Sinclair.”
Melanie pulled her son onto her lap. His arms came around her neck as he attempted to burrow his cheek into her chest. She brushed her lips over his mop of soft hair and rocked him. “Mr. Sinclair, you’re making a terrible mistake. My husband is an important man in Washington. He’ll be furious that you kept me here without any cause or—”
“Call him.” Gabe pulled his cell phone from his back pocket. “I’d like to speak with him.”
“It’s impossible to reach him right now.” She knew that she was digging her well of lies deeper and deeper. At this point, it hardly seemed to matter.
“You know,” Gabe said, dragging a hand through his thick, dark hair, “you should at least wear a wedding ring if you’re going to lie about being married, especially to a so-called important man. Why don’t you just relax? It shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
Melanie sank back into the firm cushions of the sofa. She heard her son’s stomach rumble and though he hadn’t complained, she knew he was hungry. She’d been looking for something in the kitchen cupboards when she’d heard the truck pull into the gravel driveway, then seen a man approach the house. She’d barely had enough time to lock the front and back doors, hoping that he’d go away.
But after six weeks of sleeping in thin-walled, rundown motels, eating fast food and avoiding contact with people, it seemed as though her luck, along with most of her money, had finally run out.
And she had Mr. Gabe Sinclair to thank for that.
If not for him, she would have found food for her son and herself, gotten a good night’s sleep here, and been fresh enough in the morning to drive to Raina’s tomorrow. She’d be safe in Boston, at least for a few days.
Melanie glanced at the man sitting no more than eight feet from her. Arms folded across his wide chest, long legs stretched out, he watched her. She met his intense gaze, did not look away. She refused to be intimidated by him, even if he did have the upper hand.
Damn you, Gabe Sinclair, whoever the hell you are.
As if he’d read her thought, the man’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
When Kevin stirred in her arms, Melanie turned her attention to her son and laid him on the sofa beside her. He curled up like a pill bug, tucking his small hands under his cheek and closing his eyes. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, and in spite of the odds, she resolved that she would get them safely out of this situation.
The only question that remained was, how?
When the light from an approaching car flashed brightly through the front windows and swept the room, her heart slammed against her ribs. The man glanced up, then rose.
It had to be now.
She scanned the room, and her gaze fell on a statue sitting on a table beside the sofa, a lovely, foot-tall bronze of an angel praying. Under normal conditions, Melanie would never have considered what she was considering. But this situation was as far from normal as one could get.
With his attention on the front door, the man moved past her and started across the room.
Now or never.
In one fluid movement, Melanie grabbed the statue and rushed the man, swinging the heavy bronze at his head. With an oath, he ducked, then reached out and plucked the statue from her as he grabbed her firmly around the waist. He dragged her to the door with him. She struggled wildly, but other than a wince when the heel of her boot connected with his shin and a rather explicit swearword, he ignored her.
When he let go of her with one hand while he unlocked the front door, she wiggled free and took off at a run. He had his long, muscled arms around her waist again in less than a heartbeat and easily lifted her off the ground.
“Gabriel Sinclair!” A woman’s voice boomed. “Get your hands off that woman this instant!”
Chapter 2
Gabe turned sharply at the sound of his sister’s voice. The wildcat woman in his arms went still.
Cara stood in the doorway, a hand on one hip, a large brown paper bag balanced on the other. The heavenly scent of grilled hamburgers and hot, crispy fries filled the room.
“For God’s sake, Gabe, let her go,” Cara repeated sharply.
Gabe set the woman down and released her. She stepped quickly away, dragging one shaky hand through her tousled hair, glancing from him to his sister.
The confusion on Cara’s face turned quickly to an astute understanding that he had called her here for help. If anyone could help this renegade woman, Gabe absolutely knew his sister could.
“I apologize for Gabe’s lack of manners,” Cara said smoothly in a soft, calming voice. She snapped her gaze back to his and narrowed piercing blue eyes at him. “Shame on you.”
Shame on him? Gabe ground his teeth and swore silently. He’d been kicked and scratched, and his left shin hurt like a son of a bitch. Females, he thought bitterly. Who would ever understand them?
With a toss of her blond head, Cara turned her attention back to the other woman and smiled. “I’m Cara Shawnessy,” she said evenly. “This ape here is my brother.”
Ape? He pressed his lips into a thin line. Gee, thanks, sis.
At the sound of a small whimper from the living room, the woman turned, then hurried back to her son. Cara glanced at Gabe, her gaze questioning, but he simply shrugged and shook his head.
Gabe held back when Cara moved into the living room and stood beside the sofa. “Would it be all right if we sat down and talked while we ate? I hope you like cheeseburgers and fries.”
The woman gathered her son in her arms, and the glimmer of tears Gabe saw in her eyes caught like sawdust in his throat. He knew she wanted to refuse, he could see it in her hesitation, but when she looked at the bag of food in Cara’s hand, then back at her son, she let out a long, surrendering breath and nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s the least I can do, especially after the way my brother manhandled you.” Cara ignored the rude sound that Gabe made and smiled at the woman’s young son, who was wide-awake now and watching all the adults around him. “Do you like pickles?” she asked the child.
The boy stuck a stubby finger into his mouth and nodded shyly. Cara unwrapped a thick quarter slice and offered it to him. He hesitated, then looked at his mother. Smiling, she smoothed one slender hand over his rumpled blond hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart. You can have it.”
Eyes bright, he took the crisp pickle and bit in, chewing around a mumbled “thank you.”
When a drop of juice fell onto the boy’s pale blue T-shirt, Cara handed his mother some napkins. “It’s optional,” Cara said gently, “but it would be easier if you told me your names.”
Gabe watched the woman’s hand tighten around the napkins, saw the instinctive stiffening of her slender shoulders.
“You’re safe here,” Cara assured her. “You and your son.”
Gabe
