Leave it to Max (Lori's Classic Love Stories Volume 1) (13 page)

Kim straightened. “What you need is a night
out.”

“No, I don’t.”

Kim always partied as though it was 1999,
even though 1999 was long gone. At times her merriment seemed a
near frenzy, as if she was trying to forget something but couldn’t
unless there was enough booze, music and men.

“You do.” Kim hiked her hip onto Livy’s desk.
“Trust me.”

“I hate it when people say that.”

“That’s because you’re a lawyer. When people
say it to you it means they’re guilty.”

“And when you say it, you’re trying to get me
to do something I shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t you go out with a friend like
a normal young woman?”

“Because I’m not normal.”

“I don’t think you were ever young,
either.”

From behind a closed door in Livy’s mind
drifted laughter—hers and his—followed by the memory of a picnic on
a bluff, wine and cheese, then sex in the sun.

“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Yes, I was.”

“Have you met a man?”

Poof
went the image and the
laughter.

“Of course not!”

Kim merely smiled, then spoke in an
exaggerated southern accent, “Ms. Livy, you lie badly.”

“You keep talking like that around here and
someone’s going to pop you in the nose.”

Kim ignored that. “A man. A real man from the
way you’re acting. Well, thank God.”

“There is
not
a man. I don’t like
men.”

“That’s only because you’ve been dating wimps
for too long.”

“This from a woman who dates every village
idiot.”

Kim’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t lose her
temper. She never did, and Livy could be very provoking. “You can’t
make me mad so I’ll go away.”

Livy gave Kim’s butt a shove, and she slid
off the desk. “Don’t get mad. Just get lost so I can work.”

The phone began to ring.

“All right” Kim tossed her hair, the movement
nonchalant. Whenever Livy tried that she resembled a cheerleader on
speed. “But only because duty calls.”

Kim picked up the phone. “Savannah Family
Law.” Her shoulders stiffened. “What?”

The expression on Kim’s face made Livy jump
to her feet.

“Max isn’t here. He’s supposed to be there.”
She mouthed
school
and Livy’s heart lurched.

A parent always thought—or rather hoped—that
their child was relatively safe in school. But in this crazy world
such a hope was foolish.

Livy picked up their second line and dialed
her house. The phone rang until the machine answered.
Weird.
Rosie was usually home at this time of day.

Livy headed for the door. She had a feeling
she knew where Max was—again—and this time there would be no more
Ms. Nice Guy. She couldn’t believe he’d out and out defied her. But
she almost hoped he had. The alternative would be far worse.

If Max wasn’t with his father—

Livy shuddered and refused to entertain that
terror until she was forced to.

Kim was right behind Livy when she opened the
outer door. “You stay here, Kim.”

“Oh, no, I’m not.”

“Someone has to. What if he shows up or
calls?”

Kim hesitated. “Where are you going?”

“He’s been hanging out with a friend at the
old Alexander place.”

“You think he’d ditch school to go
there?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“I’ll stay.” Kim took Livy’s hand and
squeezed it once, then shoved Livy out the door. “Call me as soon
as you get there and tell me what’s what, or I’ll send the
cops.”

Livy couldn’t talk; her throat was tied in
knots. She nodded, instead. With no time for the leisurely stroll
she’d enjoyed yesterday, Livy hailed a cab.

Five minutes later the cab left her on the
curb in front of the Alexander mansion. It appeared deserted.
Livy’s heart began to thump the cadence of panic again.

Didn’t Garrett work at home? If he wasn’t
here, then where was he? And if he wasn’t here, and Max along with
him, what would she do next? Call the FBI to report a kidnapping?
Would he really steal her son? She of all people should know J.J.
always took what he wanted and left.

Livy ran up the walk and rang the bell. All
she heard was the echo through the empty house—no movement, no
footsteps, nothing. She tried the door, but it was locked.

On the short ride over, Livy had convinced
herself she’d find Max and Garrett on the porch, yakking away and
drinking iced tea. She’d worked up a righteous snit. In an instant
that anger dissolved, leaving a cold sweat behind. Adrenaline made
her head buzz and anxiety had her ears ringing.

