by Mindy Neff
He felt like crying now.
“Will I learn to control it?”
“We hope.” Frank reached in his shirt pocket and withdrew a gold Cross pen. “Try this one.”
“You’ve got more faith than brains,” Jason muttered, his voice raw and bitter.
“I’ve trusted you with my life on more than one occasion. I think I can trust you with my pen.”
Chapter One
Molly Kincade touched the gold charm at her neck. She still felt the ever-present sadness of loss, yet the feel of the warm metal close to her heart gave her courage.
And Jason had always praised her courage. For the thousandth time, she wished he was beside her, sharing her passion, teasing her about her stubbornness. Oh, he would have tried to talk her out of being here—after dark—and she would have enjoyed the debate, knowing she’d win, knowing he respected her values and her crazy quests, knowing he admired her determination even though it triggered his protective instincts.
Forcing back the memories, Molly slung her purse over her shoulder, locked the faded blue Honda and started up the cracked sidewalk. A group of teenage boys hung out on the corner under a streetlight. She didn’t recognize the kids as any who attended Clemons High, where she taught.
The smell of onions and overheated grease permeated the air that had turned chilly for March. Two alley cats had faced off, their ears flattened and tails swishing slowly back and forth.
Even the four-legged animals in this area took to the motto Survival Of The Fittest—or meanest. Everyone seemed determined to fight for his or her own piece of turf.
The rusted hinges of the iron gate leading to the darkened courtyard of the run-down apartment complex screamed in protest as she pushed them open. A baby was crying for his mama in the open doorway of number 212. A man and woman were engaged in a shouting match in the unit next to it. Molly ignored both scenes.
She was here for Lamar. She didn’t have any business getting involved in the domestic disputes of people she didn’t know.
Molly didn’t think twice about going into the rougher neighborhoods of Los Angeles. Quite a few of the students she taught in her high-school English classes lived in poverty-stricken areas. They had no choice when it came to their environment.
Molly was determined that they have a choice about their future. And in order to have a decent future, they needed to stay in school.
Lamar Castillo, one of her brightest students, had been absent for four days. Unsuccessful in her attempts to reach his mother by phone, Molly decided to approach the woman in person. If Lamar’s parents didn’t realize how bright their son was, she would surely enlighten them.
Fifteen-year-olds needed to be in class, not working day and night at a garment factory.
The Castillos lived in 122. Molly hitched her purse more securely on her shoulder and knocked on the door. It took three tries before the door was answered by a dark-haired little girl wearing cotton pajamas and Garfield slippers. The security chain stayed in place. Smart kid.
“Hi, sweetie. Is your mom home?”
The girl shook her head.
“How about Lamar?”
Again the girl shook her head. Molly frowned. She knew all about latchkey kids. She’d been one herself. Still, this little girl looked too young to be left on her own. Especially at night.
“I’m Miss Kincade. Lamar’s teacher.”
A smile climbed the little girl’s cheeks, producing a dimple. “Lamar talks about you. He said you’re a nice lady. I’m Lizzy.”
“How old are you, Lizzy?”
“Ten.”
“Is someone staying with you?”
The smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a wariness Molly was way too familiar with.
“I don’t need no baby-sitter.” The little girl stuck out her chin and tapped the toe of her fuzzy animal slipper.
“I’m sure you don’t. What time will Lamar or your mom be home?”
Lizzy shrugged. “Probably pretty soon. But I gotta shut the door now, and you can’t come in. I’ll tell Lamar you was here.”
The door started to close. Molly could have pushed it open and insisted on waiting, but the fear behind Lizzy’s bravado stopped her.
“Tell Lamar I’ll expect to see him in class tomorrow,” she called just before the door eased shut. At least three locks could be heard clicking in place.
Her mission derailed for the evening, Molly made her way back out into the courtyard, narrowly missing a tricycle with a broken wheel as she turned the corner. Somehow she had to get through to this family. Lamar had a mind that absorbed knowledge like a sponge. Failure was not an option she would entertain.
