Kitabı oku: «The Baby Cop», sayfa 3
“Dog is man’s best friend. Not woman’s.” Regan peered up the driveway and in both directions along the street. “Is he gone or merely lying in wait somewhere?”
Swiveling, Ethan saw Jeremy close the side gate and head toward them again. “Taz is confined, Ms. Grant.” Jogging across the driveway, Ethan assisted Regan from her car. “I’m no psychologist,” he murmured, feeling her arm tremble. “But you seem beyond skittish. More like phobic, I’d say.” He had a niggling urge to bedevil her. Bending close to her ear, he whispered, “Well, Ms. Grant, oh, great master of sociology and psychology, have you ever sought counseling for your problem?”
She jerked from his hold so fast Ethan didn’t know exactly what he’d done wrong. But he felt bad for razzing her.
“If you’re hoping to divert my attention and keep me from examining this foster placement, I assure you it won’t work. I found Jeremy Smith’s case history most interesting.” Squaring her shoulders, she started up the walkway.
Curious, Ethan followed. “Interesting how?” he challenged. “Because of the way he’s done a one hundred percent turnaround in the time he’s lived with my parents?”
Her hand raised to knock on the door, Regan glanced back, giving Ethan a cool look. “Interesting in that I watched students in this neighborhood get off the school bus a while ago. It made me wonder why you would place an African-American child in an all-white neighborhood.”
Ethan, who’d just leaned forward for a better whiff of Regan Grant’s spicy exotic perfume, stopped dead. “What exactly are you trying to say? It doesn’t take an Einstein to note the marked decrease in Jeremy’s encounters with the law since he came here.” He glowered at Regan, then spun to see that Jeremy hadn’t heard her statement. Fortunately the kid had found another basketball and was practicing free throws.
“You mean it never occurred to you that the boy might be intimidated at being ripped from his ethnic roots?”
Ethan’s arm tightened on the ball he still held. Of all the things she might have taken him to task for—like the flouting of procedures or the nepotism angle—the battle she actually chose floored Ethan. Almost as suddenly as he’d tensed, he felt an urge to laugh. He couldn’t wait to see how she’d react when Jeremy set her straight.
“Well, nothing to say for yourself, I see.” Regan again raised a fist to knock. “Those are the types of considerations trained social workers know to look for when deciding on placement. We take the whole child into account.”
Ethan blocked her knock by reaching over her shoulder to shove open the unlocked door. “Mom,” he yelled. “I’m showing Ms. Grant into the living room. She’s here for your Family Assistance appointment.”
“I like the foster families I work with to call me Regan,” she said while attempting to shut Ethan outside. “I’ll wait right here in the entry until Elaine comes,” she told him.
Her obvious efforts to get rid of him didn’t deter Ethan. “In this house, Family Assistance appointments involve everyone, Regan. I see my dad has driven in. He’ll bring Jeremy.” Ethan’s smile was charming if not slightly provocative. “I’m so glad you want to use first names. Calling you Ms. Grant sounds so stuffy. And now you’ll call me Ethan, of course.” Taking her arm, he propelled her into a homey room that held two leather couches, each with a matching chair. A large beehive fireplace took up all of one corner next to an arched north-facing window, which let in the afternoon sunlight. Family pictures covered the largest wall and spilled over onto every available surface in the room. School photos, mixed with graduations, weddings and christenings. At least four school pictures of Jeremy hung among the others.
Regan, who’d grown up in a divorced family, estranged from her mother all these years, found the Knights’ gallery fascinating. Her dad, who’d had custody of her, was a busy executive. Regan had spent her formative years in boarding schools. Summers she lived with Great-aunt Roberta, a terribly allergic soul who kept a pristine dust-free house. Possibly why Regan herself maintained an orderly apartment.
Elaine Knight and her husband, Joseph, walked in together. Short and plump, yet still youthful-looking at fifty-eight and after bearing nine children, Elaine immediately noticed Regan’s interest in the photographs. She passed the coffeepot and plate of cookies she was carrying to her husband, who hadn’t changed out of his county sheriff’s uniform. Hooking an arm through Regan’s, Ethan’s mother proudly walked her through a family rundown.
“Hey, cool, Mom. You made my favorite cookies,” Jeremy announced, lumbering across the living room in his untied size-thirteen sneakers.
Elaine glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “There’s milk and juice in the fridge, Jeremy. I also left an entire plateful of cookies on the kitchen counter just for you.” Turning back to Regan, she said, “Otherwise the rest of us wouldn’t get any. My three older boys could take or leave raisin-filled cookies. Jeremy would have me make them three times a week.”
