A Defender's Heart. Tara Taylor Quinn

       CHAPTER FIVE

      PULLING OFF THE sweaty bandanna tied around his head, Cedar walked over to his pickup truck in the employee parking lot of The Lemonade Stand. He was one of a dozen men on the construction crew, building new bungalows on previously unused acreage on the other side of the swimming pool. But right now, he was alone as he unbuckled his tool belt in the deserted lot. Dropping it on the floor behind the driver’s seat, he climbed inside, pushing the ignition button before closing his door. In the July heat, the Chevy was like a sauna without the steam.

      A blast of warm air hit and he reached into the cooler on the floor below the passenger seat for his last bottle of water. Downed it. And glanced at the gray suit on the seat next to him. He’d donned it before lunch and quickly changed back into work clothes after delivering Heather’s salad to her office.

      Heather.

      She’d be coming to The Lemonade Stand, but there was no reason she’d ever need to know that he was working there. It wasn’t that she couldn’t know, but he didn’t want her to. He didn’t want to be responsible for swaying her in his favor again. Didn’t want anyone to convince her he was at the Stand as a way of proving that he’d changed. Or as an attempt to get her back.

      His atonement was between him and...him.

      The bungalows to which he’d been assigned were acres away from the main building, where Heather’d be meeting with Carin Landry, Dominic’s girlfriend.

      The parking lot she’d use was a small space intended for general visitors, on the opposite side of the now seven-acre complex. It was the only parking available without a pass card—giving access to a small, nondescript outer reception area, through which she’d be admitted to the main building after showing her identification.

      He’d finalized the details that afternoon, during his break, and then worked an hour of overtime to make up for the extra minutes he’d been away from the job. And maybe to work off some extra tension, too.

      Seeing Heather...

      Damn, he missed her.

      He needed a beer.

      Throwing the truck in Reverse, he heard his phone ring. Whoever it was could leave a message.

      Unless...what if it was Heather? Lila McDaniels Mantle, the Stand’s managing director who had absolutely no idea—from him, anyway—that he and Heather knew each other other than professionally, had said she’d call Heather to arrange the appointment with Carin.

      After putting the truck in Park, he grabbed his phone out of the heavy-duty case clipped to his jeans. And almost dropped it. The number on the screen was on his speed dial, but...

      “Randy Cedar-Jones?” he said before the phone was even fully to his ear. His father was calling him!

      Elation went to immediate alarm as he realized that something must be terribly wrong. Randy Cedar-Jones had never called him. Not once. Ever. They’d never met. He had the private number as part of a legal agreement designed by his mother. For all he knew, the line was only for him—set up when he was a kid. He called. Left messages. They were never returned. Never.

      Most people didn’t even know that the famous pop singer had a son. Cedar’s mom, who’d been a groupie having a one-night stand, had chosen to keep it that way. She’d told the singer about him, and had signed a legal document that she’d helped him draw up, valid until Cedar’s eighteenth birthday, agreeing never to approach Cedar-Jones or speak of Cedar’s parentage—including no paternity testing—in exchange for child support. She didn’t want her son raised in an unrealistic world, nor did she want him to be part of a two-family, two-home lifestyle. One with her and an entirely different one with Cedar-Jones. Her one demand had been that Cedar, the man’s only child, always had his private phone number.

      His mother, a kindergarten teacher, had never married or had other children. And she’d never made any secret of the fact that she was such a Cedar-Jones fan that she’d named her only son after the singer. Randy Cedar-Jones had sent flowers to her funeral when she’d been killed in a car accident shortly after Cedar graduated from college—but he still hadn’t picked up the phone when his son had called to thank him.

      Nor returned that or any subsequent calls.

      “Cedar! Is this a good time?” To talk, he figured his father meant.

      And with a mind that felt encased by sludge, he tried to sound as nonchalant as the old man did.

      “Sure, what’s up?” Something obviously was. But Cedar still couldn’t contain the excitement churning inside. His father had called him.

      Thirty-four years into his life, and it had finally happened.

      His mother would be glad. He had to tell Heather...

      Slowing his thoughts to adult level, Cedar listened as Randy said he had a favor to ask. And he felt another rush—of an emotion he’d waited for all his life.

      Wow. A younger Cedar had lived for this day.

      “I’ve got a...friend...who’s gotten himself into a bit of trouble...”

      Cedar listened, his mind racing ahead to possible fixes, thinking along the lines of cleanups and protection, even before he heard the gist of the problem.

      “It’s not unlike that case you had three or so years ago, the one where the guy skipped the country and you were able to get him to give you evidence to clear his partner, since they couldn’t prosecute him if they couldn’t find him...”

      The time he and Heather had gone to Egypt. And come home to meet Charles at her parents’ barbeque.

      “And the case from last year where the guy was found with 1000 kilos, but you were able to show enough doubt as to the ownership and how it came to be where it was, that he walked...”

      Dominic. Cedar had shown sufficient doubt, and then, just before he’d rested his case, the prosecutor had turned up with reports of 911 calls from neighbors, reporting suspicious activity at Dominic’s home. There’d never been any charges for anything as a result of those calls. Until then, he’d never known about them. And though one would expect there to have been a police report, none could be found. Other than the incoming calls to 911 that had been too vague to draw from. Concerned neighbors calling in suspicious activity. Dominic had been certain they had the case won, that the calls wouldn’t change that, so he wouldn’t come clean about them. Dominic had been willing to risk his freedom on the certainty that those calls wouldn’t matter, that no one would find a single report that would