A MAN LIKE MORGAN KANE

by Beverly Barton

"You don't need to concern yourself with the cost." Maxine avoided direct eye contact with her client. "Claudia has given me instructions to do whatever is necessary to get you acquitted, and to spare no expense."

  "Claudia has offered to finance my defense?" Why should she be surprised that Claudia Kane wanted to pick up the tab? Anne Marie's nana was one of the wealthiest women in the South, having inherited a small fortune when her husband died. And Amery's aunt would do anything for her and Anne Marie. They were all the family Claudia had. Except for—

  "Yes, and she's the one who suggested using the Dundee Agency," Maxine said. "Of course, my firm has used their agents before, a few times, when a client needed a bodyguard."

  "A bodyguard!"

  "If the threats on your life escalate, if they become more than phone calls and letters, then we'll have to do as Claudia suggests and have Dundee's send over a personal bodyguard for you."

  "Claudia thinks I need a bodyguard?"

  "She phoned me the morning after you were arrested and offered to pay for an investigator and a bodyguard." Maxine looked over her shoulder at Anne Marie and Lisa standing by the round, Regency table in the dining room, an open alcove off the living room. "Claudia is very concerned about you and Anne Marie. You know how she feels about the two of you."

  "Yes, I know. And we love her, too."

  "Bethany, do you want me to continue taking care of your personal correspondence?" Lisa called from the adjacent room as she lifted the stack of letters off the table. "And what about this package that arrived at the galleria store today? It's addressed to you, in care of the boutique."

  "Oh, just leave the personal stuff," Bethany said. "I'll look through it tomorrow. You've done more than enough to help me. But go ahead and open the package. It could be those perfume samples Midge Claybourne was supposed to send me."

  "Mama, would you like for me to go ahead and make the cappuccino?" Bethany asked.

  "Yes, honey. Thanks. That would be nice." Bethany closed her eyes momentarily, relaxing, thanking God that she was home. Home with her daughter and two good friends.

  "You've done a wonderful job raising that child," Maxine said. "She's pretty and bright and self-confident. A lot like her mother."

  "Like her mother is now," Bethany admitted. "I was nothing like Anne Marie when I was her age."

  The thunderous boom took Bethany and Maxine by surprise. They gasped, then cried out and nervously looked toward the sound of the explosion. The dining room.

  "Anne Marie!" Bethany screamed.

  "Oh, my God!" Maxine cupped her hands over her mouth. Bethany jumped up and ran toward the dining room, Maxine quickly following her.

  "Mama," Anne Marie whimpered from where she huddled on the floor just outside the alcove. "Mama, what—what happened?"

  A large hole gaped in the side of the dining table. Bits and pieces of wood, fragments from the table and nearest chair lay scattered on the rug. Sprawled in an unconscious heap, Lisa Songer's body rested on the floor. Shards of scrap metal that had pierced her clothing hung in her bleeding flesh along her thigh and shoulder. At the end of her right arm, a bloody, torn hand dangled precariously from her nearly severed wrist.

  "What on earth!" Kneeling beside Anne Marie, Bethany wrapped her arms around her child. "Are you all right, honey?"

  "I—I think so." Anne Marie glanced down at her arms and legs. "What happened?"

  "A bomb." Maxine leaned over Lisa's prone body. "She's still alive. I'll call 911. They'll get an ambulance and the police over here."

  "A bomb?" Anne Marie stared at her mother, her eyes wide with shock, tears gathering in the corners.

  "In the package that was addressed to me," Bethany said to no one in particular, suddenly realizing that her dear friend had almost been killed by a bomb meant for her. Did Jimmy Farraday have a crazed fan who couldn't wait for a trial? Had this person passed judgment and sentenced her to death?

  Bethany helped a shaky Anne Marie to her feet. She cupped her daughter's pale face in her hands, kissed her forehead and then wiped away her tears. "Go sit down in the living room. You'll be safe there. I have to see to Lisa. Do you understand?"

  Anne Marie nodded, hugged her mother and then went straight into the living room and sat in a large, overstuffed chair. She stared off into space, her blue-gray eyes dazed.

  Maxine gave directions to the 911 operator, hung up the phone and turned to Bethany. "They're on their way."

