Live-In Lover

by Lyn Stone

  Damien was on him like a falling rock, one knee in the gut, the barrel of the Sig Sauer firmly placed to Jack’s nose.

  “Now then. You will phone whoever has the baby and tell them to take her home. Unharmed. Immediately. If you refuse one…more…time, I will empty this weapon into your right nostril. You have two seconds to agree.”

  Jensen sobbed. “Wait! Wait, I swear I don’t know where she is!”

  Damien pulled the trigger. At the metallic snick, Jack cringed and issued a high-pitched whine. He wet himself. Damien could smell urine over the strong stench of fear.

  “Ha, a misfire? Strange.” He shrugged and clicked his tongue. “However, I am certain this is loaded. We’ll try it again.” He jammed the barrel farther into flesh. “One last chance?”

  Then he felt Winton’s hand grab his collar from behind, the other hand gripped his wrist as the detective yanked him backward off the bed and dumped him on the floor. “Police!” Winton barked over his shoulder for Jensen’s benefit.

  With a wink at Damien, he pulled back his fist and clipped him soundly on the jaw. Damien collapsed for the next act, peeking through his lashes to assess Winton’s acting skills.

  Jensen scrambled off the bed. “He just busted in here and tried to kill me!” he complained. “You witnessed it! I want that bastard arrested!”

  “Okay, sure,” Winton agreed. “I’ll drag him downstairs. Get the locals to take him in.” He sighed with regret. “Of course, they won’t hold him long. Perry’s got a whole bunch of friends here, y’know.”

  Damien almost laughed. The whole bunch Winton spoke of consisted of one, barely an acquaintance, who had extended a bit of professional courtesy. The agent-in-charge in the Memphis office, Michael Duvek, had later requested continued, full surveillance through Atlanta headquarters. Damien couldn’t even call Duvek a friend. He acted as control on certain cases, a contact, his liaison with headquarters in Virginia. But Duvek was a friend to Ford Devereaux, Molly’s brother.

  What a discomfiting feeling, Damien thought, to realize he had no real friends, no one to call on just because they might care if he needed help. Not that it had ever bothered him before. In fact, he’d gone out of his way to avoid any lasting friendships. It bothered him now.

  At the moment Winton seemed a likely candidate, Damien thought, suppressing a grin.

  Jensen was on his feet. Damien continued to watch, feigning unconsciousness, eyes slitted so they appeared closed. Winton clicked the handcuffs onto Damien’s wrists, scooped up the weapon he’d dropped and stood to face Jensen. “You know, Jack, if I were you, I think I’d do what I could to get that kid back to her mama. Otherwise, this guy’s just gonna come after you again. I won’t be riding to the rescue next time.”

  “You put a tail on him,” Jensen ordered. “You watch his every move and if he comes near me again, I want him shot!”

  Winton inclined his head and seemed to consider it. “Nah, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.” He ran a hand through his hair and expelled a weary breath. “I’ll just let him kill you.”

  “You can’t!” Jensen protested.

  “Oh, yeah, I think I can. See, if I have to write up a shooting, I’d much rather have the victim be you than him. He’s FBI. Didja know that, Jack?” He nudged Damien’s leg with the toe of his boot. “Hard to justify shooting a fellow officer of the law, don’cha see?”

  “FBI?” Jensen croaked. “He’s an agent?”

  “Damn straight,” Winton said evenly. “Got all kinds of awards and stuff. Said to be the best they had and never missed a collar. Sorta went rogue on ’em, though. All that undercover stuff just got to ’im. Too many kills, I guess. Had to put him on leave for a while. Let him get himself together a little bit. Still, I wouldn’t want to shoot him even if he is nuts.” Winton shook his head. “Nah. Internal Affairs would prob’ly have a fit.”

  “Why would you want me dead? I haven’t done anything!” Jensen insisted.

  “I don’t especially want you dead, Jack. I just don’t care one way or the other. You took that baby, and we know it.” Winton glanced down. “He knows it.”

  He clapped a hand on Jensen’s bare shoulder and gave it a rough shake. “You take a word of advice, ol’ son, and get your tail outta this crack before you come to grief. Give that little girl back while you got a chance.”