She tried to talk herself down, but a sob
escaped. Horrified, Livy pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She had
to calm down and
think.

Garrett would never hurt Max. That much she
knew. Even if he had kidnapped him, he was a hot-shot author now;
there was nowhere he could hide.

“Unless he’s already left the country.” Livy
started to hyperventilate. She needed to breathe deeply or she was
going to pass out.

She sat on a nearby chair, put her head
between her knees and talked to herself some more. What if they
were
in Bolivia? Garrett would bring Max back eventually. A
child just wasn’t his style. The novelty would wear off. He had no
idea of all the things he’d miss out on because of Max.

Of course, there wasn’t a single thing Livy
had missed that had been more important than her son. Because once
there’d been Max, nothing had mattered but him.

She stood up too fast and swayed. But a good,
brain-jarring shake of her head stopped the vertigo. She marched
down the steps. She was getting inside this house somehow. If Max
had been here, she’d know it. If Garrett had taken him somewhere,
she’d find out where. Then she’d kill the man.

Livy tested every window on her way around
the house. They were all painted shut, so she began to search for a
brick.

Breaking and entering?
her mind
whispered.

“Whatever it takes.” Livy climbed the back
porch, searching for a loose, heavy object and coming to rest upon
the half-open back door.

“But, Officer,” she murmured, “the door was
wide-open.” Livy pushed it. “And I heard suspicious sounds from
inside.”

She walked in, not bothering to listen.
Suspicious
was a matter of interpretation. Same as
probable cause.
Right now she didn’t care. They could lock
her up forever. Once she found her son.

But the place was as deserted on the inside
as it had appeared from the outside. She even checked the coffin in
the dining room. Empty. Who kept a coffin in the dining room
anyway? Or anywhere in a house, for that matter?

“Psycho.” She slammed the lid.

Most of the rooms were unoccupied—by people
or furniture. One contained a treadmill and a television set. In a
second sat a sleeper sofa and nothing else. Another held Garrett’s
bed, unmade, and his clothes, still in the suitcase.

“Figures.”

She could feel him in that room—his spirit
amid the rumpled sheets, the imprint of his head on the crumpled
pillow. Something deep down inside her trembled—because she could
smell him, the same scent as before, soap sliding over warm
skin.

Livy hurried away from his bedroom.
Sometimes, when she thought of how deeply she’d loved him, she was
mortified. He had been everything, and when he’d left she had felt
hollow, empty, dead. The only way to go on had been to forget. But
had she forgotten if the mere scent of his skin caused everything
to rush back?

His office was pristine, and gave her a
start.
Had
he packed up and left? If he had, he’d forgotten
his laptop. The sight of the machine made her racing heart slow.
Though Garrett might leave behind his furniture and clothes, sparse
as they were, Livy doubted he’d leave his computer.

The calendar had only one date marked—a big
red circle around December 15.

The phone rang, and she skittered away from
the desk. After several rings, she picked it up and glanced at the
caller ID.
Lawton, Andrew,
followed by a New York area code,
then a number. She placed the phone back on the desk, between the
laptop and the calendar.

Nothing else cluttered the desktop. After a
token flash of guilt, Livy began opening drawers. All she found was
a contract for a book, delivery date December 15—aha!—a few yellow
legal pads, pens and an old school address book. The only entries
inside were Lawton’s, several publishing houses and her own.

She dropped the book back in the drawer. Why
on earth had Garrett kept her address all these years? It wasn’t as
though they exchanged Christmas cards. Livy had believed he’d gone
on to the next town, next adventure, next sweet young thing,
forgetting Savannah, forgetting her. But if so, then why had he
come back? And why was hers the only woman’s name in his book?

“Because he has a little black book for all
the ones he wants to call again.’’

She opened every drawer, searched every
crevice. But there was no little black book. There was nothing else
at all.

Where was he? More important, where was her
son? Had she been wrong? Was Max even now anywhere but here?

