Against the Edge

“Do we know each other, Ms. Chastain?” As in, have we spent the night together? Maybe I drank too much and don’t recall?

But he hadn’t done much of that since he’d left the SEALs. Since then he had behaved himself. Well, more or less.

“No, we’ve never met. Please, Mr. Slocum. This is important, and I would rather not discuss it out on your front porch.”

Irritation filtered through him. “Angel, this had better be good.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his house key, stuck it in the lock and opened the door. He went in and turned off the alarm, stepping back to allow Claire Chastain into his living room.

Ben closed the door. “Look, lady, I just got home from a wedding and I need a shower. There’s a coffeemaker on the counter in the kitchen. Coffee’s in the cupboard overhead. If you want to have a sensible conversation, I suggest you make us a pot.”

The woman’s dark eyebrows shot up.

“And don’t be afraid to actually put some coffee in the pot.”

Her mouth dropped open. Ben chuckled to himself as he turned and headed for the bedroom.

* * *

Of all the nerve! Everything she had heard about Ben Slocum appeared to be exactly correct. The man was arrogant and overbearing, downright rude. In his rumpled tuxedo and smelling of sex and perfume, it didn’t take much imagination to know he had spent the night in a woman’s bed.

He was a navy SEAL, she reminded herself. That had to count for something. They had a reputation for being tough, brave and honorable. Still, from the information she had, he had been out of the military for the past five years, a medical discharge at twenty-eight after a combat wound in some godawful jungle in the Philippines.

She had no idea the sort of man Ben Slocum had become. One thing she did know: he looked even better than the photo she had seen of him when he was twenty years old. At least six-two, maybe a hundred ninety-five pounds of pure masculinity.

Beneath his black tuxedo jacket, a set of ridiculously wide shoulders tapered down to a narrow waist and a pair of long legs. Jet-black hair cut short enough to hide a faint curl, and the stubble of a night’s growth of beard just made him more handsome. She tried not to think of the glimpse of chest hair she’d seen beneath his unbuttoned shirt.

And those eyes. So pale a blue they looked otherworldly. She had seen a pair like them, but on a nine-year-old, the effect just wasn’t the same.

Thinking of the little boy and the help he so desperately needed set her feet in motion. Making the arrogant jerk a pot of coffee tweaked her ego, but that was hardly important. She took down the can of Folgers and began the steps necessary to get a pot brewing. Once the coffee was looked after, she took a moment to check out the house.

Neat was her first impression. The dishes clean and put away, no crumbs on the round oak table in the kitchen. No messy stacks of papers on the white ceramic tile counters. Decidedly male was her second thought. Brown leather sofa and chairs in the living room, oak end tables and pottery lamps. A big flat-screen TV on the wall, and a stack of hunting and fishing magazines sitting on the antique oak coffee table in front of the sofa.

She felt something soft brush against her and looked down to see a big gray tomcat winding between her legs. His golden eyes looked up at her as she bent down to scratch his ears.

“Well, aren’t you a big fellow.”

The cat began to purr. Ben Slocum was a cat person? She was more a dog lover herself’not that she actually had one’but she liked all animals. From the look of the cat’s glossy gray fur, he was definitely well cared for.

The sound of a door opening caught her attention. Claire looked up to see Ben Slocum striding down the hall, towel-drying his not quite wavy black hair. In jeans and a black T-shirt that stretched over the muscles on a very impressive chest, Ben was a formidable presence. Claire had to force herself not to take a step back as he walked into the living room.

“Smells good.” He paused long enough to lean down and run his hand over the big cat’s thick fur. “I see you’ve met Hercules.”

“You like cats?” she blurted out before she could stop herself.

“I like animals in general. I tend to prefer them to people.” He continued on to the kitchen. “Coffee looks ready. You want a cup?”

She definitely needed something to bolster her courage. “Yes, I think I do.”

Ben took down a pair of mugs and poured them full, handed one to her. He didn’t offer her cream or sugar. He took a sip, seemed to approve.

“What’s so important it couldn’t wait till this afternoon?”

“Why don’t we sit down?” She started for the oak table, but Ben caught her arm.

“Why don’t you just tell me what the hell is going on?”

Her patience was thinning. “Why don’t I just show you?” Ignoring his request, she marched over to the table, set her coffee mug down and sat in one of the captain’s chairs. Pulling the strap of her purse off her shoulder, she reached inside to retrieve Sam Thompson’s fifth-grade class picture.

Slocum walked over, crossed his arms over his impressive chest and stood eyeing her from a few feet away.

Claire looked up at him. “I’m here, Mr. Slocum, because of your son. His name is Sam, and he needs your help.” She didn’t show him the photo. She wanted to choose exactly the right moment.

“I don’t have a son. I’m a lot of things, lady, and careful is one of them.”

“Do you know a woman named Laura Schofield?”

“No.”

“Her name was Laura Thompson when the two of you were engaged.”

A muscle tightened in his jaw. “If Laura has a kid, it isn’t mine.”

“I’m sorry to tell you that Laura Thompson is dead, Mr. Slocum.”

The color drained from beneath his swarthy complexion. He pulled out one of the chairs and sat down facing her. “What happened?”

“Breast cancer. She passed away two months ago.”

Ben leaned back in his chair. Clearly he was upset. She hadn’t expected him to take the news so hard. She thought maybe it was a good sign.

He took a drink of his coffee, seemed to steady himself. “I’m sorry to hear about Laura. But as I said, if Laura had a kid’”

She turned the photo over and slid it across the table. “This is your son, Mr. Slocum, Sam. He’s nine years old.”

Ben stared at the photo as if it were a hand grenade about to explode. He was shaking his head, but those pale eyes remained riveted on the pair staring up at him from the smiling face in the picture.

“Do you remember a night nearly ten years ago when you went to see Laura? The two of you had ended your engagement years earlier. You were still in the SEALs, home on leave in San Diego. Laura was living in L.A.”

She could see that he recalled. He reached over and picked up the photo. There was no mistaking whose child it was. With Sam’s black hair, strong jaw and ice-blue eyes, the two were nearly identical.

He didn’t look away from the picture. “She didn’t tell me.” He glanced up. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“It’s a long story, Mr. Slocum. If you give me a chance’”

“Ben. My name is Ben.”

“All right, Ben. The important thing is that you have a son and that Sam is missing.”

Ben came up out of his chair. “Missing? What do you mean, missing? He’s nine years old. How can he be missing?”