Merciless (12 page)

She smiled as he put the bags down. “Thanks for bringing us here.”

“Oh, I enjoyed it.” He looked at Markie wistfully. “Nice to have a kid around the place again.”

She frowned. “Again?”

“Kilraven's little girl spent some time here.” His face went hard. “There's gossip that one of the shooters weaseled out of being charged with her death—the one that
shot the boss and threatened you. He won't get in here, and he won't get away if I find out the rumor is true. I know people all over who could put a stick in his spokes. She was a precious little child—” He broke off and turned away. Just for a few seconds, the expression in his eyes had been frightening.

“The boss's room is two doors down, that way,” he added when he was in the hall, pointing in the direction. “He's expecting you.” He smiled. “Nice to have you here, ma'am. And you, young feller,” he added to Markie. “Later, when you're settled in, I'll show you the horses if your mom don't mind.”

“I don't,” she assured him.

He gave her a quizzical glance. “You might, later. Don't worry about offending me, you won't,” he added with a gentle smile. “You don't know me.”

He tipped his hat and walked off, his spurs jingling as he went out the door. Dieter got up and followed him.

“Dieter,” Markie called.

“Let him go,” Joceline said. “He may be a working dog,” she added.

“Oh. Okay then.” He looked up at her. “We going to see Mr. Blackhawk now?”

“Yes.”

She led the way down the hall and paused at the door. It was standing open.

“Joceline?”

That was Jon's deep voice. Odd, the way the word
rippled along her nerves, bringing the oddest sweet sensations. She smiled self-consciously. “Yes, it's me.”

She walked in, holding Markie's hand more for her own comfort than his. Jon was propped up on pillows, wearing a burgundy silk pajama top that was unbuttoned over his broad chest. His long hair was loose around his shoulders, a little tousled, as if he'd been sleeping.

He looked at Markie and smiled. “Hello.”

“Hello,” Markie said. He moved to the bed and leaned on it. “I'm sorry you got shot.”

“Yes. Me, too.”

“You got nice dogs,” Markie said. “And I like your fish, too.”

“Thanks.”

“Dieter likes me.”

“I'm not surprised,” Jon said. “He's very fond of children. We got him from a family in Germany. He was our first breeding dog. He's sired several generations of wonderful pets.”

“He's gorgeous,” Joceline agreed. “I was surprised at how gentle he is.”

Jon smiled at her and winced when he shifted position. “He's gentle until he needs to be aggressive.”

“I guess you have to have good security here,” she said.

“I've had a few threats over the years. At least I don't have to check the underside of my vehicles for bombs, though,” he added flatly.

She shook her head. “Your brother attracts trouble.”

“Yes, and it's contagious, apparently.” He reached beside him and touched a button. “Megs, would you come in here, please?”

There was a soft, female voice that answered. A couple of minutes later, a small, dark woman with long black hair and brown eyes came into the room, wiping her hands on her spotless white apron. She stopped when she saw the visitors and broke into a wide smile.

“Welcome,” she said in her softly accented English. “I knew you were coming, so I have prepared something very special for dinner. You like sushi, I am told.”

Joceline gasped. “How did you know?” It was her secret passion and she couldn't afford to have it very often.

“I told her,” Jon said with a smile. “You came out to eat with Mac and me once, a few months ago. I've never seen anyone enjoy a dish so much.”

“I love it,” she confessed, but didn't add that her bud get wouldn't stand much of it. Sushi was frightfully expensive.

“We have a guy on the payroll who was a sushi chef before he decided he wanted to be a cowboy,” Jon explained. “I sent Megs to fetch him. We have fresh seafood flown here from California, so he can slice and dice to his heart's content.”

“Thank you,” she said with genuine appreciation.

“My pleasure,” he replied. “It's a small repayment for the inconvenience of you having to come up here to do my work.”

“I didn't mind,” she protested.

“Sushi is raw fish,” Markie said with his blunt honesty, and made a face.

“Yes, but our chef can also make fish sticks and homemade French fries,” Jon murmured with twinkling black eyes. “I hear somebody really loves those.”

“Me!” Markie exclaimed. “And lots of ketchup on!”

The adults laughed.

“I am making cookies, also,” Megs said. “Would your son like to come into the kitchen and help me? He can test the cookies, if you don't mind,” she added dryly.

“Oh, please, can I?” Markie asked his mom, hugging her legs and looking up at her with melting blue eyes. “Please?”

