by Lisa Childs
“Put it down!” Garek yelled at him. “You’re not going to be able to hit us both.”
He probably wouldn’t be able to hit either one of them. If the way he’d shot at the SUV in the parking garage was any indication, he was no marksman. Maybe that was why he had hired Frank Campanelli to kill Gregory Schievink. The district attorney would probably still be alive if Jipping had tried to shoot him himself.
“Who the hell are you?” Jipping demanded to know, his voice a drunken shout.
Milek pointed at the guy’s shoulder. Blood oozed through the gauze he’d pressed to it. More blood-soaked bandages littered the bed on which Jipping sat. “I’m the one who shot you.”
“You’re her bodyguard.”
He was much more than her bodyguard. He was the father of her child. Her former fiancé. Her lover...
Why couldn’t he control his desire for her? Every time they had made love it was harder for Milek to hide his feelings for her—to hide the fact that he still loved her.
Maybe Jipping would do them both a favor if he shot him. It would probably hurt less than letting her go again.
But Jipping wasn’t in a hurry to pull the trigger—probably because he knew Garek was right. He couldn’t hit them both and whichever one he didn’t shoot would kill him. “How’d you find me?” he asked, and his bloodshot eyes darted nervously around them.
Maybe he was expecting the police, too. But they hadn’t called them yet.
Agent Rus would be pissed they hadn’t called him and they had found Jipping first. But he didn’t have the resources they had.
They had connections in the darkest parts of the city. And that was where they had found Jipping—just off skid row. A guy Milek had been in juvie with had recognized the picture Milek passed around and told him where they could find the drunk. For a price.
Their old connections didn’t give away information for free. Nor would they have talked to police. That was why Rus hadn’t been able to find Jipping yet. He hadn’t known where to look. But knowing Rus, he would figure it out—eventually.
Along with the bloodied bandages, empty beer cans and liquor bottles littered the filthy motel room. Maybe that was why the guy was a lousy shot. He was too drunk to shoot straight.
“Finding you wasn’t that hard,” Milek said. Which probably meant the police would find him soon, too. Rus was smart enough to barter for information. He’d struck a helluva bargain with Viktor Chekov.
But it wasn’t Agent Rus who burst through the door behind them—it wasn’t Nick at whom Jipping swung his gun. It was Amber. How the hell had she found them?
“I’m sorry,” Candace said as she rushed in behind Amber. “She insisted on coming here...”
“Get out of here,” Milek told her.
“No!” Jipping shouted. “That bitch isn’t going anywhere.”
Milek stepped in front of her. He would gladly take the bullet meant for her—gladly give his life for hers. Their son didn’t even really know him. His mother was the parent he needed. The parent who had always been there for him.
Amber’s small hand touched his back, pulling on his shirt. “Don’t,” she told him.
Did she think Milek was going to kill the guy? Was that why she had insisted on Candace bringing her here? To talk Milek out of murder?
Her doubts stung his heart. But Milek had had doubts himself. He hadn’t known what he would do when he confronted the man who’d terrorized his family. But if Milek was the killer everyone thought he was, wouldn’t he have already pulled the trigger?
For that matter, wouldn’t Jipping have? But then Amber was the one Jipping wanted dead—and Milek stood between her and his bullet. He braced himself—waiting for the shot.
* * *
Amber knotted her fingers in Milek’s shirt and tried pulling him away. She didn’t want him giving up his life for hers. “No,” she said. “Don’t...”
“I won’t kill him,” Milek said.
She wasn’t worried about Jipping. She was worried about him.
“If he puts down the gun,” Milek continued. “Put the gun down,” he told Jipping.
“You all need to put down the guns,” a deep voice said as Agent Rus stepped into the motel room with them.
She glanced back at the agent, whose jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle twitched in his cheek. He was furious—angrier even than Milek was at her for showing up.
But she hadn’t wanted him risking his life when she was the one Jipping wanted. Not that she intended to give up her life, either. She didn’t want anyone getting killed.
Brad Jipping had already lost enough when his son had died. He didn’t need to lose any more—no matter the hell he had put her and Michael through.
“Jeremy wouldn’t want this,” she told Jipping.
“Don’t say his name!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare say his name!”
Amber drew in a sharp breath and tugged harder on Milek’s shirt. He was certain to get shot if he kept standing in front of her. And maybe she needed to see Brad Jipping to get through to him.
She had always been able to reach the members of the jury when she’d taken the time to look each one in his or her face—to speak only to them. Gregory used to call her the jury whisperer.
“Jeremy was a good kid,” she said.
“Then why’d you send him to prison?” his father asked.
Technically the judge had sent him to prison. She had only gotten him convicted; the judge had sentenced him. Maybe that sentence had been stiff. But the judge was rumored to have lost someone he loved to a drunk driver.
“He killed two people,” she said.
Just as Jipping had killed two people. Schievink and the man he’d hired to pull the trigger for him.
“Jeremy didn’t mean to do it,” Jipping said. “It was an accident.”