Turning from the wall of photos, Regan set her briefcase on the coffee table. “I only see three boys in your family portrait, Elaine. Have you lost a son?” she asked softly, her eyes filled with sympathy.
Elaine’s brow crinkled in consternation. “Why, no. We’ve been exceptionally blessed in that way.” Her husband, too, appeared puzzled.
Ethan, busily pouring coffee into the mugs his dad had set on the table, smiled as he handed Regan her cup. “I think Mom meant three boys older than Jeremy.”
Lips pursed, Regan accepted the cup and sat. “Jeremy isn’t your son.”
Joseph Knight, a big man who wore his uniform well, ran a hand through his full head of still-black hair. “He’s been our son for the last five years. And we’re as proud of him as we are of Matthew, Jacob and Ethan,” he said, reaching out a hand to catch Jeremy’s wrist. The gangly boy tumbled down on the couch beside him.
“The folks wanted to adopt Jeremy,” Ethan said, passing Regan the plate of golden-brown cookies.
“Really? I didn’t see mention of that in the file.” She bit into the cookie as she removed a folder from her briefcase and flipped through it.
Ethan studied Jeremy a moment. The boy had begun to crack his knuckles. “Maybe Jeremy ought to supply the particulars.”
“My mom…my real mom, she threw a royal fit. She don’t want me, but she don’t want nobody…uh…anybody else to adopt me. Mom and Dad Knight made me understand how she might not want to turn loose of me. And Anna…uh…Mrs. Murphy talked to her about me legally changing my last name to Knight. As kind of a compromise, she said. Anna was gonna file the papers, but then she died.”
“You want to change your name?” Regan scribbled on the file. “I take it you’d like to live here permanently despite the racial incompatibility in the neighborhood?”
“What racial incompatibility?” Elaine, Joseph and Jeremy said simultaneously.
They looked so genuinely stupefied by her question that Regan, who choked on her cookie, turned to Ethan for clarification. He, in turn, deferred to Jeremy.
“But…but all my friends are welcome here,” Jeremy blustered. “Besides, Tony Garcia lives three houses away. And Bill Washington’s on the next block.”
Joseph Knight leaned thick wrists on his knees. “Either Ethan or I take Jeremy to the Boys’ Club once a week to mingle and play basketball. The school he attends is nicely integrated. And our daughter Erica has an adopted Vietnamese daughter.”
Regan held up a staying palm. Yet it was to Ethan that she looked when she stammered out an apology. “I’m sorry. But…but…such issues matter in some placements. Jeremy is obviously happy here and quite well-adjusted.” She closed the file, tucked it into her briefcase and snapped the locks. Rising, she thrust a hand toward Joe and then Elaine. “Those cookies were the best I’ve ever tasted. I don’t blame Jeremy for wanting them three times a week.” Regan extracted a business card from her purse and passed it to Elaine. “If you share recipes, I’d love a copy.”
Ethan’s mother beamed and so did he. His dark eyes roamed over Regan’s face and settled on her lips, where a cookie crumb still clung. He tucked the fingers of both hands into his pants pockets to keep from dusting off the crumbs. “Before I leave today,” he blurted, “I’ll write the recipe out. I’ll drop it by your office tomorrow.”
Surprised and flustered by his generosity, Regan stammered her thanks. Then she remembered he didn’t travel anywhere without that huge dog. “Uh, don’t put yourself out,” she said in a changed voice. “I prefer my staff not deal with personal business on company time. I need to set a good example. Jeremy,” she said abruptly, careful not to glance toward Ethan. “I’m also giving you one of my cards. I’ll follow up on your name-change request. But should you ever need me for any reason, I want you to feel free to call. My home number is the second one.”
Almost before Ethan got over the sting of her obvious rebuke, she’d gone. All that lingered in the room where he stood alone, the others having trailed her to the door, was a cloud of her perfume. He sniffed the air, telling himself he didn’t give a damn what made Regan Grant run hot and cold. Only, the heightened beat of his pulse told a different story.
“Too bad she doesn’t conduct personal business at the office,” Ethan muttered under his breath as he made his way to the kitchen, determined to copy his mom’s raisin-filled cookie recipe. He found a pencil, then dug the recipe out of a gaily flowered box and sat on one of the counter stools. As he painstakingly listed ingredients, Ethan groaned. He could well imagine what rumors would fly if the guys at the station ever got wind of this. A detective trading recipes. He’d never hear the end of it.
