My Secret Valentine

His heart pounding, he gently touched the girl with a shaking hand and spoke her name. “Katy? Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?”

At his touch, she launched herself into his arms with enough force to push him off balance. She clung to him, her thin arms wrapped around his neck in a choke hold, her trembling body pressed so tightly to his that he couldn’t have peeled her away without help. Quickly getting to his feet, he headed for Fiona’s back door and met her halfway, coatless, shoeless and damn near hysterical.

“Katy? My God, is she all right? Is she hurt?” she demanded, keeping pace when he didn’t slow down.

“I don’t know. Call 911. Get an ambulance and the police.”

She ran ahead into the kitchen and was stammering on the phone when he got there. He set the girl on the counter, or tried to, but she refused to let go. She held onto him as if he could keep her safe, but it was too late for that.

“They’re on their way.” Shaking as badly as her daughter, Fiona joined them. “Katy, baby, come to Mama. Let me look at you. Let me see… Oh, God, Justin, she’s bleeding.”

He’d seen the blood before she plastered herself to him, but not where it was coming from. Her hands, most likely, since her digging had apparently triggered the blast, and her face. God, he hoped she hadn’t lost any fingers! He’d seen it before with blasting caps, and experience suggested that was what she’d unearthed.

With Fiona’s help, he gently forced Katy’s hands from around his neck. Though her hands were, in fact, the source of at least some of the blood, he counted all ten fingers and gave a quick prayer of thanks. In the seconds before the still-wailing girl grabbed hold of her mother, he saw cuts on her hands and face, none that looked serious.

“It’s okay, baby,” Fiona crooned, holding her daughter tightly and rocking her side to side. “Everything’s going to be all right. Don’t cry, baby doll.” Sparing a steely glance for him, she asked, “What the hell was that?”

“I don’t know—a blasting cap, I think. I’ll find out.” But instead of heading outside, he went down the hall to the front door, reaching it just as an ambulance screeched to a stop at the curb. Two police cars were only seconds behind. He unlocked the door and left it standing open, then returned to the backyard. He was kneeling beside the hole in the ground when the two cops joined him.

“What happened here?” the taller of the two asked.

Justin automatically reached for his credentials, then realized they were locked in his bag in Golda’s guest room, along with his weapon. Getting to his feet, he offered his hand. “Justin Reed, ATF.”

“Colton Stuart, chief of police. You’re Golda’s nephew. I’m sorry about her death. We’ll miss her a lot.”

Justin nodded in acknowledgment.

“What happened?”

“The little girl was digging in the yard when she hit something.” He gestured to the hole. “It’s an old ammo can. I’d guess it had at least two blasting caps inside, maybe more. They must have been pretty unstable. When she hit the can with her shovel, they went off.” He glanced back at the house. “Is she okay?”

“She seems to be, except for getting the scare of her life.” Stuart combed his fingers through his hair. “Couldn’t ask for better luck than to have an ATF agent next door when something like this happens. Do you happen to work on the explosives side of the house?”

Justin nodded.

“You have any suggestions on how to proceed?”

“You have a camera I can use? And an evidence form?”

Stuart gestured to the officer with him, who immediately left.

Once more Justin knelt a few feet away from the hole. There were bits of shrapnel on the ground—probably the cause of Katy’s cuts—as well as pieces of twisted metal. The blast had been powerful enough to raise the lid on the steel can a few inches, until its hinge caught, but fortunately the can had contained much of it. If not… As close as she’d been, Katy could have suffered some damned serious injuries.

“Any ideas how the can got here?” Stuart asked, crouching on the opposite side.

Justin gave the area a critical look. “This used to slope down, and there was an alley separating these houses from those.” He nodded toward the houses on the back side of the block. Come to think of it, Golda’s yard had had the same slope. She’d complained that run-off from rain and snow created problems with erosion and kept her yard from being perfect. “You have any idea when it was filled in, by who and why?” The box could have been buried elsewhere, dug up and hauled in here. If it had been a few years, the caps wouldn’t have been so unstable then. It was possible they could have survived the move, possible the can could have gone unnoticed with a ton or two of topsoil.

