Truth or Dare (10 page)

Once Harve okayed Jared's plans, Rachel spent the rest of the time staying on the opposite side of the room from Jared and avoiding looking at him.  When the meeting ended that afternoon, some of the men planned to stay over one more night, but Rachel and Jared had plane reservations for that evening.  She'd just finished packing when Jared knocked on her door.  On her way to open it she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt.

"Are you ready?"

Rachel nodded, and Jared, saying he'd rather not wait on a bellman, picked up his luggage, then came into her room and got hers.  "Let's go home," he said.

Rachel had been dreading the flight home for nothing.  As it turned out, Jared made no attempt at personal conversation, and she dozed, or pretended to, most of the time.

Their plane landed a few minutes ahead of schedule, and when no one met Rachel at the gate, Jared insisted on staying with her until her ride arrived.  She nearly panicked, fearing she'd have to introduce him to Mike.  She still hadn't go
tten
around to mentioning she had two children, and at this point, it would be a bit awkward.

They stood just inside the doors at the downstairs baggage claim area and waited.  A few minutes later, Rachel spotted Mike pulling up outside.

"Here's my ride.  You didn't need to stay with me, but thank you anyway."  Without waiting for a response, she threw a "See you tomorrow" over her shoulder and ran to the car before Mike could even get out.

Jared stood where he was and watched her leave.  He couldn't see the driver of the car well, but it was a man.  His eyes narrowed.  What kind of game was she playing?  And why did that car look familiar?  It wasn't one he remembered seeing parked at the station, but it was still familiar somehow.  There weren't that many 1965, fire engine red, rag
–
top Mustangs around these days.  Especially ones in mint condition.  With Missouri tags.

More questions to add to the puzzle of Rachel Fredrick.  And he fully intended to get some answers.  Soon.

*  *  *  *

The rest of that week and all of the next were hectic at the station.  It was the second Friday after Las Vegas before Rachel had a chance to slow down long enough to catch her breath.

She blew on her coffee to cool it and wandered past her desk to look out her office window.  The sights were familiar to her now.  The yellow daffodils and white, gold and lavender irises blooming in the carefully tended flower beds along the sidewalks and parking lot.  The clumps of love grass in the field beyond.  The sumac, in full leaf now.  The blackjack trees, the last to release winter, still a new spring green.  The giant transmitting towers of Channel 3 and the other stations, with their alternating red and white sections reaching up to tickle the bellies of fluffy white clouds.  The tail lights of Jared's car as it rounded the last bend in the drive, then pulled out onto Britton Road.

Rachel let the mini
–
blinds flop back in place and returned to her desk with a feeling of relief.  Three o'clock.  Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Freedom.  Those were the times she was free of Jared Morgan.  At least, physically.

He never volunteered where he went three afternoons each week, and she didn't dare ask.

These days, she barely dared to breathe around him.  She was walking on egg shells, and he was stomping around, growling like a bear with a sore paw.  Every time he looked at her wig or her clothes, disapproval showed in his heavy frown.

And every time it happened, Rachel stuck her chin in the air and glared right back
—
without the concealing safety of her glasses, which he had kept.

But when he looked in her eyes . . . oh, God.  His eyes could make her bones melt.  And it scared the hell out of her.

She'd been waiting ever since their return from Las Vegas.  Over two weeks now.  Waiting for she wasn't sure what.  A confrontation.  More questions maybe, or demands.  Something.  Anything!  Anything but his quiet looks.  Contemplating looks that said,
I remember that kiss . . . do you?

Hot looks, that said,
I want to feel your body next to mine again.

Intense looks, that said,
Please don't be afraid of me.

Soft looks. 
Talk to me.  Trust me.

Daring looks. 
Forget what happened in your past.  Remember how much you liked kissing me.
I dare you.

Challenging looks. 
Try to forget that my hands have touched you, my lips have kissed you.  And you touched and kissed me back.  Go ahead.  Try to forget.

She shivered at the memory of that look.  She couldn't possibly forget the way his hands felt, the taste of him.

Neither could she forget her fears.  So many fears.  If all she had to deal with was the panic she'd felt, she honestly thought she could cope.

But she didn't know how to cope with the rest.  Being attacked by a maniac wasn't the worst that had happened to her five years ago.  She closed her eyes and saw his face, imagined she could feel the gun in her hand.

No.  She would not think of it.  It was over. 

But Sutton's attack was nothing compared to Hank's betrayal.  Hank, her loving husband, father of her children, hadn't believed Sutton had attacked her.  "He wouldn't have bothered," Hank had said.  "I'd already told him the truth about you."

Confused, devastated, Rachel had asked what he'd meant.

"I told him that in bed, you were
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
disappointing, at best."

A cold shudder ripped through her.  Just the memory of those words, of the disgust in Hank's eyes, was enough to destroy what peace of mind she'd managed to gain during the past five years.

Never, never would she open herself up to that kind of pain and humiliation again.  Of all the secrets from her past, that one was the most devastating.

No, there would never be anything between her and Jared.  Never.

"Rachel?  You okay?"

Rachel blinked.  Gratefully, the memories dissolved.  Bobby Johnson, the page, stood in her doorway.  She smiled.  "I'm fine.  Just thinking, that's all."

"Well quit thinking so hard," Bobby said with a laugh.  "It's Friday, it's five o'clock, and it's springtime.  Time to get outa this place."

