MICHAEL'S GIFT

by Marilyn Pappano

  He didn't say anything but simply waited for her to ask.

  "Promise you won't get yourself killed on my account."

  His look was hard. "I have no intention of dying at any time in the near future."

  "Intent isn't a promise."

  "I've already broken one promise."

  "Telling Remy about me was no big deal. This is. Promise."

  He studied her for a time, then shook his head. "I can't, Valery."

  Thoughts of his visions, of threats and death, sent a chill rustling through her. "Because you think something might happen?"

  "Because I don't make promises I can't keep. I can promise you that I won't kill myself, that I won't step in front of a speeding car, that I won't carelessly walk into a dangerous situation. I can promise that I'll drive safely to try to avoid accidents, that I'll take the proper precautions at work and that I'll never start drinking again. But I can't control what other people do. I can't promise that someday someone won't try to kill me. I can't promise that they won't succeed. And I can't promise that, in some way, it won't have to do with you."

  I don't make promises I can't keep. Which meant he only made promises he could keep. And just this morning he'd promised her three things: to love her, to always be there for her—as much as it was in his control, she silently added—and never to leave her.

  He raised his hand to her hair, his touch so light that she barely felt it. "I can tell you this, Valery—whatever time we both have left, I want to spend it with you. I don't want to be alone because you're afraid to trust me."

  Tears welled in her eyes. "You might change your mind after you've spent more time with me. People tend to get tired of me after a while."

  "Maybe I will," he agreed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Ask me in…" His next kiss landed on her cheek. "Oh, about fifty years or so." His third kiss covered her mouth taking possession of it, sending warmth through her all the way down to her toes. He interrupted it only long enough to pull her shirt over her head, to strip off his own, and then he claimed her again, murmuring as he gently lowered her to the bed. "Maybe I'll have an answer then."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  Friday evening found Michael standing at the window, gazing out across the winter-dark sky. Behind him there was a murmur of conversation as Valery, Remy, Smith and Jolie finished the take-out fried chicken dinner the reporter had supplied. What would soon be a serious meeting at the moment resembled nothing more than an indoor picnic. The food was lined up on the dresser, paper plates were balanced on knees and laps, and the drinks were in chilled cans that came from a cooler, also provided courtesy of Jolie.

  Remy, Smith and Jolie had been busy the past two days. He knew from his own experience the vast wealth of knowledge you could pick up through legal channels, but he never failed to be amazed at the amount of information Jolie could learn through her own less-than-official sources. She had more informants on the street than any ten cops, Remy had grumbled. His respect was grudgingly given, but Michael outright admired her. She was damn good at what she did.

  And a large part of what she was doing now was making things easier for Valery. Realizing just how restricted to the room they were, she had made several trips out to bring food, a cooler full of drinks, some books and an armload of women's magazines. She took time on each brief visit to chat with Valery, woman to woman rather than reporter to subject. She made Valery laugh.

  This morning, earning Valery's undying friendship, she'd shown up with a stash of sweets, including enough chocolate to last at least a week. Right now they were sharing gooey marshmallow-and-walnut brownies, diet sodas and gossip from the latest People.

  Things were coming to a head. Another twenty-four or forty-eight hours, and Valery would be safe. She would be free to go back home.

  He hoped she understood that she would also be free to stay.

  He hoped she trusted him enough to make that choice.

  At last the rustle of plastic and paper signaled that dinner was over. Now business would begin. Turning from the window, he went to his usual place on the bed, close to Valery … but not close enough. He could never be close enough.

  Jolie started. Her story had run on the front page of Thursday's paper, and Remy had been officially removed from his duties soon after. It wasn't easy for him, Michael knew—having his co-workers look at him with suspicion and worse in their eyes. It wasn't easy letting his friends think he was dirty, playing a role he detested with everything in him.

