“I hope you’re not going to apologize for that kiss, because I sure as hell won’t.”
Oh, he was dangerous. His voice was soft, as much as a caress as his kiss had been. Sunshine gleamed from his spiky black lashes and warmed the startling blue of his eyes with flecks of gold. Hayley wanted to lean forward and lick the moisture that slicked his lips. “I didn’t plan any of this.”
“Too bad. This was the first good idea you’ve had.”
“I didn’t mean to give you the impression that—”
“That you’re a passionate woman? Or that you wanted to kiss me?”
“Neither.” She struggled to focus her thoughts. “Can we just move on? This isn’t why I came to see you today, Cooper. I thought we already established that.”
“Yeah, I know.” He sighed, rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet. His gaze flicked downward. “But the way you look, you’re making it hard to remember.”
The Angel and the Outlaw
INGRID WEAVER
To my friend Deb.
Thanks for the ear, the shoulder—
and for just being you.
Books by Ingrid Weaver
Silhouette Intimate Moments
True Blue #570
True Lies #660
On the Way to a Wedding… #761
Engaging Sam #875
What the Baby Knew #939
Cinderella’s Secret Agent #1076
Fugitive Hearts #1101
Under the King’s Command #1184
*Eye of the Beholder #1204
*Seven Days to Forever #1216
*Aim for the Heart #1258
In Destiny’s Shadow #1329
†The Angel and the Outlaw #1352
Silhouette Special Edition
The Wolf and the Woman’s Touch #1056
INGRID WEAVER
admits to being a sucker for old movies and books that can make her cry. “I write because life is an adventure,” Ingrid says. “And the greatest adventure of all is falling in love.” Since the publication of her first book in 1994, she has won the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award for Romantic Suspense, as well as the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for Series Romantic Suspense. Ingrid lives with her husband and son and an assortment of shamefully spoiled pets in a pocket of country paradise an afternoon’s drive from Toronto. She invites you to visit her Web site at www.ingridweaver.com.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Chapter 1
The woman was lying on her stomach behind the cover of a lilac bush with the butt of a rifle tucked against her shoulder. If it hadn’t been for the rain gleaming from the gun barrel, Cooper wouldn’t have spotted her. He eased back a step, but she gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. The night and the noise of the storm would have masked his approach. On top of that, he could see that she was entirely focused on her target.
Cooper followed her gaze across the garden to the house on the far side of the lawn. It was three stories high, built of brick and covered with ivy. Light spilled from the first-floor windows, making them sparkle festively through the rain. Figures moved inside, well-dressed people with champagne flutes in their hands. Oliver Sproule was having a party. Of course. He would be celebrating his acquittal.
The woman on the ground shifted, sliding her elbows along the mud beneath the shrub so she could press her right eye to the scope that was mounted on top of her weapon. The gun barrel inched toward the thin, silver-haired man who had paused at the French doors that led to the terrace.
Even without the aid of a telescopic sight, Cooper recognized Oliver Sproule. He was smiling as he lifted his glass to a cluster of people, oblivious to the threat that lay in the darkness less than thirty yards away. He’d been released this morning. He must be savoring his freedom.
Cooper knew how that felt. Almost four years had passed since he’d been let out, but he remembered that first, sweet breath of free air. Cooper had partied, too, but it sure hadn’t been in a mansion with fancy people and champagne.
Thunder growled in the distance. A sudden gust of wind sent needles of rain through the garden. A fragrant burst of lilac blossoms, ghostly pale in the dimness, showered the woman’s back.
She didn’t appear to notice. She curled her finger around the trigger. “You murdering bastard,” she said. Her voice had a throaty edge, sounding as raw as the wind. “How dare you smile?”
Cooper assessed the situation while he gauged his distance to the woman. She’d made it past the electric fence and the guards who patrolled the Sproule estate, but he suspected that was due more to luck than to skill. She wasn’t a professional. Pros never got emotional about a hit. And a pro would have been better prepared for the weather. This woman wasn’t wearing any rain gear. Apart from her white sneakers, her clothes were dark enough to blend into the shadows, which was good, but they were soaked through, plastered to her body and would provide no protection from the storm.
The real giveaway was the gun. It had no silencer. As soon as she pulled the trigger, she would reveal her position. And Cooper’s.
The way he saw it, he had two choices. He could jump her and grab the rifle before she took her shot.
Or he could turn around and walk away.
It would be simpler to walk. It sure as hell would make his task easier. She was aiming at Oliver. With that high-powered weapon from this range, even a novice would be deadly. If Cooper let her follow through, he could consider justice done. His debt would be paid. He could forget about this crazy quest Tony had chosen for him and pick up his life where he’d left off.
Sure, why not leave now? Nothing was stopping him from working his way back to his truck and letting this woman finish her business. What happened to her afterward wasn’t his problem. No one would have to know he had been here.