CHAPTER THREE
OFFICE MACHINES hummed and staff chattered around Regan as she unloaded file folders from her briefcase and stacked them on the counter.
“Are you completely finished with these, Ms. Grant?” a young clerk asked. “I can tag them for holding if you think you’ll be using them again.”
“I’ve dictated follow-up reports on this batch. I can’t see any reason to keep them out. Oh, wait.” Regan thumbed through the stack and removed the file on Jeremy Smith. “The foster family for this young man said Anna planned to petition the court for a change of Jeremy’s last name. Is there a second file or some other record of how far along his request has gone?”
“I’ll check. I shouldn’t be long.” The clerk—Abby, according to her name tag—took the file and disappeared into the record room.
A caseworker who’d been talking with two colleagues broke away from the group and approached Regan. “Last night I received calls from two of our foster parents. Both felt unprepared for your impromptu visits yesterday.”
Regan tapped her fingers on the counter. “I gave everyone the standard two-hour notice. Some families actually had more than two hours, because I phoned everyone before I left the office. Nothing was out of order. Why would they feel a need to complain, I wonder?”
Terry Mickelson leaned on the counter and lowered her voice. “I didn’t mean to imply they’d complained. More like they…sounded curious. Perhaps you weren’t aware that Jennifer Layton and Erica Barnard aren’t run-of-the-mill foster moms.”
“No?” Regan began to feel she’d stepped on a tread-mill somewhere that had no off switch. “What are they, then?”
“They only accept kids through a temporary urgent-care safe-home section of the program instituted by Anna and Ethan, you know.” She smiled and gave a dainty shrug.
Regan crossed her arms. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Enlighten me, please. By Anna and Ethan, I assume you mean my predecessor and Detective Knight of the Desert City PD.”
“Uh…yes.” Terry glanced worriedly across the room at her friends who’d stopped talking to listen. The office fell silent enough to hear the tick of the wall clock. “Our records probably don’t indicate that Jennifer and Erica are Ethan’s sisters. Jen is a commercial artist who works out of her home. As does Erica. Work from home, I mean. She’s a CAD engineer. Computer aided design,” Terry supplied when Regan lifted one eyebrow.
“Detective Knight’s sisters? I don’t believe that came up in our conversations. We briefly discussed their occupations. Relative to how they combine full-time careers with providing state-supported child care. Like I said, they passed admirably.” Regan allowed a smile for the first time. “In fact, I wish there was a way to videotape one of their average days to use as a training film for prospective foster parents. It’s a shame they only provide temporary urgent care for us.”
Terry relaxed a body grown tense. “Erica and Jenny are great, aren’t they? Mostly I think their concerns stemmed from the fact that you seemed to single out their family for review. Elaine Knight is their mother. Lexie Knight’s a sister-in-law, and Jessica Talbot is a first cousin. I believe that today you’re scheduled to see Melissa Fogerty and Elizabeth St. George, two more of Ethan’s sisters.”
“As they all seem to be related, I suppose it does appear I’ve chosen to pick on the Knights.” Regan raised her voice enough so that the staff straining to hear could do so without effort. “I’m planning to review all families who came into our program unconventionally. The people you named and some whose files I still have in my office skipped the application process—an aberration we’ll avoid in the future. I’m quite sure our caseworkers know proper procedure, but it never hurts to have refreshers. To that end, I’ll be addressing the topic on Monday at our regular meeting, and the people under review may be asked to make proper application.”
There was a collective gasp from Terry’s co-workers. She was first to express her shock in words. “It would be a horrible mistake to trash Ethan’s efforts to save Desert City’s abused kids.”
“Is that so?” Regan’s light eyes darkened. “Pardon me, but I labor under the impression that saving this city’s abused kids is our responsibility.” Stretching across the counter, Regan tapped a fingernail on the title stamped above Terry Mickelson’s name badge. “Child Help Center. That’s us, correct?”
A once-retired caseworker, Odella Price, materialized from the records room along with Abby, the clerk who’d gone to help Regan. Odella had left the department six years previously but had returned part-time at Anna Murphy’s request. For more than a year now, Odella’s part-time load had totaled fifty hours a week. There were employees like Terry Mickelson and others who thought Odella should have been given Anna’s job, even though she had no administrative experience. A fair share of the staff let it be known in unsubtle ways.
