“That can be arranged.” She leaned into him. “See? Aren’t you glad I told you to stop the car?”
“You have no idea,” he told her, enveloping her in his arms just before he brought his mouth down on hers. And if the automatic transmission stick happened to get in the way, neither one of them really noticed. Or cared.
Epilogue
The shooting at the high-rise apartment made the afternoon news.
Hank had been restlessly flipping channels when the words “sniper or snipers unknown” literally seemed to leap up at him, instantly seizing his attention.
His hand frozen on the remote, he stopped breathing. And listened.
And grew ghostly pale.
The police, according to the reporter, a young woman with flawless skin and perfect hair who had yet to see the inside of thirty—or real life for that matter—had no clue as to a motive or who the gunman or gunmen might be.
They didn’t know, but he did, Hank thought.
He wasn’t completely certain as to the actual man who’d been behind the trigger doing the shooting. But he knew without a doubt who was behind the shooting. Who had undoubtedly ordered it.
The same man he was running from.
The news piece ended and, for balance, was followed by a fluff piece about the local zoo’s unexpected baby boom.
Hank didn’t hear a word. Preoccupied, he crossed to the bar to pour himself a drink. Granted, it was early, but he desperately needed something to steady his nerves. Something to numb the growing, encroaching panic he felt sweeping through him.
Maybe if he talked to the man at the Society’s head, promised that he would take what he had heard at that one meeting to his grave without saying a single word to anyone—
His hand shaking, he spilled some of the aged whiskey he was pouring onto the bar. Cursing, he left the telltale pool of alcohol where it was and moved away from the bar.
If he put that idea in their heads, if he said that about taking the secret to his grave, Hank thought, they’d probably put him in his grave within twenty-four hours—if it took that long—so he could keep his word.
He threw back the drink and went to pour himself another.
When he was still a kid, he had liked watching classic comedies that turned up on TV in the wee hours of weekend mornings. For a time, he’d been obsessed with Laurel and Hardy. A catchphrase often uttered by the beleaguered heavyset Oliver Hardy was, “Well, here’s another nice mess you’ve gotten me into.” He always said it when things began to fall apart.
He couldn’t say that to anyone, Hank thought. Because in this case, he had no one to blame but himself. He and he alone was responsible for the mess he was in.
There was absolutely no comfort in knowing that. Moreover, if he wasn’t careful, others around him would pay for his mistake, for his incredibly poor lack of judgment.
According to the news story, Dylan and Cindy had come close to being casualties of the unknown sniper. That was all his fault.
Oh God, he wished he could go back in time. He would never have walked in on that wretched meeting. Never have let his ego lead him on this wrong path.
The phone rang.
Startled, he almost dropped his second drink. As it was, he spilled some more, this time on the rug.
That was going to stain. He was going to have to mention it to the housekeeper, Hank thought dully as he reached for the receiver.
He placed the receiver to his ear and cautiously said, “Hello?”
“Dad?” He instantly recognized Lana’s voice, despite the fact that it sounded unusually shaky. “Daddy?”
His hand tightened on the receiver. She was frightened, he could hear it. Something was very, very wrong. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Lana? Lana is that you?” The sick feeling began to spread. Let her be safe. Please, let her be safe. “Honey, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” he demanded, fear all but gutting him.
“They have me, Daddy. These men, they were on my train. I think they drugged me.” Everything was foggy. “I don’t know where I am.” Her voice broke. “They told me that if—”
Abruptly, she stopped talking.
Panic seized him. “Lana? Lana, what’s happening?” Hank cried. The drink had slipped through his numb fingers, falling to the floor. Its contents soaked into the beige rug. “Are you all right? Talk to me! What’s happening?” he demanded, angry and afraid at the same time, his imagination running away with him, instantly creating horrible scenarios.
“Nothing, you had better hope,” a deep voice informed him. It was the voice that now haunted his nightmares, causing him to wake up in a cold sweat, shaking. “Listen carefully, Senator. As long as you keep your mouth shut, she’ll be fine. If you talk to anyone about what you know—anyone—well, I don’t think I have to tell you what’s going to happen, now, do I?”
“Don’t hurt her. Please don’t hurt my daughter,” Hank begged.
The words were measured, leisurely strolling out one by one. “That is entirely up to you.” The click echoed in his ear.
“Hello? Hello!” Hank shouted into the phone, but the connection had been terminated.
Distraught, he flung the cordless receiver across the room. It hit the hall, creating a dent and leaving a dark mark.
Almost as if in response to the thud, there was a knock on the door behind him. And then, the visitor obviously not waiting for permission to enter, the door began to open.
His heart pounding, Hank swung around, fully expecting this to be his last few moments on earth. They’d found him, the Raven’s Head Society’s henchmen, they’d found him.
It was all over.
He numbly watched as the private investigator Dylan had hired to stay at the house as his temporary bodyguard walked into the room. There was another man with him, a tall, steely, hard-looking stranger with eyes that were cold and flat.
Hank knew he was looking into the eyes of a hired killer.
His executioner.
The stranger must have taken McNeil prisoner, Hank thought. The man didn’t looked distressed, but then McNeil wouldn’t. Death was always in the mix for people like that.
But it wasn’t supposed to be for men like him, Hank thought frantically. “Are you here to kill me?” he asked the stranger, a tremor in his voice.
What might have passed for amusement fleetingly creased the stranger’s mouth before it returned to being humorless in the next moment.
“No,” he replied in a voice that displayed no emotion. “I’m here to protect you. I’m Gage Prescott, your new bodyguard. Dylan sent for me.”
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Marie Ferrarella for her contribution to The Kelley Legacy miniseries.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-0826-1
PRIVATE JUSTICE
Copyright © 2011 by Harlequin Books S.A.
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‡The Doctors Pulaski
> †††Matchmaking Mamas
§Talk of the Neighborhood
**The Sons of Lily Moreau
‡‡The Wilder Family
†Kate’s Boys
††The Fortunes of Texas: Return to Red Rock
‡‡‡The Baby Chase
*Cavanaugh Justice
Private Justice Page 18