  Winton nodded once toward Damien. “See, he don’t really care what happens to him. He’s crazy about that kid. Or maybe he’s just crazy, period. Got enough paperwork to back up an insanity plea, that’s for sure. I’d testify he was looney when he shot you.”

  “You can’t just let him come after me again!” Jensen whined.

  “Hey, if you do the right thing, he’ll probably leave you alone. That way, he’s happy, the kid’s happy, the mom’s happy…and you just might be alive. Right now,” Winton said, and shook his head regretfully, “he’s just obsessed with getting that kid back home.”

  Still protesting, Jensen insisted, “Look, whatever your goddamn name is, I tell you I don’t—”

  “Aw, now, don’t talk ugly, Jack. You just do what you gotta do, okay?” Winton said with total calm. “Get that door for me, would ya?” He reached down, grasped Damien’s legs and dragged him across the room, past a speechless Jack Jensen and out into the hall.

  Jensen must have been standing in the doorway watching. Damien couldn’t see behind him as Winton towed him all the way to the elevator, rolled him inside and punched the button for the lobby.

  “Good show,” Damien said, releasing his pent-up laughter. “Get these damned cuffs off me and I’ll applaud.”

  Winton grunted as he squatted and plied the key. “Bet your ass Jackie’s on the phone to mama right about now.”

  “And they’re set up downstairs to monitor calls?”

  “Yep. Let’s go see what happens.” He offered Damien his hand to get up. “You okay? I didn’t clip you too hard there, did I?”

  Damien slapped him on the back and assumed Winton’s plowboy accent. “Now did ol’ Andy of Mayberry ever harm a soul you heard tell of?”

  “Hey, you do that pretty good,” Winton praised. “Ever decide you want to stick around down South, you’d prob’ly fit right in.”

  “I’ll certainly take that under consideration,” Damien promised. He’d already had it under consideration for some time now. It had just taken Winton’s voicing it to make Damien admit it to himself.

  Accents were a surface trick he’d mastered long ago. He could fit in practically anywhere he needed to in that respect. The question was, could he learn all the truly important things required to become what Molly and Sydney needed in their lives?

  His experience with family matters was so limited, he wasn’t even certain what qualities he lacked or if they could be cultivated once he found out. It might be too late for him, but he knew he couldn’t abandon the notion now that it had taken hold in his mind. He wanted Molly. Needed her. And she needed him.

  “I bet you never give up, do ya?” Winton asked, shooting him a sidewise glance as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open.

  “What?” Damien asked, wondering for a second whether he’d spoken his thoughts out loud.

  “On a case like this. Or anything else for that matter,” Winton explained. “I bet no matter how long it takes, you just keep right on pickin’ to the end of the row, don’t ya?”

  Damien flashed him a grin. “All this plowboy wisdom of yours must come in awfully handy, Winton.”

  “Yeah, Perry, I reckon it does,” he replied, pushing open the door to the room where an Atlanta agent monitored the phone line from Jensen’s room. He gestured politely toward the empty chairs. “Thinking on doing a little plantin’ pretty soon, are you?”

  Damien shrugged. “I need to get a bit more familiar with the terrain first.”

  Winton laughed, punched him lightly on the shoulder.

  “Call going through,” the agent announced, “Nashville number.”

  “Hi,
there, Mama!” Winton said with a lazy chuckle.

  Damien frowned at the readout on the call box. “No, actually it’s Hello, Dad.”

  His worried gaze collided with Winton’s as they listened to the conversation between Jack and his father.

  “Cut her loose,” Jack said without so much as a greeting. “We don’t, then I’m cooked. It’s gotta be very clear I’m not involved.”

  The elder Jensen sighed audibly, sounding disgusted. “It’ll take a few hours to get rid of her. Show yourself around there and stay put. I’ll handle it.”

  The line went dead.

  An icy chill swept through the marrow of Damien’s bones. A sympathetic Mildred Jensen would have no say at all in what happened to little Sydney.

  “Get the chopper revved. Use the phone in the lobby,” he told Winton. “Redial that number,” he ordered the agent. “Then I’d like you to leave. You won’t need to hear this conversation.”

  Chapter 15

  “Jensen residence,” a female voice answered.

