Have You Seen Her? (5 page)

“The scout will not see him play today.” Jenna met his anger with what she hoped was cool firmness, because her heart was knocking like an unbalanced piston. “The scout can see your son play as soon as he brings up his grade in my class.” She stepped back and drew a breath. Decided to be the only grown-up in the room. Grace under pressure, her father used to say.

“You may be able to buy and sell this school, Mr. Lutz, but you can’t buy and sell me. If money were important to me, I can assure you I wouldn’t be here. I am here, however, and I’m here to see children learn. I can’t do that without parental support. If we can’t find a way to work together for Rudy’s benefit, then you’ll get the opportunity to attempt to intimidate Rudy’s next remedial science teacher next year, when he repeats the class. Good day, sir.” Jenna turned and found Dr. Blackman’s face pale, mottled with red splotches of rage. She inclined her head, fighting the urge to smack him. “And thank you for
your
support, Dr. Blackman.”

Shouldering her briefcase, Jenna walked out of the office and let the trembles take over.

F
OUR

Friday, September 30, 4:20
P.M.

“D
AMMIT
,” S
TEVEN MUTTERED
,
APPROACHING
the front of

Brad’s high school at a fast jog. He was late for his meeting with Dr. Marshall by twenty minutes. He was lucky she’d agreed to stay at all on a Friday afternoon. That she’d stand around waiting for him was a virtual impossibility. If only he hadn’t stopped by the Egglestons’ house on his way from Pineville. No, he thought, taking the steps in three giant leaps, that had been the right thing to do. Samantha’s parents needed to know he was working to find their daughter. They needed the consideration of human contact when he asked if they knew anyone with a propensity to mutilate animals. They’d needed his quiet strength when they fell apart, clinging to each other while silent sobs shook them until Steven wasn’t sure they were even aware of his presence anymore. Seeing the Egglestons had been the right thing to do.

But now he was late for an appointment critical to his own son’s life. Dammit. Someday he’d find a way to juggle it all. Yeah, right.

Steven searched the school lobby, but no one resembling a chemistry teacher waited. She’d probably gone home. Steven sighed, feeling the weariness of the day overtake him. He’d have to call Dr. Marshall on Monday and reschedule. And in the meantime worry himself senseless over what she would have told him about Brad, although Steven wasn’t certain it was possible to worry any more than he already was. He knew better than most parents what kids could get involved in these days. He knew better than most how dangerous it was. Too bad his knowledge hadn’t saved Brad from whatever had changed his boy to a sullen stranger in four short weeks.

“Couldn’t she have waited a lousy twenty minutes?” he muttered, and made his way to the office to leave her a message for Monday, simultaneously turning his body to scan the lobby, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He’d walked a grand total of three steps backward when he slammed into something that cried out and fell to the tiled floor like a brick.

Years of habit had him reaching for his weapon even as he spun around and looked down to find a woman sprawled on the floor, her face hidden behind a curtain of shiny black hair, her lavender skirt hiked high on her thighs, exposing the top edge of silk stockings, the bottom edge of an honest-to-goodness garter, and a set of legs that seemed to go on forever. He heard the hiss of his own indrawn breath, felt his heart thump hard, his fists clench, felt every drop of blood drain from his head.

Oh, my God,
was all he could think.
Oh, my God.

Then she looked up and pushed her long hair from her face with both hands, revealing dark blue eyes that snapped with fury and full red lips that frowned with authority. Twin flags of color stained high cheekbones. Mesmerized, he could only stare.

Until she opened her mouth. “You incompetent idiot.” Steven blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Excuse me?”

In response she rolled her eyes and blew out an explosive sigh, throwing one arm wide. “Just
look
at what you’ve done.”

Steven’s eyes looked around the school lobby, seeing at least a hundred papers strewn across the lobby floor, her soft leather briefcase turned on its side. Lipstick and pens and keys had dumped out of her purse. Then he saw her massage her ankle and her face tightened, her eyes sliding shut as dismay gave way to pain.

He dropped to one knee. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t see you.”

“You weren’t looking,” she snapped back, her lips quickly returning to a firm line.

“No. No, I wasn’t.” He laid his fingertips against her ankle and her eyes flew open, alarm mixing with the pain. Quickly he pulled his hand back.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, her voice gone low and shaky. She scooted back a foot on her bottom, her eyes dropping to her thighs. Her face flushed dark red. “Shit.” She struggled with her skirt, pulling it down to cover most of her thighs.

