Page 95 of Playing With Fire

How had the conversation veered offtrack so fast?

“Thanks for the update officer. Nothing about the Brownings surprises me,” she said tightly. She sipped her now lukewarm, watery tea. “God,” she said in disgust. “When did people start drinking dried flowers and fruit?”

Those ridiculous, mortifying tears gathered again. She stepped back smartly as Ricky reached toward her.

Jodi shook her head. “No. Please. I’m okay. The twins are fine, and that’s the main thing.” She pushed back her hair, not caring that without the hairdryer and straightener it was drying in a frizzy halo around her face.

Like a Botticelli angel? No way. Jodi Ruskin was six feet plus of muscle, full of sass and vinegar, as Gramps would say.

“What about you, Ricky. You fine? Browning won’t dare fire you, though he will threaten you with enough legal firepower to sink a battleship. I’m expecting a frenzied message from The Monitor’s legal advisors any minute now.”

His dark eyes were locked on hers. Jodi knew she was babbling, but she couldn’t stop.

“And of course, since your contract is almost up, you’ll be heading back to New York soon anyway.” Her voice began to wobble. “Without finding your little girl, which is too bad.”

The instant pain that flashed across his face was like a knife in her own heart. She swallowed, blinked away those damned tears.

“And I’m really sorry about that, Ricky,” she whispered. “I can’t imagine how...desperate and heartbreaking that is.”

He nodded. A muscle twitched in his rock-hard jaw.

“It’s both those things, and more,” he said in a low voice. “And you deserve an explanation. And an apology—”

“No,” Jodi cut in. “You don’t owe me anything Ricky. I’m simply the eagle-eyed reporter who helped break the case of the firebug. We made a great team. Lois Lane and Superman.”

He put down his mug and moved quickly around the bench, taking her into his arms before she had a chance to protest.

Jodi leaned into the comfort of his hard chest, laid her face against the warm, salty skin of his neck. Her throat was raw. Bristles tickled her forehead, and she bit back a hysterical giggle when she realized that her damp hair was dripping down his neck.

They stood for a moment, hearts so close that each could feel the reassuring thump of the other’s chest. Then she gradually eased away. His arms opened and he let her go.

“Toast?” she asked brightly, trying to ignore the chill air that replaced his body warmth.

He shook his head. His eyes followed her as she moved to the single armchair, still clutching the despised tea.

Hot chocolate, that’s what was needed, decided Jodi. Something hot and sweet and delicious and wicked. With toast and honey—and lashings of butter. As close to pleasure as a girl could get on a frozen night in Upstate New York State when the man of her dreams turns out to be on a private mission that doesn’t require her presence.

Ricky left the mug of tea on the counter and took the sofa. He unfolded his long legs and leaned back against the cushion with a grunt of relief.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell you about...about the baby. Lioba, that’s her name.” He massaged his eye sockets with those scarred hands. “No, that’s not true,” he corrected. “I do know.”

Jodie felt frozen in place, desperate to leave but needing to stay. She tucked her knees under her chin and hugged tight.

Ricky’s brows drew together. It was clearly costing him an effort to speak.

“At first, I was filled with...rage more than anything. Blind fury that Chrissie had done this and not told me. Me. The father.” His voice broke but he mastered himself.

“But deep down I knew this was my fault. Sure, Chrissie made some bad, bad, choices like she always did. But I should have checked on her. This whole mess—well I figured it was my mess to clean up.”

Jodi tightened her grip around her knees. She couldn’t fix this with hot chocolate and toast and a sympathetic ear and a warm hug—especially a warm hug.

“My boss knew about Chrissie, of course, and I was booted into counseling and therapy and told to take a few months compassionate leave. All that’s on record. And Bonnie Browning was right, I did lose my nerve after that. Cold sweat, panic, the whole thing.”

His laugh was hollow. “So I came back home. My child was here, and I didn’t want to hear any legal bullshit about parental rights. I took the contract Browning offered and started quietly looking.”

He paused. His breath was ragged. “I’m not good at this...baring the soul. We hero types save that for a late-night drink with our buddies or a quiet chat with the chaplain. People who understand the job. But I couldn’t dump this on any of them. Or on the people I care about.”

He leaned forward, and this time there was no mistaking the message in his eyes. “People like you, Ms. Jodi Ruskin. But your bullshit meter is...um...impressive.”

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