  Damien figured it was the maid. “Get John Jensen on the line immediately. It is a matter of life and death.”

  Less than a minute lapsed. “Jensen here.”

  “This is Agent Perry with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. If you do not restore Sydney Jensen to her mother within the next two hours, smiling and unharmed, I will kill your son. And then I will kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

  The strangled sound made Damien wonder if the man was suffering an attack of some kind.

  “You…you can’t do this!” Jensen exclaimed. “The FBI can’t—”

  “Did I mention that I am acting in an unofficial capacity? This is a very personal matter to me. And to you, I’m sure. You now have one hour, fifty-nine minutes. If you wish to waste a few of those, ring Jack and ask him what he meant by being cooked unless you cut Sydney loose. I would imagine it has to do with his breathing down the barrel of my Sig Sauer a few moments prior to your conversation with him.”

  The silence stretched out so long, Damien wondered if Jensen really had put him on hold to make another call.

  Following a harsh expulsion of breath, Jensen admitted defeat. “I’ll need longer than two hours.”

  “That’s your decision to make, of course,” Damien replied calmly while his heart pounded with relief. His hands shook as he held the phone, but at least his voice remained steady. Deadly. “You are down to one hour and fifty-eight. At precisely six thirty-five, I will phone Molly Jensen’s house. If the child is not there, and in perfect health, my plans proceed as promised. Are we understood?” Another long silence ensued.

  “Understood,” Jensen finally growled.

  Damien broke the connection and dropped into the nearest chair, lowering his face into his palms. “God,” he whispered. “Thank God.” He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such a case of the sweats.

  Winton returned. “Hey, man, you okay?”

  “Fine,” Damien said, rising. “Is the chopper ready?”

  “Waiting on you. What’s the word?” he asked, nodding toward the phone.

  “Jensen’s bringing her home in about two hours,” Damien said. “I told him I would kill Jack and then him if he didn’t.”

  “Ha! You bluffed him into it?”

  Damien wiped a hand over his face and shook his head. “To tell you the truth, Win, I wonder if I was bluffing.”

  “You could get canned over this, y’know? Making death threats and all. But I guess you’re safe enough unless they confess everything and mean to take you down with them.”

  “I can always take up farming,” Damien said lightly as he strode to the door. Nothing, not even the loss of his career, could dim his euphoria at the moment. Sydney was on her way home to Molly. And so was he.

  The weather in Nashville had turned nasty around six o’clock. A half hour later, the storm raged. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed almost simultaneously. Wind whipped the trees and tumbled empty trash cans across the yards. Molly watched through the front window, her arms crossed over a chest that felt empty, desolate. No word from Damien.

  Blancher, the agent who had stayed, excused himself to make a sandwich, offering to make two. Molly declined. She couldn’t force a mouthful down when her poor baby might be hungry. Surely Mildred wouldn’t allow that. Would she? Then again, the woman had no idea what Syd would and wouldn’t eat.

  “But you’re not all that picky, are you, sweetie?” she whispered to the rain. More tears escaped when she’d thought them all used up.

  A car turned into her driveway. Somebody bringing Mama back over, Molly thought. Then the doors opened and a man and woman got out. It was nearly dark and she couldn’t tell who they were through the curtain of rain. Then the woman opened the rear door and leaned inside to get something.

  When she emerged, one little white foot stuck out the bottom of the wriggling bundle.

  Molly gasped, then cried out with joy. She was barely aware of running to the front door, flinging it wide and dashing out into the storm. “Sydney!” she shouted, all but tackling the woman.

  Her feet slipped on the wet grass as she grabbed the baby but she held her ground. Hands on her shoulders steadied her from behind.

  “Ma’am, is this her? Your baby?” Agent Blancher demanded.

  Molly hadn’t realized he was right behind her. “Oh, yes!” she cried. “It’s Syd!” Yanking the top of the blanket farther back, she burst into tears at the sight of the precious face. Sydney was grinning up at her, a dark ring of chocolate surrounding her sticky mouth.

  “You’re really here!” Molly moaned, planting her lips on Syd’s wet red curls. Rain pelted them both, washing away all the horrible fear of the past night and day. “Oh, baby.”

