Michael: The Defender

by JoAnn Ross

  “It all turned out okay,” Shayne assured her. His pale blue eyes, like Michael’s dark ones, appeared not to miss a thing. “Neither of us got shot, Bliss turned out to be innocent—just like Michael had insisted all along, which she’ll never let me forget—and if she wasn’t so damn stubborn, we could just live happily ever after.”

  Lorelei couldn’t resist a faint smile at his suddenly aggrieved tone. “Don’t tell me there’s a woman in this world capable of resisting your masculine charms?”

  She knew Shayne was truly upset when her dry tone flew right over his head. “She didn’t exactly turn me down. Well, she did make me crawl, but after the way I’d lied to her about who, and what, I was, I understood that. It’s the timing that’s got me so damn frustrated.”

  He stopped and looked down at her, his handsome face more miserable than she ever remembered seeing it. Even back when his famous father, who’d been taking his award-winning news photographs throughout the Middle East, had failed to show up for his ninth birthday party.

  “Do you have time for a drink? I need a woman’s advice on something.”

  She didn’t bother to glance down at her watch. Shayne had always been a good friend. If he needed to talk, she’d be willing to risk Michael’s irritation, and being late for the mayoral bash, which in truth, wasn’t any real sacrifice.

  “I’d better stick to tea since it could be a long night,” she said. “And I’ve got another early call in the morning. But I’d love a chance to talk without an audience.”

  Without Michael. The all-important name went unspoken, but both knew they were thinking it.

  They stopped at a little local bar where the sawdust on the floor was fresh, the glasses were clean and the jazz was cool.

  Shayne waited until the drinks—iced tea sprigged with mint for her, beer for him—were served, along with a basket of spicy popcorn shrimp that Lorelei knew she should ignore. But, of course, didn’t.

  “I’ve bought a house,” he revealed.

  “Congratulations.”

  “It’s not real big, but it’s got enough room for kids. And Bliss has a real eye for turning bare rooms into a home.”

  “So you’re living together?”

  “Yeah. For the past couple of months.” He scowled and traced a finger down the dew on the outside of his pilsner glass. “But we’re not just shacking up or anything. I mean, I’ve proposed to her. And she accepted.”

  “Even better.” Lorelei smiled and wondered what the problem was.

  “The thing is, she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh.” From his mention of kids, she’d assumed he and Bliss wanted children. “So the timing’s wrong?” she ventured carefully.

  “Exactly!” He hit his fist on the pine table, causing a few shrimp to jump out of the basket. “I want to get married right away, you know, make an honest woman of her.”

  Lorelei had to reign in her smile at that old-fashioned expression. It was obvious that Michael wasn’t the only chauvinistic O’Malley brother. “But she wants to wait?”

  “That’s what she says,” he grumbled.

  “Perhaps,” Lorelei suggested, “she’s afraid you’re only marrying her because of the baby—”

  “I told you, I’d already proposed. And she accepted.”

  “That’s right.” Beginning to be as confused as he looked, she popped a couple of fried shrimp in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Perhaps she doesn’t want to be a pregnant bride. Most women fantasize about their weddings from the time they’re little girls. Maybe she doesn’t want to feel fat when she walks down the aisle.”

  “She’s not even showing yet,” Shayne countered. “Except her breasts, which are really getting magnificent... but I guess you don’t need to hear that part....”

  He sighed and dragged a frustrated hand through his hair in a gesture that reminded her of Michael.

  “If we got married right now, like I want to, she could wear whatever damn dress she wanted and no one would ever know. And it’s not exactly like people count months anymore. And anyone who does isn’t really a friend anyway, right?”

  “Right.” She leaned back, took another sip of tea and eyed him over the rim of the heavy glass. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Have you told her how you feel? Or explained why you want to marry her now?”

  “Of course.”

  “And?”

  “And she says that there’s no way she’s going to marry me before Labor Day.”

