Santa Assignment Page 2

  He swallowed hard and with it swallowed what little pride he had left.

  Which wasn't much.

  "I'm asking you to have a baby," Brayden clarified. "Our baby."

  * * *

  FROM THE MOMENT Ashley had seen Brayden O'Malley standing on her front porch, she'd imagined lots of things he might say to her.

  But this sure wasn't one of them.

  Not even close.

  Still reeling from the news of her nephew's illness, this latest addition to the conversation caused a serious information overload.

  "Our baby?" Ashley repeated, certain she'd misunderstood him.

  "Our baby," he verified.

  The words seemed to stick in his throat. And probably did. After all, he was talking to her. They weren't friends. In fact, the last thing Brayden had said to her two years, seven months and four days ago was that he hoped like hell he never saw her face again.

  She'd given him that. Ashley had disappeared from his life. From her nephew's.

  From her own life.

  "The doctors think a sibling donor is Colton's best chance for a bone marrow match," Brayden continued. "Because the DNA will be similar."

  So, she'd heard him correctly. Her nephew had leukemia and needed a bone marrow transplant. She and her former brother-in-law were the best bet for giving him that.

  Oh, mercy.

  When the full impact of that hit her, her heart landed somewhere in the vicinity of her knees. And because she didn't want to risk something as dignity-reducing as her legs giving way, Ashley sat back down.

  "It's not a hundred percent," Brayden went on. "I mean, nothing is. But at least this way there's a fighting chance we'll have a suitable donor. No one in my family matched. I've even contacted all of your relatives, including distant cousins. No luck. And there's not a match in the international bone marrow registry, either."

  "Oh, mercy." Ashley searched for whatever she was supposed to say in a situation like this and came up with a total blank. "A lawyer without an immediate opinion. That's one for the record."

  "Well, this isn't an everyday occurrence." He groaned, scrubbed his hands over his face and tipped his eyes toward the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. "I should have found a better way to say it."

  "Trust me, there was no better way to say what you just said. Besides, you got your point across—believe me. A baby," Ashley mumbled, aware that by repeating it, she was starting to sound a little psychotic. "Fate sure has a twisted sense of humor, huh?"

  He shrugged. And made a sound of agreement. A mild sound. Which wasn't congruent with his rigid posture. In that calf-length black coat with a dark blue suit beneath it and with his conservative, short, bronze-colored hair, Brayden looked much like a judge or a military officer standing at attention.

  Or perhaps waiting for a firing squad.

  "I know it's a lot to ask…especially since you have a new life here."

  "A new life not by choice," Ashley reminded him, lifting her index finger in a let's-not-forget-that-little-detail gesture. "But out of necessity."

  He nodded. "Because of the stalker."

  Oh, yes. Always the stalker.

  A person who might or might not be her former client, Hyatt Chapman. A name that even now caused her lungs to tighten and her breath to go thin. The sociopathic slime, whoever he was, had given her some of the most terrifying and troubling moments of her life—excluding her sister's death.

  And this, of course.

  This definitely qualified as troubling.

  Ironically, it was easier to talk to Brayden about a crazed stalker who had threatened, and tried to kill her than it was to discuss her nephew's illness or a possible baby. So, Ashley let her mouth go where her brain was already gladly leading her. "I haven't received any threatening letters or calls since I changed my name and moved here."

  Another nod. "That's good."

  The words were right, but Brayden's body language added an important postscript to it. It was good that the stalker hadn't found her, but if—and that was a huge if—she considered what he'd just asked her to consider, it would almost certainly mean her coming out of hiding.

  It would also probably mean having to deal with the stalker all over again.

  Oh, mercy.

  Ashley wasn't sure she was ready for round two.

  Round one had nearly killed her.

  "And I really have started over here," she continued, talking more to herself than to him. "I mean, I'm doing something that matters."

  For once in her life.

  Of course, that was the problem with doing something that mattered. It didn't automatically exclude other things that mattered, too.

  Like her nephew.

  But a baby? This was no easy fix. No easy choice.

  Brayden walked closer, hovered over her a moment and sank down onto the chair across from her. Directly across. The knees of his pants brushed against her jeans.

  His gaze met hers. And there it was. That shock of stunning green. She'd almost forgotten all those tones of vibrant color in his eyes.

  Almost.

  What she hadn't almost forgotten was his face. Ruggedly handsome by anyone's standards. Good Celtic cheekbones. A naturally tanned complexion. Toned and lean.

  He was thirty-three now and had tiny lines at the corners of his eyes. Character lines, people called them. As if he needed any more character on that face.

  Brayden pulled his gaze from hers. Shook his head. Mumbled something indistinguishable. And rammed his hands into both sides of his hair. "I wouldn't have asked if—"

  "If it weren't for Colton," Ashley finished. "Oh, I really do know that. I can only imagine what it cost you to come here today."

  Eye contact again. Barely a glance, though. He even cleared his throat. In the six-plus years she'd known Brayden O'Malley, she'd never heard him clear his throat. Ditto for any nervous gestures. The Rock of Gibraltar, Dana had called him. But today, Ashley was seeing a very different side of the Rock. The edges were definitely crumbling a bit.

