His Runaway Juror

“Mais, non. He give me the job. He give you to me to train. And I guarantee you he ain’t gonna like how you’re so ’fatiated with our girl.”

Brand shrugged. “It’s your fault she’s too scared to function. Give her a break. She’s got a lot of thinking to do.”

The Cajun laughed, showing his crooked teeth. “That she does, brau. That she does.”

BRAND DIDN’T EVEN GLANCE at the neighborhood bar on his way to his cover apartment that night. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. He’d been deep undercover too long. Hanging out with thugs and lowlifes put a bad taste in his mouth, and he knew from his childhood that it couldn’t be washed away with whiskey.

As soon as this assignment was over, he was done with the undercover racket. He’d take homicide. Working with plain old murderers. At least that way he could feel like a cop, instead of some lowlife.

In his one-bedroom apartment, he turned the radio to an oldies station and grabbed a bottle of water from the small refrigerator.

Flopping down on the sagging couch, he glanced at his watch, took a long drink of the cold water, then sucked in a dose of courage. He needed to call his brother, Ryan.

Ryan was four years older than Brand, and he’d often protected Brand against their father’s alcoholic rages.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed. It took several rings for Ryan to answer.

“Hey, Ry.”

“Hey.” Ryan’s voice was remote.

“How’d it go?” Brand sat forward and propped his elbows on his knees.

“How do you think it went? It was a funeral. Dad missed you.”

The jab hit home. Brand’s chest constricted. “Yeah, well, lift a glass to him from me,” he shot back.

Ryan was silent.

“Come on, Ry. You know why I can’t be there. I asked. They turned me down.”

“Did you?”

“What do you mean, did I? Hell, yeah, I did.”

“Hard to believe they wouldn’t let a guy go to his own father’s funeral.”

“Cut it out, Ryan.” Brand stood and paced, clenching and unclenching his fist. Maybe it was a bad idea to call him so soon. The funeral had been today.

“You know better than that. I’m undercover, and I just got my first break in the case. I can’t afford to blow the operation by disappearing. There are lives at stake.”

“Yeah. You’re so damn important. Everybody was asking about you. Mom’s made you into a hero around here—big bad cop who’s too busy to see his own father buried.”

“Well, at least I saw Patrick,” he threw back.

Damn it. It happened every time they talked. The same old argument. The same old hurts.

Ryan felt guilty because he had been away at school when their oldest brother, Patrick, was murdered. Thirteen-year-old Brand had found him lying across the doorstep of their house, dead from a single bullet to the head, with a dollar bill stuffed in his mouth.

Castellano’s calling card.

“Yeah, and you finally got what you wanted. Revenge.” Ryan’s voice was rough with emotion.

Grief, Brand figured, and guilt, mixed with disapproval of how Brand had chosen to live his life.

“Come on, Ry. I’m not doing this for revenge. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you chose to isolate yourself from your family, and why you went so deep undercover that you’re becoming one of them.” Ryan took a breath. “I saw Aimee the other day. She’s engaged.”

“Aimee?” Brand’s gut tightened. He’d been thinking about giving her a ring when the undercover assignment had come up. He’d only seen her once in the past three years, and he’d had to pretend he didn’t know her.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Is Mom okay?”

“She’s making it.” Ryan’s voice sounded less tense. He’d needed to blow off some steam, just like Brand had.

“I think we might stay for a while. Mom’s having a fit over the baby. Cassie can help Mom clean out Dad’s stuff, and I might see what kind of contracting jobs are available.”

“Stay? In Alexandria?” A pang in Brand’s chest made him realize how much he’d miss his brother. Even if they didn’t always get along, even if he hadn’t been able to see much of him while he’d been undercover, he’d always known Ryan was just across town if he needed him. Ryan had always been there for him. But Alexandria, where his parents had moved once he’d moved out, was almost three hundred miles away.

“What about the house? Cassie’s studio?”

“I’ve got a guy watching the house. And Cassie hasn’t used the studio since she got pregnant. Fumes from the oil paint and turpentine. I’m thinking about selling it.”

