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Heart Of A Hero
“I need you for protection.”
He waited for her to start making sense. “Go on.”
She moistened her lips. This sounded so damn melodramatic, she thought, but it was all true. “I need you to help me steal my son back.”
“Then you do know who has him.” He’d had a feeling all along that she did.
She nodded. “I think so.”
“Look, Ms. Armstrong, if this is some kind of a custody battle, you need a lawyer, not me.”
“No,” Dakota insisted, “I need you. Or more accurately put, what I need is a hero.” She turned on all of her considerable charm. “Will you be my hero, Andreini?”
Heart of a Hero
Marie Ferrarella
MARIE FERRARELLA
earned a master’s degree in Shakespearean comedy and, perhaps as a result, her writing is distinguished by humor and natural dialogue. This RITA Award-winning author has one goal: to entertain, to make people laugh and feel good. She has written over a hundred books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide and have been translated into Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Japanese and Korean.
1/1/2001
To my family,
May this be the beginning of something wonderful.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 1
The scream filled the area around him.
Eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut flew open as the sound registered in his brain. Restoring the recliner he’d just dropped into less than ten minutes ago to its original upright position, Russell Andreini cocked his head and listened intently to make sure he hadn’t just dreamed the jarring sound. But even as he strained to hear, Rusty was getting to his feet.
The scream, he was almost certain, had come from the garden apartment just below his own. It hadn’t originated from a television set in the vicinity turned up too loud, or from some ridiculous radio commercial meant to catch your attention. It had come from a woman.
A very terrified woman.
Rusty was beyond bone-weary. He had come home after putting in eighteen hours of surveillance that had led to a gratifying payoff just two hours ago and was more than entitled to feel the way he did. But, like the professional he was, Rusty forgot his exhaustion as adrenaline began to surge through his body.
He was willing to bet a month of his sister Megan’s Sunday steaks that the scream had come from the blonde directly below him.
Not stopping for the shoes he’d carelessly discarded when he’d walked into his apartment, Rusty yanked open his front door.
The echoes of the first scream were just fading from his head when he heard a second one.
Hands braced on the balustrades on either side of him, he sailed down the narrow stone steps that led to the ground level.
He was right, the scream had come from the apartment directly below his. Most likely from the woman who’d never returned his smile the few times their paths had crossed. He had to pass her door each time he either came down or went up the stairs that led to his own apartment.
As near as he remembered, the woman had moved in about a month ago and spoke to no one. He’d once seen her in the laundry room and tried to start up a conversation. After a lengthy pause she’d responded with a monosyllabic sentence, dumped her soiled laundry back into her basket and, taking the hand of the little boy who seemed never to be far out of her reach, made a hasty exit.
Rusty recalled glancing at his watch, noting that the woman had hurried away less than three minutes after he’d entered the laundry room. She’d made him wonder.
She seemed far too young and attractive to appear so solemn-eyed and distant. And though the green eyes she’d turned up to him had been hard, he thought he’d detected fear beneath the wariness. That had made him wonder, too. He never liked seeing anyone in pain.
“Hey, everything all right in there?” Rusty called as he knocked loudly on the woman’s door. The only response was another scream. “Dumb question,” Rusty mumbled under his breath as he tried the doorknob.
The door was locked. He glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the screams and was coming to help, but apparently everyone else in the complex had a life they were attending to. There were very few lights on within the surrounding apartments. It was Friday night and the residents in the complex were predominantly single. In all likelihood, they were all out enjoying themselves.
“Open up. It’s Rusty.” He added as a clarifying afterthought, “From upstairs.”
He’d introduced himself to her during their run-in in the laundry room. Etiquette notwithstanding, she hadn’t felt the need to tell him her name in return. When he’d tried to talk to her son, a boy he judged to be around two, she’d scooped the boy up and quickly retreated from the area. The brunette who’d been quick to take up her space had also tried to fill her place in the conversation, being far more communicative than her predecessor.
Rusty had fallen into the conversation easily, even though he’d been distracted by the woman who’d walked out so quickly with her son. People usually found him incredibly easy to talk to and he had wonderful rapport with kids. The whole incident had taken him somewhat aback.
But he figured his silent neighbor had her reasons and he wasn’t the kind to pry, at least, not in his private life. He did enough of that professionally.
When there was no response to his pounding, Rusty called out again. “Ma’am?”
This time there was no scream, no answer. At least, no answer that fell under the heading of human. It was just a keening sound that sliced through him, going clear down to the bone. Cutting into him far more than even the scream had.
He’d only heard such pain once before. When his mother had realized that someone had kidnapped Chad.
Without pausing to think, Rusty backed up, then rammed his shoulder into the door as hard as he could. The door groaned and then finally gave, slamming against the opposite wall.
