people,” he pointed out.
“I can’t name anyone.”
“How about the baby’s father? Maybe he found out you were pregnant, is ticked that you didn’t tell him and, not wanting to be named as the father, decided to get rid of you both.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“No?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t certain about many things, but she doubted Joshua’s father would care that he’d fathered a child, certainly wouldn’t go through the steps to get rid of either of them. She felt a weight on her heart but ignored it as Striker, leaning back in the booth, pushed his near-empty basket aside. “If I’m going to help you, then I need to know everything that’s going on. So who is he, Randi? Who’s Joshua’s daddy?”
She didn’t realize she’d been shredding her napkin in her lap, but looked down and noticed all the pieces of red paper. She supposed she couldn’t take her secret with her to the grave, but letting the world know the truth made her feel more vulnerable, that she was somehow breaching a special trust she had with her son.
“My money’s on Donahue,” he said abruptly.
She froze.
He winked though his expression was hard. “I figure you’d go for the sexy-cowboy type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Don’t I?”
“Unfair, Striker, last night was…was…”
“What about it?”
“It was a mistake. We both know it. So, let’s just forget it. As I said, you don’t have any idea what ‘my type’ is.”
One side of his mouth lifted in an irritating, sexy-as-hell smile. Green eyes held hers fast, and a wave, warm as a desert in August, climbed up her neck. “I’m workin’ on it.”
Her heart clenched. Don’t do this, Randi. Don’t let him get to you. He’s no better than…than… Her throat tightened when she considered what a fool she’d been. For a man who’d seduced her. Used her. Cared less for her than he did for his dog. Silly, silly woman.
“Okay, Striker,” she said, forcing the words through her lips, words she’d vowed only hours ago never to utter. “I’ll tell you the truth,” she said, hating the sense of relief it brought to be able to confide in someone. “But this is between you and me. Got it? I’ll tell you and you alone. When the time comes I’ll tell Joshua’s father and my brothers. But only when I say.”
“Fair enough,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms over his chest, all interest in his remaining French fries forgotten.
Randi took in a deep breath and prayed she wasn’t making one of the biggest mistakes of her life. She stared Striker straight in the eye and admitted to him something she rarely acknowledged herself. “You’re right. Okay? Joshua’s father, and I use the term so loosely it’s no longer coiled, is Sam Donahue.” Her tongue nearly tripped over Sam’s name. She didn’t like saying it out loud, didn’t like admitting that she, like too many others before her, had been swept off her feet by the charming, roguish cowboy. It was embarrassing and, had it not been for her precious son, a mistake she would have rued until her dying day. Joshua, of course, changed all that.
Striker didn’t say a word. Nor had his lips curled in silent denunciation. And he didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow in mockery. No. He played it straight, just observing her, watching her every reaction.
“So now you know,” she said, standing. “I hope it helps, but I don’t think it means anything. Thanks for dinner.” She walked out of the bar and up the steps to the wet streets. The rain had turned to drizzle again, misting around the street lamps, and the air was heavy, laced with the brine from Puget Sound. Randi felt like running. As fast and far as she could. To get away from the claustrophobic feeling, the fear that compressed her chest, the very fear she’d tried to flee when she’d left Montana.
But it was with her wherever she went, she thought, her boots slapping along the rain-slick sidewalk as she hurried to her car. The city was far from deserted, traffic rushed through the narrow old streets and pedestrians bustled along the sidewalks. She carried no umbrella, didn’t bother with her hood, let the dampness collect on her cheeks and flatten her hair. Not that she cared. Damn it, why had she told Striker about Sam Donahue? Her relationship with Sam hadn’t really been a love affair, more of a fling, though at one time she’d been foolish enough to think she might be falling in love with the bastard. The favor hadn’t been returned and she’d realized her mistake. But not before the pregnancy test had turned out positive.
She hadn’t bothered to tell Donahue because she knew he wouldn’t care. He was a selfish