“Right. Tell her I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to see the baby. I didn’t want to put y’all in danger.”

“Sure. We understand.”

Brand cleared his throat. “Gotta go, Ry. Tell Mom I’ll call her when I get a chance. Tell her I love her.”

“Try to stay out of trouble—okay?”

“Always do.” Brand disconnected, blinking hard. He didn’t know why his dad’s dying had affected him. The old man had either been in a rage or passed out drunk during most of Brand’s life. Brand had learned early that the best thing to do was stay out of his way.

He finished his water and shot the empty plastic bottle into the trash can like a basketball.

Thoughts of his father led to thoughts of Lily Raines, and the horror in her eyes when she’d realized Foshee was threatening her father. Her obvious love and fear for her dad haunted him. The way she’d frantically rushed to his side as soon as he and Foshee left made Brand feel guilty and somehow deprived.

He’d felt a secret relief when his request to go to his father’s funeral had been denied. And that had made him feel even more guilty. But the truth was, he hadn’t seen his dad in five years, and as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t nearly long enough.

For him, family equaled pain. His childhood memories were those of crying, yelling, fists and rage. He’d spent his boyhood hiding behind Ryan or hanging out with kids from school—kids whose fathers didn’t trash the house if dinner wasn’t on the table when he got home. Mothers who didn’t jump at every little noise, or stare out the window with haunted eyes in the late afternoon. Kids whose parents were normal.

Then there was his oldest brother. Poor Patrick had followed in his father’s footsteps, all right. He hadn’t even made it to thirty.

He didn’t remember ever feeling the way Lily obviously felt about her father. He had no concept of that kind of love. A place inside him ached—hollow, empty. He ran his hand over his face trying to wipe away his maudlin thoughts.

But he couldn’t wipe away the vision of Lily with her big, frightened brown eyes and her soft, vulnerable lips. He couldn’t get the smell of vanilla and coconut out of his nostrils.

Damn it, he wished he could warn her how necessary it was for her to be strong and brave. This was life and death. He hoped she knew that.

He longed to tell her he would do anything in his power to keep her safe, but that she had to make it through the trial without faltering.

He ached to touch her again, this time to comfort her, rather than scaring her half to death. But if he broke cover, not only would her life and her father’s be forfeit, he and two other cops could die.

LILY PULLED INTO her parking lot and glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d intended to be home before dark, but her father had seemed so happy to have her visit she hadn’t had the heart to leave early. He’d nodded sagely when she mentioned Bill Henderson. He’d even repeated his name.

She’d told him about Castellano’s hit man, and the men who’d threatened her, but he’d just nodded again.

For a moment she sat in her car as her eyes filled with tears of grief. Her dad had once been so strapping and smart.

Ever since her mother had died when she was twelve, she and her dad had depended on each other. She didn’t count the months right after her mother’s death, when her dad had retreated into his own grief. For the most part, he’d been a great dad. He’d taught her how to defend herself, how to handle a gun, so she’d never be helpless. He’d listened when she’d cried with her first broken heart. And he’d been there to cheer when she’d graduated college with a degree in interior design.

“I need you now, Dad,” she whispered. “More than ever. I need to know what to do.”

The father who’d raised her would be appalled if he knew she was even considering voting not guilty. Not with the kind of evidence the prosecution had against Simon. He’d have waved away the danger.

I can take care of myself, he’d have told her. And I can take care of you.

But there was no way he could do that now. She had to take care of him. And if that meant letting a killer go free—so be it.

Still, the strong, beloved voice she’d listened to all her life echoed in her ears.

It all comes down to what’s right, Lilybell. You can’t outrun your conscience.

She slapped the steering wheel with her palms, and wiped her eyes. Enough of acting like a baby. She’d find a way to get help. There had to be someone she could trust.

A car’s headlights glared in the rearview mirror, causing her heart to leap into her throat. She’d broken one of the basic rules of personal safety. Don’t park the car and sit in it. She needed to get inside and put the chain on the door.

