Untameable: Merciless

Funny, Joceline had acted oddly afterward and tried to quit her job. Jon had talked her into staying. He hadn’t said much about the incident, just that he’d had way too much to drink and Joceline had been forced to drive him to the hospital. It turned out that someone had spiked Jon’s drink with a hallucinogenic drug, trying to be funny. The culprit, a foreign dignitary’s son, had fled the country shortly thereafter and never returned.

He hadn’t thought about that for a long time. His brother never drank as a rule. He was very straitlaced. Today, it had hurt terribly to see Jon lying on a gurney with blood seeping from the wound on his back. He loved his brother. Cammy was going to go ballistic. She’d lived in fear of this all during Jon’s career in law enforcement. She kept rosaries everywhere, even in the glove compartment of her car, and she prayed constantly for his safety. At least she wasn’t driving herself to the hospital or there might be two tragedies. Kilraven would have gone to get her, but he’d been afraid to leave Jon—as if by his own physical presence he could keep Jon alive.

The nurse beckoned to them a nerve-racking few minutes later. Neither Kilraven nor Joceline really believed that Jon wasn’t going to die. They had to see him for themselves, to be sure.

He was in a hospital gown, but his chest was bare. He was white as a sheet. There was dried blood on his firm, chiseled mouth. He was laboring to breathe, even with the tube that ran out of his chest to drain off the fluid. There was a drip feeding from a tube on a pole into his arm. There were oxygen tubes in his nostrils and he was hooked up to half a dozen monitors. His long, jet-black hair was tangled on the pillow. His eyes were closed.

Besides the beep of the monitors and the electronic sounds, there was only the sudden jerk of Joceline’s breath, almost a sob, which she quickly smothered.

“He’d hate having his hair tangled,” she said quietly.

“Yes.”

He glanced at her, noting that she didn’t have much more color in her face than Jon did in his. She was gripping her purse as if she feared it might escape.

“He’s one tough customer,” Kilraven told her comfortingly. “And I do know something about gunshot wounds. I’m sure he’s in a lot of pain, and it will take time for him to recover. But he’s going to live, Joceline.”

She swallowed her fear and nodded slowly. “Yes,” she agreed.

“Tomorrow he’ll be telling the nurses how to do the drip and threatening the doctor to try to get out of the hospital.”

She nodded again. It was so painful to see him like that. He was such a strong, vital man …

Kilraven was watching her covertly. It surprised him to see her at a loss for words, to see her so frightened. Perhaps she was thinking about the shadowy man in her life who went missing overseas. Markie’s father.

Markie. He felt a sudden sinking worry. “Going to step out for just a sec,” he told her, and moved out of the ICU unit to make a quick phone call.

Joceline barely noticed. Her hand went out to smooth the thick, long, tangled black hair on the pillow. She recalled another time when she’d touched it, felt its cool silkiness, clung to it as feelings rose so high that she thought she might die of them. He didn’t remember. It was a good thing. She didn’t want him to remember.

“Don’t touch my son!”

She froze, jerking her hand back, as Cammy Blackhawk came into the room. She glared at the younger woman as she moved to the bed, her back to Joceline.

“Jon,” she whispered. “My poor, poor boy!”

She bent to kiss his forehead, and fought tears. She smoothed back his hair and stared at him for a long moment. Then she turned to Joceline, all cold dignity and hostility.

“You have no right to be in here,” she snapped.

Joceline didn’t argue. She looked one last time at Jon before she turned and left the cubicle.

“Where are you going?” Kilraven asked, surprised to meet her in the hall.

“I’m leaving,” Joceline said, very pale but composed. “Life goes on. Your mother is in there,” she added stiffly.

“Oh, God, now the real torment begins,” he groaned. “She’ll stand the staff on its ear and they’ll threaten to hang her from a window by a sheet!”

She laughed suddenly.

“Don’t let her worry you,” Kilraven said in a low tone. “She’s not what she seems. Honest.”

Joceline didn’t reply. “I hope he does well.”

“He will. I’ll call you myself if there’s any change.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Kilraven.”

His eyes narrowed. “Joceline, I’ve had Rourke stake out your son’s preschool.”

“What?” she exclaimed, going white.

“Monroe made threats,” he reminded her. “We can’t prove it so we can’t have him arrested. He’s being watched, that’s all I can say. But your son may be on the firing line. He has to have protection. So do you.”

It was horrifying to think that Markie might end up in a hospital bed, victim of some deranged criminal. “Surely, not! He’s just a child!”

“So was Melly,” Kilraven reminded her with a grim expression, speaking of his daughter who had been killed. “She was barely three, when—” His voice broke.

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “Truly sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t bring her back, and it won’t protect your son, either,” he added. “Rourke will. So tolerate him.”

She grimaced.

“You don’t have to like him. I know he’s a pain. But he’s the best private security I know.”

