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Chapter Fifty-one

J
ohn looked at the dashboard clock and groaned. It was close to midnight, and Turner was just now driving him home to his apartment.
The hospital had wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but he had stood firm: he wanted to sleep in his own bed. Fortunately,
Turner wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t sure the ER doctor would’ve let him go, otherwise, but since there was an able-bodied driver,
the doc couldn’t very well refuse. Thank God. John’d had enough of monotonous medical procedures and hospitals by that time.

They had been in the lake over an hour before being rescued by helicopter. The minute they’d landed, Hyman was taken into
custody, John and Dante had been medivacced out in another helicopter, and Turner was left to follow by car with Squeaky.
He still wasn’t sure how she’d found a car to drive back to Milwaukee. His Chevy Silverado, along with much of the surrounding
forest, must have been ashes by that point. He’d been worried about Dante and the delay in getting him help. The younger man
had been unconscious by the time the helicopter rescued them. He’d lost quite a bit of blood, and his shoulder blade was cracked,
but the docs were cautiously optimistic that with care he’d fully recover.

“Turn here,” John directed Turner. She’d been silent most of the ride.

Squeaky, a little singed and a lot smelling of lake, snored in the back. The glow from the dash softly lit Turner’s face.
John watched her. She had a red welt on the side of her neck, probably a burn spot. She’d been so strong today, so fearless.
And in the end, she’d relinquished the treasure in her grasp—evidence of Hyman’s crimes—for him.

What could a man say to a woman who’d sacrificed so much?

He opened his mouth, but then they turned into the parking lot. John frowned and decided what he had to say could wait until
they’d gotten inside and had a chance to sit down. They parked, and he climbed out of the car carefully. They’d given him
a painkiller at the hospital, but his head still felt like a semi had hit him.

“Are you okay?” Turner watched him worriedly, probably afraid that he’d fall down and she’d have to drag his sorry ass up
a flight of stairs.

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she made no reply. They went in the building and up the stairs, and he tried to find the right
phrase for what he wanted to say. He halted in the hall beside his apartment.

“Turner . . .” He grimaced and fished in his pocket for the key.

She looked at him. “What?”

“I—”

“Dad!”

My God.
He swung around at the feminine voice. Rachel was behind him. Taller, her blond hair longer. His first stunned thought was
that she looked so mature.

“Rachel?” he asked stupidly.

She frowned—scowled, really. “Who is this? Is she why you haven’t been answering my calls?”

“Rachel, why don’t you come inside?” He fumbled at the door.

“I want an answer,
John.
I want one now. She—”

“A bullet grazed your father’s head today,” Turner said evenly. “An inch over and he would be dead right now.”

Rachel swung her scowl to Turner. “What right do you have—” The meaning of Turner’s words seemed to hit her. Her face opened,
her eyebrows drawing up, her mouth widening. “Daddy?”

John grimaced. “Come inside—”

But then a strident voice interrupted him. “Rachel!”

They all turned. Well, shit. This was just perfect. Amy was rushing toward them with, yup, Dennis the asshole in tow. His
head felt like it was about to explode.

“Rachel!” Her mother skidded to a halt in front of the girl, hands on hips. “What were you thinking to come here without even
telling me or your father?”

Dennis, behind Amy, lifted a hand and mouthed
hi
to him. John nodded wearily. The guy was really all right. For an asshole.

“Is this something you cooked up, Mac?” Amy narrowed her eyes at him. “I would expect that—”

“She wants to know why you two divorced,” Turner said.

“What?” Amy blinked. “Who the hell are you?”

“She’s his girl,” Rachel sneered.

John felt his temper spike. “Turner,” he said clearly and loudly, “is the woman I’m going to marry.”

Rachel’s mouth dropped open, Dennis blinked, and Amy—for once—evidently couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Um,” Turner cleared her throat in the silence. “You all have a lot to talk about, and John needs to sit down. Rachel, why
don’t you take your father’s arm before he keels over?” Against all expectations, his daughter rushed to his side. “I’ll just
go down and get Squeaky.” She nodded at Amy. “Nice meeting you.”

And the one person he wanted to stay left.

