Live-In Lover Page 2

  “Hurry and come, Damien,” she pleaded with the man she had decided to trust. “Please.”

  In spite of her efforts, Molly knew she had fallen asleep when the doorbell woke her. Sunlight spilled through the windows. She’d slept all night. Cursing herself for her lapse, she grabbed the gun.

  Sydney stirred and would be waking soon for her breakfast. Molly prayed she would sleep a little longer. The doorbell chimed again before she reached it. Molly looked through the peephole.

  With a huge sigh of relief, she slipped the chain off, unlocked the dead bolt and pulled the door open. “Thank goodness, I was afraid you’d change your mind. Come in, please.”

  She stepped back to let him move past her, then hurriedly closed the door and fastened the locks. Suddenly she felt safer than she had in weeks.

  “Allow me,” he said evenly, taking the pistol from her hand, “before you shoot one of us.” He clicked on the safety and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

  Then he smiled wryly, just a slight stretch of the lips, the corners barely turning up. “Hello again, by the way.”

  “Hi, yourself,” Molly replied, her gaze riveted on his mouth. She forced herself to blink and look away, embarrassed by her reaction to him. He was still a heart-stopper, even more so than the last time they’d met.

  She shrugged and held up her hands, empty now of the weapon and feeling useless. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” She laughed at herself. “I mean…that hospital gown, you know… So, I see you’re well now. Aren’t you? Well?”

  “Quite recovered, thank you,” he replied, and inclined his head. The smile was no wider, but his eyes warmed with humor.

  Lord, his voice soothed like melted chocolate, she thought. Smooth, rich English chocolate, if there was such a thing. Just a faint accent that did funny things to her stomach.

  He surely did look well. Fantastic, in fact. Molly tried to be less obvious in her scrutiny, but it was hard. The man was a hunk, no denying it. Shoulders like a fullback and a face that would wring sighs out of a zealous nun.

  If she didn’t watch herself here, she’d be wallowing in a deep case of hero worship. Well, he was a hero. Hadn’t he come to save her and Syd? Just like that, he’d come to the rescue without even knowing all the details. A guy just didn’t get much more heroic than that, in her opinion.

  Her right hand started up to brush that sun-streaked wave off his tanned forehead. She stopped just in time, inwardly cursing her eagerness to touch. He hadn’t retreated. Hadn’t moved or even blinked. He just watched her with an intensity that nearly mesmerized.

  Lord, didn’t he have the bluest eyes she had ever seen? Azure. Her favorite color.

  She yanked her attention off his face and stared past him toward the kitchen. If she didn’t curb this adolescent behavior of hers, he would never take her seriously.

  “I was about to fix breakfast. You want some?” She asked.

  “Just coffee if you have it. Or tea would be fine.”

  “Tea? For breakfast? Oh, you mean hot…”

  He smiled again, this time full-out, and Molly thought her heart might stop for good, once it quit bonging around in her chest like a Super Ball. She’d forgotten those perfect teeth. And the dimples. Good grief, no wonder she was babbling like an idiot.

  “Whatever you’re having will be fine,” he said.

  A loud, piercing wail erupted. Molly turned and dashed down the hallway into the den to get Sydney before she woke up the entire neighborhood.

  “Okay, babe, hang in there. Juice coming up. Dry pants first.” Molly ripped the night diaper’s tapes loose and began changing her.

  “Is it hurt?” he asked above Syd’s noisy fretting.

  “What?” Molly asked, confused. It? “Syd? Oh, no, she’s fine. Just wet and hungry.”

  She pressed down the last tape on the diaper and hefted Syd out of the playpen. Shifting her handily onto one hip, Molly headed to the kitchen. “Come on.”

  Quickly she plopped the baby in the high chair, washed her hands and poured a sippy-cup full of apple juice. “Like shutting off a siren, isn’t it?” she asked with a laugh as Syd gulped the juice.

  His mouth quirked slightly to one side as he watched.

  Molly dropped several vanilla wafers onto the highchair tray. “Sit down,” she invited. “I’ll put on the coffee.”

