Witness

by Beverly Barton

  “I had hoped he would be here by now.” Julian leaned down, directing his conversation to Jeannie. “When you spoke to him again early this morning, he promised he would arrive in time for the press conference, didn’t he?”

  “He’ll be here soon.” Jeannie saw the microphone as it came toward her face. She stopped dead, aware that the young female reporter for the local television station was not going to move aside.

  “Is it true, Ms. Alverson, that the deacons from the Righteous Light Church here in Biloxi have condemned you as a fraud, and their minister, Reverend Maynard Reeves, has gone so far as to claim you are a witch, a devil worshipper?” The reporter glanced meaningfully at the Die Witch signs held high in the air by Reeves’s avid disciples.

  Jeannie tried to turn her head, wanting to avoid answering the question. But the reporter was persistent, stepping closer, inserting one of her feet between Jeannie’s feet, pressing the microphone a hairsbreadth from Jeannie’s mouth.

  “Let us pass,” Julian commanded, unaccustomed to people disregarding his orders.

  “I’ve called the police.” Marta pointed her index finger at the persistent reporter.

  “Are you a fraud, Jeannie? Or are you a witch?” the reporter asked.

  “I’m neither.”

  The reporter’s foot slid into the side of Jeannie’s walking stick. Jeannie gripped her cane, but to no avail. The cane tumbled from her hand. Her knees gave way. She clutched at Julian’s sleeve, but her clammy hands slipped off the soft material of his jacket. Marta cried out, reaching for Jeannie, her fingers just touching her hair as she toppled over, landing roughly on her knees.

  SAM DUNDEE SAW Jeannie Alverson fall, accidentally tripped by the overzealous redhead harassing her. Sam cut through the media horde like a machete slicing through untamed jungle. The reporters stared at him, whispers rising from the mass, questioning the big man’s identity.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” a bearded middle-aged tabloid photographer asked.

  “I’m the cavalry to the rescue,” Sam proclaimed, the deadly curve of his mouth an easily understood warning to others.

  Sam reached out, grabbing the red-haired reporter who had tripped Jeannie Alverson. Manacling her arm, he glared at her, noting the shock in her green eyes. When he released her, she backed away, the surrounding swarm following her lead.

  Sam stared down at the woman whose face had been plastered on the front page of newspapers and across every television screen in the country for the past few days. Jeannie looked even more delicate, more fragile, in person. Bending on one knee, Sam gently shoved Julian Howell aside and lifted Jeannie into his arms. She gazed into his eyes, and a hard knot of fear formed in the pit of Sam Dundee’s stomach. He remembered those compassionate eyes. Those warm, compelling brown eyes.

  Jeannie clung to Sam, draping her arm around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder.

  “Everything will be all right, Ms. Alverson. I’m here now. I’ll take you to safety. I had a limousine pick me up at the airport. It’s waiting outside.”

  The crowd watched in stunned silence while Sam Dundee carried Jeannie Alverson through their midst. Once the pair had exited the building, the reporters followed, taking little note of Dr. Julian Howell or Marta McCorkle.

  Sam told himself not to look at Jeannie Alverson again, to simply carry her out to the waiting limousine. Her fingers touched the nape of his neck. A soft, tender touch. Sam’s nerves screamed. His body tensed.

  “I prayed for your help.” Her voice was sweet, and unintentionally sultry. A slow, honey-coated southern drawl. “Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I appreciate your coming in person.”

  Against his better judgment, Sam looked at her then. She smiled—a closed-mouth, half-formed smile. Jeannie was not classically beautiful. Her features were too large—her big eyes a gentle, faded brown, her full lips a pale pink, her round cheeks flushed with emotion. Despite the frailty of her appearance, she felt sturdy and solid in his arms. And at that moment, Sam knew without a doubt that her fragile facade was an illusion, that behind her delicate feminine softness existed an incredibly strong woman. Jeannie Alverson was a survivor. And yet she possessed a quality so totally feminine, so genuinely genteel, that Sam wanted nothing more than to protect her, to keep her safe from all hurt and harm.

