by Jule McBride
But her last words were still in his heart, claiming him. I’m your wife.
CHAPTER TWELVE
IT WAS DARK AND QUIET, maybe too quiet, Lillian thought when she woke with a start. And Shane was no longer in bed with her or near the crib. Had he taken the baby to the kitchen for a bottle? Had a nightmare from the past awakened her?
Instinct told her to get up, and her heart’s sudden skip warned her not to turn on the lamp or call out for Shane. It was the faint prickle at her nape that really got her moving, stealthily going to the crib while she dressed in what her groping hands found first—panties, Shane’s T-shirt and her robe.
Despite her uneasiness, seeing the baby sent a glimmer of a smile across her lips, and she gently rubbed his tummy. Hours ago, she’d meant to give him up, to make sure he’d always be safe from the past that haunted her, but right now she was just as sure she couldn’t.
Touching the baby definitely calmed her. After what happened to Jake yesterday, it was no wonder she was having bad dreams again. Shane was probably just in the kitchen. She glanced at the clock. It was 5:00 a.m. “I just had a bad dream,” she murmured. “That’s all.”
But something sounded behind her.
She froze. Listened. Her heart pounded too hard, her breath turning shallow. A shot of adrenaline begged her to run, but she crept to the bathroom. Flipping the switch, she blinked against the brightness and stared inside. Nothing dangerous here. Seeing the clothes and damp towels strewn across the floor, another fleeting smile touched her lips. Well, she guessed her and Shane’s lovemaking was dangerous.
“Lone Star?”
The dog wasn’t here. Nor was the bogey man or the Big Bad Wolf. Suddenly feeling silly, Lillian extinguished the light. She’d wake the baby if she called for Shane, so she padded toward the kitchen. In the living room, she stopped again. Something’s wrong. Had they left the terrace doors uncovered? Open? She couldn’t remember. Far off, orbs of light floated, undulating on the Hudson. Anchored boats. At the other end of the hallway, a bar of yellow light shone under the front door. She squinted. Was the door open a crack? It looked as if it was.
“Shane?”
He didn’t answer.
“Lone Star?”
She glanced back toward the bedroom. Should she have brought the baby? It was definitely too quiet in here, and now the watchful silence seemed purposeful. Shane’s walking the dog! The thought came in a flash. Lone Star must have awakened Shane, needing to go out, and Shane hadn’t shut the door. It explained everything.
She sighed in relief but still moved with caution. When she swung open the kitchen door, nothing happened, so she hit the lights. And gasped. Her knees buckled, then she over-compensated, her legs becoming stiff as boards. She blinked hard against the shock.
Her husband—her other husband, her wrong husband, her dead husband—smiled back.
“Ah, sweet Delilah,” he said. “So we meet again.”
Only the kitchen table, its four chairs neatly tucked in for the night, lay between them. It wasn’t nearly enough protection. “You’re dead!”
“And damn good-looking for a ghost.”
“If you don’t say so yourself.”
“Exactly.”
Her first thought was for the baby. She wrenched around. “Who else is here?”
“I’m alone. I wanted to have a private chat.”
“How did you get in here?”
“Slipped past downstairs security, then picked the locks on your front door.”
Sam Ramsey’s voice, though deep and melodious, sent a shiver down her spine. He was big and tanned, just as she remembered, and shooting her a deceptively glib smile. He hadn’t changed much, though his sun-streaked hair was longer, in a ponytail. He was good-looking, and she well knew he could be dangerously charming. It was why she’d been so taken in by him. No doubt he’d been watching the apartment for a while. Maybe he’d seen Shane go out to walk the dog, then used the opportunity to creep inside.
“My poor Delilah—” He clucked his tongue. “Did you really think you’d killed me?”
She realized she was still gaping at him, completely stunned. Yes. She’d suffered the guilt for years. She could still remember the panic she felt as she drove down the dark private road at the plantation, fumbling at the Oldsmobile’s dashboard, trying to find the headlights. Suddenly, Sam darted from the trees. Knowing she’d overheard him talking to the woman on the phone, he’d come after her. He’d gotten a head start while she’d been in the garage, and was rushing toward her on foot. She’d wrenched the steering wheel, but swerved too late. In the next second, Sam’s body thudded against the hood. Leaping from the car, she’d rushed to his side. She was positive she’d killed him. “Yes, I was sure you were dead,” she managed.
