Holding his Hostage - Amy Gamet Page 0,8

closed the checkbook and tossed the pen on the table. “I can get it in the morning when the bank opens up.”

The movement caused the sleeve of his T-shirt to shift, revealing a line in the middle of his bicep where the color changed by several shades. She stared at it, trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

He lowered his arm and raised his sleeve, revealing the point where a prosthetic arm joined his body. She sucked in air. “What happened?”

“Kandahar. Do you have someplace to stay?”

“My kids are in the car.”

The air seemed to shift, the time and experience that separated them now living, breathing forces in the room.

“How old are they?”

“Fiona’s four, Lucas is seven, and April’s eleven.”

“You can stay here. All of you.”

She opened her mouth to object but stopped herself. It was a big house, with plenty of room for them all if they shared. The kids would love a clean bed as much as she would, warm blankets and fluffy pillows. She swallowed what was left of her pride. “Thank you.” An awkward silence settled between them. “I really appreciate this, Sloan.” She stood up. “Fiona’s asleep. Where should I put her?”

He stood, too. “Anywhere’s up for grabs. I’ll take the couch so you can have the bedrooms.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“Come on, Buckley,” he said, using her maiden name. “You look like you’ve been through the war. It’s just a couch.” He grinned.

“Thanks for pointing that out.” She returned the smile. He’d always had a big heart. She’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be on the receiving end of so much generosity, and she was getting choked up. “I’ll just grab the kids.”

She hustled out the door and back into the cold, climbing into the driver’s seat and turning off the car. “Come on. We’re staying here tonight.”

Lucas was in the backseat. “This place looks haunted.”

“It’s not haunted,” she said, knowing full well Sloan’s mother would probably disagree. “Grab your things.” She got out and opened Fiona’s door, unbuckling the sleeping girl and picking her up, Jo’s back insisting she stop lifting the girl soon.

The four of them stomped up the wooden steps, setting off another round of barking from Gus. “Whose house is this?” asked April.

“An old friend’s.” Both kids turned to look at her, and she shrugged. “I had friends once.” The kids still stared. “It was a long time ago.” She huffed. “It’s cold out here. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the dog.”

5

Sloan took a sip of twenty-year-old scotch, the liquid burning a pleasant trail down his throat and into his belly. It was two o’clock in the morning, his high school girlfriend was putting her kids to sleep in his house, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d wandered into one of those Christmas movies his mom liked to watch.

Any minute now, one of Joanne’s kids would come knocking on the study door and call him Daddy, and he’d have the ten days between now and Christmas to see if he’d made the right decision all those years ago by letting Joanne get away.

He’d held his breath when she told him the ages of the children, wondering if fate had dealt him an unexpected wild card, but clearly that wasn’t the case. From the look of them, the kids had all been fathered by David Regan, and he ground his teeth just thinking about the other man.

He took another sip of his drink, wondering what had brought her here like this. She needed money, and the desperation he’d seen painted on her features was deeply concerning. It had taken a lot for her to come here—even if it was to see Evelyn and not him—which spoke volumes for her other options. He knew she didn’t have family she could turn to, but didn’t she have friends? Someone closer than him who could come to the rescue?

Not that he minded the money. He would never begrudge her that. He swirled the liquid in his glass. They’d been in the same class for as long as he could remember. She was the daughter of the meanest man in town, Old Man Buckley, who ran a gas station and smoke shop—a perilous combination forever begging to explode. She’d come to school in dirty clothes with her hair unbrushed, day after day, and kept mostly to herself.

By high school, she’d looked more like the other kids and even had a few friends, but Sloan was observant. He