His Daddy's Eyes Page 5

  “Are you here for the group?” The inanity of her question struck her the second she took in his fine, navy pinstriped trousers, perfectly creased above Italian leather shoes. Even without a tie and unbuttoned at the collar, his smoke-gray shirt made a fashion statement: wealthy.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m supposed to meet a friend, but I got here a little early. Do you mind if I look around?”

  The bookstore owner in her wanted to offer him free reign, but some other part of her remained uneasy. She tried attributing her qualms to his proximity and his maleness, but somehow that wasn’t enough. She had a store full of males, and none of them made her senses peak like this man.

  “Be my guest,” she said, faking a smile.

  When he stepped away, she let out a long, silent sigh and turned to her desk. She had a hundred things to keep her occupied while the men talked, but couldn’t for the life of her recall a single one. She was about to sit down, when the stranger called to her, “Have you read this one?”

  His soft, husky tone made tingles run up her skin. Rubbing her bare arms—Sara told herself it was rude to ignore him—she walked to the cardboard display case holding the latest release from a popular, prolific writer.

  “No, I’m not really a fan of horror genre.”

  He seemed surprised by her frankness. A blush warmed her cheeks. Smart move. Knock a potential sale to a potential customer.

  “I once heard a fifty-eight-year-old man accused of killing his eighty-year-old parents say the reason he hacked them to death with a butcher knife was that they wanted to move into a rest home and he would have had to get a job.” His serious, contemplative tone took her by surprise.

  “Are you a psychologist?” Her first guess would have been politician.

  A smile tugged at the corner of his thin, masculine lips, suggesting a dimple in his left cheek. “It sometimes feels that way. I’m a judge.”

  Sara reflexively took a step back. A judge. The word conjured up memories of a time she wanted to be excommunicated from her consciousness.

  She started to turn away, but his next words stopped her.

  “In law school they tried to prepare us for some negativity.” He flashed her a beguiling, boyish grin. “Do you know the difference between a catfish and a lawyer?”

  Sara shook her head, intrigued by the humor in his tone and the oh-so-human crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “One’s a scum-sucking bottom feeder. The other’s a fish.”

  Sara tried not to smile, but did, anyway.

  Oddly, his smile faded. “The antipathy changes when you become a judge,” he said. “It doesn’t go away—it just becomes more…judicious.”

  The wistfulness of his tone caught Sara off guard. The only judge she’d ever met stood out in her memory as a Wizard of Oz kind of character. A big head and commanding voice, passing judgment on things he didn’t understand.

  “I’m sure it’s not an easy job, in fact, I can’t imagine one I’d want less.”

  Instead of being put off by her opinion, the man stepped around the display, bringing himself closer to Sara. It made sense since they were speaking in library-level whispers, but crazy alarms went off in her head, obscuring his reply.

  “It wasn’t high on my list, either, but when the governor asked me to fill a vacant slot, I felt I had to accept.”

  Normally, Sara might have credited his amiability to good manners and responded accordingly, but for some reason her long-simmering resentment over the justice system chose that moment to erupt. “You’re talking politics. I’m talking human lives. What makes you—or anyone for that matter—think you’re capable of deciding someone else’s fate? Doesn’t that constitute supreme ego?”

  His brows sank together in a more attractive way than Sara wanted to admit. “No, I don’t think so. Law limits a judge’s powers. Any judgment is based on evidence, and the law as it applies to that individual case.”

  “But how can you read a few lines on a sheet of paper or listen to two over-priced lawyers talk for ten minutes, then decide a person’s fate? Not everyone who breaks the law is a bad person,” she added in an even softer voice.

  His blue eyes were tempered with compassion, as if he knew she was speaking of herself. “I believe a person who breaks the law and pays his or her debt to society is a better person for it. The ones who break the law—from shoplifters to congressmen—and go unpunished are the losers. They have nothing to build on but guilt. What kind of legacy is that?” he asked.

  His words touched her, as did his tone and some elusive nuance in his manner, something that made her think he might actually be capable of knowing her without judging her. How crazy was that?