One that wouldn’t have happened, had Jeremy not been drinking and then gotten behind the wheel. She’d used that in her closing argument. But if she repeated that here, with Jipping armed, it might prove a closing argument of another kind—one that got more people killed.
“I tried to get him sentenced to a rehab facility,” she reminded Jipping. But the judge had refused her recommendation. And Gregory had concurred with him. “I wanted to get him some help.”
Maybe she should have focused on getting his father help, too. Especially after Jeremy had killed himself in jail.
“He didn’t need help,” Jipping protested. “He just made one mistake—one night. He was a good kid. He deserved a second chance.”
And he would have had one—had he served out his sentence. But Jeremy had been too guilt-ridden to give himself that second chance. Because he’d taken those innocent lives, he had taken his own—that was what he’d said in the suicide note he’d left behind.
So why did his father blame her? Why had he blamed Gregory? And what about the judge? Why hadn’t his name been in Frank Campanelli’s little leather book?
Maybe he’d always intended to take out the judge himself. She hadn’t come here to plead his case, though. She was pleading her own.
“My son’s a good kid, too,” she said. “He’s just a little boy—just five years old.”
“I remember when Jeremy was five...”
The sadness in his voice struck a chord of sympathy within Amber.
“He was probably like my son,” she said. “Sweet and funny and full of promise.”
Tears cracked the older man’s voice. “He was...”
“So why would you hire someone to kill him?”
“Jeremy?”
“No, why would you hire someone to kill my son?” she asked. Her heart ached with the pain she’d felt when she’d thought he had been hurt in the car accident. “Why would you hire someone to kill me?”
/> “You sent him to prison!” Jipping shouted.
And she flinched. With Milek standing between her and the barrel of Jipping’s gun, she didn’t want to incite his temper any more than she already had.
“She didn’t send him to prison,” Milek defended her. “The judge sentenced him. Amber only did her job. She got justice for the innocent people your son killed.”
Amber tightened her grasp on Milek’s shirt, trying to pull him aside; he was going to incite Jipping now.
“Jeremy wouldn’t want anyone else to die,” Amber implored him. Surely he had to know how guilty his son had felt.
“Stop!” Jipping yelled. “Stop talking about him. You have no right to talk about him!”
“And you have no right to try to kill my son,” Amber said. “You have no right to hurt anyone else. Enough people have already been hurt.”
“No!” Jipping shouted.
She felt Milek tense. It was as if he suddenly got taller and broader—as he tried to shield her from what he was certain would happen. The others tensed, too. Garek and Candace tightened their grips on their weapons.
Agent Rus was behind her, so she couldn’t see him—couldn’t see what he was doing. But she was certain he was still furious—the way Milek was probably furious with her for interfering.
She’d thought she could talk to Brad Jipping. That she could get him to understand this wasn’t what his son would have wanted. Jeremy had been a good kid who’d made one mistake. He should have been given that second chance.
He should have given himself that second chance.
Suddenly an arm wrapped around Amber’s waist. But Milek hadn’t even moved. Then she realized what Rus had been doing. He hadn’t drawn his weapon, as everyone else had. Instead, he grabbed her, lifted her from her feet and pulled her from the motel room.
The flurry of movement must have startled Jipping. Or he had been so desperate to kill her that he couldn’t let her get away. Because a gun went off, the noise exploding inside the small room.
And if Jipping had fired that shot trying to hit her, then Milek would have taken the bullet meant for her.
“No!” The scream tore from her throat as she flailed in Rus’s arms, trying to get away from him—trying to get to the man she loved and might have lost again.
This time, forever.
Chapter 23
It was over.
Milek had had his doubts—even after Jipping had killed himself. But Rus had found some crisp hundreds in the motel room. He had also found Jipping’s prints in the stolen truck. The teenager Logan had talked to had been wrong—or Jipping hadn’t worn gloves every time he’d been in the truck.
He must have been the one who’d tried running Candace off the road. He’d definitely been the one who’d shot at them in the parking garage. And ballistics would probably link the gun he’d used to kill himself to the gun that had killed Frank Campanelli.
It was really over.
Amber had no reason to stay with him anymore. She loved him. He knew it from the way she’d broken away from Agent Rus and run back into the motel room. Her face had been pale with terror; she’d been worried he’d been shot.
She’d clung to him when she’d realized he was all right. And his arms had instinctively closed around her. He hadn’t wanted to let her go then.
But he hadn’t wanted her to see what Brad Jipping had done to himself, either. So he’d had Candace bring her back to the condo.
He’d spent the rest of the night divided between the crime scene and talking to Rus back at the River City PD—even while he’d ached to be with her, to make love to her one last time in his bed before she left. But Rus had had questions, had wanted to tie up all the loose ends to be certain it was over before he let Milek leave.
He uttered a shaky sigh as he punched in the code for the door of the condo to slide open. The guards were gone from outside; nobody from Payne Protection lurked in the shadows anymore.
