Daddy With A Badge

All that changed when he kissed her for the first time. Then she’d been the one whose words hadn’t come out right. The one who turned red with a melting heat that made her restless inside. She’d learned then that kisses were addictive. Like all addictions, however, she soon craved more. So, it seemed, did he.

They’d met in secret at first, usually in the grassy, sun-dappled spot beneath a corkscrew willow where Rafe had taught her to fish. No one in their families had known how things had changed between them. Not until Rafe had asked her to his senior prom. She’d been wild with excitement. Not even Mark Fabrizio’s anger when he’d found out had dented her bliss.

The night before the prom had been unseasonably hot. The big old farmhouse hadn’t been air-conditioned in those days, and the fan by her bed only served to move the steamy air around in a thick circle. When Rafe had thrown pebbles at her window to get her attention, then suggested a moonlight swim, she’d been more than ready.

Instead of taking her to their spot by the river Rafe had decided to go to the pond instead because the path to the river was treacherous at night, even when the moon was high. In the pond, hidden behind a thick tangle of blackberry canes, they’d played in the cool water like kids, splashing and ducking one another.

Realizing that sound carried, Rafe had stifled her giggles with his hand first and then his mouth. Those playful kisses soon grew more passionate, their mutual touching more intimate. Soon his hands were sliding into the cups of her bathing suit to massage her breasts, and hers were tugging at his trunks.

Bathed in silver, they explored one another awkwardly, driven by their wild need for one another. They’d made promises, spoken words of love that seemed shiny and new. She’d explored his body with a frank interest that seemed to arouse him even more, until finally something seemed to snap inside him.

It happened fast then, the two of them kissing frantically as they stripped off their suits. His eyes had grown hot when he’d looked at her naked body for the first time, and his hands had trembled as they’d explored her with a touching reverence.

With each virgin touch, new sensations had thrummed through her, until she’d been writhing beneath his hand, desperate for something she couldn’t quite understand.

She’d been sobbing in pleasure and need when he’d parted her thighs. There would be pain, she knew, but it would pass, and then he would be inside her. Eagerly she reached for him, opening her legs wider. She remembered a feeling of moist warmth and then his body was covering hers. She braced for the invasion—and then he had rolled away from her, his breath coming in harsh gasps and those big fists clenched tightly.

He must have explained, but the words were lost to her now. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t listened. The terrible feeling of humiliation and hurt, though, she remembered vividly to this day.

The next morning, with her eyes swollen from the copious tears she’d shed and her throat raw from the sobs she’d swallowed so that no one would hear, she’d found out that they’d been seen. By whom, she’d never known for certain. One of her brothers, probably. It hardly mattered. The damage had been done.

Her father’s brown eyes had been filled with disappointment and sorrow when he’d told her that her brother had confronted Rafe with the truth and insisted that he marry her. Danni had felt a rush of joy, only to have her heart ripped in two when Papa had added in a tight, angry voice that Rafe had left the valley instead. If there was a baby, it was agreed between her father and Tonio Fabrizio that Mark would claim it as his own.

At first no one believed that she was still a virgin. But when her period arrived on schedule, they’d given her the benefit of the doubt. Or so she’d thought, until Mark had been visibly shocked on their wedding night to discover her untouched. Humiliated and angry all over again, she’d cried into her pillow after he’d gone to sleep.

She’d never seen Rafe again.

Both Rosaria and Enrique were careful never to mention him in her presence. On the rare occasions when she happened to run into one of his brothers or sisters, his name never came up. But he was always there, a silent, invisible presence.

Once the family star, he’d become a pariah overnight, his name erased from the tattered Bible that had been one of the few family possessions Enrique’s father had brought with him from Mexico after his parents had been killed in a flash flood in their small village near Oaxaca.

Not only had Rafe shamed his family by violating the daughter of their patron, but he’d also added to his sins by refusing to restore her honor by marrying her. As far as Enrique was concerned, the son he’d once adored was dead. He was not to be welcomed into their home if he returned. No one was to speak his name or pray for him on Holy Days.

Rosaria was forbidden to cry for him. But she had, Danni knew. Sobbing into her apron in the pantry of the old farmhouse where no one could hear.

