by Jule McBride
Jefferson stopped at Lillian’s desk. “I forget where Lillian keeps the combination.”
Shane yanked open her desk drawer, taking the paper from beneath her work books. “Here.”
Jefferson gasped. “He’s obviously searched her desk before. Isn’t that illegal? Can’t we get him on that, Tilford?”
Judge Winslow nodded. “Hmm. Illegal search and seizure.”
“I’m about to have a seizure,” muttered Shane, heading into Jefferson’s office with Lone Star close behind.
“Now, where’s the safe?”
“He has a warrant,” Judge Winslow reminded. “We may not want to help him prosecute your assistant, Jefferson, but we have no choice. It’s the law.”
“But I don’t want him in my safe.”
Shane wanted to throttle the man. “What’s in there?”
“I don’t know,” Jefferson admitted. “Lillian has exclusive access. And I, unlike some people, trust her implicitly.” Suddenly looking wounded, Jefferson strode across his office, took a book from a bookcase and pressed a button behind it. Shane watched the bookcase pop from the wall like a door, exposing a wall safe behind. So that was it. If the office wasn’t surrounded by glass and open to prying eyes, Shane would have quickly found it. Heading for it, Shane quickly began spinning the dial.
Jefferson sighed loudly.
“You know,” Shane couldn’t help but say, “I think it’s you who doesn’t trust her, Jefferson. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be so worried about what we’re going to find.”
With a final click, the door of the safe swung open.
And Shane’s heart sank. Had he really been hoping to see three million dollars in cash? Okay, so maybe he’d imagined getting the money, turning it in to Fin and cutting a deal for Lillian.
But the safe was empty, except for a manila envelope, which he withdrew. He pulled out the papers inside, the top one of which was an envelope addressed to him in Lillian’s handwriting. He opened it while Judge Winslow and Jefferson clawed through the remaining contents. “Shane,” the note began, “if you’re reading this, something bad’s happened to me.”
His eyes skimmed the explanation that followed—it detailed her parents’ deaths, her marriage to Sam Ramsey, how she’d fled and adopted an assumed name. Everything was much the same as she’d related last night.
Last night? It seemed as if a lifetime had passed between then and now. Shane kept reading. “I’m asking you to be Little Shane’s guardian. When you held him the first time, I knew everything would be all right. You need each other.” Shane’s heart thudded. Damn right he needed his son. Lillian, too. But where was the money? That was the key to getting them back, and she hadn’t said a word about it.
He glanced into the safe again. It was empty now. And, for a second, despair engulfed him. Remembering the dark rushing river that took his parents’ lives, he realized he could no more control his fate now than he could that night. Dammit, when would that dark river leave him alone? When would darkness quit rushing through his life, taking his family?
Judge Winslow sighed wearily. “Ah,” he said, rustling through some papers. “Won’t criminals ever learn? Why, this is the same code Mackie the Money used in 1937.” The judge began reminiscing. “Yes. I was just a young whippersnapper then…”
“Mackie the Money?” Shane interrupted.
“A numbers runner,” Judge Winslow explained. “It was one of my very first cases….”
Shane stared down at the senseless pages of numbers in Judge Winslow’s wrinkled hand.
“I’m sure it tracks intended payoffs to the police,” continued the judge. “All you need is the…” He shuffled through the papers. “The key. Yes, here. Poor girl. She’s in terrible trouble. Good thing Jack Ramsey didn’t find her. She’d probably be dead by now. Well, I believe you can pick up the whole crime consortium on the basis of this, Mr. Holiday.” The judge thrust the papers at Shane. “Now may I please return to my home and to my breakfast, which is no doubt cold?”
Not yet. Evidence against the Ramseys wasn’t going to help Shane get Lillian and the baby back. “Was there anything in the envelope about the money?”
“It’s in Zurich,” Jefferson announced, perusing another stack of papers.
Relief flooded Shane. “Zurich?”