“Three years ago,” Stuart replied. “The area had some major mudslides, and this was one of them. The city hauled out what it could and spread the rest around.”

Justin looked up at the mountains that rose around the city. The ammo can could have been buried anywhere from the next block to the tops of any of a half-dozen peaks miles away. Finding its original resting place and the person who’d put it there would be tougher than identifying a single grain of sand at the bottom of the ocean.

The young cop returned with the equipment Justin had requested. “Chief, the paramedics want to know if they can go ahead and take Katy and her mom to the hospital.”

“Sure. We’ll talk to her later, after she’s been checked out by the doctors and calmed down. Poor kid. She’ll never enjoy the Fourth of July after this.”

As Justin set up the thirty-five-millimeter camera, he casually asked, “You know Katy and her mother?”

“Sure. We just live a couple blocks away. We go to the same church, and our kids go to the same day care. Fiona watches our son, Martin, from time to time, and we keep Katy sometimes. Martin thinks of Katy as the big sister he never had. She thinks of him as a baby doll that won’t stay put when she’s tired of him.”

Smiling faintly, Justin snapped a few shots of the area, followed by several of the can still in the hole. Laying the camera aside, he lifted it out, then opened the lid. “Holy…”

“What is it?” Stuart looked over his shoulder but didn’t seem impressed. And why should he be? He’d never seen the carved wooden boxes before. He’d probably never heard of John Blandings, who’d celebrated his fifth wedding anniversary by giving his wife Anita an exquisite, one-of-a-kind, damn near priceless necklace and bracelet, each in its own hand-carved, ivory-inlaid wooden box. He’d probably never heard of Patrick Watkins, either, who’d relieved Mrs. Blandings of her jewels and, on his way out, left the garage in shambles with two well-placed explosives.

Quickly, Justin took several more pictures, then laid the camera aside and reached for one of the boxes. The lid was damaged, with flash burns and shrapnel embedded in its surface, but the gems inside…

All the Reed women—except Golda—loved flashy jewelry. They’d never seen a necklace too gaudy, a ring too ostentatious or a stone too big. Even so, not one of them had a piece that could compare to this. The emeralds were top quality, rich, deep, dark, damn near glowing inside, and the diamonds were as good or better. He’d estimate the smallest stone at three or four carats, the largest probably three times that.

Stuart gave a long, low whistle. “That must be worth—”

“One point two million. The matching bracelet—” Justin pointed to the other box “—is another half mil. It was stolen from a couple in the D.C. area four years ago. The thief slipped right through their elaborate security system, pocketed these and left another couple million dollars worth of jewels in the safe. Presumably they didn’t meet his standards.”

“And you know this because…?”

“To ensure that his cleverness didn’t go unnoticed, as he was leaving, he blew up their garage. Did close to a million dollars damage there, including the Rolls, the Ferrari and the limo that went up with it.” Justin shook his head wonderingly. “I’ve been after this guy for eight years. These were his fourteenth robbery and bombing. We’re up to twenty-four now. I cannot believe he’s been in Grand Springs.”

Quickly he checked the other wooden box, then the velvet boxes underneath. He recognized every piece—knew who it had been stolen from, how much it was worth and what kind of blast had accompanied the theft. For years, he—and the owners, the insurance companies and other law enforcement agencies involved in the cases—had wondered what Watkins had done with the gems. Very few had been recovered, apparently fenced when he needed money, but the really exquisite pieces had never shown up on any market. Everyone had had their theories, but no one had ever suspected they were buried in an ammo can somewhere in the Colorado Rockies.

An ammo can containing blasting caps that had been guaranteed to become unstable and go off at the slightest disturbance—or, hell, no disturbance at all. Static electricity in the air could have caused them to detonate, and the damage could have been much worse than a petrified kid.

Though that was bad enough, he thought grimly, hearing in his mind Katy’s hysterical tears and the panic in Fiona’s voice. It was past time to put a stop to Patrick Watkins’s games.

And he had a pretty good idea how to do it.

Fiona stood beside Katy’s hospital bed, watching her daughter sleep, thanks to the sedative they’d given her. Her injuries had been relatively minor—cuts on both hands and her face from flying shrapnel, a few bruises from both shrapnel and small rocks blasted loose by the explosion. She’d been incredibly fortunate, the ER doctor had stressed, and Fiona had given thanks for it repeatedly.