Danni had cried too. Buckets. She’d lost weight because she couldn’t eat and cut her hair short because Rafe had loved it long. She burned her scrapbooks and photo albums and everything he’d ever given her. Nothing had helped.

It’s just puppy love, cara mía, Papa had said, holding her while she sobbed.

It was better this way, she’d see. Rafe would never have felt comfortable in the big house on the hill and she hadn’t been raised to live in a trailer in the migrants’ camp. Rafe would never be able to provide for her the way she deserved. The best he could hope for was a job as foreman like his father, or maybe a job as a mechanic, if he really worked hard. No, it was better for everyone that he’d left.

Only now, it seemed, Rafe Cardoza had come back. Bigger, tougher, with eyes that looked as though they’d forgotten how to laugh and a dangerous edge to his personality.

A man of substance, Papa, she thought, breathing in steam. A man who wore beautifully tailored suits as though born to them and carried himself with a steely confidence. And unlike the last time she’d seen him, a man who was clearly accustomed to being in charge.

Of Agent Gresham, perhaps, she thought lifting her chin in a way her brothers would have recognized. But not of her, she vowed, reaching for the soap.

Once she would have willingly thrown away her heritage and her honor and her family’s love for him. Now she simply wanted him to ask his questions and go away again. For good, this time.

Rafe opened cupboard doors until he found a serious looking coffeemaker. His spirits rose a notch as he pulled it out and plugged it in.

He’d given up his pack-a-day cigarette habit while he’d been in the hospital. Not that he’d had a choice, given the reality of life in Intensive Care. But once they’d weaned him off the ventilator and his lungs had learned to handle decent air again, he’d made it a permanent life change.

Caffeine was his only addiction now. He figured it would take another stint in ICU to wean him off the dozen or so cups of black coffee he drank every day.

“You want coffee?” he asked his partner who stood near the built-in pantry at the end of the work surface, dealing with Danni’s groceries.

“Yeah, with a heavy shot of Kahlua.”

“You wish, rookie.”

Laughing, Seth dipped into his duffel and pulled out another can. Using the towel he’d found hanging on a peg by the sink, he wiped off the mud before putting it on the shelf.

“Did she tell you when the daughter was due home?” he asked as Rafe hung his suit coat on the back of a Shaker style kitchen chair.

“Started to, then got sidetracked.”

One by one he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves. He hated suits, but tolerated them the way he tolerated service politics and dumb-ass restrictions put on field personnel by ACLU types who hadn’t a clue how rough it was out there on the streets.

“Have to say the lady’s got great legs for a shrink. Nice ass, too.”

Rafe felt his temper flash before he yanked it back. “We’re here to pump her for information, not ogle her butt,” he said in the steely tone he used when the rookie needed his attitude adjusted. One thing about Gresham, he was quick, Rafe thought as his partner’s expression went blank.

“Think she still loves the bastard?” Gresham asked a few minutes later as Rafe filled the pot at the sink.

“Who can tell with women.”

Rafe hadn’t let himself think about more than the bare facts of the case. Seeing her softly rounded tummy had slammed him back hard, and he was still reeling. Thinking of Danni as a victim of fraud and forgery had been safe. Something that was familiar, part of his job. Imagining Danni in bed with that piece of slime, though, that would be a mistake.

Rafe didn’t like mistakes.

Consequently he did the extra work required to make sure he didn’t make many. In this case, that meant keeping the past blocked off and his mind focused on the job they’d come to do. Caffeine would help.

After conducting a methodical search, he found a bag of coffee grounds in an antique canister marked ‘Lump Sugar’ and measured out enough for a full pot.

Watching him, Gresham filched a chocolate chip cookie from a bag that had already been opened. Apparently Danni snacked as she shopped. “Think she’ll ask us to stay for dinner?” he asked as he chewed.

“Jeez, Gresham, don’t you ever think about anything but food?”

“Yeah, but you won’t let me talk about my sex life.”

Rafe shot him a look as he switched on the coffeemaker. “Talk about it all you want—as long as you don’t blur the lines between private and personal when you’re on the job. Mistake like that just might get you killed.”