“All right.”

He studied her for a moment. “You never bring your son to work. You don’t have a photo of him on your desk. But you obviously love him very much.”

“Don’t speculate,” she bit off.

He was just staring at her. Not even blinking. “I’m not speculating.”

“I keep my work life and my home life separate,” she said stiffly. “I’m somewhat defensive about my status,” she added, and averted her eyes.

“So you don’t draw attention to it.”

“Yes,” she said quickly, anxious for an answer that would shut him up.

“I get it.” He didn’t press her. But he was getting some very interesting vibrations running underneath the casual conversation. “Don’t worry about your boss,” he added gently. “He’s in great hands.”

She looked toward the glass cubicle, where Cammy Blackhawk was still smoothing her son’s hair and talking to him. “I noticed.”

“I meant the doctor,” he mused.

“Oh.”

“You don’t know about Cammy’s past, and I won’t tell it to you,” he said surprisingly. “But there’s a reason she’s the way she is. Try not to take her attitude too seriously.”

“She loves her son. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“She does, but she’s micromanaging his life. Or she’s trying to.”

“She wants the best for him.” She pursed her lips and her blue eyes twinkled suddenly. “She wants him to have the best fashion advice money can buy.”

“He’d do a lot better with a woman who could play video games with him.”

“Don’t look at me,” Joceline said firmly. “I have one man in my life. I don’t need another.”

“Your son’s father went missing in action, you said.”

“Yes.”

“I still have contacts in active military circles,” he said, watching her with uncanny closeness. “I could have them do some checking.”

She dropped her purse. She bent and picked it up. “Sorry, it’s been an unsettling day,” she said. “I’m clumsy. No, thanks, it’s already been checked out. He disappeared in those mountains where they think the remnants of Al-Qaeda were hiding in a secret base. They were certain that he was killed, they just were reluctant to tell me.”

She hadn’t looked up once.

“I see,” he said.

She was hoping for an interruption when Winnie Sinclair came up with two cups of coffee. She handed one to her husband. “You’ve had a long day, you should go.”

“Yes,” Joceline said gratefully. “You’ll call me, if there’s any change?” she added worriedly.

“Of course we will,” Winnie assured her.

“The assistant D.A. asked about you,” Kilraven said. “She’s still hoping you might jump ship and go to work for her,” he added, teasing.

“There might be a real possibility of that,” Joceline said on a heavy sigh. “They’re talking about cutting staff in my office. Betty has seniority, so if one of us is cut, it will be me.” She shook her head. “This has been a bummer of a day.”

Kilraven frowned. “They’d never let you go.”

She smiled sadly. “They’ll let anybody go, if they have to. I don’t have any illusions about being the best administrative assistant on earth.” She sighed. “Now I have to worry about that and my boss, and my son …”

“Not about Markie,” Kilraven assured her. “Rourke will make sure no harm comes to him. Or to you.”

Joceline ground her teeth together. “Okay.”

“And Jon will be all right,” he added.

She bit her lip. “He had blood on his mouth.”

“Joceline, he was shot in a lung,” he reminded her. “He would have been spitting up blood when they found him. Thank God he was in sight of a main street when it happened!”

“Yes,” she whispered, hurting as she considered how frightening and how painful it would have been, to have experienced what her boss had—to be shot in the back.

“Now go home to your son,” Winnie said gently. “He will keep you from brooding too much.”

“The chief brooder is in there.” She indicated the cubicle where Cammy was still sitting with Jon. “He does it much better than I do.”

“He’ll be fine. Just keep the office together until he recovers,” Kilraven told her.

She smiled. That was optimistic. She had to be optimistic, too. “Okay. Do you know any really good defense attorneys, by the way?”

Kilraven blinked. “Not really, but I can ask around. Why do you need one?”

“I don’t, yet. As long as Rourke stays out of sight.”

Kilraven chuckled. “He is a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“Saved your butt, my darling,” Winnie reminded him with a hug.

He returned it and kissed her hair. “Yes, but he was being obnoxious.”

“It’s what he does best.”

“He’ll keep Markie safe,” Kilraven reminded Joceline. “He’s good at what he does.”

“Which would be what, exactly, when he isn’t returning favors for you?” Joceline asked curiously.

“Never you mind,” he said firmly. “That’s need to know, and you don’t.”

“Spoilsport.”

She smiled at both of them and sent one last, worried glance toward where Jon Blackhawk lay, so quiet and still, before she left the waiting room.

“Something’s fishy,” Kilraven murmured.

“About what?” Winnie asked.

He didn’t tell her. He had his suspicions, all wrapped up in mystery and Joceline’s reticence. But he was going to do some digging, when he had time.

He and Winnie went back to ICU to join Cammy.

“Has she gone, that awful girl?” Cammy asked angrily.

“She’s his right arm at work,” Kilraven reminded her firmly. “She’s stood by him when half a dozen other women would have run screaming out the door.”

