Christmas Kidnapping. Cindi Myers

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СКАЧАТЬ get that.” Jack’s hand rested atop hers on the tab. He dropped into the chair beside her, his face flushed and breathing hard. “He got away,” he said. “I’m sorry about your purse.” He shifted his hip to retrieve his wallet and winced.

      “You’re hurt,” she said, alarmed.

      He shook his head. “I’m fine.” He removed his credit card and glanced around. Two busboys were righting the overturned table and most of the other diners had returned to their meals. “Where’s our waitress?” Jack asked. “I’m ready to get out of here.”

      He helped her with her coat and kept his hand at her back as they left the café. “What was in your purse?” he asked. “I’m assuming a wallet and credit cards. Driver’s license?”

      She nodded. “And my car keys, house keys and cell phone.” She took a deep breath. “I can call and cancel the cards, get a new license, and I have spare keys at home. I’ll have to get a new phone.”

      “Let me take you by your place to get the keys,” he said.

      “You don’t have to do that. I can call someone.” Maybe Chelsea, who was babysitting for her, would come—though that would mean bringing along Ian and Chelsea’s baby, Charlotte.

      “I have the whole afternoon free, so you might as well let me take you.”

      “All right. Thank you.”

      Jack drove a pickup truck, a black-and-silver late-model Ford that was the Western equivalent of a hot sports car. She gave him directions to her home and settled back against the soft leather seats, inhaling the masculine aromas of leather, coffee and Jack Prescott. If some genius were to bottle the combination, it would be a sure bestseller, the epitome of sex appeal.

      “Nice place,” he said when he pulled into the driveway of the blue-and-white Victorian in one of Durango’s quiet older neighborhoods. Snow frosted the low evergreens around the base of the porch and dusted the large pine-and-cedar Christmas wreath she had hung on the front door. Jack had to move Ian’s tricycle in order to get to the walkway to the steps.

      “Sorry about that,” Andrea said. “I keep telling him not to leave it in the way like that, but he forgets.”

      “He’ll be ready for a bicycle before long,” Jack said. “If he’s five.”

      “He’s been asking for one for Christmas but I don’t know...” The thought of her baby riding along the narrow and hilly roads of her neighborhood filled her with visions of collisions with cars or tumbles in loose gravel.

      Chelsea opened the door before they were up the steps, Charlotte in her arms. “Oh, hi, Andrea.” She sent a curious glance toward Jack. “I didn’t know who was here in that truck.”

      “My purse got stolen at lunch,” Andrea said. “I came home to get my spare keys. This is Jack. Jack, this is Chelsea. She’s my best friend and she looks after Ian while I work. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

      “Hello, Jack.” Chelsea pushed a corkscrew of black curls behind one ear and smoothed the front of her pink polo shirt.

      “I’ll just get my keys and get out of your hair.” Andrea started to step past her, but at that moment, Ian barreled out of the house.

      “Hey, Mom!” He grinned up at her, the dimple on the left side of his mouth and the thick fall of dark hair across his forehead foreshadowing the lady-killer he would no doubt be one day. Just like his father. “You came home early,” Ian said.

      “Not to stay, I’m afraid.” She hugged him and smoothed the hair out of his eyes. But his attention had already shifted to Jack. Ian ducked his head behind her leg and peeked out.

      Jack squatted in front of the boy—it had to be an awkward movement, considering his injuries, but a slight wince was the only sign of difficulty he gave. “Hello, Ian,” he said. “My name is Jack.”

      “Mr. Prescott,” Andrea corrected. She nudged her son. “Say hello, Ian.”

      “Hello.” The words came out muffled against her leg, but Ian’s eyes remained fixed on Jack, bright with interest.

      “What’s your favorite food, Ian?” Jack asked.

      Ian looked up at his mom. “You can answer him,” she said.

      “Grilled cheese sandwiches,” Ian said.

      Chelsea laughed. “He would eat grilled cheese every meal if his mother and I would let him.”

      “I like grilled cheese, too,” Jack said.

      “I’ll just get my keys.” Andrea slipped inside and went to the drawer in her bedroom where she kept her spare set. She paused to study the photo on her dresser, of her and Preston and eighteen-month-old Ian on her lap. Ian liked to hold the picture and ask questions about his father, but one day pictures and her memories weren’t going to be enough. A boy needed a father to help him learn to be a man.

      She returned to the porch to find Jack and Ian in the driveway, studying something on the tricycle. “What’s going on?” she asked Chelsea.

      “Guy talk.” Chelsea dismissed the two males with a wave of her hand. “What’s this about your purse being stolen?” she asked.

      “A purse snatcher. Jack chased him, but the guy was too fast.” She jingled her keys. “I’ll have to call when I get to my office and cancel my credit cards and see about getting a new driver’s license.”

      Chelsea sidled closer and lowered her voice. “Jack is definitely a hottie,” she said. “How long have you two been an item?”

      Andrea flushed. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. I mean, we just met.”

      “You don’t act like two people who just met.” Chelsea grinned.

      “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      “You can’t take your eyes off him. And he feels the same way.”

      Andrea glanced at Jack, something she realized now she had been doing every few seconds since she had returned to the porch. He was kneeling beside the trike, listening while Ian gave some long explanation about something. Just then Jack looked up and his eyes met hers, and she felt a jolt of pleasure course through her.

      Jack stood and patted Ian’s shoulder. Then the two rejoined the women on the porch. “Ian was telling me about the pedals sticking on his ride,” he said. “I’ll bring some oil over sometime and fix the problem for him.”

      “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” she protested. Jack was a client. They were supposed to have one casual lunch and some conversation. Now he was getting involved in her personal life.

      “I’m going to help Jack fix my bike,” Ian said.

      “Mr. Prescott.” Her voice sounded faint, even to her, as she made the automatic correction.

      “It’s no trouble,” Jack said.

      Arguing about it, especially in front of Ian and Chelsea, seemed a waste of breath. СКАЧАТЬ