“She’s been trading in international currencies,” Jefferson continued, shaking his head with worry. “I always tell her stocks. Even bonds. Overseas currencies are so volatile right now.” Grudging respect and pride crept into his tone. “It was terribly risky. But my, my, my. Lillian has made a killing.”
“She’s been investing the money?” Shane said.
Jefferson nodded. “Between her night school education and whatever advice she’s picked up around this office, she’s become one very wealthy woman.”
Shane could merely stare. Her personal bank accounts showed she pinched pennies better than most. But… “Wealthy?”
“Yes. And the dear girl never squandered her principal.” Jefferson sighed with sudden contentment. “The three million dollars is untouched. And I’m sure she’ll be happy to turn it over to the government.” Jefferson suddenly chuckled. “Of course, she did quadruple the principal…”
Shane raised his eyebrows. “Where’s that?”
“She gave it all to charity,” Jefferson said.
Somehow, Shane wasn’t all that surprised. He’d discovered a giving heart in the woman he loved. “Which charity?”
“Big Apple Babies.”
Judge Winslow clamped a hand to his forehead as if to say he should have known. “Jefferson!” he exclaimed.
“All this time, the woman on the phone—”
Jefferson nodded. “The one who’ll never meet us face to face—”
“It was Lillian?”
Shane listened as the two older men pieced it together. Apparently, as soon as Lillian came to work for Jefferson, she found out about Jefferson’s secret backing of Big Apple Babies. Meantime, she was in possession of a huge sum of money and afraid to go to the police. In good conscience, she could never touch the money because it was blood money, belonging to a crime consortium. So, using Jefferson’s financial advice, she’d slowly begun to invest it. Later, she introduced herself to Big Apple Babies anonymously—first through a letter, then through a phone call. She offered the group the considerable interest she was earning. Becoming a secret philanthropist was the perfect solution to her predicament.
“And to think—” Jefferson shook his head. “Every time the Big Apple Baby backers met on the phone, Lillian and I were on the same conference call. I was in my office—” His gaze strayed to the glass wall separating their desks. “And she was in plain sight.”
“My,” the old judge said in shock. “She’s certainly a very clever girl.”
“For some time, she’s been Big Apple Babies’ most secretive and generous contributor.” Jefferson sighed. “Remember her donation for the new security system…”
Lillian had paid for the new, state-of-the-art security system that Shane had installed at Big Apple Babies? It was mind-blowing. Countless emotions rushed in on him—among them love and pride. Lillian was so damn smart. And gorgeous. And high-spirited. But Shane didn’t have time to think about it. He was already on the run with Lone Star.
Judge Winslow said, “Where do you think you’re going now, young man?”
Shane and Lone Star turned at the door. “Look, Jefferson, could you please call Ethel? Explain everything. And Judge Winslow, you’re with the family courts. Pull any strings you can. I’m headed over to Big Apple Babies. I want my son back.”
Now that things were looking brighter for Lillian, Jefferson’s mood had improved considerably. “And then?”
“And then I’m going to get Lillian.”
EVERYWHERE SHE LOOKED, Lillian saw Shane. Right now, she was crossing the threshold over which he’d carried her on their wedding night. Then she headed for the room where they’d made love. Wherever he’d g
one this morning, he’d worn his Stetson, but Lillian could still imagine it, resting behind her on the marble-topped entry table, as if he’d left it there just to torture her.
“Are you ready to start?” Joyce Moon said.
Lillian turned in the hallway and stared at the three defense attorneys Jefferson had sent. Joyce Moon was about thirty, with straight dark hair. Orsen Daily was older, about forty, with a spindly body and wire-rimmed glasses. The youngest—Lillian thought he’d said his name was Bert Taylor—looked too slick for his own good. It was lucky, he’d said as he paid her bail for the fraud charges, that all three lawyers happened to be in Manhattan at the moment. Lillian guessed they were all highly sought-after, but then Jefferson would only hire the best.
“Are you ready?” Joyce repeated.
“Please take a seat in the living room,” Lillian managed. “I think I need a minute alone.”
“Sure.” Joyce Moon nodded, blazing a trail on down the hallway.
