at?”
She turned to look at him. “I see that you’re trying to scare the daylights out of me. Why? Do you get a kick out of scaring single moms and five-year-olds?”
“I’m sorry.” He took off his hat and rubbed a hand over his hair. Glancing at Claire, he saw that she’d put a hand on her throat. God, she was a beautiful woman, he thought, watching the beat of her pulse above her fingers. Even with that severe hairstyle and a minimum of makeup, there was no hiding the perfection of her face. He could almost understand why Carter had lost his head over her. Watching her mouth tremble, he reminded himself that she had willingly seduced a married man and selfishly wrecked a marriage without any thought of the hurt it would cause others.
But she was in deep trouble now if the kid had really seen a murder.
“What can I do?” she whispered.
“There’s only one thing to do.” His tone was brisk, businesslike. Be damned if he would fall for that soft, bruised look in her eyes. Reaching for the ignition keys, he started the Jeep. “You’ll have to go to Sugarland.”
“No.”
He could see it on her face. Sugarland was the last place in the world she wanted to go to for protection. “Then you tell me where I can drop you,” he retorted.
When she didn’t—couldn’t—find anything to say, he grunted something rude, rammed the Jeep in gear and took off.
Claire sat silently gazing at the town as John McMollere—equally silent—drove. How ironic, she thought, that the safest place for Carter’s son was in the bosom of his father’s family. The family who had rejected him outright from the moment they had learned of her pregnancy. For Danny’s sake, she would have to put that painful memory behind her.
Suddenly they turned off LaRue’s main street and she gave in to curiosity and stole a look at the man beside her. She wished she hadn’t argued with him. For her, it had been a no-win situation, but her pride had pushed her to challenge the man. He was right, of course. If she had to turn to others to help her protect her son, the McMolleres were surely the logical choice. And John McMollere—Mack—seemed tailor-made for the job. Even though she knew he disapproved of her, there was something about Mack that gave her a feeling of security. Still, she couldn’t just let him call the shots without at least letting him realize she was going along with his plan against her will. He didn’t have to know how relieved she was to have his help.
As they cruised a secondary street, she thought about what she knew about Carter’s older brother. Precious little, she concluded. He was a Vietnam veteran who’d flown helicopters during the war. In fact, it was Mack who’d taught Carter how to fly. She studied his hands on the wheel—hard, work-toughened hands—and then his face. He was less handsome, although his face was a good one, she decided, noting the strong jaw and firm chin. With those sunglasses concealing his eyes—lazerblue if she remembered right—it was hard to tell what he might be thinking, but she’d bet he wasn’t a man to advertise his feelings, anyway. She tried to remember what Carter had told her about his brother, but realized the information was vague in her memory. There’d been grudging admiration, she recalled that, and jealousy. Knowing what she now knew about Carter, she could well imagine that his weaker character had been swallowed up in this man’s quiet strength. He was nothing like Carter. One look at John McMollere and you sensed the difference in the brothers.
If only he wasn’t a McMollere.
A truck lumbered out from a side street forcing Mack to swerve and hit the brakes. He swore, then cast a wry look first back at Danny, then at Claire.
“Sorry, not used to kids,” he muttered, slowing to turn between two brick pillars. Claire said nothing, merely looked around with curiosity. Were they nearing Sugarland? Wasn’t the McMollere homeplace much farther out of town?
“I need to make a stop,” he told her. “My daughter’s here visiting a friend. I have to pick her up.”
Before she could reply, he pulled into a driveway and stopped. The house was all brick, large and luxurious with numerous windows. Off to one side, a magnificent oak tree dripped Spanish moss. Some distance back, along the crape-myrtle-studded driveway, was a detached three-car garage. Two teenage girls stood at the porch railing. Near them, a boy leaned against a square column. Claire judged him to be slightly older than the girls. The kids had obviously been expecting Mack since one of the girls straightened abruptly and started toward the Jeep.
She was there almost before Mack was out. Midteens, Claire guessed. Standard shorts and T-shirt, expensive watch and sandals. This was obviously his daughter. She had the same near-black hair and distinctive blue eyes. Although right now she was too tall, all arms and legs and too thin, one day all those characteristics would be assets and she would be drop-dead beautiful. Claire wondered about his wife. Ex-wife?
“You said you’d be here at five,” the girl said with undisguised hostility. She jerked open the door to climb inside, but Mack stopped her.
“Just a minute, Michelle.”
“What?” She looked straight ahead, her face sullen.
“I told you to stay away from Jake Reynolds. He’s bad news.”
“This is Ann-Marie’s house. I don’t have any control over who comes and goes here.”
“You’ve been here all day. When did Jake get here?”
She shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“You know the rules, Michelle.”
She tossed her dark hair. “You have too many rules.”
“I have a right as your father to set boundaries. That’s your problem, Michelle, you’ve never had any rules.”
She turned then, her eyes shooting blue fire. “We’re gonna start in on my mother now? How bad she is? What a loser she is, right?”
He sighed. “This isn’t about your mother, Michelle.” He glanced in the Jeep and caught the expression in Claire’s eyes. “We’ll discuss it later. This isn’t the time or place.”
With a huffing sound, the teenager climbed into the back seat next to Danny. “Don’t blame me. I didn’t bring it up.”
Mack got in behind the wheel, but didn’t start up. He turned to introduce Claire and Danny, but his daughter interrupted him.
“You must be the scarlet woman,” she said, looking at Claire.
“Michelle!” Mack thundered. “Apologize…now!”
Instead of apologizing, Michelle muttered the S-word.
Danny looked intrigued. “Mommy says when you say nasty words it’s only because you can’t think of better ones.”
Michelle gave him a contemptuous look. “You must be Carter’s brat. But now that I look a little closer, you could be Mack’s. You look more like him than Carter and, after all, he’s been loose and fancy-free for twelve years.”
“Michelle, I’m warning you…that’s enough! And don’t call me Mack.”
“You’re definitely a McMollere, though. Don’t worry.”
“Am I going to have to stop this car and gag you?” Mack demanded through his teeth.
“I don’t think I’m a brat,” Danny said, picking up on the only thing he understood in what Michelle had said. “Ryan’s a brat. Everybody says so.”
“Who’s Ryan, your brother?” The girl glanced at Claire. “There’s more where he came from?”
“Excuse me.” Claire spoke quietly, turning in her seat to give the girl a telling look. “None of this conversation is appropriate. If you have any other observations along these lines, please save them for a time when Danny isn’t present.”
“I couldn’t