  She took the basket of yesterday’s blueberry muffins out of the microwave, uncovered them, and set them on the table. “You want eggs and bacon? I think I have some in the fridge.”

  “No, thank you,” he said politely, clasping his hands together on the tabletop. “Shall we get down to business, Ms. Jensen?”

  “Sure. And please call me Molly. I mean, as long as you and Ford are such good friends—”

  He looked ready to argue, and Molly didn’t think it was about the first name issue. She supposed he thought asking for this kind of help was too much, even for the sister of a friend and fellow agent. And it was, of course. She had known that up front.

  “Look, maybe I was wrong to call you. I’ve really no right to involve you in this mess even if you are Ford’s buddy.”

  Even as she let him off the hook with her words, she begged him with her eyes to consider helping her. Come on, Damien, please!

  He considered what she’d said—and most likely her silent message, too—quietly, and at some length while Molly waited breathlessly for him to assure her he would help.

  “You say you think your life is in danger?” he asked calmly.

  Molly cleared her throat and looked away from him so she could think straight. “Yes, I do. I believe my ex-husband is insane.”

  “And you believe him capable of violence?” he asked.

  She raised her chin and faced him, mimicking his cool regard. “Yes, Damien, he certainly is capable of that.”

  He nodded slightly and thought for another minute. Molly liked the way he considered the angles before making a decision. She wished she had that trait.

  “Then we had better prevent that, hadn’t we?” he said.

  “You are going to help us?” Before she could stop herself, Molly had reached out and grasped his hands. His large, wonderful, capable hands.

  Only one eyebrow raised. “I would be delighted.”

  He would be delighted. She had to smile at that.

  Damien Perry just took her breath away. She loved to hear him talk. If only the subject matter were a little less macabre, she would just sit back and enjoy the daylights out of it.

  But she hadn’t called him in on this because he sounded cute or because his fantastic looks made the backs of her knees sweat. She needed a man who could handle the situation. She had no doubt that when Damien Perry said he would—delighted or not—he surely would.

  Suddenly she realized she was still holding his hands between hers and released him. “Oh, sorry,” she mumbled.

  “Quite all right,” he said, flexing his fingers as though she had squeezed them too hard.

  Molly rose, her movements deliberate and careful as she poured two cups of steaming coffee, placed them on the table and took her seat. She peeled the paper cup from a muffin, reached over and placed it on the tray of the high chair.

  Sydney promptly christened it with apple juice, leaned over and bit off the soggy top.

  “Have a muffin. I’ll fill you in on what’s happened so far.”

  His aristocratic nose wrinkled the tiniest bit when Sydney grinned at him, her mouth full of purple mush. “Thank you, no. I believe I’ll pass on the muffin.”

  Molly shrugged. Maybe it wasn’t fair to bring a friend of her brother’s in on this. But Damien Perry had struck her from their very first meeting as a man who could take care of business. Even wounded as he’d been at the time, he had projected an aura of strength and capability that impressed her.

  She flatly rejected the thought that there might be another reason his name came to mind when she needed help.

  So what if he was
handsome as sin itself? Was it a crime to admire his good looks? She was human, wasn’t she? And an artist, too. One who appreciated beauty in all its forms. That’s all she felt for this man, admiration and appreciation.

  All right, maybe she’d felt a little infatuation for him initially, but surely that was normal. Every woman he met must feel that. As soon as she got used to him, it would go away.

  Damien was a man of the world and, she suspected, a loner. And that was fine with Molly. That signaled safety. She was definitely not looking for another man in her life when she couldn’t even dodge the mistake she’d made the first time.

  All she wanted was Damien’s help. Then he could go on his merry way and she could enjoy a couple of secret fantasies about him now and then. No harm in that.

  “Tell me about it,” he suggested softly.

  Molly jerked her head up and stared into those azure eyes. She almost blurted out exactly what she was thinking, then caught herself. “Oh, you mean about Jack.”

