Clay (4 page)

Clearly he needed to mend his fences with Lainey if he wanted her as an ally, Clay thought. “No, you’re a girl who’s smart enough to see that a female wild animal—which is what Beulah is in spite of being Arty’s pet—can be dangerous when it comes to taking care of its young. She could hurt you if you get in her way.”

“Exactly,” Janna agreed. “Like all mothers.”

Clay, caught by something in her voice, met her eyes then. What he saw there sent a warning tingle down his spine. And he wondered, suddenly, if he could possibly be caught between Janna Kerr and something she wanted for her daughter.

J
anna stood at the kitchen window, watching the stately progress of a great blue heron as it stalked along the lakeshore in search of an afternoon snack. Beyond the water bird, the lake’s surface shifted with gentle wind currents, dazzling the eyes with countless sequin gleams. Majestic cypress trees standing knee-deep in the water draped the narrow apron of land in front of the camp with their green shade and broke the view into sections. They were like giant bars, closing her in with her prisoner.

What had she done?

The act that had seemed absolutely necessary, almost preordained, the evening before had a crazed, unreal feeling in the light of another day. She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, wasn’t sure she’d thought at all, but only acted on instinct. Three years of constant fear and responsibility, added to long days and nights of caring for her daughter, making sure she took her medication, overseeing her home dialysis and trying to make a living while getting by with little sleep and almost no relief, had finally caught up with her. Something had snapped.

Janna closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath
against the tight band of nerves around her chest. What was she going to do? What? She was getting in deeper and deeper, going ever more wrong. She knew it, but seemed unable to stop. Sometimes, especially in the darkest hours of the night, it seemed that nothing she’d ever done had turned out right, with the exception of refusing to give up her daughter for adoption.

She’d fallen in love at the wrong time and been too carried away to keep from getting pregnant. She’d failed to tell Lainey’s father she might be going to have a baby so he’d died without knowing. She’d somehow allowed her daughter to get sick, hadn’t realized her illness was more than the usual childhood head cold so that infection and fever destroyed her kidney function. She had abandoned hope of obtaining a kidney for her through normal channels and opted for an underhanded alternative. And now she’d drugged and tied up the one man most likely to destroy her, and Lainey with her, if he found out just who Janna was and what she was doing.

Regardless, Janna wasn’t sure there was anything she could have done differently. She’d followed her heart, always. She’d loved her daughter and cared for her the best she could. She’d tried so hard to make the right decisions, especially in the past few weeks. Clay showing up had been a shock, yet too perfect an opportunity to pass up; it was as if she had conjured him out of thin air, or else some higher power had delivered him to her. Not that she was particularly superstitious or religious, or even aware of feel
ing that way at the time. No, she’d simply moved as in a dream to keep Clay Benedict at the camp where he was needed.

The idea of introducing her daughter to the Benedicts had been at the back of Janna’s mind when she’d first contacted Denise about staying at the camp. Second thoughts had hit her almost immediately. They were far too upstanding and law-abiding to risk bringing them into the present situation. What if they not only refused to help, but once they learned about Dr. Gower, moved to stop the surgery? What if they tried to take Lainey from her as Matt’s father had threatened the one time she’d spoken to him?

The reason she’d decided to come in the end, was that Denise had said she could have the old place rent-free. Passing up the offer was not something Janna could afford. Her time at the camp would be limited after all, she’d thought; with any luck she would be gone without the Benedicts ever knowing she’d been near them.

So much for that idea.

What in the name of heaven was she going to do with Clay Benedict? Second thoughts about what she intended plagued her, but she was terrified of releasing him. Suppose Arty was right? If Benedict decided to make her pay for holding him, if he had her arrested for assault, what would become of Lainey? It was dangerous to keep the man but she couldn’t let him go.

A quiet sound came from down the hall behind her. She stood listening. It was Lainey laughing. She must
be awake from the afternoon nap she took every day, and either playing with the raccoon that Arty had brought her last week or had put one of her cartoon movies in her video player. Janna was turning her attention back to the window when she heard a chuckle in a husky and much too male baritone.

She felt her heart jar in her chest. Whirling around, she ran from the kitchen. The door of the extra bedroom was closed. She shoved it open so hard that it banged against the wall, then plunged inside.

