MIDNIGHT CHOICES

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  MIDNIGHT CHOICES

  Eileen Wilks

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

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  Chapter 1

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  Highpoint, Colorado

  Humidity fogged the kitchen window where Duncan stood, gathering in tiny droplets at the bottom of one pane. Spaghetti sauce simmered on the stove, layering the air with scent – oregano, basil, the sweetish bite of onion and the meaty aroma of the Italian sausage he liked to use instead of hamburger. The phone was ringing.

  Probably his brother. If not, the caller would either give up soon or leave a message.

  He wiped a circle clear of fog and left his hand on the glass. It was cold. According to the calendar, spring had arrived, but winter died slowly in the mountains. It was likely to hang on, snarling and snapping, for another few weeks.

  He looked out at the line of cedars his father had planted along the back fence when he was three. They were nearly thirty feet tall now. He tilted his head and saw a gray sky sliced and diced by the bare black limbs of the oak that sheltered the rear of the house.

  Three rings…

  Duncan counted heartbeats in the silence between rings. His pulse was still elevated from his workout. A drop of sweat meandered down his neck. His arm throbbed like a mother, but that was to be expected. He'd learned to stop before throbbing turned to solid pain. Pushing for more than his body could give just slowed his recovery, and he couldn't afford any setbacks. He'd maxed out his personal leave; added to medical leave, that gave him just over a month to get himself in shape.

  In more ways than the obvious.

  Four rings. Idly he rubbed the raised tissue of the new scar on his forearm. It was cold outside, but free of ice or snow. He could run.

  With a click, the answering machine picked up. After a pause he heard his brother's gravelly voice: "You'd better be in the shower or something, not out running in this weather. I'm in no mood to nurse you through pneumonia." Another pause. "I'll be a little late – a problem with a supplier." Then the click as he disconnected.

  Duncan shook his head. Habits died hard – especially with someone as thickheaded as his big brother. Did Ben think the army only let them go out to play when the weather was nice?

  Still, he should pull on a dry sweatshirt. He headed for the stairs at the front of the old house.

  The doorbell rang. He paused with one foot on the step, tempted to ignore it as he had the phone. But this intrusion had arrived in person and would have seen his Jeep out front. He or she would probably keep ringing for a while, and it was cold outside.

  Reluctantly he moved to the front door, turned the dead bolt and pulled the door open.

  The woman on his doorstep looked cold. Her hands were pushed into the pockets of a pale pink cardigan that zipped up the front; it was the exact shade of her creased trousers. Her sneakers were pink, too, with shiny silver shoelaces. The flat white purse slung over her shoulder had the soft look of expensive leather. Her hair was icy blond and very short, revealing complicated little knots of wire and gems that dangled from her ears, which were small and pink with cold. So was the tip of her slightly crooked nose. Otherwise she was pale. And tiny. If she were to step straight forward into his arms, the top of her head would fit easily under his chin.

  His heartbeat picked up. His mind skittered for purchase.

  She was too young, too skinny. Her hips were no wider than a boy's, and the hand she pulled out of one pocket was long and narrow. He wasn't attracted to tiny, fragile-looking women a decade younger than he was.

  What color were her eyes? In the fading light he couldn't tell.

  Then those uncertain-colored eyes met his. And his thoughts spilled out, leaving his mind blank.

  "Is Ben here?" she asked. "Benjamin McClain?" When he stared dumbly at her, her eyebrows pulled together.

  Dear God.

  "I have come to the right house, haven't I?"

  What is this? What just happened? He licked dry lips. "Ben will be home soon. I'm his brother, Duncan. Duncan McClain." After a long moment it occurred to him to step aside. "Come in."

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  Gwen stepped across the threshold. It was, thankfully, a good deal warmer inside. Somewhere spices were simmering in tomato sauce. It was a homey smell … a homey place, she thought, glancing around. The entry hall was large, with a door opening off it to the right – probably a coat closet – and a staircase diagonally across from the front door. An open arch on the left led to the living room. The wooden floor was clean enough, but dull, as if it had been a very long time since it had received more than perfunctory care.

