Windstar (10 page)

“Every night?” she queried, laughing.

“Every single night! I want to know where you are and how you are and what you did and what you’re gonna do and where you’re gonna go next.”

She hesitated but at his puppy dog look she gave in. “All right. Every night.”

“I’ll miss you,” he said, his eyes on hers.

She smiled softly. “I’ll miss you, too, Boss Man.”

He wanted to scream at her that he was more than her boss, more than her employer. That he wanted to be far more to her than she was willing to allow, but she was already turning away, going back to the kitchen. He hung his head, his fists clenched down in his lap.

“I love you,” he whispered, then forced himself up and out of her room where her scent clung to the coverlet where he’d been sitting.

* * * *

The next evening in Hartford, Connecticut, in the hotel room she was sharing with her childhood friend Sharon Munson, Angela slipped between the cool sheets of the double bed and looked across at Sharon in the other double. Her friend had fallen asleep not soon after lying down right after supper and Angela had spent the remainder of the evening watching television in the lobby so as not to disturb Sharon.

It was close to midnight and Angela was finally tired, having driven the rental car that day—as she would every day of their New England side trip—and she had a slight headache. She’d taken two Migraine caplets before she’d gone up to the room and though she wished she could take a long, hot shower, she had foregone the pleasure.

“You are going to bankrupt me with your water consumption, wench!”
Rory often teased her for the long showers she enjoyed. He’d laugh if he knew she’d not been allowed that guilty satisfaction tonight.

She hadn’t forgotten to call him, but he must have been in the shower, himself, for she only got his machine.

“I’m in Connecticut,” she told him. “In Hartford. We’ll be going to Rhode Island tomorrow where we’ll be spending an entire day!” She’d laughed. “Be good, Boss Man. Talk to you tomorrow night.”

Rory, she thought as she turned to her side and pictured him in her mind’s eye. He was such a handsome man--much too handsome for his own good. With one look he could reduce her to a mound of molten lust and she suspected he knew it, though he’d been careful since The Night of the Mistake, as Bobby had labeled it.

“I’ll keep a close eye on him,”
Bobby had promised her
. “Go and take care of your friend. Don’t worry about the Scot.”

She worried about Rory just the same. He’d been quieter than usual. She knew her being away bothered him, but she hoped Bobby would be there for him when Rory needed company. That he hated being alone so fervently concerned her.
She wondered what had happened to him to make him feel so depressed when he was by himself. She was sure something had, but whenever she broached the subject with him, he either made a joke of it or wouldn’t answer at all, depending on the mood he had been before she asked.

Yawning, she turning over on her other side and plumped up the pillow, tucking her hand beneath it. She wondered what he was doing at that moment, if he was pissed at her that she hadn’t told him what hotel she was at and as sleep claimed her, she wondered if he was thinking of her.

* * * *

“I think of you every day I spend in that damned miserable jail,” he told her. His hands were tight on hers. “It’s the only thing that keeps me going night after night.”

She reached out to brush the hair back from his eyes. “You are innocent, my darling,” she said. “Somehow we’ll prove that you are.”

“You’ve believed in me when no one else has, Jenny,” he said, bringing her hands to his lips. “I’ll never forget that.”

All around them was the hustle and bustle of the federal courthouse. Armed guards surrounded them so it was not the place to hold a reunion. The federal marshals had brought him there, his wrists restrained in handcuffs, for his sentencing.

“Let’s move it, Jackson,” the marshal snapped. “Get your hands off the broad.”

Her lover stiffened. “She’s not a broad, Marshall. She’s a lady.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the lawman snapped. “Tell it to someone who cares. Stand back, lady. We ain’t got all day.”

The man in the rumpled tan suit and stained Fedora pushed her roughly aside as the two men to either side of her lover pulled him toward the courtroom.

Though she knew her lover wanted to pounce on the marshal for treating her so rudely, he could do nothing as they hustled him through the swinging doors. She followed quickly, her heart thundering in her ribcage.

