Her Christmas Hero Read online

  Phil punched him on the arm as if they were teenagers. “She got to you with that sweet demeanor and gorgeous looks, not to mention totally awesome body.”

  Phil didn’t know the half of it. “I don’t like taking a child from his mother.”

  “Don’t worry, she’ll be back in my bed by the end of the week.”

  Quinn frowned. “Is that what this hearing was about?”

  “You bet. I know how to push her buttons, and now she knows I have the upper hand.”

  Quinn picked up his briefcase. “Don’t call me for any more help. My specialty is defense law and that’s where I’m staying.”

  “Now, ol’ buddy, Herb is out of commission, so you’re the lawyer of record for this case. You wouldn’t want me to tell Dad that you bailed.”

  Quinn kept a tight rein on his temper. “You really are a jerk.”

  Phil’s face darkened. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “I’m only just starting.” He walked away without another word, but he left his dignity, his ethics and his self-respect behind.

  What had he done?

  Chapter Five

  Quinn sat in his paneled study surrounded by bookshelves holding his father’s ancient-history tomes. Taking a sip of wine, he gazed at the leather-bound relics neatly lined up on the shelves. Books were also haphazardly stacked on the hardwood floor. He’d been meaning to donate some to a library, but so far hadn’t gotten round to it. Sometime soon he needed to call Professor Withers, a colleague of his dad’s, and offer him some volumes.

  Peyton had taken the ones she’d wanted, but the room was still full of the books his father loved. As a history professor, Malcolm Ross’s focus was the past. Though he’d been a quiet, gentle man, his voice would rise in excitement as he spoke of ancient civilizations. Egypt, Greece and China were his favorite places, and in the summers Quinn and Peyton would travel with their father to explore the fascinating ruins of those countries.

  Quinn never found an interest in the past. He was more like his mother, who was also a lawyer. But he respected his father more than anyone he’d ever known. The man never complained or judged.

  Quinn poured another glass of wine, wishing he could talk to his dad, who had a way of solving problems with logic and reason.

  And Quinn had one big problem.

  Britt.

  She was Phil’s ex.

  Quinn was supposed to be smart, but he couldn’t wrap his brain around that. Rarely was his composure shaken. He’d mastered the appearance of calm over the years in the courtroom. But today, when he saw Britt and realized she was Phil’s ex, he’d almost lost his grip on himself.

  The woman he’d saved in the creek was Phil’s ex-wife. Phil had cheated, lied and deceived her, and he was the reason she had an aversion to being touched. Quinn believed everything Britt had told him. She had no reason to lie. And Quinn had stood in open court and followed the plan Phil and Herb had laid out to take her child. Because he owed Philip Sr.

  The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  He took a gulp of wine. He’d been planning to call her to see how she was, but his busy schedule had prevented him from following through. Now she would probably never speak to him again. He didn’t blame her.

  He yanked off his tie and took his wine to the large living area with the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the pool. Since it was winter, the pool was covered, but he rarely used it, anyway. He sank onto the sofa and propped his feet on the hundred-year-old coffee table that had belonged to his ancestors on his father’s side. He took another big swallow of wine. His father had been raised in the colonial revival style house, as had Peyton and Quinn. Quinn had bought out Peyton’s share, and now the sprawling house was his—one man and more rooms than he’d ever use. The quiet of those empty rooms seemed to gnaw at him, reminding him he was alone.

  And he’d never felt lonelier.

  He stared at a family photo on the limestone fireplace. The four people in it were smiling and looked happy. In retrospect, Quinn knew they hadn’t been. His mother had found happiness with other men. His father had buried himself in the past. When Quinn was older he’d spent a lot of time away from home, and Peyton had rebelled in every way she could. Not a happy family, but they’d survived, because despite all that they still loved each other.

  He ran his hands through his hair, knowing he was avoiding what was really bothering him.

  Britt.