Damn. Gone were the garters and the tops of the silk stockings. He should feel guilty for having looked, but somehow couldn’t find it in him. He did, however, regret that he’d frightened her, on top of knocking her down. He held up a hand meant to soothe. “I didn’t mean to scare you, miss. I was just trying to see if you’d broken your ankle.” He moved his hand to her ankle, stopping an inch away to look for permission. “Okay?”

She nodded, her eyes now wary, and he went still. This close he could see her eyes weren’t blue, but a deep purple. Violet. The combination of violet eyes with her black hair was... striking.

“It’s okay,” she said, bringing his attention back to the matter at hand. Her ankle. Her potentially broken ankle. She frowned again. “I can sign a waiver if you’re worried I’ll sue you,” she added sarcastically when he still didn’t move.

Surprised to feel his lips twitch, Steven made himself look away from her violet eyes and concentrate on her ankle that was already starting to swell. As gently as he could he probed the ankle while watching her response from the corner of his eye. He didn’t miss the way her arms folded tightly across her chest, the way her breath caught, the way she bit down on her lips. She was in pain, but her ankle was probably not broken. Gently he placed her foot back on the tiled floor, trying not to notice the way her toenails were painted a soft pink, the way the silk stockings clung to her calves. Trying very hard not to remember she wore honest-to-goodness garters under her modest lavender skirt.

God.
How many women wore real garters anymore?

He cleared his throat and hoped his voice sounded normal. “I’d say it’s just a bad sprain, but you might want to get it looked at,” he said, sitting back on his heels, looking away from her legs. He took note of her shoes, both lying off to the side. Black, open-toed, four-inch skinny heels.

Forcefully, he pushed the image of her legs in those heels from his brain, instead going for a tone of mild reproach. “A pair of more sensible shoes might have done a better job at breaking your fall.”

Her lips fell open. “Of all the—” Her violet eyes rolled again and she struggled to her knees, smacking his outstretched helping hand out of the way. She stared him in the eye, her hands plunking down on her rounded hips. “You, sir, have one hell of a lot of nerve. You run into me, knock me down, and then have the nerve to criticize my choice of shoes!” She grabbed her purse and started to shove her lipstick, keys, and other sundries back into it. “Like I wanted to buy the damn things anyway,” she muttered.

Steven picked up a shiny black compact and she snatched it from his hand with a scowl. “Give me that,” she snapped.

“Then why did you?” Steven asked, handing her a plastic bag filled with . . . He narrowed his eyes and stared.
Dog biscuits?
These, too, she snatched from his hand and shoved in her purse.

“Why did I what?”

“Why did you buy those shoes if you didn’t want them?” She stopped, her hand on her palm pilot. When she looked up, her dark hair parted like a waterfall and Steven felt his heart stop. She was smiling. Grinning, even. Frowning, she was striking. But smiling . . . She was absolutely beautiful. And her smile made his own lips curve up. Warmed him, inside and out.

“My friend talked me into buying them,” she answered. She reached for one of the shoes, holding it up for a rueful inspection. “I told her I’d probably fall and break my ankle.”

Steven laughed out loud, physically feeling the burden lighten from his shoulders. Not forgotten, not by a long shot, but lighter. For the moment. Suddenly uncomfortable, Steven stood up. Her eyes followed him, not looking away as he found himself wishing she would.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I wasn’t watching where I was going and I ran into you as much as you ran into me. You’ve been very polite and I’ve been surly. I’ve had—” She shrugged. “A bit of an intense day. I know that isn’t a good excuse, but it’s the best one I’ve got. I hope you’ll forgive my bad manners.”

Steven cast his eyes around the school’s lobby seeing the papers still strewn about. “It’s okay. Let me pick up your papers.” He could hear the brusque note in his voice and hated it, just as he hated it every time it came out. But it had become a part of him, part of the shield that kept all nonessential people at bay. Still, he hated the way her violet eyes widened and her dark brows scrunched together, puzzled.