It was advice he would do well to remember, he thought as he tugged his tie free of his collar and slipped open the button.

Daniela was just one more victim. He was a government cop determined to bring down one more bad guy, so he would ask his questions, make concise notes with cross-references and annotations, give her his card, and walk away—this time on his own terms.

This time without regret.

This time without tears in his eyes.

Chapter 3

Danni was halfway down the stairs before she smelled coffee brewing. Oh sure, just take over my house, she thought with a wild mix of emotions. On second thought, why not let someone else give it a shot? After all she wasn’t doing such a hot job handling things herself.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, she heard them in the kitchen, talking in low tones. Though she did her best to remain quiet as she walked through the living room into the dining room, the conversation ceased before she reached the kitchen door.

Rafe was standing in front of the fridge, transferring eggs from the carton in his hand to the door. He’d hung his suit coat over the back of a kitchen chair, loosened his conservative gray and red striped tie and rolled his blue striped shirtsleeves nearly to the elbows, revealing wide, corded wrists and thick forearms furred with curly hair bleached almost white by the sun.

Beneath the well-fitting shirt, his chest was a massive wedge of hard-packed muscle, his torso long and lean, his hips narrow. Tucked into a leather holster clipped to his belt was an ugly black gun that seemed far too enormous to be a simple handgun.

His partner still wore his suitcoat, a nifty double-breasted pinstripe. Standing with his back toward the door, he was stowing canned goods in the cupboard pantry, shoving them with a haphazard carelessness that had her teeth grinding.

“I hope you do windows,” she said, glaring at them both in turn.

Rafe simply flicked her an impatient gaze. In contrast, Gresham turned to offer a friendly grin. “Only under extreme duress, ma’am.”

He had dimples, too, she noticed, and beautiful manners. His hair, neatly styled and cut to mold a head that was definitely patrician, was the color of semi-sweet chocolate. He had a straight nose, an angular face and a perfect tan. He was—in a word—gorgeous.

“Feeling better?” Rafe asked, looking at her directly now.

“Much better, thank you,” she said coolly.

“Coffee’s ready.” He closed the refrigerator door with a hard thump before tossing the empty egg carton into the trash can under the sink. “Made it strong. Figured it’d help drive away the chill.”

His thoughtfulness made her feel petty. She bit off a sigh. What was wrong with her that he could cause her to regress to the level of an insecure teenager? “Unfortunately, I’m on restricted caffeine intake for the duration. Doctor’s orders.” She patted the bulge beneath Mark’s old USC sweat shirt. “I’ll just put on some water for tea.”

He shrugged. “It’s your kitchen.”

“Exactly.” For as long as she could swing the rent, anyway, she thought as she carried the kettle from the stove to the sink. As she turned on the water, she was aware that Rafe was looking at her belly.

“How far along are you?”

“Five months.” She shut off the water, then carried the kettle to the stove and turned on the burner. She turned then, and deliberately met his speculative gaze. “I got pregnant shortly after Jonathan and I married. He said he didn’t want to wait, and at the time…” She took a shaky breath. “At the time neither did I.”

She caught the look Gresham sent Rafe and frowned. “Before I say another word, I want to know what right you have to ask me these questions.”

In response he retrieved a slim black leather wallet from the back pocket of his perfectly tailored trousers and flipped it open. Frowning, she stepped close enough to read the small print.

One side was a laminated card identifying the bearer, Rafael Martin Cardoza as a Special Agent of the Investigative Branch of the United States Secret Service. Attached to a removable black leather insert on the opposite side was a gold badge in the shape of a five-pointed star.

Surprised and a little awed, she lifted her gaze to his. “I thought Secret Service agents guarded VIPs.”

“Some do. In fact it’s the first billet a new agent receives when he leaves the academy.” He indicated his partner with a quick look. “Until a few months ago Gresham was assigned to the Vice President’s wife.”

“What happened two months ago?”

“He got promoted.”

“To what?”

“Major cases like yours.”

She frowned. “Mine? I don’t understand.”

“When the man you know as Jonathan Sommerset used your credit card, he committed fraud. Since the issuing institutions are in differing states, that makes it a federal crime.”

“The man I know? You mean that’s not his real name?”

