Christmas Confidential (11 page)

The men in the pickup that ran them off the road could have been Garvin’s people, too. He hadn’t seen their faces, but size-wise, they seemed a close match to the men at the terminal. He hadn’t noticed anyone following them to his place or on to the interstate, but with just about every other pickup on the road a white one, it was entirely possible.

T-Bone just didn’t fit in. Even if the guys in the truck had followed them, they couldn’t have known he and Miri would stop in that particular town for lunch. They couldn’t have breezed in and found a local stupid enough to shoot at her in the ninety minutes they’d been there. Hell, after that accident on the interstate, they should have lost complete track of him and Miri.

And what was the point of having someone shoot at her? The job was recovering the money she’d stolen. A dead woman couldn’t give that back. If they’d just wanted to scare her, why? Odds of her running back to Dallas to return the cash were somewhere between slim and none. A frightened woman would go into hiding—an easy thing to do on someone else’s dime.

He’d already had a headache when they stopped for the night, and thinking in circles wasn’t helping any. When he tried to stop, the next subject his mind went to was tomorrow morning and letting Miri go. No matter their agreement, could he really let her walk away from him? Could he return to Dallas without seeing her to her destination? Could he live not knowing where she was, if she was safe, if she needed him?

I don’t need you to protect me,
she’d said, and he was pretty sure she’d meant it. But he needed to know she was all right. He needed to be able to check on her. He needed to stay in touch with her so that if one day she might consider forgiving him, he could be there to help her along.

He had a lot of needs where she was concerned.

And the ten percent finder’s fee was nowhere on the list, he was surprised to realize.

“Are you awake?” Her voice was soft, sweet, sexy.

“Yeah.” He rolled onto his side to face her. Her hair gleamed golden in the thin light from the bathroom, but her face was nothing more than a pale oval, features indistinguishable.

She sat up, knees bent, arms resting on the covers over them. “If you had gone to your sister’s house, what would you be doing now?”

It was an easy question. No matter where the Montgomerys met for Christmas, they had the same traditions. “They like to go caroling in the neighborhood and drive around to look at the Christmas lights, and the kids always have rehearsals for their church Christmas program. All of my sisters are bakers. They do thousands of cookies in the week before Christmas, and the kids deliver them to the neighbors. And shopping. The whole family are master shoppers.”

She was quiet a long time. When she did speak, her tone was matter-of-fact, no emotion in it at all. “My last Christmas, we got new bikes, a trampoline, a basketball hoop and a lot of books. Mom thought kids should read to enrich their minds and play outside to exercise their bodies and their imaginations. Two weeks later, our father left, and five months after that, Social Services removed all four of us from our home. I persuaded the judge to let me go back after Mom completed ninety days of inpatient care, but they said the other kids were too young to return. When she got worse again, they tried to take me back, but we managed to avoid them. We moved a lot, made up new names and stories for ourselves. After a while, Social Services quit trying to find us, but we still mostly hid. Just to be safe.”

Dean had trouble swallowing. His throat was tight, and his words squeezed out in a croak. “Inpatient care. You mean rehab?” Drugs, alcohol—which one had been Mom’s medication of choice? And how could she have done either when she had children to take care of? What kind of self-centered woman was she?

“No. Psychiatric care. She had severe bipolar disorder. My father couldn’t deal with it. When she got really bad, he left. Having a wife who was crazy wasn’t good for his business reputation.”

Regret that he’d automatically assumed the worst of her mother flashed through Dean. No one wanted to have psychiatric problems, especially with four kids to care for and a husband who’d run out on her.

Obviously her father was the self-centered one. If he couldn’t handle his wife’s problems, how in hell had he expected the kids to? Why hadn’t he taken them with him? How heartless could the bastard be?

“We lost pretty much everything after he left—the house, the car, regular meals. Mom had never worked except to put him through college. Even if she could have held a job, all she knew was waiting tables and being a mom. The court ordered our father to pay child support, but he moved out of state and no one seemed very interested in tracking him down.”