  He nodded, an all-too-knowing look in his eyes. “Of course. What else?”

  Chapter 2

  Damien wondered exactly what Molly Jensen saw when she looked at him and why he seemed to disconcert her so much. It couldn’t be his job. Her brother was also an agent, so that would hold little awe for her.

  He supposed it could be attraction on her part, because it certainly was on his. If that was the case, acting on it would suit him just fine, but he knew it was out of the question. Women like Molly didn’t engage in casual sex and brief affairs. They were nurturers at heart, earth-mother types, wife material. Not for him.

  She began explaining in a matter-of-fact way how she came to know the man she had married, how he had browbeat her for months until they’d endured a showdown that had ended it all.

  During Molly’s recital of events, Damien watched with some interest as she gave her daughter more food.

  The child had disgusting habits, Damien thought as he sipped his coffee. For all he knew, maybe all children did. So far, this one had done nothing to endear itself to him. He supposed he could claim admiration for the high decibel level it could reach. It could feed itself, which surprised him.

  Somehow he had expected it would still be bald and practically toothless. But this one had grown considerably since Molly had taken those photos of it. It had hair now, curlier and a much lighter red than Molly’s. The wide eyes had a greenish tint, but not so green as hers. Bluer, he noted.

  They dressed exactly alike, mother and daughter, in dark green sweats with bright red hearts stitched on the left breast. She fascinated him, this odd little Molly Jensen clone, almost as much as her beautiful mother did.

  “So, what do you think?” Molly asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Oh, that’s what I like in a man. Attention. Were you even listening?”

  “Of course. Your ex made the calls, you’ve gotten the protection order…and…?”

  “The police won’t arrest him unless he does something to me. Something they can nail down, anyway. By that time it could be too late. I sent him to jail, Damien, and I’m afraid he’s going to kill me for it. And he might kill Sydney, too. He hates that she exists.”

  Damien gave her his undivided attention. Whether she had real cause or not, Molly Jensen was convinced their lives were in danger. He still thought she was probably blowing things out of proportion and overreacting to the harassment.

  No doubt her ex was bitter about spending a night or two behind bars. The cops had likely hauled him in for disturbing the peace and to give him a chance to cool off after the argument she’d mentioned. Now he was playing on Molly’s fear to get back at her for it. Once Damien scared the life out of him, he’d back off quickly enough.

  “Is there any way to make him stop?” she asked quietly.

  Too quietly, he thought. She sounded like a child herself at the moment. A very frightened child who had no idea what to do next. Her deep green eyes looked to him for answers and her bottom lip quivered slightly.

  Damien felt something turn over in his chest at the sight. At the moment, he wanted to strangle Jack Jensen with his bare hands for putting that look on her face.

  He could do that, but he wouldn’t, of course. Was it possible that she thought he would? He had no idea what her brother had told her about their brief encounter.

  Six months ago he had gone undercover as an assassin for hire to apprehend right-wingers who wanted rid of a senator visiting in Nashville. One of the Bureau’s informants had blown that scheme out of the water while Damien was recuperating from a gunshot. Good thing, since Damien’s cover had evaporated with the shooting and resulting publicity. Once he’d recovered, he had gone down to Florida on his next assignment.

  Molly might think that his badge made him immune to prosecution, that it would allow him to act as judge, jury and executioner. He’d have to set her straight on that. Intimidating Jensen into behaving himself was about the best he could offer in this situation.

  “We’ll think of something,” he assured her. He would have a talk with the police, then throw a scare into Jensen. That should take care of it.

  Those long, graceful fingers of hers worried her trembling lip a second or two before she spoke. “It…it’s not as though I did anything to deserve all this, you know?”

  Damien almost reached for her then, but clenched his fists instead. “No, no, of course you didn’t! The thought never entered my mind.”

  With a sigh she crossed her arms and faced him again. “I’m not imagining this, really,” Molly told him. “He nearly succeeded the last time he tried to kill me.”

  “He what?” Damien demanded, straightening in his chair.