“I thought so. But I was only dazed.” He leaned his body, which was sleekly encased in tight black jeans and a tighter black shirt, casually against the counter. The eyes perusing her possessed all the warmth of a snake’s.
“You’d like me dead, though, wouldn’t you, Delilah?” he taunted. “So you and your latest husband can spend my money.”
Her eyes widened.
“Oh, yes. I know all about Shane Holiday. And if you fork over my money, Delilah, then maybe I’ll go away, nice and quiet, and let you have your other man.”
She barely heard him. Her mind was racing. The money. Of course. Sam hadn’t solely resurfaced to threaten her marriage to Shane. Now she noticed that some drawers and cabinets were open. Did Sam really think she still had the money? Had he come to search for it? Seven years of fearing a showdown must have paid off. Since she’d already lived a night such as this in her worst nightmares, she had practice, and she was very pleased to find her voice didn’t even shake. “Where’s Shane?”
“Where’s my money?”
Terror suddenly welled within her. Did Sam know she had a son now? Did he know the baby was here? And had he done something to Shane and Lone Star? “Where’s my husband?” she demanded sharply.
“I’m your husband.”
The words made her queasy. But she guessed it was true. She was married to two men. “Technically.”
“Whatever.”
“You’re not really my husband!” Shane is.
“Oh yes I am, Delilah. And if you don’t start talking, I just might demand my marital rights.” The lascivious glance that swept down her emphasized the threat. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been together, now, hasn’t it?”
Panic surged through her. Especially when she saw what was at the other end of Sam’s big dangling hand. “Glock 9 millimeter,” he explained. “Plastic. With a silencer.”
She had no idea what such words meant—Glock. Millimeter. Plastic—only that the gun looked menacing. Silencers she’d heard of, of course. Which meant Sam obviously intended business.
Whatever you do next, stay calm. Her eyes sized up the situation: If she ran, the table would slow him down. But by the time she got Little Shane, he’d catch her. Sam was leaning against the knife drawer, but the sharpest knives were on the counter, wedged in a wood-block holder, almost within her reach. The bright yellow tea kettle on the top burner was heavy and had a rubber-coated handle. Last month, when she’d seen it at a furniture shop, the handle, which was marketed as a “firm-grip innovation,” had sold her on the kettle. Now with any luck, maybe she could get a “firm grip” and innovatively brain Sam. Or maybe Shane—who she prayed was walking the dog—would come home. She just hoped the baby didn’t cry, alerting Sam to his presence.
“Don’t even think about trying to fight me,” Sam said, his dry chuckle grating on her raw nerves. “You’d think running me over with the car would have been enough.”
“Apparently not,” she tossed back.
Her feigned indifference only further infuriated him, and his brown eyes deepened to black. “I hid out from my daddy for years,” he said, his voice low. “When everybody thought I’d died, I laid low. I wasn’t taking any flak f
or not controlling my women—”
“Your women!” she exploded, noting he used the plural. “Just how many women did you have? I was your wife! I wasn’t a possession! A trophy!” The man was sick.
Sam ignored her. “What you’re going to be is sorry. Now where’s that money? Tell me or you’ll wind up getting shot like that man next to you on the sidewalk yesterday.”
Jake? She gasped. “You shot Jake Lucas?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know who he was. But next time, you’ll be the target. I just wanted to let you know that you could wind up like that if you don’t start talking. I saw you drive away with the money that night, so I know you had it. And if you spent it, I demand compensation. You can make this easy or hard. It’s your choice. But you owe me.”
She was reeling from Sam’s confession that he’d shot Jake. She couldn’t believe an innocent man could have died because of her. “I don’t have it!”
They both knew she was lying. Sam’s arm rose slowly with the Glock.
A low growl sounded. Then Lone Star lunged from behind a cabinet—a ball of bristling fur, flouncing hair bows and barred teeth—gaining remarkable height given that she was minus a leg. Sam swiped for and missed the bandanna gracing Lone Star’s neck, then yelped as her fangs sank into his gun hand. Lillian raced for the stove, grabbing the kettle.
Poof. Poof. Poof.