  He forced his gaze away from her face.

  The chauffeur held open the limousine’s door. Sam slipped inside, depositing Jeannie on the seat.

  “Where’s Julian?” she asked, tugging her billowing skirt over her legs.

  “I’m sure he’s fine. The reporters aren’t interested in him. Only in you,” Sam said, then turned to the driver. “Take the route I mapped out for you. That should take care of some of our followers.”

  “Where are we going?” Jeannie took a long, hard look at her rescuer, and her breath caught in her throat. This big, strong man, who had carried her through the crowd as if she weighed nothing, was the man she had found dying on the beach at Le Bijou Bleu six years ago. She had saved his life then; now he was here to protect her and repay the debt he thought he owed.

  “I’m taking you home.” Sam sat back in the seat, his gaze focused out the side window. He was not going to be suckered by this woman, despite her aura of sweet innocence. She was a job, and nothing more. Liar! His conscience screamed at him. He should have sent Blackwood or Roarke. But this was Jeannie Alverson. He had no choice but to handle the job personally.

  He owed her his life. If she hadn’t found him six years ago, he would have died. And nothing she asked of him would be too great a price to repay her for his life.

  Jeannie didn’t mean to stare at Sam, but she couldn’t stop herself. She had dated several men over the years, but hadn’t allowed herself to become close to any of them. She knew she never could give herself to a man without first being honest with him about her past, about who and what she was. And she had been able to control her sexuality all her life. So why couldn’t she handle the attraction she felt for Sam Dundee?

  She wanted to reach out and touch his hard, lean face. She wanted to say or do something that would make him smile. He looked as if he seldom smiled. His face had set into a sensually beautiful aloofness, every feature blatantly, irresistibly male.

  His thick, wavy blond hair was styled short in the back and sides, with more length left on the top. His heavy brown eyebrows hooded a set of intense blue-gray eyes.

  Sitting at his side, Jeannie could feel the power and strength of the man. She felt safe and protected, and at the same time she was vividly aware of the danger Sam Dundee posed to her.

  In six years, she had not been able to forget him. He had remained a vivid image in her mind, a smoldering passion in her heart.

  They sat alone in the back of the limousine, neither of them speaking. Sam continued gazing out the window. Jeannie closed her eyes in silent meditation, praying for the strength to live through this ordeal, to be able to resume her normal life and find a way to bring peace to Sam Dundee’s tortured soul.

  When they arrived at Julian’s home, the limousine slowed to a snail’s pace as the chauffeur turned into the driveway. Crowds of people—reporters, curiosity seekers, true believers and accusers—lined the driveway, filled the front yard and spilled over into the street.

  “Damn!” Sam cursed under his breath.

  “What’s wrong?” Jeannie peered out the tinted side window. “Oh, dear Lord!” There were more people surrounding her home than had overrun the Howell School.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll try to get things under control before I take you inside.” Sam glared at her, his look a warning in itself. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you in just a minute.”

  Jeannie nodded her head. She clutched her hands together in a prayerlike gesture, trying not to think about anything—not the past, not the present, not the future. Summoning all her willpower, she forced herself not to look out the window, not to check on what was happening. If she and Julian were going to survi
ve this ordeal, they would have to allow Sam Dundee to do his job. After all, he was a trained professional who was ready to lay his life on the line to protect her.

  She heard voices outside, a mixture of questions, shouts and pleas. Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on emptying her mind, on blocking out everything except the serenity within her own soul. Someone threw a brick at the limousine, shattering a side window. The loud crash jarred her from the moment of peace she sought.

  The door flew open. Sam Dundee reached inside, dragged Jeannie across the seat and lifted her into his arms. “We’re going in the side entrance. The housekeeper will open the door the minute we approach.”

  “What about all these people?” Jeannie asked, holding on to Sam’s neck as he carried her up the sidewalk, the crowd closing in around them. “Why won’t they leave me alone?”