  He’d thought she was beautiful, all bedraggled in the creek, but today she’d eclipsed that. She’d been eye-catching in a silky print dress that hugged her curvy body. Her dark hair had hung loose around her shoulders, making her eyes look that much darker. Her skin had glowed and her eyes had sparkled—until she’d spotted him. Then it was like someone turned off a light. That expression on her face had cut right through him.

  What had he done?

  He prided himself on the one thing he did well—being a lawyer. For the first time he felt tainted by his profession. He placed his empty glass on the table.

  Something wasn’t quite right with what had happened today. The last-minute call. The documents all being filed. Did Phil know Quinn had a connection to Britt? Quinn hadn’t given out any interviews, and he hadn’t seen anything about the incident in the paper. But he felt as if every detail had been staged—for Britt’s benefit—to humiliate her.

  He hurried toward his study, retrieved his cell phone and punched in Herb’s number.

  “Herb, it’s Quinn,” he said as the lawyer clicked on.

  “Thanks for filling in today. I heard it went well.”

  “From who?”

  There was a long pause. “Phil, of course.”

  “All the damaging info on Roslyn Davis was just a little too convenient. Luckily, I didn’t have to use it.” Britt’s many affairs were listed in a file with the men’s names and dates. Her vicious, jealous temper was documented, along with dates of when she had trashed Phil’s condo. Photos were attached in a folder, but Quinn hadn’t had a chance to look at them. Now he wished he had taken the time.

  “Are you questioning my research and my investigators?” Herb’s voice grew angry.

  So did Quinn’s. “You’re goddamn right I am.”

  Another long pause. “Stay out of it, Quinn.”

  “I’d love to do that, Herb, but for some reason I’ve been cast smack-dab in the middle.”

  “If you value your law career, you’ll leave it alone.”

  That was the crux of the whole situation. Everyone knew what his law career meant to him, especially Phil and Philip Sr.

  “A mother lost her child today. I can’t leave that alone.”

  “Everything will work out.”

  You know how to stop this. Phil’s words came back to him, and Quinn wondered how long it would be before Britt caved to her ex’s demands. How long could she live without her child? Phil gave her a week, but Quinn knew she was much stronger than that.

  “To whose advantage?”

  “I can’t answer that. I just did my job.”

  “Or what you were told to do. That folder on Roslyn Davis was very inflammatory, and I suspect very little of it was true. And it’s strange that you don’t sound the least bit sick now, not like yesterday, when you were wheezing to catch a breath.”

  “This conversation is over.”

  “You’re damn right it is.” Quinn slammed his phone onto the desk.

  He paced in his study. His first instinct was to resign from the case, but then sleazy attorneys willing to do anything for money would take over, and Britt’s fate would be sealed.

  Philip would blackball him and no one would win except the Rutherfords. Quinn had to stick this out one way or another.

  THAT NIGHT IN HIS BEDROOM he went through the folder of photos that Herb had sent him. There were several pictures of Britt with pilots and businessmen, and dates and names were written on the back. None of the photos showed any signs of intimacy between Britt and the men, but they
were damaging because it looked as if she was partying while away from her son. Evidently, Phil had her watched all the time.

  Watched!

  Was the detective tailing her the night of the storm? Had he seen them being rescued? Was that the reason Phil had called him to handle the case—to make Britt aware that Phil knew her every move? If so, the man was a sick son of a bitch.

  There were photos that showed his trashed condo. Apparently, she’d lost control of her temper more than once. Even though he could see the photos, something about them didn’t ring true. He’d spent twenty-four hours with the woman and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was not the real Roslyn Britt Davis.

  How he wished he had looked at these photos earlier. If he had, he would never have stepped foot in that courtroom. Right? He fervently believed he wouldn’t have, but the truth taunted his conscience.

  Would he jeopardize everything he’d worked for over the years? Would he tarnish his law career?