Jenna stayed where she was for a long moment, offensive shoe in her hand. The change in his expression had been abrupt, laughing one moment, then distant the next. She wondered what she’d said. He’d started picking up the strewn papers. As he leaned forward, his golden hair picked up the reflection of the overhead lights, taking on a reddish gleam. He was tall and powerfully built and she found herself mentally comparing him to Mr. Lutz as she set the shoe aside and began gathering papers. Both men were tall, but the similarity ended there. Lutz used his size and physical power to intimidate. The stranger had a gentle touch. After her initial surprise when he’d picked up her foot, she’d felt no fear at all. Lutz’s eyes had been cold as ice. This man’s were a warm brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed.

Her hands stilled. Brad Thatcher had dark hair and a slender build. But her student’s eyes were brown and crinkled around the corners when he laughed. In fact, Brad’s brown eyes and warm smile were a lot like those of the man gathering her scattered papers. She closed her eyes as heat rose in her cheeks and she pressed her hands against her face. Brad’s eyes and smile were
exactly
like this man’s. Like father . . . like son.
Oh, Lord,
she thought, swallowing the groan that had started in her throat. This man was Brad’s father. She’d called him an incompetent idiot. And she’d practically shown him her underwear. Some first impression she’d made.

She looked up, unsurprised when she saw her purple folder in his hands. He was reading a test in the folder, his face a study in helpless, frustrated misery. He looked up and met her eyes and she felt as if she’d taken a rabbit punch to the gut. In his eyes she saw a riot of fear, disappointment, and a weariness that made her heart clench.

“You’re Brad’s Dr. Marshall,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “And you’re Special Agent Thatcher.”

He slid Brad’s test back into the folder. “I’m Brad’s father, yes.”

“We need to talk, Agent Thatcher.”

Friday, September 30, 4:30
P.M.

Leaning one shoulder to the wall, Victor Lutz watched the principal pace the threadbare carpet of his office with growing impatience. “It’s quite simple, Dr. Blackman. Overrule her.”

Blackman looked up, his scrawny face tight with anxiety. “I can’t do that,” Blackman said.

Lutz didn’t blink. “Why not?”

Blackman paced to the window and, arms crossed, shoulders hunched, looked through the glass to where the Friday night football crowd was beginning to assemble.

Lutz shook his head. Blackman was a fool and Lutz was growing very tired of having to deal with him. He pushed away from the wall. “Blackman.”

The principal’s head whipped around at the curt address. “I asked you a question. Why not?”

Blackman swallowed and pushed his glasses up his thin nose. Cleared his throat. “Because technically she’s right. Rudy is failing her class. School policy—”

“I don’t give a flyin’ rat’s ass about your school policy,” Lutz interrupted with a snarl. “I want Rudy to play. Today.”

“I can’t do that. Today,” Blackman added quickly. “I need time.”

“How much time?” Lutz asked, mentally planning to beat the shit out of Rudy for his sheer stupidity. It would have been so easy for him to pass that test. There were ways to manage situations like this. But did his blockhead of a son think? No. He walked into the class, unprepared, and handed in a blank sheet of paper. Idiot. Just like his mother.

“A few weeks.”

“Unacceptable,” Lutz bit out. “I want Rudy playing next week, Dr. Blackman, or you’ll find your plans for the new stadium severely underfunded.”

Blackman swallowed. “That stadium is not for my benefit, Mr. Lutz. It’s for the school.”

“Bullshit.” Lutz smiled and watched Blackman’s trembles creep up a notch or two. “Your promise to build a new stadium is the only thing keeping your contract negotiations open for next year. You lose your job, you lose everything.” He shook his head. “For a man who makes his living administrating, you’ve done a piss-poor job on your own finances. Here and at home.” Blackman’s face slackened in shock and Lutz chuckled. “I make my living based on obtaining information and using it most effectively. I know everything about you, down to the color of the boxers covering your pathetic skinny ass.” He placed his hat on his head. “You’d be wise to remember that.” He held up a finger. “One week. This time next week Rudy is back in the game.”

Blackman jerked a nod. “One week.”

Satisfied, Lutz took his leave, carefully closing the door behind him.

Friday, September 30, 4:40
P.M.

Steven helped Dr. Marshall to a chair at the worn table that dominated the teachers’ lounge and wordlessly pulled up a second chair for her foot. She lifted her foot to the chair, silently grimacing.

“You should ice that ankle,” he said.

She met his eyes, visibly smoothing her grimace to a smile, and once again he felt warmth curl around his heart. A man could get used to such a comfort. Unfortunately Steven Thatcher could not be such a man.