Odella Price had grown up the daughter of parents who ministered to the poor. She was intelligent and well-educated. Empathy oozed from her pores. Around the office, she assumed a role of unofficial negotiator.
A tall woman, Odella stood five foot ten inches without shoes. She carried no spare ounce of flesh beneath her smooth mocha-colored skin. Outside of tiny laugh wrinkles fanning from rich brown eyes, few who met her believed she was sixty years old, as she claimed to be.
Moving fluidly, she glided between Regan and Terry. A gregarious smile displayed even white teeth, only close friends knew they’d been crooked until Odella turned twenty-four, when she got her MSSW and subsequently her first paycheck in a field she loved. Now she spoke through that dazzling smile. “Abby tells me you inquired about the status of Jeremy Smith’s request to change his last name, Regan.” Odella was probably the only staff member, other than Piggott, who dared call Regan by her first name. Nathaniel liberally used given names, but he allowed only a chosen few to call him anything besides, Director or sir. Since Odella’s return to the workforce, she’d placed herself on Piggot’s short list. More to annoy the man than to align herself with him.
Switching her focus from Terry Mickelson to Odella, Regan concurred with a slight nod. “I was told Jeremy desired adoption, but his birth mother refused. They believe she agreed that he could legally take the Knight name.”
“That was six months ago. Shontelle’s status changed just this week. I pulled off a fax yesterday informing us that she’s being held in a Utah prison pending murder charges. She’s alleged to have knifed her current boyfriend.”
“Excuse me? Who knifed whom?”
“Shontelle Waters. Jeremy’s birth mom. In the time he’s lived with the Knights, she’s been married and divorced twice. At last report, she’d left the state with a new man—the one she reportedly murdered. I’ve considered contacting her court-appointed attorneys in Utah. It occurred to me they could attach a clause in a plea bargain that’ll free Jeremy up for adoption.”
Regan stared into the guileless brown eyes, feeling a muscle jump in her jaw. She’d heard a rumor to the effect that Odella’s mission in life was to see all children in the foster-care program adopted into good homes. An impossibility, of course, for any number of reasons. But a worthy endeavor. One to which Regan subscribed—the operative word being good. She might add loving and nurturing to that. “Hmm, Nathaniel mentioned how successful you’ve been, Odella, in acquiring adoption permission for formerly unadoptable foster kids. Do you have a minute to step into my office to discuss that in general and, more specifically, Jeremy’s case?”
“I’d love to.” The older woman gave Regan time to collect her briefcase, and the two strolled out leaving the other caseworkers grumbling over Regan’s proposed lecture on Monday.
Once they’d entered Regan’s office, Odella asked her a personal question—something no staff member had done since Regan assumed her post. “I used to see you jogging in Riker Park each morning. Have you stopped or are you going there earlier? I hope you’re not going before daylight. Riker isn’t the safest park in the city.”
Regan bit her lower lip. “I’ve switched to the track at the high school. It’s closer to my apartment. Plus, there are fewer people to contend with. I’m sorry, I don’t recall seeing you in the park.” Regan felt bad about not recognizing Odella, although she rarely noticed people when jogging, unless they had dogs. It seemed the majority of joggers in Riker Park did have them. Big ones. Now that Odella mentioned it, her decision to change locations probably had to do with the safety issue.
Odella laughed heartily. “The morning-me in no way resembles the workplace-me. When I’m running, I wear baggy sweats and have my hair tucked under one of my husband’s old army caps. Add to that a set of earphones and dark glasses the size of saucers. You, on the other hand, could pass for Barbie’s sister in your matched pink baseball cap, spandex bike shorts and T-shirt.”
Regan flushed at the apt description.
“That was meant as a compliment, Regan,” Odella said as they each claimed a chair and sat. “You looked fashionable, and I envied you. I’m such a mess in the mornings. Oh, and you have a great jogging pace. You don’t run like I’m almost sure Barbie—or any member of her family—would run.”
That garnered a laugh from Regan. “My former fiancé ran five miles every morning before he went to the gym. He couldn’t stand the thought of me sleeping in while he went out to sweat. I learned to keep up. It was either that or forever after listen to how weak women are.”
“Nice guy. Is that why he’s your former fiancé?”
Realizing she’d let something private slip, Regan dropped her affable manner. “I believe we came here to discuss Jeremy Smith’s situation and that of other children stalled in the foster-care system.”