  "And I can imagine what it's costing you to even consider it," he admitted.

  Touché.

  There was an understanding, maybe even a bizarre empathy, left between them after all. And of course the memories were there, too. Lots of memories. Of the old professional arguments between a dedicated homicide cop and an equally dedicated and frequent pain-in-the-ass criminal defense attorney.

  And they especially had all the old arguments about Dana between them.

  Well, one argument really. The one where they'd accused each other of getting Dana killed.

  I hope like hell I never see your face again.

  Because those words Brayden had said to her long ago just wouldn't go away, because they started to pound in her head like war drums, Ashley stood to give herself some breathing room.

  "Take some time," he offered when she started to pace. "Think about it."

  Ashley managed a nod. Somehow. Even though it seemed as if every muscle in her neck was knotted and stiff.

  Part of her desperately wanted to jump at the chance to help her nephew. And another part of her just plain resented Brayden for bringing all of this to her.

  But this wasn't just about Colton. Nor was it just about Brayden and her.

  It was also about a baby.

  A baby who could potentially save a child's life and complicate everything else. Because a baby was permanent. A bond. And it would mean bonding with a man who had trouble even looking her in the eye for more than a couple of seconds.

  A man who couldn't forgive her.

  A man who was a reminder that she couldn't forgive herself.

  How could she possibly conceive a child under those circumstances?

  Yet, how could she risk losing her nephew?

  Pacing, repeating each of those arguments to herself, Ashley caught a glimpse of Brayden in the mirror on the antique sideboard on the other side of the table. Still stoic. Still soldier stiff.

  E
xcept for his eyes.

  And in that glance Ashley realized that Brayden had the same questions, the same concerns, the same fears as she did.

  "You wouldn't have to give up your life," he added. "But I know it'd change everything."

  Yes. It would. Heck, it had already changed everything. The life she'd so carefully put together, the sanity she'd found, hadn't been shattered exactly, but it was no longer intact, either.

  "I'll have think about it," Ashley assured him. But she couldn't do that with Brayden in the room. She needed time. Alone.

  Mercy, where had all the air gone?

  Because she was sure she was on the verge of tears, and because there was no way she wanted Brayden to see her cry, she had to get out of there.

  "I'll call you," she said, making sure her tone indicated this conversation was on hold.

  And she was obviously successful in getting that point across because Brayden didn't say anything, and he didn't follow her. Ashley started toward her room.

  Just as she detected the smell.

  Was it smoke?

  Ashley turned back around. So did he. He lifted his head slightly. And it was on the tip of her tongue to ask if he'd recently had a cigarette. But it was an unnecessary question. Because Brayden didn't smoke, and besides the smell wasn't in the living room.

  She spun toward the hall just off the back of the kitchen and saw her bedroom door.

  And the thick black smoke oozing from beneath it.

  Chapter Two

  Brayden didn't waste any time.

  The moment he smelled the smoke, he pushed past Ashley and raced through the kitchen, frantically searching. No smoke there, and no obvious source of fire.

  "It's coming from my bedroom," Ashley informed him, pointing toward the hall.

  She started ahead of him, but again, he moved around her and hurried to the room she'd pointed out. He saw the smoke drifting along the floor. And worse. Rising. It wouldn't be long before it made its way through the entire house.

  He touched his palm to the door.

  It wasn't hot. Thank God.

  The old-fashioned faceted-glass doorknob was cool, as well. So, he opened it. Cautiously. Peering around the corner. When he was satisfied that he wasn't about to face a full-scale blaze, he gave the door a shove with his shoulder.

  No backdraft or wall of fire.

  That was the good news. But the bad news was there were foot-high orange-red flames on the dresser tucked into the corner, and the flames weren't staying put, either. They were quickly eating their way toward the draping lace curtains on a nearby window.

  "Grab a fire extinguisher or some water," he yelled back to Ashley. "And call the fire department."

  Sheltering his face from the blaze, he latched onto the curtains and ripped them down from the thick brass rod. Best not to give the fire any more fuel. It already had enough with what was left of the array of dried flowers, scented candles and pictures on the dresser.

  Brayden stripped a quilt from the bed and beat down the flames. No easy task. Some scattered. There were sparks and sputters. And the black coiling smoke. It was suffocating, but he choked back a cough and kept working.

  He soon realized just how lucky they'd been. It could have been worse. Much worse. If the fire had gotten just a few more minutes of a head start, they would have had an inferno on their hands, and the whole place might have gone up in flames.

  "I have the extinguisher," he heard her say.

  She began to spray the white foam on the small smoldering spots that had ignited around the base of the dresser and the rug on the side of the bed. Brayden continued to put out the heart of the blaze by pounding it with the quilt.

  The picture frames shattered against the wall. The melting candles sputtered. He stomped on the partially burned dried flowers that he raked to the floor.

  One of the embers from the dried flowers flew out and landed on his pant leg. He reached down to brush it off, just as one of the flames erupted back into a blaze. The spark singed his hand, and he quickly drew it back, trying to maneuver the quilt so he could smother the fire.

