by Jule McBride
Trusty Joe’s grip tightened on Lillian. “Your little girlfriend destroyed my retirement package, Shane. Me and the Ramseys had it all set up. I was the one who was going to dole that three million dollars out to all the cops on the take. But when your girlfriend took off with the payoff and I couldn’t stop her, Jack Ramsey wouldn’t work with me anymore. The consortium started operating, but I never got my cut. Now, since you were nice enough to call with Delilah’s whereabouts, and since you’ve got Sam Ramsey tied up, I’ll just take that tidy little sum your girlfriend—”
“She’s my wife,” Shane said with deceptive calm that belied his building fury.
“I don’t care who she is. I’ve been casing this place. I about fell over when I saw Sam Ramsey. I thought he was dead. Now I want the money he came for.”
“Go ahead and shoot me,” Lillian said calmly. “But you’re not getting a red cent.”
As much as he admired her spunk, Shane sure wished Lillian would quit taunting men with guns. It just wasn’t healthy. He glanced toward the crib and swallowed hard. Raw fury made him want to throttle Joe. But Shane wasn’t playing any risky games when Lillian’s and the baby’s safety were at stake. He kept his voice even. “Let her go, Joe. And then we can make a deal.”
Lillian’s eyes were bugging. “Don’t make a deal, Shane! I saw him shoot somebody. I saw—”
The gloved hand clapped over her mouth again. “Got yourself a jabbery little thing, didn’t ya, Shane? Well, you best start making her sing about my money. And, Shane, if you move, I will shoot you.”
Shane tried to buy time. “You’ve known me all my life, Joe. Would you really shoot?”
Trusty Joe’s eyes had turned cunning, crafty. “I shot your uncle, didn’t I?” He chuckled harshly. “Or hadn’t you guessed? You two were both fools. Upholding law and order, when every other cop on the block was making a killing. I tried to tell your uncle not to stake out the Ramseys that night…”
Lillian’s eyes widened in shock. For the first time, the implication sank in. Shane had been there the night she’d fled Louisiana.
“I was on the case,” Shane explained softly, his eyes never leaving Trusty Joe’s. “And I came here to solve my uncle’s murder. I—”
Trusty Joe cut him off with a defensive whine. “Damn right I shot Silas, before he hauled me into the precinct. He mighta been my partner, but no man was taking me down.”
“So you really did it. You killed my uncle.” It wasn’t a question.
“What do you want it in, Shane? Blood?”
“That’s exactly how I want it.”
Suddenly, Lillian wrenched again, swinging the kettle. She missed Trusty Joe, but gained Shane the precious second he needed. He shot across the room, grabbing the gun. Lord, Shane wanted to kill the man. All these years, he’d continued trusting Joe—only to find out Joe had killed his Uncle Silas. The man had some nerve coming in here, threatening Shane’s family. Clutching Trusty Joe’s arm, he dragged him across the room and down the hallway. And he didn’t stop until he reached the terrace.
“Shane!” Lillian’s steps pounded behind him.
“Please, don’t throw him over!”
She would say please in an instance such as this. Delilah Fontenont, a.k.a. Lillian Smith, was a very strange mix of lady and hellcat. But she was right, too. This was a matter for the authorities. Scanning the Hudson, Shane saw the surveillance boat’s searchlight bobbing in the water, and realized whoever was out there had probably noticed the action. No doubt Fin was on his way. Realizing he was still holding Trusty Joe dangerously close to the terrace rail, Shane blew out a murderous sigh.
“Take off your shirt, Joe.”
The man did so, trembling in relief, seemingly realizing Shane wasn’t going to do him any more bodily harm. Ripping the shirt to shreds with his bare hands, Shane tied Trusty to the terrace rail with the strips. A second later, Lillian’s arms flew around Shane’s neck.
“Are you all right?” she said.
“Are you?”
She nodded. “I…I didn’t realize your uncle died at the Ramseys’.” There were questions in her eyes, but there was trust, too, that Shane would tell her everything. Right now, he was just glad that she and the baby were safe. Maybe he hadn’t protected his parents. Or Uncle Silas, who’d been like a father. But he’d defended his wife and baby.
