Return of a Hero (17 page)

The wind tugged at Laura’s overcoat, and she pulled the collar up, protecting her exposed neck. New York at nine o’clock on Monday morning was windy and cold. Eyes focused straight ahead, Morgan appeared impervious to the vicious wind that tore at his dark brown leather jacket, jeans and work boots. He looked like a construction worker. Or perhaps a grim soldier with a mission to accomplish.

She was getting a taste of his other side now. The side that had survived Hill 164 and the Legion. There was no forgiveness in Morgan’s set features as his narrowed gray gaze roved down the street. Shivering, she hurried to keep up, feeling sympathy for the drunks who lay on the sidewalk. At each one Morgan would stop. If the person was conscious, he’d pull out a photocopied picture of Lenny Miles and ask if they knew him.

An alley came into view. Morgan halted, searching the trash-scattered depths of the area. Spotting someone lying by a dumpster, he walked in that direction. All the time his senses were screamingly alive. The wind tugged at him, and he bowed his head slightly. Rain was coming, and soon, judging from the darkening clouds above the city.

Leaning down, Morgan tapped the man in the soiled wool coat. “Hey, buddy, are you awake?”

The man growled a curse, slowly unwrapping from a fetal position. He looked up, his eyes red and watery. “What you want?”

Morgan pulled out the picture of Miles from his pocket. “I’m looking for someone.” He placed the picture in front of the bloodshot eyes of the drunk. “You ever seen this guy? His name is Lenny Miles.”

The drunk rolled back over and curled up. “Get outa here. I ain’t seen ’im.”

Straightening, Morgan perused the rest of the alley. It was empty. He glanced at Laura. The compassion on her face gripped his heart. Taking her by the arm, he turned her around and headed back out the alley.

“You’re not going to make it,” he told her tightly.

“I will, too!”

“You’re ready to cry.”

“So what?” Laura jerked out of his grip, glaring up at him. “Since when can’t I feel for these street people? It’s cold and windy out here. That old man didn’t have enough clothes on to keep him warm. He was shivering!”

Morgan couldn’t stand the fact that he’d brought tears to her eyes. He and Laura had been pounding the pavement for almost two hours since their arrival. He’d gotten them two rooms at a hotel not far from skid row, and they had left shortly thereafter to begin the hunt.

“Laura, you aren’t cut out for this,” he said patiently, walking back toward the street.

“Who is?” Laura shot back, giving him an accusing stare. “You can’t tell me you enjoy this. Or that you don’t feel sorry for these people.”

“We all have our personal hells to deal with,” he muttered.

Laura choked in a breath. He was right: the sight of those destitute and helpless people was tearing her up. Somehow she was going to have to steel herself against their misery long enough to help Morgan. She saw the frustration and anger in his eyes.

Morgan glanced up at the sky. “It’s going to start raining like hell in a minute.” He took in her pale face, her eyes that burned with stubbornness. “Sure you don’t want to go back to the hotel?”

“No. As long as you’re out on the street, I’m staying with you.”

“Okay, wingman, let’s get going.”

She managed a one-cornered smile at his use of the term
wingman
. No fighter pilot flew without another fighter beside him. It was a protective measure. As they headed deeper into skid row, Laura began to see street gang members; two or three young men wearing the symbol of their gang on the backs of their jackets. There was a tension in Morgan, and suddenly Laura was grateful for his military training and abilities. This was no place for a woman alone.

The rain began violently with huge drops exploding like minibombs all around them. Laura shielded her eyes with her hand. Morgan simply hunched more deeply into the jacket, pulling up the collar to protect the back of his neck. The streets began to clear.

Halting at a basement tavern, Morgan pulled her close beside the ramshackle establishment to protect her from the storm. The paint was peeling off the front and the window was caked with grease and dirt. Frustration thrummed through him. Laura had no business being here! She was like a beautiful lily in the midst of a garbage pile. He tightened his fingers on her arm.

“We’re going into this joint. Stick close.”

Nodding, she followed on his heels as he opened the creaking door. Clouds of cigarette smoke and the odor of stale alcohol hit her sensitive nostrils. It took precious seconds for her eyes to adjust to the smoky gloom within the tavern. Laura pressed herself against Morgan’s back, feeling eyes upon her. There were men and women sitting at round wooden tables, talking in lowered voices. The pungent scent of unwashed bodies assailed her as she moved forward with Morgan toward the bartender behind the counter.

