by Carol Caiton
Think, Rachel! Think!
In the next moment, almost faster than her eyes could follow, the man in the T-shirt reached out and grabbed her captor's wrist with one hand, pulling the knife away from her side, then slammed an elbow into his sternum. The strike was so quick and forceful, it knocked her assailant backward. His fingers dug into her arm, but he lost his grip and latched onto her hair instead.
She lost her balance. Falling down onto the sidewalk, her hip hit the pavement and the library books in her arms scattered. She caught sight of the short-bladed knife as it skittered along the pavement. Then a heavy brown work boot stomped down on the handle.
"You fucking sonofabitch!"
Michael!
Grabbing her hair and pulling it free, she turned in time to see her attacker bent over, clutching his stomach, before Michael slammed a fist into his face. The man was forced upward, standing straight again. Then he reeled back as Michael pummeled him until blood poured from his nose and mouth, splattering onto his suit jacket, the shirt beneath, and his tie.
A crowd gathered, forming a wide circle around them and a woman came forward to help her to her feet.
"Don't touch her!" Michael roared, dropping the bloodied man to the sidewalk.
He strode across the pavement as the person who started to assist her backed off. She barely had her footing again when Michael pulled her into his arms, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except him. That he was here. That she was safe. That her baby was alive inside her.
Releasing her pent-up sobs, she buried her face in his chest and held on.
CHAPTER 32
Michael knew he was crushing her but he didn't have the wherewithal to let her go. Adrenaline washed through his system like the current of a riptide. And the knot in his stomach would be a permanent fixture until he got her home, locked the doors, and took her to bed.
It was broad daylight, goddamn it. Broad fucking daylight. As soon as she told him she thought someone might be following her, he'd gone on alert. Rachel didn't scare easily. If she thought she was being followed then she was being followed. And when she'd raised her hand in the air and he thought he saw the phone fly out of her hand, the fear that seized him chilled his soul.
He tried again to make himself release her, but he couldn't do it. So he pulled in a breath and looked up. "Anybody call 911?"
Someone in the crowd held up his cell phone. "Already done."
Then he heard the sirens.
"You okay, baby?" he lowered his head and whispered into her hair.
His shirt was all bloodied but she didn't seem to care and he didn't either. She was holding onto him the same way he was holding her.
She nodded. "Yes, I think so."
"The baby okay?"
She nodded again. "We're okay, Michael. But he stabbed me a little in my side with a knife. I don't think it's bad, but I need my father."
The knot in his stomach hardened into fury. She'd already been cut by one fucker's knife. Now another. "Fucking bas—"
"Michael, no."
She tightened her hold on him when he wanted to yank the bastard up off the sidewalk and hurt him in places that might never heal.
"Let the police have him," she said. "Please don't let go of me."
Hell. Fuck. He wasn't going anywhere.
He pulled her back against his chest and glanced at the crowd of on-lookers. "Anybody see a knife?" he called out. He hoped the damned thing hadn't disappeared.
"Right here," came a voice off to his right.
Michael looked over. It was the guy who had shoved an elbow into the asshole's stomach. His big worn work boot secured the handle of a four-inch blade to the sidewalk. Smart. No unwanted fingerprints to confuse the evidence. And it wasn't gonna get up and walk away in someone's hand.
"Thanks for the lead-in," Michael acknowledged. He'd find out later who the guy was and do a better job of thanking him. He also wanted to know how he knew what was going down.
"You're welcome," the guy said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
But his next words slammed into Michael with the impact of a head-on collision and he froze. For a moment the world went black before it righted itself again.
"What a fucking waste of skin."
Michael went cold all over.
. . . a fucking waste of skin . . . a fucking waste of skin.
Words from another life. A hard life. The life of two boys who had shared a bond of friendship so deep, it would have lasted into old age had it been given the chance. Words that shot spears of pain into Michael's heart for the love that was lost. Innocence lost. Everything lost.
