He didn't understand.
"When the car bomb went off," she explained, "and I, you know, kneed you… ?"
"Yeah," he said. "I remember that pretty well."
"There was a meeting I was supposed to go to—an interview to see if maybe I would be acceptable as Jane's foster mother." Her lip trembled. "I thought if I looked good, they'd like me and let me have her. It didn't occur to me at the time I was risking my life for those new clothes, that I no longer had a house to bring Jane home to."
"I thought you were crazy," he told her.
"Yeah, maybe I am," she said. "If loving that baby makes me crazy, then I definitely am." She looked at him, her eyes brimming with tears again. "I'll never get her now."
He couldn't stand it. He reached out hesitantly, knowing that touching her was a major mistake. Still, he awkwardly placed the palm of his hand on her back. "I'm sorry," he said.
She sat up and turned toward him, throwing herself into his arms as if she were starved for any kind of human contact—even from a man she professed to hate. "I want to go home," she whispered. "Please, can't you just take me home?"
Her home was a pile of rubble and ashes, cordoned off by yellow crime-scene tape.
He patted her back awkwardly, ineffectively, afraid to hold her too tightly. "I can't do that, Barbara."
"God, don't call me that!"
"It's your name now. You've got to get used to it."
"I don't want to get used to it! I want to go home! I want to be able to visit Jane." She lifted her head. "Please, Harry! She must wonder where I've gone. I just want to go back to Long Island."
His heart twisted. "I can't take you there."
"Can't or won't?" Her mascara ran down her cheeks in smudgy black rivers. "I don't have to be here, do I? You can't make me stay. Can you?"
Oh, damn. He could not let her leave. "It is your choice, but—"
"Maybe I should just go and take my chances with Michael Trotta."
Harry gripped her more tightly. "Do you want to die? Is that what you want?"
"No! But I don't believe Michael really wants to kill me. I find it hard to…After I returned the money… ?" She wiped her eyes, tried to explain. "If I stay here, I'm going only on what the FBI is telling me. How do I know you're not wrong?"
He held on to her shoulders, afraid if he let go, she'd realize that she could leave. And she could leave. At any given time, she could just get up and walk away from all of them. Straight back to Trotta. Who would kill her.
Harry did not want her to die. "We're not wrong."
"But if you are … Don't you see? I could have my life back."
He pulled her even closer, holding her tightly against him, pressing her head against his chest, knowing what she wanted, knowing how she felt. It wasn't fair. Her life had been taken from her. The injustice was profound. "You can't, Allie. It's gone. The house is gone. Everything's gone."
She shook her head as if blocking out his words. "I want my life back." She made a noise that was half sob, half laughter. "God, sometimes I think I'd even take Griffin back if I could."
"You can't," Harry said flatly. "He's dead. Go back to Long Island, and you're dead, too."
She gripped his jacket. "If I stay, I'm Barbara Conway. Alessandra Lamont will be just as dead."
"Yeah, well, maybe it's about time you got rid of her anyway, huh?"
She lifted her head at that, her eyes wide, tears clinging to her eyelashes. His nose was inches from hers, her mouth close enough to kiss.
Close enough to kiss.
Harry saw the exact moment she, too, realized she was in his arms. And just like that, their embrace wasn't only about comfort anymore.
She felt like a woman—no longer just another human body against him, but a female body with soft, full breasts. He felt the tautness of her thigh, the curve of her hips. He felt the promise of something incredible.
And his arms no longer felt awkward around her. His hands settled comfortably, one against the small of her back, the other tucked up against her neck, beneath her hair. She was a perfect fit. And he was holding her so easily, as if he'd been practicing for this moment for most of his life.
It wouldn't take much effort for him to lower his head and cover her mouth with his. Her breath smelled like coffee and chocolate, and he knew she would taste just as sweet.
But he didn't move, and she didn't either. He didn't speak, and she, too, was silent. They just hung there, suspended, hardly even daring to breathe.