Now that she knew Katy was safe, she was feeling the aftereffects of the day’s emotional overload. The temptation to lower the side rail, crawl into bed with Katy and fall asleep holding her tight was strong, but she remained where she was, watching her, savoring the mere sight of her.

When the door opened, she didn’t look up. Her parents had spent several hours at the hospital, as well as her sisters and several of her friends, and the hospital staff had been in and out. Whoever it was could take care of business, then leave them alone. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want food, didn’t want anything but to watch her daughter and make sure she remained safe.

The visitor stopped just inside the door. Fiona had pulled the shades to block the afternoon sun and turned off all but one dim light over the bed, so he stood in shadow, but she knew who it was. “She’s asleep,” she said quietly. “You won’t wake her.”

Justin came forward until he stood opposite her. “How is she?”

“Just bumped and bruised.” That was Katy’s favorite description for all the little injuries she suffered in her tomboy play. Smiling at the memory of the phrase in her little girl’s voice, Fiona rubbed her arm, found it cool to the touch and gently tucked it under the sheet. “They had to put a few stitches in the worst cuts on her face, but she’ll be fine. They’ll hardly even leave a scar.”

“How long are they keeping her?”

“Just until tomorrow. Her injuries are minor, but she was so upset…”

“She’s lucky.”

“I know.” Fiona rested her arms on the rail and finally looked at him. He still wore jeans, but he’d changed from the shirt that had been splattered with their daughter’s blood. Now he wore a leather jacket open over a dark blue dress shirt that brought out the color of his eyes—of Katy’s eyes. He looked handsome, tired, serious—and just a bit excited. Because his uncomfortable duty trip to Colorado had turned into the work that meant so much to him?

Her resentment skyrocketed. Their daughter was lying sedated in a hospital bed, and he was happy to have a case to occupy his few remaining hours in town. But when she spoke, she kept the anger and shock out of her voice. “What happened? What exploded and how did it get in my yard?”

“It was an ammo can, a small steel case the military uses to store ammunition. Chief Stuart’s theory on how it got there is the mudslides a few years ago that leveled off your yard.”

Fiona was puzzled. “You mean, the military’s responsible for this?”

“No. Ammo cans are sold at surplus stores all over the country. This one held some stolen property, along with a couple of blasting caps. Katy must have uncovered the can while digging, and they detonated.” Withdrawing a notebook and pen from his jacket pocket, he gave her an uncomfortable look. “I need some information for my report—just basic stuff. Is that okay?”

She shrugged.

“What is your full name?”

“Fiona Frances Lake.”

His gaze lingered on her face a moment before he wrote it down. “And Katy’s?”

“Kathleen Hope.”

“Hope’s her last name?”

“Middle name,” she said impatiently. “Her last name is Lake.”

“But— Why doesn’t she have your husband’s name?”

His question sent a stab of pain through Fiona. He was the only man she’d ever wanted to marry, the only one she’d wanted to spend the rest of her life with, and he’d claimed to feel the same about her. It had taken her years to stop wanting him, and she hadn’t yet found a way to want anyone else. It had taken him only a few days, maybe even hours, to forget her.

“I don’t have a husband,” she said stiffly, “so it would be difficult for her to take his name.”

Justin stared at her across the bed, obviously surprised. “You’re not married?”

“No.”

“Have you been?”

“No. I had plans once, but it turned out, the offer was just part of the joke.”

He had no reaction to the jibe. He simply continued to look surprised, with some confusion thrown in for good measure. “But—Katy— Who is her father? Where is he? Why didn’t you marry him?”

Fiona went cold inside. This wasn’t funny. Pretending ignorance when she’d delivered the news of her pregnancy herself was not the best path to choose. He’d known he was going to be a father, and he hadn’t cared enough to even acknowledge it. He’d ignored her message and ignored their daughter for her entire life, and now he was pretending he didn’t know? Was he such a self-centered bastard that he possibly could have forgotten? Or merely a coward who couldn’t own up to his failings?