He stared into deep-set brown eyes, older now, but so goddamn familiar, he should have recognized them the minute he saw the guy. Philly was a thousand miles away. Nearly twenty years had gone by. But standing here on this crowded sidewalk in sunny Orlando, Florida, his dirty, crime-ridden past had finally found him.
Memories flashed though his mind like strobes of light. People. Adventures. Cons. Food. Always food.
The eyes staring back at him were hard. They were eyes that had seen too much of the wrong side of life. Much like his own. Eyes that, with the barest flicker, would tell Michael the way was all clear for a problem-free swipe-and-run.
Yeah, he knew those eyes. But a kid he'd trusted with his life in childhood wouldn't be the kind of man he wanted around his wife of today. He ran his eyes down Kyle's dirty, sweat-stained T-shirt. Over the filthy jeans, and back down to the pair of worn, leather work boots. No fucking way. This was as close to Rachel as Kyle Falkner was ever going to get.
And now, knowing who the hell he was staring at, he realized it had been no coincidence that Kyle had been man on the spot at just the right moment. Somehow, he'd known who Rachel was. The question was, had Kyle played a part in what had gone down? Had it been a pre-planned scheme to bring him into Michael's orbit? Michael had one hell of a lot of money these days—something Kyle could have learned if he'd dug around enough.
He looked over the dirty T-shirt and jeans once more and what he saw fell in line with the direction of his thoughts. Kyle's sudden appearance could only mean trouble. So he decided to acknowledge the long-ago boyhood phrase and find out what the hell Kyle Falkner was doing in his neck of the woods.
What a fucking waste of skin.
He met Kyle's eyes again and gave the expected response. "Yeah. A real human tragedy."
They were words the two of them had heard spoken by a couple of bikers and had taken as their own. And watching now, a small, satisfied smile pulled at the corner of Kyle's mouth. He gave a short single nod that Michael didn't answer. Instead, he turned his attention back to Rachel.
"What did he want, baby? Do you know?"
She kept her cheek against his chest. "He thought I was Jill."
Finally, Michael was able to ease back. Jill? It was one thing to be mistaken for her sister when a childhood prank got Rachel in trouble in place of her sister. But this was kidnapping and aggravated battery and who the hell knew what else.
Maybe it was a good thing Jill had moved to Key West. He wasn't feeling too kindly toward his sister-in-law right now. And maybe she'd stay there until Nathan Brosig talked her into marrying him and kept her out of trouble.
And maybe his own burning need to be with Rachel whenever she left the house wasn't such a bad thing after all.
"Cops are here, baby. Paramedics, too. I know you wanna see your dad, but I want you looked at now 'cause we're gonna be here for a while giving statements."
He took a final look at the bastard who had hurt her and had the satisfaction of knowing he'd done a fair amount of damage. The guy wasn't holding his stomach anymore, but he was down for the count. Breathing through his mouth, his bottom lip was busted pretty good. His nose was a mess and still bleeding. Probably broken. Could be he lost a tooth or two, what with all that blood. And one eye was swollen all the way shut.
Michael couldn't say how many punches he'd thrown. His right
hand was damned sore, so it must have been plenty. And now, with a good amount of adrenaline still pumping through his system, he wanted to take Rachel home, let her patch up his knuckles, then take off all her clothes and fuck her for the rest of the afternoon.
Unfortunately, what he wanted wasn't gonna happen for a while. So he sat inside the privacy of an ambulance with her while she got checked over. Holding the paramedic's eyes in a meaningful exchange, he told the guy she didn't like to be touched any more than necessary, saving her the trouble. Then he sat with her until she was bandaged up.
When that was done, he stood outside with her again and called his mother-in-law. He wanted Rachel checked out by her obstetrician while he finished up here. So he told Eileen what had happened and asked if she'd come take care of her.
"Yes. Right away." Then, "Michael, did you get the bastard?"
He grinned. The more he got to know his in-laws, the better he liked them. "Yeah, Eileen, I got him pretty good."
Pause. Then a long, relieved sigh and she said, "Thank you, Michael. Thank you."