  There was a coatrack next to the door. It held a black ski cap and two jackets – a dark green parka with a hood and a denim jacket. Both obviously belonged to large men – to Ben and this man, she supposed. Duncan McClain, Ben's brother.

  Her hands were balled into fists in her pockets. She'd known Ben wasn't married or living with a woman. If he had been, she would have approached him differently. But she hadn't asked the detective to find out if he was living with anyone else – like a brother. This was a complication she hadn't allowed for.

  When in doubt, fall back on manners. That was one lesson her mother had taught her that Gwen often found useful. "I'm Gwendolyn Van Allen."

  He nodded without speaking. Obviously the name meant nothing to him. What odd eyes he had – very pale gray, rather striking with the dark hair and those straight, slashing eyebrows. Something about his eyes made her uneasy and she looked away.

  A pair of muddy boots sat next to the coatrack – work boots, the brown leather much scuffed and discolored. They were huge. She glanced from them to the running shoes on Duncan McClain's feet. The boots were bigger. They must belong to Ben.

  "May I take your sweater?" Ben's brother asked.

  "No, thanks. I'm a little chilly." Training enabled her to find a social smile and a topic, but her cheeks felt stiff. "I thought I was prepared for the weather here, but I'm a Florida girl. Your version of spring isn't what I'm used to."

  He didn't say anything. He didn't look much like Ben – at least, not like the photograph the detective had enclosed with his report. For a long time Gwen hadn't wanted to remember Zach's other parent, and she'd succeeded all too well at forgetting. Now she couldn't summon a clear image of Ben's face. Other things, yes, but not his face.

  A flash of shame slid the smile from her face. "You did say you expected Ben soon?"

  "Yes."

  That was it – just yes, no elaboration. And he was looking at her so intently… Nervously she sought for a topic that might drag more than a monosyllable from him. "I hadn't thought he'd be working late at this time of year. Construction work is seasonal, surely?"

  "Some of it is. You don't want to pour concrete when it's below freezing, for example, but if we waited for good weather to put up a building, Highpoint would be a very small town."

  "Do you work with your brother, then?"

  "No. Your eyes are green, aren't they?" He turned and started for the arched opening to the left. "You can wait for Ben in the living room."

  What an odd, abrupt man, she thought. Perhaps he was shy. He moved smoothly, though, like a man who was at home in his body and knew be could depend on it. He was taller than she was – well, almost everyone was taller than she was – but not as tall as his brother. Or as brawny. She did remember that much. Ben was an outdoors type. He'd seemed to bring a breath of mountains and open spaces into the trendy little club in Florida where they'd met.

  The living room was large and old-fashioned, with moldings framing the ceiling and a carved wood
en mantel that looked older than the house itself. The floor was wooden here, too, but mostly covered by a large gold area rug with brown borders. Two armchairs upholstered in a nubby beige fabric flanked a chocolate brown couch. Throw pillows in flame colors littered the long couch and one of the chairs; an orange pillow sat on the floor next to the other chair. The coffee table and end tables were cluttered and didn't match, but the effect was comfortable rather than careless.

  He turned on a lamp beside the couch. Though it was only five o'clock, it was dreary outside, dim inside. "Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"

  She shook her head and sat, though she would rather have paced. Her insides felt jittery, as if she'd had too much caffeine. He sat in the chair at right angles to the couch, his long body loose and apparently at ease. Then he just looked at her, those curious eyes intent, as if she posed a puzzle he meant to solve before he spoke again. She curled her toes up inside her sneakers, resenting him. "Do I have a piece of broccoli between my teeth or something?"

  He smiled slightly. "Am I staring? Sorry. You must be used to it, though."

  "No," she said, startled, then she flushed. "That didn't come out right. I wasn't angling for compliments."