  “That’s not too far off.”

  “It is for me. Besides, it’s Bliss’s cockeyed reasoning I can’t agree with.”

  “You’ve lost me again.”

  “She insists she doesn’t want to steal the thunder from Roarke and Daria.”

  “Roarke’s getting married?”

  “Yeah, on Labor Day. To Daria Shea, a local prosecutor. He quit the network a few months ago and now they’re living in her house in the Irish Channel while he writes a book about his adventures as a hotshot network war correspondent.”

  Amazing. It seemed that two of the three O’Malley brothers had been struck with a sudden case of domesticity. She wondered if there was something in the air. Or perhaps the water.

  “So,” Shayne said, returning the conversation to its original track, “what do you think I should do?”

  “I suppose allowing Bliss to make her own decision is out of the question?”

  “She’s pregnant,” he reminded her. “Her hormones are swinging all over the place right now. It’s obvious that she can’t make an informed decision.”

  Personally, Lorelei doubted that, but not knowing Bliss, and not wanting to annoy the man she was going to be spending a great deal of time with over the next week, she tried for a middle ground.

  “I guess,” she said slowly, carefully, “you’re just going to have to convince her to see things your way.”

  “Yeah.” Shayne grinned. “That’s just what I was thinking.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Lorelei. You’re a peach.”

  He was admittedly chauvinistic. Probably, she concluded, even somewhat dictatorial. But sweet. As she returned the irresistible smile, Lorelei assured herself that any woman intrepid enough to agree to marry any of the O’Malley brothers would undoubtedly be able to handle a little pressure.

  Or in this case, she considered, viewing the blue flame in his determined eyes, a lot.

  SHE LOOKED touched by magic. Michael stood up as Lorelei emerged from the bedroom of the hotel suite and tried not to drool.

  The dress—if you could call such a strapless slither of beaded silk a dress—slicked down her body like rainfall. It was silver, almost as pale as her hair and studded with glittering, starlike crystals. Rather than the expected diamonds, rhinestones sparkled brightly at her ears, falling almost to bare alabaster shoulders.

  “Well,” he said around a tongue that felt abnormally thick and heavy, “if you wanted to draw your stalker out of hiding, I couldn’t think of more effective bait.”

  “I don’t want to think about him tonight.” Thinking Michael looked wonderful in his navy suit, crisp white shirt and flag red tie, she held out a bracelet. “And I’m not going to slink around in sackcloth and ashes just because he might be out there somewhere.”

  “He’s out there, all right.” He frowned as he fastened the now familiar diamond bracelet on the wrist she’d extended toward him. The faintly regal gesture reminded him of a princess summoning her footman.

  Michael’s gritty tone was at odds with the flash of masculine appreciation she’d seen in his eyes when she’d entered the room. Although she wasn’t about to admit it, when she’d talked Shayne into stopping at the Canal Street Maison Blanche department store for something appropriate to wear tonight, Lorelei hadn’t gone shopping with the mayor in mind.

  “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I am.” The scent of white roses surrounded his head like a fragrant cloud, making Michael wish that they were just two people about to enjo
y an evening on the town, rather than a private detective and a client he was trying to keep alive. “The guy called while you were out with Shayne buying up the French Quarter.”

  “Called?” She glanced over at the ivory telephone. “Here?” The idea had never occurred to her. She realized that she’d had such faith in Michael’s ability to protect her she’d never considered the possibility her stalker might try to contact her while he was on duty.

  “He left a message on your hotel voice mail. It was waiting when I got here this evening.”

  “I never even thought to check it.” She dragged a distracted hand through her hair. “What time did he call?”

  Not that it mattered, she thought. But she needed to know. Needed to think back on what she’d been doing while he’d been trying to terrify her.

  “The recorder had it down as 5:05.”

  At five o‘clock she’d been standing in her bra and panties in the department store dressing room, trying on dress after dress, determined to find one that would knock the unflappable Michael O’Malley’s socks off.