When he’d asked about her father earlier, all she’d said was he ran out and never came back. Truth, on the surface, but hiding a lot of ugliness. Dean hated deadbeat fathers. Starting with his secretary’s ex, he’d tracked down a bunch of them, always for free to the mothers. Kids suffered enough when marriages ended. If he could help it, they wouldn’t be burdened by a lack of funds. By losing
regular meals.
Damn!

Miri went on in the plain, level voice that chilled him as much as her words, relating a nightmare life in the same way he might say,
I had a great childhood.
“We went from a beautiful big house to a one-bedroom apartment with cockroaches as big as Chloe. Mom did the best she could, but there were times when she couldn’t even get out of bed. Other times, she’d go days without sleeping, so manic that she scared us all.”

“So you took care of the other kids and your mother.” The idea made him hurt. She’d been so young, abandoned unwillingly by her mother, spitefully by her father. A lot of adults couldn’t have coped with that situation. How was a child supposed to?

By becoming secretive. Distrusting. Disillusioned. Keeping people at arm’s length and building a wall around herself so no one could hurt her again.

“Not well enough. After a while, the state terminated Mom’s parental rights and they let Sophy, Oliver and Chloe be adopted.”

“Aw, Miri.” He hesitated, then shoved back the covers and crossed the few feet between the beds to sit beside her. She didn’t flinch or edge away, not even when he laid his hand lightly on hers. “You were ten years old. Your parents couldn’t hold the family together. How could you expect to?”

“I was the oldest. It was my responsibility.”

“The only responsibilities ten-year-olds are supposed to have are cleaning their rooms, doing their homework and taking out the trash. You weren’t responsible. You couldn’t be. You give your mother credit for doing her best. You have to give yourself the same credit.”

Her soft sigh didn’t sound convinced as she rested her chin on her knees. “My name was Ali then. The last time I saw Oliver and Chloe, they were screaming
Ali, Ali!
as the social workers dragged them away. Sophy tried to comfort them, but she was crying, too. She was only six.”

Wasn’t that a pleasant memory to have burned into a ten-year-old mind?
Dean thought, bitter on her behalf. He’d always known she was strong, but he hadn’t had a clue exactly how strong, to have survived a childhood like that.

When she remained silent, he gently prompted, “So they were adopted, and you grew up really fast to take care of your mom. Have you seen them since?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know where they are?”

“Oliver’s still in North Carolina. Chloe’s in Alabama. Sophy...” Her mouth moved, trembling, as she tried to form a smile. “She’s in Georgia.”

Of course she was. “That’s where you’re going. To see her.”

Another sorry effort at a smile. “Yes. Maybe. Unless she doesn’t want...”

To see me.
He dragged his fingers through his hair. She blamed herself for not being able to keep the family together—as if she’d had a snowball’s chance in hell—and now she was afraid that her sister blamed her, too.

And, hell, who knew? Maybe she did. Maybe Sophy had been too young and too traumatized to remember anything except that in a few short months, she’d lost her entire family and big sister Ali hadn’t protected her. Maybe she’d been so traumatized she didn’t even remember her big sister at all.

Either of which would break Miri’s heart.

Scooting, he bumped her shoulder, nudging her aside, then mimicked her position beside her, only instead of resting his arms on his knees, he slid his left arm around her. “You’ll never know what she wants until you try. You could be the best Christmas gift she’s ever gotten.” He paused, swallowing over the lump in his throat, then hoarsely added, “You’ve been a pretty damn good one for me.”

“Or the worst she’s ever had.” She paused, too, and he thought she was going to ignore his last statement until she showed the first real emotion since she’d started the conversation. Curiosity. “Even though I’m not giving back the money?”

The idea made him a little squeamish. A criminal shouldn’t profit from her crime. Even though the court hadn’t ordered restitution, even though as far as the State of Texas was concerned, she’d served her time and had no further obligations, it was just plain wrong to keep money she’d embezzled. Morally, ethically wrong. Just not legally so.

“I can’t pretend I don’t care about that.”

“I earned that money.”

“How? By serving fourteen months in jail?”