Lainey sat on the bed beside Clay Benedict just as she had earlier, curled up within the circle of his bound arms while he propped his back against the headboard. She was smoothing with her small fingers at the red ridges that marked his arms where the restraint held them. As the pair looked up, her daughter’s expression was tinged with guilt, but that of the man who held her mirrored unadulterated mockery.

“I thought I told you to stay out of here, young lady,” Janna said in grim reprimand.

“He was lonesome, Mama. I asked him if he was and he said yes.”

“That isn’t your problem. Come here at once.” Janna moved a cautious step nearer the bed.

Her daughter frowned as she watched her. “It’s all right, you don’t have to grab me again. We’re only talking. I don’t see what’s wrong with talking.”

She wouldn’t of course. Lainey had never met a stranger in her life. In spite of all Janna could do, she struck up conversations with people in the hallway of their apartment building, in grocery stores, while
waiting in line at movie theaters, everywhere. She was especially drawn to men of all ages, which was how they had become so friendly with old Alligator Arty in such a short while. It was easy to see that she missed a male influence in her life. She’d even been asking about her father more often in the past few months, but Clay Benedict was not an acceptable substitute.

Falling back on the ageless ploy of parents, Janna said, “Mr. Benedict has better things to do than play with you.”

“He’s not doing anything. Besides, he likes kids.”

“He told you that, too, I suppose?” The glance she gave the man in the bed was tight-lipped and accusing, though she might as well not have bothered for all the impression it made.

“Yes, he did. And I told him he looks just like my daddy.”

“She sure did,” Clay drawled, his gaze steady and more than a little quizzical.

Janna felt light-headed for an instant. Grasping at the first excuse that came to mind, she said shortly, “It doesn’t mean a thing. She thinks every reasonably good-looking man looks like him.”

His lips curved in a diabolical smile. “Should I be flattered?”

“I was not implying that I considered you handsome!”

“No? Too bad, I think I could get used to being in your bed.” Clay gathered Lainey a little closer,
and she nestled against his chest as if she’d been doing it all her life.

“You’re not. I sleep with my daughter.” The words were meant to be scathing, but had a fraught sound instead. She could feel the color returning to her face along with added heat.

“An arrangement that could be changed.” He craned his neck a bit to give her daughter a conspiratorial wink. “We’d let your Mama join us, wouldn’t we? She might like it, don’t you think?”

“I expect so,” Lainey said, her small face serious. “She loves to cuddle.”

“Does she now? Me, too. I wonder what else…but never mind. Time enough for that later.”

“Not likely!” Janna corrected with some force. “I told you there was nothing personal about why you’re here.”

“So you did,” he answered, his gaze bright, “but I don’t have to believe it.”

He was trying to get to her, perhaps to entice her closer out of anger, or even attraction, so that he could get his hands on her. He’d wait a long time before she did anything that stupid; still she needed to get Lainey out of his clutches.

“Come on, honey. I have a lot of work to do, and you can help me.”

Lainey sat up straight. “Can I dye fabric?”

“If you want.” It was Lainey’s favorite part of Janna’s job. She loved to put the lengths of fabric into the various dye batches and watch the colors seep into them. She was actually pretty good at judging
shades and hues, and had an instinctive feel for color harmonies.

“Isn’t this your studio?” Clay asked with a nod toward her table and other supplies.

“I work on designs here. The dyeing is messy and requires ventilation. It’s done outside.”

“You make a living at it, it’s not just a hobby?”

The need to restrict information about her warred with the pride in her work, and lost. “You could say that. My current project is a summer collection for a large manufacturer. Next summer, of course.”

“Designs on cloth.”

“Woven goods of pure cotton, primarily for quilting. I do a lot of patterns from nature.”

“Like the thing you have on, I guess.”

She stared at him a second, surprised that he’d noticed. Her dress was a draped and rather artistic garment that she’d put together herself, sewing it from fabric she’d designed and dyed in fluid shades of teal and purple like water reflections. Sewing was a necessity rather than a hobby. She couldn’t afford to waste finished fabric. “It was an experiment. I like to see how the designs and colors are going to work on the cloth itself.”