The pop of flashbulbs lit the courtroom as Seannie Jackson, the man convicted of killing a guard during a brazen mid-town bank robbery, was ushered in. Reporters shouted questions at him, observers in the seats craned their necks to get a better look at the infamous Handsome Seannie as newspaper columnist Walter Wincette had labeled him. Women fanned themselves and called out to the good looking convict, squealing his name as though he were a movie star.

Her lover’s lawyer was already at the defense table, shuffling papers, looking harried but determined. He cast her a worried look and motioned her to a seat right behind the rail that separated the defense table from the gallery. She pushed her way through the throng of reporters who were dogging Seannie’s every step and wedged past several spectators to reach the seat the lawyer had reserved for her.

“Any word on what the judge might give him, Peterson?” a reporter yelled to Seannie’s lawyer.

“They’re gonna throw the book at him,” someone spoke up. “He’ll get life without the possibility of parole. Whatcha wanna bet?”

“I say they’ll fry him. He’ll get the chair!” another spectator declared.

She shivered at that hateful remark and she noticed that her lover did, as well, as the guards unshackled him before leading him to his lawyer’s table.

“Don’t worry, Maeve,” Seannie’s lawyer said, leaning over the rail. “There’s not much chance of a death sentence.” He patted her hand as she clutched her purse tightly to her chest.

Her lover smiled at her as he took his seat and she ached to reach over the rail and caress his shoulder. The suit they’d given him was stretched taut across that broad expanse and the trousers fit much too snugly to be comfortable. He seemed ill at ease as he sat there with his head down, listening to whatever his lawyer was telling him. She saw him chaffing his wrists and wondered if the lawmen had deliberately tightened the handcuffs to hurt him.

“All rise!”

The judge came into the courtroom and took the bench, his scowling face causing immediate silence among those gathered. He settled his billowy black robe around his corpulent body and sat down, his beady, hawk like gaze surveying the spectators before settling on Seannie. She thought she saw the man’s thin lips lift into a sneer and her hope began to fade.

“The defendant will rise,” the judge pronounced.

Her lover and his lawyer got to their feet.

“Sean Patrick Jackson, you have been duly convicted of murder in the death of Lionel Kraft, a father of nine whom you shot down in cold blood on the morning of August 5th of this year while engaged in the robbing of the First National Bank of Lewiston. Twelve good men convicted you of this cowardly crime, and it is now left to me to pass sentence upon you.”

She saw the judge narrow his eyes.

“Do you wish to make a statement before I hand down your sentence?”

Her lover stood straighter, his head up. “I am very sorry for what happened to Mr. Kraft, Your Honor, and I extend my sympathy to his wife and children, but it was not my gun that took his life. I am innocent of his death. As God is my witness, I did not fire my gun that day.”

The judge nodded, his lips pursed.

“Sean Patrick Jackson, after much consideration and lengthy perusal of the facts gleaned from eye witnesses to the robbery, it is the decision of this court that you are to be remanded to the penitentiary at Broadmore where this court sentences you to death by electrocution …”

Those gathered in the court erupted into a loud, harsh roar of sound that had most of the spectators on their feet. Some women appeared to faint, others wailed, their cries of lamentation filling the room.

She sat in her chair--stunned by the news, tears filling her eyes. Her lover turned and looked at her and she could see the desperation turning his green gaze dark with dread.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, but she did not, could not hear the words for all the noise in the courtroom. She only saw his lips move, instinctively knowing what he was saying.

Pandemonium reined in the room and the judge’s gavel was pounding ferociously for order. Guards lined up at the rail to keep the spectators at bay. Two men in dark gray suits came out of nowhere and took her lover by the arms and pulled him away, his lawyer’s shouts of denial drowned out by the bedlam roaring around him.

Someone took her by the arm and she looked up, staring into the stony glare of another dark suited man. His grip tightened. “Come with me,” he ordered and jerked her in front of the two people who had been sitting to her right but who were shaking their fists and yelling, attempting to get past the guards.

Shoving people aside with no regard to whether he toppled them or not, the man pulled her along behind him--through the throng and out into the antechamber and along the corridor, ignoring her protests and not giving her the chance to break free. His grasp on her arm was painful, would surely leave a bruise, but she had no choice but to stumble behind him.