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “It was impossible. He was running it through an electronic device that distorted it.”

  “And made it sound like someone from the Star Wars bar scene.”

  “Yeah. You’ve heard it before.”

  “Unfortunately.” She breathed deeply, determined to remain calm. “What did he say?”

  Michael shrugged and looked uncomfortable. “The usual. It was just sick garbage, Lorelei. You don’t need to hear that stuff.”

  No, she decided, she didn’t. Especially since she remembered all too well the droning, strangely mechanical voice murmuring about all the horrible things her unseen stalker intended to do to her. Everything he was going to force her to do to him. Michael was right. The man, whoever he was, was very, very sick.

  “Was it...could you tell...did he call long distance?” She hated the tremor she heard in her voice. Hated the way just the thought of her stalker could turn her knees to water.

  “It was a local call.” He studied her as if trying to make a decision. “It was obvious he’d been watching you.” Another pause. “He mentioned Shayne showing up at the Oyster House... And the scene you filmed in the cemetery. Including the scalpel that wasn’t in the earlier version of any script.”

  “What?” A bubble of panic broke through her forced calm. Her blood drained from her carefully made up face, chilling her skin to ice as she lowered herself shakily into the nearest chair. “He was there?”

  No wonder she’d felt as if the scene were all too real. At the time she’d dismissed her nervousness as stress from Brian having changed the spooky scene at the last minute. Now she realized she’d sensed him. Watching. Waiting.

  “Oh, God.” She covered her face with her hands and began to tremble.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” Michael’s reaction was instantaneous. One moment he was standing beside the antique desk, watching her carefully, the next he was gathering her into his arms. One wide capable hand stroked her hair. “In a way, this is good.”

  She rested her forehead against the solid line of his shoulder, remembering how, when he’d worked on the docks, he’d been able to lift more cargo than much larger and older men. Although she realized that strength had more to do with character than muscles and straining biceps, she also knew that Michael had plenty of both. And while she had her own share of inner strength, Lorelei was willing to let him shoulder this burden. For now.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Michael,” she said on a hitch of breath against his suit jacket. “But it’s obvious that we have a vastly different definition of good.”

  “He slipped up.” He took her chin between his fingers and tilted her fretful gaze up to his reassuring one. “The off duty police the mayor provided had the cemetery blocked off for the filming,” he reminded her.

  Curiosity overcame fear. “So?”

  “So, there was no way for any civilian to get close enough to see what was happening.”

  “He could have used binoculars,” she mused. “Or a telephoto lens. I made a movie last year about a woman photographer who became obsessed with this policeman and began stalking him—”

  “Dangeruous Passions,” he said. “I saw that one.” Along with half the population. “You were great, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, liking the idea of him caring enough to go to her film, wondering if he’d sat in the dark and thought about her. Thought about what might have happened if things had been different. If he hadn’t dumped her all those many years ago.

  The idea nearly made her laugh out loud. Here she was, being stalked by a madman and she was still obsessed by a teenage love affair.

  “What’s the matter?”

  She’d begun trembling again. Her eyes glistened with unshed moisture. He’d faced innumerable dangers during his years working New Orleans’s mean streets, including a couple of bullets he hadn’t managed to dodge. But Michael wasn’t certain he’d be able to handle this woman’s tears.

  “Nothing.” She sniffled. Blinked. Then, to his amazement, a soft shaky giggle escaped those full lips he’d been dying to taste. “As ridiculous as it sounds under the circumstances, I was just hoping you’d suffered while you were watching my movie.”

  “Like the damned.” His tone was gruff, but reluctant humor sparked in his gaze. “Does that make you feel better?”

  “Actually, I think it does.”

  “Then I suppose it was worth it.”