“Your face,” she whispered.
Only as Lillian’s gentle fingers pressed his skin did Shane realize Sam had gotten in some licks. “It’s nothing that won’t heal,” he assured in a low rumbling drawl. Besides, she’d already given him all the healing he needed when she’d accepted his love.
“You were like an animal.” She tried to look disapproving.
He smiled, wincing against the pain in his battered body. Smoothing back her hair, he said, “You bring it out in me.”
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Lowering his head, he delivered a quick kiss, then said, “I don’t know what we’re going to do now, but I do know I love you, Lillian.”
What was almost a smile curved her lips. “Whoever said bad things come in threes?”
He narrowed his gaze. “Hmm?”
“Well, first there was Sam. Then Trusty Joe. And now the best-looking guy in the world is telling me he loves me. So, maybe bad things only come in twos.”
Shane was about to agree when Fin strode came through Lillian’s front door and headed straight for the living room.
Lillian turned in Shane’s arms. “Who are you?”
“Fin Huff,” said Fin, nodding a greeting at Shane. “And you’re under arrest, Ms. Fontenont.”
Lillian’s eyes shot to Shane’s. “What’s this?”
“Unfortunately,” muttered Shane, still holding her tight. “It’s bad thing number three. And four,” he added.
Because Ethel was on Fin’s heels. And everything in the caseworker’s expression said she’d come to take away Little Shane.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHANE WOULD NEVER FORGET what followed. Not how Fin’s agents stormed the apartment, hauling off Sam Ramsey and Trusty Joe Beaujolais. Or Lillian’s betrayed expression when she realized Shane had been working with the agents—and for how long. He’d tried to go to her, but agents held him back.
“Sorry,” Fin said coolly. “You crossed the line, Shane. We’ve got to arrest her now.”
Her chin had quivered, her dark eyes blazing. “What was I—and the baby? Just a job to you?”
She knew better than that. Shane couldn’t believe she’d even said it. Only hours ago, he was bathing her, loving her. Surely she knew the depths of what he’d shared had come from the heart. “It wasn’t only that.”
“Not only that!”
That wasn’t what he meant. His eyes begged her to understand that torn loyalties had ripped him apart. “I came here to find out about my uncle, Lillian. You were a potential witness to his murder. Ever since I got here, I’ve been trying to find a way out of this for us.”
Nothing he said mattered. And when Fin began questioning her, Lillian still coolly maintained she didn’t have the Mob’s money. When Ethel came from the bedroom, carrying Little Shane and the diaper bags, Lillian cried out, just once, and ice-cold fear slid through Shane. He’d never believed this could really happen. Lillian lunged for the baby. Shane lunged. But people held them both back.
“Sorry, Lillian—” Ethel’s eyes filled with tears. “I didn’t want to do this, but Fin explained everything to me. I have to take the baby now.”
“That’s our son!” Shane exploded.
Ethel looked uncertain. “Shane, Fin told me this was nothing more than a sting operation. Are you saying you want this baby?” Did he want his son? Shane had rushed forward, dragging along four agents who stopped him from getting to Ethel. His voice became a murderous command. “Put him back in his crib.”
“If you’re interested in the baby, maybe you can arrange to see him,” Ethel said nervously.
Sha
ne could only shake his head, his eyes riveted on where Ethel was backing away with the baby. Little Shane awakened and waved his arms. His sudden strangled cry of despair punctured Shane’s heart like a knife.
You can’t take our son! You can’t come in here and snatch him from his crib! But Ethel had. And, after letting Lillian dress, Fin took her from the apartment with the same unbelievable ease.
Now Shane sat near the terrace, his hand resting on the spot between Lone Star’s ears. “If I could just think,” he muttered.
Through the terrace doors, the predawn world wasn’t encouraging. Gray haze settled on the shimmering Hudson, waiting for the sun’s searing heat to shave it off like thick dark cream from butter. The surveillance boat’s bobbing light had vanished. With Lillian gone, what was worth watching?