  But it was only for a few days. By Monday morning he would be cleared. There was no such thing, Valery had told Michael once, as being proven innocent; once an accusation had been made, an idea planted, some people would always believe in your guilt. But that wouldn't be the case for Remy. With his boss, Smith and Smith's boss standing behind him, Remy would come out of this with his reputation intact.

  Michael hoped he came out with everything intact.

  "I couldn't find anything other than Nate himself to connect his family to Falcone," Jolie continued. "However, according to the neighbors, Mrs. Simmons is getting a new car sometime in the next couple of weeks, and she and her brothers have been flashing a lot of cash in the past week. She told the lady who was nosy enough to ask that it was from Nate's life insurance policy. Funny. I never knew a con artist and small-time thief who spent any of his profits on life insurance."

  "I don't know," Remy disagreed dryly. "In a sense, Mrs. Simmons is telling the truth. When Nate's life ended, Falcone came up with cash to ensure the family's cooperation. What about Travis?"

  "He's so clean, he squeaks," Smith replied. "His finances are in line, his neighbors all like him and think he's such a fine young man and he hasn't had so much as a parking ticket since he moved to Louisiana. He lives comfortably, but he doesn't have any expenses that can't be covered by his salary. He votes in every election, pays his bills on time and takes care of his landlady's cat when she's gone."

  Across the room Jolie was grinning like the aforementioned cat with a canary in its sights, but she didn't speak until, with an exasperated sigh, Smith prompted her. "And what did you find out about him, Ms. Wade?" he asked sardonically.

  "Don't you guys have to have background investigations or something before you're allowed to go to work?"

  "Of course."

  "Don't you ever do periodic reviews?"

  "Yes. Wilson's due for one next year."

  Shaking her head, she made a clucking sound. "Well, let me give you a heads-up—Special Agent Travis Wilson, Federal Bureau of Investigation, has a little gambling problem."

  Smith was studying Jolie with a narrow-eyed gaze—probably wondering, Michael thought, exactly where and how she had come across such information. Remy accepted the news with no real outward emotion, although his gaze seemed to grow more distant, his jaw a little more taut. Even though he'd never liked Wilson himself, Michael sympathized with him. Remy had been more than friendly to Wilson. He'd done his best to help Travis become a better investigator; he'd defended him and trusted him, and Travis had repaid him by turning on him. By trying to destroy his career. And all because he had a fondness for the horses, the cards and probably every game of chance that came along.

  "Your source—probably some government computer—says Wilson's finances are in line," Jolie went on smugly. "That he lives comfortably but within his salary. My sources—only some of the better patronized bookies in the city—say he's got problems. He likes to bet, only he hasn't got a clue. His instincts are so bad that you could bet against him and make a fortune. If he says the Saints will win, they'll lose. If he picks the first horse out of the gate, it'll be the last one across the finish line. He can put money down on a team that's on the hottest winning streak in the history of the game and still manage to lose."

  "So he's in debt—"

  She interrupted Smith. "Oh, no, no. He was in debt, so deep in debt that no one would take his action. And then one day he showed up
and had a wad of cash for everyone he owed. Since then, he's won a little, lost more, but he always covers his losses promptly. The bookies love him."

  "And he's getting the money from…?"

  "According to your computer, not his paycheck. My money's on New Orleans's friendly neighborhood banker. Jimmy Falcone."

  Michael finally turned his attention from Remy to Jolie. "When did he find this source of money to pay off his debts?"

  "About eight weeks ago. He explained it to each one as winnings from a bet placed elsewhere. Said he got lucky on a long shot."

  At last Remy stirred from his moodiness. "He got assigned to the Falcone case eight weeks ago."

  "So he didn't exactly lie," Jolie said with a shrug. "For someone with his talents, that was a long shot."

  Valery changed positions, making the mattress shift beneath them. "How did it start? Did he approach Falcone, or was it the other way around?"

  "It doesn't matter." Remy's tone was harsh, his scowl unforgiving.