Or…was it possible he truly didn’t know? He sounded sincere—but he’d sounded sincere when he’d told her he loved her and wanted to marry her, and he’d been lying then. He could well be lying now.

She hadn’t actually delivered the news to him herself, a sly voice reminded her. She’d left the message on his answering machine—the only way she could make contact, since he’d refused to take or return her calls. When he’d never responded, she had assumed that he’d gotten the message and just didn’t give a damn about the baby. It had been so easy to think when he’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t give a damn about her.

But what if he hadn’t gotten it? An accidental erasure, a tape malfunction, hitting the wrong button by mistake… Oh, God, what if he’d never known?

Her palms damp, her stomach queasy, Fiona turned away from the bed and walked to the window, where she lifted one corner of the shade. The sun was setting, turning the western horizon shades of pink and purple, and darkness was quickly settling in. Already the streetlights were on, and as she watched, lights flickered on in nearby houses. She raised the shade, then folded her arms across her chest as she stared out. “I thought you were leaving this afternoon.”

“That was my plan, before this happened.”

“There’s an ATF office in Denver.” Six years ago he had talked about trying to get a transfer there. Obviously that plan had changed, too. “Surely they can handle this.”

“They could, but it’s my case.” His voice was closer, though she hadn’t heard him move. She felt, then saw his approach from the corner of her eye as he passed, then turned to lean against the windowsill. With his hands in his pockets and his ankles crossed, he looked more relaxed than he had a right to be. It was an illusion, though. There was tension in his jaw, in his eyes.

So much about him was an illusion.

“You can do that?” she asked as if she cared. “Claim a case as your own just because you have the dumb luck to be around when it happens?”

“No. Denver has jurisdiction, but they agreed to let me work it.”

Wonderful. So he’d be in town longer than she’d planned. How much longer? she wanted to ask. How long would she have to cope with the fact that he was living right next door? To know that every time she left her house, she risked running into him? How long would she have to tell him the truth…or do her damnedest to hide it?

“So…about those questions… Who is Katy’s father, and why didn’t you marry him?”

“I don’t see how either of them matters.”

“This is a federal crime, Fiona, and unfortunately, Katy is the victim. I need identifying information on her.”

“She’s the only Kathleen Hope Lake in all of Grand Springs, and I’m the only Fiona Lake. You have our address. I’ll give you our phone number and her social security number. I’ll even show you the scar on her leg where she slid into home plate last summer. That’s more than enough to identify her. As for why I didn’t marry her father—” How could that possibly have any bearing? But what was the alternative? That he was asking out of personal interest? Equally impossible. His personal interest in her hadn’t even survived the trip back to Washington. It certainly hadn’t survived the six years since. “He didn’t want to be married—didn’t want to be a father.” Maybe. Unless he truly hadn’t known.

Forcing a chilly note into her voice, she asked, “Any other questions?”

He looked as if he didn’t want to back down, but after a long, still moment, he shook his head. “Not at this time.” He pushed away from the window, then stopped right beside her. “I’ll be in touch,” he said quietly.

“I hope not.”

His smile was thin and thoroughly unamused. “I’m sure you do.”

She watched him leave, then returned to Katy’s bedside. Emotion tightened her chest and dampened her eyes as she gazed at her. Her daughter was the best, most wonderful thing to ever happen to her. She couldn’t imagine life without her—couldn’t imagine having a child somewhere and not knowing it, not being given the chance to love him or her.

So did Justin deserve to know about Katy? Would it make any difference? Would it turn him into father material, or would he walk away from her, the way he’d walked away from her mother? Would he want to spend time with her, be a part of her life, or would he reject her the way his parents had rejected him?

What if, God help her, he decided he wanted custody? Katy had never been away from Fiona for more than a night, and even then she hadn’t gone farther than her grandparents’ or a friend’s house. Could Fiona bear to send her halfway across the country? To not be able to kiss her and tuck her into bed, to not be there in case she woke up in the night or got sick or scared? Could she trust the most important treasure in her life to the care of a man who’d already shown his lack of trustworthiness?

She couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Katy was her daughter. Simply providing the sperm didn’t make a man a father, and that was all Justin had done. It wasn’t an act that should be rewarded now with the privilege of having Katy in his life.

