Free Crime and Passion by Marie Ferrarella

house.” He nodded at it again. “My father’s house.”
    But she’d heard just one thing. Something inside of her, a vein intent on self-preservation, came to life. “What do you mean your house?”
    He slowed as an orange cat dashed across the street. Lincoln was older than the hills and by all rights should have been dead years ago.
    “I guess I forgot to tell you, I’m staying here, too. Temporarily.” he said.
    Somehow, it didn’t seem quite right for a twenty-seven-year-old police detective to be living at home with his father and two sisters. Although he had to admit that, if he didn’t care what other people thought, he didn’t really mind the living arrangements. The sounds of his family around him gave off comforting vibes. If he wanted to be alone, he could usually manage it, and if he didn’t, there was always someone to talk to.
    Clay wondered if that made him a family man or just someone who had trouble moving on and away from a good thing.
    No, he reminded himself, he’d left Ilene behind, and that was definitely moving away from a good thing.
    Ilene hesitated as doubt grew larger. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
    “If you have any concerns, my father is pretty much of a fixture in the house. He’ll be your buffer. And my sisters are here when they’re off duty.” He stopped the car and looked at her. He couldn’t read the expression on her face, couldn’t find his way around her eyes the way he’d been able to do so often when they’d been together. “This isn’t a den of iniquity, Ilene, this is a place to keep you and your son very safe.”
    Even as he said it, she knew it was true. Not necessarily because he said it, but because of the distinguished, gray-haired man who was standing in front of the house, framed by the illumination coming from the front porch light.
    The moment they pulled up in the driveway, Andrew Cavanaugh came down the stairs, a ready smile on his remarkably unlined face. She could see the resemblance as he approached the car. This was what Clay would look like in another thirty years.
    Opening the passenger door, Andrew took her hand to help her out. “You must be Ilene.” His voice was warm, welcoming.
    “Yes, I am,” she heard herself reply. She felt instantly at ease, as if she was in the presence of someone she could turn to with anything. It amazed her that someone she’d never met could make her feel that, just by the warmth of his smile.
    “Welcome to my house,” he told her, his attention on the sleeping child in the back. “What is he, about five?”
    “Four.” She hated lying. But if she said five, then Clay could easily do the math, easily realize that she had conceived Alex while they were still together.
    “Big for his age.” Before she could say anything, Andrew had already opened the rear door and was scooping the boy out. “Been a long time since I held one of these in my arms.” Expertly he took the boy out without waking him. Looking at Ilene, he observed, “His hair’s dark.”
    As dark as Clay’s was, she thought. Ilene pressed her lips together, wondering what the man was thinking. “His father had dark hair.”
    Andrew’s eyes traveled toward his younger son a moment before he turned toward the front step. “Handsome boy,” he pronounced before walking back into the house.
    Clay came up beside her. He held her suitcase in one hand, the laptop tucked under his arm. With his free hand he took her arm and guided her up the stairs in his father’s wake.
    Panic reared its head, pushing aside the sense of well-being within her that Andrew had begun to build. “I don’t want to impose—”
    Andrew heard her. “Impose?” There was an incredulous expression on his face as he turned to look at her. Holding Alex against him, he closed the door with his free hand. “I’ve got enough rooms in the house to turn it into a hotel,” he told her softly. “My two oldest are gone, and there are guest rooms besides that.