Valentine's Child (2 page)

Sherry was virtually on her own at fourteen. No one regulated her. No one could afford the emotional commitment.

So… she searched for love elsewhere.

Her friends were her lifeline — at least, until she turned seventeen and her skinny legs lengthened and curved and her breasts developed and her cute, freckled face smoothed out and changed. Suddenly her eyes were blue-violet, her lashes thick, her lips full and smiling with promise.

So long, friends. Hello boyfriends.

The shame of it was that Sherry had welcomed the change. Reveled in it. Who wanted to be the plain girl? Not Sherry Sterling. No way! She wanted to be the siren, the girl everyone wanted to be, the most popular girl in school.

And she was bound and determined to win that trophy, no matter what it cost.

What a vain, silly, self-destructive goal. But for the girl who had nothing, it was a chance to have almost everything.

And everything included J.J. Beckett.

Sherry pulled into the Beckett drive and up to the gates. Her hands clenched around the steering wheel, headlights feebly arrowing through the pounding rain. The windshield fogged, and she switched on the defrost, glad the rush of air covered the surf-like pounding in her ears.

She had to climb out to push the button of the intercom. Cold raindrops trickled down the back of her neck. Her shoes were soaked, ruined, and she stared down at them dismally, wishing she didn’t have to go through with this.

But she did.

Punching the black button, she called, “Hello?” into the speaker.

Background fuzz. No answer.

She waited, then called again.

“Who’s there?” a female voice demanded, so sharp and clear that Sherry sucked in a breath in recognition.

His mother’s voice. The Dragon Lady. As cold as ocean waves and just as treacherous.

Sherry had run afoul of her without even trying.

Swallowing, she announced, “Hello, Mrs. Beckett. It’s Sherry Sterling.”

She’d said it and her voice sounded strong and clear.
Thank you, God.

“Who?”

Dragon Lady knew damn well who it was. For the first time since she’d decided to make this pilgrimage, Sherry broke into a smile. Nervous as she was, she was no longer the frightened little girl Patrice Beckett had scorned with such fury. “Sherry Sterling,” she said distinctly.

There was no answer.

“I’d like to talk to J.J. I need to get his address or phone number.”

“J.J.’s not here.”

Did I say he was?
Sherry controlled her temper with an effort. But it was good to be mad. Great, in fact. She’d cowered as a teenager but she was a teenager no longer. She was a woman who, for better or worse, had made some tough choices over the years and had lived with them. They hadn’t all been the best choices. Many times they’d been the only choices. But she’d made them all on her own.

“Would you be kind enough to give me his address? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Excuse me.”

Sherry waited and as the time spun out she realized she’d been cut off for good. Cut off as permanently as she had been nearly fourteen years ago.

Pressing the button, she said distinctly, “I won’t go away. I’m staying in Oceantides until I finish what I came for. I’m going to come every day and press this button until you either help me, or give me a good reason why you won’t. You can call the police. In fact, I’m sure you will. But it will only hurt you in the end because you know J.J.’s going to want to hear what I have to say.”

Back in the car, Sherry inhaled several angry breaths before she started the engine. In a spurt of indignation she backed out of the driveway, spraying wet-black gravel in all directions. Her right rear tire slipped off the road into a muddy bog. Yanking the wheel, Sherry punched the accelerator but the car only succeeded in spinning in a circle until she was sideways in the road.

“Damn …”

She tried to baby the car forward but the right rear tire spun deeper into the mud.

“Wouldn’t you know,” she muttered, sure this was some kind of punishment for arguing with the ruler of Beckett Manor.

Sudden headlights flickered eerily. A car was coming — 
fast!
Panicked, Sherry tried to twist the steering wheel. If this car didn’t slow down, it would plow right into her driver’s side as soon as it made the last turn. Stomping on her accelerator again, Sherry prayed for help. Her back tires whined and spun.

“Oh, God!”

The approaching vehicle whipped around the corner. Its headlights bore down on her like huge, glaring eyes. Sherry jerked back in the seat, as if that would save her from impact. A black Jeep. Racing toward her. Huge tires spewing water. Crying out, Sherry covered her face with her arms.

The driver slammed on the brakes. The Jeep shimmied and slid sideways, hydroplaning toward her car in a slow-motion nightmare. Sherry braced herself. Inches from impact, the Jeep suddenly shuddered to a stop, as if the driver had suddenly found a magic brake.

Sherry exhaled in a gasp of relief. She fumbled for the door handle. Hallelujah! No crash. No injuries. But her pulse was galloping at breakneck speed again.

The driver leaped out of his Jeep at the same moment she scrambled out of her Focus. “You okay?” she asked.

He strode toward her, hard, fast, his shoulders thrust forward.

“Oh, no.” She would know that walk anywhere. J.J.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded furiously. “Meditating? You want a view of the beach, go somewhere else. This is private property.”

“I know.”

“I nearly smashed into you! You’re damn lucky about my new tires otherwise we’d be examining the wreckage.”

He looked the same. From the thick black strands of hair now slapped lank with water against his forehead, to the dense, spiky lashes now starred with rain, to the rock-hard jaw, wide, muscular shoulders, lean hips, and long legs.

J.J. Beckett. All-around athlete. Her knight in shining armor.

Except he’d used her and thrown her away.

And suddenly Sherry couldn’t tell him. The words wouldn’t even form in her brain, let alone reach her lips. This angry man glaring down at her as if he wanted to rip her limb from limb, much the way he’d glared at her years before, didn’t deserve the truth.