  Reaching for her hand, Michael laced his fingers through hers and explained in a quieter, gentler voice, "All that matters is that Wilson took the money. He committed the crime. He sold out."

  Gradually he became aware that the tenor of the brief silence had changed, that the attention had shifted subtly from the problem of Travis Wilson to him and Valery. It was because he was holding her hand, he realized. In two days, neither of them had touched the other, had barely spoken to or even looked at the other in front of their friends. It wasn't anything they had planned, just an unspoken agreement, he supposed, to keep their relationship private.

  So they were holding hands. So what? They'd been more intimate than that before they'd ever even met. And the others would have found out eventually, when he convinced Valery to move in with him permanently. When they couldn't come to his apartment without finding her there. When he finally talked her into marrying him.

  Once again it was Jolie who spoke, getting the conversation back on track, drawing attention away from something no one was going to comment on. "We've got a murderer or two to catch, folks. Let's make some plans."

  Making plans. He liked that idea. They would work out a plan to send Jimmy Falcone and his thugs to prison, to get Travis Wilson in a cell he couldn't wiggle out of and to clear Remy's name.

  Then he intended to make some plans of his own.

  Plans that involved no one—for a while, at least—but him and Valery.

  Plans for a long and happy future.

  Together.

  * * *

  After a few days away, Michael's apartment felt more like home to Valery than her own place ever had. She walked in Saturday evening, happy to unpack her clothes and toss them into the laundry hamper with his. She looked forward to sleeping in his bed in his cozily dark bedroom, and to the pancakes and coffee he had promised her for breakfast Sunday morning.

  She was happy to be home. Even if Michael wasn't.

  Even if all she had for company was Jolie Wade and, outside the door and down in the square, an undisclosed number of unidentified cops.

  "You might as well sit down and get comfortable," Jolie said, curled up on the sofa with a magazine and a candy bar. "The meeting won't even start for another half hour. It might be midnight or later before Michael gets back."

  With a scowl, Valery dropped into the chair where he usually sat. "I don't understand why he had to go along," she said grumpily.

  "Yes, you do. Remy's his friend. A cop doesn't send somebody else for backup when his friend's in danger." After a moment, Jolie relented, put away the magazine, tossed half the candy bar to her and smiled. "It isn't easy, is it?"

  Valery bit into chocolate-coated peanut butter. "What?"

  "Falling in love with a cop. I don't think I could do it. Of course, I'm not going to fall in love with anyone, at least not before I win my Pulitzer, but when I do, it won't be a cop."

  "A Pulitzer? You don't ask much of yourself, do you?"

  Jolie's answering smile was easy, serious and tremendously satisfied. The reporter had already asked a great deal of herself, Valery knew instinctively, and she had met every challenge. Someday Jolie Wade would be a name that stirred recognition all over the country, not just in New Orleans, Louisiana. Someday she probably would win her Pulitzer.

  "What are your ambitions?"

  "Falling in love with a cop certainly wasn't one of them," Valery replied dryly. "I'm not sure I ever had any. Oh, I'd like to buy the shop where I work if the owner carries through with his promise to sell, but that's not some burning goal. Mostly…" Her voice grew soft, thoughtful. "I've tried to be independent, not to get involved with anyone, not to get too close to anyone and not to let anyone get too close to me."

  Jolie gave a low whistle. "Boy, have you failed miserably. You need to set some new goals, Valery—like marrying a cop and raising a bunch of little cops. Like resolving things with your cousin, healing your family, healing Michael. Like getting close to someone who's already close to you. Like living your life instead of watching it pass you by."

  Marrying Michael. It was a lovely proposition … and one that was within her reach—if she found the courage to try.

  Marrying Michael in that little white church that he'd painted so bleakly, in his father's church in Titusville, Arkansas, with his father officiating and his entire family—their entire families—in attendance.

  Marrying Michael and living happily ever after, raising a brood of little cops, and artists and gourmet cooks.

