"I have to go to work this evening," he said, turning at last to face Smith again. "I'll see about getting some time off. I'll do this. I'll do whatever I can to help." Whatever the hell that might be; he never knew until he was doing it. "But I'll do it on my terms, Smith. Alone."
Smith looked as if he wanted to protest, but after a moment he simply nodded. His expression showed all too clearly that he understood what Michael was thinking, that if he didn't let anyone else get involved, then he couldn't be responsible for what might happen. If he hadn't asked for Evan's help in rescuing that little girl, then maybe Evan would still be alive.
Maybe.
But Michael wouldn't be.
And, more than likely, neither would the girl.
"I'm sorry, Michael," Smith said quietly as he stood up. "I know this isn't easy."
"I'll deal with it. Tell Remy to give me a call."
He walked to the door with Smith, said goodbye and locked it behind his friend, then went into the bathroom to start dealing with his decision.
He threw up.
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Valery huddled on the steps leading to a lace shop, her jacket pulled tight, shivering uncontrollably in the cool night air. The rain had finally stopped a few hours ago, but not before soaking her clothing all the way through. It was after midnight now, and she was cold, hungry and more tired than she'd ever been. She'd taken a cab from her dingy hotel around eleven this morning and had spent the last thirteen hours walking around the Quarter.
She didn't know why she was here, exactly where she didn't want to be. She had started walking away, back toward Canal Street
, a dozen times, but every time something stopped her. Every time something drew her back here to Jackson Square
.
She put little faith in her judgment. She'd made major mistakes in judging people and situations ever since she was a kid. She had misjudged the men she'd dated, had misjudged Remy—heavens, she had even misjudged her own parents. The parents whom she had believed loved her more than life itself had both abandoned her—her mother for another man, her father for…
Well, he'd had his reasons. She'd been nineteen before she'd found them out, and it had been Remy who had told her. Remy who had willfully destroyed what was left of her childish illusions.
Remy. For half of her life she had loved him dearly, then, for a time, she had hated him. In the past fifteen years she hadn't even spoken to him, even though they lived in the same city, even though she occasionally saw him around, even though his face and name were in the news from time to time.
And now he was back in her life.
A wind swept across the square from the river, making her nestle deeper inside her sodden jacket. She had started to check into a hotel this evening, had gone so far as to walk inside the brightly lit lobby and request a room. The two clerks behind the desk had given her a long, measuring look—at her ragged hair, her ill-fitting clothes and her overall bedraggled appearance. With no more than those looks, they'd made it clear that she didn't belong in the elegant home-turned-inn, and she, embarrassed and uneasy, had abruptly turned and walked out.
She had come back here to sit and wait—for what, she wasn't certain, although her attention kept wandering to a set of dimly lit third-story French doors. Something about that apartment…
She had walked through the square today, over and over, studying each of the apartments. She hadn't understood why and had been too weary to try to figure it out. All she knew was that one of those apartments was significant for her. She had a feeling…
If she hadn't been so miserable, she would have laughed. She wasn't psychic, not by any means, but she occasionally had these … premonitions, for want of a better word. Sometimes when the phone rang, she knew before she answered who it would be. All too often she'd known something special was going to happen before it did, had known that a particular man was going to ask her out before he did. She sometimes knew things that she couldn't possibly know, sometimes felt things she shouldn't possibly be feeling.
And for about twelve hours now she'd had a feeling about that apartment, the corner one with the sort of dim lighting a person would leave on so he wouldn't have to come home to a dark place. That apartment—or, rather, the man who lived there—was the reason she'd come back to the Quarter today. She didn't know how she knew that, and she didn't know why. All she knew was that he could help her.
He could keep her safe.
This time, in spite of her misery, she did laugh, a choked, bitter sound. With all the trouble she was in, she would be crazy to go to a place she didn't know and a man she'd never met and ask for help. If she had any sense, she would get herself out of the city. She could head west, get lost in Texas, maybe even slip on down into Mexico. Sooner or later this mess would get straightened out. Either the killers would be caught and punished, or, when the leads ran out, the murder would be forgotten. She would be forgotten.
Another chilly blast of air came across the river, sending ripples across the puddles a few feet in front of her. She was so cold that she hurt inside, so exhausted that she felt sick. She hadn't slept well since Monday, hadn't been able to grab more than a few hours of rest here and there. Inevitably, when she dozed, the dreams came—the gruesome replays of the man, a real charmer, laughing and talking, of his smile fading into bewilderment and betrayal as the two other men stepped onto the sidewalk in front of them. She dreamed about the grim expressions the detectives had worn as they'd talked about protection for her, about security. She dreamed about how easily the men could have killed her, too, how one of them had even, for a moment, taken aim at her before his partner had pushed the gun away.
She dreamed about dying.
She couldn't even remember the dead man's name. Too afraid of seeing her own name, her own face, she had avoided the papers, had refused to watch the news on the snowy black-and-white television in last night's room. She didn't know why he had died, didn't know if the men had been caught.
She did know, from the detectives' talk among themselves, that Jimmy Falcone was involved.