  "Of course not. Why would you?" He crossed his legs, resting an ankle on the opposite knee. He was wearing baggy carpenter pants and a black sweatshirt. "How old are you?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  He shook his head. "Never mind. I take it your business with Ben is personal."

  "Yes." She rubbed her hands together, trying to warm them and hoping to distract herself from the urge to jump up and pace. "I can't explain. I'm sorry." This man is Zach's uncle. She was talking to her son's uncle and he didn't know it, and she couldn't tell him. Not until she'd told Ben.

  He studied her face a moment. "I'm not clever with small talk, but there's always weather. Folks around here never get tired of talking about that, so I can probably hold up my end. Of course, we're not as good at it as the English. They've elevated the discussion of weather to a fine art."

  "Have you been to England, then?"

  "Briefly, a few years ago. Beastly weather," he said, shifting flawlessly into upper-crust English. "Rained the whole bloody time."

  Surprise curled in the pit of her stomach. Why, he's good-looking, she thought. His face was thin, but the strong cheekbones and eyebrows gave it character. As she saw him for the first time as a person instead of a hitch in her plans, her face relaxed into a more genuine smile. "I'm not sure how long I can talk about the weather, not being as well trained as you are. In Florida we don't take much note of rain unless it's horizontal and tree limbs are whipping by at seventy miles an hour."

  "I'd take note of that, too. Have you ever been through a hurricane?"

  He'd claimed to lack skill at small talk, but he was very good at asking questions. And listening, truly listening, to her answers. As they talked, the nerves in her belly eased until at one point, when his eyes met her eyes in that direct way he had, she felt a sharp tug of pleasure.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. It had been so long … not that attraction was appropriate. For heaven's sake, this was Ben's brother. But she couldn't help being pleased. She was truly healing. Surely that meant she'd been right to take the steps she had.

  Then she heard the front door open and all her nerves came rushing back. Before she'd thought about it, she was on her feet again. Facing the doorway.

  "Smells good," a deep male voice rumbled as the door closed. "We have company for supper?"

  She knew his voice. It gave her a jolt. She hadn't expected the quick hit of familiarity.

  Then he was standing in the doorway, a big, solid man in a flannel shirt and worn jeans. He looked at his brother first, she noticed – a quick, assessing glance. Then he turned to her, a slight smile on his hard face, a question in his eyes. "You going to introduce me, Duncan?"

  He didn't recognize her. Humiliation burned like acid. "We've met. Though I see you've forgotten, so I'll reintroduce myself. I'm Gwen. Gwendolyn Van Allen."

  Shock slapped the smile from his face. Good. At least he remembered her name. This would have been even worse if she'd had to remind him of what had happened between them five years ago. She pulled a photograph out of her purse and crossed to him, holding it out. "And this is your son, Zachary."

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  Chapter 2

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  Cold air cut into Duncan's chest with each breath he took. His feet thudded steadily on the hard ground beside the road. Overhead the sky was a dingy black, with a few shy stars peeking out where the cloud cover thinned. His sweatshirt clung damply to his chest and back beneath the denim jacket he'd grabbed when he'd escaped the house. His heart was slamming hard against the wall of his chest. His arm ached.

  He needed to cool down. He'd been running about an hour – not long enough. He couldn't go home. Not yet. She'd still be there.

  So he'd walk awhile. He eased to a jog, then a walk as he crossed Elm.

  Dammit, she wasn't even his type. Too pale, too thin. Her hair was too damned short. He liked long hair on a woman.

  But her image kept intruding on his run in fragments, vivid and raw like the jagged memories of an accident victim. He saw her hands, the thin fingers nervously rubbing together for warmth. The ring she'd worn where a wedding band would go – silver and simple, with a single pearl. The small mole on her neck, right where a man would taste her pulse. He saw the quick bloom of anger in her cheeks when Ben didn't recognize her, and those silly silver shoelaces, a single note of whimsy in a polished package. He remembered the way she'd risen from the couch, drawn upward by the sound of Ben's voice. Forgetting Duncan was even there.