He suspected the inside was just as empty. She’d had plenty of time to pack up Michael and their things. His breath caught as he thought of his son—of having to let him go again, just as he had let Amber go five years before.
He should have been relieved to be alone again. Unlike his siblings, he enjoyed solitude; that was why he’d always spent so many hours alone painting. But that had changed when he’d met Amber; he’d always wanted to be with her instead. Until he’d realized what being with him would cost her: everything.
That hadn’t changed.
“Daddy’s home!” Little arms caught him around the knees as his son hugged him.
Love and pain constricted Milek’s heart. He reached for the child and swung him up into his arms. He was safe now. His son was safe.
Over the little boy’s head, he met Amber’s gaze, and he saw the same relief in her eyes. There was also a question in them. She wanted to make sure Agent Rus had closed the investigation.
He nodded.
“Me and Mommy are going to the park,” Michael said. “Do you want to go, too, Daddy? You can see how high I can get on the swings!”
Now the sense of longing constricted his heart. He wanted to go with them—wanted to be a family outside the walls of the condo. But he loved Amber too much to cost her the future she’d wanted—the one she’d had to put on hold for a year.
Michael’s small hand touched his cheek. “Daddy? Do you?”
More than anything. But he shook his head.
Michael’s bottom lip stuck out as disappointment darkened his silver eyes.
“Your daddy’s been up all night,” Amber said. “He needs to get some sleep.”
Michael ran his hand over the whiskers on his chin. “You need to shave, too.”
Milek laughed. He loved the boy so much. How would he walk away from him? He would have to work something out with Amber—some type of visitation. While he didn’t want to ruin her life, he wanted to be a part of his son’s life.
He hugged Michael closely, swinging the little boy around before releasing him with a quick kiss to his forehead. “Have fun at the park.”
Already over his disappointment that Milek wasn’t going along, Michael ran toward the door. He was probably excited to finally leave the condo. But Amber didn’t follow their son right away.
She stopped next to Milek and lifted her hand to his cheek the way their son had. But her touch had his skin tingling, had his pulse quickening.
“You look exhausted,” she said. “I hope you finally get some rest.” She knew he hadn’t slept well since he’d found her. She didn’t know about all his sleepless nights when he’d thought she and their son were dead.
He was beyond exhausted. So he just nodded.
Then she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you...”
He wasn’t sure what she was thanking him for. Not going to the park? Saving her life?
He wanted to kiss her back, wanted to close his arms around her. But he held his arms stiffly at his sides. And he forced himself to remain where he was—as she opened the door and left with their son.
He expected to find her bags in the bedroom—already packed and ready to go. But when he walked into the master suite, he found no suitcases. The bed had been made but the blankets were folded back—as if ready for him to crawl between the sheets.
He hadn’t slept all night. He should have been exhausted. He should have been relieved enough to sleep. But maybe it was the thought of her and Michael leaving, not just for the afternoon but forever, that kept him tense and unable to relax.
He couldn’t sleep. He could only lie there and worry. About her leaving.
About whether she and the boy were really safe...
But of course they were. Brad Jipping was dead. He couldn’t hurt them anymore. Evelyn Reyno
lds was in jail—unable to make bail. So even if she had a vendetta against Amber, she had no way to act on it now.
They were safe. Maybe it was just because they had been in danger so long that he struggled to accept it—that he felt as if he’d missed something. Was there another threat against them?
Or was the only other threat him?
* * *
While it was just early spring, the sun was shining so brightly the temperature felt warmer than it was. Amber breathed in the fresh air, grateful to finally be free to enjoy the park like the joggers and dog walkers who milled about. She didn’t have to look at them anymore—with suspicion, with fear—as she had looked at everyone the past year.
Now she could just watch her son as he pumped his legs on the swings. He squealed as he went higher and higher.
“Mommy, look at me! Look at me!”
“I’m looking,” she said. But her attention was divided. She kept glancing toward the parking lot. Not for threats but for the person she’d invited to join them.
Would she come?
Amber hoped so. She really needed to clear up the woman’s misconceptions—the ones Evelyn Reynolds had shared with her. Her pulse quickened when a Lincoln SUV pulled into the nearby parking lot. The driver sat behind the wheel for a while before finally stepping out.
In her expensive-looking wool overcoat, gloves and designer boots, the middle-aged blonde looked out of place in the neighborhood park. She was no soccer mom—no young nanny. She oozed money and class. She was an heiress, though, to her family fortune. Her money was old and her class ingrained.
Amber had met Mrs. Schievink before, but she hadn’t seen her since Gregory’s funeral. They had always been cordial with each other. She’d never detected any suspicion in the woman, hadn’t been aware she’d not only heard the rumors about Amber and her husband but she’d believed them.
She glanced at Michael—making sure he was happily swinging away before she walked over to meet the woman. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
“I was surprised you called,” Patricia Schievink said. “I’ve seen the news and know you’ve been going through a lot.”