“I made a mistake,” Sherry murmured, turning away.

That threw him. He was ready for a battle and she’d capitulated without an angry word. Running a hand through his hair, he only succeeded in pushing the rain-slicked locks away for a second before they flopped forward once more. He peered at her through narrowed eyes, his mouth tight with fury.

“Wait,” he muttered as Sherry climbed into her car and slammed her door closed.

Rain blurred the windshield. Sherry felt herself tremble again and muttered furiously under her breath, mad at herself, her own susceptibility. A shadow loomed outside and suddenly J.J. was right beside her, peering in the window. She froze, hands tight on the wheel. She had no reason to fear him now. But she couldn’t help herself.

The beams of his headlights were aimed through her windshield, glancing off her eyes, blinding her. She lifted one hand to shade her face, hiding from J.J.’s probing gaze.

“Hey.” He rapped on her window.

She toyed with the idea of simply tearing away, spinning through the mud and hopefully avoiding both him and his Jeep in her bid for escape. But running hadn’t been the answer in the past; it wasn’t the answer now. Cracking the window a sliver, she kept her face averted. Courage apparently wasn’t her strong suit, she realized, avoiding looking at him straight on.

“Are you lost? There isn’t anything else down this road except this property.” He gestured toward the house.

“The Becketts.”

“You know the family?” he asked. Now he was really staring at her.

“I’ve heard of them.” Sherry twisted the ignition but one of his hands, wet and strong, clamped over her window.

“Wait a minute.”

“I’m in a hurry,” she told him, pressing her toe to the accelerator.

Recognition crept over his features. “Sherry?”

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” she muttered. Thankfully the Focus crept forward, the tires gripping easily now that she wasn’t stomping on the gas. Still, she had to work to avoid his bumper. But J.J. hung right on, walking alongside the car, gazing at her until, unable to stop herself, Sherry stared at him full-face.

His eyes were gray, clear and full of undisguised shock. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Haunting the neighborhood.”

It just slipped out. After years of habit. Sarcasm, her favorite protective device.

And it was as if she’d suddenly awakened him from a hypnotic trance, for his face changed as he, too, remembered their last, acrimonious parting.

“You came to see me.” His voice was hard. “Why?”

“I came to see a lot of people. Don’t let it go to your head.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“Fortunately, that’s not true. Let go of the window, J.J.”

“No one’s called me J.J. since high school.”

“Really? What do they call you? Or should I even ask?”

He didn’t miss the jab, and she remembered with a tiny dart of pain, that he’d always been quick — one of the few intelligent jock Oceantides had ever turned out. His mouth quirked, almost with amusement, and she suddenly remembered the taste of his lips and the whiteness of his teeth.

Her heart jolted painfully. Why? Why did she remember these things?

“Jake,” he said quietly.

“Well, Jake, I gotta go. It’s been… interesting.”

“How long are you going to be in town?”

“As short a time as possible.”

He stared at her, long and hard. Sherry’s breath caught. She was mesmerized. As mesmerized as she’d been that first time he’d stared at her when she was scarcely sixteen, when he’d singled her out from the rest of the giddy, sophomore girls.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” was his response.

And then he slipped away from the window and strode through the rain to his waiting Jeep.

VALENTINE’S CHILD — NANCY BUSH

Chapter Two

The motel room was drab and smelled of mildew, but it was relatively clean, possessed an ocean view, and several of the units looked to be under renovation. Sherry flung her rain-drenched coat over the back of a desk chair, ran her fingers through her damp mane, then flipped out the lights and stood in front of the sliding glass door, staring at the dark, moving waves as they spread across the shore. There was a beach of sorts below the cliff, tucked tightly between angry bluffs of black rocks. A rickety wooden staircase hugged the headland for anyone who dared to climb down to that spit of wet sand. On a night like tonight it would be tantamount to suicide. Sherry stood where she was and longed for a glass of hot spiced wine.

J.J. Beckett. Excuse me — 
Jake
 — Beckett. Her inner eye remembered his glistening, wet hair, tense jawline, broad shoulders and jean-wrapped hips. She shook her head in disbelief. How could she be so focused on his body parts?
After all this time!

Groaning, she exhaled heavily, an ironic smile playing on her lips. She hadn’t even noticed his physical attributes this much in high school. Even when they’d been stripped naked and making love in the Beckett tree house, Sherry couldn’t recall thinking of him as so incredibly male. She’d been in love, and as such, she’d wanted to make love. A part of her had done it for him, because she had wanted to please him. But lovemaking had also seemed like such a natural expression of adoration, need and happiness that she’d been in there as well, eager to be with him.

Lust? No, she hadn’t felt it then. She hadn’t known what it was. Still didn’t, actually, although her mind seemed stuck in a pretty carnal track right now. How could it be that after all this time what struck her the hardest were all those male parts working seductively together?

J.J. Beckett. She’d had her chance to tell him tonight. Her shining moment. But in the heat of emotion she’d simply run. Run away. Just like she did before.

What had he said?
You haven’t changed.
Well, that wasn’t the truth. She’d changed mightily, and for the better. Gone was the Sherry Sterling of yesteryear. Gone was the painful yearning for things out of her reach, the anxious hours of waiting — waiting for that special something to happen to her.

Closing her eyes, Sherry tipped her head to one side and remembered…