Kitabı oku: «Royal Rescue», sayfa 3

Because the bad men weren’t the only threat.

Sirens wailed in the distance. Maybe just an ambulance on its way to the emergency room. Or maybe police cars on their way to secure a crime scene. He couldn’t risk the latter. He couldn’t be brought in for questioning or, worse, arrested. The local police wouldn’t care that it had been self-defense; they were determined to arrest him for something. Anything. That was why Brendan had used the other fake orderly’s gun. No bullets could be traced back to him. He’d wiped his prints off the weapon and left it on the roof.

“I’m not leaving with you,” she said. “And neither is my son.”

“You’re in danger,” he needlessly pointed out. “And you’ve put him in danger.”

She sucked in a breath, either offended or feeling guilty. “And leaving with you would put us both in even more danger.”

Now he drew in a sharp breath of pure offense. “If I wanted you gone, Josie, I could have just let those men shoot you.”

“But they weren’t going to shoot just me.”

He flinched again at the thought of his child in so much danger. Reaching out, he grasped her shoulders. “Where is my son?” he repeated, resisting the urge to shake the truth out of her. “Someone wants you both dead. You can’t let him out of your sight.” And he couldn’t let either of them out of his.

“I—I …”

“I won’t hurt you,” he assured her. “And I sure as hell won’t hurt him.”

Her head jerked in a sharp nod as if she believed him. He felt the motion more than saw it as her silky hair brushed his chin. She stepped back and turned around and then around again in a complete circle, as if trying to remember where she’d been.

“Where did you hide him?” he asked, hoping like hell that she had hidden him and hadn’t just lost him.

“It was behind some exhaust pipes,” she said. “I couldn’t fit but he squeezed behind them. I—I just don’t remember where they were.”

“What’s his name?”

She hesitated a moment before replying, as if his knowing his name would make the boy more real for Brendan. “CJ.”

Maybe she was right—knowing the boy’s name did make him more real to Brendan. His heart pounded and his pulse raced as he reeled from all the sudden realizations. He had a son. He was a father. He was continuing the “family” of which he had never wanted to be part.

“CJ,” he repeated, then raised his voice and shouted, “CJ!”

“Shh.” Josie cautioned him.

“He might not hear me if I don’t yell,” he pointed out. And Brendan needed to see his boy, to assure himself that his child was real and that he was all right.

“He won’t come out if he hears you,” she explained. “He thinks you’re a bad man.”

Brendan flinched. It didn’t matter that everyone else thought so; he didn’t want his son to believe the lie, too.

“Is that what you told him?” he asked. It must have been what she’d believed all these years, because no matter how determined a reporter she’d been, she hadn’t learned the truth about him.

“It’s what you showed him,” she said, “when you grabbed me by the elevator.”

Dread and regret clenched his stomach muscles. His own son was afraid of him. How would he ever get close to the boy, ever form a relationship with him, if the kid feared him?

He flashed back so many years ago to his own heart pounding hard with fear as he cowered from his father, from the boom of his harsh voice and the sting of his big hand. Brendan hadn’t just feared Dennis O’Hannigan. He’d been terrified of the man. But then so had everyone else.

“I’ll be quiet,” he whispered his promise. “You find him.”

She called for the boy, her voice rising higher with panic each time she said his name. “CJ? CJ?” Then she sucked in a breath and her voice was steadier as she yelled, in a mother’s no-nonsense tone, what must have been his full name, “Charles Jesse Brandt!”

Brandt? The boy’s last name should have been O’Hannigan. But maybe it was better that it wasn’t. Being an O’Hannigan carried with it so many dangers.

But then danger had found the boy no matter what his mother called him. CJ didn’t respond to that maternal command only the rare child dared to disobey. Brendan certainly never would have disobeyed.

Panic clutched at his chest as worst-case scenarios began to play out in his mind. He had seen so many horrible things in his life that the possibilities kept coming. Had the man from the sixth floor somehow joined them on the roof without Brendan noticing? Had he found the boy already?

Another scenario played through his head, of Josie lying to him again. Still. Had she hidden the child and told him not to come out for Brendan? She’d hidden his son from him for three years—a few more minutes weren’t going to bother her.

“Where is he?” he asked, shoving his hands in his pockets so that he wouldn’t reach for her again. He had already frightened her, which was probably why she’d hidden their son from him.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.” The panic was in her voice, too.