Imaginary spiders crawled up the back of her neck as she grabbed her jacket and purse. She shuddered and glanced around. Then she took a deep breath, jumped out of her car and ran up the steps to her second-floor apartment.

As she unlocked her door, her shoulders tightened in awful expectation of the feel of a heavy hand.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. She pushed open the door and sighed in relief when she saw her living room bathed in the light from the lamp she’d left on.

The attack came from her left.

A hand clapped over her mouth.

No! Not again! She kicked and bit and tried to scream for help.

The hand pressed tighter and a rock-hard arm pinned hers to her sides. She flung her head backward, trying to head-butt her attacker, but he dodged and pressed the left side of his head against the right side of hers, then pushed her inside and kicked the door shut.

She smelled soap and mint. Alarm sent her heart racing out of control.

“Shh! Lily!” His voice was raspy and soft. “Be still. Shh. Stop struggling.”

Desperately, she stomped his instep.

“Ow. Stop it! Listen to me.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the living room.

She was so helpless, so weak. None of the defensive moves her father had taught her worked against this man. She struggled, but he was like a massive tree—immovable, sturdy, unbending.

His hand over her mouth loosened and she took a breath to scream.

“Don’t.” The hand tightened again, as did the arm across her chest. She could barely breathe.

She went limp, tears of frustration and fear filling her eyes.

“Promise?” his whisper rasped in her ear. His stubble scraped her cheek.

She tried to nod.

“This is serious, Lily. Don’t try anything. Don’t yell, don’t hit, and for heaven’s sake, don’t bite.”

She nodded again. Her chest burned for air. She sucked as much as she could through her nose. It wasn’t enough.

His hand on her mouth eased up.

She gasped.

He slid his hand down past her jaw, which was still sore from the Cajun’s punishing fingers the night before, to her neck. He didn’t grab her, he didn’t punish. His thumb touched the minuscule wound left by the Cajun’s knife.

In another world, in another time, she might have thought his fingers were gentle, caressing. But here and now, she knew who he was. He’d been here last night. He’d held her—let the Cajun touch her. A quiver of revulsion rippled through her.

He’d threatened her with a searing glare and watched her like a hawk in court.

Lily felt sick. A cold sweat broke out across her face and neck.

He tightened his hold. “Don’t faint on me, Lily. I need you to be strong. You have to listen to me.” His breath was hot on her ear.

She tried to turn, but he held her in place, tight up against his unyielding body. The heat he gave off burned her to her core.

“You almost got kicked off the jury today. Do you know that?”

She swallowed against his fingers, which still held her throat in an ominous caress. Any second he could tighten them and choke her.

“Do you?” he snapped.

She nodded jerkily.

“You’ve got to be brave. You’ve got to stop looking like a doe facing a rifle.”

His low voice sounded earnest, as if he was worried about her. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to give up, to lean against him and stop struggling.

But she knew he couldn’t be trusted. He was the enemy. He had hurt her. He’d held her while the Cajun had hurt her.

“That’s pretty much what I am,” she said shakily.

“You’ve got to look confident. Can you do that? It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

“Wha-what are you talking about?” she croaked, confused by the urgency in his tone.

His hands slid down over her sleeveless top and tightened on her bare upper arms. He turned her around to face him.

His face was grave, his blue eyes burning with intensity as they searched her face. He lifted one hand and traced the bruise the Cajun had left on her jaw with a surprisingly gentle brush of his fingers.

Conflicting emotions swirled inside her. He’d grabbed her, threatened her. Why was he being so kind? Was it a trick? Was the Cajun waiting outside?

She stiffened, and cut her eyes over to her front door.

“Shh. It’s okay. He’s not here.”

Her gaze shot to his, suspicious. “He sent you?”

“No. I came on my own, to warn you.” His left hand touched her chin. “Listen to me, Lily. Jury summations are tomorrow. They won’t take long. The prosecution thinks they’ve got the case sewn up. Get up in the morning, shower and fix your hair. Put on makeup. Do whatever it is you do to look good.”

