if her apartment was a luxurious penthouse. She loved them for it, but it wasn’t necessary. Then her brain caught up with what he’d said, why he was looking at his feet. He’d called her ‘sweetie’ without thinking. A little bubble of anticipation fizzed away inside her. Breakthrough!
“If only Kit had grandparents who lived nearby,” she commented.
And ruined their closeness just like that. The drawbridge came down with a wallop.
“Well, he doesn’t have and he never will have. Tania’s parents are dead and mine are”—he paused while he sought for a suitable word—“impossible.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. Pity she hadn’t done that before.
Breck straightened up and looked through the kitchen doorway to check on Kit. “Time to go!” he called.
“Oh gee , Dad. I’m just—”
“Kit,” Breck warned.
“I know you don’t think so, but it’s great that he’s improved enough to argue with you,” Ingrid whispered.
For the first time tonight he laughed genuinely, his head tossed back. “Ingrid! Only you could see that as positive. Pollyanna.” He ruffled her hair as he walked past her to unglue Kit from the laptop.
She reached up a hand and sleeked her hair back into place, her hand lingering, unsure about that careless gesture.
And when they’d gone and the apartment was sunk in its habitual quiet, she sat down and tried to think of a way she could help Breck and Kit. There must be something she could do.
Chapter Eleven
Breck gazed down at his son. Kit’s lashes, darker than his tawny hair, fluttered as he fought off sleep. “One more time, Daddy. Read it one more time.” He yawned and rubbed his face on the pillow.
Breck grinned. He’d already read The Pirate from Mepomallawalla three times. He didn’t have to read it. He could recite it off by heart. So could Kit. He fingered the fair hair, many shades lighter than his own. He’d seen the same colored hair in a couple of photos that Natasha had taken years ago. He, too, had had wheat-fair hair at the age of four; by the time he was six it had darkened several shades. By the time he was eight it was closer to black than brown.
Would Kit’s hair be the same? He knew very little about Tania’s family or his own. His father’s parents had died before he was born, but his mother’s parents, though very elderly, were apparently still living in a small country town some miles to the north of Auckland. When he was in his early teens, he’d raised the courage to ask Mother why he had no aunts and uncles or grandparents. To his shock she had admitted that he had grandparents who still lived in the town his mother had left at seventeen, never to look back. But when he’d asked if he could contact them, she’d thrown a hissy fit of humungous proportions. Usually it was his father who engaged in histrionics. Breck had been startled when she’d snapped, “Leave it alone, Brechon. It’s none of your business.”
He’d waited until they were away lecturing to search through their study and find out what his mother’s maiden name had been. No luck. His parents’ private papers were locked in their safe. It was as if Mother had only been born when she’d married his father.
Years later, just prior to joining the AOS, he’d searched through the National Intelligence Application as he updated his active files. He’d found nothing whatsoever on the police computer about his parents. Nothing. They’d apparently committed no crimes, instituted no court cases, and defended no court cases.
But now he had Kit to think about. Oh, Natasha. If only I knew where you were. I miss you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. A boy needed relatives. He needed an anchor to make him feel secure. Someone like Natasha. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t approach Tania’s relatives because if they were anything like Tania, Kit would be better off without them. He must protect Kit from the knowledge that his mother was a blackmailer.
“If only Kit had grandparents who lived nearby,” she commented.
And ruined their closeness just like that. The drawbridge came down with a wallop.
“Well, he doesn’t have and he never will have. Tania’s parents are dead and mine are”—he paused while he sought for a suitable word—“impossible.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. Pity she hadn’t done that before.
Breck straightened up and looked through the kitchen doorway to check on Kit. “Time to go!” he called.
“Oh gee , Dad. I’m just—”
“Kit,” Breck warned.
“I know you don’t think so, but it’s great that he’s improved enough to argue with you,” Ingrid whispered.
For the first time tonight he laughed genuinely, his head tossed back. “Ingrid! Only you could see that as positive. Pollyanna.” He ruffled her hair as he walked past her to unglue Kit from the laptop.
She reached up a hand and sleeked her hair back into place, her hand lingering, unsure about that careless gesture.
And when they’d gone and the apartment was sunk in its habitual quiet, she sat down and tried to think of a way she could help Breck and Kit. There must be something she could do.
Chapter Eleven
Breck gazed down at his son. Kit’s lashes, darker than his tawny hair, fluttered as he fought off sleep. “One more time, Daddy. Read it one more time.” He yawned and rubbed his face on the pillow.
Breck grinned. He’d already read The Pirate from Mepomallawalla three times. He didn’t have to read it. He could recite it off by heart. So could Kit. He fingered the fair hair, many shades lighter than his own. He’d seen the same colored hair in a couple of photos that Natasha had taken years ago. He, too, had had wheat-fair hair at the age of four; by the time he was six it had darkened several shades. By the time he was eight it was closer to black than brown.
Would Kit’s hair be the same? He knew very little about Tania’s family or his own. His father’s parents had died before he was born, but his mother’s parents, though very elderly, were apparently still living in a small country town some miles to the north of Auckland. When he was in his early teens, he’d raised the courage to ask Mother why he had no aunts and uncles or grandparents. To his shock she had admitted that he had grandparents who still lived in the town his mother had left at seventeen, never to look back. But when he’d asked if he could contact them, she’d thrown a hissy fit of humungous proportions. Usually it was his father who engaged in histrionics. Breck had been startled when she’d snapped, “Leave it alone, Brechon. It’s none of your business.”
He’d waited until they were away lecturing to search through their study and find out what his mother’s maiden name had been. No luck. His parents’ private papers were locked in their safe. It was as if Mother had only been born when she’d married his father.
Years later, just prior to joining the AOS, he’d searched through the National Intelligence Application as he updated his active files. He’d found nothing whatsoever on the police computer about his parents. Nothing. They’d apparently committed no crimes, instituted no court cases, and defended no court cases.
But now he had Kit to think about. Oh, Natasha. If only I knew where you were. I miss you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. A boy needed relatives. He needed an anchor to make him feel secure. Someone like Natasha. One thing was for sure; he wouldn’t approach Tania’s relatives because if they were anything like Tania, Kit would be better off without them. He must protect Kit from the knowledge that his mother was a blackmailer.
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