Extreme Measures. Brenda Harlen
“Maybe she doesn’t need a father,” he said. “Not a father like me, anyway.”
“What does that mean—a father like you?”
He pushed himself up from the chair. “Just that I don’t know anything about being a father. I know nothing—less than nothing, even—about kids.”
“Most fathers are novices the first time around.”
“But…God, I’ve never even thought about having kids.”
“Well, you’d better start thinking about it,” his brother said practically. “Because you’ve got one now.”
“Did you…” Colin hesitated, almost afraid to finish the question. “Did you tell her not to tell me…about the baby?”
“No.” Shaun grinned. “In fact, I advised her to go after you for child support.”
Chapter 3
The worst thing about prison, Duncan Parnell decided, was the bed. If the narrow mattress on the steel frame bolted to the concrete floor could even be called a bed. He rolled slowly onto his back and stretched out, concentrating on his breathing as he tried to force his muscles to relax. Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he gritted his teeth against the stabbing pain.
He wished he had some of his pills, just to take the edge off. Even one pill. One pill would at least reduce the agony to a dull ache.
The guard had given him an aspirin, as if that would make a difference. He closed his eyes as the pain struck again, exhaled slowly. It was a good thing he wasn’t going to be here very long.
And when he got out, he’d make Jonesy pay for ratting him out. He didn’t doubt for a minute that it had been Jonesy who had turned on him.
McIver had picked Jonesy up from Detroit on a mid-season trade. He’d scored seven goals in his first ten games with the Tornadoes, and after Duncan’s accident, he’d been moved up to Duncan’s line to fill the vacant position. It was supposed to have been a temporary move, just until Duncan was back.
But McIver kept Jonesy in the starting line. As the team neared play-offs, Jonesy was getting at least twice the ice time Duncan got.
He’d made the mistake of shooting off his mouth in The Thirsty Duck one night after their play-off run had ended. Not to Jonesy—he and the pretty boy from Michigan weren’t that close. But Jonesy had been there, and Duncan had been furious enough to rant indiscriminately about his intention to make McIver pay.
Jonesy must’ve figured he’d be guaranteed Duncan’s place in the lineup next season if Duncan was behind bars.
And now, because of a few ill-chosen words and the subsequent explosion at McIver’s apartment, Duncan was a guest of the local correctional facility on charges of uttering threats. He knew the cops expected to pin the bombing on him. He also knew that they didn’t have any evidence against him, nor would they find any. Because he hadn’t done it.
If he’d planned to blow McIver away personally, he would have bought a gun and been done with it. He might even have enjoyed it. But no way would he have tried to build a bomb. Hell, he’d known a guy in high school who lost two fingers on one hand because he’d been playing with a firecracker.
Duncan shook his head. It was too much of a risk. His hands were his livelihood, his life. He wasn’t as big as some of the guys, he wasn’t as quick on his feet as others, but give him the puck and he could skate circles around all of them. He’d been admired for his “fast hands” since he’d started playing junior hockey at fourteen years of age. No way in hell would he risk his biggest asset.
You had to be nuts to play around with explosives.
Which is exactly what he’d told the cop who’d arrested him.
As the excruciating pain in his back eased a little, he smiled up at the bare ceiling. No, he wasn’t the type who got his kicks playing with explosives—but he knew someone who was.
And Boomer had been more than happy to take care of Duncan’s problem. He didn’t worry about being ratted out. Boomer had been in the business more than fifteen years, with only two arrests and no convictions. He was a man who took pride in his work and his reputation, and Duncan trusted him to get the job done. Which was another reason he didn’t mind being locked up right now—he’d have an irrefutable alibi when McIver’s body was found.
Nikki was up with the sun Saturday morning after a sleepless night. She knew her conversation with Colin the previous evening had barely scratched the surface of the issue, and the next round of conflict was inevitable. So she was almost relieved to find him at her door before nine o’clock.
“Where’s Carly?” Colin asked.
“She’s spending the day with Arden.”
His cool gaze narrowed on her. “I want to see my daughter.”
“I wanted to be able to discuss the…situation without being overheard.”
Her explanation didn’t seem to placate him.
Nikki didn’t care. She was only worried about how Colin’s sudden appearance would impact Carly’s life. And concerned about the void that would be left after his inevitable disappearance again. Because as much as she wanted Colin to have a relationship with Carly, she knew he wouldn’t stay in Fairweather. He’d never wanted to before; there was no reason to suspect he would now.
“Do you want some coffee?” The offer was made in an attempt to buy time rather than because she had any real desire to pump more caffeine into her system.
“Fine.”
She could tell by the clipped tone that he was still angry. Furious, in fact, and she knew she couldn’t blame him for that.
She led the way into the kitchen, then busied herself pouring coffee into two mugs while she sought the words that would explain her actions. She added a splash of cream to his, cream and sugar to her own. The task gave her another precious moment to compose herself, organize her thoughts.
She turned back to the table and handed him the mug. His fingers brushed against hers and her tenuous composition dissolved, her supposedly organized thoughts fled. She chanced a quick glance at Colin, found his eyes locked on hers, felt the heated awareness that simmered between them.
Despite the enormity of the issues unresolved, the basic attraction was still there. Like the glowing embers of a fire, stoked by that simple, accidental contact of their fingers. It was just another distraction she didn’t need right now, a complication she couldn’t afford.
“I’m still trying to understand what happened, Nicole, why—in all this time—you didn’t tell me we had a child.”
Whatever excuses she’d used to justify the deception initially, the more time that passed, the harder it became to even consider telling him about their child. And the older Carly got, the more unreal the whole situation seemed. Maybe it would have been easier when Carly was a baby, or even a toddler. But how could she track him down to tell him that he was a father—to a four-and-a-half-year-old child?
She’d always fallen back on the excuse that if Colin had cared about her at all, he would have come back. She’d clung to that justification, reveled in it. After all, he’d been the one to walk out on her. But now he was back, and she’d run out of excuses.
“I wanted to tell you,” she admitted.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because the day I found out that I was pregnant was the day I got served with divorce papers.” The memory of that day—both the overwhelming joy and the devastating pain—was still vivid in her mind.
“This was payback? Your way of punishing me for ending our marriage?”
She sighed wearily. “I didn’t think of it as punishment, but maybe it was. At first, anyway.