Rachel pulled open her bottom drawer and grabbed her purse.  "Right you are, Mr. Johnson.  And I've got someplace I'm supposed to be.  See you Monday."

The "someplace" was Caroline's softball game.  It was the season opener for the girls' slow
–
pitch inner
–
city league, and Rachel had promised her daughter she'd be there.

Mike was waiting at the curb when she walked outside.  He took her home, where she ditched her wig and put on a bra that fit rather than
constricted her lungs
.  She climbed into jeans and a sweatshirt, then she and Mike headed for the game.

Wheeler Park was located in a not
–
too
–
wonderful part of town, on Western, just south of Interstate 40.

"How will we ever find her?" Rachel asked, looking out at three separate games in progress on three separate diamonds.  "Are we late?"

"No," Mike said.  "Hers is the second game on this first field."

Mike parked the Mustang, and by the time he and Rachel reached the small, crowded bleachers, Caroline was there to meet them.  She was jumping from foot to foot, tugging on various parts of her new blue and gold uniform.

"Wow, you guys, you just barely made it.  This game's about over, and we're up next.  Gotta run!"

Rachel smiled and shook her head at her daughter's retreating back.  "Nice to see you, too, kid," she mumbled.

By the time Rachel and Mike bought soft drinks and hot dogs, a double play ended the game on the field, and over half the people in the stands headed for the parking area.

While eating her hot dog, Rachel watched Caroline's team huddle around a tall man with dark, wavy hair and broad shoulders.  Must be their coach.  The "hunk" Caroline was always talking about.

The way he stood, relaxed, hands on hips, reminded her of Jared.  He was the right height, the right build
 
.
 
.
 
.
 
good grief, it
was
Jared!  She'd never seen him in anything other than a suit, except for that time he'd been wearing nothing but a towel.  Her cheeks flushed at the memory.

Yes, that was Jared Morgan on the field, all right.  She'd recognize that tush anywhere.  The very thought made her cheeks sting hotter.

What was he doing here?  Heaven help her.  If he was Caroline's coach, he was also Caroline's best friend's father.

The gods must be laughing their heads off.  Here she'd been trying her best to keep her distance from Jared, and now their lives were more intertwined than ever.

Well, it wasn't going to matter.  She couldn't let it.

She forced her gaze away and concentrated on the opposing team warming up out on the field.  But no matter how she tried
otherwise
, her gaze kept straying back to Jared.

She choked down the last bite of her hot dog just as the opposing team cleared the field, allowing Caroline's Bluejays their turn at warming up.

Rachel wondered frantically if she could somehow hide.  But no, she couldn't do that.  When he saw her, and he would, she knew, she would simply have to face him.

CHAPTER FIVE

"Come on, you laggards, get into position," Jared hollered.  The outfield was ready and waiting, while his own daughter, Deb, and her best friend, Caro Harding, ambled slowly into the infield.  He popped a fly to left field and groaned when Susan missed it.  "Wake up out there!"

"Did your mom make it, Caro?"  Deb's voice floated back to Jared while Susan picked up the ball and threw it to third base.

"Yeah, she made it, finally," Caro answered.

Deb turned around and walked backwards so she faced the stands.  "Which one is she?"

"The one with the long, blonde hair, sitting next to my brother, Mike."

Jared popped another fly, this one to right field.  When the bat connected with the ball, something clicked in his brain.

Long blonde hair.  Brother.  Mike.  1965 fire
–
engine red rag
–
top Mustang.

It couldn't be.

Jared spun toward the stands and had to shade the sun from his eyes with his hand.  It couldn't be her.  It just couldn't be.  He wasn't that lucky.

He scanned the faces in the stands, anxious, hopeful.  He spotted Mike Harding in the middle of the third row.  And next to him, staring back at him, just as stunned as he was
—
Rachel.  Not the Rachel he saw every day at work, not the coolly glamorous Rachel he'd met one night in Las Vegas, not the terrified Rachel who had panicked in his arms.  This was the real Rachel, the smiling, outgoing, friendly, soft, beautiful Rachel.  The one he'd been wanting to meet. 
Rachel.

He caught the look of shock on her face and grinned. 
Well, well, well.  Rachel.

"Look out, Coach!"

"Dad!"

Jared turned and ducked just in time to avoid getting hit square in the ear with the returning ball
—
the one he should have been expecting, except that all his attention had been focused on Rachel.

Even with his near
–
miss, he couldn't wipe the grin off his face. 
Now I know what the term "knock out" means, when applied to a woman.

"At this rate," Mike grumbled beside Rachel, "the Bluejays are bound to lose.  You know him?"

Rachel's eyes never left Jared as the game got underway.  She answered Mike in a distracted voice.  "He's my boss."

"Your what?"

Rachel focused on Mike and shrugged.  "Jared Morgan is my boss."

"At the television station?"

"That's the one."

"But . . . but . . . he recognized you!  Without your wig and stuff."

Rachel glanced away.  "He, uh, saw me without it in Las Vegas."

"How'd that happen?"

"Just one of those things," Rachel hedged.  "It was an accident.  A mistake on my part.  Anyway, it happened."

"What'd he say when he found out?  And if he already knows, how come you keep up the costume?  He must hate it.  I know you do."

Rachel squirmed in her seat.  What could she say?  She couldn't very well tell her son that she kept up her disguise as a barrier against a man she shouldn't be attracted to, but was.  A flimsy barrier, at that.

She was saved from answering when Caroline put a runner out on second and Mike jumped up to shout, "Way to go, Caro!"