  “Ren?” a voice croaked.

  Sara blinked, dissolving the mesmerizing connection between them.

  The stranger straightened with such unexpected hauteur that Sara had to work at keeping her mouth from hanging open. He suddenly looked like a judge, not just some handsome man lending a sympathetic and understanding ear to her old grievances. Sara’s heart boomed in her chest—what had come over her?

  “Hello, Bo,” he said, turning to face Sara’s newest recruit. Bo hurried forward, displaying considerable shock at seeing his friend.

  “What are you doing here?” Bo demanded.

  “I had to work late and I remembered you were going to be here. I thought we could grab a drink when it’s over.”

  Sounds plausible, Sara thought, but it’s not the truth.

  Bo squinted at his friend a moment longer, then looked at Sara. She read something sad in his eyes. Anxious to help, she reached out to pat his hand, which gripped his book like a buoy. “It’s a very informal group, Bo. You can leave anytime. Besides, there’s always next week,” she said. “Did they tell you they’re switching to weekly meetings? What do you think? Do you want me to get you the next book?”

  His gaze flickered to his friend, whose grin provoked a snarling “Sure.”

  Confused by the antipathy between the two, Sara pulled back her hand. “Well…um, great. Stay put, and I’ll be right back.” She tossed a semi-smile in the judge’s direction, then dashed to her storeroom. She didn’t understand what was going on any more than she could explain what had come over her, but Sara cultivated new readers like flowers in a garden; she wasn’t about to let this one wither on the vine. Not without a fight.

  REN EYED THE BOOK in his friend’s hand, damn glad it wasn’t a gun. Prudently, he backed up a step, which also afforded a better view of Sara as she hurried toward a doorway marked Employees Only. His gaze followed the lithe form in the pale green dress. She moved quickly but with grace, back straight. Bo’s last photos showed her to possess a very shapely body with sleek calves and a trim derriere, but her business dress was of Shaker simplicity.

  “What the hell is this about?” Bo growled, taking a step closer.

  Ren raised his hand defensively—not that it would have done any good if Bo Lester took it in his head to beat him senseless. Ren had seen him in action more than once during Bo’s drinking years. “Pure impulse. I can’t explain it. I guess I needed to get it over with.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  Ren shook his head. “I didn’t know myself. I was supposed to meet Eve for dinner—she took the day off to drive her agent to the San Francisco airport, but she called from her car. Some big toxic spill up near Lake Shasta. I started home, then changed my mind.”

  Ren had only intended to peek inside the store, but something had come over him the instant he saw Sara Carsten—eyes closed, lips whispering a lullaby, rocking the sleeping child. The image was so ecumenical, so Madonna-like, that he felt drawn inside as if propelled by a force outside his body.

  And then Ren took the biggest leap of faith in his life. He’d picked up the baby. A child that could be his own flesh and blood. It was an idea so staggering and life-altering that he should have run in the other direction, but holding that compact little body seemed the most natural
thing in the world.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. You hurt her and you’ll regret it.” The threat was so serious, so unexpected, all Ren could do was nod, as Sara hurried to join them, a cardboard box in her arms.

  “Sorry ’bout the wait. I’ve been hoarding these so long I couldn’t remember where I put them.” As she neared, she faltered a step as if sensing the primitive, masculine energy between them.

  She set the carton on a display table and picked up one small paperback. “The title is A.P.B. It’s a little police procedural—the first in a series. The rest of the group voted for something light this time.”

  Bo put out his hand. “I like crime novels. The good guys always win. The bad guys either end up dead or in jail. Right?” He shot a pointed look at Ren.

  She glanced from Bo to Ren. “Umm…yes.”

  Ren regretted causing her added disquiet. “My friend’s not a big reader,” he said, picking up a book. “I can’t tell you how great it is that you’ve been such a positive influence on him.”

  One slender brow lifted. “Bo may not read a lot, but he must like books. He’s been here pretty often.”

  “Oh?” Ren asked.

