Janelle Taylor by Night Moves

promised. “As soon as you’re done, you can go right to bed.”
    “I don’t want to go to bed,” he protested.
    “But you’re exhausted.”
    “No, I’m not,” he said, stifling a yawn as she pulled off his T-shirt. It, too, was stained with orange sauce. She would have to wash it later. She might as well throw in the rest of his dirty laundry, too, while she was at it. It seemed that Phoebe had packed Spencer enough clothes to last another couple of days. Jordan wonderedif that was any indication of how long she expected to be gone.
    This was really beginning to wear on her. Not the fact of having Spencer around—that part was surprisingly pleasant, now that he had gotten over his tendency to scowl at her every time she glanced in his direction. It wasn’t as if he were chatty and relaxed in her presence, but they had actually had a lively conversation on the way home from the movies.
    It had lasted until Spencer had brought up the topic of Phoebe again. When Jordan couldn’t tell him any more than she already had, he grew silent and moody.
    She felt the same way inside. How much longer could she go on taking care of this little boy without word from his mother?
    She reached out to unfasten his shorts.
    He pulled away. “I can do it myself,” he said.
    “Are you sure?”
    He nodded, looking embarrassed. “Can you leave?”
    “But…”
    “I can give myself a bath.”
    She hesitated. “Can you wash your own hair, and rinse all the soap out?”
    “Yes.”
    “Okay. But call me if you need help,” Jordan said, noticing the tub was almost full. She reached toward the flowing tap.
    As she turned off the water, she heard it.
    The phone was ringing.
    Jordan bolted from the bathroom, rushing toward the nearest phone, which was in the master bedroom. She knew the answering machine would pick up after the fourth ring, but if it was Phoebe, she might not leave a message.
    Before she even reached the bedroom doorway, Jordan heard the machine turning on downstairs. She had only heard the phone ring once. The sound of the tub might have drowned out earlier rings.
    She snatched up the receiver with a frantic “Hello?” just as her own recorded voice was asking the caller to leave a message.
    A click, followed by a dial tone, greeted her ears.
    Whoever it was had hung up.
    “Damn it!” Frustrated, Jordan banged the receiver back into its cradle.
    She was halfway back to the bathroom when she remembered two things.
    That Spencer didn’t want her in there with him …
    And that she had recently installed a caller ID device on the kitchen telephone.
    Tossing aside the cordless phone, Beau paced across the living room floor to the window with its view of the Washington Monument. He gazed at the distinct white obelisk, particularly striking this evening against a backdrop of pink-streaked dusk. But he didn’t even see it. His heart was pounding furiously.
    Just now, in the instant before he had hung up, he had heard Jordan’s voice. But as if of its own accord, his finger stayed on the “talk” button, pressing it to disconnect the call.
    He hadn’t known what he was going to say if she answered—let alone what he might say into an answering machine.
    But now he knew that she was home.
    Great. Next step?
    His mind raced again through the only options he had been able to come up with earlier.
    He could confront her directly about the little boy in her care …
    Or he could go to the police.
    Common sense told him not to get involved—to turn the situation over to the authorities.
    But moments ago, when he lifted the receiver to dial the number for local law enforcement, something stopped him.
    Something made him dial Jordan’s number instead.
    That same impulse kept him from calling the police now, even though everything he had seen in her town-house last night indicated that the little boy didn’t belong there, that he wasn’t comfortable there. And everything he had read in the newspaper told him that the