The Keeper. Rhonda Nelson

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Born to a mother with Down’s who’d been taken advantage of by a male caregiver, Mariette had a unique connection to the condition and had been employing workers with Down’s since she first opened her doors four years ago.

      If she’d learned anything from her mother it had been that everyone—no matter how different—wanted to be needed, to be useful, to have a bit of independence. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t miss her and not a day that went by that she didn’t want to hurt the father who’d abused her trusting spirit.

      Bastard.

      He’d served eighteen months for what he’d done to her mother and then promptly fled the state. Mariette kept tabs on him, though, and directed every new employer to his sex-offender status. She inwardly grinned. He never kept a job for very long. He struggled and, though it might be small of her, she thought it was fitting. He deserved that and a lot worse if you asked her.

      The idea that his evil blood actually ran in her veins was something she’d struggled with for years, at times even making her physically ill. But her mother’s was there, too, and Mariette liked to think that her mom’s especially good blood had somehow canceled out that of her father’s. Weird? Yes. But she’d never been destined for normal.

      Normal was boring.

      Her gaze drifted fondly over her dear helper and she smiled. Livvie had been with her for several months now and was doing remarkably well. She loved manning the case and adored sweeping. She helped with the birthday parties and refilled drinks and every tip that went into the jar was hers to keep. Which was just as well since the bulk of her check went to fund her Hello Kitty obsession. Her most recent purchase was the watch that encircled her wrist.

      “Can I get you something?” Mariette asked Jack, gesturing to the display case.

      He hesitated.

      “He has a fondness for carrot cake,” Charlie interjected slyly.

      Mariette shot him a droll look and selected the cupcake in question. It had been her aunt’s recipe—and was one of her favorites, as well. Oh, hell. Who was she kidding? Everything in this shop was her favorite, otherwise she didn’t take the time to make or stock it. Food was a passionate business and if she couldn’t get excited about it—if it didn’t make her palate sing—then she didn’t bother. Better to have fewer phenomenal items on her menu than dozens of mediocre ones.

      Also something she’d learned from her Aunt Marianne, who’d not only helped raise her, but had taught her to bake, as well. Some of her fondest memories were in the kitchen with her aunt and her mom, cracking eggs, stirring batter, the scent of vanilla in the air.

      She popped the dessert onto a little antique plate along with a linen napkin and handed it to him. Seconds later Livvie had put a glass of tea in his hand. She’d added two lemons and a cherry, which told Mariette just how much Livvie thought of him. She only put cherries in the drinks of her favorite people. He nodded approvingly at her and shot her a wink, making her giggle with pleasure once more.

      His blue gaze shifted to Mariette and that direct regard made her more than a little light-headed. “Is there somewhere we can talk?” he asked, lifting a golden brow. “I’ve got a few questions.”

      Mariette took a bracing breath and prepared herself for imminent humiliation. She couldn’t imagine anything more mortifying than telling this man about her butter problems.

      MARIETTE LEVINE WAS NOT at all what he’d expected, Jack thought broodingly as he followed her back to the kitchen. Actually, he hadn’t really given any thought to what she might be like, so that wasn’t precisely true. But—his gaze drifted over her petite curvy frame, lingering on her especially ripe heart-shaped ass—this woman wouldn’t have been it.

      In the first place, Mariette sounded like an old-fashioned name, so he’d imagined a more mature woman. Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He’d thought she’d be old. Which was ridiculous, really. Not all bakeries were owned by plump grandmas in floral aprons, though for reasons that escaped him that was the image that had leapt immediately to mind.

      He estimated this particular baker to be in her mid- to late-twenties. In the second place … Well, there wasn’t really a second place, though logic told him there should have been. And a third and a fourth and a fifth, for that matter. Furthermore, he felt as though he should have been warned, but couldn’t come up with a logical reason for that, either.

      What would they have said? Oh, by the way, Mariette’s young and hot with the most unusual gray eyes you’ll ever see? That long mink-colored hair will incite the urge to wrap it around your fist and drag her up against you? And her mouth … Jack swallowed thickly. A much fuller lower lip, a distinct bow in the upper and a perpetual tilt at the corner that suggested she was always enjoying a private joke. It was sinfully sensual nestled between her pert little nose and small pointy chin.

      She wasn’t merely pretty or beautiful—though those adjectives would apply, as well—but there was something more there. Something much more substantial and compelling, and the bizarre tightening in his chest that had occurred when her gaze had met his had been nothing short of terrifying.

      Jack wasn’t accustomed to being afraid of anything other than failure, so discovering that a woman could incite the feeling was a bit unsettling.

      Honestly, when she’d risen up from behind that counter he couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d been hit between the eyes with a two-by-four. He’d damned-near staggered.

      From a single look.

      Like a tsunami running headlong into a hurricane.

      If he had any brains at all he’d turn around and leave, Jack thought. He’d walk right back up the block to Ranger Security and tell them that they needed to put someone else on this particular case, to give him another one. But short of a natural disaster metaphor, how in the hell could he explain his reasoning?

      How could he tell them that she made his gut clench and his dick hard? That intuition told him he was headed into uncharted emotional and sexual territory and, weak as it might sound, he wasn’t altogether certain he’d be able to control himself? That something about her scared the hell out of him? A girl?

       How galling.

      He couldn’t tell them that, dammit. He needed this job, had to make it work. He couldn’t bail on the first damned assignment.

      And as much as he was compelled to flee, there was an opposite force equally as strong that was drawing him toward her, intriguing him, transfixing him, and between the two he was stuck, immobile and powerless.

      Another punch of fear landed in his gut.

      Mariette gestured toward a small table, indicating a seat and she took the one opposite. A couple of women worked at a large stainless-steel table drizzling icing over pastries and the scent of yeast and sugar hung in the air, reminding him of Christmastime at home, when his mother made her famous cinnamon rolls. Every surface gleamed beneath the large, overhead lights. An old wooden ladder outfitted with metal hooks was suspended from the ceiling and held a variety of pots and tongs of varying degrees and sizes.

      A peg board had been anchored to one long wall and held dozens of bowls, measuring cups, couplings and icing tips. Fresh flowers sat in old, blue Mason jars on the back windowsill and yet another board—this one a dry erase with what he СКАЧАТЬ