She froze. Bullets sounded, muted by the silencer. But Lone Star didn’t howl, and Lillian felt no pain. Belatedly, she registered splintering wood; the bullets had hit cabinets. Realizing she and Lone Star were safe, she swiveled from the stove, brandishing the kettle. “Shane!”
He didn’t respond, simply kept barreling from his hiding place behind the door. He was barefoot, bare-chested, wearing only jeans—and going straight for Sam. Catching Sam’s wrist, Shane wrenched it backward, making the gun drop, then he kicked it toward Lillian. She wasn’t about to pick up the lethal-looking weapon, but when Sam ran at her, she swung the kettle like a razor-sharp scythe.
Not that Shane let Sam get anywhere close to her. Lifting a chair in midstride, Shane swung, narrowly missing Sam’s head. Forgetting Lillian, Sam pivoted, grabbing Shane in a bear hug. Their bodies locking with slaps and thuds, the struggling men crashed onto the table, overturning it when they fell to the floor in a grunting tumble.
“Arf! Arf!” Lone Star dived low, attacking Sam’s ankles, while Lillian feinted left and right, waving the kettle, looking for an opening into the melee. It came when Sam’s thrashing foot caught Lone Star; the dog whined, temporarily scuttling to the side, just as Sam got Shane in a wrestling hold from behind. Shane elbowed Sam’s gut, but Sam was still coming for Lillian, kicking aside chairs.
“Stop!” she shouted.
Sam was hurting Shane! Without another thought, Lillian lunged, wildly thrusting the kettle. When Sam spun to avoid the blows, she leaped onto his back, bouncing up and down.
Sam wrenched. “Get offa me!”
“I’ve wanted to do this for years,” she announced, right before hitting him. Dazed, Sam staggered. “Now let my husband go,” she warned, “or I’ll hit you again!”
“Damn it, Delilah,” Sam snarled. “You’re my wife and you’ve got my money!”
“She’s my wife,” Shane bit out.
“Prove it, you bastard,” Sam spit back, panting hard and suddenly heaving Lillian from his back like a lightweight coat. She sailed through the air, hit the floor hard, then rolled, her hipbone cracking. Nerves inflamed by the fight, she barely felt it. With superhuman strength, Shane had whipped around.
“You want me to prove she’s my wife, Ramsey?”
Sam clenched his fists. “Yeah.”
Shane came like a prize-fighter, his well-honed body taut, his fists pummeling every inch of Sam. It was brutal, but Sam deserved it, and Lillian just wished she had more time to admire the rolling, rippling muscles of Shane’s bare back. His every muscle flexed with a fast sharp one-two jab that caught Sam’s nose and sent blood gushing. Lightning-quick gut-level punches followed, making Sam crumple.
Lillian realized she’d better intervene. “Shane,” she called nervously. “I guess we’d better not kill him!”
Her voice brought a maddened Shane to his senses. Grabbing Sam by the shirt collar, he dragged him toward the refrigerator. While Sam kicked and thrashed, Shane whipped handcuffs from his back pocket, looped them through the double doors of the refrigerator and secured Sam, then grabbed the phone. Lillian thought he was calling the police, but Shane kept pulling, ripping it right out of the wall. With the cord, he trussed Sam’s legs.
“He looks like a turkey,” she managed, completely stunned by the display.
Shane wasn’t even winded. He glanced up. “Pig.”
Lillian squinted. “Excuse me?”
Tightening the cord, Shane drew Sam’s ankles and hands together, just close enough that Sam was kneeling uncomfortably next to the refrigerator. “I’m hog-tying him, sweetheart.”
“I’m impressed,” she managed. Shane was an ex-cop, of course, but she’d never considered what he might look like in action. “Always good to have a cowboy in the house.”
“And a guard dog,” added Shane.
Taking the cue, Lone Star came close, her beady eyes settled on Sam, and with a low growl in her throat she dared the man to move.
Not that Sam was through talking. “What are you two brain surgeons going to do now? Call the cops?”
Lillian frowned. He had a point. She was living under an assumed name, and she’d fled Louisiana with three million dollars that was earmarked as a payoff for dirty cops. Still, they couldn’t let Sam go. From down the hallway, the baby wailed. She glanced anxiously over her shoulder.