  Sam knew that he couldn’t hold back so many people for long without using his 9 mm Ruger. He had to get Jeannie inside as quickly as possible.

  “Just hang on tight.” Sam broke into a slow run, carrying Jeannie directly to the side porch.

  The housekeeper flung open the door the moment Sam’s feet hit the porch. When they were safely inside, he didn’t turn, but continued down the narrow hallway. Ollie Tyner shut and locked the side door.

  “Bring her on in here to the back parlor.” Ollie, a short, plump, gray-haired woman, darted in front of Sam, sliding back the panel doors. “She can’t walk without her cane, so don’t put her on her feet.”

  Sam looked directly into Jeannie’s faded brown eyes and wished he hadn’t. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his very life depended on protecting this woman, this gentle, helpless woman. No, not helpless. Even if she couldn’t walk without her cane, she would never be helpless. Her eyes told him that she was strong, that she would endure whatever came her way. And her eyes told him that she knew he would help her.

  Sam eased Jeannie down onto a red velvet settee in front of an empty fireplace. She slipped her arms from around his neck slowly, never taking her eyes off his face.

  “Thank you, Mr. Dundee.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. Alverson. I was just doing my job.”

  “Won’t you sit down?” Without waiting for his reply, she turned to Ollie. “I would very much like some tea. Mr. Dundee, would you care for anything?”

  He shook his head, indicating that he didn’t. Ollie exited the room quickly.

  “I’m worried about Julian,” Jeannie said. “He has a heart condition, and all this excitement isn’t good for him.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Howell is fine. He probably left right after we did. I don’t think he was in any danger. You were the reporters’ target. They aren’t interested in anyone except you at this point.”

  Sam glanced around the room, looking up at the high ceilings and the elaborate moldings, then down at the antique furniture. “Where’s the telephone?”

  “On the desk. There.” Jeannie pointed to the gold-and-white mock-antique telephone perched atop the small cherry desk.

  “The police need to clear out this crowd around the house,” Sam said. “We’ve got a near-riot situation on our hands.”

  “The emergency numbers are listed there by the phone.” Jeannie rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, massaging the ache in her temples. “Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I appreciate your arriving when you did. I don’t know how I would have gotten away from the school without your help.”

  Sam glared at her. “Why the hell did you agree to a press conference? You should have known what would happen. I tried to warn you. Why didn’t you listen to me?”

  Jeannie sat up straight, stiffening her spine. She wasn’t used to being spoken to so harshly. “We…Julian and I thought that if we met with the press, we might be able to reason with them.”

  Sam grunted. “Lady, nobody is that naive. You’re news, big news, and those vultures aren’t going away for a long, long time. Not until something or someone else comes along that is bigger news.”

  He scanned the pad on the desk, dialed the police department and demanded to be put through to a senior officer. After explaining the situation and being assured that the police would disperse the crowd, Sam hung up the phone and paced the room. Glancing at Jeannie, he noticed the strained look on her pale face and wondered if she was in pain.

  Jeannie rubbed her thigh. Even thirteen years after the car wreck, after several surgeries and endless therapy, the pain never completely left her. But it was a bearable pain, a pain she had become accustomed to, unlike the pain of being exposed to the world as Jeannie Foley, child faith healer. She thought it ironic that she could share the pain of others, vanquish it from their lives temporarily, but had to endure her own pain alone.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m… I’ll be fine. Thanks to you. I feel safe, here at home.”

  “Well, the safest place for you, for the time being, is going to be inside this house. You don’t want a repeat performance of today’s events, do you?”

  “I can’t allow my life to be disrupted this way,” she said.

  “I’m afraid you have little choice in the matter.” Sam took the biggest chair in the room, a floral-tapestry wing chair. “The best I can promise you is to keep you safe, to protect you from the press and anyone else who won’t leave you alone, especially this fanatical minister you told me about when you called.”