She tilted her head to gaze up at him. This close he could make out her features. Brown eyes. Cute nose. Lips curved up the slightest bit. “I earned it—at least, part of it—by taking care of my sisters and brother for five months. By taking care of my mother for eight years. By watching my mother die and burying her all by myself. By losing my family and my childhood. By having my entire world ripped apart by the man who’d sworn to love my mother in sickness and in health, when what he really meant was
until
sickness, then he was getting the hell out.”

Dean slowly released her to move where he could see her face-to-face. After staring a moment in darkness, he switched on the wall sconce between the beds. Its light was so dim that it took only seconds for his vision to adjust, and then he continued to stare at her.

Slowly he forced his mouth to move. “Mr. Smith is your father.”

She extended her hand. “Alicia Miriam Smith. When Mom died and I switched to Miri, I also took her maiden name, Duncan.”

His stare dropped to her hand, small, delicate, but he couldn’t move to take it. All he could think in that moment, and the next few, were two words.
That bastard.

John W. Smith, multimillionaire politician whose strong Christian beliefs and even stronger family values were expected to take him far. The man always accompanied in public by his beautiful wife and their beautiful children, upon whom he lavished time, love and tons of money. The man who’d kept Dean’s business running when he’d had tough times. He’d always had so much respect for Mr. Smith.

So much for his character assessment skills.

“Does he know?”

She shook her head. “I thought I would tell him once I’d given Sophy, Oliver and Chloe their shares
.
Then I thought maybe not. He didn’t care about us. I don’t care about him.”

Shares. The amount of money had been odd: $1,092,673.72. Why not an even $1.1 mil? “You totaled the child support he never paid, didn’t you?”

“Plus interest. Each of us gets a share depending on how many years he didn’t pay.”

It was a lot of money, but Miriam had described their house as big and beautiful and said he’d worried about his sick wife tarnishing his reputation. Likely, the child support had been commensurate with his salary.

“So you’ll get the least amount. After getting the money in the first place. That doesn’t seem fair.”

She managed a real smile. “Most things in life aren’t fair. But he owed this money. Taking it was fair. Giving it to my sisters and brother is fair.”

It was a lot to take in, and it was a confidence that humbled him, that she could trust him with all the painful aspects of her life. But he still had one question, still needed one answer. “Why are you telling me this now?”

For a long time, she sat silent, then slowly she reached out to touch his hand—not to grip it, just to lay the tips of her fingers on it. “Someone once told me that if what you’ve been doing isn’t working for you, then it’s time to change. I—I need a change, Dean.”

Chapter 6

H
er chest was too tight to manage adequate breath as she waited for him to say something, for a hint that he understood what she was saying. It came when he gently turned his hand over and folded his fingers around hers. “Miriam,” he whispered, and the intensity of emotion in his voice brought tears to her eyes.

He leaned forward, still holding her hand in his, and kissed her, the sweetest kiss she’d ever gotten. When it was over, he rested his forehead against hers and raggedly said, “Don’t do this tonight, then leave me tomorrow. I’ve never had my heart broken before, but I’m sure it’s not a pretty sight.”

“Mine’s been broken six times. I can tell you, it’s not.”

She could practically see him counting silently: her father, her mother, Sophy, Oliver and Chloe. He grinned. “You did like me.”

“I did.”

“I liked you, too. I still do. More than any other woman I’ve ever known.”

A spasm of uncertainty clamped around her heart. She was so used to not believing, not trusting, that the doubt came automatically, but she forced it away. That was the old Miri, the old life. New Miri had faith in herself and others. New Miri trusted the people she loved and, no matter how she’d denied it, she did love Dean.

He kissed her again, and the uncertainty vanished, replaced by warm, hungry desire. He wanted her. After eight years of being needed too much, then twelve years where no one needed her at all, it was wonderful to be
wanted.

They made love, fitting together so naturally, desperately and tenderly and lazily, and it was more perfect than she’d ever dared dream of. Just before falling asleep, Dean nuzzled her neck. “Santa never disappoints those who truly believe, Miriam. Welcome to the believers.”