“Go on,” Joceline said and lifted him up to kiss his rosy cheek.

“Aww, Mom,” he protested, wiggling to be put down.

“Have fun,” she called as he followed a laughing Megs out the door.

“Megs?” she asked Jon when they were alone.

“A private joke,” he said warmly. “She overdid the nutmeg in eggnog one Christmas and I started calling her Megs. It stuck.”

She smiled. “She's very nice. Everybody here is nice, especially that cowboy you sent to the airstrip to drive us here. The one with red whiskers. Sloane Callum.”

“Oh, yes. You liked him?” he asked.

“Very much. He offered to teach Markie how to ride later.” She frowned. “He said an odd thing, that he wouldn't be offended if I didn't want him to, later.”

He chuckled. “Some people don't like to have him around. He knows it and doesn't take offense. He and Cammy get into it once in a while. He's very opinionated. So is she, of course.”

“He hunts, he said, and then he added that he hunted animals, too.”

“Callum spent some time in prison for hunting men,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes widened. “That was him? The hit man you told me about?” she exclaimed.

He nodded. “He was very young and his mother was dying of cancer. He fell in with a bad crowd, but they took him in after and slowly led him into doing things he should never have done. He wound up in prison. He got out, went into a rehabilitation program and ended up here. He's been with us for over ten years now.”

She was impressed. “And no blemishes on his record in all that time?”

He pursed his lips. “He did try to go after Jay Copper, when it came out that he'd ordered the hit on Mac's wife that also led to the murder of Mac's daughter, Melly. He was very fond of Melly. He had a son of his own, an illegitimate one. When he went to prison, and his profession became public knowledge, his girlfriend left him.”

“What happened to his son?” she wondered.

“God knows. He tried to find him, but I don't think he ever did. He was concerned that the boy probably wouldn't want to know him.”

She didn't say anything. She was trying to decide how
she'd feel if she'd found out that her father was a hired killer. She really didn't know.

“This house is huge,” she said, for something to talk about that wasn't controversial.

“Too big,” he mused. “My mother doesn't socialize much, except when she's trying to get me married. She gives parties and invites her candidate of the week.”

“Sorry.”

“You have no idea how hard it is to find places to hide on this ranch,” he said wistfully. “She's getting familiar with all the ones I've found, so now I have to stay in San Antonio most of the time to escape her.”

“She probably wants more grandchildren,” she told him and averted her eyes.

“She's rather pushy,” he said gently. “I'm sorry she was rude to you. She was rude to Mac's wife, too, but Winnie took her down a few pegs,” he added. “She still calls her the ‘little blonde chainsaw,' but she says it with affection now.”

“Winnie's nice.”

“Very nice.” He studied her with narrowed black eyes. “You're pretty nice yourself,” he said quietly. “Coming all this way, inconveniencing yourself, just to work.”

“You couldn't come to the office,” she pointed out.

“No, I couldn't. I'm sorry you had to take the child out of school.”

“I spoke to his teacher. They understand the situation. It will be all right. He'll catch up. He's very bright.”

“He'll like it here, I think. There's a lot for a child to do. He seems to love animals.”

“He does. He's always begging me for a dog. But we live in an apartment, and it's not allowed.”

She thought of her apartment, and then of the break-in, and shivered.

“We talked about the attempted burglary,” he said suddenly. His jaw tautened. “And the phone call that came after it. They are part of the reason I insisted on bringing you up here, where we can keep you and your son safe. I hate that you're mixed up in this.”

She was surprised, and touched. “Thanks,” she said softly, “but we both work for a highly visible law enforcement agency. It's unrealistic to think there would never be a risk involved in it.”

“It shouldn't involve your son,” he said bluntly.

“I used to be naive enough to think that no human being would ever harm a child.”

“Wishful thinking.”

“Yes, it is, isn't it?” she asked. She drew in a long breath. “That's what scared me about having my apartment broken into, the fact that someone might hurt Markie. He's all I have in the world.”

He frowned. “You said your…Markie's father,” he corrected, “was killed overseas.”

She averted her eyes. “Yes.”

“Did you care for him?”

She bit her lip. “Very much.”

An odd expression touched his handsome face. “I'm sorry.”

She turned away. “It was a tragedy, in many ways.”

“Would you have married him, you think?”

Unseen, her hands dug into the fabric of her jeans. “He didn't have those sort of feelings for me,” she managed to say.