Tears burned her eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t do it. I can’t sit there in front of the judge and the lawyers, with the families of people Sack Simon killed watching me with their hopeful eyes. I can’t betray them.”

“You’ve got to. You have to walk into the jury box like you own it. Don’t give the ADA a reason to kick you off the jury. If you do, your father will die.” His face darkened. “You’ll die.”

She blinked and the tears streamed down her cheeks, down her neck. His thumb moved, rubbing the dampness into her skin, touching her in a way he had no right to. Making her feel safe when she knew she wasn’t.

“Don’t cry, Lily. Be strong.”

She sobbed.

“Shh.” He bent his head and put his mouth against her ear. She sniffled and was hit with the scent of him— soap and mint.

He’d brushed his teeth to come threaten her again. A little hiccuping giggle burst up from her chest.

“If you can be strong, if you can hold out, I promise you I’ll keep you safe.”

“You?” she spat, jerking her head away from his seductive whisper. She hiccuped again and looked him in the eye. “I’d rather die.”

He sighed and his eyes went storm-cloud gray. “Then you will.”

He turned her around and pulled her back up close against him again. His soft, ominous whisper burned through her. “Think about it, Lily. It’s your only chance. It’s the only way your dad will survive.”

He pushed her toward the couch.

She stumbled and fell onto the cushions. By the time she’d righted herself, he was gone.

The smell of soap and mint lingered in the air.

Chapter Three

When the jurors filed into the jury box, Brand’s mouth fell open. He’d told Lily to do whatever she did to look good, but he hadn’t expected much.

Whatever she’d done, it had worked. She looked like a different person. Gone was the pale skin, the fearful, darting eyes, the entwined fingers.

Her brown eyes sparkled, her hair was shiny and wavy and her skin glowed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom.

He frowned, feeling the knots of tension in his neck tighten even more. He’d tossed and turned all night, worrying that his visit had been too much for her, that she wouldn’t show up at all this morning.

Her transformation was amazing. Too amazing.

A sick dread spread through his gut. She didn’t look like this because he’d warned her. He eyed the pugnacious lift of her chin, the determined line of her jaw, and his mouth went dry.

She looked like a new woman because she was. She’d come to a decision.

Beside him, Foshee whistled under his breath. “I reckon you was right about one thing, brau. She jus’ needed some rest. Looks like a whole new woman.”

Too much like a whole new woman. Ah, Lily, what have you done?

As the DA got up to make his closing arguments, Brand shifted and cursed under his breath for Foshee’s benefit. “Damn it, I gotta take a piss,” he muttered.

The little Cajun looked at him sidelong. “Mebbe I better go wit’ you.”

“Oh yeah? Like girls? I don’t think so. I’ll be right back.”

Brand stood and slipped out of the courtroom, aware of Lily’s eyes following him. He didn’t dare look at her—he wasn’t sure why.

Standing alone on the courthouse steps, out of earshot of anyone who might walk up, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the preset number.

“Pruitt.”

“It’s Gallagher.”

“Isn’t court in session?”

“Yeah. This is important.” Brand kept an eye on the courthouse doors. He didn’t want to be surprised while talking to his FBI contact. “What’s happened?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what you mean,” the FBI agent said finally.

“I think you do. Yesterday Lily Raines was about to fall out of her chair, she was so scared. Today she looks like a new woman.”

“Maybe she got some rest.”

“Did she talk to someone? Has anyone talked to her?” Anger blossomed in his chest. “Damn it, Pruitt. If something’s up, I need to know.”

“I swear, Gallagher, I don’t know a thing. She didn’t talk to the DA’s office, or I’d have heard. Maybe you’re overreacting. Take a chill-pill.”

Brand commented on what Pruitt could do with his chill-pill. “What about Springer and Carson? Anything going on with them?” He rarely ran into the other two officers who were working undercover with Castellano’s operation.

“They’re checking in daily. Nothing from their end. Look, I told you I’d protect you, and I will.”

“Can you protect her, too?”