When Lone Star nuzzled Shane’s thigh and whimpered, Shane glanced down. He took in the sheriff’s badge pinned to the dog’s red bandanna, her down-turned ears, the sad dark droopy eyes and star-shaped barrettes. His heart pulled at the reminders of Lillian. How could his wife and son be gone?
Think of something, Shane!
Fin had taken Lillian for questioning, not even granting Shane a seat at the interview. Now that Shane had successfully bagged both Sam Ramsey and Trusty Joe, he was suddenly “too personally involved in the case.” After years of dedication and putting in unpaid time, he’d been shut out. All Fin wanted was credit for making the collars. Shane really had to think…
“To hell with thinking,” he muttered. Ever since he’d moved in with Lillian, he’d been trying to think his way out of this. “What say we do something, Lone Star?”
“Arf!”
Shane headed down the hallway with Lone Star. Pulling on a T-shirt, Shane stepped into his boots as he picked up the bedroom phone and punched in a number. Listening to the phone ring, he glanced at the crib, and braced himself, feeling sick. Where was Little Shane right now? In a cab with Ethel? Crying in a crib at Big Apple Babies? Well, wherever he was, Shane thought, he wasn’t where he should be—at home with his parents.
When Jefferson Lawrence finally answered the phone, Shane didn’t waste any more time. He explained everything from start to finish, then said, “Meet me at your office.”
“AND YOU HAD THE NERVE to bring your dog?” Jefferson fumed.
Lone Star thumped her tail uncertainly on the sidewalk.
Shane resettled his hat more firmly on his held, then held up a hand. “Please, Jefferson. I feel riled enough without enduring more of your caustic tone.”
“A dog,” repeated Jefferson.
Lillian’s boss had forced Shane to get a warrant before coming to the building, which meant Shane had go through Fin—who was now in charge of what had become a full-scale official case against the Ramseys. Despite being ticked off by the politicking, Shane had acted professionally, in order to obtain the warrant. Still, swallowing his pride left a bad taste in his mouth. Besides which, they were wasting precious time. Shane wanted Lillian and Little Shane back. Now.
“You insisted on bringing your dog,” Shane wound up saying.
“You’d better believe I called the honorable Judge Tilford Winslow,” Jefferson returned, his usually melodious baritone now rough around the edges because of his mood. Caught on his morning run, Jefferson was wearing bright red runner’s shorts and a ventilated shirt. As he headed through the lobby door toward the judge, who waited at the security desk, the gadgets hanging around Jefferson’s neck—a stopwatch and pulse-monitoring device—thumped against his chest.
“Tilford,” Jefferson continued, his voice rising, no doubt to embarrass Shane. “I told Mr. Holiday I’m not proceeding one step further without my attorney present! Oh, no, I’m not! Not after what Mr. Holiday’s done to poor Lillian!”
Mr. Holiday. Poor Lillian. Shane blew out a testy sigh. Go ahead, he thought. Perceive me as the enemy. See if I care. He followed Jefferson toward a bank of brass elevators.
Judge Winslow followed, looking grouchier than Jefferson. By nature, the judge was formidable—well into his eighties, corpulent and bald. But Shane had met him twice, and he suspected the judge, like Jefferson, had a softer side. Both wealthy men helped fund the Big Apple Babies adoption agency and recently their previously anonymous contributions had come to light.
“Sorry if I got you out of bed, Judge Winslow—” Shane struggled for diplomacy, grabbing Lone Star’s bandanna and coaxing her inside the elevator. “I appreciate your coming. I—”
“I do assure you I was wide-awake, young man,” Judge Winslow said coolly.
Glancing over the elderly judge’s wrinkled gray suit and tie, Shane decided not to mention that the white shirt stretching over his considerable paunch was crookedly buttoned. Shane sighed. “Right.”