  He worked hard at not moving from remembered images to imagined ones. Like the way that delicate body must have looked locked in his brother's arms.

  It didn't matter. It couldn't. Whatever had hit him when he'd opened the door to her would fade.

  A car slowed as it passed him, turned into the parking lot and pulled up at the gas pumps at the convenience store on the corner. Maybe he should fuel up, too. He could get a cup of coffee, drink it in the store where it was warm and let the sweat dry. Then run some more.

  She'd had his brother's child.

  Or so she claimed. Maybe he shouldn't take her words at face value. People did lie. And Ben was the owner of a successful construction firm – not a bad target for a paternity suit.

  But he remembered the way she'd looked. The clothes, the makeup, the cropped hair – she'd had a shine to her, the kind of gloss that means money. Hard to believe a woman like that would need to trick money out of a man.

  He wished he'd seen the photograph of the boy. The second he'd realized just how personal her business with his brother was, though, he'd taken off. But he'd seen her face when Ben had made it clear he didn't have a clue who she was.

  He'd seen Ben's face a moment later, too.

  Ben believed her. Duncan's lips thinned. Damn Ben's righteous hide! How could he have fathered a child he didn't even know about? Ben, of all people. His big brother was no saint, but on some subjects he was about as yielding as the mountains they'd grown up in. A man took responsibility for his actions. A man used protection every time, and if he was ever fool enough to forget that, he'd better head straight to the courthouse for a marriage license, because he couldn't call himself a man if he allowed his child to grow up without a father.

  Yet Ben had had a son by a woman he hadn't even recognized. A son who'd done some of his growing up without a father. Duncan felt cold and wild inside. He wanted to smash his fist into his brother's face.

  There was a cop car in front of the 7-11. Duncan hesitated. But the wind was picking up, pushing a cold front ahead of it. He shivered, grimaced and told himself not to be an idiot. It would be a helluva note if he caught some stupid bug because he was so determined to avoid Jeff that he ducked out of sight every time he saw a police car. Ben would make his life hell if he got sick.
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  It was with a certain grim amusement that he saw his suspicions had been right. Jeff pushed the door open just as Duncan reached it. He was holding a steaming plastic-foam cup. He grinned. "Hey, there, GI Joe. You aren't out running at this hour, are you?"

  "Hey, copper. No, I flew in. Left my wings in the bike rack."

  Jefferson Parker chuckled. Jeff was a head shorter than Duncan, a lot chattier, several shades darker in skin tone and every ounce as stubborn. They'd been friends in high school, where Jeff had been one of very few black faces in the crowd – and the student-body president two years in a row. Which said a lot about his ability to get along with others and his determination to excel. "Better leave 'em parked or I might have to run you in for impersonating an angel. Not that anyone would believe it, between that ugly face of yours and those goose bumps you're sprouting instead of a halo. You going to let me buy you a cup of coffee?"

  Duncan eyed him. Jeff's dark eyes were friendly and incurious. What a crock. The man was nosier than a hound on a scent and just as hard to sidetrack. It had been a huge mistake to take Jeff up on his offer of using the police firing range to keep in practice.

  Still, he supposed he might as well see how long it took Jeff to get to the point this time. He didn't have anywhere else he needed to be. "Sure."

  Jeff introduced him to the young clerk, Lorna, claiming she made the best coffee in Highpoint – an exaggeration bordering on outright falsehood, Duncan thought a he sipped the industrial-strength brew. His old friend kept up a steady stream of chatter that included the shy young woman. He was good at that sort of thing, never at a loss for words. People relaxed with him.

  Probably a good trait in a cop, Duncan thought, watching.

  "Well, how about that," Jeff said as they left the store, stopping to stare in mock surprise at the bike rack by the curb. "Someone must have run off with those wings of yours." He shook his head. "Criminals are sure getting bold these days."