“We’re on it. We figure it’ll take about three days for the jury to figure out she’s not going to change her vote to guilty. We’ll be there to intercept you and Foshee, and to rearrest Simon. It’s all going smooth as silk.”

“I hope to hell you’re right.”

Brand disconnected and headed back inside. He sat down next to Foshee, who sent him a suspicious look.

“What took you so long?” he whispered.

“Got a call.” In case Foshee had looked out the courthouse door and seen him on the phone, he needed to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“Yeah?”

“Ex-girlfriend. Wants to hook up.”

Foshee grinned. “You could hook me up.”

“That would serve her right,” he muttered.

Foshee scowled at him.

Brand listened to the DA’s monotonous drone. Crap. In typical lawyer fashion, he was telling the jury what he was about to tell them. Then he’d tell them, then he’d tell them what he’d just told them.

After him, the defense attorney, paid for with Castellano’s money, got to put on his own performance.

And Brand was stuck here sitting next to Foshee, with his garlic breath and his bad teeth.

It was going to be a long day.

THREE DAYS LATER, retired police officer Bill Henderson drove his wife’s van toward Beachside Manor Nursing Home. He’d been surprised to hear from Joe Raines’s girl the other night. Lily had sounded frantic, scared to death. He’d tried to calm her down, but she’d begged him to listen to her.

He shook his head, amazed at what Lily had told him and ashamed at how hard he’d tried to weasel out of helping her. Especially now.

Like he’d told Lily, he’d done his twenty-five years on the force. He was looking forward to a lot of years of sitting out on the water in his little boat, fishing and drinking beer and just being happy to be alive.

He’d decided not to take any more private jobs. Most of them were just this side of sleazy. He didn’t like spying on cheating spouses or rounding up deadbeat dads.

His pension was enough, with his wife’s income from teaching, to keep them comfortable.

He turned onto the street that wound back around the bayous to the grounds of Beachside Manor. Funny name for a nursing home that was nowhere near the beach.

Lily had asked him to go to the nursing home on Friday morning and pick up her father for what she’d termed a “day trip.” She said she’d called the nursing home and given her permission. All he had to do was show photo ID.

“Take him somewhere, Bill. Please. I’ll pay you. Take him up to Jackson to a hotel. Just for a few days, until this trial is over. Then I’ll come get him and we’ll be out of your hair. Please. Do it for a fellow officer. You know he’d do it for you.”

As soon as she’d said those words, Bill had known he was sunk. So here he was, about to abduct a buddy of his who didn’t even know his own name. Like he’d promised Lily, he’d lied to his wife—told her he had to be out of town for a few days on a case.

He’d asked Lily what was going on, but she wouldn’t tell him. He had a feeling he knew. Another reason he’d tried his best to refuse. This had something to do with Sack Simon’s murder trial. Therefore it had something to do with Giovanni Castellano. He sure as hell didn’t want to tangle with Castellano.

The idea made Bill very nervous. He ran a finger under his tight collar and checked his weapon, which he’d stuck in a paddle holster at his back. He rarely carried it anymore, even though he had a permit.

The road to Beachside Manor was asphalt, with a narrow shoulder that quickly dropped off into a swamp. He kept his van toward the middle of the road as he rounded a steep curve.

A car was stopped in the middle of the road, and a woman in a tight skirt and a tighter blouse with the top buttons undone waved both arms at him. She looked hot and harried.

Bill slowed down and pulled up beside her. He lowered his passenger window. “Got car trouble, miss?” he asked.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It just stopped, right here in the middle of the road. I’m supposed to be at the nursing home to pick up my mother.” She gestured behind her with a hand holding a cigarette.

“Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.” Bill pressed the button that unlocked the doors. As soon as he did, the driver’s door jerked open and a hefty guy stuck a gun into the folds of skin at his neck.

“Wha—?”

“Don’t move, Henderson.”

Bill didn’t move. Sweat popped out on his forehead and under his arms. He should have been prepared for this. Twenty-five years on the force had taught him better than to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.