Chapter 1

When he first opened the door to her knock, he thought the woman standing there was a crack whore. And then he realized she was his wife.

Ex-wife.

For a second he could only stand there staring at her. A bag of bones with stringy once-blond hair and drug-dulled eyes that used to sparkle like sapphires. Yeah, she was his ex. And a crack whore. The one didn't preclude the other, though if anyone had told him that five years ago, he'd have pounded him into taco filler.

"Hi, Jim," she said, face expressionless. She didn't bother brushing the rapidly melting snowflakes from her hair or her shoulders. "It's been a long time."

Four years. Four long years. And now she was back and all he could feel was panic. "What do you want?" Not Tyler, he thought silently. Please, God, not that. Not that she would have a leg to stand on even if she had come for their son. She'd signed him away to save her own skin. After nearly killing him, she hadn't had much choice in the matter.

"Not even going to invite me in? Say it's good to see me? Ask how I've been?"

"I don't particularly give a damn how you've been." But he wasn't sure how much longer her stick-figure legs were going to hold her, and it was chilly in the hallway. She was so skinny she was shivering. So he stepped aside, waved an arm and prayed Ty would remain blissfully sound asleep in his room. The boy needed a mother, was desperate for a mother. And Jim was working hard to find him one. Just not this one.

Angela came inside, and he closed the door and locked it. Looking around the apartment, she nodded slightly. "Nice place. Way nicer than our old one was."

He shrugged. "I had to find a ground-floor unit. It's easier on Ty."

She nodded, trailing her fingers over the gleaming hardwood finish of a coffee table before sitting down on the couch. He almost winced at her sitting on the furniture, long experience with addicts making him immediately think of them as dirty, possibly contagious. And she was an addict. There was no question. He hadn't seen her in four years, but he'd seen her name countless times.

A second glance told him she wasn't filthy. She'd bathed and her clothes had been recently laundered. He thought she might have even run a comb through her hair. Not the usual behavior of the street grunge he dealt with on a daily basis.

"What are you doing here, Ang?" He took a seat in a chair across from her, hoping she'd get straight to the point. He just wanted her out of there.

She lowered her head. "I need a favor."

"Figures." He shook his head in disgust. "Are you even going to ask how he is?"

Her brows drew together and she seemed momentarily angry—the first hint of emotion he'd seen in those zoned-out eyes of hers. But she bit back whatever she'd been about to say and replaced it with, "How is he?"

"He's wonderful. But he's still suffering. Still in the leg braces. Has physical therapy twice a week and hates it. One more surgery to go, though. Just one more."

She nodded slowly. Didn't ask any questions. Why he felt compelled to fill her in, he couldn't guess, but he kept on talking.

"We've been through six nannies so far. But they move on, you know. Get boyfriends, lives, less demanding jobs. He's a lot. I'm taking every bit of time off I can get without being fired. Not that I mind. I love being with him."

She drew a breath and studied her hands. Was he boring her with this?

"He's sleeping. But if you want, you can look in on him."

"No." She said it a little too quickly. "That's not why I came."

He turned his head so she wouldn't see the hatred in his eyes, focused instead on the photograph of Ty that hung on the wall near his room. His twinkling eyes and deep dimples and baby teeth eased the rage in Jim's heart. And yet he couldn't help but wonder how Angela could not want to see her own child.

Didn't matter. He was glad. Ty didn't need this pile of human refuse in his life. "Right," he reminded himself. "You're here because you need a favor."

She drew a breath, lifted her head. "That's right."

He lifted his brows and studied her. "Hell, Ang, you look like what you really need is a month in rehab. What the hell has happened to you?"

She averted her face.

"You're using." He didn't make it a question. It had been her damned drug addiction that had almost killed their son. She'd been wasted on coke when she'd fallen down two flights of stairs, taking their newborn son with her. If he'd only been more aware, been paying more attention….

"I'm clean. Have been for four weeks straight."

He looked at her eyes and knew better.

"Really. I mean it. I'm changing my life, Jim. I met a guy—a man, a decent man. He's helping me. He…he loves me."

So did I once, he thought.

"He wants to marry me."

"Congratulations."

She drew a breath. "But it might not happen. There are…problems. Legal problems."

He lifted his head slowly. Something about the tone of her voice set off alarm bells in his head. "Who is this guy?"

"Vincent Stefano."

Copyright © 2005 by Margaret Benson