Protect Me (The Donovan Family Book 6)

by Margaret Watson

  Had he felt this way when he'd been filming in Chicago? No. He'd been happy there. He'd been busy filming. Waiting for his stalker to strike. He hadn't had time to be lonely.

  A woman approached him, smiling. She held out her hand when she saw he didn't recognize her.

  "Hi, Finn. Hildy Franklin. One of the screenwriters for Dark Vengeance."

  "Of course. I remember you," Finn said, smiling as he shook the woman's hand. "How are you doing, Hildy? Working on another project right now?"

  "I always have a few irons in the fire." She took a sip from what looked like a gin and tonic. "I understand you're thinking about putting together a production company."

  Where the hell had she heard that? It was something he'd talked about with Angie and a couple of other people. He forced a smile. He should have remembered there was no such thing as a secret in Hollywood.

  "Mulling my options, Hildy," he said, taking a gulp of scotch. "Nothing in concrete yet." He studied the woman in front of him. "What’s on your mind?"

  "Just offering my services if you're serious. I'd love to write a couple of scripts for you. On spec, of course."

  "Wow, Hildy, you're way ahead of me." Another screenwriter had approached him tonight, and three actors had gone out of their way to ask about his future projects. Was everyone at his party looking for something from him?

  "But if I did start a company, I'd look at a lot of different stuff. You did a great job with Dark Vengeance. So of course I'd look at something from you."

  "Thanks, Finn." Her fingers gripped the glass more tightly. "How's your girlfriend? Why isn't she here tonight? Did you break up with her?" Hildy had an avid expression on her face, as if she'd like to audition for the role.

  Finn let his gaze drift over her shoulder. "Oops, gotta go," he said, squeezing her shoulder. "Sorry, Hildy. I see someone I need to talk to." He gave her the obligatory air kiss and slid past her.

  His girlfriend.

  If Mia were here, they'd laugh together about the posturing and the scheming.

  Swallowing a gulp of scotch, he wandered over to the buffet and took one of the tiny pieces of lasagna. It was bland and rubbery and the spices were all wrong. Nothing like Rose Donovan's lasagna.

  This party was nothing like the Donovan family dinner, either. He'd been nervous about going, but everyone had put him at ease. Mia's family was genuine. Interested in him and the movie he was making, but not looking for something from Finn. As far as he could tell, none of the Donovans cared one bit about his fame.

  No one in this room knew who he really was. And none of them cared.

  Which was only fair, because he didn't really care about any of them. They were work colleagues. Nothing more.

  Was there even such a thing as a genuine friendship in Hollywood? Or was everything based on who could do what for whom?

  Was anyone in this town real?

  A woman caught his eye, and his heart began to race. From the back, she reminded him of Mia – dark wavy hair, slender curvy body, endless legs. He turned toward her, a sunflower to her sun.

  He took a step in her direction, then stopped when she turned her head. She looked nothing like his Mia.

  His Mia. There was no such woman.

  He swallowed the rest of his drink, the scotch burning his throat, and put it on a passing waiter's tray of empties, then headed to the bar for a refill. It was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  One week later

  The audience in the glitzy theater was rapt, listening to the latest 'it' band. Finn stood offstage, watching them play. The Goldie award show was going well. He'd been smooth. Charming. He'd gotten applause in all the right places. Now there were only a few awards left – the big ones, for Best Television Drama, Best Actor in a drama, Best Actress in one. He'd be happy to call it a night.

  Tonight was the culmination of everything he wanted to accomplish in Hollywood. It didn't get any more high-profile than hosting an international award show.

  He wasn't fooling himself – it wouldn't last. It never did. But for now, he was riding the wave of collective guilt that had caused the industry to embrace him. The buzz about a possible Oscar nomination for Dark Vengeance didn't hurt, either.

  He should be on cloud nine. Lars Benson's admission had changed his life. He had more offers of roles than he could film in ten years. His agent was sorting through those, picking out the ones she liked best.

