Watching Over Her

She crouched down next to the old man’s chair and very gently told him, “Andy’s dead. He died in Afghanistan.”

“No!” the gray-haired man shouted hotly in denial. “He didn’t die. That’s just what he made it look like. He’s alive.”

She shook her head, and her brown eyes filled with sympathy and sadness. “No...”

“I’ve seen him,” the man insisted. “He’s alive!”

“No,” she said again. “That’s not possible. His whole convoy died that day. There’s no way he survived.” And her voice cracked with emotion and regret.

Mr. Doremire shook his head in denial and disgust. “That boy wasn’t strong enough for the Marines,” he said. “He had no business joining up. He got scared. He took off. He wasn’t part of that convoy.”

Why was Andy’s father making up such a story? Just because he couldn’t handle his son being dead?

“They wouldn’t have reported that he was dead if they hadn’t been certain,” Maggie continued, patiently. “They wouldn’t have put us through that and neither would Andy.”

“None of the remains recovered have actually been identified, so there is no way of proving that he was part of the convoy,” the older man insisted. “They never even recovered his dog tags.”

“They are still working on DNA,” Maggie said with a slight shudder. “But they know that Andy’s gone...” And from the dismal sound of her voice, she knew it, too.

Blaine hated that she was reliving Andy’s last moments. Or had those actually been his last moments? Was Andy’s father right? Was Maggie’s fiancé still alive? Mr. Doremire had claimed that he’d seen him.

If so, Blaine had another suspect for the robberies—one who had definitely read her letters and knew about the bank’s policies and procedures, and the duties and responsibilities of the assistant manager.

“Will you be okay in here?” Blaine asked Maggie.

She nodded. “Of course.”

But she stared up at him with a question in her eyes as if wondering where he was going...

“I have to make a call,” he said.

From his years as a marine, he had connections, people he could call to verify if Andy Doremire had been identified among the convoy casualties. Maybe they hadn’t identified the remains immediately after the explosion, but in the past six months they would have. And he couldn’t trust that Mr. Doremire’s drunken claims were valid. Or was Andy alive and robbing banks?

* * *

MAGGIE BIT HER bottom lip to stop herself from calling out for Blaine. She didn’t want to be left alone with Andy’s dad and his outrageous story. He was drunk, though. That had to be why he was talking such nonsense.

“He’s calling someone in the military,” Dustin Doremire said. “He’s going to talk to some marines.”

Blaine had been a marine. He would know whom to talk to.

“Probably,” she agreed. “He’s wasting his time, though.” Andy was dead. Therefore, he was not robbing banks—as Blaine probably now suspected.

“They’re not going to tell him anything,” Mr. Doremire said with a derisive snort. “It’s a cover-up.”

So he was drunk and paranoid. “What are they covering up?” she asked. She wasn’t even sure who “they” were supposed to be. First Andy had faked his death and now someone else was covering it up?

“You know what they’re covering up,” he accused her, suddenly turning angrily on her.

She edged back from his chair, not wanting to be so close to him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” That was definitely the truth.

“Andy told you everything,” he said. “You know...”

But now she wondered. Had Andy told her everything? He had never mentioned his father drinking so much. Maybe it had started only after his death. But now she wondered—because she hadn’t come over to Andy’s house very often. He had always come to hers. And if his car was broken down and she had to pick him up, he met her on the street.

Maybe she hadn’t been the only reason Andy had joined the Marines. Maybe he hadn’t done it just to support her, the way he had old-fashionedly claimed he’d wanted to do. Maybe he had also joined to escape his father.

“That boy loved you so much,” Mr. Doremire continued. “He was crazy about you.”

Andy had loved her. If only she could have loved him the same way...

The older man uttered a bitter laugh. “The boy was such a fool that he couldn’t see you didn’t feel the same way about him.”

“I cared about Andy,” she insisted. “He was my best friend.” And she would forever miss him and she would regret that his son or daughter would never know him—would never know what a sweet guy he’d been.

“But you didn’t love him,” the older man accused her, as if she’d committed some crime. “It’s your fault, girl. It’s all your fault.”

“What’s my fault?” she asked.

