Prescription For Love (Destiny's Child Book 1) Page 7

  Three pairs of eyes zoomed in on her. Only one pair burned through, though, the intense whiskey-gold flecks scorching her pride.

  If that’s how you want to play it.

  She picked up the wet, slippery sphere of leather. Getting her hands dirty never proved an issue—she rummaged inside cadavers day in, day out. Granted, she usually wore surgical gloves then.

  It’s only mud.

  Taking big, springy steps, she hopped up to Jamie. With each tread farther onto the field, the heels of her boots dug into the mire stirred by the three players on the soggy grass. She didn’t let the sinking feeling stop her, nor did she allow her gaze to wander down to assess the damage to the suede. At least on crime sites, they set out metal slabs for the pathologists to walk around on when it became clear the evidence would not be contaminated. The smell of mud and grass—earthy, humid, stale—assaulted her nose.

  She stopped when she reached him. His face appeared straight, yet, she’d swear a smile threatened to break through the calm façade.

  With the ball in her grip, she pushed the Umbro-labelled leather against his chest.

  He brought his gloved hands up, cold and wet against hers. She pulled, but he wouldn’t let go. An infectious grin broke on his face and gave him the look of a mischievous little boy.

  Bright as starlight against a pitch-black sky, she thought once more.

  That will not work on me.

  She narrowed her gaze. She was running late, and had no time for petty mind games. Especially ones she’d lose.

  “Job’s yours. Starting now.” She forced the words through gritted teeth.

  She pulled her hands from under his, then turned and walked away with as much dignity as she could infuse into her straightened spine.

  You may have won a battle, Dr. Gillespie. I sure haven’t said my final word.

  ***

  Margo opened her front door and stepped in to the sound of laughter wafting down the hall from the kitchen. One giggly and high-pitched; Emma’s. The other deep, rumbling, and male in its essence—Jamie.

  His laugh could rival his smile any time. His chuckle sounded guileless, almost innocent. Something about Jamie Gillespie made her—and the world, too, she’d bet—think of goodness and happiness.

  Her throat went dry. She saw too much wrong, too much of the evil of the world, every day, to be immune to good when she encountered it. That’s why she lived in her bubble—easier to deal with others in an impersonal way when nothing breached her fortress’ walls.

  This man represented a danger to her. Her life ran on order, for God’s sake, with little place for anything else except her career. Then, Emma had come along, and Margo had adjusted, made do—was still adjusting.

  But Jamie? What did she make of him?

  Weariness crashed through her, and she peeked at her watch. Nine o’clock, on a weeknight. Past Emma’s bedtime.

  That’s it, focus on your daughter. She might not be much of a mother, but Emma had no one, and nothing, else.

  With resolute steps, she forced herself forward. Why did it feel like she walked on water? Her tread felt too light, cautious, and reluctant. She didn’t want to face the two in there.

  Her heels clicked one final time against the parquet when she stopped in the doorway. The noise alerted the other occupants of her arrival. They peered up with wide smiles, not surprised to see her there, for all intent waiting for her, and then returned to the Monopoly board on the pine table.

  Wrong line of thought. People don’t wait for you, Nolan. Certainly not at home. The two in there might present a sweet picture of domestic warmth and caring, but that’s what it was—a picture. An illusion.

  Not her reality. She couldn’t afford anything domestic in her existence.

  So she shrugged off the thought and braced herself for business. “Em, time for bed.”

  “Mum!” The girl whined and rolled her eyes.

  Margo sighed and walked into the kitchen. “Please, Emma. I’m tired and I don’t want to fight.”

  The tween nodded and left. What a surprise.

  “Bad day?” Jamie put away the board game, his fingers deft and precise as he arranged the fake money into neat piles in the box.

  She pressed her lower back against the sink’s edge. “One of those where Murphy’s Law is omnipresent.”

  Stop that. Confiding in him would bring nothing good. You sure it’s not the opposite that’s going to happen?

  “Mu-um.” Emma hollered from upstairs. “Where’s my green satin scrunchie?”

