back on the flowered sofa, answering e-mails on his smart phone, Sloan pretended to ignore their tense conversation.
“There are three days left until school is out,” Annie was saying. “Why did you have to get in a fight now?”
“He was picking on me.”
“What did he do?”
The kid clammed up.
Annie’s hair had come loose from the big barrette and lay on her shoulders. She shoved angrily at an unlucky strand.
“If you won’t tell me what happened, then I have to assume you did something you shouldn’t have.”
The conversation was giving Sloan a serious case of déjà vu. He shifted, uncomfortable.
The boy—Justin, wasn’t it?—crossed his arms and glared at the wall behind Annie. Whatever had happened, he wasn’t going to tell his mother. And that had Sloan wondering.
“To hear your side of the story—” Annie said. She had her hands on her hips, ready to tear into the boy. “—it’s never your fault and everyone picks on you.”
This wasn’t his business. He should keep his mouth shut. Exhaling a single huff of air, Sloan lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward. He’d always been lousy at remaining neutral. “Maybe they do.”
Annie whirled on him, green eyes shooting sparks. “Are you still here?”
She was gorgeous all fired up.
He shrugged. “I’m a male. We like to watch explosions.”
Justin snickered. Annie glowered. “Stay out of this.”
Sloan lifted both hands in surrender. Annie was not in the mood for his jokes.
She poked a finger in the boy’s face. “You’d better start talking, Justin.”
“Or what, Mom? You gonna ground me again?” Justin made a rude noise. “Like I care. Big whoopin’ deal.”
Sorry kid, you went too far. Sloan shoved against his knees and stood, rising to his full six feet two. He kept his tone mild but firm. “Don’t smart-mouth your mother.”
A little squeak escaped Annie. Her mouth opened and closed.
Lip curled, Justin glared at him. “Who are you?”
Sloan offered a hand as if the two had been introduced at church. “Sloan Hawkins. Miss Lydia is my aunt.”
Justin stared at the hand for two beats and then shook. The kid had a wimpy handshake. Better toughen up, kid. Life is hard.
“You owe your mother an apology.”
“What do you know about it?” But Justin dropped his gaze, some of his belligerence fading.
“I know she’s a good mother who went running when you needed her. Better appreciate having someone in your corner.” This time Annie didn’t tell him to back off. A good thing because he wouldn’t anyway. No one was talking to Annie like that in his presence. Not even her son.
Justin studied the tops of his untied sneakers and mumbled in a more polite tone. “Am I grounded?”
Annie pushed. “Are you going to tell me why you hit Ronnie Prine?”
“No. But he deserved it.”
Sloan was starting to believe the kid. He’d been there, done that. Bullies didn’t change. If they found a tender spot, they’d pick at it until you bled or exploded. Justin had exploded.
Annie sighed, a long-suffering huff of air. “You have in-school suspension for the rest of the week. I suppose that’s enough, if you promise to control your temper and stay out of trouble.” Tiredly, she rubbed two fingers over her forehead. “Now go finish your homework.”
The kid pivoted to leave the room. Sloan stopped him. “Wait a minute.”
Eyes rolling, body cocked to one side in an expression of annoyance, Justin said, “What?”
“Don’t you have something to say to your mother?”
Justin squirmed, clearly not wanting to lose face, but when neither adult relented, he muttered, “Sorry, Mom.”
Sloan narrowed his eyes and studied the lanky boy. Something about his stance was uncannily familiar. “How old are you, kid?”
Annie shot him a long look.
“Eleven. What’s it to you?”
Maybe more than either of us knows.
Eleven. Justin was eleven. With that worrisome little tidbit eating into his brain like a woodworm, Sloan did the math and considered the possibilities.
Nah, he couldn’t be.
Could he?
Chapter Three
Bluetooth headset attached to his ear like an oversize cockroach, Sloan exited his bedroom with an armload of clothes to toss in the washer.
“Yeah, send Blake and Griffith with the ambassador’s family. Some segments of Manila aren’t excited about his mission. We may encounter problems there. Tell the team to be on their toes.” As head of Worldwide Security Solutions, he contracted with the government and military on a regular basis. This latest assignment in the Philippines had him worried. Muslim extremists had infiltrated the area. “Sure, no problem. How’s the issue in Afghanistan we discussed yesterday?”
Listening intently, he rounded the top of the stairs…and slammed into Annie. The bundle of clothes went flying. Annie stumbled back and started to fall. Instinctively, Sloan reached out, grasped her upper arms and yanked forward. Annie ended up cradled in his arms, against his chest.
His first sensation, besides the adrenaline pumping like pistons through his bloodstream, was the smell of her hair. He’d teased her in high school about washing her hair in apple juice. Apparently, she still did.
The second thought was of how she fit against him, curved in all the right places and softer than silk. She must have been stunned, too, because she didn’t move for several seconds. Several torturous seconds while he flashed back to age nineteen and the wild, desperate love he’d felt for Annie Crawford.
His throat went dry. This was not good, not good at all.
He told his arms to release her. He told his legs to step back one stair step. His well-trained body, capable of taking out an enemy in three-point-six seconds, would not obey.
The voice in his ear said his name. Once. Twice.
“Later,” he muttered, too distracted to remember the business conversation.
While he battled inwardly, both reveling in the touch and dismayed at the yearning, Annie stiffened.
“Excuse