“It’s your fault he joined the Marines, trying to prove he was man enough for you.” Mr. Doremire shook his head. “He wasted his time, too. You never looked at him like you’re looking at that man...” He gestured toward where Blaine had gone out the open front door.

“That man is an FBI agent,” she said. “He’s investigating the robberies at the banks where I’ve worked.” He had to have heard about the robberies; they’d made the national news.

But the older man just stared bleary-eyed at her. Had he even known she worked at a bank?

“I don’t care who the hell he is,” Mr. Doremire replied. “He’s not going to be raising my grandchild.”

She hoped Blaine had stepped far enough away from the open door that he hadn’t overheard that. But her face heated with embarrassment that he might have. She assured the older man, “Agent Campbell is not going to be raising my child.”

She knew that once the robbers were caught he would move on to his next case. She was nothing more than a witness and possible suspect to him.

“That’s Andy’s child!” Mr. Doremire lurched out of the chair and reached for her as if he intended to rip the baby from her belly.

She jerked back to protect her baby. She didn’t even want his hands on her belly, didn’t want him hurting her child—before he or she was born or after—the way he must have hurt Andy had he ever spoken to him the way he’d spoken of him.

“Mr. Doremire,” she said, “please calm down.” And sober up.

“Andy won’t be letting some other man raise his kid,” he ominously warned her. “You’ll see. He’ll show himself to you, just like he’s shown himself to me.”

She wondered how many bottles of whiskey it had taken for Andy to show himself. She suspected quite a few.

“Andy is gone, Mr. Doremire,” she said. “He’s dead.”

His hand swung quickly, striking her cheek before she could duck. Tears stung her eyes as pain radiated from the slap.

“That’s what you want,” Mr. Doremire said. “You want him dead. But he’s not! He’s not dead!”

“Okay, okay,” she said, trying to humor the drunk or deranged man. “He’s alive, then. He’s alive.”

He had no idea how much she really wished that Andy was alive. Then she wouldn’t have lost her best friend. She wouldn’t feel so alone that she was clinging to an FBI agent who was only trying to do his job.

Maybe she was as crazy as Andy’s dad to think that Blaine could have any interest in her beyond her connection to the bank robberies.

The older man started crying horrible wrenching sobs. “If he’s dead, it’s your fault,” he said again. “It’s all your fault!”

She nodded miserably in agreement. Maybe it was...

If he hadn’t wanted to buy her that damn ring...

If he hadn’t wanted to take care of her...

“You’re the one who should be dead!” He swung his arm again.

And, realizing that the man wasn’t just drunk but crazy, too, she cried out in fear that he might actually kill her.

Chapter Thirteen

Maggie’s scream chilled Blaine’s blood. He dropped his phone and ran back into the house—afraid of what he might find.

Why the hell had he left her alone? He hadn’t even checked the house. Mark Doremire could have been hiding somewhere, waiting for his next chance to grab Maggie.

But when he burst into the living room, he found only the older Doremire and Maggie. She was backing up, though, and ducking the blows of the man’s meaty fists.

Blaine jumped forward and caught the man’s swinging arms. He jerked them behind his back. “Dustin Doremire, I am placing you under arrest for assault.”

“No,” Maggie said. “You don’t need to arrest him.” But her cheek bore a red imprint from the older man’s hand.

Blaine jerked Doremire’s arms higher behind his back, wanting to hurt him the way he had hurt Maggie. The old drunk only grunted. After all that whiskey, he was probably beyond the point of feeling any pain. Only inflicting it...

“He hurt you,” he said. And Blaine blamed himself for leaving her alone with Andy’s drunken father.

“He’s hurting,” she said, making excuses for the man’s abuse. “He misses his son.”

Blaine had placed a few calls. But nobody had really answered his questions about Andy Doremire. In fact, they’d thought he was crazy to even ask. Of course the man was dead. His family wouldn’t have been notified if his death hadn’t been confirmed.

Otherwise, he would have been listed as missing. Blaine knew that. But for some reason he had wanted to think the worst of Andy Doremire. He’d wanted proof that her dead fiancé wasn’t the saint that Maggie thought he was—he wasn’t a man worth loving for the rest of her life.