  She sighed once more. How would she know? Were mothers supposed to be omniscient watchers who knew everything? If only she could be that on her cases—she’d know right away how her victims had died.

  “Mu-um!”

  “Go on up,” Jamie said. “She wants to be with you, but doesn’t know how to ask.”

  “Right.” And hens had grown teeth while she worked that evening.

  “We talked while you were away. She regrets what she’s done.”

  She nodded, too worn out to ask for clarifications. Jamie got through to Emma. Perfect. She would fight the battle next time. For the evening, she sent silent thanks for the tactical support.

  “And while you’re upstairs, grab a change. You’re home. You can relax now.”

  She risked a glance at him. He still busied himself with packing away the board game.

  Would he leave, once she went up? She wanted him gone, but to show him the door would be rude, especially after all he’d done to help her that day. He’d figure out his job had ended, though, wouldn’t he, and leave.

  Heeding his words, she went up the stairs and, once on the landing, moved towards the first door on the left. Emma’s room. On the doorstep, she knocked on the ajar door panel.

  Emma had already changed into her pink bunny-printed pyjamas. The girl didn’t want to wear anything else to bed, and Margo had a hard time wrestling the clothes away at laundry time. She had to make sure the pyjamas were washed, dried, and pressed between morning and evening, several times a week. Her laundry cleaners must be having a field day with her requests and the astronomic fees they charged.

  “You had my scrunchie this morning.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes. You toyed with it. I’m sure it’s in your bag.”

  Margo reached for the strap of her handbag and fiddled inside to encounter a piece of soft-bunched fabric under her probing fingers. She removed the incriminating evidence, holding it between her thumb and forefinger.

  Emma sighed and grabbed the scrunchie, then twisted it around her ponytail. “Seriously, Mum. If you want to wear girly stuff, you can help yourself to my stash. No need to hide.”

  “I wasn’t hiding anything.”

  How dare the chit think so?

  “Yeah, right.” Rolling eyes punctuated the statement. Emma then jumped on the bed and laughed.

  Gleeful and rampant with childish mirth and exuberance. Her baby girl would squeal like that when she’d blow bubbles against her tummy.

  Where had that little one gone, and who was the burgeoning young woman who had taken her place?

  Emma opened her arms. “Gimme a hug.”

  M’mmy huggy, the two-year-old toddler would say.

  The big grey eyes swirled with expectation. Small white teeth bit into pink lips devoid of any colour artifice.

  So far.

  Dropping her handbag to the floor, Margo went to the girl and sat on the edge of the bed. Reaching out, she scooped up the frail, bony frame to bring Emma close in an embrace. Her touch came through light, hesitant even. After all they’d been through that day, she didn’t know if the gesture represented an olive branch being extended, or a bomb waiting to explode.

  Thin arms closed tight around her neck. For such a delicate-looking child, Emma packed a wallop of strength in her limbs.

  “I’m sorry, Mummy.”

  Her eyes stung. Her throat closed. Her arms tightened. She held her daughter against her bos
om, something she’d never thought she’d do again, something she’d wanted to do since she’d encountered the tween a little less than four weeks ago.

  “It’s— ” her voice grew strangled “—it’s okay, sweetheart.”

  She and Emma still needed to have a long talk. Not today, though. Tomorrow is another day. They’d weather any coming storm then.

  But she had to say something. “I’ve never been ashamed of you, Em. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I know it’s a bit weird between us, but—”

  “I love you, Mummy.” Emma squeezed her tighter.

  “I love you, too, Em.”

  Margo didn’t squelch the tears when they dripped over her eyelashes. They fell down her cheeks, and she swiped at the moisture after letting her body express, through her tears, the spinning of her emotions. When was the last time she’d cried? She didn’t remember.

  “Go to sleep, sweetheart. There’s school in the morning.”

  “Aw, you’re no fun.”

  I’m your parent; I’m not supposed to be fun.

  “Good night, darling.”

