for being with him and holding him, the next few weeks promised to be torture on that score. Until she was certain he was safe with her. She slid the phone into her purse and turned to Kurt, who was studying her intently over the rim of his mug. Great. Dealing with him wasn’t going to be easy, either. Even if she didn’t factor in that she’d made love to him like a wanton in the wee hours of this very morning.
They ordered. Two baskets of fish and chips complete with sides of coleslaw and a second beer, even though they weren’t quite finished with the first, were dropped in front of them.
“Why are you keeping your kid’s paternity a secret?” Kurt finally asked. “What does it matter?”
“I prefer he didn’t know.”
“Why not? Seems as if he has a right.”
“Being a sperm donor isn’t the same as being a father.” Her stomach was screaming for food but the conversation was about to kill her appetite.
“Maybe he should be the judge of that.”
“Maybe you should keep your nose in your own business.” She took a long swallow from her drink and the guys at the bar gave up a shout as one of the players hit a three pointer.
“Your brothers made it my business.”
“My brothers can’t run my life. Much as they’d like to.”
“I think you’re afraid,” he accused, and she felt the tightening of the muscles of her neck, the urge to defend herself.
“Of what?” she asked, but he didn’t answer as the waitress appeared and slid their baskets onto the plank table, then offered up bottles of vinegar and ketchup. Only when they were alone again did Randi repeat herself. “You think I’m afraid of what?”
“Why don’t you tell me. It’s just odd, you know, for a woman not to tell the father of her child that he’s a daddy. Goes against the grain. Usually the mother wants financial support. Emotional support. That kind of thing.”
“I’m not usual,” she said, and thought he whispered “Amen” under his breath, though she couldn’t be certain as he covered up his comment with a long swallow of ale. She noticed the movement of his throat—dark with a bit of beard shadow as he swallowed—and something deep inside her, something dusky and wholly feminine, reacted. She drew her eyes away and told herself she was being a fool. It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, over a year now, but that didn’t give her the right to ogle men like Kurt Striker nor imagine what it would feel like for him to touch her again, to kiss her, to press hot, insistent lips against the curve of her neck and push her sweater off her shoulder…
She caught herself and realized that he was watching her face, looking for her reaction. As if he could read her mind. To her horror she felt herself blush.
“Penny for your thoughts.”
She shook her head, pretended interest in her meal by shaking vinegar over her fries. “Wouldn’t sell ’em for a penny, or a nickel, or a thousand dollars.”
“So tell me about the book,” he suggested.
“The book?”
“The one you’re writing. Another one of your secrets.”
How could one man be so irritating? She ate in silence for a second and glowered across the table at him. “It’s not a secret. I just didn’t want to tell anyone about it until it was finished.”
“You were on your way to the Flying M to finish it when you were forced off the road at Glacier National Park, right?” He dredged a piece of fish in tartar sauce.
She nodded.
“Think that’s just a coincidence?”
“No one knew I was going to Montana to write a book. Even the people at work thought I was just taking my maternity leave—which I was. I was planning to combine the two.”
“Juanita at the ranch knew about it.” He’d polished off one crispy lump of halibut and was working on a second.
“Of course she did. I already explained, it really wasn’t a secret.”
“If you say so.” He ate in silence for a minute, but she didn’t feel any respite, knew he was forming his next question, and sure enough, it came, hard and fast. “Tell me, Randi,” he said, “who do you think wants to kill you?”
“I’ve been through this dozens of times with the police.”
“Humor me.” He was nearly finished with his food and she’d barely started. But her appetite had crumpled into nothing. She picked at her coleslaw. “Who are your worst enemies? You know, anyone who has a cause—just or not—for wanting you dead.”
She’d considered the question over and over. It had run through her mind in an endless loop from the moment her memory had started working again when she’d awoken from her coma. “I…I don’t know. No one has any reason to hate me enough to kill me.”
“Murderers aren’t always reasonable people,” he pointed out.
“I can’t name anyone.”
“How about the baby’s father? Maybe he found out you were pregnant, is ticked that you didn’t tell him and, not wanting to be named as the father, decided to get rid of you both.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“No?”
She shook her head. She wasn’t certain about many things, but she doubted Joshua’s father would care that he’d fathered a child, certainly wouldn’t go through the steps to get rid of either of them. She felt a weight on her heart but ignored it as Striker, leaning back in the booth, pushed his near-empty basket aside. “If I’m going to help you, then I need to know everything that’s going on. So who is he, Randi? Who’s Joshua’s daddy?”
She didn’t realize she’d been shredding her napkin in her lap, but looked down and noticed all the pieces of red paper. She supposed she couldn’t take her secret with her to the grave, but letting the world know the truth made her feel more vulnerable, that she was somehow breaching a special trust she had with her son.
“My money’s on Donahue,” he said abruptly.
She froze.
He winked though his expression was hard. “I figure you’d go for the sexy-cowboy type.”
“You don’t know what my type is.”
“Don’t I?”
“Unfair, Striker, last night was…was…”
“What about it?”
“It was a mistake. We both know it. So, let’s just forget it. As I said, you don’t have any idea what ‘my type’ is.”
One side of his mouth lifted in an irritating, sexy-as-hell smile. Green eyes held hers fast, and a wave, warm as a desert in August, climbed up her neck.
