"What good will—"
He cut off her argument, stating his case. "The communication expert is checking the phone lines tomorrow. We can't bail while he's here. And I still have to find out if Sims and Hoyt are who they say they are."
She backed down. "How are you going to do that?"
"I'll go to a local FBI office and ask them to verify what we need to know." According to the card stuffed in Michael's wallet, Sims and Hoyt hailed from California, but that didn't mean a Texas branch couldn't help.
"Does it matter who they are?" she asked.
"It might matter to Reed. They claimed they could help your brother."
Her eyes clouded. "Maybe, but I'm not sure who to trust anymore. Who to believe."
"I know." He moved closer, taking Justin with him, wondering what the next few days would bring.
If he and Heather were headed for danger.
For a trap Denny Halloway had sprung.
* * *
Chapter 8
«^»
The California sun shone bright. Palm trees loomed to the sky, residing over the prestigious neighborhood with a tropical air.
Denny Halloway's West L.A. house, shrouded by greenery and a wrought-iron gate, presided like a grand illusion, barely visible from the street.
"So this is it." Michael stopped the rented SUV, apprehensive about entering the driveway.
Heather shifted in her seat. "Yes, this is it."
The final charade, he thought. Or the final curtain. He glanced back at the baby. Justin sat in a car seat, clutching his pony and kicking his feet. His thick dark hair was neatly combed, and his chipmunklike cheeks proved full and rosy. He looked healthy and happy, a child well tended and well loved.
Michael turned to Heather and caught her anxious gestures, the sharp intake of breath, the tightly clasped hands.
Were they doing the right thing? Michael's phones, including his office line, had indeed been bugged, and Sims and Hoyt were truly FBI. Which, at the moment, seemed like an oxymoron. The mob and the government.
Whom were they supposed to trust?
Denny Halloway or Big Brother?
Michael entered the driveway, then halted before he reached the intercom. "Do you think Halloway knows about Sims and Hoyt? That they came to see us?"
"It's possible." Heather reached for her purse and placed it on her lap. She'd dressed western today – jeans, cowboy boots, a white T-shirt with a colorful row of seed beads decorating the collar.
"And what about Sims and Hoyt? Do you think they know we're here?"
"Probably."
Was everybody watching everybody, waiting to see who would crack first?
Michael rolled down the window and stopped at the intercom, announcing their arrival.
A disembodied voice gave them permission to enter just as an electronic gate creaked open.
The driveway wound into a semicircle, ending in front of the house. Or the mansion, Michael supposed. It was certainly big enough to claim that kind of grandeur.
Heather didn't react, but she'd been here before, the day she'd returned Beverly to her family.
He parked behind a black Mercedes. "Did Halloway pay attention to Justin last time?"
"Not really. He was engrossed in his daughter. In discovering she was ill."
"How's Beverly's mother handling all of this?" he asked, realizing she'd never mentioned Halloway's wife.
"She died a long time ago."
And now the mobster's daughter was dying, as well. Punishment for his sins? Or had life simply dealt him the death card?
"He has mistresses," she said. "Women Beverly never cared for."
He looked up and saw a dark-suited man at the front door. "Is that our Mafia king?"
Heather shook her head. "No. That's not him."
But either way, criminals beckoned. The West Cost Family. The Hollywood Mob. Michael couldn't have imagined this in a thousand years.
What in the hell had Reed been thinking? A Cherokee boy from the Hill Country had no business hobnobbing with big city killers.
Heather exited the SUV and unbuckled Justin from his car seat. Michael locked gazes with the wide-shouldered man at the door.
He wasn't a butler or manservant. This big, burly dude was a bodyguard.
Justin went willingly into Heather's arms, but a moment later he reached out to Michael.
"He wants his daddy," she said, her voice not quite steady.
"Come on, buddy." He took the child and brushed the baby's cheek with a kiss. Justin made a smacking noise and patted Michael's face. Heather moved beside him, preparing to ascend the brick steps.