Morgan pulled out the photo, thrusting it under the heavyset bartender’s bulbous red nose. “I’m looking for this guy. His name is Lenny Miles. You seen him?”

Scratching his balding head, the bartender took the photocopied picture and held it up to better light.

Morgan felt Laura’s hand around his upper arm. She was frightened. Who wouldn’t be in a dive like this? The only people in there were drunks or drug addicts, judging from the blankness in their slack, sallow faces. He wanted to soothe her fears, but there was no way to do it. Gazing down the bar, he saw a thin-faced young man in his middle twenties watching them with interest. The man was dressed in a gray silk suit, out of place among the rags worn by the other patrons. He must be a pimp.

“I dunno,” the bartender said, placing the photo on the counter. “Sure looks familiar…wha’dja say his name was?”

Morgan divided his attention between the pimp looking Laura over and the bartender. “Lenny Miles. He’s a drunk and a drug addict.”

Rubbing his nose, the bartender peered down at the picture. “Give me a minute, Mac. I mighta seen him, but I gotta remember.”

“Take your time,” Morgan said. He stiffened inwardly as the pimp came strolling around the bar directly toward them.

Laura’s eyes widened as the man in the suit walked up to her, grinning. She shrank back against Morgan, disgusted by the leer in the man’s dark brown eyes.

“Nice filly ya got there, fella. But I gotta tell ya, this is my turf. Nobody does business in here without Rico’s permission.” He reached out to touch the blond hair lying against Laura’s shoulders.

Morgan shot out his hand, capturing Rico’s arm in a viselike grip. “Back off, punk, or you’ll regret it,” he snarled.

Laura uttered a little cry and stumbled backward, hitting a table. She straightened, her hand across her mouth. Rico’s thin face went livid as he glared up at Morgan.

“Get your hand off me,” Rico sputtered.

“Leave the lady alone.”

Rico snorted. “Hey! She’s just another piece of meat to sell, buddy. You ain’t movin’ in on my turf!”

The urge to put his fist right through Rico’s snarling face was tempting. With a grin Morgan shoved Rico away from him. The pimp crashed into another table, then fell to the unswept wooden floor.

Laura gave a small cry of warning as she saw Rico scramble to his feet, drawing a knife from beneath his gray silk suit coat.

“She’s mine,” Rico whispered, holding the knife outward.

Morgan’s eyes glittered. Grabbing a beer bottle, he smashed it against the counter, keeping the jagged remains as a weapon in his hand. He kicked a chair out of the way, then stood in a wide stance for better balance. “No way, punk. The lady’s no hooker, and she isn’t for sale.” The pimp leaped forward, knife hand extended. In one swift motion Morgan lifted his foot, his boot coming into hard contact with Rico’s wrist. The pimp cried out as his weapon sailed out of his hand.

Breathing harshly, Morgan caught Rico as he fell off balance from the kick he’d delivered. Grabbing the pimp by the collar of his suit, he slammed him headfirst into the counter. With a groan Rico slumped to the floor, holding his bloodied nose.

“Now get the hell out of here,” Morgan snarled, leaning down and jerking Rico back to his feet.

Laura watched as Morgan threw Rico out the front door, then slammed it shut after him. Dizziness assaulted her, but she caught herself, gripping the table for support. She heard snickers from the patrons.

“You all right?” Morgan asked, coming over to her.

“Y-yes, fine.”

He cocked his head, studying her darkened eyes and pale skin. “You don’t look very good. Here, sit down.” Pulling out a chair, he guided Laura over to it.

“Hey, Mac,” the bartender called, waving Morgan back over to the counter. “I think I remember now. They call him ‘Lenny the Rat.’”

Hesitantly Morgan left Laura’s side. She looked as if she were going to faint. “Tell me what you know about him,” he ordered, wiping his hands on the thighs of his jeans. Everything about this place was seedy and dirty.

“Not much to tell ya. Lenny’s like most of ’em. He sleeps during the day and gets active at night.”

“There’s a bunch of flophouses about five blocks from here, but it’s a real rough area. Even the cops don’t go in there unless it’s with a couple of cruisers—and then only after a murder’s been committed.” The bartender rubbed his almost nonexistent chin. He studied Morgan for a moment, then grinned. “But I got a feelin’ you can take care of yourself. Anybody who can take on Rico, can take on Hombre.”

“The local gang leader?” Morgan guessed.

