Because of a Girl (8 page)

Her lips did curve, even if the turbulence in her eyes remained. “It wouldn't go with my bus.”

He chuckled even as he kept searching her face. “You're right. What was I thinking?”

He kept pace when she started back toward the house.

“Was there anything else?” Meg asked politely.

Jack remained quiet until she'd opened the back door. “Maybe a couple questions.”

That was enough to get him into the kitchen, where he wanted to be, even though hanging around here put him across the line he'd drawn. He wasn't doing very well resisting the inexplicable attraction to this puzzling woman and her warm, messy home. The kitchen most of all, with an exposed brick wall, scarred, wide-planked floors and a big, farm-style table, made him want to curl up and stay.

And, damn it, whatever she had cooking in that Crock-Pot smelled so good, his stomach grumbled. He hoped she hadn't heard.

Jack leaned a hip against the edge of her counter, watching as she took a bowl of something that looked like paste out of the refrigerator and set it down before bending to retrieve a cookie sheet from the drawer beneath the oven. Her jeans stretched nicely over a round, firm ass.

He looked away. Yeah, he liked her kitchen, but she was the draw.

“Ask.” Her voice sounded sharp, pulling him back from an edge he wasn't sure he wanted to be standing on.

She was dropping blobs of what he realized was dough onto the cookie sheet.
Homemade biscuits.
Swallowing saliva, he knew he had to get out of here before he embarrassed himself.

“Why are you so scared for Sabra if you think she took off on her own?” He hadn't known he was going to ask until the question was out, lying there between them.

Meg's fine-boned hands went still. She kept her gaze on the bowl. “Shouldn't I be? She's fifteen and pregnant.”

Jack held his silence, waiting her out.

She shot him a glance of dislike. “She might have taken off, but it wasn't on her own. Unless she hitchhiked, in which case you'd think somebody would have seen her, she had a ride. Somebody took her.”

“Somebody she trusted,” he pointed out.

“The people you trust aren't always worthy of it.”

That was deeply personal, he felt sure. Was it Emily's father who'd let her down in a way that still hurt?

“That can be true,” he agreed.

“And being alone—”

She didn't finish, but he understood.

She dropped a couple more globs of dough onto the cookie sheet. Suddenly, the spoon clattered into the bowl. “It's my fault,” she burst out. More softly, she said, “I think it might be.”

The cop in him came to attention, but he was careful to sound no more than curious. Even sympathetic. “What makes you think that?”

“I was so mad the night they went to that kegger.” She faced him, anguish in her eyes. “I've never been like that. Yelling. And...the next day, I sat her down for a talk. I threatened to call the authorities because she wasn't obeying my rules. I can't believe I did that. I think... I'm afraid she didn't feel welcome here anymore.” Her shoulders hunched. “If that's why she left...”

He pushed away from the counter. “Meg.”

As if he hadn't spoken, she hurried on. “I wouldn't have kicked her out. I just... It's because of Emily.” She looked away. “I thought... I wanted to blame...”

“Sabra,” Jack finished for her. “You believed your relationship with Emily has deteriorated because of Sabra's influence.”

Color stained her cheeks. “Yes.” She made a sound probably intended to be a laugh. “God forbid it be
my
fault.”

“Meg,” he said again, stepping forward to grip her upper arms. “What's going on between you and Emily isn't anybody's fault. You know that, don't you? She's at an age when she has to start pulling away. How else can she do that except by defying you, and maybe yelling at you sometimes? All parents become idiots in the eyes of their teenagers for a while. Why am I having to tell you this?”

She searched his eyes, her own hypnotic. “It's stupid. I know it is. I just... I never thought this would happen with Emily.”

“Because you were such good friends.”

“Yes.” She tried to smile. “You don't have to tell me how naive I was, or that I'm overreacting. I just...”

She kept saying that, as if minimizing her feelings.

Instinct had him lowering his voice to a near whisper. He couldn't look away from her. “You just what?”

He felt her sag. “I think it has to be easier if you have...someone else. More family.”

Emily was all she had. That's what she was telling him. He wanted to pull her into his arms, let her lean on him.

You're investigating her, remember? She reminds you of Mom.
Except he was suddenly less sure of that. The loneliness she described, he'd felt, giving them something painful in common.

