Come to Me. Linda Winstead Jones
she’d thought of that. “For now, I only want to know where the girl is and that she’s okay. I was only eleven or so when Monica was around, but I remember her fairly well.” Lizzie instinctively wrinkled her nose. “Monica Yates was one of the unfortunate string of inappropriate girlfriends Dad experimented with after Mom left. From what I recall, she wasn’t exactly brilliant mother material, so it only makes sense to check on the girl. If Jenna is happy and well cared for and in a safe place, I won’t shatter her world.” How dare Sam not even consider that a girl who was most likely her father’s daughter by another woman might want a big sister!
Stoic and unshakable, Sam stared at her. Sadly, Lizzie’s girlish crush on Sam Travers had not entirely dissipated. He was hot, even now. He was the kind of man who could give a girl shivers just by walking past or glancing in her direction. Maybe she should’ve dressed better and put on some makeup, after all. If he so much as winked at her now she’d probably tremble and tingle in all the wrong places. There might even be drool involved. She might embarrass herself completely with a nervous giggle. Too bad his wife was such a bitch.
“I can afford you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Lizzie said, digging her checkbook out of her oversize brown leather purse and slapping it on Sam’s desk. “I have a successful business, and Dad left me some money, so paying your fee is not a problem.”
Now Sam really looked annoyed. His lips thinned and his eyes grew cold. “I don’t want your money.”
“But…”
“I won’t take your money,” he said sharply, “not under any circumstances.”
At least it sounded as if he was considering taking her case. “Well, I won’t take charity, not even from you.”
He leaned forward and drummed his fingers against the desk. His lips thinned a bit more. Yep, he was definitely irritated. Irritated and macho and apparently accustomed to getting his way in all things.
“How about a trade?” Lizzie dropped her checkbook into the bowels of her purse. “You find Jenna for me, and I paint your office.” She glanced with undisguised disdain at the flat off-white walls.
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want a mural of any kind on my walls.”
“That’s good, because I don’t paint murals.” Not anymore. Yes, there had been a time when she’d been into landscapes and bowls of fruit, and between the ages of twelve and fourteen she’d painted an insane number of fairies and woodland creatures and kittens. Lots of kittens. She’d painted an awful fairyland mural on her bedroom wall at one point. She shuddered at the memory.
As an adult she’d all too soon recognized that she was a competent but mediocre artist. Maybe she could eke out a living painting Elvis on velvet or kittens with big eyes, but she’d discovered that her real gift was in reviving dull, lifeless rooms. “I paint interiors.” She shifted her gaze to stare at the wall behind Sam, and she let her mind go, the way she did when she worked. A calmness settled over her. “These walls would look great in cinnamon taupe. I’d do the trim in heirloom lace, I think. Maybe California cream or Carolina beach beige.”
“You paint walls.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
Sam shook his head. “Fine, we have a deal. I’ll find this maybe half sister of yours, and you paint my office. But…” He grabbed the letters and drew them toward him as he leaned slightly forward. “If this child’s life is settled and she’s happy and safe, you steer clear.” He used a voice that was cool and demanding. It was the voice of a man who expected his every word to be law. “It wouldn’t be nice to drop a bomb like this on a kid.”
Lizzie didn’t argue that she didn’t think of herself as a bomb of any sort. If she argued, Sam might change his mind. “Deal.” She stood and offered her hand across the table in a businesslike manner. Sam stood and took it. His hand was warm and large and strong, and she liked the way it felt around hers. To keep from sighing in delight, or perhaps jumping across the desk for a kiss, she asked, “So, how’s that bubbleheaded wife of yours?”
Sam dropped Lizzie’s hand. “I’m divorced.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing prettily.
“Six years now.” And the marriage hadn’t been good for two years before they’d ended it formally.
“That’s…” Lizzie stammered, she pursed her lips, her hazel eyes cut to the side and she shook her chestnut hair, most of which was currently caught in a long, thick ponytail. The bangs and wayward strands which had fallen out of the ponytail danced softly. “Heaven help me, I can’t say I’m sorry. I can’t force the words from my lips.” Her voice was quick, as if the words tumbled out of their own volition. “I can’t even say ‘that’s too bad’ because it’s not. Dottie Ann was nowhere near good enough for you. Gorgeous, yes, and heaven knows she had the kind of body you guys make yourselves fools over, but she didn’t have half a brain and she was so incredibly selfish. Dottie Ann, what a ridiculous name for a woman who’s under eighty. Dad told me she got weird on you after the shooting, which I completely understand. No, no, I don’t understand her reaction. I don’t get it at all. I understand what happened when you shot that guy, that’s what I was trying to say. Dad said you were totally justified. I don’t know why he didn’t tell me you got divorced. Six years.” She took a moment, perhaps lost in a flash of mental math. “I had just moved to Mobile and started school, and I guess Dad thought I didn’t need to know.”
Sam felt the ice settle in his gut. No one mentioned the shooting. That was in the past. Nothing had ever been out of bounds for Lizzie, though, and apparently that hadn’t changed. Her father had been one of the few who’d stood by him in those dark days, even though their official partnership had ended. Sam hadn’t seen Lizzie at all during that time. She’d been sixteen; he’d been angry and took to drinking too much, for a while. It was no surprise Charlie hadn’t taken him home during those bad days. He was surprised Charlie had talked about the shooting with his daughter at all. He’d always been determined to protect his little girl. Even from Sam, apparently.
Was that why Charlie hadn’t told Lizzie about the divorce? No, it was probably much simpler than that. Two years after the shooting he and his old partner had grown apart. They’d been busy; their lives had taken them in different directions. Later on—just a few years ago—they’d reconnected, but things had never been the same.
“He was so mad about that,” Lizzie continued. “That she didn’t stick beside you like any decent wife would’ve. That’s only one strike against her, in my book. That first time y’all were at the house together, not long before you got married, she told me that maybe one day I would be passably pretty if I lost some weight and outgrew my awkwardness and the rest of my face caught up with my nose and I grew or purchased boobs. Who says that to a fourteen-year-old?”
The conversation was not a happy one; it had stirred up a lot of memories best left buried, and still Sam smiled. “Same old Lizzie, I see. You never did have a problem saying exactly what you think.”
She pursed her lips together, as if physically trying to restrain herself.
Amy Elizabeth Porter had grown up to be more than passably pretty. She’d lost a little baby fat, though in spite of Dottie Ann’s cruel words she hadn’t had a lot to spare. Her face had most definitely caught up with her nose, and the long limbs that had once been awkward were now elegant and sexy—even though she obviously didn’t dress to call attention to herself. The jeans she wore were a little bit baggy, and the dark green button-up blouse was at least two sizes too large. Still, Lizzie had a model’s bone structure and legs that went on and on. She’d grown into herself very nicely—even if she didn’t have what anyone would call a curvaceous figure.
She’d changed dramatically, but for the mouth, which looked fine—more than fine, to be honest—but still opened too often and too freely.
Dottie Ann had been an idiot to say those things to a child. Why hadn’t he seen what she was