John sighed. Fine. This was going to be a painful discussion no matter when it happened. Might as well get it over with while
he was high on codeine. But then Rachel put her shoulder under his arm and helped him into his own apartment like she really
thought he needed support. That was gratifying in a bittersweet way. He could smell some kind of perfume in her hair. His
little girl used perfume.

“Maybe we ought to come back another time,” Dennis said. “John’s obviously been hurt—”

“No, no, stay.” John made himself smile. “Let’s go inside and talk.”

“I’ll go get you a glass of water,” Amy said, oddly subdued.

Dennis excused himself and disappeared into the bathroom. John sat on his boring beige couch with his daughter beside him.
He already missed Turner.

“What happened to you?” Rachel asked. “Was she right? Did you get shot at?”

“Yeah, but the other guy missed. I’m okay, really. The bandage is a lot bigger than it needs to be.”

She seemed to think about that for a moment. Amy was taking longer in the kitchen than she needed to. Maybe she was giving
them some time alone.

“Are you really going to marry her?” Rachel whispered.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Her lips trembled at the corners.

“I’ll always love you, no matter what,” John said carefully. “You’ll always be my daughter.”

“No. You gave me up three years ago.” But despite her words, she huddled more closely to him.

John sighed. “That’s what you wanted, sweetheart. You said you thought of Dennis as your father and you didn’t need me in
your life anymore.”

“Maybe . . .” She took a deep breath. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

He felt his lips curve as giddy hope swam in his veins. “That’s allowed.”

Amy came back into the room. She gave him a glass of ice water and sat down in a chair across from them. “You worried the
hell out of me, Rachel. What’s this all about?”

John took a sip of the water and was silent.

“She was right,” Rachel finally said. “Dad’s . . . fiancée. I want to know why you and Daddy broke up.”

Amy looked wary. “You already know—”

“No, I don’t! Not the truth. There’s more, I know there’s more—”

“Your mother and I were sleeping together,” Dennis said. John hadn’t even noticed him reenter the room.

“Dennis,” Amy said faintly.

He didn’t look at her. “It was pretty tacky of us, because Mom was still married to Mac. But we were in love, and sometimes
even adults make mistakes in that state. When Mac found out, he divorced your mother.”

John winced. “The infidelity happened because of many things. I was gone frequently—”

“But it wasn’t my fault,” Rachel murmured.

“No, of course not!” her mother exclaimed.

John watched Rachel thoughtfully. “Why did you think it was your fault?”

She shrugged and looked down at her hands. “I always felt there was something you all were keeping from me. A-and I remember
that I cried a lot when I was little. Before you left.”

He frowned. “So?”

“I thought maybe you didn’t like it.” She stared at him with her big, lake blue eyes.

It took him a second to get it, probably because it was late and his system was full of painkillers. She thought the normal
tantrums of a small child had driven him away. How could she? Rachel was an intelligent girl—he knew that, even if he was
biased, being her father. How could she think he’d leave because she’d thrown a hissy fit now and then? But was anyone smart
when it came to their own family? And he and Amy had held back the real reason for the divorce. No wonder she’d jumped to
the wrong conclusion.

“No.” He was shaking his head even as the thought crossed his mind. Amy still looked confused. “Nothing—
nothing
—you did broke us up, Rachel. If anything, your mother and I stayed together longer because of you.”

Amy frowned, an odd look dawning on her face. “Rachel, darling . . .”

Then they started talking. Explaining and reassuring. Something they all should’ve done a long, long time ago. It took only
an hour, but it felt like a lifetime of tension had been broken. By the end, John was drained of whatever stamina he still
had left, but he’d come to a new understanding with his daughter.

“We’ll e-mail you the airline confirmation,” Amy said briskly at the door. They’d decided that Rachel could come visit him
in a week or so—after she’d gone home and sorted things out with her mother and adopted father. “She’ll only be able to stay
a few days. School begins right after Labor Day.”

“That will be a good start,” he said, trying to keep his eyes open. Where was Turner?

“Bye, Daddy.” Rachel looked awkward a moment, then lunged into his arms and hugged him painfully. Not that he let that show
on his face. “I love you.”

“Love you, too.” He leaned, he hoped casually, on the doorway and watched them walk away down the hall.

