pursed his lips and watched her deft hands make the dough and roll it out and cut it.
“You do that very well,” he said.
She laughed. “I’ve had lots of practice.”
“You can cook. But you won’t make coffee at the office.”
“It’s a matter of principle,” she replied. “If I start doing menial tasks, I won’t ever stop. My job is demanding. I spend most of the day on the phone trying to track down information, talking to people, making contacts. There’s a rhythm. If I break it to go make coffee or start serving it to visitors, I lose my concentration.”
“I see.”
“My boss doesn’t,” she said with a wicked little grin. “But over the years he’s learned to accept it.” She put the biscuits in the preheated oven. “He looked terrible,” she said, her expression far away.
“Gunshot victims mostly do,” he said. “But his injuries were slight, compared to what they could have been, I assure you.”
She turned to look at him. “You think he’ll really be all right?” she asked, concerned.
“Of course.”
She studied him intently for a moment. “You’ve been shot,” she said.
He nodded, and he didn’t smile. “Twice. Once in the chest, once in the leg. Neither occasion was pleasant.”
“They say Africa is a very dangerous place.”
“It is,” he agreed. “It depends on where you go. But violence is international. You find it in a lot of places.”
“I guess so.”
“I am South African, but I have a place in Kenya, near a game preserve,” he told her, and his expression was wistful. “I have a manager there to oversee it, but I miss being able to do that myself. I spend a lot of time traveling. More than I like.”
“You work in a dangerous profession.”
He pursed his lips. “Dear girl, you don’t know what my profession is.”
“Oh, I think I could make an educated guess,” she retorted.
“Which would be wrong. I don’t work outside the law.”
“Well!”
He nodded. “You remember that.”
She laughed and shook her head.
SHE TOOK Markie to school. She took time to talk to Mr. Morrison about the break-in and the threat by Monroe. He was furious that someone would threaten a child. He promised to keep a careful eye on Markie and make sure his teacher knew the situation.
Then she drove to the hospital. She knew she was going to have a war trying to get past Cammy Blackhawk, but she was going anyway. She couldn’t go on with her job and her life without knowing for herself how Jon was.
She walked into the lobby and up to the desk, to ask which room in ICU he was in and if she could see him. But they’d already moved him out of ICU into a room, she was told. Her heart lifted. He couldn’t be dying if they’d done that!
It turned out to be a private room on the second floor, very clean and bright. She stopped in the doorway, gripping her purse, waiting for Cammy to explode out into the hall and tell her to go away.
Jon turned his head on the pillow and spotted her. His dark eyes brightened. “Come in.”
She looked around warily.
“She’s not here.” His voice was strained. “She’s gone shopping with the fashion adviser.”
She laughed then walked to the bed and looked down at him quietly. “I’m glad you’re better.”
“I’m better?” he asked with a grimace.
“You must be, or you’d still be occupying a cubicle in ICU,” she assured him. “I called the office but they said I didn’t have to go in today. I told them I was coming to see you,” she added. “Everyone sends their regards and some of the other agents in your squad are coming to see you as soon as visitors are allowed.”
“I work with a great group of people.” He drew in a painful breath. “I’m going home to Oklahoma, to the ranch, when they release me. I won’t be able to work at the office for a couple of weeks, and the scenery is better there. So is the security,” he added grimly. He looked at her pointedly. “You’re coming with me.”
Her heart flipped over. “I … I … what?”
“You and the child,” he said curtly. “Rourke told my brother what happened. You’re not going to be killed because I made an enemy.”
Her legs felt wobbly. “I can’t go to Oklahoma,” she said quickly. “I’d have to take a leave of absence and take Markie out of school …!”
“Details that can be worked out quite easily. I sent Mac to deal with all that.” He waved an elegant hand and winced at the movement.
“But …!”
“Don’t argue,” he said heavily. “I’m in no condition for a fight.”
She bit her lower lip. There were a dozen good reasons why she shouldn’t let Markie be anywhere around this man, ever. She couldn’t find an argument that would work without telling the truth, which would never do.
“It’s a nice ranch,” he said curtly. “Your son loves animals. He can even ride a horse.”
“No!”
“Joceline, both Mac and I were riding ponies at the age of three,” he told her. “I wouldn’t let him get hurt. We have cowboys trained to work with disabled children who come to the ranch to ride our horses.”
“You do?” She was surprised. She’d never thought that disabled people could ride.
“Yes.” He shifted and grimaced. He was sore and sick. He hated being confined to a bed, being hospitalized. It was the first time in his law enforcement career that he’d suffered a bullet wound. He could remember vividly the sense of sudden slowing when the bullet hit. He’d not felt the pain at first, just a hard blow, like a fist in his back. Then everything slowed down and he saw the sidewalk coming up to hit him, and felt blood in his mouth. It had been an absolute shock.
“You shouldn’t be moving around,” Joceline said, concerned. “You might reopen the wound.”
He glared at her. “I have my mother to harass me about such things. I don’t need you to help her!”
She bit her lip again. Faint color touched her cheeks. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.
He laughed despite himself and then groaned, because it hurt.
“Another