  Bethany took a deep breath. "Toss me a throw pillow off the sofa, then go upstairs and look in the linen closet at the end of the hall. Get a blanket for Lisa."

  Maxine nodded agreement. After tossing the pillow to Bethany, she ran out into the foyer and up the stairs. Bethany knelt beside her badly injured friend. Easing the pillow under Lisa's head, Bethany caressed her cheek. She wanted to do something—anything—to help her friend. Checking Lisa's pulse in her left wrist, Bethany found it weak. But Lisa was still breathing. Still alive. She lifted Lisa's dangling right hand and held it firmly in place. She didn't know what else to do.

  "Mama?" Anne Marie's voice sounded like a small child's.

  "Stay where you are," Bethany said. "Lisa is still alive. The paramedics will be here soon."

  "Is she going to die?"

  "No. She isn't going to die." She can't die, Bethany prayed. The bomb was meant for me, not sweet, cute, funny little Lisa. Lisa, who had never harmed anyone in her entire life.

  "Someone meant to kill you, didn't they, Mama?"

  "Don't think about it, Anne Marie. Don't do anything except pray for Lisa." Please, Dear God, let the paramedics get here soon. Keep Lisa alive.

  "You'll let Maxine hire a bodyguard for you now, won't you, Mama?" Anne Marie pleaded.

  "I didn't know you'd overheard our conversation," Maxine said as she hurried through the living room and into the alcove. Unwrapping the soft, cotton blanket, she helped Bethany wrap its warmth around Lisa.

  "I didn't hear your conversation," Anne Marie said. "When I called to check on Nana yesterday, she told me that she'd suggested you hire a bodyguard for Mama. Nana knows someone personally who works for the Dundee Agency. Someone she wants to be Mama's bodyguard."

  Snapping her head up, Bethany glared across Lisa's deadly still body at Maxine. "Who does Claudia know that works for that agency?"

  Maxine's gaze met Bethany's and held. "I told Claudia that it was out of the question," Maxine said. "I told her that you'd never agree—"

  "He's Nana's son," Anne Marie said. "Morgan Kane. He came home to visit for the first time in sixteen years, and he's still here in Birmingham."

  Morgan Kane. Bethany never thought she'd hear the man's name on her daughter's lips. The man she'd loved with all her passionate, young heart so long ago. The man who'd taken everything she had to give—her heart, her body, her very soul. And then he'd left her, without a backward glance. Left her at the mercy of the plans her mother and his parents made for her life. Left her with no choice but to marry his cousin.

  Morgan Kane. The man who had left her pregnant with his child.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Morgan's cellular phone rang insistently. Hell! Someone had been trying repeatedly to reach him for the past hour. It had to be Dane Carmichael. He'd told his boss to use his cell phone number if he needed to get in touch with him on business. His gut instincts warned him that he already knew what this phone call was about.

  Picking up the green garden hose, Morgan sprayed the soap suds off his Ferrari. The telephone stopped ringing. Morgan grunted. He reached down on the paved driveway and grabbed a large, tattered towel, then began slowly, methodically drying off his car. Not once since he bought the sleek, black Ferrari had he allowed anyone else to drive it or wash it. This beauty was his baby, and he treated it with tender, loving care.

  The phone rang again. Morgan grinned. Dane wouldn't give up until he reached him. No wonder Sam Dundee had turned the reins of his agency over to the man. Not
only was Carmichael intelligent, aggressive and levelheaded, but he possessed a bulldog tenaciousness that didn't allow him to give up—ever.

  Opening the car door, Morgan reached down on the seat and picked up the telephone. "Yeah, Kane here."

  "What the hell have you been doing? I've been trying for over an hour to call you." Dane's deep voice bellowed, aggravation edging his words.

  "I'm washing my car," Morgan said, grinning broadly as he pictured Dane's face contorted with anger. Another of his boss's personality traits was impatience.

  "I should have known that you were either babying that Ferrari or avoiding my call."

  "Actually, I was doing both." Morgan braced the phone between his ear and his shoulder as he continued drying off his car.

  "Something tells me that you already know why I'm calling."

  "You're a smart man."

  "So, you're accepting the assignment."

  "What assignment?" Morgan ran the soft cloth over the shiny hood, taking special care as he moved down and over the headlights.