The bodyguard had a prizefighter's face, tough and gnarled. He had a boxer's fists, too. Hands the size of two holiday-baked hams.
"You look like you're related to Blackwood," the giant said to Michael. "More than she does." He cocked his chin at Heather, who appeared much too fragile with her fair skin and white-blond hair.
"I guess it's the Cherokee thing." How many times had this guy's nose been broken? Michael wouldn't have minded taking a pop at it himself.
They followed him into the house, stopping in the foyer when he did. Another bodyguard appeared, making the luxurious mansion seem like a fortress.
The first one, the boxer, rounded on Michael. "Cute kid. You packin'?"
Caught off guard, he shifted the baby. "What? No."
"Mind if I check?"
Hell, yes, he minded. But he knew he had little choice. He transferred Justin into Heather's arms and held up his hands, surrendering to the mob, to the bastards that had eavesdropped on his life.
The search was quick, yet thorough. When the boxer gazed at Heather, Michael snarled.
"If you so much as try to frisk her, I'll jam my fist straight down your throat."
The giant chuckled. "You even act like Blackwood. Big in the balls department." The amused expression disappeared. "Too bad he screwed up." He gazed at Heather again. "I used to like your brother."
She released a tight breath. "I still like him."
"Yeah. Family is family. Unless they stab you in the back."
Which Reed had apparently done to the mob, Michael thought, wondering how long his old friend would survive this mess.
The boxer led them past a sweeping staircase and into a dark, masculine office. Gesturing for them to sit, he stood to the side of an ornate desk, his beefy arms at his sides. The second bodyguard waited, as well.
The boss arrived. Medium-boned, with grayish-blond hair and a well-tailored suit, he entered the room like a corporate mogul.
He said "Good afternoon," to Heather and offered Michael a proper handshake.
He wasn't what Michael expected. He didn't strut his stuff like the late John Gotti, the cocky New York mobster who reigned in most people's minds. Nor did he mumble through cotton padding in his mouth, the way Marlon Brando had done in his rendition of a Mafia Don. Halloway simply carried himself like any other successful Los Angeles businessman. But snakes came in all shapes and sizes, and in spite of his La-La Land breeding, Michael was certain Halloway slithered more often than not.
Nonetheless, he accepted the proffered hand.
"I'm pleased you're on time," Halloway said.
"You bugged my phones," Michael responded, just as politely, throwing the pretentious mobster a Texas curveball.
"Did we?" The boss blinked, almost smiled. "I don't recall doing such a thing." He glanced at the boxer. "Do you?"
The big man shrugged. "Maybe Blackwood did it. He's the surveillance expert, not me."
Halloway's features hardened. "My daughter's dying. Blackwood practically sent her back to me in a box."
Suddenly Michael didn't know what to say, so he remained quiet, watching Reed's enemy walk toward Heather.
"You have a handsome son." He cast a look over his shoulder, shooting his words at Michael. "I have three sons. But only one daughter."
"When can I see Beverly?" Heather asked, holding Justin cl
ose.
"Soon." Halloway continued to study the child, and Michael's heart nearly burst out of his chest. Did the mobster know? Did he know Justin was his grandson? His daughter's little boy?
Finally he turned back to Michael. "The next time you see Blackwood, tell him that I reserved a room for him in hell."
"I don't plan on seeing him. We're not friends anymore."
"One never knows." The boss gestured to the boxer. "Show the lady and her Indian lover upstairs."
With that, he came around to his desk, dismissing them like last week's trash.
But Michael refused to let it end, not like that. "Can I trust you, Halloway? Or is my family in danger?"
One graying eyebrow lifted. "I don't prey on women and children." He reached into a humidor for a cigar, slid it beneath his nose. "As for you." He paused, drew out his words for effect. "I used to admire the Native American culture before Blackwood tainted my view. So quite frankly, Elk, your lack of respect is grating on me."
Heather reached for Michael's arm, drawing him away from the confrontation, and he saw the tremor in her eyes, the warning to keep his mouth shut.
