Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(54)

Her gradual withdrawal yesterday during the meeting at her apartment gave him some indication of why she’d felt the need to get out of Chicago. And if he was correct—as he usually was—Polly had driven three hours for…comfort. Which jump-started the dreadful ache in his chest cavity that never seemed to stop anymore.

Austin thought they’d hit a milestone of sorts in the hallway outside her apartment. He’d promised to hold her, and she’d seemed amenable. Hadn’t she? Yes. Quite amenable. If memory served, she’d moaned his name when he touched her *. In his experience, that served as a yes, please for any outstanding suggestions.

“You’re mental,” he muttered under his breath. Polly wasn’t like anything in his experience, a fact that had been solidified on countless occasions. Not the least of which was her display of quiet genius yesterday evening. Of course she’d been protecting her squad mates for months without breathing a word. The stark opposite of what he would have done, likely lording it over their heads in exchange for something advantageous. In the end, she had, and it had everything to do with his influence.

You’re bad for her. You’d be bad for anyone.

A squeal of laughter caused a stutter in Austin’s stride, his attention zeroing in on a park across the moderately busy avenue of downtown Roanoke. Children hung upside down from monkey bars, kicked up sand as they ran from one end of the playground to the next. They were of varying ages, but if he guessed any of them, he would probably be off by a matter of years. He knew nothing of children or parks or squeals of laughter. Gemma was only three, so she wouldn’t be among those children just yet, would she? Someday.

One of the children let go of the monkey bars only to be caught by a man—presumably their father—and tossed up into the air. Gemma would never know her father. Austin held no delusions in that regard. But his final act in her life would be to make sure she never felt the negative effects of his past misdeeds. That was all he had to offer.

But what did he have to offer Polly?

A hot tingle at the back of his neck made him break stride again. Did the mere act of thinking Polly’s name cause a physical reaction now?

It always has.

Right.

No, this time it was more. Half a block ahead, Polly walked arm in arm with a gray-haired man. In the opposite arm, she carried a small bouquet of pink tulips, and it was very suddenly all too much. Seeing her walking with someone else—father or not. A someone who’d probably been the one to buy her tulips. He would have gone for roses. Red ones to match the way she blushed. The color of her lips when the wind chapped them.

What the sodding hell was he doing in Roanoke? She had every right to visit her father without Austin tailing her movements. It was an invasion of her privacy, and yet if he’d stayed behind in Chicago, he would have been climbing the goddamn walls by now worrying for her safety. Wondering if she’d needed space to remind herself why he was a shit almost-boyfriend. Really, that wouldn’t take much space at all, which is why he’d been planning on f*cking her to distraction, giving new meaning to “the best-laid plans.”

Maybe you’re not quite the mastermind you thought you were.

With an effort, Austin smiled at yet another elderly lady—apparently this town was bloody well brimming with them—and she stopped, laying a hand on his arm. “Good morning, Father.”

He swallowed the irony of anyone at all calling him “father” and smiled back, careful to keep an eye on Polly as she stopped outside a café. The gray-haired man rubbed a circle onto her back as they perused a sidewalk menu, presumably deciding whether or not to go inside. “Good morning.” He hadn’t used his Irish brogue in ages, but it was spot-on. It was a good thing he’d done his homework while waiting for Polly outside the complex, too. This disguise required him to hide in plain sight, as it were. Priests didn’t lurk behind buildings, after all. They chatted and employed patience. Damn, but he hated that disguise. “Could you direct me to Saint Paul’s? I’m visiting, you see. I fear I’ve gotten myself a bit turned around.”

“Of course.” The woman pointed in Polly’s direction, where she and her father had been seated at a sidewalk table, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather. She was smiling. How could he love that smile and resent it at the same time, simply because it wasn’t for him? Would they ever eat together in public, or had he doomed them already by suggesting their encounters remain within the confines of a hotel room? He’d hoped it would just be a stepping-stone, but perhaps he’d sold them short early, thinking he’d satisfy her physically and worry about the rest later.

All right. Time to face facts. He was a bloody idiot. Yes, he’d found what Polly needed in bed and made sure she received it, but she wasn’t a mark he could overwhelm with sex and expect her trust to follow. Even if he could accomplish such a feat, he didn’t want the kind of blind, gullible trust from Polly that he’d won from women in the past with so little effort. No. The idea of it made him queasy. Earning her trust was the key, and the opportunity to prove himself worthy lay just ahead. His final con.

The older lady stopped and resumed her direction-giving one more time, but Austin had been safe tuning her out considering he knew exactly where Saint Paul’s was located.

“Father, if it’s not too much trouble, would you mind if I walked with you a ways? My friend Jean is sitting in the park over yonder and she could use some counsel. She’ll tell you she doesn’t, but trust me. She’s a damn wreck and I know I shouldn’t swear in front of a man of God, but I—”