  “Tried to kill me,” she said with a shiver. “And he meant business. You should have seen his eyes.”

  Damien noted the way her fingers dug into the fabric of her sleeves where she grasped her upper arms. She paid no attention to the child who was rhythmically banging her palms on the tray of the high chair.

  “Find a paper and pen. Begin at the beginning and tell me everything, in minute detail,” Damien ordered curtly. “I want dates, times, names of anyone who was involved.”

  Molly pulled a magnetic notepad and pen off the refrigerator, ripped off her grocery list, tossed the leaf in the trash bin and sat down. She pushed the ballpoint and small tablet across the table to him.

  “Well, you see, we had this fight,” she said, avoiding eye contact as though the fact embarrassed her. He watched her absently rub the side of her head with two fingers. “Jack did two years in County for assaulting me. He swore I set him up but I had a great lawyer and a very sympathetic judge. She gave him the maximum sentence. When he got out, he called and said he wanted to get back together. I said no.” She uttered a mirthless little half laugh. “Actually, I phrased it a little more harshly than that.”

  Damien tensed. Two years? What the hell had Jensen done to her? “How badly were you hurt?”

  Molly smiled and made a fist, massaging the backs of her knuckles with the other hand. “I gave almost as good as I got. Landed a good one on his jaw. Amazing what you can do when you’re cornered.” She shook her fist as though it still ached from the blow she had delivered.

  “He hit you,” Damien growled.

  “Mmm-hmm. And choked me. After I broke away and slugged him back, he got in the parting shot.” She shrugged. “I fell backward and hit my head. Bled quite a bit and had a…concussion. Guess I looked pretty bad.”

  Damien clamped down the sudden, murderous fury that shook him and struggled to remain objective. Molly was no frail victim. She was tall, strong, and courageous as hell. But she was still a woman. And, judging by the age of the child, she must have been pregnant at the time of the attack.

  Damien decided he had better not dwell on the incident or he’d come totally unhinged. He cleared his throat and concentrated on taking notes.

  “After you refused to reconcile, has he done anything overt to make you think h
e might resort to violence again?”

  Molly looked down and flexed her long-fingered hands with their short, unpolished nails. “Oh, yeah. After I had a date.”

  “A date,” Damien repeated, writing it down. “Which date and with whom?”

  “My first and only since the divorce. The date took place a week ago. I went to a concert with Joe Malia, a guy who worked at the museum where I was a receptionist.”

  Damien looked up at her. “I thought you were in graphic arts.”

  “I freelance. Brochures, logos, illustrations for ads and such. My day job was part-time at the state museum downtown. I got fired yesterday. Jack’s responsible. Or rather, his father is. The man has connections on the board.”

  Damien understood that Molly would probably attribute everything bad that happened to her to her ex-husband and his family. A natural assumption, and he wouldn’t argue it just yet. It might be true.

  “You used past tense for the man you dated. Was Malia fired, as well?”

  Molly looked directly at him then, her eyes darkened with sadness and roiling anger. “Joe died two days after we went out together. Hit-and-run.”

  Damien almost broke the pen. “Murder, you think?”

  “Well, Jack called me the next day and warned me nicely to be extra careful crossing the street.”

  When Damien said nothing, she swallowed hard and went on. “Look, Jack was always insanely jealous, but I swear he had no reason to be. He wouldn’t believe that, though, and accused me of having someone else’s baby. That’s what the fight was about, the one that he was jailed for.”

  The one he was jailed for? That indicated it was not an isolated occurrence.

  Damien stared down at the notepad, hoping she couldn’t detect his rage. All she needed was another irate male around her. He had to remain calm about this and get all the facts.

  “I see,” he said finally, though he didn’t see at all. How could she have stayed with the man after the first episode of violence? He had never understood it. Why would any woman do that, especially this one?

  Damien could understand a man being jealous of Molly, but he doubted Jensen had gone after Malia with a car. The hit-and-run was most likely an accident and Jensen had merely used it to frighten Molly when he heard Malia was dead.