“Emily's dad isn't in the picture?” he heard himself ask, voice rough.

She stiffened and backed away. “No.”

He waited for her to elaborate.

She didn't.

“You're thirty-two,” he said finally.

“You checked me out.”

More thoroughly than she'd have liked, but he hadn't learned jack about her childhood, parents, Emily's father. She might have grown up out of state; otherwise, she hadn't gotten her first driver's license until she was twenty-one, which was pretty unusual.

“DMV records,” he said mildly.

“Yes.” Her sidelong glance held hostility. “I had Emily when I was sixteen. Is that what you're asking?”

“I suppose it is.”

“I identified with Sabra. Okay? No mystery there.”

Had somebody extended a helping hand, and she'd felt an obligation to pay it forward? Or had nobody at all helped her? After a moment, she faced him again, tears swimming in her eyes, accentuating the rich colors. “You have to find her. Please find her.”

Somehow they'd come to be standing close together again. He didn't remember reaching for her, but he held her hands. A dusting of flour floated in the air. And—
God
—was his head bending toward her uplifted face?

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

E
MOTIONALLY
, M
EG
FELT
as though she'd been fed through a shredder. It wasn't as if she'd had a moment of serenity since Sabra disappeared almost five days ago, but every time Jack Moore showed up, her horrible tangle of guilt and fear and something that felt like grief seemed to intensify. He was like...a magnifying glass with the sun sizzling through it? She didn't know.

Well, there was one thing she did know: right this second, he was thinking about kissing her. He might suspect her of something horrible, he might despise her, he might just plain dislike her, but he was tempted anyway.

And despite everything he represented, despite her own experiences, so was she. She'd never felt like this. Just once, to find out what it could be like. This was a strong man, one she was beginning to believe cared deeply. What would it be like if he cared about
her
?

Unblinking, they looked into each other's eyes. She had a close-up of his stubble, of gold striations in his brown eyes, of his lashes, thick and short. She wanted to lift a hand to his face, trace the lines that betrayed his character. The drumbeat of her heart filled her ears—until a jolt of alarm accelerated that beat.

Emily was bounding down the stairs.

“Oh, my God.” This time, Meg stumbled as she lurched back. Fortunately, she came up against the counter edge.

Expression dazed, Jack still hadn't moved when Emily reached them.

Her distrustful gaze shifted from his face to her mother's, and back again. “I suppose you're talking about me.”

Meg's laugh cracked. “No, honey, we actually weren't.” Which wasn't true, but what could she say?

“Then what's going on?” she demanded with a glare.

Jack, thank heavens, had blinked a couple times and assumed a more casual stance, hip again resting against the cabinet.

“I was being my usual charming self,” he said.

Emily's eyes narrowed to slits. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I was grilling your mother.”

“Oh.” She relaxed. “Okay.”

Angry, Meg said, “That's
good
? That a cop thinks
I
had something to do with Sabra disappearing? Gee, thanks.”

Emily gaped for a moment. Then she regained her favorite sullen expression. “I didn't say that.”

“Sure you did.” Meg huffed out a breath. “Did you wash your hands? Dinner will be ready as soon as these biscuits come out of the oven.”

Her mercurial daughter said hopefully, “Sourdough?”

“Of course sourdough.”

“Cool!” She went to the sink and began washing her hands.

“I'll leave you in peace,” Jack said, straightening, but she couldn't help noticing the way his gaze lingered on the sheet of biscuits she bent to put in the oven.

“Would it break the detective code of conduct if you ate with us?” Meg was vaguely aware of Emily turning slowly, astonishment widening her eyes. Then Meg almost groaned. What had she been
thinking
? He probably had a wife at home preparing dinner right now.

No, wait.
If he had a wife, why had he been looking at her that way? As if...

“Not sure about that code of conduct.” He sounded rueful. “But I know I'd be intruding.”

“There's plenty.” Was this really a good idea? Apparently she thought so. Maybe this could be her way of softening him up, convincing him she was a good woman who would never commit a crime.

Except, of course, she had committed a few, when she was young and desperate enough.

“If you have other plans, that's fine,” she added briskly, not letting herself acknowledge how much she wanted him to sit at the table with her and Emily.