She knew that Jimmy Falcone's philosophy of business was simple: If someone was standing in his way and he couldn't pay them to move, he removed them. Permanently.
She knew that she'd never been so afraid.
A half-dozen tourists, inebriated and enjoying their Friday night in the Big Easy, passed only a few yards away. Instinctively Valery pushed herself back against the concrete steps, trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable. When they passed without looking her way, she breathed a sigh of relief, then glanced once again at the apartment and became still.
There were more lights on inside, and the French doors had been opened. Billowy white curtains moved in the breeze, but the shadowy figure on the balcony didn't move at all.
He was the one.
Without questioning that knowledge, without once doubting the certainty of it, she rose from the steps and started toward the building. Her first steps were painful ones; her feet ached, and her joints were stiff. As she moved out of the shadows and into the pale glow of the streetlamp, she pulled the jacket hood over her head, tugging it forward so it left her face in darkness.
Refusing to think, to consider the folly of what she was doing, she circled the park, its gates locked against vandals. She entered the building, climbed the stairs and approached the door at the end. For a moment she simply stood there, her hand pressed flat against the door. This was crazy, she grimly acknowledged. Sheer lunacy.
Then, shrugging away that certainty, she rang the bell.
There was a brief silence, then the sound of locks being undone. In a flash of panic, she considered fleeing down those long stairs and back out into the night. But her body wasn't able, even if her spirit was willing.
The door opened, and the man she'd seen on the balcony stood there. He was a stranger to her, no one she'd ever met, but she knew with a certainty that streng
thened her that he was what had drawn her back into the Quarter.
He was the one who would help her.
He was the one who would keep her safe.
He didn't speak. He simply stood there, one hand on his hip, the other out of sight behind the door, and he waited. He seemed calm enough, not overly curious about this unexpected, late-night visit.
Until she pushed the hood off.
Until he saw her face.
Then his own face turned pale, his fingers curled into a fist and he softly, savagely whispered, "Sweet Jesus."
* * *
Michael didn't mean the words as an oath. He might have stopped believing, but his father's teachings were still there deep inside him. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain. Rather, it was … not actually a prayer. He hadn't prayed since Evan had died. A plea. Yes, it was a plea, instinctive, impulsive, to the all-powerful deity he had once had complete faith in.
He just wasn't sure what he was pleading for.
In spite of the eight inches of hair she had cut off, in spite of the change in color from ethereal blond to night-black, he would have recognized her anywhere. In the past few days he had become that familiar with her, that intimate.
That intimate … with someone he was meeting face-to-face for the very first time.
"I—" Her voice was small, trembly, exactly the way it had sounded in his head. She cleared her throat, closed her eyes for a brief moment, then tried again. "I know it's late—"
"Valery." It was all he could say, that soft whisper of her name. It was enough to stop her in mid-explanation, enough to make her gaze lock with his, her blue eyes search his. She hadn't expected him to know her, hadn't thought he might be expecting her. Of course, he hadn't been, not like this. He had intended to find her, but he had never thought she might find him. That wasn't how it worked. Not ever.
There were questions he wanted to ask. What had brought her here? How had she found him? What did she think, feel, know about him? But before he could put his thoughts into any coherent order, before he could organize the words into a logical structure, she swayed toward him. She was dead on her feet. He winced at the phrase and corrected it. She was exhausted, liable to collapse at any moment. Returning his pistol to the holster he still wore in the small of his back, he took her arm, drawing her inside, supporting her until the unsteadiness passed.
For a moment she simply stood there, her waterlogged jacket dripping on his rug. He recognized the coat—a man's jacket, bright colors, much too big for her. She was the woman he had seen in the square this afternoon, studying the apartments opposite his so intently. Had she been looking for him then? And why hadn't he known her then? She had been on his mind, had been the topic of conversation between him and Smith, and yet he had looked at her, had watched her, without sensing anything.
He closed and locked the door, then faced her. "You're soaked."
She neither agreed nor disagreed with his statement of the obvious. She just waited, submissive and still.
"Let me take your jacket."
It took her a few seconds to respond to that, but finally she began undoing the buttons that ran down the front. Once they were open, she could reach the zipper inside. She shrugged out of the garment and shivered.
He took the jacket into the bathroom, then detoured through the bedroom for a blanket. By the time he returned, she had removed her shoes and socks, as well, but she hadn't stepped off the small woven rug where he'd left her. Standing there like that, barefoot, wet, her carelessly cut hair dripping down her neck, she looked vulnerable. Fragile.
She roused feelings that he didn't want to feel anymore. Sympathy. Concern. The need to protect.
His hands clenched into tight fists around the blanket. It was all he could do these days to take care of himself. He didn't have it in him to care for someone else.
But he had to.
For Remy.
When she became aware of him again, she didn't speak but only looked at him. There was confusion in her eyes. Bewilderment. Wariness. Fatigue. Curiously fear was missing.
Not so curiously, so was trust.
"How do you know my name?" she asked as he offered her the blanket, draping it around her shoulders.
She had been hiding for four days now—not only from Falcone's people, but also from the police and the FBI. Did she know she had come to a cop? Maybe. Maybe not. Deciding he could wait until later to find out, he answered with a question of his own. "How did you know to come here?"