Brendan almost preferred to think that she was lying to him and knew where the boy was, having made certain he was safe.

Her hand slapped against a metal pipe. “I thought he was behind here. CJ! CJ!”

“Then why isn’t he coming out?” Brendan had stayed quiet and now kept his voice to a whisper despite the panic clutching at him.

“No, it can’t be …” she murmured, her voice cracking with fear and dread.

“What?” He demanded to know the thought that occurred to her, that had her trembling now with fear.

“He’s at the edge of the roof,” she said. “He told me there was a short wall behind him. I—I told him not to go over it …”

Because there would have been nothing but the ground, twenty stories below, on the other side. If the boy was still on the roof with them, he would answer his mother. Even if he heard Brendan, he would come out to protect her, as he did before.

Oh, God!

Had Brendan lost his son only moments after finally finding him?

Chapter Five

Tears stung Josie’s eyes, blinding her even more than the darkness. And sobs clogged her throat, choking her. She had been trying to protect her son, but she’d put him in more danger. She clawed at the pipes, trying to force them apart, trying to force her way back to where her son had been last.

“CJ! CJ!” she cried, her voice cracking with fear she could no longer contain.

She hadn’t made sacrifices only to protect her father; she had made them to protect her baby, too. If she hadn’t learned she was pregnant, she wouldn’t have agreed to let her father hire bodyguards after the first attempt on her life—a cut brake line. And if she hadn’t realized that no one could keep them truly safe, she wouldn’t have agreed to fake her death and disappear.

Everything she’d done, she’d done for her son. Maybe that was why she’d brought him to see her father—not just so the two could finally meet, but so that her father would understand why she’d hurt him so badly. As a parent himself, he would have to understand and forgive her.

“CJ …” The tears overtook her now.

“Shh,” a deep voice murmured, and a strong hand grasped her shoulder.

But the man didn’t offer comfort.

“Shh,” he said again, as a command. And his hand squeezed. “Listen.”

Since Brendan was alive, she had just assumed that the men who’d wanted to kill her and CJ were not. But maybe he had just scared them off. And now they had returned. Or maybe that other gunman, the one he’d left near her father’s room, had joined them on the roof.

She sucked in a breath, trying to calm herself. But if her child was truly gone, there would be no calming her—not even if the men had come back for them. They would need their guns—to defend themselves from her attack. This was their fault because they’d forced her to hide her son to protect him. But it wasn’t their fault that she hadn’t hidden him in a safe spot.

That was all on her.

“Shh,” Brendan said again.

And she managed to control her sobs. But she heard their echo—coming softly from behind the metal pipes.

“CJ?” He wasn’t gone. But why hadn’t he come out? “Are you hurt?”

Perhaps there were more dangers behind the pipes than just that short wall separating him from a big fall. Maybe the pipes were hot. Or sharp.

“Listen,” Brendan advised again.

The sobs were soft but strong and steady, not broken with pain, not weak with sickness. He was scared. Her little boy was too scared to come out, even for his mother.

“Tell him I’m not going to hurt him,” Brendan said, his voice low but gruff. “Or you.”

She nearly snorted in derision of his claim. When he’d realized she had been working on a story about his father’s murder, he’d been furious with her. Too furious to let her explain that even though the story was why she’d sought him out, she had really fallen in love with him.

Despite his difficult life, losing his mother, running away at fifteen, he’d seemed such a charming, loving man that she’d thought he might have fallen for her, too. But then his anger had showed another side of his personality, one dangerously similar to his merciless and vengeful father.

As if he’d heard the snort she’d suppressed, he insisted, “I’m not going to hurt either of you.”

“Did you hear him, CJ?” she asked. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Then she drew in another breath to brace herself to lie to her son. “Mr. O’Hannigan is not a bad man.”

She had actually been foolish enough to believe that once, to think that he was not necessarily his father’s son. She’d thought that given all the years he’d spent away from the old man, he might have grown up differently. Honorably. That was why she’d fallen for him.

But when he’d learned she had actually been working on a story.

He hadn’t been her charming lover. He had been cold and furious. But he hadn’t been only furious. If he’d cut her brake line, he’d been vengeful, too. But she hadn’t really meant anything to him then; she had been only a lover who’d betrayed him. Now he knew she was the mother of his child.