He stretched his bruised, skinned-up hand. "It was my pleasure," he told her. Then it occurred to him that Rachel still hadn't eaten. "Hey, Eileen, will you get her some lunch too? We didn't have a chance to stop for anything yet."
"Yes, I can do that. Do you want me to take her back to your house when she's done?"
He thought about that. He had some new, unplanned business to take care of and he didn't want Rachel left by herself until he had a good understanding of what was going on.
"No. Take her back to your house and I'll pick her up there. Is that okay?"
"That's fine. I'm leaving the house now."
Fortunately, he had all the witnesses he could have hoped for—a bunch of people who hadn't understood what was going down until it was pretty much over, but they backed him up, having seen Rachel cling to him, then realizing she was pregnant and had been held at knifepoint.
Eileen showed up twenty minutes after he called. His mother-in-law was a good-looking woman with layers of shoulder-length blonde curls, smooth, unwrinkled skin, and a trim figure. She took a good long look at Douglas M. Lyric who was now in custody. Then she molly-coddled Rachel, even stretched up to kiss Michael's cheek and whisper another thank-you for taking care of her baby. And when Rachel was good to go, the two of them drove off together, leaving Michael able to breathe a little easier.
Now, though, he had Kyle to deal with. His big work boot hadn't moved from the knife on the sidewalk until one of the cops pulled out an evidence bag and took it away.
Michael had listened to Rachel's account of what happened, which added to his suspicions when she said Kyle had warned her to run. And Kyle may have told the cops he'd just been looking at a pretty woman and had picked up on the other guy watching her too, but Michael knew better. Douglas Lyric hadn't been the only one following Rachel. Kyle had been following her too. And that got Michael's full attention.
Kyle had seen Eileen arrive. He'd watched all that maternal love in action when his mother-in-law brushed aside Rachel's hair and scrutinized every inch of her daughter from head to toe. He'd been watching, as well, when Eileen had shown him the same concern, holding her hand out for his to examine his busted knuckles, then smoothing her fingers over the top of his wrist and telling him to have himself checked for fractures.
Not a thing had slipped past Kyle unnoticed. The guy was every bit as observant now as he'd been as a kid. So what did that say about the kind of life he'd been living? His eyes had narrowed with interest when Eileen stretched up to kiss him on the cheek. And he'd watched Michael bundle Rachel into her mother's car, probably memorizing the license plate for future reference.
But Michael had been doing some watching of his own. Out of the corner of his eye he'd paid very close attention to Kyle Falkner. He wanted to see how his old friend reacted in the company of all these cops. He'd kept track of the knife under that dark boot. He'd known it when Kyle wiped the sweat from his brow, when he shifted his weight, when he hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. And every honed instinct was primed to protect his wife, his mother-in-law, and every corner of the life he'd built for himself.
But what he observed was one incredibly smooth operator. Either Kyle was clean as a boy scout, or he had the skills of an Oscar-winning actor. But then, he'd had a lot of years to perfect those skills, hadn't he?
Michael listened when Kyle gave his full name to the cops. He had an address here in town—if it was legit. He also had a job working with a road crew near the new condominium complex a couple of blocks away. And if that was true too, it explained his presence downtown and the dirty, sweaty clothes.
But Michael wasn't taking anything for granted. Of all the cities in the United States to choose from, Kyle had landed himself in Michael's backyard. So he listened to his old friend's take on what had happened. He took in the changes to that increasingly familiar face and didn't give two shits about the wise-ass grin that told him his one-time buddy was aware of his suspicions. His right hand might hurt like a sonofabitch, but there was enough aggression simmering under the surface to easily go another round. No problem. And if any of Kyle's dirt looked like it might start blowing in Rachel's direction, then his sorry life wouldn't be worth the T-shirt on his back. Michael would destroy him. An anonymous computer along with some savvy know-how made it that easy, that fast, and that permanent.