Instead of answering, he returned his ID to his pocket, then drew out what looked like a photograph. “Do you recognize this man?”

It was a mug shot, one of those frontal and profile views she was always seeing on crime-stopper shows on TV. The face above the numbers and the name Jacob Folsom was Jonathan’s. Her stomach roiled. “This is Jonathan Sommerset, my husband.”

“His real name is Jacob Peter Folsom,” he said without inflection.

She blew out air. “I need to call Case. He should know that.”

“Case?”

“Detective Sergeant Case Randolph. He’s the one trying to find Jonathan. He also happens to live next door, in the house with the fuchsia door. He’s put out an APB or whatever you call an arrest warrant.”

“I’ve read his notes. So far nothing of substance has turned up.”

“Substance meaning what?”

Impatience tightened his mouth. She suspected he was far more accustomed to asking questions than answering them. “Meaning Folsom has gone to ground and no one has picked up his tracks.”

Case had repeatedly warned her the more time that passed, the more likely they wouldn’t be able to recover her assets, even if they found him. Even so, disappointment crashed through her. “Why is it with all the electronic gizmos and spy satellites and lightning-fast communications equipment you law enforcement people insist you need, no one has been able to find one middle-age swindler?”

Rafe turned his sleeves back another turn. “Miss him, do you?”

Her temper flared. “That’s a stupid question, Rafe. The man cheated me! All I want from him now is a divorce—and my money.”

Beneath the hood of dusty blond eyebrows his eyes crinkled with a sardonic amusement. “In that order?”

“In any order!”

After she rid herself of all ties to the man she now abhorred with every fiber of her being, she intended to devote herself to her children and her career, period. No more whirlwind romances for her. No more “Isn’t it wonderful to be so gloriously in love?” fantasies.

As for her husband of less than six months, she only wanted him back in her life long enough to sign the divorce papers waiting for him on her attorney’s desk and pay her back what he stole before they shipped him off to jail. Forever, if there was any justice left in this world.

“Where do you keep your mugs?” Rafe asked, lifting the coffeepot from the burner.

“Second cupboard. The ones with violets are for coffee, the daisies are for tea.”

He shot her a measuring look before retrieving two violets and a daisy. “A little obsessive about your mugs, aren’t you?”

“Needing to impose order on chaos is a perfectly healthy coping tool,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, as you pointed out, it’s my house.”

He poured coffee in the two mugs, left one on the counter for Gresham, then lifted his own to his mouth for a quick sip. “Your house until the Paxtons return from London, anyway,” he said, watching her over the steam.

Surprise sifted through her. “Was that in the file, too?”

He lifted an eyebrow, his expression mocking. “No, I got that from one of those electronic gizmos.”

She jerked the top off a cloisonné tin containing a selection of herbal teas. “My life is a train wreck and the man is playing ‘Can you top this’?” she muttered, ripping the bag from its neat paper envelope.

“Oh no, ma’am, us G-men aren’t authorized to indulge in games on duty.” He slid the daisy cup down the counter toward her. As she caught it, she saw surprise cross Gresham’s perfect features. Interesting, she thought, tucking it away for further study. Understanding and predicting human behavior was a passion as well as a profession. It made her feel secure to know within several plus or minus percentage points how someone would react to stimulus.

Rafe made her feel anything but secure.

“Nice house,” Gresham said as he picked up his mug. “Reminds me of the place I lived as a kid.”

His voice was part F.D.R., part J.F.K. Harvard, maybe? Definitely Ivy League at any rate. She suspected it hadn’t been all that long ago since he’d graduated. Maybe four or five years.

“My daughter likes it.” She would like Seth Gresham, too, she thought, hiding a smile. Lyssa had recently discovered boys. Later than most in today’s times, but that was partly due to lingering trauma. Knowing her daughter, she would rapidly make up for lost time. She wasn’t looking forward to the mood swings and separation struggles that were part and parcel of navigating one’s way through puberty, however.

Finished with the tea bag, she started to dump it into the trash, then thought better of it. Use it up, wear it out and never buy anything that’s not been marked down at least twice—that was her motto now.

