The Rebel's Return

by Beverly Barton

  Just as Dylan reached out to grab Maddie, the gunman got off another shot. One that hit its target.

  Thirteen

  Being rich enough to buy just about everything and everyone in Mission Creek had its advantages. Being able to promise huge endowments to the hospital opened doors for Maddie, allowing her privileges often denied others. She had kept a vigil at Dylan’s bedside in the surgical intensive care unit after a bullet had been removed from his shoulder, although visitors weren’t generally allowed except at posted times throughout the day. And twelve hours later, when the doctors deemed it safe, Maddie had Dylan moved into the deluxe suite at Mission Creek Memorial. Decorated more like an elegant bedroom with an attached sitting room, the suite boasted cherry furniture, a camelback sofa that made out into a double bed and two Queen Anne wing chairs, as well as a small cherry table and two straight-back chairs for dining.

  As Maddie sat at Dylan’s bedside watching him devour his first substantial meal—prepared and delivered by Thelma Hewitt—she thanked God for the millionth time that Dylan’s injuries hadn’t been fatal. No thanks to her. He’d been shot trying to protect her. She felt like a complete idiot, which of course she was. But even Dylan agreed that when all was said and done, she’d done the right thing. By that he had not meant her following him to the rodeo arena; he’d meant her last-minute phone call to Hart.

  When she’d called Dylan a hero, he’d said gruffly, “Hart O’Brien is the real hero. Phoning him was a smart move, Maddie. If he hadn’t shown up when he did…”

  Maddie didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Hart hadn’t arrived at the rodeo arena, along with four other police officers, only minutes after both Dylan and Gerri had been shot.

  “Stop frowning, Red,” Dylan said. “Your face might freeze like that.”

  She offered him a feeble smile. “Hart phoned while you were in the bathroom. He’s coming over.”

  “Big news? Why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you know?” With his good arm Dylan pushed his empty plate to the side of the portable tray, then shoved the tray away from the bed. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged and his arm taped to his chest.

  “If I had my way, Hart would wait until you’re fully recovered to—”

  “I took a slug in the shoulder,” Dylan said. “I’ll be as good as new in a week or so. Honey, you’ve got to stop trying to protect me from the world, from anything that might be the slightest bit unpleasant. I’m a grown man. Big and strong. Or at least getting stronger by the minute. And I’m mostly in my right mind. I don’t need a caretaker.”

  Maddie nodded. When tears welled up in her eyes, she turned away from him.

  Dylan grabbed her wrist. “I don’t need a caretaker. But I need a friend…and a lover.”

  She turned back to him, tears trickling down her face, and forced herself to smile.

  “I do need you, sweet Maddie.” He tugged on her wrist; she eased toward the bed. “I just don’t need you to be my mother or my nurse or my bodyguard. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Speaking of bodyguards, how’s Gerri today?” he asked.

  “She’s still in intensive care, but they’re hoping to move her into a private room tomorrow.”

  When Dylan tugged again, she moved closer. He released her and patted the side of the bed. She sat down beside him, being careful not to jostle him. He circled her waist with his arm.

  “I want you to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Gerri and me,” Dylan told her.

  “Whom should I blame?”

  “Blame fate. Blame me. Blame the guy who tried to kill us. But do not blame yourself.”

  “But I’m the one who nearly got us—” Tears lodged in her throat.

  “You thought you were doing the right thing. Actually by calling Hart, you saved all our lives. And if I’d been smart, I’d have contacted Hart when I received that first phone call. You tried to convince me to let the police in on what was going on.”

  She gazed at him lovingly. “Here you are recuperating from a gunshot wound, lying in a hospital bed, and you’re the one comforting me. Don’t we have our roles reversed?”

  “Nah.” He grinned. “Comforting is a two-way street. You’ve been doing your share lately.” Dylan slipped his hand around the back of her neck and urged her downward until her lips hovered over his. “How long do we have before Hart shows up?” he asked, his lips brushing hers as he spoke.