The moment they disappeared around the corner, he went looking for Turner, even though he felt like warmed-over shit. She’d
said that she was going to get Squeaky over an hour ago—where was she? He hadn’t meant to blurt out a wedding proposal in
front of Rachel. If you could call such a blunt statement a wedding proposal. John winced. It hadn’t been the time or place.
He’d been envisioning something along the lines of a candlelit dinner and white wine. Instead, he’d shown all the finesse
of a bull rhino. He hurried down the stairs and looked out at the lit parking lot.

Her car wasn’t there.

He stared for a moment more in disbelief, then turned back inside. The stairway going up looked longer than it’d been going
down. Turner was skittish of intimacy, of getting close to other people. Maybe she’d used the excuse of his daughter showing
up to make a run for it.

Christ.

His head was pounding dully by the time he reached his door. He knew her home address, but she was so squirrelly that she
might’ve gone into hiding again. He’d have to find out—

The phone rang from inside his apartment. He swore and fumbled with the door, having somehow forgotten how to work the knob.

He got it open, slammed it behind him, and dove for the ringing phone. “Yeah?”

“Special Agent John MacKinnon?”

He shut his eyes in relief and came close—very close—to crying. “Yeah, baby.”

Turner cleared her throat, the small sound erotic even over a phone wire. “Has your family gone?”

“They’ve gone. But only Rachel’s my family. And you.”

She didn’t comment on that. “Would you mind if Squeaky and I turned ourselves in now?”

He sagged against the wall. “I’d like that. Where are you?”

“Open your door.”

He straightened and looked at the door he’d just shut. Hardly believing, he opened it.

Turner stood on the other side, phone to her ear, humongous dog beside her. She smiled at him.

Chapter Fifty-two

J
ohn looked so tired when he opened the door. That was Turner’s first thought. She should have saved this for tomorrow. Should’ve
found a motel room and let him sleep in peace. The bandage they’d used to cover his head wound at the hospital looked large
and white against his salt-and-pepper hair.

But then he reached out and pulled her into his arms. The cheap little cell phone she’d just bought at an all-night convenience
store fell from her hand and clattered to the floor. And she forgot about her worry. John was kissing her as if she were the
elixir to everlasting life. As if she were the most important thing in his world.

As if he loved her.

She knew tears were running down her cheeks. She could taste them on his lips, but she didn’t care. She’d come home. She’d
finally come home after four long years of isolation. Four long years of living on the outside, peering in on her own life.
She could let Rusty rest, let her anger at Calvin settle, and finally look around. She could get on with her own life.

With this man.

John somehow got her inside his apartment, his mouth all but devouring hers. His phone began ringing, but she ignored the
sound. They bumped against furniture, careened off a wall. Neither one of them wanted to break the kiss. She hoped his eyes
were open, because hers sure weren’t. Somewhere Squeaky sighed, and there was a thump as he probably lay down. Then she forgot
the dog.

John had maneuvered them into the bedroom and was busy stripping off her T-shirt. To do that, he had to lift his mouth from
hers. “Never leave me,” he muttered as he threw her T-shirt on a chair.

“I won’t.” The phone kept ringing. “Are you going to answer that?”

“I don’t want to chase after you all over hell and back.” His fingers were on her front bra clasp. He seemed to be having
trouble with it. “Did that already. I don’t need to do it again.”

“Of course not. Um, the phone?”

He got the bra off and triumphantly tossed it over his shoulder. She didn’t see where it landed. He was still muttering. “I
thought you’d gone.”

“I hadn’t. I just went to the store to get Squeaky some food and to buy a cell. Speaking of which, are you going to answer
that phone?”

He swore violently and lunged for the bedside phone.
“What?”

Turner busied herself pulling back his brown bedspread. She was going to have to get him something with more color—maybe red?

“Fine. Good. Thanks.” John hung up the phone while whoever it was on the other end went on squawking. He pulled the phone
cord from the wall and turned to her purposely. “You’re not going to jail.”

“What?”

“That was my boss—”

Turner’s eyes widened in horror. “You hung up on your boss?”

“Yeah.” His eyes were narrowed on her breasts. “He says the bank isn’t pressing charges against you, and under the circumstances,
Mrs. Hyman won’t, either.”