“He saved us from the bad men, CJ. The bad men are gone now.” She turned back toward Brendan. He was just a dark shadow to her, but she discerned that his head jerked in a sharp nod.

She pushed her hand between the pipes, but no pudgy fingers caught hers. “CJ, you can come out now. It’s safe.”

She wasn’t sure about that, but her son would be safer with her than standing just a short wall away from a long fall.

“It is safe.” Brendan spoke now, his voice a low growl for her ears only. “But it may not stay that way. We need to get out of here before more bad men show up.”

She shivered, either over his warning or his warm breath blowing in her ear and along her neck. Memories rushed back, of his breath on her neck before his lips touched her skin, skimming down her throat. His tongue flicking over her pulse before his mouth moved farther down her body.

Her pulse pounded faster, and she trembled. Then she forced the memories back, relegating them to where they belonged as she’d done so many times before. If she hadn’t been able to keep the past in the past, she wouldn’t have survived the past four years.

“CJ, why won’t you come out?” she asked.

The boy sniffed hard, sucking up his tears and his snot. Josie flinched but resisted the urge to admonish him and was grateful she had done so when he finally spoke. “Cuz I—I was bad.”

“No,” Josie began, but another, deeper voice overwhelmed hers.

“No, son,” Brendan said.

Josie gasped at his brazenness in addressing her child as his. Technically, biologically, it was true. But CJ didn’t know that. And she never wanted him to learn the truth of his parentage. She never wanted him to know that he was one of those O’Hannigans.

“You weren’t bad,” Brendan continued. “You were very brave to protect your mother. You’re a very good kid.”

The boy sniffled again and released a shuddery breath.

“Now you have to be brave again,” Brendan said. “And come out. There might be more bad men and we have to leave before they can be mean to your mother.”

“You—you were mean to Mommy,” CJ said. Her son was too smart to be as easily fooled by Brendan’s charm as she had been. And as if compelled to protect her again, the little boy wriggled out from behind the pipes. But instead of confronting Brendan as he had inside the hospital, he ducked behind Josie’s legs.

Brendan dropped to his haunches as if trying to meet the child’s eyes even though it was so dark. “I shouldn’t have been mean to her,” he said. “And I’m sorry that I was. I thought she was someone else.” His soft tone hardened. “Someone who lied to me, tricked me and then stole from me.”

Josie shuddered at his implacable tone. He had saved her from the gunmen, but he hadn’t forgotten her betrayal. Over the years it had apparently even been exaggerated in his mind, because she had never stolen anything from him. Judging by the anger he barely controlled, it seemed as if he would never forgive her.

“I don’t like it when people lie to me,” Brendan said. “But I would never hurt anyone.”

“Who’s lying now?” she murmured.

“Unless I had to in order to protect someone else,” he clarified. “I will protect you and your mommy.”

“I will p-tect Mommy,” CJ said, obviously unwilling to share her with anyone else. But then, he’d never had to before. He had been the most important person—the only person, really—in her life since the day he was born.

Josie turned and lifted him in her arms. And she finally understood why he’d been so reluctant to come out of his hiding place. He was embarrassed, because his jeans were wet. Her little boy, who’d never had an accident since being potty-trained almost a year ago, had been so scared that he’d had one now. She clutched him close and whispered in his ear. “It’s okay.”

Brendan must have taken her words as acceptance. He slipped his arm around her shoulders. Despite the warmth of his body, she shivered in reaction to his closeness. Then he ushered her and CJ toward the elevator. He must have jammed the doors open, because it waited for them, light spilling from it onto the rooftop.

As she noticed that the armed men were gone, fear clutched at her. Brendan must not have injured them badly enough to stop them. They could be lurking in the shadows, ready to fire again. She covered CJ’s face with her hand and leaned into Brendan, grateful for his size and his strength.

But then as they crossed the roof to the open doors, she noticed blood spattered across the asphalt and then smeared in two thick trails. Brendan had dragged away the bodies. Maybe he’d done it to spare their son from seeing death. Or maybe he’d done it to hide the evidence of the crime.

It hadn’t actually been a crime though. It had been self-defense. And to protect her and their son. If she believed him.