They followed the boxer toward the elegant staircase, their boots sounding on a black-and-white display of expensive tile. At the top of the stairs, a suite-size bedroom presented impressive antiques, an around-the-clock nurse and a feeble young woman lost in a canopied bed.
Justin made a distressed sound, then arched toward his biological mother, squirming uncomfortably in Heather's arms. She moved forward, and the boxer took up residence in a conspicuous spot near the window, his big, broad frame flooded with sunlight.
The uniformed nurse, who kept vigil in a padded chair, glanced up from her book.
Heather sat on the edge of the bed, bringing Justin closer to his mom.
Michael held back, studying Beverly with a troubled heart. Pale and weak, she had honey-colored hair and soft green eyes, wise and sad beyond her years. An oxygen tank stood nearby, providing the breath of life. An IV dripped fluids and painkillers through her veins.
"Pa…pa…pa." Justin dropped his pony onto the bed, offering it to Beverly. Asking, Michael presumed, for her to turn the key, to play his favorite music.
Beverly's weary fingers crept toward it, and he knew Heather was blinking back tears.
Michael shifted his gaze to the boxer, wondering if he would react, but the burly man remained stoic. The nurse remained expressionless, as well.
No one suspected who Justin was, that the little boy was the heir to Denny Halloway's crime-infested empire.
Because Beverly couldn't quite manage the toy, Heather helped her. When the lullaby drifted through the sterile room, Justin leaned against his new mom and watched his old one with big, dark eyes.
Tom with emotion, Michael thought about Reed, about the loss of his woman, the loss of his child.
And suddenly he was afraid.
Of losing everything that mattered to him, too.
* * *
The hotel room on Wilshire Boulevard
was quiet. Images flickered on the TV screen, but the volume remained on Mute. Housekeeping had provided a crib for Justin, and Heather stood beside it, watching the baby sleep.
Michael sat on the edge of the bed, the remnants of room-service meals on the table next to him. He scrubbed his hand across his face, wondering what to say to Heather. So many thoughts spilled in and out of his mind, so many emotions he tried to contain.
"Beverly was so frail," Heather said, her voice quavering. She turned, looked at him. "Do you think Justin understands what's going on? Do you think he knows she's dying?"
Unsure of how to comfort her, he released a ragged breath. "He's too young to know. Children don't understand death. Especially babies."
"You're right. I'm just—"
Lost and grieving, he thought. "I'm sorry. I know how difficult this is for you."
She sighed, came toward him. She hadn't cried yet, but he sensed she would. Sooner or later, her tears would flow. "Thank you for being here, Michael. For being with me."
Heather sat beside him, and their shoulders brushed. They were both dressed for bed. He wore boxers, and she wore a soft, shimmering nightgown.
A lump formed in his throat. "I thought about Reed today. About what he's losing."
Her eyes turned watery. "There's nothing left for him."
"He has you. He knows you'll take care of his son." And that had been weighing on his mind all day. Reed had given Justin to Heather. But he'd given the child to Michael, as well.
She rose and reached for her water. Standing in front of the window, she took a small sip.
Behind her, the City of Angels embraced the night. Streetlamps illuminated well-traveled roads, and neon signs blazed. Overpasses crossed freeways, the glare from headlights spinning like pinwheels.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?" she asked.
"What did I say?"
"That Justin and I are your family." She paused, still clutching her water. "You asked Halloway if your family was safe. Me and Justin."
He squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the city glare. Then he opened them and studied Heather, focusing on the woman who'd left him, the woman who'd returned with a baby who wasn't his.
"You feel like family. You've been in my life since I was a boy. And I'm—" He stalled, glanced at the crib. The baby slept soundly, snuggled beneath a white blanket. "Getting attached to Justin."
"I still love you, Michael."
Oh, God. Those familiar words ghosted through him. He couldn't repeat them. He couldn't let himself go that far, feel that deeply.
"I want to make this work," he said instead. "I'm willing to try."