Lillian went inside the bedroom, her high heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She was underslept and her head hurt, and as she opened the curtains and blinds, summer sunlight flooded the room, piercing her eyes. Catching a glimpse of herself in a mirror as she headed for the crib, she was amazed she’d managed to look so good. Somehow, she’d pulled her hair into a decent French twist, and when the agents gave her a minute to change, she’d put on her best navy suit. If she was going anywhere near a jail, she’d decided, she’d be damned if she’d look cheap. Or ruffled.
She’d only called out for the baby once.
And she wouldn’t again. Not even now as she stared into the crib. She hadn’t cracked when the agents who questioned her threw her relationship with Shane into her face, either. Oh, they went into details. Apparently, he’d been obsessed with solving his uncle’s murder, and so he’d tailed her for seven years. He’d watched her from a boat in the Hudson, too. And married me. Helped me adopt Little Shane. She fought down the pain that came with the deeper thoughts.
And the anger. Because she should have known. She should have pieced it together when agents burst into the apartment while she was baby-sitting. That day, something about one of the men niggled at her mind. Now she realized it was because he’d been in her apartment before, dressed as a mover.
“Dressed,” she muttered, still staring blindly into the empty crib. That was the key word. Because it had all been a game. A charade. And Shane Holiday had been wearing a mask.
Oh, he’d come to love her. The baby, too. Jefferson had called the lawyers to say Shane found the papers she kept locked in the office safe. Right now, he was fighting to get the charges against her dropped. Not that she cared. Her eyes trailed over the room—seeing his clothes on a chair. The white dress he’d taken off her last night, which was still on the bathroom floor.
She leaned over the crib, torturing herself by touching Little Shane’s things one by one—a baby-blue pacifier. A rattle. A pull toy he wouldn’t have been old enough to play with for months…
Later, she knew, she’d been glad that the saga of the past seven years was over and that the dark shadows of her nightmares had been swept away. It had felt good to confront Sam after all these years. But now, all she could think about was Ethel taking away the baby. And Shane….
“Lillian?”
The word came from behind her in that low rumbling drawl that always reminded her of home. Shane. He had a lot of nerve, coming here right now. Not that she wouldn’t face him. No, she didn’t mind in the least. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Jefferson would do everything in his considerable power to help her get Little Shane back. And even before she did, Lillian was leaving Shane Holiday in the dust.
Choke on this, cowboy, she thought. Coolly, she turned toward him, knowing he’d never see how badly he hurt her. He didn’t deserve any part of her, and she’d been betrayed one too many times. Her dark eyes settled on him, and her tone stayed calm. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
His voice was as damnably cool as the gaze that was calculated to remind her she’d met her match in him. “I live here, Lillian.”
She’d almost forgotten. He had nowhere to go. All his belongings were here. Her heart suddenly lurched, and she tried to pretend she wasn’t hoping he’d come back to apologize. “Get your stuff and get out.”
He shook his head. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
The hell he wasn’t. She gaped at him. “You helped me adopt a baby. A baby, Shane. He’s my son—”
“He’s my son, too.”
Her heart pounded dangerously hard, as she fought against the truth of that. “Not that it matters now,” she said, keeping a tight rein on her emotions. “Shane, you knew I was being watched, you knew he’d be taken away. And you still helped me get him. I hate you for that. You know that, don’t you?”
Holding up a finger, Shane said, “Hold that thought, Lillian.”
Then he vanished from the bedroom doorway. Her eyes narrowed. A second later, he reappeared—with Little Shane squirming in his arms. Her heart ached so badly, Lillian could do nothing more than grip the crib’s rail. How could Shane do this to her? He was seriously threatening her control, making tears press against her eyelids.
Not that he cared in the least. He was walking toward her, carrying the baby, and as he approached, he lifted his Stetson by the brim and sent it spinning onto the bed. “Judge Winslow, Jefferson and Jake Lucas had a powwow, and the upshot is that Little Shane stays with us while things are cleared up. If everything goes smoothly, which it will, then we keep him for good.”