Rain dripped from the rifle, from the woman’s hands and the curve of her cheek. The sound of a sob mingled with the noise of the storm.
A woman armed with a gun was dangerous enough. A crying woman was even worse.
Go, Cooper told himself. Turn around now. Let her do what she wants. You don’t need this complication. You’re not her keeper.
She took her finger from the trigger to wipe the back of her hand over her eyes. A shudder shook her body. Cooper would bet it wasn’t due solely to the weather.
The figure framed in the French doors drained his glass.
The woman fitted her eye back to the scope. It wasn’t easy. She was sobbing continuously now. Her hands were trembling. The gun barrel wavered.
Aw, hell. What if she missed? Cooper pulled his hands from the pockets of his raincoat, preparing to lunge for her.
Before he could move, she dropped the gun on the ground and pushed to her knees. Her shoulders jerked with a sob. She slammed her fists into the mud. “Damn you!” she cried.
A dog barked from somewhere on the far side of the house. It was answered by a second bark from the direction of the front gates. Cooper glanced around. Terrific. Someone must have set loose the Dobermans.
“I’m sorry.” The woman punched the ground again, then sat back on her heels and buried her face in her hands. Her head brushed a branch of the lilac as she rocked back and forth. More blossoms fell on her shoulders and stuck to her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
The b
arking grew nearer. Cooper strode forward to snatch the rifle. “Yeah. Too bad you didn’t save us both a lot of trouble and figure that out sooner.”
The woman staggered to her feet. She spun to face him.
She was taller than she’d appeared when she’d been lying down. The top of her head was at a level with his nose. Her soaked clothes clung to long legs and a slender body. Her hair hung across her face in limp, muddy strands. In the dim light that shone through the shrubbery from the house, her features were nothing more than blurred suggestions of planes and shadows, impossible to identify.
Yet Cooper already had a good idea of who she had to be. Plenty of people might want to put a bullet into Oliver Sproule, but only one person would want it this badly.
She held up her palms. Her hands were still shaking. Her gaze darted to the gun.
Cooper emptied the bullets from the magazine, worked the bolt to eject the cartridge that was in the chamber and slipped the rounds into his coat pocket. He slung the strap of the rifle over his shoulder and grabbed her wrist. “Come on. We have to get out of here.”
She pulled at his grip. Behind her straggling hair, her eyes were wide, her gaze not completely rational. She shook her head, spattering water droplets and petals.
Through the mud that slicked her arm, Cooper could feel her pulse fluttering against his fingers. Her breath was coming out in shallow puffs. He suspected she was on the verge of breaking down, but there was no time to coax her gently. If he couldn’t bluff her into moving, he’d have to carry her. But that might make her scream and jeopardize them both. “Suit yourself.” He leaned forward, bringing his face to hers. “If you feel like taking your chances with the dogs and Sproule’s guards, go ahead, but I’m not sticking around to watch you bleed.”
A healthy dose of alarm flickered over her face. Whether it was the sound of the barking or his harsh words that finally got through to her didn’t matter. She shivered, glancing past him.
He let go of her wrist and backed toward the place where he’d scaled the fence. “My truck’s over there. I’ll give you three seconds and then I’m gone.”
She wavered for two seconds, then took a halting step toward him. “Am I…” Her teeth chattered. “Am I under arrest?”
If the circumstances had been different, he might have enjoyed the irony of that. Imagine him, Cooper Webb, being mistaken for a cop. “Seeing as how you’re gunning for Oliver Sproule, sweetheart, the cops are the least of your worries.”
Hayley opened her eyes with a start. Had she fallen asleep? It seemed incredible. She hadn’t been able to sleep for days, not since the jury had gone out.
She lifted her head. She was lying on a couch in a room she didn’t recognize. The only illumination came from a gooseneck lamp that sat on an oak desk a few steps away from the couch. On one corner of the desk rested a pair of large cowboy boots, the leather worn to the point of broken-in comfort. Hayley pushed up on one elbow, moving her gaze from the boots to the man who wore them.
He was sitting behind the desk in a green leather chair, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. His hands cradled a white porcelain mug that he balanced on his flat stomach just above his belt buckle. His chest was broad, straining the fabric of a black T-shirt. Raven-black hair curled past his ears and brushed the sides of his neck. Although the light from the desk lamp left the top half of his face in shadow, Hayley recognized the lines around his mouth and the way his beard stubble darkened the cleft in his chin.
It was the man who had found her at Sproule’s. The one who had appeared like a wraith from the storm, his long dark raincoat whipping against his calves, his shoulders squared against the wind, his features slick with rain and hard as stone. The stranger who had seen her reach the absolute rock-bottom point of her life.
Her pulse gave a painful thump. She remembered now. He’d taken her to a black pickup truck in the shadows outside the fence. She had been shivering so he’d draped his coat over her and turned up the heater. As incredible as it seemed, she must have fallen asleep.
