J.D. Ryder, who had always been good with directions. She remembered him pointing out the distant constellations, that night of the desert bonfire, and how matter-of-factly he’d directed Brad’s attention to the North Star. How easily he’d guided them home from that hike in Aravaipa, the one time her parents had let her spend a Saturday with the boys. That was back when all three of them were friends, before she and Brad had become a couple, before J.D. had gone his own way….
The chime of the doorbell sent a jolt of shock radiating through her. She moved to the front window, hoping for a glimpse of him before he turned and saw her, then caught her breath in amazement.
J.D. Ryder hadn’t changed. At least not that she could see. He looked older, yes, but that darkly compelling aura of focused strength still glimmered in his cool demeanor, his watchful stance. He still gave the impression of banked fires beneath a deceptively relaxed exterior, of the ability to strike without warning and retreat without moving.
But when he saw her at the window, his eyes reflected the same astonishment she’d felt at the sight of him. For a moment he hesitated, staring at her as if he couldn’t quite believe Kirsten Laurence was waiting for J.D. Ryder, and she saw his guarded expression grow warmer. Then, when she flung open the carved wood door, he gave her the slow, almost challenging smile of greeting she remembered from eight years ago.
“Kirsten,” he said simply.
“You haven’t changed,” she blurted. It shouldn’t be such a surprise—eight years wasn’t all that long—and yet somehow she had never imagined that J.D. Ryder could still exude such solitary strength.
“Neither have you,” he murmured, moving past her into the foyer as if he needed all the space around him he could get…and setting off another familiar chord of recognition. The man seemed to command the very air around him, and Kirsten felt her breath coming a little faster as she turned away to close the door. Which made no sense, she reminded herself hastily. This was an old friend, nothing more.
And she’d better remember that.
“I’m glad you could come,” she told him, wondering whether he’d spent the day testifying at a trial or something. It was hard to picture J.D. choosing such a flawlessly cut summer-weight suit to complement his deep brown eyes and close-cropped black hair, but she had the impression of a catalog model…except, again, for that ever-present sense of smoldering darkness.
“Yeah, it was good timing.” He glanced around the living room, as if assessing its vulnerability in a five-second sweep, then turned back to her. “I’m not leaving for Chicago for another couple of weeks, and I’d already given notice. I just need to phone in while they’re finishing up my cases.”
She had been lucky to catch him before he left work, Kirsten realized. But if today was his last day— “Did you miss your farewell party, coming down here?”
He gave her a look of disbelief, as if such a notion had never entered his head. “The police department doesn’t throw parties every time someone leaves.” Then, with a wry grin, he amended the statement. “At least not without a few hours’ notice.”
“Oh, well, I guess they’re busy solving crimes.” While it saddened her that J.D. didn’t seem to care about leaving people he’d worked with for the past three years, he evidently didn’t feel anything lacking from his life. He didn’t seem to want any more closeness, any more sense of connection with others, than he’d wanted eight years ago.
Remember that, Kirsten.
“I’ve got the photos of Brad and the children,” she told him, forcing her attention back to business and taking her list and photos from the bookshelf. Settling on the Navajo-patterned sofa, she waited until J.D. seated himself at right angles to her. “Here’s a list of everywhere he’s mentioned visiting, with any phone numbers I could find. And a couple of credit-card numbers—we divided up the cards, but he’s probably still using the same ones as when we were married.”
J.D. accepted the handwritten paper from her, scanned it rapidly and nodded in appreciation. “Nice job, Kirs. You’ve been busy.”
It had been a relief to have a mission, something to keep her from crying all over Lindsay’s stuffed lion while she sorted through the photo albums. Some opportunity to use the self-sufficient strength she’d worked at building ever since Brad had announced, a month after their divorce, that he was leaving Miss Scottsdale and expected to be welcomed back with open arms….
The dogged determination that she’d forced herself to develop two years ago was finally going to get some use, Kirsten knew. Keeping her children happy was the only thing she had any power to control, but she was going to pursue that mission with all the force she possessed.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” she vowed, “to get my children back.” She hadn’t yet contacted her parents aboard their cruise ship, but they would immediately offer all the assistance they could provide. “Oh, and I need to write you a check.”
Her saddle-leather purse was only a few feet away, but he interrupted her before she could reach it. “No, you don’t.”
“J.D.—”
“We’ll settle it later,” he said, gesturing her back to the sofa as if to indicate that other matters deserved priority. “I’ve been thinking about where to search, and this list is a great beginning. But I always get better results in person than by phone. So I’m thinking the place to start is Seattle…talk to some people there, neighbors, whoever might know something they wouldn’t spill over the phone.”
That sounded like a good plan, Kirsten thought. But what else would she expect from a professional detective? “Okay, sure. I’ve got a key to Brad’s house if it’ll help.”
From the gleam of amusement in his eyes, she realized that for someone like J.D. Ryder, a key was only one of many options. But he gave her a faint smile of acknowledgment. “It’ll help.”
She ought to be used to that speculative expression, to that hint of unexplored territory, but she found herself taking another deep breath against the out-of-control sensation that flustered her yet again. “Can I get you some iced tea?” she asked hastily. “Or—”
“No, that’s okay,” he interrupted, barely scanning the snapshots she handed him—a selection she’d anguished over—before stacking them in a tight sheaf. “I’m figuring on leaving first thing in the morning, and I want to get these photos copied tonight.”
Business, Kirsten thought desperately. Business was good. “There’s a one-hour place right up the street.”
“Yeah, I saw it. Thanks.” J.D. stood up, deftly pocketing her handwritten list and photos without even a second glance at the faces of her children. “And if you want to get that key….”
The key. Right. She had to find the key Brad had given her two years ago, when she’d escorted the kids to Seattle for their first summer visitation. “It’ll take some digging, but I can find it while you’re getting the pictures.”
He reacted with what looked like a moment of readjustment, then nodded. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he said, starting for the door. Then, with one hand on the hammered-pewter knob, he turned back to her. “Be sure and let me know everywhere I can reach you, okay?”
During the next hour? “I’ll be right here,” Kirsten told him.
J.D.