“Go on,” Shane said softly. “See to the baby. I’ll take care of Sam.”
Only the baby could have pulled her away. Right before she turned, Shane hauled a chair upright, spun it on one leg, then straddled it, sitting backward and resting his elbows on the high back. Jogging to the bedroom, she was unable to believe this was happening. Was Sam Ramsey really alive and in her apartment?
She was so shocked, she’d reached the bedroom before realizing she was still wielding the tea kettle. She was breathless, too, and anxious to know what was happening in the kitchen. But she managed a soothing coo as she checked the baby. He was fine, just damp. Leaving him, she flicked on the bathroom light and got a fresh diaper. Little Shane quieted, as if knowing relief was on the way.
“That’s right,” she somehow managed to say in a steady voice. “Mama’ll fix you right up.”
She was coming back out, diaper in one hand, kettle in the other when a dark gloved hand suddenly reached out from behind her and clamped down hard over her mouth. Something feeling suspiciously like a gun pressured her ribs. Her first panicked thought was that Sam had a partner. But then Sam said he’d come alone. Not that she trusted Sam.
A man said, “Don’t scream.”
How could she when his hand was clamped over her mouth? And who was he? What could she do? Swinging the kettle, she tried—and failed—to hit behind her.
“I said, don’t scream.”
She’d had it with all this manhandling. Who did these macho jerks think she was? Some shrinking violet who took orders? Any semblance of the more demure Lillian Smith was long gone. Wrenching her head away, Delilah Fontenont screamed.
SHANE’S HEAD SHOT UP.
Sam chuckled nastily. “Guess I’m not your only intruder.”
Shane rose from the chair, swiftly squeezing Sam’s neck with just enough pressure to get the truth out of him. “Who’s with you?”
“I swear!” Sam gasped. “I came alone.”
“Watch him, Lone Star.”
Lone Star bared her fangs as Shane hit the hallway at a run. Long ago the police academy taught him to respond quietly in such a situation, but Lillian and the baby’s safety overrode everything he’d ever learned. He burst into the bedroom, slamming on the overhead light.
> What he saw made no sense. His heart missed a beat; he paused uncertainly. Little Shane, sensing this was definitely not the best time to demand grown-up attention, remained thankfully silent—and Shane merely stared. An old man was backed against the wall near the bathroom door. He was holding Lillian hostage, and his gun was aimed at the wall, at least at the moment. Lillian’s eyes, wide with fear, were riveted on a mirror opposite her. And in it, she was studying every nuance of her attacker’s face.
“Trusty Joe?” Shane said.
“Yeah, Shane. It’s me.”
Of course it was. Shane knew every wrinkle of the old man’s weathered features, since Trusty Joe and Uncle Silas had been partners for years. Now he took in the tough cop’s familiar face and bald head, the body that had remained strong and wiry, even after retirement. Joe must have followed Sam Ramsey. Had he come to help? Was he trying to solve Silas’s murder? But no. Trusty Joe was dressed in dark clothes and gloves. And one of those gloved hands was covering Lillian’s mouth.
“That’s Lillian,” Shane managed.
“Do I look stupid?” Trusty Joe snarled. “I know who she is.”
What was happening? Two days ago, when Shane called, Trusty Joe said he was going on vacation, deep-sea fishing. “If you know it’s Lillian, then let her go.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Shane?”
Shane was starting to. And he felt sick. Not to mention murderous; he was afraid of what he’d do next. Before Shane made his move, Lillian wrenched around again.
She gasped. “That’s him!”
Trusty Joe grabbed her, pulling her to him.
“I saw him that night,” she managed. “Shane, he killed a man. I saw him! I tried to block it out. But I saw him shoot someone.”
Shane could guess who. He could almost see Lillian racing down the long driveway in the dark. She looked back, maybe in the rearview mirror, and she’d seen Trusty Joe in the shadows. Shane’s Uncle Silas was with him. But Trusty Joe had made a deal with the Mob—and he wasn’t about to let Silas get in the way. Panicked, Trusty Joe turned and fired on Silas. Damn. In the last moment of his life, with his last breath, Uncle Silas had told Shane he loved him. It had been more important for Silas to tell Shane he was loved, than to name his own killer. Shane’s heart pulled.