Page 11 of Holding His Hostage
“I didn’t notice.”
“You didn’t? Thirty-two feet of freedom, she calls it.”
She laughed softly. “Good for her. Your mom deserves every bit of happiness.”
“She would have loved to have seen you.”
“Me, too.”
He stared at his empty glass, considering the wisdom of what he was about to say. “Why me, Jo?”
“Excuse me?” Those cool blue eyes connected with his own.
Once, he’d thought she was an open book, but now he knew better. Those eyes that could seem so sincere were capable of hiding her emotions. “You have Illinois plates. You drove all the way here with three kids in tow to borrow money. Why?”
Her cheeks filled with color. “There was no one else I could ask.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe what you want.” She stood. “I should get some sleep.”
“Don’t run away from me.”
“I’m not running.”
He stood and rounded the desk. “You don’t want to discuss it, so you’re walking away to end the conversation, just like you always do.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing to discuss. You want to know why I picked you to beg for money, and I told you. I don’t have anyone else.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. How many people could you borrow money from?”
“Lots.”
She rolled her eyes. “We’re not all as well liked as the infamous Sloan Dvorak.”
“You are liked just fine.” He was close to her now, her eyes suspiciously glassy, and he suspected if he pushed her she would break, her problems crashing into him like water bursting from a fractured dam. That was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help himself any more than he could avoid drowning in the flood. “Talk to me, Buckley. Tell me about your life, if just for old times’ sake.”
“What do you want me to say?” She gestured with her arms. “That I don’t have any friends, that no one would be willing to help me if I lay bleeding in the street?”
“Why is that?”
She shut her eyes. “Just forget it. I’m sorry I said anything.”
His hand closed around her upper arm, and she felt good, better than he expected, better than he wanted to deal with. “You’re a nice person. What makes you think they wouldn’t help you?”
“They don’t even know me.”
“We all feel that way sometimes.”
“No, you don’t get it. They don’t know me at all, literally. I don’t socialize with them. I say no if one of the moms asks me for coffee. I’m not in the PTA. I don’t have friends, Sloan.”
A tear ran down her face, and he followed its trail to the corner of her mouth. She was one of the most generous people he’d ever known, so full of life and spirit. It didn’t make any sense. “Why the hell not?”
“David didn’t like it.”
He took in her defensive posture, the emotion in her face, and a tingle went up his spine. He’d seen her like this before. The deer-in-the-headlights stare, an energy borne of fear seeming to overtake her presence. She was like this after run-ins with her father, confrontations that were always full of violence whether he hurt her physically or not.