The glimmer of interest aimed at Regan stayed in Odella’s warm brown eyes for another moment. “Before we get down to business, let me extend an invitation to meet me anytime to jog, hike or bike. My kids are grown. They’re all too busy with their own lives to join me anymore. Roger, my husband, said he had to punish his body every day of the twenty-five years he served Uncle Sam. Now that he’s retired, he prefers getting his exercise pruning our cactus. I guess you know how slowly cacti grow.”
“I don’t enjoy hiking alone,” Regan murmured. “In Phoenix I had friends who regularly hiked Squaw Peak. Or sometimes we’d drive to Prescott on the weekend to climb Thumb Butte. I haven’t inquired about trails here.”
“There are some nice ones in the Catalina Foothills. Mount Lemmon offers more strenuous routes.” Odella pulled a business card out of her suit pocket and shoved it across Regan’s desk. “I won’t bug you. But here’s my home phone number if you’re ever in the mood. And, Regan, for the record, I leave work at the office.”
Regan turned the business card over in her fingers several times before relaxing enough to tuck it into her pocket. “I’ve missed hiking. The weather lately has been perfect for it. There’s something about mountain air—it refreshes the mind and rejuvenates the soul. We’ll have to set something up for a weekend soon. I’ve been spending far too much time inside since I moved to Desert City.”
“Good.” Odella leaned forward. “Now, about Jeremy’s current status—” She was interrupted by a heavy footfall outside the door, followed by feminine giggles and deeper male laughter.
“Let me shut my door so we’ll have more privacy, Odella.” Regan rose and circled her desk. She’d gripped the knob, starting to pull the door inward when pointed black ears, a dark muzzle and lolling pink tongue appeared in front of her. Regan felt the floor shift and spin. Her legs refused to carry her backward as her mind screamed at her to do it and do it quickly.
Odella, who’d rotated in her chair, clucked happily. “Well, if it isn’t the Tasmanian Devil himself.” Climbing to her feet, she hastened across the room to rub the dog’s head and pat his wriggling hindquarters. “Is that your handsome master causing a ruckus in the hall? Where Taz is, Ethan’s not far behind,” she said, aiming a broad smile at Regan. Her eyes encountered a blank stare and a body so stiff it could have been carved from marble.
“Regan?” The question fell on deaf ears.
Ethan had paused across the hall at the open lounge door to chat with Nicky Mason, who was on her way out with a full cup of coffee. He spun when he heard his name. Realizing Regan’s door stood open, he excused himself from Nicole and called Taz sharply to heel.
The dog appeared on cue and sat. But rather than a furious Regan Grant flying out of the supervisory office, Odella Price emerged wearing a panicked expression. Ethan knew what had caused the look, and he suffered a stab of guilt. He’d intended to leave Taz in the SUV. He’d forgotten and had let the dog follow him inside the building out of habit.
“Nicky, could you keep Taz at the reception desk while I complete my business with Regan? I won’t be long.” In truth, Ethan couldn’t remember why he’d come. He’d been visiting schools today…. Oh, yes, the recipe she wanted. Yet he certainly hadn’t planned to make a special trip to CHC for that. He could, he supposed, blame it on a slow morning. Mitch had an early-morning court appointment to testify in the case of a local car salesman who’d been jailed for being drunk and disorderly. The guy had smacked his girlfriend around a bar parking lot. It was the joker’s third arrest in six months for the same thing. Different girlfriend, same charge. Mitch hoped to accomplish more than put the jerk on probation this time.
“Sure, Ethan. I love Taz. Hey—I heard you and Taz are participating in another endurance test.” Her red-slicked mouth formed a pretty pout. “If it’s this weekend, I’m free to be your cheering section.”
“Uh…it’s not that soon.” Ethan stumbled over his tongue. By now he’d reached the doorway where Odella stood. Behind her, Ethan saw the white-faced woman he’d considered inviting to go with him to Taz’s Schutzhund. Ever since Regan had refused to get out of her car until he’d restrained Taz, Ethan entertained a crazy notion that watching the dogs work might shake Regan Grant out of her nutty fear.
Observing her statuelike pose and her sightless eyes, Ethan quickly dismissed his plan. Nutty her fear might be to someone like him, but Regan’s terror was certainly real to her.
Ethan moved in close to her rigid body. Not positive she’d heard Taz’s receding pad-pad as the dog followed Nicole around the corner, Ethan felt a need to reassure Regan. “It’s okay. He’s gone. The dog left.” Ethan spoke softly and touched her chin, bringing the glassy blue eyes level with his own.