  “Oh, bebe!” Sydney parroted and squealed.

  “Well, for heaven’s sake, get the child inside before she catches pneumonia!” Mildred Jensen ordered. “What kind of mother are you?”

  Molly didn’t know whether to hug the woman or deck her. It didn’t matter. She had brought Sydney back.

  Whirling around, Molly ran for the door. Suddenly it seemed imperative that she examine every inch of Syd to make sure she was well. Molly needed to see all of her, right now. “How ’bout a bath! Wanna splash, sugar? Play with ducky?”

  “Duckeeee!” Sydney crowed, straining backward and waving her arms. “Ducky, Gammy?”

  “Gammy?” Molly turned and raised a brow at Mildred as they reached the foyer. “She calls you Gammy?” Her ex-mother-in-law stood there dripping, silent now, eyes darting anxiously to her husband.

  Agent Blancher entered behind them, a smear of mustard on his mustache, his hand under his jacket. He shut the door and looked uncertainly from one to the other. Molly turned the whole business over to him while she knelt and stood Syd on the floor, unwrapping her and checking her out.

  Barefoot and slightly damp beneath the blanket, Sydney wore a child’s souvenir T-shirt, the kind available almost anywhere tourists might stop, and a disposable diaper a size too small for her. Molly scooped her up, quickly stepped into the living room and wrapped her in the knitted afghan off the chair where Blancher had slept.

  Cradling Syd, she moved back to the foyer, Blancher was replacing his badge folder in his pocket and asking John, “You want to tell me what’s happening here, sir?”

  John wiped a hand over his face and grimaced. “We received a call about an hour ago. I collected and dropped off the ransom money and they told us where to find her. We picked her up and came straight here.”

  Molly knew that for a lie. Syd hadn’t learned that Mildred was her Gammy in that short a time. And John Jensen wouldn’t part with a nickel to save a baby he’d never thought was Jack’s in the first place. But at the moment, Molly simply didn’t care. It was hard to think of anything but Sydney and the fact that her baby was right here in her arms where she was supposed to be.

  “I’ll call this in,” Blancher said. “We’ll hold the rest of the questions unt
il everyone gets here.” Through the long frosted panes on either side of the door, lights flashed as a car turned into the drive. The agent opened the door a crack and looked out. Car doors slammed. Molly heard voices. “Looks like Detective Winton and Agent Perry are back, ma’am,” he said over his shoulder to her.

  Damien. Well, she hadn’t thought she could get any happier than she already was, but her heart rate had bumped up another notch.

  Just then she happened to glance up at John and saw him fade to the color of biscuit dough. Oh, this was going to get good in a few minutes, Molly thought with a shiver of anticipation. Damien would get the truth out of him. That ransom tale of John’s wouldn’t hold any more water than Mildred’s soggy rain cap.

  She gave Syd another hearty hug and a juicy kiss on her round, damp, chocolate-smeared cheek.

  “Ducky, Mama?” her precious asked with that beautiful toothy grin of hers. The little genius remembered about the bath.

  “Ducky will have to wait awhile, sweetie pie! Uncle Dammit’s home!”

  Damien ignored the relentless rain as he crossed the yard and approached the steps to Molly’s house. Getting soaked again was nothing compared to what the storm winds had nearly done to the chopper on the way back.

  He only hoped he hadn’t rushed back here only to find that Jensen had welshed. The extra car in the driveway gave him hope that hadn’t happened.

  Blancher opened the door to admit him and Winton, then stepped back out of the way without a word. And there she was. That lovely little ditto of Molly.

  “Sydney,” he said with a satisfied smile. “Welcome home.”

  Molly beamed at him as if he’d brought the child to her himself. Or maybe she was simply glad to see him, to share her joy at having Sydney back again.

  He shrugged out of his coat and let it fall as he crossed the few feet of foyer that separated him from Molly and the baby. The mere sight of them provided a warmth that banished the chill of wet clothing, the storm outside, and the emptiness he had carried inside him for so long.

  “Is she all right?” he asked gently, and watched Molly nod. Her face radiated a happiness that transcended words. “Then all is as it should be,” he said, wondering if she remembered what he had promised her last night. Her blush told him she did.