Seconds ticked by, more and more of them. Why the hell didn't she pull away? Did she want him to kiss her? Dammit, what was he doing? Kissing her would be completely insane.
Harry slowly lowered his head and she still didn't pull away. In fact, she lifted her face and—
The front door opened behind them, and Alessandra sprang up and away from him.
George pushed open the screen, giving Harry a look that told him he hadn't missed the implications of Alessandra's rushed movement—her imitation of teenagers getting too friendly on the playroom couch, startled by mom or dad. "All clear. Nic wants you inside."
Alessandra was wiping her face again and trying futilely to fix her hair. She adjusted the holes in the knees of her pants, but it was hopeless. Until she washed her face and changed her clothes, she was going to look bedraggled, not chic.
"You got a handkerchief?" Harry asked George.
Of course George had one. He silently handed it to Harry, who passed it to Alessandra, who kept her tear-streaked face carefully averted.
"We'll be in in a sec," Harry told his partner.
George discreetly faded back, closing the door almost all the way behind him as Alessandra wiped her eyes and blew her nose with an indelicate honk.
What was he supposed to say? Should he apologize for almost kissing her? Or apologize for not taking the opportunity to kiss her when he could have? It would probably be good to address this attraction thing point-blank. Acknowledge it, get it out on the table between them, and deal with it accordingly. When Alessandra took a breath, about to speak, Harry steeled himself for the words to come. She'd been caught up in the emotion of the moment. She didn't even like him. She'd appreciate it if he could keep his wandering hands to himself from now on.
She said none of those things. "I don't want them to know I've been crying," she admitted, her back still toward him. "Don't tell them I was crying—please?"
Or… she could completely ignore the almost-kiss. Simply pretend it didn't happen. That was definitely an option.
He cleared his throat. "I won't."
Alessandra turned to face him. "Do you think they'll be able to tell I was crying?"
Harry gazed at her mascara-smeared raccoon eyes, still puffy with emotion, at her red nose, at the tear-streak lines visible on her cheeks where her makeup had been washed away. He wondered if he had kissed her, would she still have pretended it hadn't happened? "Yep."
"That definite, huh?"
He took his sunglasses from his jacket pocket and handed them to her. "These'll help."
She gave him another of those funny little smiles as she put them on, and they went inside.
Chapter Seven
Harry pushed the door to Alessandra's bedroom open with a crash, the sound of her scream still echoing in his head.
He took everything in at once. Allie, still in bed, sitting up but cowering, still breathing, no blood, still alive, thank you Jesus. An empty room. No furniture except for the metal-framed double bed and a bargain-basement dresser. No hitmen. No mobsters. No other people.
The closet door—double sliders—shut. Shades pulled down tight over the two windows—one a dormer, the other on the west side of the house.
He realized in an instant that Alessandra was cowering because of him, bursting into her room the way he had, half dressed, gun drawn. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as he did a quick check of the room. Closet—empty but for a few shirts hanging there, a pair of shoes and sneakers on
the floor. Windows—tightly locked. Bed… He went into a quick squat as he scanned beneath the bed. Not even a dust bunny in sight.
George stood in the doorway, his gun held at ready.
"False alarm," Harry told him. He rose quickly, crossing to the windows and lifting the shades one more time, giving a quick signal to the agents watching the house. All this op needed was twenty agents rushing in to save the day. Allie was sharper than he'd first thought. She would realize instantly that this was no standard Witness Protection Program operation. She'd know it was a setup.
God, he hated that this was a setup.
"I had a nightmare," she said, her voice shaking. "I'm sorry, did I scream very loudly?"
Did she scream very loudly?
Harry still had about twelve quarts of adrenaline raging through his system from the power and intensity of that scream. He'd never heard a scream so filled with terror, and he'd heard his share of screams, that was damn sure. One moment he'd been sound asleep, the next he'd been taking the stairs to the second floor three at a time.
He slipped the safety back on his weapon then bent over, resting his hands on his knees. Thank God he was still too young and in too good shape to have a heart attack.