“Oh, yeah. But Hombre’s nasty as they come.”

“And you think Lenny the Rat might be over on his turf?”

“I’m pretty sure. He’s one of Hombre’s dealers, if I remember right.”

“Thanks,” Morgan said with feeling. He picked up the photo and put it back in the pocket of his plaid shirt. Turning, he focused his attention on Laura. She was completely out of her environment, while he had spent hours at dives like this, thinking and alone.

“Hey, Mac,” the bartender called. “You’d better get her outa here. She ain’t gonna make it here. Ya know what I mean?”

Grimly Morgan nodded. “Yeah, I understand. Thanks.”

Laura stood as Morgan approached. His tense face softened, and she longed simply to fall into his arms. Fighting all her needs, she stood on her own.

“I heard what the bartender said.” She heard how strained her voice sounded and she strengthened it. “Wouldn’t it be safer to go over and check out those flophouses in daylight?”

Looking around, Morgan saw that every patron was watching them with unparalleled interest. He gripped her arm and led her to the door. They’d do their arguing outside. “Come on,” he told her.

Outside the tavern, the wind tore away the smell hovering around her, and Laura appreciated the cleansing rain. She stood huddled next to the tavern wall, her hands shaking so badly she couldn’t hide it from Morgan.

Morgan moved behind her to shield her from the driving wind and rain. Water ran in rivulets down his drawn features. “I’m taking you back to the hotel,” he growled. “There’s no way in hell you’re following me into Hombre’s territory.”

“I’m going, Morgan.” There was an edge to her voice, and Laura watched him react to it.

Words were useless and he knew it. Capturing her hand, he pulled her around, heading back toward the hotel. The rain slashed at him, and he lowered his head. Laura tried to jerk out of his grasp. Dammit, he didn’t want to hurt her!

“Stop fighting!” he growled, throwing his arm around her shoulders and bringing her against him.

Tears of anger mingled with the cold rain. Her hair wilted around her face, becoming wet ropes. Morgan’s strength was too much for her, and she acquiesced, burying her head against his shoulder.

Their middle-class hotel sat on the edge of the skid row district. Laura was soaked to the skin by the time they arrived at their rooms. Morgan took her key, opened her door and led her inside.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he muttered, throwing his jacket onto a chair. “Come here.”

Her teeth were chattering, and Laura allowed him to unbutton her trench coat and peel it off her. She was cold, yes. But fear was making her reaction worse. Grateful for Morgan’s hand on her elbow, she let him guide her to the bed, and she sat down.

“I-I’m so cold,” she whispered as he knelt to pull the soaked shoes from her feet.

Morgan shot her a knowing look. “You’re more scared than cold.”

Gripping her hands in her lap, Laura hung her head. “Weren’t you frightened when Rico pulled that knife on you?” Off came her socks. Then Morgan got to his feet and pulled her upward.

“No.”

Laura started to protest when he began to briskly unbutton her yellow blouse. The material clung to her goose-bumped flesh. “Wh-why?” Each time his fingers grazed her, her skin tingled beneath his touch.

Morgan drew the soaked blouse off her shoulders. His scowl deepened as he threw it on the bed. “Because the punk didn’t even know how to hold a knife properly. Sit down.”

Numbly Laura obeyed, hotly aware of Morgan’s burning gaze on her breasts. Even the silky bra she wore was wet. He unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans, pulling them off her, one leg at a time. Unable to speak because her teeth were chattering, Laura watched as he dragged her chenille robe from her suitcase.

“Get this on. I’m going to start a hot shower for you. You’re freezing.”

“N-not a shower. I-I don’t think I can stand up.”

Morgan nodded. “All right, a hot bath.” He saw her fumble awkwardly with her robe, her hands shaking.

“Come here,” he said huskily, getting her to stand. He helped her on with the robe, wildly aware of the feminine lingerie she wore. It was the first time he had seen her without clothes, and she was beyond his most heated, passionate dreams. Fighting his desire to drag her into a hot shower with him, he closed the robe with the sash, then forced her to sit back down on the bed.

Laura closed her eyes and hunched over, trembling, on the bed. Why couldn’t she be more brave? The adrenaline that had shot into her bloodstream when Rico pulled the knife had unhinged her. She had been so frightened for Morgan. Just the mere thought of him getting hurt made her blanch. She hadn’t been frightened for herself but for him. Would he understand that?