  "Don't be a smart-ass," Dane said. "Maxine Carson, from Kane, Walker and Carson called me at the crack of dawn this morning. She wants to hire you as an investigator and a bodyguard for Bethany Wyndham. You do know Mrs. Wyndham, don't you? According to Ms. Carson, the woman is related to you."

  "Mrs. Wyndham is my cousin Amery's widow." And the only woman who's ever meant a damn thing to me.

  "Well, it sounds as if she's gotten herself into a hell of a mess. And according to Ms. Carson, your mother is quite certain that you will want to handle the case personally."

  "My mother is wrong," Morgan said. "I think it would be better if you send Hawk or Denby. Or do the job yourself."

  "What's the problem?" Dane asked. "Do you think you're too close to the situation to be effective?"

  "Something like that."

  "All right then. I'll phone Ms. Carson and tell her you've declined and that if she'd like, I can have Hawk on the first plane out of Atlanta tomorrow."

  Hawk was a good man. He'd do a fine job. And that's all the assignment would be to him. A job. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  "Fine. Do that," Morgan told his boss. "I'll probably be here another day or so, then I'm heading down to the Gulf for a while. If another assignment comes up, give me a call."

  Morgan punched the End button on his cell phone, then tossed it back onto the car seat. He realized that Dane was probably wondering why he wasn't more concerned about his cousin's widow and the predicament she was in. But Dane wasn't the type to pry into his employees' personal business. Morgan liked that about the man.

  What could he have said if Dane had asked him any questions? It wasn't that he didn't care what happened to Bethany; it was that, after all this time, he cared too much. Was he too close to the situation to be effective? No, the problem was that he wasn't close enough. He'd stayed away too long, kept his distance all these years and cut himself off from his family.

  He wouldn't be in Birmingham now, if Ida Mae hadn't convinced him that his mother was dying. He'd been a fool to come home and an even bigger fool for staying after he learned about Bethany's arrest for Jimmy Farraday's murder. Four days ago when he'd walked out of his mother's bedroom and driven for hours and hours, trying to get his head on straight, he should have kept going. He should have gotten the hell out of town before this showdown came.

  "Morgan," Ida Mae called from the screened side porch. "Your mother's having lunch in the gazebo and she'd like for you to join her."

  He didn't want to have lunch with his mother, but he would. After all, she was the reason he was here, wasn't she? He had come home to spend time with her, hadn't he? Besides, telling her he was leaving tomorrow might be easier over one of Ida Mae's delicious lunches.

  "Tell Mother I'll be ready in about half an hour."

  "Lunch will be served in an hour," Ida Mae said. "Take your time. And for goodness sakes, change out of those ragged jeans. You know how Miss Claudia is, about being dressed for meals."

  Smiling warmly, Morgan waved Ida Mae away and returned to the job at hand. The sweltering August sun warmed his naked, tanned back as he leaned over the Ferrari. A hot, moist breeze fluttered through the treetops but did little to alleviate the humid heat of late summer.

  An hour later, after a shower, shave and change of clothes, Morgan went downstairs and out into the multilevel garden that covered two sloping acres behind the house. Boxwoods surrounded and centered the circular brick paths. A copper sundial had been placed in the middle of one shrub circle. Steps to the right led to a rose garden and those to the left led to the large white gazebo, from where you could look out over the side of Red Mountain and down on the city below.

  As he approached the little summerhouse, which was flanked by two huge, old magnolia trees, he heard a couple of feminine voices. One his mother's. One he didn't recognize, but he thought it sounded familiar. Good God, had his mother invited a guest to join them? Would he be at the mercy of some old biddy for the next hour?

  But as he drew nearer, he realized that his mother's guest was not some society matron, but a young woman, perhaps not yet out of her teens. The girl sat perched on the decorative crossbar banisters that surrounded the structure.

  Resting in an enormous white wicker chair, Claudia looked like a queen on a throne. Glancing at him, she waved. "Morgan, dear boy, come and join us. We're enjoying some iced tea and chatting while we wait for Ida Mae to serve lunch."

  The young girl slid off the railing and turned to face Morgan when he stepped inside the gazebo. She smiled at him, a wide, warm, genuine smile.

