In Hot Water. Mary Baxter Lynn
“So I guess I’d better get to the office first thing in the morning. Right?”
Holt heard the excitement in her voice even if he was sure it was lacking in his. “That’s why I’m calling.”
Marianne Foster was the perfect employee. A bonafide paralegal, she preferred to spend most of her time as a wife and mother of two teenagers, a job that kept her hopping. She agreed to work for Holt when he did return to town, and he paid her handsomely for her standby services.
“Everything is ready and in tip-top shape.”
“I know that,” Holt interrupted. “I have every confidence in you. But you know that, too.”
“Still, it’s always good to hear,” she responded a trifle breathlessly. “And to have you back.”
“Later then,” Holt said with more abruptness than he intended. If Marianne had a downside, it was her inability to control her tongue. She loved to talk more than anyone he’d ever known.
“Uh, are you here to work? Like try a case?”
Realizing he’d missed his chance to end the conversation, he added reluctantly, “Looks that way.”
“That’s great. I’m really eager to get back to work myself. Too much of my kids can be a bad thing.”
“I understand,” Holt said for lack of anything better to say.
“Will you be defending anyone I know?” she pressed.
Holt tried to hide his irritation. “My father.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Dr. Ramsey.”
Her response wasn’t a question, so he didn’t treat it as such. “One and the same.”
“I’m so sorry about what happened to him.”
“Thanks.” Holt’s tone was terse.
Having obviously picked up on that, Marianne said on a rushed note. “Again, it’s good to have you back.”
Once he was off the phone, Holt walked to the window in his old bedroom and stared into inky blackness. He didn’t need daylight to visualize what was out there. As always, the grounds, covered with flowers, would be impeccably groomed. There wouldn’t be a stray leaf in sight no matter how hard the wind blew.
He thought about stepping onto his balcony, but it was still hotter than hell due to the humidity. He supposed he wasn’t used to this climate anymore; that was why he always felt so sticky, like he needed a shower.
Actually what he needed was several cups of chicory coffee, stout enough to make the hairs stand up on his chest. That might get him motivated.
He had no intention of going to bed since he knew already that sleep wouldn’t come easily. So much was going on inside his head that even if he tried to drown his woes in a bottle of expensive bourbon, he’d be wasting his time.
He rubbed the back of his neck trying to uncoil muscles that had tensed into one big jumble of nerves.
He had Maci to thank for that.
Admitting that did little to relieve his anxiety. He still could not reconcile the shock of walking into that room and stepping on a loaded stick of dynamite. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain his composure.
Yet seeing was believing. There she’d sat in the flesh looking as appetizing as she had the first time he saw her. All her best features were as he remembered: a gorgeous body with shapely legs and a tight ass, skin like white velvet, deep-set black eyes, apple-red lips and short black hair that would complement any man’s pillow. She was actually more appealing than he recalled.
Having a baby had ripened her body.
Blood surged into his groin and he grimaced. He’d had no intention of ever coming back to this house or seeing his father again, much less help him beat a murder rap. Now, after learning who “Mildred” was, he sure as hell didn’t want to be there. Remaining was actually an insane proposition.
Yet here he was. Committed.
He wished he hadn’t left his sailboat in Florida and flown here. Now he was expected to stay in the mansion, in his old room, too near to her.
He had never forgotten that night in Jamaica and had thought seriously of trying to find her numerous times, only to convince himself she was happily married with no possibility of a repeat performance of their time together.
Well, she was married all right. And she was his stepmother.
Holt muttered a double expletive. The little hottie from the night was now his stepmother. Go figure. He laughed a harsh laugh. Stranger things have happened, he guessed. Just not to him.
Once their eyes locked in that room for even a brief second, it was all he could do not to cross the room, jerk her into his arms and kiss her until the breath left her.
If he’d read her right, she had wanted the same thing.
So much for wedded bliss, he told himself, almost choking on another bitter chuckle. It wasn’t too late to tell his father to go to hell, he reminded himself, then walk out the same door he’d come in.
He even took that first necessary step when he again heard that sweet, soft voice pleading with him to stay. He balled his fists and stood his ground.
Now all he had to do was convince himself his weakness had all to do with his mother and nothing to do with Maci. He knew better. His staying had everything to do with her.
Admit it, Ramsey, he told himself. You’re fucked.
Six
“Liz, if he isn’t better in a little while, I’ll call the doctor.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Ramsey. The little fellow’s just teething.”
Maci rubbed her son’s back as his head lay cuddled against her neck. It was all she could do not to squeeze the life out of him. He smelled so good, felt so good, she never wanted to let him go. He was her sanity now that the rest of her life was in utter chaos.
Liz had sent word down that Jonah wouldn’t stop crying. Maci had immediately excused herself and gone to be with her son. While she wasn’t glad her baby was upset, she had been glad of an excuse to escape. She didn’t think she could have borne the explosive atmosphere in the study much longer.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Liz asked.
“I just hate to see Jonah so fussy,” she said, ignoring Liz’s concern.
“Jonah will be fine,” Liz said with confidence. “The last time he was teething the doctor said to give him some baby Tylenol. I’ll get it and give it to him if he needs it later.”
Maci nodded, then realizing that her son was fast asleep, she laid him in his bed, then kissed him gently. “Sleep tight, my precious,” she whispered, feeling unbidden tears sting her eyelids.
Moments later, safe in her room, Maci sagged against the door. She had made it to her suite in record time for fear she would accidentally bump into Holt.
Nervous and upset, Maci placed her hand over her mouth. She was going to be sick.
Scurrying to the bathroom, she emptied the contents of her stomach. She patted her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, then peered into the beveled glass mirror. Her reflection told her she looked awful. No color bled through her cheeks. She doused her face with more cold water. The queasiness, however, remained even after she eased onto the chaise longue and closed her eyes.
Holt’s face seemed plastered on the back of her eyelids. She sat upright, her heart continuing to pound at a rapid clip. Two long deep breaths in succession calmed her.
This