When she looked up, her heart thudded. The boys who’d been standing on the corner earlier were now inside the iron gate, blocking it. A single glance told her a lock had been threaded through the fastener.
A lock that hadn’t been there before.
Belatedly her street-smart antennae—honed over the years—shot up as she assessed the sight before her.
“What’s happenin’, sweet thing?”
Sweat slicked her palms as she tightened her hold on her purse. But Molly knew better than to show fear. Kids like this would feed on weakness.
“Look, boys,” she said in her sternest school-teacher tone, “I’m not in the mood to be messed with tonight, so if you’d just step aside, I’d appreciate it.”
The tallest of the boys snickered. “What if we’re in the mood to be messin’ with you?”
The boy—obviously the leader of the foursome—took a step forward, and Molly took a step back, her eyes darting to the locked gate. There was little chance that she could scale the thing.
She backed up until she hit the wall. The boys kept coming. The chilly air turned to ice on her skin. Fear sent her heart beating like a jackhammer.
She tried appealing to their sense of family. “Look, don’t make me have to explain this to your mothers.”
More snickering. An ominous click rent the air like a shot, and the blade of a knife flashed evilly. So much for family values. Fear, barely checked, threatened to swamp her. It wouldn’t do any good to scream. Screams in this neighborhood were ignored.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
A man.
Heading straight for them with purpose. The purpose of lending aid.
Oh, no. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else getting hurt. There were four boys. They might only be teens, but they were strong.
“They’ve got a knife,” she said by way of warning.
He came out of the shadows, radiating confidence. A Samaritan who seemed to forget he was in East L.A. and not Beverly Hills. “Just as well” was all he said. “I’m in the mood for a good fight.”
Molly frowned. Four against one wasn’t a good fight. It was suicide. “Everything’s fine here.”
No, it’s not! Get out of here. Call a cop.
“Yeah, man,” one of the hoods said. “Everything’s cool. Beat it.”
“Not tonight. And no cops.”
Stunned, Molly watched as her rescuer advanced Didn’t the man have any sense of self-preservation? The snicks of three more switchblades sounded in unison.
The odds were stacked even more against her savior.
The four thugs focused their attention on the tall man, circling like a pack of wolves. Then, like the swift strike of a cobra, the leader of the group made his move, thrusting the six-inch blade in a wide, deadly arc.
It all happened so fast, Molly questioned her eyesight. The man in black balanced on the balls of his feet and kicked out. Moans of pain echoed off the graffiti-covered walls of the courtyard as four knives clattered to the ground, rendered useless in a matter of seconds. She had no idea how he’d done it. He moved like a whirlwind shadow, never even breaking a sweat. With hardly a scuffle, footsteps pounded against concrete as the boys took off running toward the apartment building.
“Are you all rig
ht?” His voice barely carried on the night air. He didn’t look at her, his intense gaze focused on the retreating boys, his tough body still coiled for action.
Molly wasn’t altogether sure she could speak—her heart was beating like a wild beast in her chest. She gave it a try anyway. “Y-yes. I’m fine.”
He checked the gate and gave the padlock a yank. Closing his fingers around it, he crushed the sturdy latch as if it were a wad of paper instead of metal.
Terror gripped her, harder and higher than what she’d already experienced, holding her in its unrelenting jaws.
“How…? Wh-who are you?”
Hinges screeched as the gate swung open with such force it bent like an accordion. Molly sucked in a breath, rooted to the concrete.
The man in black gave her an impatient look—a look filled with pain. Had he been cut? she wondered.
“Don’t look so shocked, princess. The damned thing’s so corroded a two-year-old could have opened it. Come on. Those boys are going to feel their pride smarting pretty soon. No sense waiting around for them to come back with reinforcements. Kids like that are only brave in packs.”