Livy glanced out the window just in time to
see the sisters stroll past on their afternoon walk. Must be four
o’clock. If all was right in her world, Max would be home from
school by now. But life hadn’t been right since Garrett
returned.

She turned and tripped over a box of books.
Several more were scattered about. Why bother to unpack books or
clothes? He wasn’t staying.

The last time he’d lived out of his duffel
bag, not bothering to make the major commitment of hanging up so
much as a single shirt. Livy should have figured him out by that
quirk alone. Would have if she hadn’t been dazzled by everything
about him.

The books were copies of his novels. Livy had
never read a Garrett Stark book. Her tastes ran more to the law
review or the newspaper.

Curious, she picked up his first release. She
had read about it in the paper. There’d been quite a buzz. His
writing had been called a cross between Bram Stoker’s and Flannery
O’Conner’s.

Southern vampires. Livy shook her head. He
and Max were certainly a pair.

“You’ve never read my work.”

Livy caught her breath, the startled sound
seeming to whirl about the room. Garrett lounged in the doorway,
looking for all the world like the southern vampire she’d just been
thinking of; only his clipped Yankee voice spoiled the image.

“Where is my son?”

Confusion flickered over his face. “I just
walked him home.”

Relief made her dizzy; fury alone kept her
upright.

Black hair, black eyes, black stubble of
beard made his skin gleam pale. Black clothes accented the long,
leanly muscled body. Would he die if she put a stake through his
equally black heart? Doubtful.

So she threw his precious book at his
beautiful damn face.

* * *

Garrett caught the book right before it
crashed into his nose. Luckily, he’d learned to manage his big
hands as well as his huge feet. Fifteen years ago the missile might
have split his lip.

“What did I do this time?”

“You don’t know?”

“Max said he needed to be home by four. No
one was there so I took him to the neighbor’s.”

If possible, she appeared angrier, and
Garrett got nervous. Had he left his son in the wrong stranger’s
hands?

“Max said that’s where he should go, and the
lady next door agreed.”

“It’s fine. Though where my mother got to I
don’t want to know.”

“Then, what’s the problem? And why are you
here?”

She threw up her hands. “It’s Wednesday.”

“All day.”

“It’s September.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Does
school
ring any bells? Does
truant
mean anything to you?”

The light dawned. He
was
the idiot
Livy’s expression branded him. Garrett had been so thrilled to see
Max, and not just because he’d wanted out of the coffin, but
because he genuinely liked the kid and enjoyed being with him. From
what he’d observed, Max felt the same way.

Livy still glared at him as if she expected
something. “Uh. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

“What kind of man doesn’t know that an
eight-year-old should be in school on a Wednesday afternoon?”

Her continuing “too dumb to live” expression
was getting on Garrett’s nerves. When she gazed at him like that,
he was back in his father’s office, a child again, being told how
worthless he was.

Garrett had stopped feeling inferior to the
rest of the world years ago. Although his confidence had taken
quite a few knocks lately, he wasn’t going to let Livy give him any
more. He was a big boy now. He knew how to fight back.

“What kind of man?” he asked. “Maybe the kind
who’s never been around children.” He took a step into the room. “A
man who was so thrilled to see his son come through the door he
couldn’t think past the joy of it.”

“Perhaps a kidnapping charge might help you
to think more clearly.”

She made every sentence a threat, every
encounter an argument, every day difficult. Annoyance surged
through him, and he gave up trying to play nice.

“Try it,” he murmured, “and I’ll make you
very—” he took a step closer “—very—” another step “—sorry.”

She was tall, but he was taller, so she had
to tilt her head to see into his face. When she did that, the light
from the window splashed across her, revealing the lines of strain
around her mouth and the deep-down terror in her eyes.

His anger drained away. He dropped the book
she’d thrown at him, and the unexpected
thud
made her
start.

“Shh,” he whispered, lifting his hand toward
her face, giving her time to step back if she needed to, praying
she would not. “You’re scared to death, aren’t you?”