In a delayed reaction, pain shot through his shoulder like an exploding grenade.
Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to Rusty that breaking down a door, or at least forcing it open always looked a great deal easier when the hero did it in the movies or on TV.
Real life was a whole lot harder. But then, he already knew that.
Rusty scanned the area. The apartment layout was a carbon copy of his own. There was a tiny kitchen with a square table immediately to his left and a small living room directly in front of him. Neither was occupied. He raced to the back of the apartment. There was a room on either end of the abbreviated hall.
He found her in the smaller of the two.
Rusty saw why the screams had momentarily halted. Barefoot, wearing a thigh-length, cotton-candy-pink nightgown, the woman was covering her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were opened so wide with shock and terror that for a second he said nothing, afraid of setting her off.
The empty wooden crib in the corner registered belatedly.
The next moment, as if suddenly becoming aware of the fact that she was no longer alone, the woman grabbed up the small, free-standing lamp and grasped it in both hands, prepared to wield it like some sort of martial arts weapon.
“What did you do with him?” she demanded. The terror he’d seen in her eyes a heartbeat ago was replaced with anger. “Damn it, answer me! Where is he? Where’s Vinny?”
Rusty stood a healthy distance from the woman, wondering how best to disarm her without risking hurting her. He’d seen that look before, more times in the last couple of years than he would have liked to think about. It was the look of a mother forcibly separated from her child.
“Your son?” he asked needlessly, his voice low, soothing. It was the kind of tone used by an animal tamer trying to gentle a crazed animal that had been abused.
Except it wasn’t working. If anything, she looked even more incensed. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving his.
“You know damn well who I’m talking about,” she snapped, her hands tightening around the shank of the lamp, her manner growing more desperate. “Yes, my son. Now what have you done with him?” She’d just barely managed to keep from screaming into his face.
Who the hell was this man and what was he doing here? How had he managed to “conveniently” come along just at this moment?
Was he part of it?
Her heart pounding madly, afraid to turn her back on him, she eyed him the way someone would a pit bull that had suddenly appeared in their path.
Spreading his hands wide on either side of his six-foot-three lanky body, Rusty took only a half step forward. He kept his eye on the lamp, afraid she might wind up hurting herself more than him.
“I haven’t done anything with him. Lady, I was just nodding off when I heard you scream.” His expression still open, affable, his tone sharpened just a shade, instantly becoming authoritative. “What happened?”
She looked as if she wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, or if she should trust him. It was apparent to Rusty that if she was going to let her guard down, it wouldn’t be too far.
Her eyes wary as she watched him, she finally inclined her head toward the empty crib. “I came in to check on Vinny before I went to bed and…and…”
“He wasn’t there?” Rusty supplied gently, moved by the anguish he heard beneath the bravado. Empathy had always been his gift. It had sharpened considerably since he’d found his vocation in life.
Exercising supreme effort, Dakota Armstrong struggled to pull herself together. She wasn’t going to do her son any good if she fell apart the way she so dearly wanted to. But, God, she was tired, so tired. Tired of running and hiding. Tired of always looking over her shoulder, of being suspicious and weighing every word, every look, that came her way.
She couldn’t fall apart, she told herself again. She was all Vinny had and he needed her. Now more than ever. Needed her to save him before he was forever lost. Lost to her and to himself.
Tossing the sea of blond hair over her shoulder with a quick movement of her head, she echoed Rusty’s words. “He wasn’t there.”
There were questions, a whole host of questions that sprang up instantly, crowding his brain. But rather than ask them, Rusty hurried past the woman to look out the open window. At first glance, there was nothing.
Bracing his hand on the windowsill, he lowered himself out. The questions would keep until later. Right now, every second that went by might be precious. It was the first thing he’d been taught.
Wood creaked beneath his foot. Outside each ground-floor apartment that faced the inside of the complex there was a small wooden structure that served as a pseudo-bridge. The bridge, which stretched picturesquely over a minuscule pond, took the place of the patio awarded to the second-floor occupants.
Rusty held his breath as he looked around. Visibility was limited. There were no stars out, no moonlight. Illumination came from the tall street lamps scattered equidistantly throughout the 110-unit complex. He saw no one out walking, much less running from the apartment or in the general vicinity.
Except for the artificially induced gurgling of the water within each pond, the entire area was quieter than a tomb.
Turning back toward the window, he felt his sock catch on a sliver of wood. He stooped to work it free and glanced down. Right next to the wooden bridge, just beyond the window, was a footprint in the mud. A sneaker, as best he could tell. Squinting, he tried to examine the print and decided that he would need a flashlight.