“Where are you taking me?” she yelled at him for there were crowds of people milling about, armed guards trying to keep them back.

Down the corridor and out through a nondescript door, down a twisting quartet of stairs and into a dark, tight hallway with exposed pipes running overhead and into a grimy basement smelling of kerosene, so dimly lit she could barely see.

“Please! Who are you? What’s happening?” she pleaded but the man ignored her, just kept dragging her in his wake until he shoved open a metal door and bright light that nearly blinded her.

There was a black car waiting with its engine running and the man rushed her toward it. Two men armed with machine guns were guarding the vehicle and at the entrance to the underground garage, more men were lined up with weapons across their chests. One of the men at the car moved forward and opened the back door and her escort practically shoved her inside, slamming the door before she could get up from the floorboard to which she’d fallen.

“Maeve!”

She looked up, stunned to see her lover sitting in the backseat. She barely had time to take the hand he offered her before the car shot into gear with a squeal of its tires and peeled out of the garage.

“Seannie, what’s happening?” she said as he pulled her up on the seat beside him.

Her lover put a hand to her cheek. “I’ll tell you all about it later,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

It was a mad rush through the city and into the outlying countryside. There was a car with armed men ahead of them and another riding shotgun behind. The convoy of vehicles crossed the northern border at just after two in the afternoon. He held her close to him the entire time, explaining how he was a federal agent and how he’d infiltrated the gang that had been taking down banks all along the eastern seaboard. He told her why he’d been set up to take the murder wrap, of the men he’d gotten close to in jail to learn all he could about the big boys, how he’d given information to the Bureau that would lead to the arrest and subsequent conviction of powerful underworld figures.

“You’ll hear it on the news tonight,” he said. “Sean Jackson was gunned down trying to escape custody on the way to Broadmore.” He squeezed her hand. “He was shot in the face by a shotgun blast. As far as the world knows, he’s history.”

Later that night, after their escorts had left them in a snug little cabin far in the North Country, thanking her lover for a job well done and wishing him and his lady well, the man the world had known as Handsome Seannie kissed her long and hard and pledged his love to her.

“I thought of you every day I was in that cell,” he told her while they lay in bed with the silence of the mountains surrounding them. “You were always with me. I couldn’t have made it without you, doll.”

“And I never gave up hope we’d be together again,” she confessed, her hands tender on his cheeks.

He made love to her then--slowly, sweetly, and with such tenderness it brought tears to her eyes. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t while looking over their shoulder for a bullet to find them. It was with all the time in the world and all the love in his heart.

His hands shook as he pushed down the bodice of the silk slip she’d worn to bed. “We’ll have to make a trip to Windemere and get you a proper nightgown,” he vowed. He laid his palm over her bare breast. “I dreamed of doing this.”

She ran her fingers through his short hair and held his head to her as his lips closed around her aching nipple. His teeth grazed the tender flesh and he suckled her, drew upon her, and laved her with his warm tongue while he held her breast captive in his strong hand, kneading it gently. Against her thigh, his shaft grew hard and flexed, the tip moistly straining to have a taste of her, as well.

He shifted his attention to the breast closest to his broad chest and ran his hand down her belly and spiked his fingers through the wiry curls that grew at her thighs. His palm caressed her, his middle finger dipping amongst the curls to touch that sensitive pearl that brought a deep intake of breath into her lungs.

“Oh, Seannie,” she whispered and he lifted his head, looking up into her eyes with such need, such wondrous intent that she wanted to cry.

“I love you with all my heart and all my soul, Maeveen,” he told her and she caught just a hint of the brogue he’d worked so hard to vanquish. “Marry me.”

Her heart did a funny little flip in her chest and her hands tightened in his hair. “Yes, Seannie. Yes!”

His smile was a million watts of pure sensuality as he lowered his head to kiss his way down her belly. He scooted down in the bed and nudged her thighs apart, taking her in his mouth to torture her with his tongue.