  On the threshold of the room, she paused and turned to her daughter. “By the way, you’re grounded for two weeks—”

  “Mu–um!”

  “What you did today was reckless and shameful. Not only ditching Mrs. May’s surveillance and hiking to London alone, but also using your phone to contact boys, when you are supposed to use the mobile for emergencies only.”

  Too bad she needed the phone as a way to contact Emma—the perfect punishment would’ve been to confiscate the mobile and ground her for two weeks.

  “I hate you!”

  Emma shrieked the words, the quivering emotion strung in the high-pitched tone.

  And back to Square One again. Welcome to motherhood. She was so not cut out to be a mum.

  Margo hightailed it into her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She sighed, leaning against the wood panel. Lord, no. What could be happening to her? She’d never desired children because she hadn’t ever wanted to sign up for that kind of roller coaster every day. Emma had no one else, though, stuck with Margo as her incompetent parent. Wouldn’t she set the girl up for irreparable damage? What should she do, for goodness’ sake?

  She peered down and caught the encrusted mud on her boots and the hem of her trousers. What a careless idiot. She’d dirty the plush white rug if she took another step.

  Peeling herself away from the door, she ditched the shoes and clothing, leaving them in a pile where they fell. Tomorrow morning, she’d take care of them, and send them off to the cleaners.

  After a turn at the bathroom sink, she stared at her scrubbed-clean face in the three-foot-square wall mirror. Her eyes burned; she’d had a hard time removing her makeup. The waterproof mascara had run, which had left her looking like a dirty, blonde raccoon. She’d used the stuff for years, and had never realized the formula didn’t prove as fool-proof as it claimed.

  Because she’d never cried before.

  Bugger. Would she dare to look the facts straight in the face? Her life, as she’d built it, had unravelled. Would it be possible even to weave the threads back again, or did she fight a losing battle there?

  Why today? Why at this time in her life? She stood where she’d always wanted to be. In the next and final step, she would make Professor and get to steer her own forensics lab.

  She didn’t have time or space in her life for relationships, family, or love. Though the latter had never been part of her aspirations, any hopeful expectations on her part had been snuffed when Harry had showed her how twisted and crazy love could be. First when he’d hit her—one time too many. Later, he’d added a guilt trip when she wouldn’t reconcile with him. His suicide had served as a final—if delusional—way to ‘reach her.’

  No, love brought nothing good.

  Why was she even thinking about love?

  Jamie.

  Margo closed her eyes when she recalled the moment when he had nearly kissed her. Warmth tingled along her jaw and cheek where he’d held her face in the cradle of his palm. The taste of him erupted on her tongue, on her lips.

  She had to push him away, put as much distance as possible between them. Nothing good would come out of their relationship. Not even friendship, because that notion, between a man and a woman, always got distorted along the way.

  Her stomach rumbled, screaming famine. She hadn’t eaten since the sandwich wolfed down at lunchtime, in front of her desk.

  She donned a pair of crease-free, black linen trousers from the wardrobe and a black knitted sweater. On the doorstep, she stopped. Jamie would be gone, she hoped. She hadn’t thanked him for looking after Emma today, but this could be for the best. Tomorrow is another day, she repeated. Blank, free of any loaded incident, like that near-kiss.

  No sound came from the kitchen. Reassured she was alone, she went down the stairs, pausing on the landing before the last four steps that led to the polished stone floor.

  She gripped the railing hard, to give herself some bearing, when she found him seated at the table.

  Worse—he’d set a placemat and cutlery for her opposite him, along with a steaming tub of formerly frozen lasagne. She wanted to run, as fast as her legs could carry her. Except that she stood rooted to her spot, and that he looked up right then, his gaze catching hers and holding steady.

  Damn.

  Chapter Five

  She had changed. The slim trousers hinted at long, slender legs. The light sweater fell from her shoulders, one hollow in her collarbone more exposed than the other. Little gaps appeared in the knit of the garment, showing peeks of her body underneath.

  Did that woman know how sexy she was?

