Merciless (10 page)

 

Rourke installed dead bolts and window locks. He also brought thermal curtains, heavy ones, for the windows. He didn't tell her that a sniper would have a field day with
the block of apartments overlooking hers. She wouldn't have thought that anyone would be crazy enough to shoot at her or the boy.

That diary really puzzled him. He went out to get something to eat, and while he was out, he made two more telephone calls. Joceline would have had a heart attack if she'd heard the topic of discussion.

 

Joceline didn't sleep well. She was certainly safe enough. Rourke had kipped down on the sofa in the living room, despite her protests, fully dressed. She was uncomfortable with a man in her apartment, but she couldn't say much. That phone call with just heavy breathing had terrified her. She wasn't afraid for herself, but she was afraid for Markie. There were good reasons that she didn't advertise anything about his beginnings. Now they could serve to end his young life.

She tossed and turned. Jon would be all right, Kilraven had told her he was certain of it. But she couldn't get the picture of his white face and closed eyes and bloodstained lips out of her mind. He was such a strong, lively man that it was more disturbing to see him helpless. If he died, she didn't know what she'd do. She'd made decisions that had come back to haunt her. Perhaps she shouldn't have kept secrets. It had seemed the only possibility at the time. But, now…

She got up just before daylight and went into the kitchen to make breakfast, bleary-eyed and sleepy.

Rourke glanced into the kitchen. She was already fully
dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt. She wouldn't wear that rig to work, of course, but she wasn't making food in her nightgown with a strange man in her apartment.

“Hungry?” she asked, smiling as he joined her in the doorway.

“I could eat. Cereal?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I make biscuits and eggs and bacon for Markie. I want to send him to school with a good breakfast.”

“Biscuits? Real biscuits?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.” She got out a wrought-iron skillet. “I make them in this,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the coal-black surface. “It belonged to my great-grandmother. It's the only real heirloom I have.”

“Impressive,” he said, and meant it. “I haven't seen one of these since I was a kid myself.”

She smiled. “It brings back a lot of memories.”

“Did you know your great-grandmother?”

“Oh, no, she died before I was even born. But my grandmother talked about her all the time.”

He frowned. “What about your parents?”

She swallowed. “My father died, years ago. My mother and I don't speak.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too. It would have been nice if Markie had some grandparents of his own.”

He pursed his lips and watched her deft hands make the dough and roll it out and cut it.

“You do that very well,” he said.

She laughed. “I've had lots of practice.”

“You can cook. But you won't make coffee at the office.”

“It's a matter of principle,” she replied. “If I start doing menial tasks, I won't ever stop. My job is demanding. I spend most of the day on the phone trying to track down information, talking to people, making contacts. There's a rhythm. If I break it to go make coffee or start serving it to visitors, I lose my concentration.”

“I see.”

“My boss doesn't,” she said with a wicked little grin. “But over the years he's learned to accept it.” She put the biscuits in the preheated oven. “He looked terrible,” she said, her expression far away.

“Gunshot victims mostly do,” he said. “But his injuries were slight, compared to what they could have been, I assure you.”

She turned to look at him. “You think he'll really be all right?” she asked, concerned.

“Of course.”

She studied him intently for a moment. “You've been shot,” she said.

He nodded, and he didn't smile. “Twice. Once in the chest, once in the leg. Neither occasion was pleasant.”

“They say Africa is a very dangerous place.”

“It is,” he agreed. “It depends on where you go. But violence is international. You find it in a lot of places.”

“I guess so.”

“I am South African, but I have a place in Kenya, near a game preserve,” he told her, and his expression was
wistful. “I have a manager there to oversee it, but I miss being able to do that myself. I spend a lot of time traveling. More than I like.”

“You work in a dangerous profession.”

He pursed his lips. “Dear girl, you don't know what my profession is.”

“Oh, I think I could make an educated guess,” she retorted.

“Which would be wrong. I don't work outside the law.”

“Well!”

He nodded. “You remember that.”

She laughed and shook her head.

 

She took Markie to school. She took time to talk to Mr. Morrison about the break-in and the threat by Monroe. He was furious that someone would threaten a child. He promised to keep a careful eye on Markie and make sure his teacher knew the situation.

Then she drove to the hospital. She knew she was going to have a war trying to get past Cammy Blackhawk, but she was going anyway. She couldn't go on with her job and her life without knowing for herself how Jon was.

She walked into the lobby and up to the desk, to ask which room in ICU he was in and if she could see him. But they'd already moved him out of ICU into a room, she was told. Her heart lifted. He couldn't be dying if they'd done that!

It turned out to be a private room on the second floor,
very clean and bright. She stopped in the doorway, gripping her purse, waiting for Cammy to explode out into the hall and tell her to go away.

Jon turned his head on the pillow and spotted her. His dark eyes brightened. “Come in.”

She looked around warily.

“She's not here.” His voice was strained. “She's gone shopping with the fashion adviser.”

She laughed then walked to the bed and looked down at him quietly. “I'm glad you're better.”

“I'm better?” he asked with a grimace.

“You must be, or you'd still be occupying a cubicle in ICU,” she assured him. “I called the office but they said I didn't have to go in today. I told them I was coming to see you,” she added. “Everyone sends their regards and some of the other agents in your squad are coming to see you as soon as visitors are allowed.”

“I work with a great group of people.” He drew in a painful breath. “I'm going home to Oklahoma, to the ranch, when they release me. I won't be able to work at the office for a couple of weeks, and the scenery is better there. So is the security,” he added grimly. He looked at her pointedly. “You're coming with me.”

Her heart flipped over. “I…I…what?”