He grabbed her hand, pulling her in his wake. The spark of electricity that arced when their palms touched made Molly jerk. She felt the tremor in his hand, like the hum of static friction, as if she’d just run her finger over a taut, magnetic wire—charged. His grip was loose, nonthreatening, as if he feared harming her.
As soon as the observation registered, he dropped her hand, transferring his grip to the bulky sleeve of her red sweater.
“Are you coming? Or do I need to carry you?”
Molly nodded, then shook her head, too dazed to actually speak. Her gaze strayed once more to the iron gate, now propped at a drunken angle against the concrete post. She picked up her pace, following, wanting nothing more than to escape the inner-city courtyard that had turned into an impromptu prison. Yet was this stranger leading her into another realm of danger?
Somehow she didn’t think so. There’d been a certain inflection in his voice, his odd touch, that created a surrealistic calm within her.
As if he were an old friend…or a lover.
Which was a perfectly ridiculous thought. She took a deep, trembling breath as raw emotions tried to claw their way to the surface. There were no old lovers. None who were alive.
He went straight for her ‘89 Honda. How had he known which car was hers? Something was terribly wrong.
Molly balked, digging the heels of her tennis shoes into the dew-drenched grass between the curb and the sidewalk. The sleeve of her sweater stretched in his hold, slipping off her shoulder.
The dark stranger glanced back at her, his brows drawn together. Dizziness swamped her—leftover terror from the ordeal. The vertigo nearly took her down when he gripped her waist and hoisted her up, sitting her on the hood of her car as if she weighed no more than a child of two.
“You’ve done fine so far. Don’t faint on me now.”
The impatient command snapped Molly back to her senses like the sharp rap of a ruler against a black-board.
“I never faint! And I don’t know who you are, but I insist you stop tossing me around like a rag doll.”
“Somebody ought to do more than that. Don’t you have any better sense than to be in a neighborhood like this at night? Alone?”
“You’re here,” she challenged.
“I can take care of myself.”
“So can I.” Belatedly she reached into her purse for a small can of pepper spray and held it up.
The man confounded her by grinning—at least what ought to have passed for a grin. There was sadness there, a hardness that told her this man had seen more than his share of ugliness.
“A half pint with a half-pint weapon.”
Molly’s insides somersaulted.
Jason had called her a half pint.
She only stood five foot two, and that was fudging a little. She’d always told him she might be little but she was mighty. But it was crazy to draw parallels between this dark, Neanderthal stranger and Jason. Jason was gone. Forever. A love like theirs had been a once-in-a-lifetime chance. There would never be another for her.
Jason had been her strongest weakness, a man she’d loved beyond all reason, a man with secrets he refused to tell and she’d never found the need to ask about. She’d known so little about him, other than how he’d made her feel—special, beautiful, perfect. With him, she’d been six feet tall, rich in ways money could never buy.
Theirs had been a whirlwind, lightning-bolt type of love. It happened in a flash and burned stronger with each passing moment. Moments that were so very precious and so very short. She’d give anything to hear him tease her again, to feel his lips pressed against hers. If she could turn back the clock, she would have asked so many more questions, found out so much more, held him closer, begged him to stay, to cement their plans, their dreams, before he went off to do whatever it was he had to do.
But she couldn’t turn back the clock. He’d been dead for more than a year. Lost to her forever.
Sometimes she imagined she could still feel their connection. And it hurt. Ached like a wound that wouldn’t heal, a wound whose scab continually got peeled off each time a memory surfaced.
And memories surfaced daily, the latest one triggered by the simple touch of a stranger in the night.
The man was still watching her. “Decided yet if you’re gonna use that stuff?”
“I might.” She put her finger on the nozzle of the pepper spray. “Depends on your answers to my questions.”
One dark brow raised. “This isn’t a polite tea party, princess. There are bad guys lurking in the shadows.”
“You being one of them?”
He shifted forward, his strong arms bracketing her body yet not touching. His palms remained flat on the rusted blue paint of the Honda’s hood.