But could she believe him? No matter what his motives were this time, the man was a killer. She didn’t need to see the actual bodies to know that the men were dead. Her instincts were telling her that she shouldn’t trust him. And she damn well shouldn’t trust him with their son.

BRENDAN HELD HIS son. For the first time. But instead of a fragile infant, the boy was wriggly and surprisingly strong as he struggled in his grasp. He had taken him from Josie’s arms, knowing that was the only way to keep her from running. She cared more about their son’s safety than her own.

Maybe she really wasn’t the woman he’d once known. Josie Jessup had been a spoiled princess, obviously uncaring of whom she hurt with her exposés and her actions. She had never run a story on Brendan though—she’d just run.

Brendan wouldn’t let that happen again. So he held his son even though she reached for him, her arms outstretched. And the boy wriggled, trying to escape Brendan’s grasp.

“Come on,” he said to both of them. “We need to move quickly.”

“I—I can run fast,” CJ assured him.

Not fast enough to outrun bullets. Brendan couldn’t be certain that the guy from the sixth floor hadn’t regained consciousness and set up an ambush somewhere. He couldn’t risk going through the hospital, so he pressed the garage express button on the elevator panel. It wouldn’t stop on any other floors now. It would take them directly from the roof to the parking level in the basement.

“I’m sure you can run fast,” Brendan said. “But we all have to stay together from now on to make sure we stay safe from the bad men.”

But the little boy stopped struggling and stared up at him, his blue-green eyes narrowed as if he was trying to see inside Brendan—to see if he was a bad man, too. He hoped like hell the kid couldn’t really see inside his soul.

It was a dark, dark place. It had been even darker when he’d thought Josie had been murdered. He had thought that she’d been killed because of him—because she’d gotten too close, because she’d discovered something that he should have.

From the other stories she’d done, he knew she was a good reporter. Too good. So good that she could have made enemies of her own, though.

At first he hadn’t thought this attack on her had anything to do with him. After all, he hadn’t even known she was alive. And he’d certainly had no idea he had a child.

But maybe one of his enemies had discovered she was alive. She stared up at him with the same intensity of their son, her eyes just a lighter, smokier green. No matter how much her appearance had been altered and what she’d claimed before, she was definitely Josie Jessup. And whoever had discovered she was really alive knew what Brendan hadn’t realized until he heard of her death—that he’d fallen for her. Despite her lies. Despite her betrayal.

He had fallen in love with her, with her energy and her quick wit and her passion. And he’d spent more than three years mourning her. Someone might have wanted to make certain that his mourning never ended.

Josie shook her head, rejecting his protection. “I think we’ll be safer on our own.”

She didn’t trust him. Given his reputation, or at least the reputation of his family, he didn’t necessarily blame her. But then she should have known him better. During those short months they’d spent together before her “death,” he had let her get close. He may not have told her the truth about himself, but he’d shown her that he wasn’t the man others thought he was. He wasn’t his father.

He wasn’t cruel and indifferent. “If I’d left you alone on the roof …”

SHE AND CJ would already be dead. She shuddered in revulsion at the horrible thought. She could not deny that Brendan O’Hannigan had saved their lives. But she was too scared to thank him and too smart to trust him.

Despite her inner voice warning her to be careful, she had thought only of her father when she’d risked coming to the hospital. She hadn’t considered that after spending more than three years in hiding someone might still want to kill her. She hadn’t considered that someone could have learned that she was still alive. “I was caught off guard.”

Brendan stared down at the boy he held in his arms. “I can relate.”

He had seemed shocked, not only to find her alive but also to realize that he was a father. Given that they had exactly the same eyes and facial features, Brendan had instantly recognized the child as his. There had been no point for her to continue denying what it wouldn’t require a DNA test to prove.

“Are you usually on guard?” he asked her.

“Yes.” But when she’d learned of the assault on her father, she had dropped her guard. And it had nearly cost her everything. She couldn’t take any more risks. And trusting Brendan would be the greatest risk of all. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

“No,” he said, as if he agreed with her. Or supported her. But then he added, “I won’t let you.”

And she tensed. She lifted her arms again and clasped her hands on her son’s shoulders. After nearly losing him on the rooftop, she should have held him so tightly that he would never get away. But he’d started wriggling in the elevator, and she’d loosened her grip just enough that Brendan had been able to easily pluck him from her.