She could get one more cup from this sucker, even though it would be weaker than she liked. Conscious that both men were watching, she plunked the soggy dripping bag onto a saucer from the cupboard overhead. She’d become an expert at detecting pity. She saw only a flicker in Gresham’s eyes, but not Rafe’s. His were cool and watching, physically familiar, but otherwise the eyes of a stranger.

“Would you mind if we go into the living room?” she asked after fortifying her tea with two spoons of sugar. “If I’m going to be subjected to the third degree, I’d like to do it sitting down.”

Without waiting for an answer, she led the way to the living room, more self-conscious about her altered body contours than reason dictated. It was instinctive, this awareness of the reaction she aroused in the male of the species, hard-wired into her psyche by eons of evolution like the fierce need to protect her offspring.

Not that she cared whether she ever attracted another man again in her entire life, she reminded herself firmly. Especially not one who looked at her with a stranger’s coolness, even as her blood swam with the memory of his mouth hot on hers.

The Paxtons’ living room was a mixture of tasteful antiques, comfortable modern pieces and accent pieces that ranged from priceless to endearingly homey, like the elaborate dollhouse Morgan had made for their daughter Morgana.

In the abstract, if not the literal, it had reminded her of the house she’d shared with Mark and Lyssa during what she’d come to consider the magic years. It had taken all of her control to keep from dissolving into a puddle of self-pity the first time she’d seen the exquisite little house.

“I sublet the place furnished,” she said when she noticed Gresham looking at the array of ceremonial masks Morgan Paxton had brought back from South Africa after covering Nelson Mandela’s release for his network.

“Interesting,” was all that Gresham said. “Especially that guy with the yellow eyes.”

Danni grimaced at the devil figure with its malicious grin. She preferred the benign face next to it, the one with the quizzical eyebrows and fuzzy yellow hair. The tribal equivalent of the archetypal jokester of Western mythology.

“The Paxtons’ twin sons start kindergarten next year, and Morgan is taking a year’s sabbatical in order to show his wife Raine and their kids Europe.”

Gresham looked impressed. “Used to watch him reporting from Baghdad during Desert Storm. Man has more grit than sense.”

“The Emmy he won is in the den.”

Gresham lifted both brows. “What’s he like in person?”

Her face softened as she recalled the generosity of both Paxtons. “Even more impressive than he appears on screen. And very kindhearted.”

“How’d you end up renting his place?”

Danni recognized the attempt to establish rapport and wondered if Seth was the designated good cop. Rafe, on the other hand, had made little attempt to be more than marginally friendly. A professional decision or a personal one? she wondered as she forced a smile from her tired facial muscles for Gresham’s benefit.

“You mean you don’t already know every tiny detail of my life?” she teased, playing along.

His grin flashed again, revealing perfectly aligned, blazing white teeth. “That particular fact must have slipped by.”

“My obstetrician, Luke Jarrod, lives on the corner across the street. He’s also a colleague and a friend. When he found out I was essentially penniless and homeless, he talked the Paxtons into hiring a housesitter.” She managed a smile. “Me, of course!” Her smile faded. Her facial muscles felt stiff. Sometimes she felt as though she were strangling on her pride. “The house wasn’t available for a month so Luke and his wife Maddy let Lyssa and me stay with them until then.”

Though her budget was as thin as paper, she’d insisted on paying rent, both to Luke and now to the Paxtons—but at a far lower rate than a house like this would ordinarily command. Because she worked hard to keep the house and contents in perfect condition, she’d managed to convince herself that it wasn’t really charity.

“Sounds like you have great friends.” Gresham looked genuinely interested in her well-being.

“I do. And I’m very grateful.”

“Guess I envy you. This job being what it is I’m never home long enough in any one stretch to do more than nod at my neighbors in my place in Alexandria.” Holding his mug in front of him, he wandered around the room, inspecting the eclectic memorabilia.

Holding his own mug, sipping occasionally, Rafe waited politely until she settled into the corner of the plush sofa with its heavenly eiderdown cushions before taking the chair opposite. Face impassive, he watched her steadily. The body language was classic, the dominant male of the pride sizing up his prey—or his next mate. Her skin warmed, then grew tight and itchy. She refused to squirm.