  He'd found a couple of scripts he'd liked, including an amazing one about a Chicago cop, and he'd directed his agent to buy them for his fledgling production company.

  He had the success he'd craved, but he had no one to share it with. No one who'd be genuinely thrilled about his accomplishments. No one who'd congratulate him without thinking she should have been getting those accolades.

  He was surrounded by people, but lonelier than he'd ever been in his life.

  The last time he'd been really happy was in Chicago. With Mia. The woman he'd thrown away for this empty life.

  Turning away from the stage, he spotted a monitor and forced himself to look at it. He'd given Pete tickets to the award show, and he suddenly wanted to know who Pete had brought as his date.

  He wanted to know who had made Pete so happy.

  His driver had been different lately. He still exchanged barbs with Finn, still teased him and acted like a tough guy, but he'd been…lighter. More free. Finn had caught him smiling like a goofball as he talked on his phone. Which he seemed to do a lot.

  He always hung up before Finn got close. Refused to discuss the person on the other end of the phone. But Pete was a joyous man again. Judy's death had torn him apart, and Finn was genuinely pleased his friend had found someone.

  The tickets were for seats fairly close to the front of the theater. So Finn watched the screen, looking for his friend as the camera panned through the crowd.

  He spotted Pete a few moments later, his head bent close to a dark-haired woman. They were both smiling as the woman whispered something in Pete's ear.

  She pulled away as the band ended the song, and Finn grabbed the monitor stand to steady himself.

  Pete's date was Rose Donovan.

  On the screen, he couldn't see the gray in her dark, wavy hair. Couldn't see the fine lines on her face. She looked like a slightly older Mia, and Finn's heart lurched.

  God, he missed Mia.

  If Finn hadn't been such an ass, Mia could have been waiting for him after the show. She could have walked the red carpet with him, whispering in his ear, teasing him about all the reporters jostling each other to talk to him.

  Telling him she was proud of him. That she knew he'd do a great job tonight.

  He wanted Mia back. Wanted her honesty, her genuineness, her unflinching grasp of reality.

  He wanted her love.

  If she could ever forgive him for walking away from her.

  He should have called her. Flown out to visit her, in spite of what she'd said. So why hadn't he?

  Yeah, she'd said she didn't want to see him, but when had a 'no' ever stopped him?

  Tomorrow he was going back to Chicago. Going back to Mia. If she'd take him back, they'd figure out together how to make it work.

  For the first time in his career, he was calling the shots. He was the golden boy, and he needed to take advantage of that. There was no reason now that he had to live in LA. Producers and directors would come to him, at least until he wasn't the 'it' guy anymore.

  It would be a little harder to run his production company from Chicago, but that's what airplanes were for.

  It wouldn't hurt him to take a few risks, either. In their time together, Mia had been the one to take all the risks. She'd made love to him when it could have cost her her job. She'd told him she loved him.

  Now it was his turn to take some risks.

  The only reason he hadn't realized that earlier? He was the most stupid man alive.

  Chapter 28

  Mia's hand shook so badly that it took
three tries to shove her key into the front door of her building. Finally it slid home, and she stepped into the warm foyer of her two-flat. The warm, stale air heightened the smell of blood and death that clung to her clothes and hair. Closing her eyes, she swallowed once to force back the nausea. Not now.

  She could fall apart when she was locked into her apartment. Not before. No one could see her like this.

  Ignoring her mail box, she forced herself to climb the stairs, one foot after the other. Every muscle in her body ached. Every corner of her soul felt soiled. Unclean. Her heart was a tiny, pinched thing in her chest, raw and burning.

  As she stepped onto the landing, she saw a long pair of legs sprawled in front of her door at the top of the next flight. Male. Wearing jeans. Expensive sneakers. She couldn't see his face – she'd have to turn the corner for that.

  Resting her hand on her gun, she stepped into view and froze. Her hand fell away from the gun. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of his dark blond hair. The face she'd been unable to banish from her memory.

  He looked up from the book he was reading and snapped it shut. "Mia."