A chill chased down her spine as she worried that he would take her son from her just that easily. And permanently.

Josie’s stomach rose as the elevator descended to the basement. Panic filled her throat, choking her. Then the bell dinged, signaling that they had reached their destination. They had gone from one extreme to another, one danger to another.

“We’ll take my car,” Brendan said as the doors slowly began to slide open.

We. He didn’t intend to take her son and leave her alone, or as he’d left the men on the rooftop. Dead. But she and her son couldn’t leave with him, either. She shook her head.

“We don’t have time to argue right now,” he said, his deep voice gruff with impatience. “We need to get out of here.”

“Do you have a car seat?” she asked. She had posed the question to thwart him, thinking she already knew the answer. But she didn’t. As closely as she followed the news, she hadn’t heard or read anything about Brendan O’Hannigan’s personal life. Only about his business. Or his alleged business.

He’d kept his personal life far more private than his professional one. But she had been gone for more than three years. He could have met someone else. Could even have had another child, one he’d known about, one with whom he lived.

He clenched his jaw and shook his head.

“CJ is too little to ride without a car seat.”

“I’m not little!” her son heartily protested, as he twisted even more forcefully in Brendan’s grasp. Her hands slipped from his squirming shoulders. “I’m big!”

If CJ had been struggling like that in her arms, she would have lost him, and just as the doors opened fully. And he might have run off to hide again.

But Brendan held him firmly, but not so tightly that he hurt the boy. With his low pain threshold, her son would have been squealing if he’d felt the least bit of discomfort.

“You are big,” Josie assured him. “But the law says you’re not big enough to ride without your car seat.”

Arching a brow, she turned toward Brendan. “You don’t want to break the law, do you?”

A muscle twitched along his clenched jaw. He shook his head but then clarified, “I don’t want to risk CJ’s safety.”

But she had no illusions that if not for their son, he would have no qualms about breaking the law. She had no illusions about Brendan O’Hannigan anymore.

But she once had. She’d begun to believe that his inheriting his father’s legacy had forced him into a life he wouldn’t have chosen, one he’d actually run from when he was a kid. She’d thought he was better than that life, that he was a good man.

What a fool she’d been.

“Where’s your car?” he asked as he carried their son from the elevator.

She hurried after them, glancing at the cement pillars, looking at the signs.

“What letter, Mommy?” CJ asked. He’d been sleeping when she’d parked their small SUV, so he didn’t know. She could lie and he wouldn’t contradict her as he had earlier.

But lying about the parking level would only delay the inevitable. She wasn’t going to get CJ away from his father without a struggle, one that might hurt her son. Or at least scare him. And the little boy had already been frightened enough to last him a lifetime.

“A,” she replied.

CJ pointed a finger at the sign. “That’s this one.”

“What kind of car?” Brendan asked.

“A—a white Ford Escape,” she murmured.

“And the plate?”

She shook her head and pointed toward where the rear bumper protruded beyond two bigger sport utility vehicles parked on either side of it. “It’s right there.”

Because CJ had been sleeping, she’d made certain to park close to the elevators so she wouldn’t have far to carry him. As he said, he was a big boy—at least big enough that carrying him too far or for too long strained her arms and her back.

She shoved her hand in her jeans pocket to retrieve the keys. She’d locked her purse inside the vehicle to protect her new identity just in case anyone recognized her inside the hospital. She was grateful she’d taken the precaution. But if she’d had her cell phone and her can of mace, maybe she wouldn’t have needed Brendan to come to her rescue.

Lifting the key fob, she pressed the unlock button. The lights flashed and the horn beeped. But then another sound drowned out that beep as gunshots rang out. The echo made it impossible to tell from which direction the shots were coming.

But she didn’t need to know where they were coming from to know where they were aimed—at her. Bullets whizzed past her head, stirring her hair.

A strong hand clasped her shoulder, pushing her down so forcefully that she dropped to the ground. Her knees struck the cement so hard that she involuntarily cried out in pain.

A cry echoed hers—CJ’s. He hadn’t fallen; he was still clasped tightly in Brendan’s arms. But one of those flying bullets could have struck him.

Now she couldn’t cry. She couldn’t move. She could only stay on the ground, frozen with terror and dread that she had failed her son once again.