  "Brayden!" Ashley called out. From the alarm in her voice, she must have noticed his clothes on fire. She turned the extinguisher in his direction and hosed him down.

  It worked.

  But Brayden didn't take the time to thank her. He returned to the tiny embers still left around the dresser and kept battling them until finally all that was left was the smoke and the damage. Minor damage at that. Yes, indeed, they'd been lucky.

  "Are you hurt?" she asked.

  He glanced down at the small red mark on his left hand. There'd be a blister but no real damage. "I'm fine."

  She obviously didn't take his word for it. Ashley grabbed him by the wrist and checked it herself. Her touch was warm. Surprisingly gentle. Too gentle. And the examination put them too close. Practically body to body. It didn't help when her arm brushed his.

  Brayden tugged his hand away and stepped back. "It's nothing," he insisted, wondering why that insistence felt as if it had a double meaning.

  And why it felt like a lie.

  "Should I call the fire department and tell them not to come?" Ashley asked, doing her own share of stepping back from him.

  "No. They're probably already on the way, and they can make sure all the flames are fully out." For good measure, Brayden took the fire extinguisher and gave the whole area a good soaking.

  Ashley went to the window, unhooked the lock and threw it open. The icy air blasted through the room, which was exactly what they needed because it helped thin the smoke almost immediately. It also shook off any lingering effects from her too-gentle touch.

  "I don't understand how this happened," she said in between gulps of breath. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. Probably from the cold, but Brayden figured part of it was a reaction to the near disaster.

  Adrenaline was certainly pumping through him. As if he needed more. He'd been functioning on adrenaline and caffeine for days now.

  He kept the fire extinguisher ready in case a secondary blaze reignited, and he examined the dresser. Even though he'd knocked off the items that had been on it, he could see the residue that had pooled on the veneer finish. It looked like melted wax.

  "Did you leave a candle burning?" he asked.

  "No." Muffling a cough and still rubbing her arms, Ashley walked closer. "I mean, I use candles a lot, but I didn't light one today."

  He stooped down and used the nozzle of the extinguisher to sort through the still-warm rubble. "You're positive? Because it looks as if one burned down and managed to catch those dried flowers on fire."

  When Ashley didn't answer, Brayden looked up at her. It seemed as if she was about to say something. But then she changed her mind. Instead, she shook her head and angled her eyes in another direction. "It's possible. I guess."

  He stood up and checked Ashley's recently reangled blue eyes. Nothing like Dana's pale hazel ones. In fact, for sisters, they had few physical attributes in common.

  Which helped this visit considerably.

  It would have been much harder if she'd reminded him of his late wife.

  "What's this about?" Brayden demanded. In the distance, he could hear sirens. A welcome sound, except for the fact that he didn't want their arrival to give Ashley an excuse not to answer.

  "What do you mean?" Ashley grabbed a fringed throw from the foot of the bed, slung it around her shoulders and went back to the window. She stared out, once again diverting her gaze.

  Oh, man.

  That couldn't be a good sign.

  "It's possible. I guess?" he said, repeating her own vague explanation. "Maybe I've been a cop too long, but that just set off the BS meter in my head."

  "You're right." And that's all Ashley said for several seconds. Before she bent down and picked up a damaged picture frame from the floor. She fastened her gaze to it. "You've been a cop too long. Eleven years, huh?"

  "Twelve. But if you think a
sking me that totally irrelevant question will distract me, think again." He went closer, caught her arm and turned her around to face him. "In fact, that's twice today you've set off that BS meter, and the first time was when you asked me the question—so you found out, huh? What'd you mean by that, Ashley?"

  "You don't have a BS meter." She slung off his grip with far more force than required. "You have a blasted tape recorder. And if you must know, I meant nothing by it. I was simply surprised that'd you found me, that's all."

  That BS meter went nuts.

  Brayden would have called her on that lie if she hadn't turned the picture frame around. Even though the glass was shattered and smeared with soot, he could still see that it contained a photograph of his son. Not a recent shot but one taken when Colton was just a couple of months old. When his son was still healthy.

  Ashley had him cradled in her arms.

  "I want to see him," she whispered, drawing the photograph to her chest. "I want to go to San Antonio."

  Outside, the sirens howled, coming closer. But it wasn't the sirens that captured Brayden's attention. It was the woman holding the image of his son, and his future, in her hands. If this was her own version of a distraction so she wouldn't have to answer his questions, it was working.

  Brayden felt a tight fist close around his heart.

  It wasn't the yes he'd prayed for. But then, it wasn't a no either.

  "I promised myself I wouldn't go back, ever," Ashley continued. "Not because I don't love Colton. I do. But going back…well, it could create some problems. I'm talking huge problems."

  "I know. But I'm not asking you to leave behind what you have here. We could work that out. And the baby wouldn't be your responsibility. It'd—"

  "It's not just that." She motioned toward her hair. "This isn't for cosmetic reasons, Brayden. I did this hoping he wouldn't find me."

  "I know."

  If she stepped away from this place she'd created, she could be stepping into danger. He'd already made security arrangements. He had already worked out ways to keep her safe. Plus, he'd taken into account how to minimize the effects this might have on her life.

  But there was no way to minimize everything.