But that time hadn’t yet arrived. “Talk to me, Sloane. You said Samson’s your father ?”
He still couldn’t reconcile the news or put this beautiful woman together with the reclusive loner in any way.
“Believe it or not, yes.” She dropped the fork.
Her muffin remained untouched, and because he hurt for her, he couldn’t bring himself to eat either. “How did that happen?”
“I’d guess the old-fashioned way.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” She shifted positions, uncrossing and recrossing her legs beneath her.
“Apparently before my father—I mean Michael—came into the picture, my mother was in love with Samson. From everything people have said about him around here, I take it he’s not the most upstanding citizen?”
Chase hesitated, grappling for diplomatic words to describe the old man. “He’s . . .”
“Don’t sugarcoat it,” she ordered. “Be as honest with me as I’m being with you.”
He nodded, admiring her strength. “He’s eccentric and antisocial. Those are the most usual words bandied around.”
“Maybe he wasn’t always that way?”
He shrugged. He really had no idea. “It’s possible. I’m sure my mother would know, and considering she’s always been kind to him, I’d guess you were right.” But Chase had never thought to question the man’s past or what made him into the odd creature he’d become. He didn’t like realizing he’d been so negative and close-minded against a man who, it turned out, was Sloane’s father.
Sloane met his gaze, a forced smile on her lips. “I just may ask her one day.”
“Then be prepared to answer questions of your own,” Chase said wryly.
She laughed. “I really liked your mother. She has spunk.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s one word for it.”
“Hey, don’t knock it. It’s obviously something my parents lacked.”
“Why do you say that? You’re full of spunk and fortitude and you had to have inherited those genes from them,” he said, seeking to reassure her about an emotional and upsetting subject. One he still had many questions about.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes, wide and full of hurt, shimmered with unshed tears. “What kind of people let themselves be bought off?”
He sat up straighter, every journalistic nerve ending on high alert. “What do you mean?”
“It seems that my grandfather, Jacqueline’s father, threatened Samson with something strong enough to get him to leave my mother and he took money to do it.”
Chase blinked, startled by the admission. Bribery? And did Senator Carlisle have anything to do with it, Chase wondered. He held back accusatory-sounding questions for now, in favor of keeping Sloane calm and rational. He was worried about her feelings and her bruised emotions.
He shook his head, knowing that wasn’t the path any self-respecting journalist would take. But he’d never felt less like a reporter and more like a man than he did around this woman. “Let’s go under the assumption that Samson had good reason to take the money.
At least until we know otherwise, okay?” He wasn’t sure if he believed his own words, but Sloane looked as if she needed hope. The least he could do was give it to her. “If it’s any consolation, Samson never lived like he took money from anyone.”
“I know. I saw the house before the explosion. I walked inside.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “It was scary. And sad.”
He nodded. “I can understand why you feel that way.” He pinched his nose, trying to assimilate his thoughts. “Why did you come looking for Samson now?” he asked, taking her back to the beginning. With her father’s campaign under way, this had to be the least opportune time for her to seek out her real father.
“Because I just found out. The night we met, actually.” She rose from the bed and began to pace. “I was supposed to have dinner with my parents and had arrived at the hotel room early.” She twisted her hands together as she spoke, the rapid movements and perpetual motion obviously necessary for her to work up the nerve to continue.
“Go on.”
She cleared her throat. “Michael and Madeline weren’t there, but his campaign manager was, along with an assistant. Men I’d grown up knowing. They were talking in hushed, frenzied whispers about Michael not being my real father and needing to eliminate a threat to the campaign. Frank never makes idle statements or promises.” Her shoulders straightened, her path clear. “And so after I stopped reeling from the news that Michael wasn’t my real father, I realized I had to come here and warn this man I’d never met. The man who is my . . . father.”
And the man whose house had just exploded, Chase thought. Either that fire was one hell of a coincidence or Michael Carlisle’s men had carried through with their threats. He clenched his hands around the bedsheets, realizing how serious this situation really was.
Apparently, Sloane wasn’t as concerned about danger to herself as she was about finding Samson. Which meant he’d have to be concerned for her.
She was too busy focusing on other things and he had a hunch he knew why. The truth about Samson was still raw and fresh. “So you heard the news and you ran.” He rose, coming up beside her and placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Right into your arms.”
She turned toward him and tipped her head upward.
He grinned. “Good thing I was there to catch you.”
“Yeah.” She smiled back. “Good thing.”
“You said when you finished reeling, you decided to warn Samson. But I don’t think you have.”
“Have what?”
“Finished reeling.” He curled his fingertips into her skin, brushing the pad of his thumb over her soft flesh. “Because it would be perfectly normal if you hadn’t.” And he wanted to help her through the conflicting, confusing feelings.
“I haven’t had time to worry about myself. I’ll deal with all these leftover feelings once I find Samson.”
“I think you need to deal with your emotions, Sloane. It’s not like Samson’s here now or you can do anything about finding him. At least not this minute.” He caressed her cheek and her eyes sparkled with gratitude, and thankfully a helluva lot more. “Why don’t you let me take care of you?”