But what if that was all he’d done because he hadn’t known? What if he would have been as thrilled with the prospect of parenthood as she’d been—if he would have loved Katy dearly from the moment he’d learned of her existence?

Hiding her face in her hands, she groaned aloud. She wanted to be fair to Katy, to herself—even, reluctantly, to Justin. All her life she’d made a point of doing the right thing…but she’d never faced a decision in which the right choice could cost her dearly. Not only might she bring this man, who’d broken her heart, back into her life, but she could conceivably lose her daughter. If he was angry or felt cheated, he could make her life—and Katy’s—miserable.

She groaned again, then gave a start when a voice came from the shadows near the door. “Is that shorthand for I’m tired, This day has been too much, Idiots shouldn’t be allowed blasting caps, or a prelude to tears?” Steve Wilson, surgeon and husband to one of her best friends, came into the light, carrying Katy’s chart. He laid it on the bedside table, then enveloped Fiona in a hug. “How’re you doing?”

It had been the worst thirty-six hours of her life, but she kept that answer to herself. “I’m tired. This day has been too much. Idiots with blasting caps should be locked away forever.” She smiled wanly. “No tears.” Not yet, at least.

“How’s Katy?”

“Sleeping peacefully.”

“Rest is the best thing for her. It’s best for you, too. It’s not the most comfortable bed in the world, but that chair in the corner reclines, and you can get a blanket and a pillow from the nurses’ station. Have you had anything to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He gave her a critical look, then said, “I’ll have them bring you a tray when they serve dinner. You’ve got to keep your strength up. Katy’s going to be pretty clingy the next few days. You’ll need all your energy and then some.”

Remembering the way she’d hung on to Justin that morning, and then the strength with which she’d grabbed hold of her, Fiona nodded. “Other than that, she’ll be all right, won’t she?” she asked, hearing the pleading in her voice and not the least bit ashamed of it.

“As far as we can tell. She might overreact to loud noises, have a few bad dreams, be afraid to leave your side, or she might bounce right back. You never know with kids. However she reacts, you’ll have plenty of help dealing with it. You won’t even have to ask.”

With a grateful nod, she rested her head on his shoulder as her gaze was drawn back to Katy. She’d practically forgotten what it was like to have a shoulder to lean on, to feel a man’s arm around her, to feel safe and secure in the way only a man could make a woman feel. The feminist in her rebelled at the thought—she’d been perfectly happy, safe and secure the last six years without a man—but the realist admitted it was true.

And the woman wondered how much truer it would be if the man wasn’t married to her friend and the closest thing she’d ever had to a brother.

If it was someone like Justin.

Speak of the devil… Once more the door swung open, and Justin made it halfway to the bed before abruptly stopping. He looked from her to Steve, and a curiously frosty look came into his eyes. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, though clearly he wasn’t. He offered her purse to her across the bed. “I locked up your house when we finished there this afternoon. I forgot to bring this in earlier. Your keys are inside.”

“Thank you.” Feeling something oddly like guilt, she moved out of Steve’s embrace to take her bag. “Steve Wilson, this is Special Agent Reed with the ATF.”

The chill in his eyes dropped a few more degrees as he extended his hand. “Justin.”

“Golda’s nephew. I’m very sorry about your aunt. I was one of her doctors and one of her admirers.” Steve nodded toward Katy. “I hope you catch the man who did this.”

“I intend to.”

He’d always been so damned confident, and he’d always had reason before. Fiona hoped he did this time, too. She hoped he was the best damn special agent the ATF had ever seen and that he buried the man responsible for hurting Katy under the tallest mountain in the state.

After a moment, Steve broke the strained silence that had settled. “I’m heading home, Fiona. Rebecca’s waiting for me. If anything comes up, don’t hesitate to call. And eat the meal they bring you. You can’t live on nerves alone. Justin, nice to meet you.”

“Thanks, Steve.” Fiona watched him go, then turned to put her purse on the nightstand.

The silence settled again, heavy, tense. It crawled along her skin and made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She was on the verge of snapping at Justin to say something or get out when he spoke. “A married man. I’m surprised. I never figured you for that type.”