But he was a better man than Blaine was. Andy wouldn’t have willingly left her alone and in danger.

“Are you all right?” he asked her. “How badly did he hurt you?”

She brushed her fingertips across her cheek and dismissed the injury. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine. He could hear the pain in her voice. But he wasn’t sure whether it was physical or emotional pain. He suspected more emotional. She hadn’t wanted to come here—to Andy’s childhood home. And now he understood why.

“He needs to be brought in,” he said. “I need to arrest him.” Actually he only intended to hand him over to the officer outside to make the arrest and process Mr. Doremire.

“Please don’t,” she beseeched him, her big brown eyes pleading with him, too.

“You never want me to arrest anyone,” he said. “You make it hard for me to do my job.” He had ignored her and arrested Susan Iverson anyway. He was tempted to do the same with Mr. Doremire. “I need to question him.”

“Let me question him,” she said.

He settled the older man back into his chair. The guy collapsed against the worn cushions. The chair was one of the only pieces of furniture left in the nearly empty house. In fact, the Cape Cod made Ash’s little bungalow look almost homey.

Blaine had no intention of letting Maggie question him. But before he could ask, she already was. “When did you see Mark last?”

“Mark?” The older man blinked his bloodshot eyes, as if he had no idea whom she was talking about.

“Mark is your oldest son,” she prodded him. “His wife, Tammy, said he was here—visiting you.”

He shook his head in denial. “I haven’t seen that boy for months. He’s not like Andy. Andy keeps coming around to check on me.”

Did he have his sons confused? Even Maggie thought they looked a lot alike. He shared a significant glance with her as they both came to the same realization.

“When was Andy here last?” she asked. “When did he come see you?”

Doremire’s eyes momentarily cleared of the drunken bleariness, and he stared at her with pure hatred. “You have no right to say his name.”

The old man would have reached out again; he would have swung his arm if Blaine hadn’t squeezed his shoulder and held him down onto the chair.

“She has every right to say his name,” Blaine insisted. “They were engaged.”

The older man shook his head. “She never would’ve married him. She didn’t care about him...”

“That’s not true,” Maggie said, but her voice was so soft she nearly whispered the words.

“She loved him,” Blaine said. “You know that. You have the letters she wrote to your son. Where are they?”

The drunk blinked in confusion, the way he had when she’d asked about Mark. “Letters?”

“My letters,” she said. “The ones I wrote to Andy when he was overseas. Do you have them?”

He shook his head. “His mother probably took them—like she took everything else when she left.”

Blaine could see that she had taken most everything. And he could see why she had left, too, if the man had been like this with her. If he had been abusive...

“Where did Mrs. Doremire go?” Maggie asked.

“She took all Andy’s life-insurance money and bought herself a condo.”

That money should have gone to Andy’s fiancée and his unborn child, but Andy must not have listed her as his beneficiary yet. Knowing she was carrying Andy’s child, his family should have given her the money, though. It would have been the right thing to do.

But this family obviously didn’t care about what was right. Or honorable. Or legal.

He had to find Mark Doremire—had to catch him before he got beyond Blaine’s reach.

“Where is her condo?” Maggie asked.

Andy’s father named some complex that had her nodding as if she knew where it was. “It’s not that far from here,” she said. “We can go there now.”

Blaine had no intention of taking her anywhere but to a bed. To rest...

But the thought of a bed reminded him of that morning, of her flicking back the covers to reveal all her voluptuous curves. The woman was so damn sexy.

“Tell that witch that she didn’t break me,” Mr. Doremire said. “Tell her that I’m fine...”

He was anything but fine. The former Mrs. Doremire was probably well aware of that, though.

“I hope you will be,” Maggie said. After how the man had treated her, how could she wish the best for him?

Blaine had met few women as sweet and genuine as Maggie Jenkins.

But the old man stared up at her again with stark hatred. “I hope you get what you deserve.”

It wasn’t so much what he said but the venomous tone with which he said it that had Blaine protesting, “Mr. Doremire—”

“And you, Mr. Agent, I hope the same for you. Maybe you two deserve each other...”

Blaine knew that wasn’t true. Maggie deserved a better man. He should have protected her better than he had. So, finally, he guided her toward the door.

