His Runaway Juror. Mallory Kane
Читать онлайн книгу.
Cassie’s studio?”
“I’ve got a guy watching the house. And Cassie hasn’t used the studio since she got pregnant. Fumes from the oil paint and turpentine. I’m thinking about selling it.”
“Right. Tell her I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to see the baby. I didn’t want to put y’all in danger.”
“Sure. We understand.”
Brand cleared his throat. “Gotta go, Ry. Tell Mom I’ll call her when I get a chance. Tell her I love her.”
“Try to stay out of trouble—okay?”
“Always do.” Brand disconnected, blinking hard. He didn’t know why his dad’s dying had affected him. The old man had either been in a rage or passed out drunk during most of Brand’s life. Brand had learned early that the best thing to do was stay out of his way.
He finished his water and shot the empty plastic bottle into the trash can like a basketball.
Thoughts of his father led to thoughts of Lily Raines, and the horror in her eyes when she’d realized Foshee was threatening her father. Her obvious love and fear for her dad haunted him. The way she’d frantically rushed to his side as soon as he and Foshee left made Brand feel guilty and somehow deprived.
He’d felt a secret relief when his request to go to his father’s funeral had been denied. And that had made him feel even more guilty. But the truth was, he hadn’t seen his dad in five years, and as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t nearly long enough.
For him, family equaled pain. His childhood memories were those of crying, yelling, fists and rage. He’d spent his boyhood hiding behind Ryan or hanging out with kids from school—kids whose fathers didn’t trash the house if dinner wasn’t on the table when he got home. Mothers who didn’t jump at every little noise, or stare out the window with haunted eyes in the late afternoon. Kids whose parents were normal.
Then there was his oldest brother. Poor Patrick had followed in his father’s footsteps, all right. He hadn’t even made it to thirty.
He didn’t remember ever feeling the way Lily obviously felt about her father. He had no concept of that kind of love. A place inside him ached—hollow, empty. He ran his hand over his face trying to wipe away his maudlin thoughts.
But he couldn’t wipe away the vision of Lily with her big, frightened brown eyes and her soft, vulnerable lips. He couldn’t get the smell of vanilla and coconut out of his nostrils.
Damn it, he wished he could warn her how necessary it was for her to be strong and brave. This was life and death. He hoped she knew that.
He longed to tell her he would do anything in his power to keep her safe, but that she had to make it through the trial without faltering.
He ached to touch her again, this time to comfort her, rather than scaring her half to death. But if he broke cover, not only would her life and her father’s be forfeit, he and two other cops could die.
LILY PULLED INTO her parking lot and glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d intended to be home before dark, but her father had seemed so happy to have her visit she hadn’t had the heart to leave early. He’d nodded sagely when she mentioned Bill Henderson. He’d even repeated his name.
She’d told him about Castellano’s hit man, and the men who’d threatened her, but he’d just nodded again.
For a moment she sat in her car as her eyes filled with tears of grief. Her dad had once been so strapping and smart.
Ever since her mother had died when she was twelve, she and her dad had depended on each other. She didn’t count the months right after her mother’s death, when her dad had retreated into his own grief. For the most part, he’d been a great dad. He’d taught her how to defend herself, how to handle a gun, so she’d never be helpless. He’d listened when she’d cried with her first broken heart. And he’d been there to cheer when she’d graduated college with a degree in interior design.
“I need you now, Dad,” she whispered. “More than ever. I need to know what to do.”
The father who’d raised her would be appalled if he knew she was even considering voting not guilty. Not with the kind of evidence the prosecution had against Simon. He’d have waved away the danger.
I can take care of myself, he’d have told her. And I can take care of you.
But there was no way he could do that now. She had to take care of him. And if that meant letting a killer go free—so be it.
Still, the strong, beloved voice she’d listened to all her life echoed in her ears.
It all comes down to what’s right, Lilybell. You can’t outrun your conscience.
She slapped the steering wheel with her palms, and wiped her eyes. Enough of acting like a baby. She’d find a way to get help. There had to be someone she could trust.
A car’s headlights glared in the rearview mirror, causing her heart to leap into her throat. She’d broken one of the basic rules of personal safety. Don’t park the car and sit in it. She needed to get inside and put the chain on the door.
Imaginary spiders crawled up the back of her neck as she grabbed her jacket and purse. She shuddered and glanced around. Then she took a deep breath, jumped out of her car and ran up the steps to her second-floor apartment.
As she unlocked her door, her shoulders tightened in awful expectation of the feel of a heavy hand.
She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. She pushed open the door and sighed in relief when she saw her living room bathed in the light from the lamp she’d left on.
The attack came from her left.
A hand clapped over her mouth.
No! Not again! She kicked and bit and tried to scream for help.
The hand pressed tighter and a rock-hard arm pinned hers to her sides. She flung her head backward, trying to head-butt her attacker, but he dodged and pressed the left side of his head against the right side of hers, then pushed her inside and kicked the door shut.
She smelled soap and mint. Alarm sent her heart racing out of control.
“Shh! Lily!” His voice was raspy and soft. “Be still. Shh. Stop struggling.”
Desperately, she stomped his instep.
“Ow. Stop it! Listen to me.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the living room.
She was so helpless, so weak. None of the defensive moves her father had taught her worked against this man. She struggled, but he was like a massive tree—immovable, sturdy, unbending.
His hand over her mouth loosened and she took a breath to scream.
“Don’t.” The hand tightened again, as did the arm across her chest. She could barely breathe.
She went limp, tears of frustration and fear filling her eyes.
“Promise?” his whisper rasped in her ear. His stubble scraped her cheek.
She tried to nod.
“This is serious, Lily. Don’t try anything. Don’t yell, don’t hit, and for heaven’s sake, don’t bite.”
She nodded again. Her chest burned for air. She sucked as much as she could through her nose. It wasn’t enough.
His hand on her mouth eased up.
She gasped.
He slid his hand down past her jaw, which was still sore from the Cajun’s punishing fingers the night before, to her neck. He didn’t grab her, he didn’t punish. His thumb touched the minuscule wound left by the