“You and the child,” he said curtly. “Rourke told my brother what happened. You're not going to be killed because I made an enemy.”

Her legs felt wobbly. “I can't go to Oklahoma,” she
said quickly. “I'd have to take a leave of absence and take Markie out of school…!”

“Details that can be worked out quite easily. I sent Mac to deal with all that.” He waved an elegant hand and winced at the movement.

“But…!”

“Don't argue,” he said heavily. “I'm in no condition for a fight.”

She bit her lower lip. There were a dozen good reasons why she shouldn't let Markie be anywhere around this man, ever. She couldn't find an argument that would work without telling the truth, which would never do.

“It's a nice ranch,” he said curtly. “Your son loves animals. He can even ride a horse.”

“No!”

“Joceline, both Mac and I were riding ponies at the age of three,” he told her. “I wouldn't let him get hurt. We have cowboys trained to work with disabled children who come to the ranch to ride our horses.”

“You do?” She was surprised. She'd never thought that disabled people could ride.

“Yes.” He shifted and grimaced. He was sore and sick. He hated being confined to a bed, being hospitalized. It was the first time in his law enforcement career that he'd suffered a bullet wound. He could remember vividly the sense of sudden slowing when the bullet hit. He'd not felt the pain at first, just a hard blow, like a fist in his back. Then everything slowed down and he saw the sidewalk
coming up to hit him, and felt blood in his mouth. It had been an absolute shock.

“You shouldn't be moving around,” Joceline said, concerned. “You might reopen the wound.”

He glared at her. “I have my mother to harass me about such things. I don't need you to help her!”

She bit her lip again. Faint color touched her cheeks. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue. Won't happen again.” She crossed her heart.

He laughed despite himself and then groaned, because it hurt.

“Another slip. Very sorry,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to see you, to make sure that you were all right.”

“I got shot,” he said icily. “I'm not all right!”

“You're not dead, either,” she reminded him.

He sank back on the pillows and fiddled with the lightweight sheet and blanket that covered him. The hospital gown was barely visible above it. “I'm freezing to death,” he muttered. “I want a real blanket and a comforter. And I want to go home!”

The nurse stuck her head around the door and grimaced. “Sir, could you complain in a little quieter manner?” she asked gently. “There's a gentleman next door recuperating from a knife wound. He's trying to sleep.”

Jon glared at her.

She cleared her throat, and walked back out.

Jon muttered unspeakable things under his breath.

“Your mother will have kittens if you even suggest
taking me to Oklahoma,” Joceline told him firmly. “I cannot work in a combat zone.”

He sighed. “Neither can I, really, but what sort of choice do we have?” he asked. His black eyes narrowed. “Rourke told me that you had a break-in at your apartment and that there was a harassing phone call.”

She looked as tired as she felt. “Yes. We had to call the police and have them investigate. Markie was scared to death until one of the investigators gave him a piece of chewing gum and enthused over his Diego toys,” she added, alluding to a children's program on TV.

Jon was surprised. “Not your typical investigator.”

“It was Rick Marquez,” she said, laughing. “He's sort of in a class all his own. He knows Rourke, too, apparently.”

“Most people in law enforcement know Rourke, or know about him,” he added. He shifted and grimaced again. “I don't want you alone in your apartment until we get the case wrapped up. Peppy may have been involved in my niece's murder. If that's the case, and he's helping Monroe get even with me, he'd have no problem shooting another child,” he added meaningfully. He didn't say that he was convinced that Monroe would never have been able to carry out the shooting without flubbing it.

She knew what he was referring to. It made her pale. “That being said, I would feel safer at your ranch. I understand you have at least one retired federal agent on your payroll.”

“We have three,” he corrected, “plus a former hit man for the mob.”

She stared at him without blinking.

He laughed. “He was very young and desperate when he did his first job. He was tricked into it and he didn't fire the fatal shot. He did go to prison and he was able to redeem himself before he became a hardened criminal. He did his time and paid the price. It was twenty-five years ago. He needed a job when he got out and he'd worked with livestock at the prison where he served his time. I talked to him there several times when I was interviewing convicts on current cases.”

She was still leery.

“You'll understand when you meet him. I'll have our private jet fly you and Markie up there tomorrow.”

“Your mother…”

“She's on her way to Paris tonight, with the fashion consultant, to see the new spring lines,” he said in a droll tone. “I promised to call her daily about my progress. She'll never know you were there.”

“You should tell her,” she said worriedly.

“If I do, you'll never arrive. She'll commandeer the plane and land you on a desert island somewhere.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

“It's only for a few days. When you come home, we'll have to make some sort of security arrangements to keep you and Markie safe. I've already talked to the SAC about giving you time off to help me work on cases at the ranch.”

She hated her financial inability to do anything about
that, but she had no choice except to accept help. She couldn't put Markie at risk.

“It will be all right,” he assured her.

“Nothing ever really is,” she mused. She smiled. “I'm glad you're getting better.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

“I'll have the pilot phone you tonight,” he told her. “Is Rourke staying?”

She glowered at him. “Yes. He won't leave and I'm not strong enough to pick him up and toss him out the door.”

He smiled. “He's the best at what he does. Don't argue.”

“Okay.”

His eyes searched hers and held them. It was like a mild electric shock. “I'll see you tomorrow, Joceline.” His deep voice was almost purring.

She drew in a steadying breath. Her heart was turning cartwheels. “Okay.”

He smiled. “Thanks for coming to see about me.”

She shifted. “It's in my job description. Take dictation, run down leads, keep a neat filing system online and come see the boss when some idiot shoots him.” She glanced at him. “But I don't make coffee.”

He just shook his head. But there was a light in his dark eyes that was puzzling. She thought about it all the way home.