  “I will not let my life become the three-ring circus it was when my mother and Randy Foley were alive.” Knotting her hands into fists, Jeannie held them in front of her. “From the time I was six years old and Randy persuaded my mother to take me to a revival meeting, until I was thirteen and they were both killed in a car crash, my life was a living hell.”

  “I’ve read all the newspaper accounts,” Sam said. “The recent ones from the past couple of days, and the old ones from when you were a child. Your parents made a lot of money off of you, didn’t they? They must have died millionaires.”

  Ollie knocked at the door, then entered, carrying a silver tray. She placed it on the marble-topped mahogany table in front of the settee.

  “Thank you, Ollie. That will be all for now.” Jeannie lifted the silver teapot.

  “Ollie,” Sam said just as the housekeeper started out the door.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Keep watch at the side entrance,” Sam told her. “We’re expecting Dr. Howell.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ollie left the parlor.

  Jeannie added sugar to her tea, then lifted the china cup to her lips, sipping leisurely. She eyed Sam over the rim of her cup. “Randy Foley was my stepfather,” she said. “And yes, my mother and Randy did die millionaires.”

  “Money they fleeced off suckers who believed that little Jeannie Foley possessed a special power from God that could heal them.”

  “Yes. Money that poor, gullible fools handed over to Randy eagerly, just to have me lay my hands on them and take away their pain, to give them a temporary healing.” The cup in Jeannie’s trembling hand quivered on the saucer. She set her tea on the silver tray.

  Just to have me lay my hands on them and take away their pain. Was that what the woman who’d found Sam on the beach six years ago had done? Had she laid her hands on him and taken away his pain? Sam could remember those hours vaguely, could remember soft, caring brown eyes filled with tears—his tears, tears she had cried for him when she drew his pain out of his body and into hers.

  Hell, it hadn’t happened that way. It couldn’t have. He had imagined the whole thing, hadn’t he? He’d been burning up with fever and conscious only part of the time. For a few minutes, he’d thought he had died and that the woman who held him in her arms was an angel. Didn’t that show how crazy he’d been? How totally out of his head?

  “How long have you lived here in Biloxi?” Sam asked.

  “Since I came out of the hospital, when I was thirteen. Julian and his wife, Miriam, became my foster parents.”

  A door slammed shut. Feet tramped u
p the hallway. The parlor door opened, and Dr. Julian Howell walked in, followed by Marta McCorkle.

  Julian rushed to Jeannie’s side. Sitting beside her, he took her hands in his. “My dearest girl, are you all right? There’s an enormous crowd hovering around outside.”

  “I’m fine, Julian. Really I am. With Mr. Dundee acting as my protector, how could I be otherwise? Besides, Mr. Dundee has telephoned the police. They should arrive shortly and take control of that unruly crowd.”

  Marta McCorkle walked over to Jeannie and handed her a wooden cane. “I was able to pick this up before we left the school. I know it’s your favorite, and I was afraid someone would take off with it.”

  “Thank you, Marta. You’re right, it is my favorite cane. Miriam gave it to me.”

  Turning, Jeannie gazed up at Sam, her lips curving into a warm smile. Sam felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. Dammit, this had to stop, and stop now! He couldn’t allow himself to feel anything special for this woman, couldn’t allow their relationship to become personal.

  Who was he kidding? Their relationship was already personal, about as personal as a relationship could be without sexual intimacy. Sam shuddered, his big shoulders moving only slightly. His guts knotted painfully. When a man owed a woman his life, anything that happened between them was personal.

  Standing, Julian offered Sam his hand. “I’m Julian Howell. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you agreed to take this assignment yourself. I knew you were the only man for the job.”

  Every nerve in Sam’s body came to full alert. Of course he was the only man for the job. No one else owed Jeannie as much as he did. No one else was as highly trained to protect her as he was, or as prepared to die for her.

  “All of us who love Jeannie are grateful for your presence, Mr. Dundee,” Marta said.

  Turning to Julian, Jeannie squeezed his wrinkled, age-spotted hand. “I’ve told Mr. Dundee that I would like to continue living my life as normally as possible.”