“He had some sort, or you wouldn't have Markie,” he said, and then groaned silently at the slip of the tongue.

She swallowed, hard, and turned back to him. Her face was pale. “Please. It's difficult to talk about something so personal,” she said heavily. “Could we change the subject?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I hear that the Chinese have a restaurant where robots deliver meals to the table.”

A surprised laugh escaped her tight throat. “What?”

He chuckled. “I read it on a virtual news site.”

“The internet has revolutionized the way we share information,” she replied.

“So it has. What was your boyfriend's name?” he added suddenly.

“Mr. Blackhawk…!”

“Jon. We're not at the office.” His gaze slid over her with a strange intensity. “What do people call you?”

“Sir?”

“What do people call you? Surely you have friends, family…”

“All my family is dead, except my mother, and we don't have any contact now,” she blurted out. “I lost touch
with my high school friends. I had a friend when I was training as a paralegal, but she married and moved to California.”

“You must have a nickname,” he persisted.

She bit her lip.

“Come on. Tell me.”

She shifted, took a deep breath and said, “Rocky.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Rocky.”

“Would you like to explain how you came by such a, shall we say, unique nickname?”

“I sort of punched another girl at school for pouring grape juice all over my new white skirt.”

His black eyes twinkled. “Rocky. I like it.”

“I'd better go find Markie. When do you want to start working?”

“In the morning,” he said. “You need a little time to get over the trip and settle in.”

She moved toward the door. “Then I'll see you later.”

He smiled. “Sure thing. Rocky.”

She flushed and dived out the door.

Markie was already in love with Megs. He followed her around, rambling on about her wonderful cookies and how big the house was, and how many animals the Blackhawk family seemed to have. There was a big white Persian cat curled up near the fireplace. It let Markie pick it up and hold it in his lap. There was another cat, a tortoiseshell one, that kept its distance.

Joceline was delighted at the friendliness of the people who worked for Jon. She didn't expect it. Her idea of wealthy people was undergoing a reversion of late. Not that she thought Cammy Blackhawk would be friendly if she knew Jon's “secretary” was living here, even temporarily.

“Markie loves the kitchen,” Joceline told Jon while
she was taking dictation for emails that would be sent to various agencies about current cases.

He chuckled. He was still in some pain, and he slept a lot, but he was improving daily. “She despairs over my eating habits. I don't like heavy meals, but she loves to cook.”

She studied him over her laptop. “You're still pale.”

He shrugged, and then winced, because it hurt. “You get shot and you'll understand why.”

“I'm glad you're going to be okay.” She smiled at him, and her eyes lit up. “I'd hate having to break in a new boss.”

He smiled back. His eyes narrowed on her face. She was pretty when she smiled. He liked the color of her hair, and the thickness of it. He liked her long neck and the pert, firm little breasts that stretched the front of her pale blue sweater. He frowned. In a flash of memory, he pictured something he shouldn't even have seen.

“You have a mole,” he said unexpectedly. “On your rib cage…”

She gasped and went red.

He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Good God, I must be out of my mind. How would I know such a thing?”

She fumbled with the keyboard and almost dropped the small notebook computer.

“Sorry,” he added. “I'm really sorry. I don't know why I said that.”

“It's okay, no problem,” she stammered. She forced a
laugh. “Probably an aftereffect of the anesthesia, it makes you do and say all sorts of weird things.”

“Yes. They said it might.” But he wasn't smiling now. And as he looked at her, he felt a pang of conscience. He didn't understand why…

 

Joceline always read Markie a bedtime story. Usually it was Dr. Seuss. His favorite was “Green Eggs and Ham.”

She laughed as he made a face.

“I wouldn't eat green eggs,” he muttered.

“Just between us, I wouldn't, either,” she whispered.

He grinned at her. “I like it here,” he told her. “Megs makes good cookies.”

“Yes, she does. Megs makes everything good.”

“I wish we could stay here.” He sighed. “They got horses. I want to ride a horse.”

“We're going to talk about that. But not tonight, young man,” she added. “Now let's finish the book. You have to go to sleep so you can get up early in the morning and help Megs set the table for breakfast!”

“She's going to make biscuits.”

“I heard.”

“I like it when you make biscuits. You don't cook much except for breakfast.”

“I don't have time, baby,” she said gently. It was hard to describe her hectic job to a child. She was usually so tired when she got home in the evenings that she just thawed out food she'd frozen earlier. She had a cooking day on the weekend, when she made large amounts of
a dish, separated it into portions and froze it. Then she could serve the entrée with vegetables and fruit during the week. It ensured that Markie had balanced meals, and that she did, too.

