Her Secret, His Child

And as her mother's casket was lowered into the ground, she looked not at her mother's grave, but at the people around her. Their tears flowed freely. They mourned a wonderful, giving, fragile woman.

And not one of them knew.

"Let's go," John said, hugging her close.

Longing to flee, to throw his arm away from her, to spit in his face, Jamie walked slowly beside him. There'd been times during the last thirteen years when John's softer mood would linger for a week, even a month or two. Dared she hope this was one of those times? That the mood might remain? With head bowed, she stared at the ground every time someone stopped them to offer condolences, nodding when the pressure of John's fingers forced her to acknowledge a comment here and there.

Sure they were all sorry. Sorry her mother had

TARA TAYLOR QUINN

died. But what about being sorry she'd lived? Was Jamie the only one who felt that? She'd rather her mother had been spared the whole sorry business.

"At least you have each other. You'll need that now." Pastor Hammond was talking to them outside the limousine provided by the funeral home.

Jamie studied the way her black dress shoes matched the darker patches in the pavement. Pastor Hammond didn't have a clue. He was supposedly a man of God. A man with divine knowledge. And he didn't have a clue. Not that she could tell him. If, by some miracle, Pastor Hammond did believe her, which she doubted, John would kill her. She could take that for granted. There was no law powerful enough to keep John from killing her.

The reception at the church passed in a total blur. Some of Jamie's friends from high school were there. She knew she spoke with them, though she had no idea what their conversation was about. Jamie was used to putting on a facade. Hell, she'd taken gym class with broken ribs the year before. No one had guessed there was anything wrong.

"I can't believe we're finally seniors," Loretta gushed, her hungry eyes checking out all the men in the room.

Following her gaze, Jamie wondered how many of those men had another, uglier, side. One the world never saw. Their superior physical strength gave them all an edge that women couldn't possibly fight.

"Yeah." Jamie finally answered Pastor Hammond's daughter. "Just eight more months." Lo-

HER SECRET, HIS CHILD

retta's enthusiasm to leave high school was one of the few things Jamie had in common with the other girl.

A high-school diploma meant freedom to Jamie. Without her mother there, needing her protection, she couldn't get away from John fast enough. And once she was eighteen, graduated from high school, he wouldn't be able to make her stay.

Somehow the rest of the afternoon passed, night fell, and Jamie was at home with John. Alone. Her aunt had left for the airport a few minutes before, and Jamie, having changed from her black dress to a pair of jeans, sweatshirt and tennis shoes, was hiding out in her room. Hoping she wouldn't be noticed by the man she heard slamming things downstairs. Was it possible he actually felt some compassion for her? That he'd realize how much she was hurting and leave her be?

Studying her second-story window, she thought about climbing out. The bushes below were full enough to break her fall. She had nowhere to go, but that wasn't what stopped her. It was knowing how bad things would be when John eventually got her back. He'd broken her arm the last time she'd used that window.

And then refused to allow her to see a doctor to have the arm set. It had healed eventually. But it still ached whenever she used it too much.

She'd rather just take her chances on being slapped around until John had finished venting his rage. Bruises didn't hurt much afte

r a day or so. And they didn't last.

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"Jamie!"

Her heart skidded to a stop. The bellow was ugly. Oh, God, here it comes.

"Yes?" She ran quickly to the top of the stairs, eager to appease his anger, not intensify it.

He was such a bastard for doing this to her.

"Get down here now!"

Fear was a familiar companion, yet it still grabbed her by the throat as she hurried downstairs. Maybe this was one of the times he'd be content just to holler at her for a while.

Her long permed hair, tied back in its familiar ponytail, bounced on her back with the force of her descent. And then she was at the door of his study. God, if you're around, please go in there with me.

"What?" she asked, forcing herself to sound amenable. She leaned against the door frame.