  He put the folder back in his briefcase, took a shower and went to bed. Closing his eyes, he recalled her face when she’d spotted him in the courtroom. Her expression had held blatant fear. It wasn’t the same fear he’d seen in her at the creek. This was basic, primal, and it reinforced the horror that she’d just lost everything she loved. Then anger had quickly replaced the fear.

  And it had been directed at him.

  Turning over, he groaned. After rescuing her from the creek, he somehow knew their lives would irrevocably be woven together. Thrown together by tragedy and bound by its aftereffects.

  But not like this.

  She now hated him.

  The thought lingered in his mind as he fell asleep.

  BRITT SLEPT WITH DILLON in her arms. She knew it wasn’t good for him, but she couldn’t help herself. She had to hold him, to feel him. The darkness of the night closed around them, keeping them together for now. His soft breathing tickled her chin, and she held on because it would be a long time before she’d hold him like this again.

  She wanted to explain to him what would happen tomorrow, but he wouldn’t understand. She didn’t understand her self. How could the judge give custody to Phil? How could her job be a factor? How could Quinn be involved in this?

  The questions kept beating at her and the answers continued to elude her. She forced herself not to think about Quinn. He’d saved her life, and she’d always be grateful for that. But he’d saved it just to take it. She pushed the thought away because it only upset her more.

  Her mother had wanted to spend the night, but Britt insisted she go home. Now Britt desperately wanted someone to talk to.

  She closed her eyes, but didn’t sleep. The pain was too deep for any rest. At six she got up and carried Dillon to his crib. The apartment had only one bedroom, so they shared the space. When she had enough money saved, she was going to look for a bigger place. That’s why she’d taken the extra flights this summer—for the money. She’d never dreamed her decision would come back to haunt her.

  Gently, she laid Dillon down and covered him, staring at his precious face. The night-light was just bright enough for her to see his chubby cheeks and dark hair. A choked sob left her throat and she tore herself away from him to go take a shower. In fifteen minutes she was dressed for this horrible day.

  All during the night thoughts of running had plagued her. She could be out of the country in no time, but she knew deep down that being on the run was no life for Dillon or her. She would stay and fight.

  There was only one way to do that—to make a secure, happy home for Dillon with his mother there at all times. Somewhere during the night Britt realized she had to quit her job. Being with the airlines eight years, she’d built up seniority. But that security meant nothing without her son. Once that decision was made she felt better.

  Phil would not keep her son.

  She pulled a suitcase from the closet and began to pack Dillon’s clothes. Then she made lists: of Dillon’s schedule, his nap times, medication for his sniffles or colds, foods she was now feeding him, what he liked at bedtime and so on. The list was for the nanny; Phil would have little to do with his son.

  She gave Phil lists all the time when he picked up Dillon, but she suspected he just threw them away. This time she tucked them in with Dillon’s clothes, so the nanny would find the lists and use them.

  As she packed Dillon’s toys, she vowed she wouldn’t cry. This was only temporary, but it didn’t keep that crippling pain at bay. She would be strong—and it would take every ounce of courage she had.

  After the suitcase was packed, she carried it to the front door. She couldn’t bear a long goodbye. Back in the bedroom, she brushed her hair and clipped it back. As she did, she heard, “Ma-ma-i-ah-o-ma.”

  Dillon’s chatter warmed her cold heart. He stood holding on to the rail of his crib. The first time he’d done that it had shocked her. He was too young to stand, but she had a feeling her son was going to do everything early. He moved his feet as if he were standing in hot ashes. He crawled the same way—fast. Soon he would be walking everywhere. Oh, she hoped she didn’t miss that. She swallowed, telling herself not to cry.

  She changed his diaper and dressed him. As she slipped a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head, he started to whine. He wanted his bottle. She knew that sound.

  “Just a minute, precious.” She kissed his cheek and carried him to the kitchen, placing him in his high chair. He slapped his hands on the tray while she prepared his milk. When he saw the bottle, he bounced up and down and grabbed for it eagerly. She had a hard time getting his bib on.

  After she fed him his cereal and part of a banana, she washed his face and again changed his diaper. She wanted Dillon clean when Phil took him.