As he'd done only a moment earlier, she curled her fingers tightly around the blanket, then answered in a whisper. "I don't know. I just … knew."
Just knew. The way he'd known things about her? The way he'd known she was pretty and blond and afraid? The way he'd known the sound of her voice? The way he'd known that she'd colored and cut her hair? Did Valery Navarre have an unwanted gift of her own?
"You… I don't know… I'm not—" She broke off the confused rambling, took a deep breath and spoke in a voice so calm that he knew it was sheer will holding it together. "Who are you?"
"Michael Bennett."
She repeated his name with a sigh, so soft, so delicate. It wasn't quite the answer she wanted, he knew. It didn't tell her that he was a cop. That he and her cousin Remy were friends. That he was unofficially involved in her case. It didn't tell her that she'd been haunting him for the past four days.
Feeling the need to do something, to put some distance between them, to distract himself even for a moment, he started toward the kitchen. "Make yourself comfortable, and I'll make coffee."
The last glimpse he had of her, she was moving toward the sofa, her bare feet noiseless on the wood floor.
At the sink, he ran water into a pan and watched it splash because his hands were unsteady. Abruptly he shut off the water, set the pan in the sink and laced his fingers tightly together. He wasn't ready for this. He had agreed only this afternoon to find her, and here she was. She had found him. He had agreed to the game only if he could make the rules, but she had broken them. She had changed everything.
Then, forgetting that small, unnerving detail, he considered the bigger, more important implications. He had done what he'd promised Smith he would do. He had fulfilled his obligation to Remy. Valery Navarre was here, and she was safe. All he had to do now was turn her over to Remy. The government would protect her, Remy would make his case against Falcone and Michael would be free and clear. He would be out of the game.
It had never been so easy before—just a few days' discomfort, a few days' dread, and now it was over and done with. Now he could relax.
Then he moved to the end of the galley-style kitchen where he could see the sofa. Where he could see Valery, lying down, knees drawn up, clutching the blanket tightly as if it were a lifeline. Where he could watch her, as delicate and fragile as an antique china doll, asleep and so damned vulnerable, and he knew it wasn't going to be so easy.
He knew there would be more to come.
He knew there was no way he could relax.
Not yet.
* * *
Valery awakened to the smell of coffee brewing and gentle sunlight on her face. She kept her eyes shut, savoring the normalcy of it—a comfortable bed, coffee, sunshine after endless days of rain—and she wished she could stay there, snug and safe and warm, forever.
Then, abruptly, memory came rushing back, ripping away the veil of normalcy. She was in a strange man's apartment. She had come here in the middle of the night, had invited herself in and fallen asleep on his sofa.
Her life might never be normal again.
When she forced her eyes open, he was the first thing she saw, sitting in the armchair across from the sofa, silhouetted by the morning light. He wasn't doing anything—just sitting there and watching her. He still wore the jeans and knit shirt he'd had on when she'd arrived last night, leaving her to wonder if he'd gotten any sleep himself or if he had watched her all night. Oddly the idea of this man, this strange
r, watching her while she slept, while she was at her most vulnerable, didn't make her uncomfortable. Instead she felt…
Safe.
He made her feel safe.
She wondered why that was, wondered Why? about a lot of things. Why had he let her sleep here? Why hadn't he thrown her out? Why had he even let her in the door?
And then she remembered: he had expected her. He had known her name. He had known they would be meeting.
So he "knew" things, too. But exactly how much did he know? How much better was he at this than she was?
She wasn't sure she wanted to find out. Maybe he'd known only that they would meet. Maybe he didn't know that she was wanted by the police. Maybe—likely—he didn't know that there were people looking for her who might want her dead.
Maybe he wouldn't have been so willing to take her in if he knew all that.
For a time they simply watched each other. Sunlight made his features indistinguishable. She couldn't see his expression at all, couldn't read anything in that oh-so-still posture of his.
Finally he left the chair and went into the kitchen. Free of his watchful gaze, Valery sat up, running her fingers through her hair. She would give half of the nearly three thousand dollars she had for a shower, a toothbrush and some clean, dry clothes, she thought wistfully. But she couldn't ask a stranger for the use of his bathroom, his toothbrush and his closet … not even if she had wandered in in the middle of the night and fallen asleep on his sofa.
The mere idea of what she'd done made her shake her head in disbelief. She must have been more exhausted than she'd realized—or maybe just crazier. Her actions in the past twelve hours had gone from frightened and desperate to totally off-the-wall.
But he didn't seem to think so.
He had somehow expected her.
To keep from examining that thought too closely—to keep from examining him too closely—she turned her attention to the apartment. The ceiling was high, the floor wood. One wall was mostly brick, old and a deep rusty hue, while the others were painted a pale, pale rose, really more just a suggestion of color rather than an actual shade. The French doors and tall windows were curtained with white sheers, and the furnishings were sparse, mostly soft fabrics and old woods. The overall effect was pretty without being frilly, elegant without giving up comfort. She would have assumed a woman—perhaps a professional decorator—was responsible, if not for the art supplies in the distant corner.
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 3