  They’d have to talk about it, he realized. What had happened between them. And why. And what, if anything, remained after all these years. But this was neither the time nor the place. There’d be plenty of opportunity for discussion after he’d caught her stalker. Michael refused to accept the possibility that he might fail.

  “As good as that movie was, your stalker couldn’t have used the same technique,” he said. “It would have been impossible to see through all that damn fog the prop guy was cooking up.”

  “Dennis,” she murmured nonsensically. “His name is Dennis.”

  “Yeah. Nelson’s significant other. Which should put him out of the running, too.”

  There was something in his voice. Something hard and frightening. “But it doesn’t?”

  “I’m not ruling anyone out, Lorelei. At first, the guy could have been any weirdo in Los Angeles.” His tone suggested that in his opinion, that included most of the population of her adopted city. “But now, thanks to that phone call, we’ve at least narrowed the list of suspects down to a workable number.”

  That idea, which should have given her some scant comfort, didn’t. Because if Michael was right, then the man who’d been terrifying her was at the very least an acquaintance. And worse yet, perhaps even someone she considered a friend.

  “It’ll be okay,” he assured her yet again.

  And because it was Michael telling her so, Lorelei believed him.

  8

  THE MAYOR’S RECEPTION was held in a banquet room at the Jean Lafitte Hotel in the French Quarter. It seemed as if everyone who was anyone in Louisiana had been invited. Lorelei found herself being introduced to a seemingly nonending parade of politicians, society mavens, several professional football players and two faces she recognized immediately.

  Since Roman Falconer was one of her favorite writers—and a former neighbor—she would have enjoyed seeing him on any occasion. But, in truth, at the moment she was more interested in his wife, local television anchor Desiree Dupree Falconer.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” she said, smiling up at the novelist. “I bought your new book at LAX, but never expected to run into you while I was in town.”

  “The Queen of the Vampires is away on a book tour,” Roman said with a quick grin that was a striking contrast to his dark, severely chiseled features. “I was the best the mayor could round up at the last minute.”

  “I don’t believe that. Your books are riveting.
Especially the two with the serial rapist and killer. The sequel gave me nightmares for weeks.”

  “Me, too,” he said simply, although the quick look he exchanged with his wife suggested something he wasn’t prepared to share.

  “I watched your newscast while I was getting ready tonight,” Lorelei said, turning to Desiree. “You’re very good.”

  “Thank you.” Desiree’s smile was unforced, but vaguely distant. Lorelei felt herself being measured by this woman who’d once been intimately involved with Michael. A woman whose bright hair and gleaming amber eyes made Lorelei feel pale and washed out. “I’ve always admired your work, as well.”

  Before Lorelei could reply, Desiree looked up at Michael. “Hi.” This time her smile was echoed in her eyes.

  “Hi, yourself, gorgeous.” He gave her a hug that Lorelei decided lasted way too long.

  Watching him take the beautiful woman into his arms, she felt a sudden stab of jealousy, never mind that the woman in question was visibly pregnant beneath a dark bronze silk dress that matched her hair. Apparently, Roman suffered no such misgivings. From what Lorelei could tell, he was remarkably at ease with the obvious friendship his wife shared with her former lover.

  A silence settled over the two couples as Desiree gave Lorelei another of those quiet, assessing looks.

  “You know,” Roman said, rocking back on his heels, “it’s hard to believe that the little girl who used to ride her bike across my parents’ lawn grew up to be a movie star.”

  Since she’d begun to feel ridiculously nervous, and too much like high school for comfort, Lorelei could have kissed him for breaking the lingering quiet.

  “You would have to remember that.”

  He chuckled. “Those tire tracks used to drive the gardener nuts.” He glanced back and forth between his wife and Lorelei. “Talk about your small worlds. If your grandmother hadn’t sent you off to boarding school after your parents died,” he said to Desiree, “you and Lorelei would have been in the same class.”

  “Isn’t that a coincidence,” she murmured, glancing again at Michael.

  Another little silence drifted over the foursome.