  "Hello," she said, her voice girlishly soft, but not babyish. "I've been dying to meet you. Ever since Nana told me that her son had come home to visit, I've been so excited. She's told me so much about you that I feel as if I know you."

  Nana? The girl had called his mother Nana. So this was Bethany and Amery's daughter. Despite his resolve not to react, not to show any sign of emotion, Morgan found himself inspecting the child from head to toe.

  His first thought was that she didn't look the least bit like Amery. But she did look like the Morgans, like his mother and Amery's mother, Aunt Danielle. This girl stood a good five foot nine. And she was how old? Fourteen? Nearly fifteen? She'd certainly inherited her height from the Morgan side of the family.

  "You're Amery's daughter." Morgan stared at her, wishing she'd stop smiling at him as if she expected a cousinly hug.

  "And Bethany Dow's daughter. You do remember my mother, don't you? Nana says that she was your girlfriend before you went away and joined the Navy."

  Snapping his head around, Morgan glared at his mother. What possible reason could she have had to share his past history with this child? And there had to be a reason. Claudia Kane never did anything without an ulterior motive, usually to advance her own causes.

  "Telling Anne Marie all about my only child has given me great pleasure," Claudia explained. "When she was a little girl and got in trouble of some sort, I'd tell her about what a naughty little boy you were." With tears glazing her cool, blue-gray eyes, Claudia laughed softly. "I suppose that's how it began, my telling her Morgan stories."

  "I've always loved Morgan stories," Anne Marie said, her gaze locked with his. "Nana and Ida Mae spoiled you rotten, didn't they? They spoiled you almost as badly as they have me."

  When the girl laughed, every muscle in Morgan's body tensed. The sound brought back memories long forgotten, buried in the past. The laughter belonged to another girl, a shy, quiet girl with huge hazel eyes and a mane of dark, coffee brown hair. Morgan stared into Bethany's daughter's eyes, eyes an identical blue-gray to his own. She'd inherited the Morgan eyes, too.

  "You sounded like your mother just then. Your laughter—" The words came out of his mouth before he realized that he'd vocalized his thoughts.

  "You think so? I'm told our voices are similar. Most people can't tell us apart on the phone now that I'm older." Anne Marie shrugged. "And I
think we look a little alike, except that I'm twice as big. Nana says that I'm built like the Morgans. Tall and rawboned. Good pioneer stock."

  "Pioneer stock?" Morgan chuckled. "Is that what you've told her, Mother, that your ancestors were pioneers?"

  Claudia frowned at her son, then gazed past him up the brick pathway and sighed. "Ah, here comes Ida Mae with our lunch."

  Morgan seated Anne Marie, then sat down directly across from his mother. Glancing back and forth from one to the other, he wondered if the fact that the child resembled her so much had anything to do with the reason Claudia was so fond of Amery's daughter.

  "Have you asked him, Nana?" Anne Marie smiled at Ida Mae when she placed a green salad in front of her.

  "Asked me what?" Staring at his mother, Morgan held his fork in midair.

  "Not yet. I thought you and I could ask him together," Claudia said. "But let's wait until after we've enjoyed a peaceful lunch."

  "What's going on?" Cocking his head backward, he looked up at Ida Mae. "Are you in on this little plot of Mother's?"

  "There is no plot," Claudia said indignantly, then lifted her fork and pierced a small tomato slice in her salad. "Anne Marie simply wants to ask a favor of you."

  Focusing on his mother, Morgan didn't move his gaze a fraction from her calmly composed face as he laid his fork beside his plate. "What kind of favor?"

  Reaching around the edge of the table, Anne Marie grasped Morgan's arm. "Nana and I want you to be Mama's bodyguard."

  He glanced down at the hand on his arm, noting the long, slender fingers—elegant Morgan fingers. "I'm sure your Nana knows that I've already turned down the job. Maxine Carson did inform you after Dane called her, didn't she, Mother?"

  "Yes, I'm aware that you're reluctant to take the assignment because of the family connection, but I … that is, Anne Marie and I think you're the only man for the job."

  The girl squeezed his arm and gazed beseechingly into his eyes. "Please, Morgan. Please. Nana and I know that you're the best, that you'd take care of Mama better than anyone else. And you're so smart and brave and—"