Come to Me. Linda Winstead Jones

daughter had scored a goal. He smiled and clapped dutifully, and so did the woman at his side.

      Too late.

      So Jenna had money. Money was nice; Lizzie wished she had more of it herself, but cash alone wouldn’t make anyone happy. She and Charlie had never had much money when she’d been growing up, but they’d gotten by just fine and they’d been happy. Most of the time.

      Jenna’s teammates congratulated her, and soon the girls lined up at the center of the field to resume play.

      “Seen enough?” Sam asked softly.

      “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

      He squeezed her hand again and then dropped it, taking a step away from her—as she’d known she should but had not. Lizzie tore her eyes away from Jenna and stared up at Sam. She was suddenly much more certain about what she had to do. “It’s not enough. I can’t seriously doubt that she and I are related. She looks so much like Dad, and maybe even a little bit like me. Jenna is my family, like it or not. How am I supposed to tell from a distance if she’s happy?”

      “That fact that she bears a subtle resemblance to Charlie is hardly proof,” Sam said sensibly.

      Lizzie was in no mood for common sense! “It’s proof enough for me.” At least for now. “How am I supposed to know that she’s happy?”

      “Trust me, she’s…”

      Frustrated, Lizzie interrupted. “She has a big house, she goes to a great school, she can buy herself anything she wants. That doesn’t mean anything!”

      Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t want to shake up her life.”

      “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

      “If your father had thought for a moment that Jenna wasn’t safe and content, he would’ve done something about it years ago,” Sam argued.

      “Dad let her go as a baby,” Lizzie said reasonably. “He couldn’t have known whether or not she was okay now.”

      “Dammit, he did,” Sam said sharply. “You’re not going to like it but here’s the truth. After Jenna’s mother died, Charlie kept very close tabs on the kid. If he didn’t think it was right to stir up her neat little world, what makes you think you should do it?”

      Lizzie no longer stared at her sister. Instead she glared up into Sam’s traitorous blue eyes, and her heart broke as certainly as it had at fourteen, when he’d married an unkind, unworthy woman, whose only claim to fame had been her freakishly large boobs.

      The only way Sam could’ve known that her father had kept tabs on Jenna was if he’d known about the child himself. He’d known all along.

      Lizzie was pissed, perhaps rightly so. He should’ve told her up front that he knew of the girl’s existence. Instead he’d tried to spare her feelings; he’d tried to make things easier for her and still honor Charlie’s wishes. But at some point he’d decided he didn’t want to lie to her anymore, not even by omission.

      Ten minutes after leaving the school grounds, after enduring ten minutes of absolute silence, Sam pulled into a bakery parking lot. Lizzie’s normally warm hazel eyes shot daggers at him. “You want a doughnut, hotshot, you wait until after you’ve taken me back to my car.”

      “No,” he said, opening his door and stepping into the spring sunshine. Lizzie remained in her seat, arms crossed over her chest, eyes straight ahead. Sam walked around the car and opened her door as if they were on a date and he was being a perfect gentleman. When she didn’t move, he offered her his hand.

      “You’re fired,” she said, ignoring his steady hand. “In case you haven’t already figured that out for yourself, Mister Big Shot Private Investigator.”

      “We need to talk.”

      “No, we don’t.”

      Sam stood there, hand extended. Lizzie continued to ignore him. “Your purse is back at my office.” Lucky for him, considering that there was a Taser in that purse and at the moment Lizzie looked as though she’d gladly use any handy weapon on him. “You don’t have your cell phone, cash, credit cards or the keys to your car, which means that until we get back to the office you’re at my mercy.”

      “Cruel and a liar.”

      “I’ll buy you a cupcake. That’s hardly cruel.”

      “I don’t want a cupcake.”

      “You always want a cupcake. I also plan to explain myself, if you’ll let me.” Hell, he was all but begging. Others in the parking lot were starting to stare. If Lizzie didn’t hurry up and take his hand, he was going to drag her inside and force-feed her that damn cupcake.

      Yeah, that would go over well.

      She used one hand to shoo him back, and then she stepped out of the car, moving regally in spite of her baggy, paint-splattered attire, her displeasure evident in every move, every glance. How was it that all women knew how to do that? Was it in their DNA or was there a secret class the men of the world were not privy to? How to make a man feel two inches tall with a single glance 101.

      They walked into the small bakery and were assaulted by the scents of baking bread and sweets and coffee. A handful of customers were waiting at the counter. Along one window sat a half-dozen small, round tables, each with two hard chairs. All but one was empty, since most of the customers were getting their orders to go. Sam motioned to the nearest table, and Lizzie turned in that direction. She walked past the table he’d indicated and continued on, taking the table farthest away, as if she couldn’t stand to be any closer to him.

      It was going to be a long conversation.

      Eventually Sam reached the counter, where he ordered two coffees, a strawberry cupcake, four chocolate chip cookies, a piece of peanut butter fudge and a blueberry muffin. Ten years ago strawberry cupcakes had been Lizzie’s weakness. He couldn’t be sure what she preferred now, and he wanted to be prepared.

      When he had his order in hand, Sam turned away from the counter, not a hundred percent certain he’d find Lizzie where he’d left her. She was mad—rightfully so, he supposed. Knowing her, she might hitchhike to his office and break into the building to retrieve her purse. She could borrow a cell from a stranger and call a friend to collect her. She could walk home. The walk would take her half a day, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t try. He didn’t for one minute think she was helpless. If she stayed, it was because she wanted to hear what he had to say.

      His eyes fell on the empty table where Lizzie had once sat, and he groaned. He’d hoped she might be willing to listen. He’d hoped she’d have an open mind. Yeah, he’d hoped she’d be where he’d freakin’ left her. His eyes flitted to the parking lot, but if she was gone then she’d left minutes ago, while he’d been dealing with the girl behind the counter. She wouldn’t stick around and give him the chance to catch up with her and try to change her mind.

      As Sam’s heart sank into his stomach, Lizzie brushed by without sparing a glance for him or his purchases. She held a stack of napkins, stirrers, sugar and little containers of creamer in her hands. She returned to the table where he’d left her, slapping the napkins onto the center of the table and then sitting, lifting her head to glare at him once more. How to tell a man he’s scum without ever saying a word.

      He smiled.

      She didn’t like it.

      Sam placed the coffee and goodies—which were all stored in a large white bag—on the center of the round table. Lizzie took one of the coffees and removed the lid, fixing it as she liked, with lots of sugar and creamer. She didn’t look at him while she stirred, not until he sat, reached into the bag and drew out the cupcake, which was large and pink. The thick frosting was dotted with tiny bits of real strawberries.

      It wasn’t his imagination that her expression softened a little. “You remembered.”

      “How