  She nodded. “In fact, the first time he came in was to ask about a rare book for a friend.” She clapped her hand over her lips, a blush claiming her cheeks. “This is your friend, isn’t it. The rare book collector. I’ve ruined the surprise, haven’t I?”

  Bo seemed momentarily taken aback, but he recovered. “Actually, this is that friend, but since I’m not sure he deserves a Christmas gift this year, don’t lose any sleep over it, okay?”

  She was obviously puzzled by Bo’s response, but chose not to question him. Instead, she smiled. “My sister used to tell me I was notorious for speaking before my brain could catch up with my mouth.”

  The word sister caught Ren by surprise, and he almost missed a step as he followed her to the counter. Now would be the perfect time to segue into that subject, but he found himself mute. So, apparently, was his private investigator.

  While Bo paid for his new book, Ren studied the child sleeping so peacefully in the playpen behind Sara’s desk. The little boy had turned slightly, curled protectively around a stuffed elephant he’d somehow found in his sleep. This image, as much as the one of Sara rocking the baby, wrapped itself around Ren’s heart and squeezed.

  “What’s the baby’s name?” he asked, not having known he was going to.

  “Brady,” Sara answered guilelessly.

  She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Ren, who was studying her face, saw something that had been missing from her photographs, even the ones from Sunday afternoon. A luminous quality that enhanced Sara Carsten’s quiet beauty.

  “Brady,” he repeated. “That’s…different.”

  She flashed him a grin that made him blink. “You’re very diplomatic. Of course, that probably comes with the job. My sister, Brady’s mother, had the name picked out even before she knew she was having a boy, but she could never decide on a middle name.”

  The duplicity of his inquiry made his throat dry and his jaw ache. “You’re his aunt,” he said, as if not framing it as a question could absolve the guilt he was going to feel if he took this inquiry forward. Since Armory, his lawyer, wasn’t due back from Hawaii until tomorrow night, Ren had put off formulating a legal strategy.

  Her lovely face changed. In sorrow it became vulnerable. “My sister died,” Sara said simply. “She was killed in an accident, but she left me Brady.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. Hazel, not temptress-green, but beautiful nonetheless. And I thought she was plain.

  When she looked down to count Bo’s change, Bo shot Ren a dark look. It hadn’t been easy convincing Bo to stay on the job, but Ren’s promise to approach the matter slowly had helped. His impulsive decision tonight might have jeopardized things.

  “Well, there you go,” she said, tucking the book in a sack. “Thanks, Bo. I’m glad you came. And it was…um, interesting talking with you…”

  “Ren Bishop,” he added. “It’s Lawrence, actually, but only my mother calls me that.”

  He held out his hand, and she took it, just a trifle reluctantly. Her hand was small, her grip slightly reserved. “Sara Carsten,” she said, dropping his hand to reach for a card from a plastic basket beside the cash register. Her blush told him she’d used that as an excuse not to touch him any longer.

  Ren took the card she offered. “I don’t carry first editions,” she said. “But I might be able to help if you tell me what you’re looking for.”

  Ren was within a heartbeat of telling her the whole sordid story when the sound of men’s voices indicated the readers’ group was over. “We gotta go,” Bo said, starting away.

  As Ren followed his friend out of the store, he glanced back once and was surprised to find Sara’s gaze still on him. She had a puzzled expression on her face. He lifted his hand to wave goodbye, but Bo grabbed his arm in one plate-sized fist and dragged him bodily out the door.

  “You bastard,” Bo muttered, stalking off down the sidewalk. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to do this.”

  Downtown’s daytime hustle and bustle had given way to an empty-theater kind of quiet. Miniature lights peeked through the new-growth foliage of the well-pruned trees. A gold-hued street lamp spotlighted Ren’s Lexus while ignoring Bo’s Mazda one space ahead of it. The two cars seemed a metaphor for the contrast between their owners.

  Ren stopped beside the Mazda. “This wasn’t planned, Bo. It probably wasn’t smart. But I needed to see him.” I held him—the child that might be my child.

  Suddenly Ren’s knees felt disconnected from his body. He reached out to steady himself on the blistered hood of the car. “Is there a bar around here? I really could use a drink.”