She swung her legs off the couch and sat up. A plaid blanket fell from her shoulders to bunch in her lap. The man must have replaced his coat with this blanket when he’d brought her in from his truck, but she couldn’t remember walking in. He must have carried her.
It was humiliating to know she’d been so out of it that she’d been helpless and at the mercy of a complete stranger. But it was nothing compared to what he had witnessed…
Good God, had she really tried to kill Oliver Sproule?
She dipped her head, peering through her hair at the mud that smeared her fingers. On some level, she knew she should be horrified by what she’d almost done.
On another, more primitive level, she was ashamed that she had failed.
She drew the blanket aside. Her jeans were stiff with mud but almost dry. So was her blouse. She must have been here a while.
The man behind the desk lifted the mug to his mouth and took a leisurely swallow. The name of a heavy metal band, Metallica, was emblazoned in silver lightning bolts on the front of his T-shirt. He tilted his head toward the gray file cabinet behind him. A coffeemaker sat on top of it. “There’s plenty of coffee left if you want some. You look as if you could use it.”
His voice was a quiet rumble. His words were mild, yet they carried the same undertone of steel she’d heard him use the last time he’d spoken.
Hayley brushed at the mud on her legs. She didn’t want to consider how bad she looked.
But she had almost killed a man tonight. What was a bit of mud compared to the horror of that? How much lower could she sink? How much uglier could she be?
She shoved her hair off her face so she could take a more careful survey of her surroundings. There was a window behind the desk but the blind that covered it was shut tight and blocked the view outside. There was a closed door to her left. Was it locked? She wasn’t handcuffed or restrained. Would the man chase her if she made a break for it?
This room appeared to be an office, yet it wasn’t like any she’d seen in the Latchford police station. Wait, she remembered he had said something about cops being the least of her worries. She wasn’t under arrest. “Where…” She cleared her throat.
“Where’s your rifle?” he asked before she could continue. “It’s locked in the storage room along with the bullets.”
“I meant where are we?”
He drained his mug, pulled his feet from the desk and stood. The room suddenly seemed smaller. He was a tall man, his body lean, his movements projecting a careless sexuality. He took a second mug from the top of the filing cabinet and filled it with coffee. “We’re at the Long Shot.”
She knew the place. The Long Shot was a bar at the northern edge of the Latchford, Illinois, city limits. The parking lot was usually packed with pickup trucks or cars such as Mustangs and Camaros with tinted windows and oversized tires. Hayley had driven past it many times but had never been inside before. “You’re not a cop,” she said.
One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Nope. I’m a bartender, but it’s after hours so all I can offer you is coffee. Wouldn’t want to break any laws.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“Didn’t want to argue with the Sproule guards or the Dobermans.”
“I guess I should thank you for getting me off the estate.”
“Yeah, you should.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.” He hooked his chair with one foot, rolled it toward the couch and sat down in front of her. He held out the mug. There was a tattoo of an attacking eagle on his forearm. Its faded blue talons seemed to flex with the shift of his muscles. “You look as if you’re feeling better.”
She braced her hands on her knees and rocked forward. “Yes. I’ll call a cab and—”
“Later. We’re not finished yet.” He caught her fingers in his before she could stand and wrapped them around the heavy porcelain mug. “Before you go, we need
to get a few things straight.”
She focused on their joined hands. It was easier than looking at that vicious tattoo or the muscled arm beneath it. “You’re not going to turn me in, are you?”
“That depends.”
His touch was oddly gentle for a man who looked so…hard. She decided not to struggle. Considering his size, it would be pointless. As it turned out, it was unnecessary—the moment she firmed her grip on the mug, he released her hand. “What does it depend on?” she asked.
“On whether you plan to try shooting Oliver Sproule again.”
“I realize how it must have appeared but—”
“Don’t lie to me, Hayley. I was there.”
He was right. There was no point denying the truth. This man had seen her when her soul was naked.
And he’d said her name, she realized. She wasn’t carrying any ID. She hadn’t carried anything but the loaded rifle when she’d walked to the Sproule estate. She hadn’t thought past pulling the trigger. “How do you know who I am?”
“It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who might want to shoot Sproule. Adam Tavistock had a little sister named Hayley. I read in the paper that she made statements all through the trial about how her brother was murdered and Oliver Sproule should burn in hell. That would be you, right?”
There was no point denying this, either. “Yes, that would be me.”
“Better forget the Winchester and stick to talking the man to death.”
She inhaled the aroma from the coffee. It was strong enough to make her eyes water. Or at least, that was one way to excuse the spurt of tears. “Oliver Sproule is a criminal. He’s guilty of murder. He deserves to be punished.”
“He was charged with manslaughter and acquitted.”
“The verdict was wrong. He should have been charged with murder. The whole trial was a farce.”
“What else did you expect? Sproule owns this town. The only reason he got charged with anything in the first place was because your brother was a cop. That couldn’t be covered up, so they went through the motions of a trial.”
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