Judge Winslow cleared his rheumy throat while Jefferson angrily stabbed the button for the executive floor. “Truly,” the judge continued in an acerbic tone. “I’d only started my morning coffee, Mr. Holiday. In fact, I was sitting down to a nice quiet breakfast, but of course I jumped right up to rush over here. Nevertheless, seeing as it’s scarcely 7:00 a.m., I do have a very long day left ahead of me, during which I’m sure I can find an uninterrupted moment to read the New York Times. Since my semi-retirement, I like to start my mornings with a nice, long leisurely break—”
Shane gritted his teeth. “Like I said, I’m—”
“Oh, shut up,” growled Jefferson. “Tilford and I don’t care how sorry you are.” Jefferson leaned and repeatedly stabbed the elevator button to make his point. Not that it helped. The elevator was padded, pressurized and ponderously slow. The executive suite was on the sixty-seventh floor.
Shane and Lone Star stared up at the bar of extinguishing lights above the door, while Jefferson continued ruminating, half talking to himself. “Lillian’s very fragile. And I knew she was in trouble. I just knew it! Well, I certainly hope you’re satisfied with yourself now, Mr. Holiday….”
Floor twenty-seven. Floor twenty-eight…
“…you’ve ruined her life. And the baby. My God! What are we going to do about the baby?”
Floor twenty-nine. Thirty.
“…to see her used! Seduced! What were you thinking when you married her? Don’t you know that wedding vows are sacred? Or do you care?”
Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Shane exhaled a long-suffering sigh. “I could really do without all the flak right now, Jefferson. Okay?”
“Arf!” agreed Lone Star.
“You ruined her life,” Jefferson continued as if he hadn’t heard a word. “And she waited so long to get a baby! She can’t have any, and that might have been her only chance!”
Shane had about had it. That his and Lillian’s son was in a crib at Big Apple Babies, instead of at home, wasn’t helping his own mood in the least. “Lillian,” he reminded flatly, “fled Louisiana with three million dollars in her possession that not only belonged to a crime consortium, but that was going to be used as payoff money to the police.”
Jefferson’s eyes narrowed. “Exactly. It was the Mob’s money. Not Lillian’s. She was running for her life, poor girl. Not that she’ll get in trouble—” His voice rose. “I want you to know I’ve been making phone calls. I’ve got a lot of pull in this town, and I’ve already hired lawyers—”
Shane raised his eyebrows. “You’ve hired lawyers to argue Lillian’s case?”
Jefferson shot Shane a smug, self-satisfied smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard of Joyce Moon, Orsen Daily and Bert Taylor?”
The three high-profile defense attorneys were the highest-paid and most sought-after in the country. Relief flooded Shane, not that he could get a word in edgewise, to thank Jefferson.
“They’ll rip you to shreds,” Jefferson continued. “Everything concerning your illegal surveillance of Lillian and will come out. You won’t have a prayer.”
Shane told himself not to rise to the bait. It would definitely be easier if Jefferson would calm down and realize they were on the same side. “Jeffer
son,” he finally said. “Whether you choose to recognize it or not, I’m trying to help her.”
“Oh, now you’re running scared!” Jefferson fumed.
“Now that I’ve mentioned the lawyers, you’re backing off! Well, just so you know, I’ll take you all the way to the Supreme Court for violating Lillian’s civil rights!”
Shane was getting genuinely aggravated. “She’s my wife.”
“I believe she’s technically still married to Sam Ramsey,” interjected the judge coolly.
Which meant Shane could be forced to testify if he found evidence against her. “I love her,” Shane said, defending himself.
“With love like yours,” Jefferson snapped, “who needs enemies?”
Judge Winslow sighed. “Gentlemen, may I suggest we continue this incredibly long elevator ride in silence?”
Shane was about to snap. “She broke the law. She’s been living under an assumed name.”
“And now you show up with a warrant to open my personal office safe!” Jefferson burst out. “Clearly, you’re amassing more evidence against her. How could you pretended to love her? Even marry her? And all for your measly ambition, your fool case.”
Shane’s voice was low, deceptively controlled. “Jefferson, I’ve about had it. The case you’re talking about involved my uncle’s death.”
That brought a tense silence that lasted until the doors opened. Shane looked out—at Lillian’s work area overlooking the cubicles and Jefferson’s glassed-in space, which included a spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.
“C’mon, Jefferson—” Judge Winslow’s palsied, liver-spotted hand patted his friend’s back as they exited the elevator. “Let’s just open that safe for Mr. Holiday.”