“But how—?”

“I called Tim—my ASAC—from the hospital to see if he could fix it. He could.”

“Why—?”

But he wasn’t listening. He’d opened his mouth wide over her breast. It was like sinking into a hot, humid cavern. Turner
gasped and gasped again when he wrapped his big hands around her rib cage and lifted her against him. He walked with her to
the bed, his mouth still on her breast, and placed her on the end. Her legs hung off the edge. He knelt there on the floor
between her legs and licked his way down her bare torso.

Turner tried to prop herself up on her elbows. “John, shouldn’t you come to bed, too? You’ve got a head injury.”

“It’s only a scratch.” He grinned boyishly from between her thighs as he unsnapped her shorts. “I’ve always wanted to say
that. Besides, I’m feeling better now.”

And he yanked her shorts off.

Well, she’d made her token protest. If he was determined to make love to her, she saw no point in dissuading him. And he’d
already parted her legs. John bent his head and licked her, right between the folds of her vulva. Turner flopped back on the
bed and closed her eyes. My, oh my, the man knew what he was doing. She reached down and ran her hands through his short hair,
feeling the strands like silk against her palms. Her hands brushed against the bandage at his temple. And once again she felt
tears prick at her eyes. Which was silly, considering what he was doing to her and how much she liked it. She had come so
close to losing him. Had the bullet been an inch over, he would’ve died. She would’ve lost this bond, this love with him.

John circled her clit with his tongue. She gasped and jolted. Then he began deliberately licking her, over and over again,
relentlessly torturing that small nubbin of flesh. She bit her lower lip. The feeling was almost too intense.

“John.” She arched against the hands holding her hips, but he held her firmly. “John . . .”

She’d never let another man do this to her. It had always seemed too intimate. And it was. It was. But she spread her legs
wider and welcomed him. Him and his love.

Because this was John.

She felt so warm. So hot. She couldn’t take much more of this, and she didn’t want him to ever stop. “John—”

He slowly pressed his thumb into her and at the same time bit gently, firmly on her clit. She shook, her head thrown back,
her hips arching. A wave of intense light spread through her, widening, widening, until she simply lay there, gasping. She
was sublimely at peace. She was with John.

She felt the bed move as he took his hands away from her, and for a moment she was cold. Then he was back. He lifted her and
pulled her up until she lay fully on the bed. She felt him grasp her hips again, and his cock nudged against her sensitive
flesh. She opened her eyes. He was poised above her, his pale eyes grave, the lines on his face looking as if they were carved.

“I love you,” he said as he began to enter her. “I want you to know that. Now and forever.”

He thrust heavily into her. She opened her mouth at the intrusion, at the feel of his penis in her.

But he wasn’t done.

“You don’t have to respond now. I know it’s too soon. We’ve only known each other a week.” He lay, his pelvis pressed fully
into her, warm and heavy.

She tried to move against him—he wasn’t thrusting—but his weight prevented her. “I—”

“Just give me time to get to know you. To court you. I won’t force anything.”

She doubted that. After all, he’d chosen to make his declaration when he was inside of her. And John was the kind of guy who
couldn’t help but coerce, even when he tried not to.

He frowned a little. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. Holding still was costing him, she could tell. “I want you
to know—”

She smiled and touched a finger to his lips, quieting him. “I love you, John MacKinnon.”

The lines eased a bit on his face. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He moved his hips, readjusting his weight. Oh, my, that felt wonderful. She almost let her eyelids fall, but she kept them
open with an effort.

He withdrew slowly. “Because—”

“John?”

He froze.
Not
what she’d been hoping for.

She took a deep breath and concentrated. “I love you with all my heart and soul. You are the sun and the stars to me. I feel
whole when we’re together. And, just for the record—and even though you didn’t officially ask me—yes, I will marry you and
be your wife until the day I die.”

He blinked. “Uh, well . . . good.”

She wrapped her legs around his hips. Tight. “Now. Is that settled?”

“Yeah.”

She looked him sternly in the eye. “Good. Please make love to me until I scream.”

A slow grin spread over his face. “Yes, ma’am.”

And he did.