Free Untamed by Nora Roberts Page A

became attentive, then he gestured with the back of his hand. “Go ahead.”
    â€œWhy are you here? I lost my temper when I asked you before, but I do want to know.” It was against her nature to probe, and some of her discomfort found its way into her voice. “It must have caused you some difficulty to leave your practice, even for a few weeks.”
    Keane frowned at the end of his cigar before he slowly crushed it out. “Let’s say I wanted to see firsthand what had fascinated my father all these years.”
    â€œYou never came when he was alive.” Jo gripped her hands together under the table. “You didn’t even bother to come to his funeral.”
    â€œI would’ve been the worst kind of hypocrite to attend his funeral, don’t you think?”
    â€œHe was your father.” Jo’s eyes grew dark and her tone sharp in reproof.
    â€œYou’re smarter than that, Jo,” Keane countered calmly. “It takes more than an accident of birth to make a father. Frank Prescott was a complete stranger to me.”
    â€œYou resent him.” Jo felt suddenly torn between loyalty for Frank and understanding for the man who sat beside her.
    â€œNo.” Keane shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I believe I actively resented him when I was growing up, but . . .” He shrugged the thought aside. “I grew rather ambivalent over the years.”
    â€œHe was a good man,” Jo stated, leaning forward as she willed him to understand. “He only wanted to give people pleasure, to show them a little magic. Maybe he wasn’t made to be a father—some men aren’t—but he was kind and gentle. And he was proud of you.”
    â€œOf me?” Keane seemed amused. “How?”
    â€œOh, you’re hateful,” Jo whispered, hurt by his careless attitude. She slipped from her chair, but before she could step away, Keane took her arm.
    â€œNo, tell me. I’m interested.” His hold on her arm was light, but she knew it would tighten if she resisted.
    â€œAll right.” Jo tossed her head to send her hair behind her back. “He had the Chicago paper delivered to his Florida office. He always looked for any mention of you, any article on a court case you were involved in or a dinner party you attended. Anything. You have to understand that to us a write-up is very important. Frank wasn’t a performer, but he was one of us. Sometimes he’d read me an article before he put it away. He kept a scrapbook.”
    Jo pulled her arm away and strode past Keane into the bedroom. The oversize wooden chest was where it had always been, at the foot of Frank’s bed. Kneeling down, Jo tossed up the lid. “This is where he kept all the things that mattered to him.” Jo began to shift through papers and mementos quickly; she had not been able to bring herself to sort through the chest before. Keane stood in the doorway and watched her. “He called it his memory box.” She pushed at her hair with an annoyed hand, then continued to search. “He said memories were the rewards for growing old. Here it is.” Jo pulled out a dark green scrapbook, then sat back on her heels. Silently, she held it out to Keane. After a moment he crossed the room and took it from her. Jo could hear the rain hissing on the ground outside as their eyes held. His expression was unfathomable as he opened the book. The pages rustled to join the quiet sound of the rain.
    â€œWhat an odd man he must have been,” Keane murmured, “to keep a scrapbook on a son he never knew.” There was no rancor in his voice. “What was he?” he asked suddenly, shifting his eyes back to Jo.
    â€œA dreamer,” she answered. “His watch was always five minutes slow. If he hung a picture on the wall, it was always crooked. He’d never straighten it because he’d never notice. He was always thinking about tomorrow. I