“Meg. You were pretty annoyed with me a minute ago.”

Annoyed
didn't exactly cover what she'd felt. He'd poked at old wounds, his suspicion had made her mad...and he'd awakened a physical response she had thought disabled. And hope. That, too.

“Detective Moore—”

“If you're inviting me to dinner,” he said slowly, “it should probably be Jack—don't you think?”

“Jack, then.” Meg gathered her thoughts. “You're doing your job. Please keep doing it. It's...uncomfortable knowing you think Emily and I are holding back, but what we want most is for you to find Sabra and bring her home.” She looked at her daughter, who grudgingly nodded.

He let out a long breath, his mouth twisting. “My stomach has been rumbling since I set foot in the kitchen. And homemade sourdough biscuits? I can't remember the last time I had one.”

Meg surprised herself by laughing. “Okay, then.” She could do this.

“Emily, will you set the table?”

The teenager was still watching the detective dubiously, but she mumbled, “Oh,
fine
.”

Meg saw the grin Jack was trying to hide. It reminded her how much time he had been spending with teenagers lately.

Welcome to my world.

God help her, that was exactly what she'd just done.

* * *

C
ALL
ME
J
ACK
.

Really?
Because he wanted to be friends with a
suspect
?

But he couldn't kid himself.
Friends
wasn't what he had in mind. Assuming his mind played any part in his fascination with a woman he flip-flopped on. One minute, he convinced himself she was a flake, unreliable, shallow. She was arty, so she had to be, right? The next, he saw only warmth, a woman who was both loving and maternal, a solid parent who had extended that warmth to another kid who needed her.

Thank heavens Meg's daughter had appeared when she did. He'd be in deep shit if she hadn't.

He was still in deep shit. Staying for dinner was the height of stupidity under the circumstances.

From his first bite, he also knew it to be the best meal he'd had in years. The minestrone soup was spicy, probably healthy and delicious. The sourdough biscuits, dripping with real butter, melted in his mouth.

He made conversation while trying not to make a pig of himself.

Looking at Emily, he said, “I hear you're interested in theater.”

Although leery, she'd evidently been taught to be polite. “I've been stage manager for the high school productions since I was a freshman. Mostly everyone wants to act.” She shrugged. “But I like getting all the details right.”

Meg's glance at him was approving. Basking inappropriately in it, he asked if Emily was thinking of theater as a career. He was rewarded when Meg refilled his bowl with her “Cabbage Patch” soup.

Emily made a face at his question. “I'd think about majoring in theater in college, except I'd have to take
acting
classes.”

“Are you sure you'd have to?” His hand snaked out for another golden biscuit. His third. “There must be theater majors whose focus from the beginning is stage managing, directing, lighting.” He shrugged. “I don't know. There may be a track for people with your kind of interest.”

She looked surprised. “Um, maybe. I might check it out. Or just do it for fun. You know.”

He smiled at her. “Not into sports?”

Her nose crinkled.

Meg laughed. “We tried soccer and softball.”

“Softball was boring,” her daughter said, “and I
hated
being hit by the ball in soccer.”

“Swimming?”

“I'm not that good,” she admitted. “Did you do sports in school?”

“I played football in high school, got into rugby in college. Broke my collarbone twice playing it, my leg once, even my nose.” He fingered it. “Had fun, though.”

Meg shook her head and laughed at him.

When he challenged her, she insisted she'd been too big a klutz in high school to play sports, then gave a one-shoulder shrug. A shadow crossed her face. Sadness, at a guess. “I never went to college.”

“'Cuz you had me,” her daughter said, sounding... Jack couldn't quite tell. Sad? Or resentful? Maybe both.

“We all make decisions,” Meg said quietly and with an air of finality.

The conversation continued, and he somehow contributed, even as he couldn't help seeing the parallels between Meg and his mother, who had been different from his friends'. He'd heard whispers about what she wore, her nerve in actually going up onstage to sing with whatever band was playing a tavern. If she'd been able to find a vehicle to drive that would make people turn and stare, she'd have wanted it.

Meg, well, he had no doubt Emily cringed at her mom's clothes, the VW bus with the wild paint job that represented drugs and rock 'n' roll, the fact that she didn't hold a “real” job.

