Hot & Bothered by Susan Andersen Read Free Book Online Page B

get out of there. Please. Just let him get out with a shred of pride left intact. Pushing past, his shoulder bumped the old man’s chest.
    With an undignified yelp, Ford stumbled back. He bumped a table, scattering its contents across theAubusson rug and his arms windmilled before he finally caught his balance. Yet even as he straightened, he took a step back with his left foot and rolled the heel of his tasseled loafer over a corner of the first edition leather-bound, gilt-edged classic that had tumbled to the floor. He pitched backward.
    â€œDad!” Jared leapt to catch him, but his fingers slid along the smooth, pampered length of his father’s hand, and he watched helplessly as Ford crashed onto his back on the floor. There was a sickening thud as the older man’s head came into contact with the marble hearth before he lay still.
    â€œOh, God, oh, man.” Jared squatted down. “Dad? I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I never meant to hurt you.”
    His father didn’t move and Jared reached out. Ford’s head canted awkwardly against the edge of the pale veined marble. “Are you all right? Come on, Dad, wake up!” He felt for injury, but there was no blood from the contact site at the back of his father’s head, no soft spot that he could discern. But…that angle couldn’t be normal, could it? Bringing his fingers around to the front of his father’s neck, he pressed against the artery.
    No pulse beat beneath the pounding blood in his own fingertips.
    Jared snapped awake, sick horror pumping through his veins. He blinked in confusion at the rows of flowers that hovered overhead on either side of his prone body. Then he blew out a breath. Okay. All right. He knew where he was now: in the gardens of the Civic Center park in Denver.
    Swearing under his breath, he sat up. Since hitting town, he’d slept in fits and starts, and then only during the day because he was scared to sleep at night. He lived in constant fear of getting rousted by the cops or—worse—by someone who’d just as soon slit his throat as look at him. The sun had definitely gone down, though, and not only had he dozed off, he’d had the damn dream again. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he relived those awful ten minutes that he wished more than anything he could take back and do over.
    But, oh, God, he couldn’t, and no spin in the universe could get around the fact he’d killed his own father. Nauseated, he hugged his knees to his chest and buried his face in the notch between his kneecaps, rocking in abject misery.
    Almost worse was the way he’d run afterward without even stopping to call 911. It probably would have been too late to save his dad anyway, but he’d never know that for certain because he’d panicked, showing only enough foresight to grab the brandy bottle and his backpack before hauling ass for the front door. He’d had it in his mind that his father’s guests were about to walk out of the dining room at any minute. The thought of one or two or maybe even the whole frickin’ lot of them staring at him with knowing eyes as they pointed accusing fingers and called him murderer had filled him with so much terror there hadn’t been room left for anything else.
    For a second he desperately wished for his mother, but the desire passed as quickly as it had come upon him. The truth was he’d been so young when she died that all he really knew of her were the stories Tori had told him in an attempt to keep her memory alive.
    What he really wanted was Tori. God, he wished he could call her, but not only did he hate the thought of making her an—what?—accomplice or witness or whatever in his crime, he didn’t have her number with him and doubted he could get a London number by calling 411.
    Besides, what would he say—Sorry, but I offed Dad?
    Snatching up his backpack, he leapt to his feet. He had to get