Taking a look at his hand, he decided to have it checked out later. He didn't want to take a chance on Kyle slipping away before he could ask a few questions of his own.
So when the rest of the crowd dispersed and the last cop car pulled away from the curb, he nodded farther down Orange Avenue and said, "Let's take a walk."
One dark brow lifted in a mocking arch. Try asking nicely, it said.
Right. Fuck that. Michael didn't take shit from anybody—anybody —and said as much with his own eyes.
But Kyle had never backed down from a challenge and by the look of him, there was no reason to think that might have changed. Quick intelligence was in those brown eyes, clear and direct. No sign of drugs, Michael noted. But that didn't mean anything. All it said was that Kyle wasn't on anything right now, this minute.
There was a scar too, one that hadn't been there seventeen years ago, just beneath his left eye. Michael figured a heavy ring had been worn by whatever fist had slammed into his face. One inch up and over and he might have lost that eye.
They stared at one another for several seconds, then Kyle surprised him by saying, "Sure. Let's take a walk."
They started toward Central Boulevard, away from the courthouse.
"How long you been in Florida?" Michael asked.
Kyle looked around and said, "A while. I like it here. Lots of sunshine."
Michael stared straight ahead. "You planning to stay?"
"Maybe."
"Not real forthcoming, are you?"
"I guess that depends on who I'm talking to," Kyle said.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I might recognize your face, Michael, but it's been seven-teen years. I don't know the man."
"Yeah. I was pretty much thinking the same thing myself."
"You've got an attitude problem, know that?"
Michael bit down so hard he could have cracked a tooth. "When it comes to my wife, Kyle, I've got a hell of a lot more going on than an attitude problem. She was held at knifepoint and cut bad enough that she needs stitches. So what you're seeing as attitude is a tight fucking hold on my self-control until I find out what the hell you were doing following her."
Kyle snorted. "Keep your threats to yourself, asshole."
His self-control snapped. Grabbing the front of Kyle's T-shirt in both fists, Michael shoved him up against the nearest wall and got in his face.
"The last thing we did together was climb into old man Pelvine's third floor window and steal two handguns. You were the only kid in Philly who could follow a mark all day without being spotted
and you expect me to believe you just happened to be eyeballin' my wife on a day when she was attacked? That you just showed up out of nowhere and conveniently saved the day?"
Hardened, fearless eyes stared back at him. "The only reason your balls aren't up in your tonsils right now is because I want answers too," Kyle growled. "Now back. The fuck. Off."
Michael wanted—needed—to know why Kyle had been tailing Rachel. But he hadn't lost it completely. They were drawing a crowd again and ending up at 33rd Street in a cell beside Douglas Lyric wasn't something he wanted. So he eased his grip on Kyle and rolled his shoulders to relax some of the tension.
Kyle tugged his T-shirt back into place. He gave Michael a dark look, then turned and started walking again. "I got a good look at your wife when you left her in front of the library," he said. "And yeah, I was eyeballin' her. All that hair . . . ."
Michael knew he was being taunted. Kyle was pushing back, jerking his chain to even things out and letting Michael know he'd been following Rachel for more than two hours. But he was talking, so Michael walked beside him and kept his temper in check.
"I saw you on TV a while back," Kyle went on, "when that girl's car was flipped. Surprised the shit out of me, Michael. I didn't believe it at first. Seventeen years is a long time and I could've been mistaken."
He stopped to look in a storefront window and Michael stopped beside him. But he wasn't fooled. Kyle wanted to see his face, to watch his expression in the reflection of the glass.
"Your wife looks at you like you're some kind of a god," he said. "But sweet little uptown girls don't look twice at guys with a background like ours. And Rachel sure is uptown, isn't she?"
Still taunting. And hearing her name on Kyle's lips just added to the list of offenses building against him.
"Have you told her about your past?"
"That's none of your business, Kyle."
"You've lost your edge, man," he continued.
"What do you mean by that?"
"You've stopped paying attention, Michael. I wasn't the only one eyeballin' your little cupcake."