  She sat with him on the sofa. His big brown eyes stared at her.

  “Mommy loves you.”

  “Ma-oh-ah-ma-ma,” he cooed, his two new bottom teeth gleaming.

  How did she tell him?

  “You’ll be staying with Daddy for a while.” Her throat closed up. She had to swallow. “Mommy will see you on Sunday. I love you, love you, love you, my Dilly bear.”

  “Ma-ma-ma-ma.” He bounced in her arms.

  “Give me a kiss.”

  He placed his wet mouth against her cheek and she held him as tightly as she could. Maybe too tight, for he wiggled to get free. It was play time and he wanted down. Just as she was about to place him on the floor, the doorbell rang. Her heart rate skyrocketed into overdrive.

  She glanced at the clock on the oven and saw it was exactly ten—time to have the courage to let go. She gritted her teeth, wishing she could hold back the seconds. The inevitable. Cradling Dillon close, she walked to the door. The only thing that gave her the strength to do so was that she knew Phil would not hurt his own son. He might be uncaring and unfeeling, but he would pay someone to look after Dillon. That was the irony of the whole ordeal. Phil didn’t want Dillon. He just wanted Britt’s attention and eventual surrender.

  Never.

  Breathing in the sweet scent of her baby, she felt a stub of temptation. But only for a second.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. Phil stood there with his usual smirk, the nanny, who she had met before, behind him. Quinn stood to the side, briefcase in hand. She ignored him.

  “Is the boy ready?” Phil asked.

  “Yes,” she murmured, keeping her features set in a mask of pain.

  As soon as Dillon saw Phil, he buried his face in her neck and clung to her like he always did. And that made it so hard. She rubbed his back, trying to soothe him.

  “His clothes are packed,” she said, glancing at the case at her feet.

  “No lists?” Phil asked with a lifted brow.

  “Would it do any good?”

  “Let’s go,” Quinn intervened. “The judge advises as little contact as possible.” He just wanted to get the transfer over with, and he could see that Phil wanted to linger, to keep needling Britt.

  Phil shot him a cold
stare, but Quinn didn’t back down.

  “Get the case.” Phil spoke to the nanny and reached for his son. The boy tried to wiggle as far away as possible. Britt’s features tightened in pain and Quinn felt a jolt in his heart. How had he gotten involved in this?

  Phil gripped the boy around his waist and tried to pull him away from Britt. In doing so he made sure his hands touched her breasts. A look of disgust spread over her face, a look she couldn’t disguise.

  As Phil pulled Dillon away, the boy began to cry loudly, hands outstretched toward his mother. Britt clasped trembling hands to her face, and Quinn had to look away. This is wrong, he kept thinking, but there was nothing he could do. For now.

  “You know how to stop this,” Phil said to Britt, and the sadness in her eyes turned to anger. In that instance, Quinn knew Britt Davis was never going to bend.

  When she didn’t respond, Phil walked away with Dillon, who was now screaming at the top of his lungs, holding his arms toward his mother. She stood as if turned to stone.

  “Britt,” Quinn murmured in a low voice, wanting to say something, anything, to take that look from her face.

  She leveled that angry gaze on him and slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter Six

  How dare he!

  Britt would never speak to Quinn again. He was of no concern to her now.

  Her emotions overtook her and she slid down to collapse on the floor. The tears she’d been holding in check burst forth like water from a broken pipe. Her stomach cramped with nausea and she drew up her knees to stop the pain. Loud, heart-wrenching sobs echoed around the room, but not even her anguish could block out Dillon’s pitiful wails.

  I’m sorry, baby. Mommy didn’t protect you. Mommy screwed up.

  She wasn’t sure how long she sat there in her agony. It could have been a few minutes or an hour. Finally, she raised her head and wiped away tears with the back of her hand. She had to get her son back and would start her quest this instant. Pushing herself to her feet, she headed for her phone. It rang before she reached it.