The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(126)

The imposing entrance hall held a sweeping staircase, impressive oil paintings, and antique furniture that shouted old money, but the abandoned backpacks, bike helmets, and single multicolored kneesock tossed in the corner spoke of younger occupants. She flung her windbreaker on a chair that looked like a loaner from the Smithsonian and turned to face him again. “What if I’m lying?”

He’d stopped trying to wipe the leaves from his shoes on the Oriental carpet that stretched across the doorway. “Lying?”

“What if I’m not pregnant,” she said, “and I’m making this whole thing up. What if I finally saw through that charade you built to protect me—as if I weren’t perfectly capable of protecting myself—and what if I really do love you and this is the only way I could think of to get you back? What would you do then?”

He forgot about his wet shoes. “Are you lying?”

“Answer my question.”

He wanted to strangle her. “If you’re lying, I’m going to be more pissed than you can imagine because, despite everything I’ve said, I want a baby with you. Tell me the truth right now!”

Her eyes seemed to melt. “Really? You really do want a baby?”

Now he was the belligerent one. “Don’t screw with me about this, Lucy. It’s too important.”

She turned away. “Mom! Dad!”

“We’re in here.” A male voice boomed from the back of the house.

He was seriously going to kill her, but first he had to follow her through the grand house into a roomy, sun-splashed kitchen that smelled of coffee and something baking. The squared-off bay window held a trestle table that looked out over the autumn garden. President Jorik sat at one end, the Wall Street Journal open in front of her, another paper folded at her side. She wore a white robe and gray slippers. Even without makeup, she was a beautiful woman, in addition to being an imposing one. Her husband sat across from her in jeans and a Saturday-morning sweatshirt. Although her hair was combed, his wasn’t, and he hadn’t yet shaved. Panda hoped like hell they were both on their second cup of coffee, or this was going to go even worse than he expected.

“Mom, Dad, you remember Patrick Shade.” Lucy said his name as if it were spoiled meat. “My guard dog.”

He couldn’t afford to be awestruck by either of them, and he nodded.

President Jorik pushed aside her Wall Street Journal. Mat Jorik closed the cover of his iPad and pulled off his reading glasses. Panda wondered if they knew about the baby … or if there even was a baby. Leave it to Lucy to toss him into the lions’ den without a clue. At least he’d been spared the presence of her sisters and brother. It was Saturday, so they must be sleeping in. He wished her parents had stayed in bed, too. “Ma’am,” he said. “Mr. Jorik.”

Lucy wanted her pound of flesh. She flopped into an empty chair next to her father, leaving Panda standing in front of them like a peasant brought before royalty. She glared at her mother. “You will never guess what he just said. He said he’d marry me if that’s what I want.”

President Jorik actually rolled her eyes. Her husband shook his head. “Even stupider than I figured.”

“He’s not stupid.” Lucy propped her feet on the wooden trestle under the table. “He’s … Okay, he’s sort of stupid, but so am I. And he has a big heart.”

Panda had heard enough. He gave Lucy what he hoped was his most menacing glare, then turned to her parents. “I’d like permission to marry your daughter.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re way ahead of yourself. First you have to tell them all the reasons you’re unworthy.”

Up until now, he hadn’t understood much of what she was doing, but he did understand this. She wanted him to rip off the Band-Aid fast.

“Would you like some coffee, Patrick?” President Jorik gestured toward the pot on the counter.

“No, ma’am.” She’d been his commander in chief, and he realized he was automatically standing at attention. The position felt good, and he stayed that way, feet together, chest out, eyes forward. “I grew up rough in Detroit, ma’am. My father dealt drugs, and my mother was an addict who supported her habit any way she could. I did some drugs myself. I have a juvenile record, spent time in foster homes, and I lost my brother to gang violence when he was way too young. I barely made it through high school, then went into the military. I served in Iraq and Afghanistan before I joined the Detroit police.” He was going to get it all out if it killed him. “I have a college degree from Wayne State, and—”

“College degrees …” Lucy interrupted. “He has his master’s. That used to bother me, but I’ve decided to overlook it.”

She was deliberately making him sweat bullets, but he was perversely glad she was forcing him to lay it all out. He switched to parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes just over their heads. “As I said, Wayne State. The only time I’ve been near an Ivy was working security for a Hollywood actress at the Harvard-Yale football game.”

“He’s got good table manners,” Lucy said. “And, let’s face it, he’s hot.”

“I can see that,” her mother agreed in a shockingly suggestive voice, which made him wonder exactly how different she and Lucy really were.