MacKenzie's Promise Page 3

  Dark Turkish rugs left splashes of color over the pale wood floors. The leather on the couches was soft and pliant as velvet. His dining table, big enough to seat twelve with ease, gleamed with the patina of age.

  “Have you lived here long?” she asked, coming to lean in the archway and watch him at work.

  “Going on four years.”

  “It’s a very handsome house. You were lucky it came on the market just when you were ready to buy.”

  “It didn’t. I found the land and had the house built to my specifications.”

  “Oh.” She scanned the kitchen, noting its top-of-the-line appliances, the finely crafted cabinets, the big work island with a slotted rack holding a selection of expensive knives built into one side. “Did you design the kitchen, too?”

  “Right down to the last floorboard.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Why? Because I own more than a can opener and a frying pan?”

  “No. Because most men don’t have the eye for detail which you seem to possess.”

  “It comes with the territory,” he said, separating the yolk from the white of an egg and whisking it into a bowl with olive oil, lemon juice, a little anchovy paste and a dash of Worcestershire sauce. “I used to make my living noticing details. They’re critical in the solving of crime. You plan on sleeping with anybody tonight?”

  She blinked, taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I asked if you planned—”

  “I heard!” she said. “And I’m wondering why you think it’s any of your business.”

  “Well not because I’m hoping you’ll climb between the sheets with me, cookie, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  “What a relief! But that still doesn’t answer my question.”

  With superb disregard for its razor-sharp edge, he juggled a chef’s knife in his right hand, and slammed the flat side of the blade on a clove of garlic, reducing it to a pulverized mound on the chopping board. “I like plenty of this in my salad dressing. If you don’t and you’ve got a hot and heavy night ahead, you might prefer—”

  “I’ll be sleeping alone.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “I haven’t decided.”

  He stopped what he was doing and very deliberately fixed her once again in that daunting stare, except that this time, she detected an element of incredulity in its depths. As if he’d just discovered she was missing a vital part of her anatomy—like a brain. “Are you telling me you don’t have a hotel room lined up?”

  “Not yet,” she admitted, trying to sound unconcerned.

  “Not yet?” He raised his rather wonderful eyes heavenward as if communing with God, although he stopped short of asking, Why me, oh Lord? “What you really mean is you don’t have the first idea where you’re going to stay.”

  His tone and manner suggested he thought she was too mentally defective to comprehend the situation. Retaliating, she said, “I’m well aware I won’t find a room right here in Trillium Cove, Mr. Sullivan.”

  “Congratulations,” he sneered. “Are you also aware you’re not likely to find one within a fifty-mile radius, because this is high tourist season and even fleabag No-Tell Motels fill up by midafternoon?”

  “Should I find that to be the case, I’ll sleep in my car,” she said rashly.

  “If that’s supposed to make me feel sorry for you, you’re wasting your time. There are worse things than sleeping in a car. Ask any one of the hundreds of homeless people who consider a park bench luxury accommodation.” He scooped forks from a drawer, steak knives from the rack and sent the lot skimming over the work island toward her. “Here, make yourself useful, for a change. Set the table. You’ll find place mats and stuff inside the sideboard in the dining area.”

  “Is ‘please’ a part of your vocabulary?” she snapped, catching the cutlery just before it flew off the granite surface and crashed to the floor. “Or didn’t your mother think it necessary to teach you any manners?”

  He treated her to an evil and altogether beautiful grin. “I’m a Neanderthal, remember? We don’t do manners. And leave my mother out of this. She managed to raise five kids on her own without losing any of us, which is more than can be said for the family you come from.”

  She supposed she deserved that, but it hurt anyway. And served to remind her why she was there to begin with. If she wanted this man’s help, she’d better fine-tune her approach. “I apologize,” she said, swallowing her aggravation. “I shouldn’t have brought your mother into this. I’m sure she’s a very fine lady.”

  “Yes, she is,” he said. “And I’m a jerk to have said what I did about your family, so that makes us even. How do you feel about California shiraz?”

  She found his habit of switching subjects without warning or lead-in highly disconcerting. “To drink, you mean?”

  “No, cookie. To use as shoe polish.” He shook his head in mock despair. “Of course to drink—unless you don’t like it any better than the rum you were so quick to denounce but which, I notice, you managed to drain to the last drop.”

  “I enjoy a good shiraz,” she said. “Also cabernet sauvignon and pinot noir. And my name is Linda. Kindly refer to me as such—or Ms. Carr, if you prefer.”

  He favored her with a steely glance. “Lest we forget who’s in charge around here, let’s run over the ground rules. First, this is my house. Second, I didn’t invite you to come here. Third, I don’t take orders from anyone, particularly not a total stranger who’s looking for a favor. Remember that. Cookie.”

  For the space of a second or two, she glared right back, a dozen pithy retorts buzzing through her mind and begging to be aired.

  Forestalling her, he grinned again. Pleasantly this time. Disarmingly so. “Don’t do it, Linda,” he warned. “Don’t say something you’ll regret. And don’t gnash your teeth like that. It makes you look like a bad-tempered dog.”