Without a flashlight, all he could tell was that the print was elongated, as if someone had slipped before regaining his or her footing. And it appeared to be fresh.
Rusty lowered himself back into the missing boy’s bedroom. He would have expected to find the woman on the telephone, calling the police. Instead she was standing in the center of the room, just as he had left her, looking not unlike a lost waif herself. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she was mutely trying to offer herself comfort.
Backlit by the lamp she’d returned to its original position on the floor, the nightgown she was wearing was translucent. Every inch of her long, supple body was highlighted.
Rusty felt his mouth suddenly grow drier than dust. It took him a beat before he found his thoughts and put them into some kind of coherent order. “There’s no one out there.”
She moved past him to the window and looked out. The same window she’d looked out before without any success. This man in her apartment wasn’t saying anything to her she didn’t already know.
Still, she clung to denial.
“There has to be,” she cried. “Vinny couldn’t have climbed through the window himself.” She swung around from the window to glare accusingly. “They took him.”
She said it as if she had someone in mind, Rusty thought. Did she? “‘They’?”
Maybe it was his imagination, but her shoulders seemed to stiffen at his question.
“The kidnappers,” she amended. “Whoever took my baby.”
Maybe now was the time to start questioning her in earnest. “When did you last see your son?”
He saw her struggle to try to think, to push aside the confusion and shock that he knew had taken hold of her. She put her hand to her head as if that could help sort out the answer.
“An hour and a half ago.”
There were tears shining in her eyes. And then they began to wet her lashes, about to spill out.
Angry with herself, she wiped them away with the heel of her hand. More came.
What Rusty did next was second nature to him. He took her into his arms and gently held her against him, comforting her. She was someone in need, suffering from shock, and he wanted to help.
For a moment she seemed to soften against him, all but dissolving as she accepted the silent offering. The next moment she jerked back as if she’d suddenly realized what she was doing. Her back stiffened like soldiers’ facing down the enemy.
Taken by surprise at the sudden change, Rusty managed to act as if her behavior were perfectly normal. In some ways, he supposed that it was. Disorientation and denial took on many forms. This kind of thing never failed to leave a parent in emotional shambles, strong one minute, crumbling the next. Needing sedation was a common enough occurrence, but he had a feeling that the woman in front of him would not be one of those who found solace that way.
He looked around. “Where’s your phone?”
“In the kitchen.” Her response was automatic. “Why?”
That should have been evident to her, but then that wasn’t factoring in disorientation. “You need to call the police.”
Dakota’s mouth dropped open. Calling the police was the last thing she wanted to do. There was no doubt in her mind that if she so much as dialed 9-1-1, she’d never see Vinny again.
She rushed after him, trying to get in front of him, to reach the telephone on the wall before he did.
She just made it. “No!”
Dakota quickly covered the receiver with her hand in case the word hadn’t sunk in.
Rusty looked at the fingers splayed over the receiver. As if her small hand could possibly pose a physical deterrent. A tinge of amusement wafted through him. He banked it down.
What was traveling through him in far larger waves was curiosity. Why was she so adamant about not calling in the police? Was she a fugitive of some sort? On the run from someone?
Maybe she was someone’s estranged wife who’d suddenly taken off with her child, snatching him away from her husband. Either explanation would go a long way toward accounting for the wariness he’d perceived each time their paths had crossed.
He let his hand drop from the air as he studied her. “Why don’t you want to call the police?”
Her eyes narrowed. She saw no reason to have to explain herself to this man. Not that she would have, anyway. Trusting people was a waste of time and she’d learned a long time ago that depending on anyone just left her open to betrayal and despair.
“Because I just don’t, all right?” Suddenly aware that she was standing there in nothing but her nightgown, she grabbed a sweater that was draped over the back of a kitchen chair and dragged it on. “What are you, my mother?” She punched her arms through the sleeves. “Who are you, anyway?”
Rusty shrugged off the hostility directed at him as part of her emotional roller coaster ride she was obviously on.
“I’m the guy who lives upstairs.” He jerked a thumb up toward the ceiling, his manner matter-of-fact. “The one you woke up with your screaming.”
She appeared to be more in control of herself now than she had even a minute ago. And with that control Rusty saw the hard shell slip back into place, the one he encountered each time he saw her.
“Sorry.” She shrugged carelessly. “You can get back to your beauty sleep.”
He had no intention of leaving her. Whether or not she admitted it, the woman needed someone to stay with her until a search for her missing son could get properly under way. In his experience, bluster and bravado were common smokescreens for fear.
“Look,” he began gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off as if his touch had burned her very skin. “What are you afraid of?”
“My baby’s just been kidnapped, what do you think I’m afraid of?”
