Bachelor By Design: Bachelor By Design / Too Hot For Comfort. Kay David
Joseph Callahan. I’m twenty-seven years old and live on Ravenna Drive in St. Louis, Missouri.” He arched a brow, then winced at the slight movement. “Am I right?”
“You looked older than twenty-seven.”
“At the moment, I feel about eighty-seven.” He struggled to sit up, his face blanching at the effort. “Make that ninety-seven.”
She clasped his shoulder and helped pull him to a sitting position. He closed his eyes, then dropped his head between his knees.
She chewed her lower lip, wondering if she should call him an ambulance. “Are you all right?”
After a moment, he nodded. “Just a little dizzy.”
“I still don’t understand what happened.”
He looked up at her. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, not to me.” She stood up and began to pace. “I find you unconscious under the stairs and I can’t find my brother anywhere.” She paused to look at him, twisting her fingers together. “Do you think Ramon is in trouble?”
“Definitely.” He gripped the newel post, then rose unsteadily to his feet. “Attempted murder is a serious matter.”
She blinked. “What are you saying?”
His brows drew together.
“Don’t look at me like that. And don’t pretend to be shocked. Ramon answered the front door with a butcher knife in his hand. He made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t want me anywhere near you. And, just yesterday, he assaulted me with a power saw.”
“That was an accident. And this is…pre-posterous. Ramon would never…could never hurt anyone.” Her gaze flicked to his foot. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Chloe, I admire your loyalty, but this is pushing it a bit too far. The man is a menace. He belongs behind bars.”
Her blood turned to ice at his words. Ramon would never survive in jail. He could barely survive out of jail.
“I know he’s your brother,” Trace continued, his tone gentler now. “But I have to report him to the police. Otherwise, he’s liable to kill someone with these crazy antics. And since I seem to be his favorite target, I’m afraid that someone will be me.”
“You don’t understand,” she breathed. “He’s had a tough life. Our family is…different.”
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
“I do understand—better than you think. But Ramon has to take responsibility for his actions. And a lousy childhood or a dysfunctional family aren’t excuses he can hide behind.”
His words transformed her fear to anger. “Look, this is ridiculous. I’m telling you, Ramon did not knock you unconscious. I give you my word.”
Trace folded his arms across his chest. “So who did?”
She shrugged, her mind racing to come up with a plausible suspect. “Well, there’s my uncle Leo. Sometimes he drops by unexpectedly. Leo likes to hit first, ask questions later. Then there’s Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“My cousin. He works as an enforcer for a loan shark. Sometimes he likes to practice on unsuspecting victims.”
“Charming family. Ramon is starting to sound better all the time. Any other violent types?”
“Candy,” she replied. “Another cousin. She’s hated men ever since her high-school sweetheart squealed on her to the Feds.”
Trace set his jaw. “You really expect me to buy all this?”
“It’s the truth!” She tipped up her chin. “If you don’t believe me, call my mother and ask her.”
“Maybe I will. Especially if she can talk some sense into you. What’s her number?”
“One-four-two-three-seven-six.”
He arched a disbelieving brow. “That’s her telephone number?”
“No, it’s her prison number. You’ll need it when you call the Women’s Eastern Correctional Center at Vandalia.”
Trace’s jaw sagged. “Your mother is a…”
“Convict,” Chloe said evenly. After her father’s death, she’d promised herself not to lie about her family anymore. Honesty kept shame and embarrassment at bay. “The speed-dial number for the prison is taped on the back of the telephone receiver.”
Trace stalked over to the telephone stand. “You’ve got three prisons listed here.”
“Four, actually, if you count juvenile hall. Benson, Uncle Leo’s stepson, hot-wired a car on his fifteenth birthday and went joyriding.”
Trace kept staring at the speed-dial list. “Your mother is really in prison?”
Chloe heard both horror and pity in his voice. She didn’t care for either. “Yes. But she’ll be out in less than a month.”
He turned to her. “Exactly how many D’Onofrios are behind bars?”
She glanced at the ceiling as she mentally calculated the number. “Six, if you count Benson. But he’s not technically behind bars. Juvenile Hall is more of a rehabilitation facility.”
“Six,” he echoed, sagging onto the sofa.
“So you see,” she said, joining him there, “I do have some experience with criminal behavior. Ramon just doesn’t have it in him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” she bit out, wishing she’d bitten her tongue instead. Trace already thought badly enough of her brother without knowing he aspired to become a master jewel thief.
“Tell me.”
“It’s not important,” she insisted, wishing he’d drop it, already.
He just stared at her, waiting. Was that empathy she saw in his blue eyes? Compassion?
“Fine,” she said at last. “On one condition.”
“You’re hardly in any position to make conditions. You can either tell me right now or I pick up the telephone and call the police.”
So much for compassion.
“Go ahead and call the police,” she bluffed. “I’m not telling you anything.”
But instead of reaching for the telephone, Trace leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes, his face still unnaturally pale. For a moment she regretted arguing with him in his condition. She knew in her heart Ramon wouldn’t purposely hurt anyone, but someone had definitely hurt Trace. And there was a high probability that someone was a D’Onofrio. Pangs of guilt and regret shot through her.
“Can I get you something,” she asked, her tone softer now. “An aspirin, or maybe some ice for your head?”
“No, thank you.”
“How about some pot roast? It will only take me a few minutes to reheat it in the microwave.”
He cracked open one eye. “You cook?”
“Since I was twelve. Someone had to take over the meals after Mom went to prison the first time.”
“Twelve.” Trace sighed, both eyes open now. “I was seven when my Mom left. Only she never came back.”
“I’m sorry,” Chloe murmured, knowing firsthand the inadequacy of those words.
“Don’t be. We had Aunt Sophie, and she couldn’t have loved us more if we were her own sons.” His mouth quirked up in a half smile. “Even when we messed up.”
“Then