  Jamie breathed in deep. Her skin gleamed, a pale ivory colour. The black outfit complimented her—instead of washing out her complexion, it made her glow with an ethereal beauty that punched hard in his gut.

  Off-limits, he reminded himself. Too bad his body, and his heart, had a hard time acquiescing to that memo.

  He nodded at her. “Come on down.”

  Something like a snort rumbled from her. Could she be angry? Dejected?

  Her hair brushed her shoulders in the stick-straight locks. A lot of professional women swept their hair in tight up-dos and needed to let their hair down. Margo kept her blonde tresses loose, but that didn’t mean she relaxed. Her shoulder-length hair always hung immaculate, not one strand out of place.

  Totally uptight.

  Pull it up, mess it a little. No need to appear perfect. He didn’t search for perfection, just a woman to love.

  Whoa, there.

  Love? He hadn’t gotten there so fast, surely.

  Are you kidding yourself, mate?

  No, Margo Nolan had hit him right where it mattered, and she’d driven her arrow straight into his heart. He was a bloke, and she a woman who stirred his loins and his gut. And maybe, just maybe, she could be into men, too. He wouldn’t ever forget the sensual manner with which she’d licked his finger when he’d given her sugar to calm her hiccups. Damn if desire hadn’t blazed in her eyes then. Any man, no matter how obtuse, would construe that gesture of hers as an invite to try for more.

  But Margo Nolan deserved prudent handling. He couldn’t spook her, especially if she hesitated in deciding which side to bat for. He should take his time, win her over slowly, get her the moon and the stars first if that would help her see him as a risk worth taking.

  He blinked out of his spell. Was he really waxing lyrical like all those stupid poets with their flowery verses that his mother had forced down his throat when he’d been growing up? Something had to be wrong.

  Blimey, he’d turned into a goner already, and he’d had no clue. What to do? Margo shielded herself with a fortress that protected her heart and soul tighter than the security around the Queen’s Crown Jewels.

  “Margo,” he exhaled.

  A note of warning hung in the word, and across from him, she bit her lip.


  The woman in front of him had let her guard down. Slightly, but down, nevertheless. Soft vulnerability shrouded her, and the fragile appearance of her whole being twisted his soul around. Here stood the real Margo.

  Right then, he didn’t give a damn that she could slam his love back into his face—if he ever confessed his feelings. She called out to him, and he heeded that plea.

  She hadn’t expected to see him still here. Her eyes had widened, and he could see the gears clicking inside her head. She saw the house as her turf and he, a trespasser.

  Sorry, babe. It doesn’t work that way. He knew what he was doing. She had let him into their lives that afternoon. Her appeal might have come out of practical need; still, he took the people in his entourage seriously. Did she think he’d leave her to fend for herself? He never slunk out of any situation, and preferred to face whatever life threw at him head on.

  Except where his father was concerned.

  He grimaced, careful to conceal the contortion of his mouth. There it lay, the reminder he didn’t want to acknowledge. He had no intention of telling George Gillespie he planned to stay on in Surrey. Too much bad blood between them already. Robert always sided with their father, and his mother—hell, he didn’t know how the sophisticated Sadie would react. He adored his mother, but had to admit she could be a drama queen, with unpredictable temperamental outbursts. All depended on what type of day she’d had when he’d catch her, and lately, his mother was a keg of gunpowder, waiting to explode at any given minute. Menopause did not agree with her. He snorted—when did hormones ever agree with women?

  He yearned to heed Gordy’s words. Be good, do good—the simple motto his uncle had always made him follow when he was growing up.

  He’d come to the decision that very evening, while chatting with Emma. The girl had opened up to him in a way she didn’t with anyone else around them, losing her sass and smart-mouth ways, to project the sensible, vulnerable child at the heart of her. His duty implied for him to be here, to help steer Emma along until she found her own strong, dependable footing. Margo, whatever she might say to the contrary, needed him, too. He’d keep an eye on the girl after school until they found a nanny, and he could be the bridge between them. He’d made things right today, but couldn’t kid himself that no other outburst would take place between the women in the future.