He looked at her for a long moment and watched as her body language grew more defensive. Though it wasn’t completely uncommon to have someone slip into a house and steal a child from their bed, the method spoke of some degree of familiarity with the victimized family. Which brought him back to the feeling that the kidnapping was the work of someone who knew her, someone who specifically wanted her son. He’d seen the boy and although Vinny was cute, the child was no more or less eye-catching than most other children his age.
No, there had to be more at work here than she was admitting.
He nodded at the telephone, giving every indication of remaining just where he was for the time being. “If you don’t want to call the police, maybe you should call your husband.”
What did it take to get rid of this man? She needed to be alone. She had to think. She felt as if everything was closing in on her. First Vincent, now Vinny. She’d die before she’d let anyone keep her from her son. And now she had some misguided Good Samaritan—or worse—to deal with. “I don’t have a husband.”
Rusty glanced at her hand and saw that it was bare of jewelry. There wasn’t even a tan line where a wedding ring might once have been.
“Ex-husband, then.”
What did it take to get this man to leave her alone? “I don’t have one of those, either.”
She hadn’t conceived her son on her own. “Boyfriend?” He was hazarding guesses now.
Her brows drew together. Of all the cheap tricks. Was this his way of finding out whether there was anyone else living with her? Her son had just been kidnapped, didn’t this man have any shame?
“Are you trying to hit on me?” Dakota demanded angrily.
Rusty was calm in the face of her fury. It was in his nature to remain that way. He’d found out a long time ago that losing your head when those around you were losing theirs never accomplished anything.
“No,” he told her genially, “just trying to rule out parental kidnapping.” To his surprise, he saw her pale slightly.
And then she regrouped as she lifted her chin in a gesture that would have been called defiant by the mildest of observers. Striding over to the door, she threw it open.
“Why don’t you just rule yourself out the door if you want to rule out anything?”
The angrier she became, the calmer he remained. “Look, you need help.”
She started pacing. He was making her crazy. For all she knew, he was in on it. Just because he had this lean, trustworthy face and soulful blue eyes was no reason to believe a thing he was saying or to buy into his good-neighbor act. She’d been conned by the best.
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
Feeling at a loss, fervently wishing that this was all a bad dream, she nervously dragged her hand through her hair.
She’d been so careful to hide her tracks. How had this happened? How had they been found?
When she turned around, she saw the open door and noted the fact that the man hadn’t yet taken the blatant hint and left.
“You want to help? Okay, help.” She was new in town, without a single friend to turn to. Not that she would have expected any friend to stand by her. Not when faced with the consequences that friendship entailed. “Tell me where I can find myself a good private detective.”
This wasn’t making any sense. Most people in her position would have immediately wanted the police to take up the search. Why was she so adamant about not calling them in?
Maybe it was shock, he thought. People in shock did strange things. His sister had handled a case six months ago where the mother insisted on talking to the kidnapped child as if he was right there beside her. There was no question in his mind that if the case hadn’t been resolved positively, the woman might have wound up spending the next few years of her life in an institution.
He tried again. “The police—”
How many ways did she have to spell it out? “I said I don’t want the police.”
“It’s a kidnapping,” he told her gently, “the police and the FBI have the manpower to blanket the area.”
Oh, God, calling in the FBI would be even worse. Vinny would disappear forever. She couldn’t do any of that. And this guy, whoever he thought he was, certainly couldn’t be allowed to do that, Dakota thought frantically.
“Stop talking to me as if I were an idiot. I know exactly what’ll happen if I call in the police, you don’t. No police. No FBI. Nobody on public payroll,” she insisted adamantly. “I need someone I can buy, someone who’ll work just for me. If you don’t know anyone like that—”
Dakota moved to the open front door again, her meaning clear.
He hadn’t said anything to her earlier because it would have sounded too opportunistic, as if he were trying to take advantage of the situation and her pain. But since she was insisting on this path, so be it.
Rusty placed his hand on the side of the door and to her annoyed surprise, pushed it closed. “I think it’s time I explained to you what I do for a living.”
Chapter 2
Her heart stopped beating in her chest.
She stared at the man who had pushed his way into her apartment, into her dilemma. Any second now Dakota was sure her head would spin off if she relinquished the slightest iota of control she was exercising over it. Even now, the room felt as if it had tilted beneath her feet.
What he did for a living?
Dakota’s mouth was desert-dry as she whispered, “You’re not a cop, are you?”
Until this moment the thought hadn’t occurred to her. It should have. The times Andreini had tried to start up a conversation, he’d struck her as being too exuberant, too innocent-looking to be a policeman. But why not? Nothing came in stereotype these days. She of all people should know that by now.
Look at Vincent. She would never have taken him to be who he ultimately turned out to be. Not with that blond hair and that Nordic complexion.