He tipped his head as he allowed his gaze to slide from her breasts down over the flat surface of her abdomen. “Reminds me of the lake just before dark.”

“Observant of you.” Her voice was flat.

“My mother is an artist. I guess I’m used to looking at things from a different perspective.” He
paused, then asked, “So you’re staying here for the inspiration?”

The words were so offhand that she almost missed the significance behind them, might have if she hadn’t been half expecting some kind of interrogation. With a noncommittal smile, she answered, “Why not?”

He let that challenge pass as he glanced around the room once more. “Anyway, don’t let me chase you out of your studio.”

“You aren’t. I just choose to work elsewhere.”

“Because I’m too much of a distraction.”

“Not at all.

“Maybe you’re just afraid of what else Lainey might tell me.”

His tone and his gaze were dulcet with suggestion. She chose to ignore both as she said, “She really has nothing to tell.”

“You might as well work here, then, hadn’t you? It will be more convenient with all your supplies around you, not to mention cooler for Lainey.”

He was right about the last. The two window units that cooled the camp—one in the kitchen and one in the larger bedroom—were working overtime. It would be stifling outside. “We can set up the dye baths now, I suppose, then work on the fabric later this evening.”

“Or work tomorrow and play today.”

Play. She’d almost forgotten what the word meant. Not that Lainey lacked for attention. They read together, watched video movies together, cooked together, took walks together. They were together con
stantly, in fact. But the reading was primarily for home schooling, the movies were to distract Lainey during medical procedures, the cooking was to encourage her daughter’s interest in food despite her restricted diet and the exercise was because the doctors prescribed it. Little of what they did was for simple pleasure. Which wasn’t precisely a new thought, though it seemed much drearier now than in the past.

“I don’t have time for fun and games,” she said curtly.

Clay tipped his head. “What about Lainey?”

What indeed? If Janna’s plan worked out, her daughter would have all the time in the world for being a child. If not, oh, if not, then playing would be ended forever, for both of them.

She gave Clay Benedict a straight look. “Why are you so determined to keep me…keep us in here?”

His smile was all high-voltage charm. “Maybe Lainey’s right, maybe I’m lonesome.”

She doubted it, but was painfully aware that her daughter could be in need of company other than her mother’s and had perhaps projected her feelings onto Clay. In any case, Janna thought, it might be just as well to stay where she could keep an eye on the man. She distrusted his docility so far. She’d thought earlier that he was recovering from the hefty dose of barbiturates she’d given him, but that should have worn off. Some kind of violent protest or attempt to escape would be normal, surely, but it hadn’t materialized. Either he meant to lull her into false security, or else was remaining quiescent for reasons of his
own. And she wasn’t sure which prospect made her more nervous.

“I’ve changed my mind, Mama,” Lainey said. “I’d rather stay with Clay.”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think…”

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Clay said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

She met his gaze and was lost for long seconds in its rich blue depths. Honesty and integrity seemed to swirl there, along with steadfast promise. Could she believe him? Did she dare? He wasn’t the person breaking the law here, after all, but only a man who had been going about his business until she had waylaid him.

Abruptly Janna pulled herself up short. No matter what Clay was like, she didn’t dare leave Lainey alone with him.

“Are you sure you don’t want to help with the dye baths?” she asked her daughter in coaxing tones.

Lainey shook her head. “Not right now.”

“All right then. Maybe we’ll wait until the morning, after all.”

Janna skirted the bed, staying well out of reach of any sudden lunge in her direction. Moving behind her worktable, she leafed through drawings, laid out watercolor pans and brushes, picked up a soft lead pencil and put it back down again as she tried to gather her concentration. She mixed watercolors and doodled on cold-pressed paper, hoping something would appear from the shapes she brushed across it. Nothing did,
except swaths of blue that were, she realized, the exact color of Clay Benedict’s eyes.

Abandoning that effort, she tried to depict a series of small, jewel-green tree frogs like one she’d seen that morning, but their eyes kept turning blue and far too knowing. She rinsed the green and blue from her palette and replaced it with lavender, but the resulting sketch of a water hyacinth appeared overblown and sinister, as if it might be hiding something poisonous behind its curving, sensuous leaves.