  "Finn? What are you doing here?" she managed to say. She gripped the railing on the wall, bracing herself against the storm of emotion that swept over her.

  "Waiting for you."

  "How did you get in?" She stepped onto the next stair.

  "The guy who lives below you let me in." Finn's expression relaxed into a smile that was probably supposed to be charming. "He said he was pretty sure I wasn't an axe murderer."

  "What do you want?" Her voice was expressionless. Robotic. Which was exactly how she felt.

  He studied her, the charm falling away, his expression turning wary. His gaze zeroed in on the smear of blood on her white shirt as he stood. "To talk to you."

  She gripped the railing so hard her knuckles whitened as she pulled herself up another stair. "Go away."

  "Sorry. I'm not leaving before we talk." He shifted from one foot to the other, but she saw the resolve in his expression. The stony stubbornness in his eyes.

  A wave of welcome anger crashed over her. "You're telling me I have to talk to you before you'll leave me alone? I don't think so, O'Rourke." She managed to make it to the top of the stairs, and she clung to her doorknob as she stared him down. "Get out of my building."

  She turned to unlock her door. After three unsuccessful tries, Finn took the key gently from her hand, inserted it and opened the door. He cupped her elbow in his hand and steadied her as she wobbled on her feet.

  "What happened, Mia?" he asked, his hand tightening on her.

  "Nothing. I'm fine. Please leave, Finn." She was so close to breaking down. So close to falling over the edge into complete misery and despair. She didn't want to share that with anyone. Especially not Finn.

  "Not going anywhere, Mia. I'm done leaving." His expression softened, and she could swear she saw real concern there. Caring. "Whatever happened tonight, I want to be here for you. I'm sticking."

  The smoldering embers of banked anger flared to life. She spun around to face him. "Really, Finn? You want to be here for me? Then tell me how I'm supposed to handle a six-year-old baby gunned down on her own damn block." Mia slammed the door and tossed her bag onto the floor. "She was riding her bike on the sidewalk. First time without training wheels."

  Tears prickled at her eyes and she couldn't hold them back. They trickled out of her eyes in a steady stream. "Her daddy was running beside her, to catch her if she fell. Which she did."

  She sucked in a breath that turned into a sob. "It was a drive-by. Two punk bangers gunning for a rival on the front porch of the house she was passing. Her father caught her, just like he told her he would. But he couldn't do a damn thing to save her."

  "You can let yourself out," she said as she stepped around him and headed for her bathroom. All the water in the world couldn't wash her clean after today, but she had to try and obliterate the smell that clung to her.

  Finn caught her arm and stopped her, but she stared straight ahead. She didn't want him to see her like this. Raw. Devastated. "I'm not going anywhere, Mia. You shouldn't be alone tonight." He slowly circled his arms around her, his hands resting at her hips as if afraid she'd shove him away. When she didn't move, he drew her back against him.

  "I've got you," he murmured into her hair, his breath tickling her scalp. "I've got you. Let go, Mia. You're safe with me. Go ahead and fall apart."

  Safe was the last word she'd associate with Finn. But she couldn't hold her anguish back any longer. She closed her eyes as an endless stream of tears poured down her face. She lifted her hands to cover her face as she began to sob.

  Finn's gentle hands turned her around. Encircled her and pulled her against him. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in his chest. His shirt smelled of laundry detergent and fabric softener. Ordinary, homey scents. Was this how Layla's clothes had smelled when she put them on this morning?

  Gripping his shirt in both fists, she sobbed until her throat was raw and aching. Sobbed until she had drained every tear from her body. All that was left was a black, empty void.

  Finally she let him go and stepped away. "Sorry I got your shirt wet," she said, turning her back on him and heading for the bathroom. "Leave your phone number. I'll call you."

  She almost made it through the door when Finn caught up with her. He curled his hand around her upper arm, holding her as if she were made of glass. "Get some clean clothes," he murmured. "I'll start your shower."