"It was that dog." Alessandra's dark hair was rumpled, her face slick with perspiration. She held on to her knees as if she were afraid her entire body would fly apart if she let go. "I used to have this same nightmare all the time when I was little."
"You look like you've got this under control," George said, vanishing back down the hallway.
"Wait." Harry straightened up, but George was already gone.
Damn. He'd done his best to avoid being alone with Alessandra all afternoon and evening. And now here he was, alone with her in her bedroom, for christsake, with only the dim light from the hall shining into the room. It was warm, it was dark, and it was cozy as hell.
Alessandra was wearing the same pajamas she'd had on back at the hotel. They covered her completely. There was nothing sexy about them—except for the fact that she was wearing them.
And right now, that was enough.
"I'll be downstairs if you need me." That was a stupid thing to say. Why on earth would she need him?
But she nodded, as if the fact that she might need him was completely reasonable and even likely.
"Can you check the back door for me?" Alessandra asked. "Make sure the dog can't get in?"
He turned back from the door to look at her. "The dog really bothers you that much?"
Alessandra couldn't see Harry's face. He was completely backlit, just a shadowy shape standing there. She couldn't see his eyes, but she could feel him watching her.
"I was attacked by a Doberman when I was five," she told him. "A neighbor's dog got loose. I saw it out in our yard, and I ran toward it—I wanted to pet it. Grandma Carp had a poodle named Mitzi and… But this was no lapdog. I must've startled it, because it went for me."
She closed her eyes, shutting out the nightmare image of bared teeth and those terrible dark eyes. She'd carry the memory of those awful eyes to her grave.
"I don't know how I got away," she continued, her story coming out in a rush, now that she'd started to tell it. "I guess I must've been right next to the fence that separated my yard from my friend Janey's. It was like the one in this yard, and I was small enough so that my feet fit in the chain links. I climbed up, but when I was at the top, the dog crashed into it and I fell. I fell into Janey's yard, thank goodness, but I hurt my leg really badly. I couldn't move. I remember just lying there with that dog barking and snarling at me. I knew it was just a matter of time until that dog found the hole in the fence I used as a shortcut to Janey's. And I just lay there and waited to die."
Harry had stepped farther into the room, and now the light from the hallway fell across half of his face. His chin was dark with even more stubble than usual. His hair stood straight up in places, a thick lock falling down over his forehead.
Alessandra managed a weak smile. "Of course, I didn't die."
"But to go through that at five years old? You had to be traumatized. No wonder you have nightmares."
"I haven't been able to get near a dog since. After it happened, I couldn't even be in the same room with Mitzi. And she was about the size of your fist. Not exactly dangerous. My mother made my grandmother lock Mitzi in the bathroom whenever we came over."
Harry must've been sleeping with his gun very close at hand, because he wasn't wearing a shoulder holster. He had on a pair of navy blue sweatpants and a white tank-style undershirt that hugged his muscular chest. It made his shoulders look about a mile wide and his arms strong enough to carry nearly anything.
Alessandra looked away, unable to keep herself from thinking about how strong and warm his arms had felt around her this afternoon. About how close she'd come to kissing him. It was crazy. She didn't even like him. He was rude, crude—but quite possibly the only person out of all the multitudes of agents she'd dealt with these past few days who was completely straightforward with her.
She trusted him.
At least as much as she could trust anybody.
Harry was so different from any other man she'd ever met. He seemed completely detached and removed, totally unaffected by her physical beauty—until she looked like complete hell. This afternoon, sitting out on the steps, she'd probably looked about as bad as she'd ever looked in her entire life, yet that was when he'd wanted to kiss her.
And he would've kissed her, too, if the door hadn't opened, interrupting them.
None of it made sense.
Alessandra pushed her hair back with hands that were still shaking, mopping her forehead with her sleeve. Her face was glistening, her hair and her pajamas were soaked with sweat. She knew she looked awful.
She wondered if he wanted to kiss her now.