Regan identified Ethan Knight through a haze of fear. Her right hand curved tightly around her neck, hiding the thin scar she knew tended to stand out more when color flooded her face. She knew because Jack said people wouldn’t notice her disfigurement if she didn’t draw attention to it. It wasn’t until after their split that Regan realized Jack Diamond surrounded himself with perfection. She did owe him something. If not for his constant badgering, she’d never have had the last plastic surgery. Thanks to new laser techniques, what had once been ugly red welts were now faint white lines. But not even lasers were effective against unseen damage.
Her feelings surrounding the long-ago incident left her weak and vulnerable in areas she didn’t wish exposed to co-workers. Or to the likes of Ethan Knight. Wearing his uniform today, he looked especially imposing and very male. Too male.
Collecting her wits, Regan released her grip on the doorknob. She stepped back in an attempt to gather her tattered nerves. “Who’s gone?” she queried coolly. “Odella and I were trying to have a private conversation. Your dilly-dallying in the hall with Nicole disturbed us. If you’ll excuse us, we’d like to get on with our business.” Edging him into the hall, Regan began closing Ethan out.
He and Odella exchanged questioning glances. “I, uh, thought you might be concerned about seeing Taz close-up again.”
“I don’t like to be sniffed and licked, that’s all.”
Ethan donned a reckless seductive grin. Ignoring Odella, who watched his antics with interest, Ethan propped a broad shoulder against the door casing, crowding Regan in a way that was masculine and intimate. “Now if that was a true statement,” he said pleasantly, letting a lethally hot gaze follow the tip of his forefinger as he dusted the top three pearl buttons of Regan’s white blouse, “you wouldn’t buy perfume designed to turn a man’s insides out. Or man-tailored blouses that leave a guy itching to know what’s underneath.”
Despite the tight rein Regan had clamped on her nerves, she wasn’t able to prevent a surge of heat from racing to her stomach. For all that she didn’t miss about her former fiancé, she’d enjoyed the sex. Or she had until the extent of Jack’s infidelities came to light, forcing her to undertake the humiliating experience of explaining to her doctor why she needed HIV testing. If seeing her name on the vials of blood wasn’t sobering enough, the weeks of waiting for the tests to come back clear should have made her swear off men. Especially men whose egos seemed to need proof that they could conquer every woman they met. And policemen headed the list. Hadn’t Ethan Knight just been in the hall putting moves on Nicole Mason?
Commanding her own racing blood by issuing a dismissive gesture, Regan marched to her desk and sat in her swivel chair. “It may come as a shock to you, Detective, but not all women buy perfume and clothing to tempt men. I buy what pleases me. If you can check your juvenile hormones at the door, you might find what Odella and I were discussing to be of interest.”
“Yes, ma’am. But don’t forget that I grew up in a household of six women. Seven, counting my mom. I’d say I have a fair insight into what motivates a woman’s purchases.” Finding Regan’s prim speech amusing, Ethan winked at Odella as he shut the door behind them and pulled out her chair.
“Six sisters?” Regan wore a surprised, almost wistful expression.
“Yep. And two brothers.” Ethan dragged his own chair closer to Regan, spun it around and straddled it. “Never a dull moment in the Knight household. I miss it sometimes,” he said reflectively. “All except the part about taking a number to get your turn in the bathroom.”
Odella chuckled. “That also happens when you only have four kids. And whoever said boys take less time primping for dates than girls was dead wrong. When my oldest boy hit puberty and started taking forty-minute showers every morning, Roger called a builder and added a master bath off our bedroom. Smartest thing the man ever did, outside of marrying me.”
Regan smiled, finding pleasure in listening to them talk about their families—until suddenly Ethan pinned her with a searching look. “Feel free to jump in here and complain about your siblings, Regan.”
Wiping the smile from her lips, Regan fiddled with the ruby ring her father had sent her the Christmas she turned eighteen—one of the many holidays she’d spent alone at boarding school. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her, but after the split with her mother, he needed to keep busy in order to forget the divorce. After five years of burying himself in the consulting firm he owned, Gerald Grant found a new love. Dee Dee was closer to Regan’s age than Gerald’s. At the beginning, she didn’t want any reminder of her older husband’s first marriage. Once they had Blair, Dee Dee started inviting Regan home to baby-sit.
“Well, are you an only child or what?” Ethan prodded.
“I have a stepsister. She just turned sixteen. I’d left home long before she began dating or primping in the bathroom. Anyway, the house my dad bought when he and Dee Dee got married has five bathrooms.”