  “A rottweiler, I hope. One capable of ripping your throat out!”

  He laughed. He was laughing, she decided, altogether too often and always at her expense. “Afraid not. You don’t have the hindquarters for it.”

  She was wearing shorts, which fit trimly around her hips and showed plenty of leg, and the way he eyed her from the waist down left her in no doubt that he liked what he saw. Absurdly flattered, she blushed.

  “Thought that’d soften you up,” he said with smug satisfaction. “Now hop to it and set the table. I’m about ready to throw these steaks on the barbecue. And one more thing: if you can do it without lopping off a finger or two, slice up that French loaf over there.”

  She glared at his departing back. Much more provocation, and she’d slice him!

  The steak was done to perfection, the potatoes tender and flavorful, the mushrooms, sautéed in butter and port wine, mouthwatering.

  “You’re a good cook,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied with disgraceful immodesty.

  “Do you eat at this table when you’re alone?”

  “No,” he mocked. “When there’s no one around to watch, I get down on my hands and knees, and slurp out of a bowl on the floor.”

  “You don’t have to be so rude! I asked only because your dining room furniture is so big and from everything I’ve learned, you aren’t the kind of man who hosts large dinner parties.”

  “You investigated me pretty thoroughly before you came calling, did you?”

  “Enough to know you’re something of a recluse and don’t have many friends.”

  “I have friends, Linda,” he informed her flatly. “Not many, I admit. I prefer to be selective. As for the furniture, it was my grandmother’s, and her mother’s before that. The table will seat twenty when it’s fully extended. They went in for lots of children in those days.”

  She found it interesting that, for a man who shunned the company of others, he’d mentioned his family twice with obvious affection. “And you’re one of five yourself, you said?”


  “My mother had five sons.”

  “And brought them up by herself? My goodness, she must have had stamina!”

  “She had no choice. My father died before my youngest brother was born.”

  “Oh, how tragic! What happened?”

  “Nosy, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t mean to be insensitive. But the story is so…moving. A woman alone, with five little boys, one of them a baby who never got to meet his father…” She swallowed, the whole concept hitting a little too close to home.

  “My father was a police officer killed in the line of duty.”

  “Is that why you joined the force?”

  “Yes,” he said brusquely. “He was my hero. I was ten when he died, and I remember him very well. He was a good man, a good father. My mother’s family were true monied blue bloods and never understood why she wanted to marry a cop when she could have had a life of ease with any number of other men. But she adored him and he her.”

  “She never remarried?”

  “With five boys?” he scoffed. “Even the men my grandparents tried to line her up with after she was widowed weren’t interested in taking on a gang like us, any more than she was interested in finding another husband. She’d had the best, she always said, and knew there’d never be another like him—except, possibly, for his sons who resembled him so closely that she couldn’t have forgotten him, even if she’d wanted to.”

  Unexpectedly touched, Linda said, “It’s a sad but lovely story, Mr. Sullivan. It makes me doubly regret that comment I made earlier about your mother. She sounds quite remarkable.”

  Actually, “superhuman” was probably closer to the mark, if her eldest son was anything to go by. He displayed a sophistication and certain male elegance strangely at odds with the tough resilience which was the legacy of his days as a police detective.

  Watching him from beneath her lashes, she admired the lean, clean grace of his hands as he lifted his glass, and wondered if he handled a firearm with the same deft panache he brought to the dinner table. She suspected that he did; that even under extreme duress, he endowed his every gesture with innate style.

  He might have inherited his father’s looks, but his mother’s aristocratic genes showed in his bearing, in his manner. Underneath that sometimes surly exterior lurked the heart and soul of a gentleman. She had only to look around his home to recognize his inborn good taste.

  “My mother’s all that, and then some,” he said, reaching over to pour more wine into her glass. “And now let’s talk about you. Do you have any other siblings besides your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Which of you came first?”

  “I did, by six years.”

  “Making her about twenty.”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “In other words, plenty old enough to have developed the smarts to steer clear of a man so rotten inside that he’d steal her baby.”

  Linda’s hackles, temporarily soothed by that brief glimpse of his more human side, rose again in defense. “I no more like it when you pass judgment on my sister without knowing the first thing about her, than you did when I presumed to criticize your mother.”

  “But I do know something about her,” he said, unruffled. “I know she’s an unmarried mother, and her relationship with the father didn’t pan out. She was probably spoiled as a child and never got over being the baby of the family. When things went sour with the boyfriend, she probably moved back home to be looked after by good old mom and dad.”

  “And how do you arrive at those conclusions?”

  “When I’m faced with a situation in which the mother of a missing child isn’t the one raising hell and putting a lid on it, there are only two conclusions I’m likely to reach. Either she doesn’t care, or she’s the passive, helpless kind who leaves it to someone else to go to bat for her.” He shrugged and raised both hands, palms up. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, now does it?”

  Galled by his arrogance and the fact that, in June’s case at least and with very few facts to go on, he’d profiled her with uncanny accuracy, Linda said, “How fortunate you must feel, to be so blessed!”