"Sometimes the best way to get over a phobia like that is to get tough and climb back on the dog—so to speak," he said. "Your mother probably would've done you more good to make you face Mitzi. Instead, every time you see a dog, you're five years old again and completely defenseless." He shifted his weight. "You know, there are ways to defend yourself against an attacking dog."
She gestured to the gun he was still carrying. "Having one of those would do the trick. But there'd be a lot of irate dog owners in the neighborhood if I started shooting every dog that came within a hundred feet of me."
He smiled and instantly looked ten years younger. "There are other ways to defend yourself against an attacking dog. The most powerful weapon is knowledge. If you can learn to identify a dog that might be dangerous, and if you can learn what to do if you come face to face with one of them… You know, George worked with dogs. I bet he'd be glad to talk to you about 'em in the morning."
He shifted his weight again, and Alessandra knew that any minute he was going to walk through that door and leave her alone up here in the dark.
"Do you ever have nightmares?" she asked, wanting him to stay just a little bit longer.
She realized instantly how ridiculous and inane her question was. His son had been killed, violently, terribly. She could hear an echo of Harry's voice: "… sometimes the only way I can fall asleep at night is to stay awake for seventy-two hours…" Of course he had nightmares.
But Harry didn't berate her for her stupidity. He didn't tell her to butt out and mind her own f—ing business, either. He just gazed at her, his smile long since faded.
Finally he sighed, a quiet exhale that echoed the lines of fatigue he perpetually wore on his face. "You wanna sandwich?"
Her stomach churned. "No, but I'd love some tea."
"Tea." His smile briefly reappeared. "Well, lah-di-dah," he said. "Let's have some tea."
"Drowning," Harry said, his mouth full of pastrami on Jewish rye. "God, this is good." He held up his sandwich. "You sure you don't want some of this?"
Alessandra shook her head, her hands cupped around her mug of tea as if she were cold. With her hair up in a ponytail,
wearing those oversize pajamas, she looked about fourteen. Clean of makeup, her face was pale, her skin smooth and unlined.
"I was never a strong swimmer," Harry continued. "I mean, I took lessons and I learned how to move my arms and legs, but I'm not exactly ready to swim across the English Channel. I have this dream where the street is flooding, and I'm on top of my car, and I know I'm going to have to swim for it. I go into the water, but the current's too strong, or I trip or something, but anyway, I get knocked off my feet. And I wake up just as the water's going over my head." He took another bite of his sandwich. "Nightmares suck. And that's what I dream about on a good night."
On a bad night, he'd dream about Kevin's last few moments on earth. Sometimes he'd even dream he was Sonya, at the wheel of the car. He'd see that truck go into a skid, the way she must have. He'd know he and Kevin were both going to die, there was nothing he could do to stop it, to prevent his precious child's death. He'd reach for Kevin, wanting at least to hold him close, but the boy was always just out of range, just beyond the tips of his fingers. Harry could never reach him. He was completely powerless.
Personally, Harry preferred the smothering sensation of water going over his head.
He took another bite of his sandwich, but the pastrami now tasted like shit mixed with ashes. He put it down, and Alessandra briefly glanced up from her tea to look at him.
He would've bet big money that she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone. A few days ago, Harry wouldn't have thought her capable, but now he knew otherwise. Alessandra Lamont was no dummy. She was far more perceptive and definitely more sensitive than he would have believed.
He wasn't surprised when she spoke. "Do you think Michael Trotta had something to do with your son's death?"
"Yes."
She glanced up again, and this time he was ready for her. He met her gaze, holding it. "There was no proof, though. Nothing we could bring to court. At the time, he was tightly connected to the boss I was investigating. The one who was trying to scare me off. It's likely Trotta was in the room when the deal went down, when the gunmen were hired to fire those shots into Sonya's car." He pushed his sandwich away from him. "Your nice Michael Trotta, the real friendly guy whose Christmas parties you went to—he conspired to commit a crime that resulted in the death of my son."
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