Whimsical
might be another word to describe both women, it occurred to Jack, although he'd never used it before. And that wasn't all bad. His mother had been fun. Imaginative and willing to play. In retrospect, he thought she'd have embarrassed him a few years down the line, as Meg did her daughter, but then...

Mom had opened his eyes. He'd believed in the impossible more than most kids did.

And he kind of suspected Meg might have given her child the same gift, however reluctant Emily was now to acknowledge it.

Crap.
Here he was back to convincing himself it would be okay to hit on Meg, when the truth was he'd already gotten way too personal with her and her daughter.

And, no, he didn't believe Meg had anything to do with Sabra's disappearance.

But he had to
prove
Meg had been in front of the school five minutes before the first bell rang. Until he did that—what? Was he seriously thinking about starting something with her?

Had she sucked him in with her warmth and creativity and ability to make a home where he wanted to be...when those were the qualities he remembered best in his mother? The mother who'd bounced off to a new life one day without looking back?

A tearing sensation in his chest made him aware how badly he'd screwed up by accepting Meg's invitation. Jack made his excuses as quickly as he could without being rude and left.

* * *

E
MILY
HAD
BARELY
taken her seat on the bus the next morning when she heard a girl somewhere behind her say in a hushed voice still meant to carry, “Jenn says she heard Ms. Guzman tell that policeman she saw Asher talking to Sabra out in the parking lot.” Significant pause. “And then she was gone.”

Shocked, Emily turned her head enough to identify the speaker. Courtney was a sophomore, too, a gossip princess Emily never had liked. But...would she
lie
?

The girl sitting with her gasped. “He was absent that morning! I have Band with him second period.”

Emily couldn't see her, but recognized her voice. Skylar Cort.

Thinking furiously, Emily gazed straight ahead. Could it be true? Was Asher really absent? And that detective
knew
?

Having him stay for dinner last night had been completely weird. He'd acted like he wanted to be friends. But probably not with her. There had been something going on when she came into the kitchen and he and Mom were standing so close—

Oh, my God!

She almost rolled her eyes, knowing she was echoing Skylar. But...did he like Mom? They hadn't been
doing
anything, had they? Or was he trying to con her? Make her think he liked her so she'd tell him stuff?

And...if she told Mom that's what she thought he was doing, would she believe her?

Yeah, right.
Like Mom believed
anything
she said lately.

Her thoughts pinged off in another direction.

Asher?

She hadn't noticed his name the day she'd sneaked a look at the attendance records, but if he'd only been gone part of the day and it was excused, he might have been listed differently. Or maybe no teacher marked him absent. Some teachers hardly ever took roll.

But...Asher?

As the bus made the turn onto school grounds, Emily braced her feet and held on to her pack. The freshman girl next to her tipped into her, turned red and mumbled an apology. Emily
hated
riding the bus. She had this fantasy of Dominic asking her out, and her becoming his girlfriend, and him giving her a ride to school and home every day in his so-cool pickup. If she had to save up for her own car, it would take forever. And if Mom bought her a car? Emily cringed to imagine what it would look like.

Asher, she reminded herself. She couldn't believe Asher'd hurt Sabra, even if she had ditched him like he suddenly was dirt underfoot. Emily liked him. He wasn't hot like Dominic, but he was
nice
.

Only...what if Sabra's baby actually
was
his? She had to have gotten pregnant either the week or so before they broke up, or the week or two after. So...it could be.

And if he found out and was mad or scared?

Taking her turn to step into the aisle and shuffle off the bus, Emily shook her head. Not Asher.

But Ms. Guzman wouldn't lie, would she? Even if he'd just talked to Sabra, why hadn't he told anyone?

And how can I find out?

* * *

“T
HIS
MAY
NOT
be what you want to hear, but I need you to back off on this investigation.” Lieutenant Davidson lounged in the chair beside Jack's desk. “It's going nowhere. Teenagers run away all the time.” His gaze stayed steady. “We can't afford to lose the man-hours you could be putting in on something else.”

Crap.
Jack had known this was coming, but he'd hoped to forestall it.

“I think something bad happened to this girl.”