“I like your biscuits.”

“Thanks.” She bent and kissed him.

“I'm sorry your boss got shot,” he said. “I like him a lot.”

“So do I. Now let's finish reading,” she said firmly.

She tucked Markie in, kissed him good-night and turned out the light. She left the door cracked so she could hear him. Sometimes he had night terrors. She didn't like having him out of her sight, even if others thought her overprotective. He did have health problems.

She went back into her own bedroom and sat down heavily in a chair. She'd been kept so busy that she hadn't had time to worry about the break-in at her apartment, but in the darkness she couldn't forget it. She'd burned the diary, as she'd threatened to. It served no purpose other than to remind her of an episode that was both painful and poignant. It contained information that could be devastating not only to herself but to innocent people if it were ever revealed. Far better to have it destroyed than risk that.

But Jon's outburst today had shocked and frightened her. She'd read enough on psychotropic drugs to know that flashbacks could occur, but she was less informed on memory. He shouldn't have remembered anything. And perhaps he didn't, consciously, but the intimacy of being
here, in his home, in his bedroom with her had triggered some wisp of memory. It disturbed her. She should never have overreacted, either. But it had been impossible not to.

She locked her arms over her breasts and closed her eyes with a long sigh. She'd promised herself that she would never reveal the truth, not even under torture. But what if he remembered other things? What if it wasn't a fluke and he was regaining lost time?

She sat up, leaning over. Surely life couldn't be so cruel. After all she'd been through, it couldn't end like this.

She got up and paced. What would she do if he remembered? It would be a nightmare. And what about his family…how would they…?

“Stop it,” she told herself in a husky whisper. “Stop it! You're making mountains of molehills.”

The sound of her own voice startled her. She laughed self-consciously, got into her pajamas and climbed into bed. Surprisingly, she slept.

 

“You should eat more than that for breakfast,” Jon scolded as she finished the last delicious piece of a homemade croissant just before she sat down in the chair beside his bed and rested her coffee cup on the table, on a doily.

“I usually cook breakfast for Markie, but I never eat much,” she said apologetically. “I don't have time.”

“Megs says the boy eats like a horse.” He chuckled.

She smiled. “He's always starving, to hear him tell it.”

“He drew a sketch of Megs. She showed it to me. You should have him taught,” he added gently. “He has great natural talent.”

“I think so, too,” she said. “I've considered it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I can take care of the tuition.”

She fumbled with her notebook and almost dropped it. “I can manage,” she said abruptly.

“Why are you so nervous with me?” he asked suddenly. “You're not like this at work.”

She swallowed. “I'm not used to being around you away from work.”

“No, that's not it,” he said somberly. “It's something else.”

She felt butterflies wobbling around in her stomach. “Mr. Blackhawk…”

“Jon,” he corrected gently.

She bit her lower lip. “I can't…”

His black eyes narrowed on her face. He held out a big hand. “Come here, Joceline.” His voice was gentle, tender. It sent ripples of sensation over her skin.

She should have ignored it. She should have pretended not to hear him…

She put the notebook computer carefully on the table by her chair and went to sit beside him on the bed.

His arm slid around her. He studied her with unnerving curiosity. “We've danced around the subject for several years. You would never tell me what happened that night we went to the diplomat's daughter's party.”

She bit her lip again. “You were under the influence of a very powerful psychotropic drug,” she began.

“Yes, I know all that,” he said impatiently. “But what happened?”

“You…you got very sick and I drove you to the emergency room,” she stammered.

“We came to the apartment first,” he said doggedly. “I do remember that much. I remember you helping me into bed. The rest is very blurry, but there has to be a reason that I know about that mole, Joceline.”

She tried to move away. His arm tightened. “You…got a little out of hand,” she confessed with a nervous smile.

One eyebrow lifted. “Amorously out of hand?”

She cleared her throat. “Just a little…”

He tugged. She landed on his broad, bare chest, her hands going on each side of his head on the pillow.

“Don't! You'll open the wound!”

“Not a chance,” he mused. Her eyes had flecks of green in them. He was fascinated by this view of her, very close. Her mouth was soft and pretty, with a natural bow shape. Her nose was straight, with a tiny line of freckles over it. There was a faint red tinge in her hair, which was thick and soft. He smoothed his hand over it.