“But don’t go thinking you’re going to be raising that baby together,” Mr. Doremire yelled after them. “Andy’s going to take that baby. He’s going to raise his son himself.”

Maggie sighed. “Andy’s gone...”

“He’s not dead,” the older man drunkenly insisted. “You’re going to see when he comes for his baby boy. You’re going to see that he’s not dead.”

Maybe he wasn’t dead—in his father’s alcohol-saturated mind or in Maggie’s heart. Blaine wished he was man enough to deserve her love. But he suspected she had none left to give anyway.

* * *

ONCE BLAINE SAID it was too late to see Mrs. Doremire, Maggie feigned falling asleep in the SUV. She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to even look at Blaine. Her face was too hot, and not from Mr. Doremire’s slap but with embarrassment over all the horrible things that old drunk had said in front of Blaine.

Maybe he hadn’t heard everything; maybe he’d been outside during the worst of it. But he had come running back when she’d screamed. He had saved her—as he always did.

Mr. Doremire hadn’t been wrong about how she looked at the FBI agent. Despite not wanting to fall for him, she was falling. She had more love to give than she’d realized. But Blaine wouldn’t want her love—or anything else to do with her, for that matter—once the bank robbers were caught.

The SUV drew to a stop. Then the engine cut out. A door opened and then another. Hers.

Blaine slid one arm under her legs and another around her back, as if he intended to lift her up the way he would a sleeping child. She jerked back.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I’m up,” she said.

But he didn’t step back; he didn’t give her any room to step out of the SUV. He was too close, his green gaze too intense on her face.

Her skin heated and flushed. She wished he wouldn’t look at her. She lifted her hand to her face.

But he beat her to it, bringing his hand up to cup her cheek. “I don’t think it’ll bruise,” he said.

She shrugged. She couldn’t have cared less about her face. The man’s words had hurt far more than his slap. “It’s fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry?”

“I shouldn’t have left you alone with him.” Blaine pushed a hand through his disheveled hair. “I knew he was drunk. I never should have stepped outside.”

“You called someone about Andy,” she said. It wasn’t a question because she knew that he’d done it. She had watched the new suspicions grow in his green gaze. “To make sure that he’s really dead.”

Finally he stepped back and helped her from the SUV. Then he escorted her from the street up to the little bungalow where they had spent the night before. He hadn’t taken her back to the hospital or to a hotel.

Her chest eased a little with relief.

“Are you going to ask me what I found out?” he asked, opening the door.

She shook her head as she passed him and entered the living room. “No.”

“So, you’re sure he’s dead?”

“I know it.” Even before Mark had called her, she’d known. She’d seen the news of the explosion—of the casualties—and she had known Andy was among them.

“But they didn’t even recover his dog tags,” Blaine said.

She shrugged. “I don’t know what was recovered or not. I don’t know if my letters were even sent back. You should have let me talk to Mrs. Doremire.”

“It’s been a long day for you already,” Blaine reminded her as he flipped on the light switch. “We went back to the bank and watched all that footage. Then we saw Mark’s wife and nearly got run off the road.”

She shuddered at the reminder of those harrowing moments when she had thought the SUV was going to flip over and crash onto the rocky shoreline.

“And if that wasn’t already too much for you,” he said, “then you were assaulted by a crazy drunk.”

“He is crazy,” she agreed. “Thinking that Andy’s alive...”

“That makes sense, actually,” Blaine said, “that he doesn’t want to let his son go.”

She sighed. “I guess that is his way of dealing with his grief—denial and alcohol.”

“How about you?” he asked.

She stared up at him in confusion. She had dealt with her grief months ago and neither alcohol nor denial had been involved. “What do you mean?”

“Are you going to be able to let Andy go?”

“I don’t think he’s alive,” she assured him. “I’m not seeing him anywhere.” She didn’t see ghosts. Regrettably, she did keep seeing zombies—in person and in her nightmares. She would probably rather see ghosts.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

“What did you mean?” she wondered.

Instead of explaining himself, he just shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

She thought that it might, though—to her. Did he want her to let Andy go? Or was he like her almost father-in-law and not entirely convinced that Andy was dead?