  It was a wonderful ambition, one she wanted so desperately that it hurt.

  It would be a dream come true.

  Provided that she could stop waiting for the dream to turn into a nightmare.

  "Explain to me what they're doing tonight." She had sat in on the meetings, had listened to them plan and organize, but she'd heard the words danger and risk, and the rest had sailed right over her head. She'd been too cold and afraid inside to let anything else penetrate.

  Jolie was more than willing to comply. At Smith's request, Travis Wilson had been summoned to the U.S. Attorney's office that morning, where he'd been met by Michael, Smith and his boss, and Remy and his boss. They had confronted him with what they knew, and they had offered him a deal. "It wasn't much of a deal," she mused thoughtfully. "The terms weren't particularly favorable. I mean, with Nate Simmons, it was 'Help us bust Falcone, and we won't send you to prison.' With Wilson, it's 'Help us bust Falcone, and we won't send you to prison for the entire rest of your life—just most of it.' Anyway, Wilson caved in, confessed everything and agreed to help."

  His help, in this case, had consisted of playing out the game with Falcone. He had called the man, had told him that Remy's career was over, that Remy was angry and bitter and looking for some payback. He had valuable services to offer, Wilson had reminded Falcone, and after the way the bureau had treated him, he was in the market to sell those services to the highest bidder. He was looking for a job that would make use of all his years of FBI experience, something that would pay handsomely and, most of all, something that would give him the satisfaction of thwarting the very department that had cut him loose.

  It had taken some doing, but Falcone had at last agreed to a meeting, scheduled to begin in another fifteen minutes, at a wharf a short distance down the river. Michael and Smith were already there, Michael as part of the backup team, Smith to listen to the conversation via Remy's wire and let them know when the conversation had gotten incriminating enough.

  "You think Travis will cooperate fully?" Valery asked.

  "He has no choice. He's screwed either way. He's got to work the best deal he can get, and that's playing with the bureau. When it's all over, Remy's name will be cleared, Falcone and his thugs will be on their way to jail and you'll be safe again."

  If everything went according to plan, Valery considered.

  Everyone, including Jolie, had seemed confident that it would, but their plan, she thought uneasily, counted on Jimmy Falcone being
a fool. He would have to be a tremendous fool if he believed that Remy would sell out.

  But hadn't she believed the same thing herself—sort of—less than two weeks ago?

  She had been a fool, too.

  But no more. Doubting Remy had been one of her last mistakes.

  Doubting Michael was the last.

  When he came back tonight, she was going to tell him that she loved him. She was going to ask him to marry her. She was going to warn him that she would hold him to his promises, especially the ones of the forever - and - ever - till - death - us - do - part variety.

  With a deep breath, Jolie finished. "So they get their bad guys, you get Michael back and, even though I'm here babysitting you, I get the story first."

  "And how will that work when they're at the wharf and you're here?"

  "Smith promised to call the instant it's over. I'll leave you to your bodyguards, and I'm hightailing it to the scene."

  "He just agreed to do that," Valery said with some skepticism.

  Jolie's smile was filled with self-pride. "Actually I talked him into it. After all, here you are, Remy's cousin and Michael's sweetie. Naturally you'd be worried sick about them, and letting you know they were safe was the least he could do in return for all the help you've been."

  Valery rose from her chair and headed for the kitchen. "I realize you didn't do it for me," she called over her shoulder, "but thank you anyway. I do want to know."

  Opening the freezer door, she began searching through plastic-bagged and foil-wrapped packages, seeking something for dinner. She had just settled on a heavy-duty bag labeled crabmeat gumbo when her stomach gave a slightly disorienting heave. Straightening, she closed the freezer door and set the bag on the counter, then rested her hand on her waist. Maybe she wasn't hungry, after all. Maybe her stomach was reacting to all the rich food Jolie had been bringing around the past few days. Maybe she was…