Page 9 of Simon Says

Not again. How many times did she have to hear about her mother’s disapproval and disappointment? Dakota drew a steadying breath. “Listen, Barnaby—”

“You know, she blamed herself.”

Dakota braced her heart. Once on a roll, there’d be no stopping Barnaby until he had his say.

“Joan thought it was your name that caused you to turn so brazen. She said she’d wanted you to have a bright, cheerful name, different from other girls. Of course, when she named you, she didn’t know that your married name would…enhance things.”

Every muscle in Dakota’s body tightened, but outwardly, she looked bored. “I’ve heard this tune too many times, Barnaby. Spare me, okay?”

“She said that had she known the choices you’d make, she would have named you something different. Because now your name makes you sound like a porn star.”

Dakota faked a yawn. It was her name, her mistake, damn it, and she would keep it as a reminder—her version of donning a horsehair shirt.

“Dakota Dream,” Barnaby intoned with slow and dramatic emphasis. “I think Joan was right. Definitely the name of a professional whore.”

Her façade cracked. “Go screw yourself.” Jaw tight and throat burning, Dakota pushed past him.

“Do this one thing,” he reminded her, “and we’re even.”

Bastard! She paused near the door. It took two deep breaths before she could make herself turn and face him. “Give me his name and last known residence.”

Victory did ugly things to Barnaby’s disposition; it exposed his malicious nature.

Smug smile in place, he withdrew one hand from his pocket and held out a slip of paper. “This is all I have. He travels a lot, so you might have to use a few of your sneakier skills to locate him.”

Careful not to touch Barnaby, Dakota closed her hand around the paper. She didn’t look at it. Her sneaky skills included working part-time, mostly on a volunteer basis, to help locate missing people. Reuniting loved ones served as her lame way of making amends to a past she couldn’t change.

At every opportunity, Barnaby threw it in her face.

“You’ll have to cover my expenses.”

“Of course.” His lips stretched into a smile. “Keep a detailed tally and give me the total after you bring him to me.”

She shook her head. “I see the lie in your eyes, Barnaby. We both know you won’t give me a dime once you have what you want.”

The smile pinched into a sneer, and even his perfect teeth couldn’t make him appealing. “Before the accident stole Joan’s ability to speak, she begged me not to contact you.”

Dakota’s heart thumped hard. “So you’ve said, many times.” She knew it was true. If Barnaby hadn’t found a soft spot in his cold heart, he wouldn’t have gone against her mother’s wishes and let Dakota move back in. She would have been hurt and homeless, and all alone.

Worse, her mother would have died before she could touch her one more time, before she could hold her hand and beg forgiveness. Her mother never regained consciousness, but at least Barnaby had given her a chance.

And for that, she did owe him.

“Joan told me that you’d disappointed her and shamed her so much that she could never forgive you—”

“Yeah, I know.” Already leaving the room, anxious to be away before Barnaby saw how he’d hurt her, Dakota said, “This is the last time, Barnaby. I’ll drag your damned son to you if I have to, and then we’re even.”

“Of course.” Voice moderate again, he added, “Don’t slam the door, Dakota. You know how your mother despised your temper tantrums.”

Breathing harder than she should have been, Dakota paused outside the house with her fist on the doorknob. It took an effort, but she loosened her muscles, relaxed them, and eased the door shut with a quick, quiet click.

The yard she’d played in as a child now looked like a showplace. There were no dandelions on the lawn, no bare patches from repeated games of tag.

While her mother lived, Barnaby hadn’t spent a dime except on his own pleasures. But her mother hadn’t been dead a week before he’d started throwing money around.

New shrubbery, enhanced with outdoor lights and framed with colorful fall flowers, circled the house. A large decorative fountain had replaced the cheap birdbath she’d given her mother on Mother’s Day. Rather than repair the old broken sidewalk, Barnaby had paid to have it torn out so a new cobblestone walkway led to the front door.

New siding, windows, and doors. New carpet and furniture. New cabinets. The house was better. Improved. And it was no longer her childhood home. Maybe, Dakota thought, she should count her blessings.

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