  Maddie sucked in her breath. “You’re in no shape for any hanky-panky. Besides, Hart’s due any minute now.”

  The suite door opened. “Hart’s here, so whatever you two were about to do will have to wait.”

  Dylan chuckled. “I was just trying to talk Nurse Maddie into giving me a sponge bath.”

  Hart grinned. “She can clean you up later. But for now I thought you might want me to bring you up to date on several items of interest.”

  Maddie eased off the bed and into a nearby chair. Hart stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Shoot,” Dylan said, then winced and chuckled. “Poor choice of words.”

  “Well, our shooter—a Mr. Alex Black—is behind bars. Arrested for the murder of Carl Bridges and the murder of Manuel Torrez, the guy who stole the gun from the crime lab.”

  “How did you know? What proof do y’all have?” Dylan asked. “Will it stand up in court?”

  “Manuel Torrez, a member of the janitorial staff who cleans all the city buildings, including the crime lab, stole the gun for Black, but he got greedy and thought he’d make enough money to skip town by selling the gun’s return and information to you.” Hart glanced at Maddie. “You two should have called me when that guy first contacted you.”

  “Yeah, hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Dylan said.

  “Well, Torrez lived long enough to finger Black as the guy who’d hired him to steal the gun and—” Hart paused for effect “—Black’s palm print matches the one found on the murder weapon.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Dylan shook his head. “Has this guy—this Alex Black—explained why he killed my father?”

  “He’s denying he did it, but we’ve got him and he’s not slipping through the cracks. I promise you that we’ll get a conviction.” Hart looked right at Dylan. “Black is a two-bit hood, with ties to the mob. Take my word for it, the guy’s going down.”

  Dylan held out his hand. Hart rounded the bed and the two men shook hands. “Thanks,” Dylan said. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t make it easy for you, did I? Sorry about that.”

  Hart shrugged. “For you, it was personal. Under similar circumstances, I might have done the same thing.”

  “I need to know why,” Dylan said. “There has to be a reason. Somebody hired Alex Black to kill my father.”

  “It may take us awhile to find out who and why, but sooner or later we’ll nail whoever was behind the hit.” Hart placed his hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “How about leaving the rest to us? Let the police handle things from here on out.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  Hart turned to Maddie. “Keep him out of trouble, will you?”

  “Me?” Maddie pointed to her chest. “He doesn’t listen to me. I have no control over him whatsoever.”

  Hart grinned, then glanced at Dylan. “She’ll eventually figure it out and when she does, you’re a goner.” Hart pointed his finger at Dylan and clicked his tongue as he jerked his finger mimicking a gun firing. “And when that happens, it’ll kick you on your ass a lot worse than a gunshot.”

  When Hart left, Maddie looked quizzically at Dylan. “What on earth was he talking about?”

  “Beats me.” Dylan shrugged.

  Five days later, Maddie brought Dylan to her condo and spent the next few days waiting on him hand and foot. She was driving him nuts, but he’d given up trying to stop her, because she thought of playing nursemaid as part of her penance. She’d taken all the blame in what
went wrong, when in fact, he’d been more to blame than anyone else. Hell, if he hadn’t been so cocksure of himself, so damned and determined to solve the murder case and not share info with Hart O’Brien, he might not have almost gotten Maddie and Gerri and himself killed.

  Other than having a mighty sore shoulder, he felt okay. He really didn’t need Maddie buzzing around him, doing everything for him, but no matter what he said, she didn’t listen. What he wanted—what he needed—was to make love to Maddie. But she considered him an invalid and whenever he put the moves on her, she scolded him and reminded him of his condition. Hell, she’d even put him in the guest bedroom!

  When he entered the kitchen at ten after eight, he was surprised not to see Maddie waiting for him. Instead he found only Thelma busily emptying the dishwasher.

  “Morning,” she said. “Sleep well?”

  “Slept okay,” he replied. “Where’s Maddie?”

  “Still asleep. That child has worn herself to a frazzle lately. I doubt she’d gotten more than two or three hours sleep a night since you got shot.”