  Ren’s response seemed to take some of the heat out of Bo’s anger. “Around the corner,” he muttered, leading the way.

  Bo didn’t speak again until they were seated at a small table. After the waitress delivered a light beer and a cola, Bo said, “Okay, suppose you explain to me what happened tonight. I thought I was the inside guy, and you were going to let the suits make contact when we all decided the time was right.”

  Ren took a long draw on his beer. “I was in my office looking at the pictures…the ones you took Sunday.” He paused, knowing there was no way to explain the sense of urgency that had been building in him ever since Bo had delivered the color photos of Sara and the child. Yes, he saw a resemblance in some of the shots, but this need to connect went deeper than that.

  He shrugged. “It had to happen sometime, right?”

  Bo took a sip of cola. “This means you’re going forward with the paternity suit, doesn’t it?”

  Ren couldn’t meet Bo’s gaze. He didn’t want his friend to guess the truth: that deep down, Ren wanted the child to be his. He needed the child to be his. As much as he loved Eve, Ren knew her career was her primary focus. It might be years before she was ready to have children, if ever. Ren was ready for fatherhood now.

  “Do I have any choice, Bo? Would you walk away? Live the rest of your life wondering?”

  Bo looked ready to argue, but in the end shook his head. “I guess not, but what about Sara?”

  Ren’s heart lifted, then fell oddly. He hadn’t expected to like her, but he did.

  “She’s a good person and a wonderful mother,” Bo said. “She doesn’t deserve what this is going to do to her. It’s bound to get messy. If she’s smart, she’ll scream bloody murder and hire some media shark like Steve Hamlin to make you squirm. Even if you ultimately win, you’ll be scarred for life.”

  Ren took another swallow of beer. Bo’s prediction threw him, but he pretended to shrug it off. “I wouldn’t blame her for going on the offensive. She obviously loves the child, and I saw what mentioning her sister did to her.” Ren’s voice faltered; Sara’s unshed tears had touched him deeply. “I don’t want to hurt her, Bo, but I have to know. What if he’s my kid?”


  Ren didn’t really expect Bo to understand. Bo’s relationship with his own father was practically nonexistent. Ren doubted they’d exchanged more than a dozen words in the past year.

  “Yeah, I get it. My old man may be a well-dressed rat, but I know he’d give his last dime to help me out,” Bo said, surprising Ren with his insight.

  Before Ren could respond, a voice said, “Don’t tell me you actually have a friend.”

  To Ren’s surprise, a woman in tight purple leggings and a blousy shirt pulled a chair from a neighboring table and straddled it, dropping her chin to the arched metal back. Her unsteady gaze flicked from Ren to Bo.

  Bo groaned. “Go away, girl. Didn’t you give me enough trouble earlier?”

  “That’s why I came over. To apologize.” Her words were slightly slurred.

  “Apologize for breaking my balls for nothing?”

  Her eyelashes fluttered coquettishly. “Did I have my hand on your balls? I must have missed that.”

  This has to be one of the hookers. Claudie? And she’s been drinking.

  She turned her attention to Ren. “Oh, my, aren’t you hunky—”

  “You’re off duty tonight, remember?” Bo barked.

  “Working girls never pass up an opportunity to…work.”

  A sad little smile crossed her lips, and Ren was reminded of Sara’s words. How can you know the person behind the crime? If Claudie were brought before him, what would he see?

  “Not tonight, Claudie. Besides, he’s taken,” Bo told her.

  “You could still introduce us. I don’t bite. Well, I do, but it costs extra.”

  Ren put out his hand. “Ren Bishop.”

  “Claudine St. James. My friends call me Claudie,” she said, giving him a suggestive look that came off totally fake. Ren decided he liked her pluckiness.

  Bo coughed. “So what’s the apology for, Claudie?”

  She drew herself up fairly straight and said solemnly, “I told Keneesha what I told you, and she called me a dumb f—person. She said Sara would never forgive me if she found out, and I’d better tell you myself or she would.”