Her eyes were still watery. "This? You mean us?"
He nodded. He could see that he'd wounded her. That not telling her what she'd hoped to hear deflated her heart. "I worry about losing you. About you going away and not coming back. For good next time."
She set her glass on the table. "I won't leave."
"But you will. If we can't make it work, you'll go." What else could he offer but honesty? The rational way he looked at life? "When you disappeared, when I'd learned that you'd purposely deceived me, it was as if my worst nightmare had come true." He met her gaze, noticed the brilliant color of her irises. "I tried to go on. And I did, for the most part." He'd gone to work every day, kept in touch with friends, stayed close to his uncle. "But in some ways, I didn't. I didn't allow another woman into my bed."
She moved forward. "I'm glad you didn't."
"I was hoping you'd come back. Praying that you would. Praying and cursing and drinking. It wasn't healthy." He reached a hand out, drawing her closer. "I don't want you and Justin to leave next month. I want you to stay."
Her fingertips touched his. "I want that, too."
"But you want more. More than I'm capable of."
"You've been hurt. It'll take time."
Michael frowned. Who was she trying to convince? Him? Her? Both if them? "Falling in love scares me."
Her eyes widened. "You've never said that before. You've never admitted…" Her voice trailed.
Was she stunned? Disappointed? Hopeful? He couldn't be sure. "I saw what it did to my mom. She lived her entire life missing my father. A man who broke her heart."
Heather chewed her lip. "You're afraid I'll hurt you again?"
He continued to hold her gaze. "Can you honestly promise that you won't?"
She blinked, her lashes sweeping her cheeks. "I can try."
Clever answer, he thought. Clever, beautiful girl. But vulnerable, too. She looked like an angel, a celestial being struggling with the darkness in the world. The need for attachment. The torture of death.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have brought this up. Beverly probably won't make it through the week, and Reed is out there, alone somewhere. You have enough to contend with."
"Don't be sorry. Not now. Not when you just asked me to stay."
She slid
into his embrace, and he knew she was going to cry. The dam had broken, the flood released.
He lifted her onto his lap, and she clung to him, her arms draped around his neck. Her tears fell silently, but he felt them on his shoulder, dampening his skin.
A part of him wished he could love her, that he could free the demon. The man who'd fallen apart when she'd left. The man who'd drunk himself into quiet stupors.
But he couldn't, so he simply comforted her, offering solace on a grief-ravaged night.
Stroking her hair, he brought her closer. Her breath caught, her heartbeat thudded against his. Then her nightgown shimmied against his body, silk to skin.
She drew back, looked into his eyes. "Touch me, Michael."
She needed him, he realized. Needed to feel his hands molding her, arousing her, making her forget that her friend was dying, that her brother had been marked for a hit.
He needed that, too. The soft, liquid flow of love-making.
Michael turned off the lights, eased her onto the bed and kissed her. Tonight, he would be gentle, as tender as a big, broad-shouldered man could be. She seemed small beneath him, lean and lithe and fragile.
She arched and sighed, stretching her body in a catlike motion. He caressed her through the nightgown, thumbing her nipples, rubbing them into sensitive peaks. Then he lowered his head and sucked one into his mouth, leaving a warm, wet spot on the silk.
The mute television still flickered, and lights still blanketed the city, like wish-enhanced stars. Justin slept on the other side of the room, lost in lullaby ponies and fairy-tale dreams.
Knights and ladies, Michael thought. Dragon slayers and ancient seas. He'd dreamed when he was a boy, too. But now he was a man with a beautiful woman sweet and pliant beneath him.
He played her, like fingers skimming piano keys. Lowering the straps on her nightgown, he slid the garment from her body, watched it hug her curves until it pooled in his hands.
Her panties were a wisp of cotton and lace. He peeled them down, and she lifted her hips.
Without words, without promises, he gave her what she wanted, what she needed, kissing between her legs, making her rub against his mouth.
"Michael." She whispered his name, slid her fingers through his hair.
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