“Us!” she exploded, stamping a high heel. “There is no us anymore!”
“Of course there is.” Shane stepped closer, bouncing Little Shane on his hip. “Look, I know the agents told you I staked you out for years. But you know what else?”
She wished he’d leave, but for some foolish reason, she felt compelled to indulge him. She shook her head. “What?”
“I fell in love with you the first time I ever saw you—” Shane glanced at her, his tantalizing drawl lowering, to soothe her. “I was tailing you on Bayou Laforche, where you stopped for a soda at a dusty old bait shack. You were wearing a white dress that day, and when you got out of your car, my whole world stopped.”
She tried not to react, but her eyes widened.
“And, Lillian,” he continued smoothly, “if I’ve loved and chased after you for seven years, I’m not going to stop now.”
With that, he leaned and pressed Little Shane in her arms, and Lillian simply couldn’t help herself. She nuzzled and kissed the baby and then, realizing she was shaking too much to keep holding him, she laid him in the crib. “What, Shane?” she managed, feeling desperate to fight the tears that suddenly shimmered in her eyes. “Is it really necessary to torment me some more?”
“Torment you? C’mon, you know me better than that.”
But it was torment. She didn’t want the baby here, if he could be taken away again. It hurt too much. “They could take him…”
“But they won’t.” Shane edged closer, and the eyes she could never resist settled on hers again. “Trouble is, it’s a package deal, Lil. You have to take me, too.”
“I don’t have to do anything.”
Swiftly, he turned and pressed up against her, his hands settling on either side of her, closing around the crib rail, pinning her. “Oh, yes, you do.”
He was too close. She could feel the heat and strength coming from the body that had loved her so well. Her voice was traitorous, coming out with a hint of raspiness. “And why’s that?”
“Because you love me.”
Hadn’t he heard her? “I hate you now, Shane Holiday!”
He grabbed her quickly. As his warm, muscular arms wrapped around her, hauling her against his chest, a lock of his hair fell and teased her forehead. Her sharp swift breath of protest only drew in his masculine scent, and feeling his body against hers seemed to sweep everything from the room—the rising summe
r heat, the slow turning of the ceiling fan.
“Well, you know what they say about love and hate,” he returned. “There’s a real fine line.”
“It’s always better not to cross the line, Shane.”
The instant before his mouth descended, catching hers in a way meant to remind her of the passion they shared, he said, “But I already warned you, I always do.”
Maybe she should have heeded all those warnings, but beneath Lillian Smith Holiday lay the decidedly wilder Delilah Fontenont, who liked to run barefoot near the bayous, dabble in high-risk financial markets, and fall in love with men like her husband, Shane. And so her arms suddenly wrapped around his neck and her tongue dueled with his, and she gave in to a slow sweet kiss that melted whatever was left of her resolve not to love him.
After a long moment, he drew away, ever so slightly. “I thought we might go home,” he murmured against her lips.
Her mind clouded, as she wondered about what was going to happen with the baby, wishing for reassurance that the charges against her would be dropped and that they could keep him. “I guess we are home, Shane.”
“I mean down South.”
“Down South.” Whatever breath she had left after Shane’s kiss caught in her throat, making her heart hammer so that it almost hurt. If the Ramseys were imprisoned, was there a chance she could go home to Louisiana? Her gaze trailed past Shane to where Little Shane was gazing up from the crib at his parents, his eyes sleepy. He yawned, as to say this family needn’t have a care in the world. Somehow, she found her voice. “You know…I guess I’m still legally married to Sam.”
Shane’s lips twisted in a quick wry smile. “Somehow, I’m sure there are grounds for divorcing him.” Shane’s eyes caught hers, the pale irises darkening, turning smoky with his feelings. “I want you to marry me, Lillian.”
“I want that, too. But you know I’m in trouble now.”
“I’m here to stick by you.”
She was running out of arguments. Especially when his steady eyes came a hairbreadth closer, peering right into hers. “Lillian,” he said softly, “when this is over, you’re going to have that white brick house with the picket fence.”