  “I’ve been out of the hospital and here with her for three nights, why hasn’t she—”

  “She gets up every couple of hours and checks on you.”

  Dylan huffed. “What can I do to convince her I’m practically a hundred percent again?”

  “It’ll have to be something dramatic,” Thelma said. “And I’d suggest something romantic.”

  “Romantic, huh?”

  “You don’t want to spend the next few weeks living like a monk, do you?”

  Dylan blushed. He wasn’t accustomed to discussing his love life with anyone, least of all his lover’s housekeeper.

  “Maddie adores the ballet, and one of our local Mission Creek gals is a prima ballerina with the Houston Ballet. Why don’t you take Maddie into Houston for a night out? Show her how well you are and romance her at the same time.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Thelma, you’re a genius.”

  “I’m not a genius, just a very observant, intuitive woman. And I know Maddie.”

  “The ballet, a limousine, dinner at a five-star restaurant…a perfect way to say goodbye.”

  Thelma glared at him. “What do you mean a perfect way to say goodbye?”

  “I’ll soon be fully recovered and I’ve agreed to let the police handle everything concerning my father’s murder from here on out. It’s time I head back to Dallas, to my job and my life there.”

  “What about Maddie?”

  “What about her?”

  “Are you just going to run off and leave her?”

  “I’m not running off,” Dylan said in self-defense. “I’m going home. Maddie and I are friends. I hope we remain friends and—” He’d almost said “and lovers.” “But we agreed, going into our relationship, that we’re both lousy at commitments, at anything permanent.”

  “And you don’t think maybe, just maybe, things might be different with Maddie?”

  “Things are different with Maddie. We’re not going to hurt each other. We’re going to remain friends.”

  Did he truly believe what he was saying? Could he be nothing more than a friend to Maddie? Hell, no, not when every instinct within him longed to be her lover. But he’d screwed up Maddie’s life more than once. How could he be sure he wouldn’t do it again? He couldn’t risk it, didn’t dare reach out and grab the one thing he wanted most in this world—Maddie Delarue, his woman for the rest of their lives.

  Besides, would she or anyone else ever believe that a business shark like Dylan Bridges hadn’t married her for her money?

  Thelma continued glaring at him, then she slammed the dishwasher door and walked straight up to him.

  “Dylan Bridges, you’re a damn fool. That’s what you are.”

  He leaned over and kissed Thelma on both cheeks and said, “And you, Ms. Hewitt, are an old romantic who believes in happily-ever-after endings. But Maddie and I are smart enough not to expect fairy-tale endings for our lives.”

  “I said it once and I’ll say it again. Dylan Bridges, you’re a damn fool!”

  Maddie stood outside the kitchen door, tears trickling down her cheeks. She’d heard everything Dylan had said. How was it possible that he didn’t love her, didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her? She loved him so fiercely, so completely that she wasn’t sure she could survive when he left her. Once again, Maddie Delarue had played the fool. If she’d thought her heart had been broken a couple of times in the past, she’d been wrong. Her heart had only been bruised a little. But this time, it was broken. Broken beyond repair.

  Fourteen

  Several days later, Maddie and Dylan took the private airline shuttle-service into Houston. Maddie had chosen one of her favorite evening gowns, a spaghetti-strapped, floor-length number in shiny purple satin with a straight skirt and fitted bodice that accented her curves. To complete the outfit, she’d donned a pair of elbow-length gloves and three-inch heels, both in a dyed-to-match shade of deep lavender. She wore her hair in a French twist and accented the ensemble with diamond and amethyst earrings and bracelet. The moment he saw her, Dylan had told her she was beautiful. She didn’t doubt his sincerity. Dylan didn’t lie. He had always been completely honest with her. But his body lied. His body had promised her love and passion forever.

  Maddie wasn’t sure how she would get through this night—her last night with Dylan. He’d already made arrangements to fly back to Dallas tomorrow and was having his repaired Porsche sent on to him later. He had told her he wanted tonight to be special, a night they would both remember years from now. She had forced a smile and pretended that he wasn’t ripping her heart to shreds with every word he spoke.