  “No. I’m smart enough to pick up the signs, that’s all. Take you, for example.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, uncomfortable at the idea of being the subject of his too-perceptive analysis.

  His smile sent goose bumps racing the length of her spine. “Figuratively speaking only, cookie, so relax. You’re not my type, although—” he tilted his head to one side and surveyed her through narrowed eyes “—under different circumstances, it’s conceivable that I might find you satisfactory.”

  Satisfactory? She almost choked on a mushroom!

  “Would you like some water?” he inquired, starting up from his chair with phony concern. “Or is the Heimlich maneuver called for?”

  “Keep your hands to yourself!” she spat, wiping her eyes with the corner of her napkin. “And just for the record, you’re not my type, either.”

  “No?” He sat down again, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Time will tell. Meanwhile, getting back to our discussion, you’re the complete opposite of your sister. Proactive, stubborn, impulsive.”

  “How you do you figure that?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you, and going to extraordinary lengths to persuade me to help you, despite my less than encouraging response?”

  “I’d say that’s pretty self-evident.”

  “Yet I doubt, if it were your child that was missing, your sister would be sitting across the table from me now—mostly because you wouldn’t dream of entrusting someone else with the task, but also because she wouldn’t have the stomach for the job. She’s probably very good at weeping, wringing her hands, and drumming up sympathy, but basically useless in any sort of crisis. You, on the other hand, rush in where the proverbial angels fear to tread—without any sort of backup provision in place, should your first course of action fail.” He took a sip of wine and regarded her quizzically. “Well, how am I doing so far?”

  She’d have lied if there’d been any point in it. Instead she watered down the truth. “Quite well, I suppose.”

  “And that’s it?” He raised his brows in feigned surprise. “You’re not going to lambaste me for saying mean and nasty things about your poor, misunderstood sister? Have a tantrum and throw your plate across the room, maybe? What’s the matter, Linda? Didn’t your dinner agree with you?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of abusing such beautiful china,” she said, striving for nonchalance. “Did you inherit it from your grandmother, as well?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And stop trying to sidestep the question. How close to the mark am I with your sister?”

  “Too close. Bull’s-eye close.” Defeated, she pushed aside her plate. “You’re right. June isn’t strong like me. She’s a gentle, passive soul who hates confrontations of any kind—which just goes to show how bad things must have been between her and Kirk that she’d walk out on him when she was expecting his baby.”

  “What’s your impression of this Kirk?”

  “Only what I’ve been told about him. She met him while I was in Europe. I’ve seen photos of him and know that he’s American, appears to have money and works in the computer field, but I’ve never actually met him or spoken to him in person.”

  “You’re not going to be much help tracking him down then, are you?”

  “No, Mr. Sullivan,” she said, folding her hands meekly. “That’s why I’m throwing myself on your mercy.”

  “You’ll stand a better chance of getting it if you dispense with the annoying ‘Mr. Sullivan’. My name’s Mac.”

  “I’ll try to remember that, just as I’m sure you’ll remember I’m Linda, the next time you get the urge to call me to heel.”

  A scowl marred his handsome brow. “I bet you’re a nurse when you’re not on a mission. You look like the type who’d enjoy wreaking vengeance on a guy by stabbing a foot-long ne
edle in his behind when he’s at your mercy.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but this time your fabled instincts are way off target. I’m not a nurse—but I am very handy with a knife, which you might want to remember. My sister might be guilty of bad judgment, but that’s her only sin, and I won’t sit idly by while you rip her character to shreds.”

  “You can’t afford to be overly protective of her, either. If I’m to be of any use at all, I need to know everything about her—the flaws and weaknesses, as well as the strengths. And I don’t mind telling you, right now I don’t see a whole lot of strengths.”

  He was hard. Inflexible. She saw it in the set of his jaw, the flat, cold light in his eyes. He wouldn’t have much patience with a woman like June. “Haven’t you ever made a mistake about someone—in a personal context, I mean?”

  “Sure,” he said without a flicker of regret or emotion. “I made a huge mistake thinking police work and marriage went together.”

  “You’re married?” The possibility struck a blow she’d never have anticipated. He seemed so self-reliant; so…single. And yet, was it really likely a man like this wouldn’t have a wife—or at least, a woman?

  “Not anymore.” His smile struck her as uncommonly fond.

  “Do you still care about your ex-wife?”

  “Sure I still care. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because, as you just said, you’re divorced.”

  “That doesn’t automatically make her the villain of the piece. The marriage is what didn’t work, and it wouldn’t say much for my judgment if I chose an outright bitch to be my wife.”

  “Are you still in touch with each other?”

  “Occasionally. We call each other on birthdays and Christmas—things like that. She checks up on me to make sure I’m not hibernating too long at a stretch. I give her the benefit of my unasked-for advice on the men in her life, take her to lunch when I find myself on her stamping ground.”

  “That’s beyond my understanding,” Linda said, marveling at his sanguine outlook. “In my experience, divorce is synonymous with…all the bad things in life.”

  Mac surveyed her curiously. “Exactly what is your experience in this field?”