  "I don't need you to start my damn shower," she said, her voice raspy and broken as she pulled away from him. "Get out of here, Finn. Leave me alone. I can't deal with you tonight."

  "Won't leave you alone." He stroked his hand down her arm tentatively. "Not tonight."

  "What are you going to do?" she said, refusing to look at him. "Kiss it and make it all better? I don't think so. Get out."

  Shaking him off, she stepped into the bathroom, locked the door and turned on the shower. She peeled off her clothes, sprayed stain remover on the blood on her shirt and stuffed everything deep in her laundry basket. Then she stepped beneath the scalding hot spray. She shampooed her hair and washed herself twice, but she was certain she'd never be clean again.

  Bracing her hands against the wall, she let the hot water beat down on her. Brendan had warned her she'd get a case like this, sooner or later. The kind that destroyed a little bit of your soul. The kind of case that made you look at people differently.

  She hadn't wanted to be that cop. Told herself it wouldn't happen to her, that she'd be firm but fair. Her job was to protect and serve. Everyone.

  By the time she and O'Reilly had reached the scene, the neighbors on Layla's block had the fifteen-year-old target surrounded. One guy brandished a golf club. A woman held a broken-off tree branch, the end as sharp as ragged teeth.

  As the child lay on the sidewalk, cradled in her father's arms, the mob crowded closer, yelling at the kid, ordering him to give up the shooters' names. A brick flew through the air, and the kid flinched away from it.

  Mia knew what would come next. Vigilante justice, ugly and indiscriminate and wrong. But she got out of the car too slowly. For a few moments, she wanted to let Layla's neighbors mete out justice for that murdered little girl.

  That made her no better than the mob.

  She'd compounded that mistake by handling the kid roughly when they got him away from the mob. Shoving him into the back seat so hard that he fell over. She hadn't bothered to help him up, either.

  She twisted the handle and turned off the water, then stepped out of the shower. Weariness made her limbs heavy and clumsy, but she managed to towel her hair and dry herself. Then, shivering, she wrapped the towel around herself and headed into her bedroom.

  She'd just managed to put on a long tee shirt and yoga pants when she heard her front door open. Close. Footsteps coming toward her.

  She'd left her gun in the bathroom.

  Swallowing, she st
epped into the hall. Finn was heading toward the kitchen, a brown paper bag in his hands.

  "Why are you still here?" she asked.

  "You need to eat," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "I got you some food. Oscar's mac and cheese."

  Her eyes filled. He'd remembered Oscar's. Remembered how much she liked that dish. The simple kindness made her throat swell.

  She followed him into the kitchen, the smells from the bag making her stomach gurgle. It was late in the evening, and she hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. How had Finn known that?

  He set two plates on the table, opened the bag and dished up their meals. He'd gotten her favorite version of Oscar's mac and cheese. Her eyes prickled again.

  As she slid onto a chair, he opened her refrigerator, pulled out the opened bottle of white wine and held it up. "You want a glass?"

  She shook her head. She'd already made one mistake today – being unprofessional. Too rough with a witness. She wouldn't compound that mistake by using alcohol to deaden the pain of the case.

  Sliding the bottle back into the refrigerator, Finn sat down across from her and she began to eat. She was expecting him to talk to her. Tell her why he was here and what he wanted. Instead, he ate without saying a word.

  She'd forgotten that about Finn, that he could be so restful. Such an oasis of calm in the middle of a storm.

  Finally, when her stomach was full, she set her dish in the sink and ran water over it. She'd do the dishes tomorrow. Finn handed her his plate, and she rinsed it, too.

  Her head bowed, she stared down at the two plates, at the stubborn spots of cheese sticking to their surfaces. Finn would be just like that. Sticking to her whether she wanted him to or not.

  Finally, straightening, she turned to face him. He was leaning against the wall, watching her. "Thank you," she said. "Getting the mac and cheese was very thoughtful. I appreciate it, but I need to go to bed and you need to leave."

  He pushed off from the wall. "Are you sure you don't want someone in the apartment tonight? Sleeping on the couch, of course."