“What did the people that you called tell you?” she asked. She already knew, but she didn’t want to leave him yet. As tired as she was, she didn’t want to climb the stairs and go to bed. Alone.

“They said that Andy’s dad’s claims were crazy,” he replied. “They’re not covering up anything...”

“Mr. Doremire said a lot of crazy stuff,” she said. Hoping to dispel her embarrassment, she continued, “Like that nonsense about us...”

“Nonsense?”

Her skin heated again and not just on her face; she was warm all over. “Of course. All his drunken comments about you and me. That was just craziness...”

“What was so crazy about it?” he asked.

She drew in a deep breath to brace herself for honesty. “It’s crazy to think that you’d be attracted to me.”

“It is?” That green gaze was intense on her face and then it slid down her body.

Now her warm skin tingled. “Of course it is,” she said. “I’m so fat and unattractive...” And he was the most beautiful man she’d ever met.

“You’re pregnant,” he said. “And you’re beautiful.”

She laughed at his ridiculous claims; they were as outrageous as Mr. Doremire’s. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments. Really. I know exactly what I look like—a whale.”

He laughed now as if she were trying to be funny. She had just been honest. He was not being the same as he replied, “I would not be attracted to a whale.”

“You’re not attracted to me.” She wished he was. But it wasn’t possible. Even if she wasn’t pregnant, she knew he would never go for a woman like her—a woman who talked too much and didn’t think before she let people get close to her.

He stepped closer to her, his gaze still hot on her face and body. “I’m not?”

She shook her head. But he caught her chin and stopped it. Then he tipped up her chin and lowered his head. And his lips covered hers.

Maybe he had intended the kiss as a compliment or maybe it was just out of pity. But it quickly became something more as passion ignited—at least in Maggie—and she kissed him back.

She locked her arms around his neck and held his head down for the kiss. Her lips moved over his before opening for his tongue. He plunged it into her mouth, deepening the kiss and stirring her passion even more.

Making her want more than just a kiss...

Chapter Fourteen

It had just been a kiss. But even though it had happened hours ago, Blaine still couldn’t get it out of his mind. Probably because it hadn’t been just a kiss. It had been an experience almost profound in its intensity.

And he hadn’t wanted to stop at just a kiss. He had wanted to carry her upstairs to one of the bedrooms and make love to her all night long.

But he’d summoned all of his control and pulled back. His cell had also been ringing with a summons from the Bureau chief to come into the office for an update on the case.

“You’ve lost your objectivity,” the chief was saying, drawing Blaine from his thoughts of Maggie.

“What? Why?”

“The witness,” Chief Special Agent Lynch said.

Blaine glanced at the clock on the conference room wall. He had left her alone too long. Of course, he hadn’t actually left her alone. He had left her with two agents guarding Ash’s house—one patrolling the perimeter and one parked in a chair outside her bedroom door. They were good men, men for whom both Ash and Dalton Reyes had vouched. They weren’t special agents yet; they were barely more than recruits. But Truman Jackson had been a navy SEAL and Octavio Hernandez had worked in the gang task force with Reyes.

She should be safe...

But he had thought that when he’d left the local authorities to protect her.

“The witness is in danger,” he said. “That was proven today—” he glanced at the clock again and corrected himself “—yesterday when someone tried running us off the road.”

“The van was processed.”

“Any evidence?”

“Not like in the first one,” the chief replied. “No blood.”

“Have you gotten a DNA match yet?”

The chief shook his head. “We’ll check some other databases—see if we can find at least a close match.”

“Good—that’s good.”

“What leads have you come up with?” the chief asked. “Or have you been too busy protecting the witness?”

“She is the best lead,” Blaine insisted.

“You checked to see if her fiancé is really dead,” the chief said. “She’s leading you to a dead man as a suspect?”

“She didn’t think he was alive. It was the man’s father who raised some questions...”

“You think her fiancé’s family is involved in the robberies.”

He sighed. “Her fiancé’s brother is a viable suspect. Reyes even confirmed him as having bought the van recovered after the robbery. The one in which the blood was found.” Someone else had ordered the black cargo van. Why? Was Mark already gone?