  When they arrived in Houston, a limousine whisked them downtown. Inside the limo, they were cocooned in their own little world, with romantic classical music, vintage champagne, caviar, a single peach rose tied with a sheer white ribbon. And Dylan, smiling, attentive, touching her cheek lightly, caressing her bare shoulders. All the while she had to pretend that she was enjoying every moment, appreciating his thoughtfulness.

  “You’re awfully quiet this evening,” he said.

  “Am I?” She shrugged. “I suppose I’m simply overwhelmed by everything you’ve done. You’ve created the perfect date.”

  “I aim to please.” He leaned over and brushed her lips with his.

  She wanted to grab him and hold him and beg him not to leave her. But she’d never in a million years beg any man, not even Dylan Bridges. Obviously he didn’t love her and didn’t want to stay with her. She’d fooled herself into believing that great sex meant love. For her maybe, but not for Dylan.

  “So, how well do you know Susan Wainwright?” Dylan asked.

  “Susan? As well as I know most of the Wainwrights, although Susan is a few years younger than I am. I always liked her. And I envied her being tall and thin.”

  Dylan draped his arm around Maddie’s shoulder and smiled as his gaze skimmed over her from head to toe. “Honey, you have no reason to envy another woman her figure. You’ve got the kind of body men dream about from the time they go through puberty until they’re put six feet under.”

  How did he expect her to react to such a fabulous compliment? All the sweet talk and flattery in the world was a poor substitute for what Maddie really wanted: Dylan’s love, now and forever.

  Maddie forced herself to smile. Dear God, couldn’t Dylan see through her brave pretense?

  “You know, I hated the ballet when I was a teenager and my dad used to take me,” Dylan said. “I didn’t fully appreciate the art form until about six years ago, when I dated a lady who was mad about ballet.”

  “Oh, is that right?” Maddie kept her false smile firmly in place.

  “You’d like Babs. You two have quite a lot in common. She’s a redhead who looks good in purple. She loves the ballet and the opera and has exquisite taste.”

  “Sounds like a lovely person.”

  “She is.”

  “I
suppose you’ll be seeing Babs when you go back to Dallas.”

  “Probably. She’s married to one of my business partners and the mother of my godson.”

  Maddie sighed and something inside her released. Relief? Rage? “If she was so wonderful, it’s a shame your partner stole her away from you.”

  “It didn’t happen that way.” Dylan nuzzled Maddie’s neck. “Babs and I were never more than good friends.”

  “The way you and I are good friends,” Maddie said.

  Dylan lifted his hand, grasped her chin and forced her to look directly at him. “No, honey, not friends and lovers. Babs and I were only friends. And for your information, what I’ve had with you is not like anything I’ve ever had with another woman.”

  Then why are you leaving me? she wanted to shout. If what we’ve shared is so unique, so special, how can you walk away so easily?

  “Yes, so you’ve said before.” Maddie pulled his hand away from her face, but held it for several minutes.

  “We should make plans for you to come for a visit to Dallas sometime,” he said. “I wouldn’t want us to lose touch.”

  “No, I…I wouldn’t want that either.”

  “Great. Then we’re in agreement.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Later that evening, Maddie found herself trying very hard to concentrate on the performance, to allow the on-stage melodrama to overshadow her personal misery. Madame Butterfly was one of her favorite ballets as well as one of her favorite operas. The two-act drama, danced to the music of Puccini’s famous opera, told the heartbreaking tale of a beautiful young geisha betrayed by a callous U.S. Navy officer at the turn of the nineteenth century.

  Occasionally she caught a glimpse in her peripheral vision of Dylan glancing at her, and from time to time he’d reach over and squeeze her hand. He seemed the same as he’d been a day ago, a week ago, yet how could he be the same when he knew this was their last night together? But ending their relationship—did they even have a true relationship?—had been his decision, not hers. He wasn’t dying inside; his heart wasn’t bleeding.