“Yeah,” he said softly, his raspy voice barely a ripple on the night air. “I’m a bad guy, and you shouldn’t ever forget it.”
Her heartbeat thumped again, thrilling her, scaring her half to death. The streetlight illuminated his somber features, the sculpted shape of his lips, the high, defined cheekbones. He had a faint scar beneath his eyebrow and another beneath the dimple in his chin. It was his eyes that held her, though. Empty eyes. As if he’d lost all hope and never expected to get it back.
That single, fleeting spark of hopelessness called to her. Molly could never resist a person in need. It was her one true weakness. The need to fix anyone and anything broken, to take them under her wing and infuse them with confidence and direction and meaning. As she’d done with her brother. As she tried to do with her students.
“I don’t believe you’re a bad guy,” she said softly, pleased that her voice didn’t tremble.
“What the hell is the matter with you?” His hands balled into fists next to her hips. “If you had any sense, you’d use that spray.”
“You’ve already pointed out that I don’t have any sense. Not that I agree with you, by the way.” She shrugged, and his breath hissed out.
“Go home, little girl.”
Now Molly was affronted. “I may be short, but I’m not a little girl!”
His sad, dangerous eyes made a slow, thorough pass over her body, lingering on her breasts—the only part of her that definitely wasn’t small. She felt herself responding to that look and mentally kicked herself.
She could very well be in grave danger and she was having sexual impulses. Sick!
“Go home,” he repeated, stepping back. His shoulders were rigid, his spine straight, as if forcibly staving off a violent bout of chills or a debilitating weakness.
“Wait!” Molly slid off the hood of the car, surprised that her shaky legs would even hold her. She had an idea he wasn’t in much better shape. Despite his military stance, he looked as if he were on the verge of collapse. “You never told me your name.”
“No. I didn’t.”
She might have bli
nked. She wasn’t sure. One minute he was there, and the next he was gone. Sure, it was dark, but this was absurd. Nobody moved that quickly or stealthily.
Keys in hand, she slid into the driver’s seat of the car and locked the door. She had the oddest feeling the precaution wasn’t necessary, that whoever her protector was, he was still watching, waiting to see her safely off.
Her hands trembled as she fumbled for the ignition.
Even stranger yet, she felt a connection to her rescuer. As if he was someone she ought to know.
Chapter Two
Adam was still shivering by the time he made it home. Pumped up and burning one minute, then freezing cold and weak as a kitten the next. It seemed that each time the adrenaline surged, the recovery process was slower. It had lasted a half hour this time. He fought the weariness that made him want to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He was determined not to give in—not to give up.
Not now. Not after seeing Molly for the first time in over a year.
Adam figured if the unidentified substance flowing through his veins didn’t kill him, his blood pressure surely would.
What the hell could Molly be thinking about canvasing the city streets at night? He hadn’t intended to get this close to her. He’d only wanted to see her, make sure she was all right. Well, she wasn’t all right. If she kept up this do-gooder stuff, she’d get herself killed.
And Adam couldn’t allow that.
He’d gone undercover for a lot of assignments in the past, and although he was no longer technically an employee of the government, he knew people in high places who could pull strings and cut through red tape in a matter of hours.
He was more than confident he’d get what he wanted. The department owed him. Big time. Granted, they’d given him the money for this monstrosity of a house and a sizable cash settlement to boot—guilt money, he called it. But there were certain things that money couldn’t buy.
He made his way through the cavernous mansion, past portraits of somebody’s ancestors that dated back to the 1800s. They weren’t his relatives. Hell, he couldn’t even trace his family once removed, let alone centuries ago. He’d bought the huge old house as is, with its heavy drapes, spindly furniture and Oriental rugs. The real-estate people had said all the heirs of the old estate were deceased. So, maybe he did have something in common with the descendants of the old guys framed along the staircase walls. He, too, had no blood ties.