“You're pretty,” he said in a deep, soft tone.

“I…am not.” She laughed.

“Pretty,” he repeated. His eyes darkened. His hand speared into the hair at her nape and his fingers contracted. He pulled her face down to his. “Don't worry…
it's just the anesthetic making me goofy a few days down the line….”

His wide, firm mouth covered hers, brushing at the tightness of her lips until he teased them apart. His arms contracted gently, enveloping her. The kiss was slow, soft, insistent.

She loved the way he kissed her. She moaned softly, helplessly, and went limp against him. He turned, and a gruff sound escaped his throat as it hurt, but he kept turning until she was lying on her back. His mouth never left hers. His big hand smoothed under her sweater, over her pert breast and down, to touch the mole he knew about, the mole he was certain he'd never seen.

His thumb eased up under the band of her bra and teased around the softness of her breast, while his mouth crushed onto hers in the heated silence of the room.

“Dear…God,” he whispered hoarsely, fumbling at the catch behind her back.

He found it and unsnapped it. His hand smoothed over her firm, soft little breast. His eyes were blazing as he looked at her, registering the helpless attraction, the utter delight in his touch. He touched the hard nipple, heard her gasp at the pleasure it kindled.

“Unbelievable,” he said huskily.

He pushed up the sweater and the bra and looked at her firm, dusky-tipped breasts. “Beautiful,” he whispered as his head bent.

His lips smoothed over the hard rise, his tongue caressed it. She moaned again and arched up to ease his
access to her body. She loved what he was doing. She couldn't even pretend to protest.

His hand smoothed under her back, feeling the soft, bare skin, which was like warm silk to his touch. His mouth opened on her breast and suckled it, hard. She cried out.

He lifted his head to look down at her flushed, shocked face. His nostrils flared. He'd never felt anything so powerful, so erotic, in all his thirty years.

“They gossip about me at work,” he said gruffly. “They speculate. You can't pretend you haven't heard the rumors.”

She managed a nod.

“They're true,” he said, his eyes black and glittery. “I've dated. I've even had petting sessions over the years. But I've never gone all the way with a woman.”

She averted her eyes.

He turned her head back, so that he could see her face. “Cammy and my father raised us very strictly,” he told her. “We were taught that sex outside the sanctity of marriage is a sin. It was such a powerful lesson that we were prisoners of our own beliefs. At first, I had so many hang-ups that I couldn't do it. Then as I got older, I was embarrassed that I'd never done it.”

“We're all prisoners of our upbringing,” she agreed.

He smoothed his hand over her breast, enjoying the view of it, of her instant reaction. “You're as religious as any woman I've ever known, yet you have a child out of wedlock.”

“Yes,” she said tautly. “I made a decision…”

“A wonderful decision,” he corrected tenderly. “He's a great little person. You've done well with him.”

“Thanks.”

“The point is you've had sex.” His thumb and forefinger contracted on a taut nipple, producing a helpless moan from her. “What does it feel like?” he asked in almost a whisper.

Her lips parted. “I…don't really know,” she confessed. “It was so quick…”

“He was in a hurry?”

She swallowed. “We were just kissing. And then all of a sudden, it was so urgent…” She averted her eyes. “It just happened. It hurt a little, and then it was over.”

“Damn him!”

“He was…drunk,” she said, defending him even now. “He isn't, wasn't,” she corrected quickly, “the sort of person who ever lost control.”

It went without saying that she was the same sort. He didn't say it. “You think he was killed overseas?”

“Yes, I'm sure that he was,” she replied, but she didn't look at him. “He was very sorry.”

“Did he want you to keep the child?”

“He…didn't know about the child,” she replied. “I couldn't tell him. It was too late.”

His hand stilled on her body. He didn't like the idea that she'd had someone else. It ate at him like an acid. He bent and brushed his mouth over her taut breast, enjoying the sounds of pleasure that she emitted when he did it. He
could erase the bad memory. He could pleasure her, like this, but more. Much more.

His mouth became insistent. She shivered. The pleasure was quickly becoming unmanageable.

She felt his hand at the fastening of her slacks and she caught his wrist.

“No,” she whispered urgently. “We can't!”

He was almost too far gone to stop. He fought with his own instincts, visibly, trying to backtrack.

His eyes went to the door, which was standing half open. He laughed in spite of himself.

She followed his gaze and colored even more. “Oh, dear.”