“I don’t like her. She’s not a moral person.”

“What if she’d ended the pregnancy, would that make her any more moral in your eyes, Cammy?” Kilraven asked coldly. “What if it had been you, pregnant with Jon?”

Cammy swallowed, hard, and averted her eyes. Her jaw tightened. He was provoking nightmares and she couldn’t even tell him. She couldn’t tell anyone. She smoothed Jon’s hair. “He looks so pale.”

“His system has been through a shock,” Kilraven reminded her. “Been there, done that.”

“Yes, I know, my dear,” she said gently, and she hugged him. “I’m sorry. I’m being terrible. I was so worried …” Tears stung her eyes.

He hugged her. “Jon’s going to be fine.”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “I thought the murders were neatly wrapped up. But there’s a new trail emerging. I just found out that the guy we think did this,” he indicated Jon, “has a brother-in-law who may also have been involved in Melly’s death.”

“What?” Cammy exclaimed, horrified.

“That’s not all. Now he’s after Joceline’s little boy.” He wasn’t certain of that, but it was a good guess.

Cammy was conflicted. She didn’t like that Joceline person. But she loved children. Anybody’s children. “That’s too bad.”

“It is.”

“She doesn’t have a live-in boyfriend or someone who could protect him?”

“Joceline lives alone. But I sent Rourke to watch the boy.”

“Rourke.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, on the other hand, he is a bachelor and of an age to marry.” She was thoughtful. If Joceline married Rourke, she’d move to South Africa, far from Jon. She smiled. “Perhaps they might like each other.”

Kilraven didn’t reply. He could see wheels turning in Cammy’s mind, and suddenly he felt sorry for Rourke.

JOCELINE dropped her things off at her apartment. She was going to be late getting Markie, but she’d phoned and the owner, especially under the circumstances, told her to take her time that she’d be glad to wait. She’d heard about Jon’s shooting on the news. She was very sorry. Not nearly as sorry as Joceline, who was sick and worried out of her mind.

If he died, how would she live with the secret she kept? It gnawed at her like a dog with a bone. She was so upset that her hands shook as she locked her door and went out to get into her car. She thought she saw a shadow move, but she was certain it was her imagination. She was so much on edge, she was seeing things.

She tried to put Jon’s condition in the back of her mind. She didn’t want to upset Markie. She thanked the owner profusely when she picked up Markie at the day care center. He had new drawings to show her. “This is my teacher,” he said, showing her a sketch he’d done, which was crude but recognizable. “And this is a dog that came to the playground. A man came in a truck and took him away,” he added sadly. “Will they kill him?”

“No! They’ll just find his owner. That’s all.” She smiled and hoped that it was the truth.

“I wish we could have a dog,” he said.

She fastened him into the backseat and got in behind the steering wheel. Of all the things about modern life that she disliked, this was her pet peeve. A child should sit beside its parent, not isolated in the backseat. Yes, air bags saved lives and they were dangerous and could kill a small child. But when she had been small, Joceline had ridden in the front seat of her father’s pickup truck, strapped in like a miniature adult, happy and laughing. Someone should figure out a child seat that could withstand the air bags going off, and allow kids to be closer to their parents.

She sighed as she pulled out into traffic. Her boss was going to be all right. He was going to be all right. She had to believe that, to save her own sanity. Markie would be all right, too. Rourke would watch out for him. She didn’t have to like Rourke to know that he was good at his job—whatever it was, when he wasn’t doing favors for Kilraven. She started looking around to see if she could recognize the one-eyed lunatic in any passing cars.

“Mommy, are you looking for somebody?” Markie asked curiously.

She cleared her throat. “I’m just checking traffic, that’s all.”

“Isn’t your boss named Mr. Blackhawk? Somebody said he was shot. Is he dead?”

“No! He’s just wounded and in the hospital. He’s not dead,” she said at once.

“I’m glad. We played video games with him that night. I like him.”

She smiled sadly. “I like him, too.”

“Could we go and see him?” he asked.

Joceline, surprised, just stammered. “There’s an age limit, Markie,” she foundered. Well, there used to be. She wasn’t sure of modern hospital policy. It had been several years since she herself had been in one, when she’d had Markie.

“You mean I can’t see him?”

“Yes. That’s what I mean. His mother is with him.”

“Oh, that’s okay, then.”

Joceline had other thoughts about that, but she didn’t share them. “How about an ice-cream cone?” she asked.

“Wow! Could we?”

“Yes.” It was the little things, she considered, that made life bearable. Even the hard times were smoothed over by something simple and comforting.

She stopped at an ice-cream parlor and ordered two cones, strawberry for herself and butter pecan for Markie. She handed his to him with a smile.

He licked it and laughed up at her with sparkling eyes. He was going to be handsome when he was older, she thought. She thanked God every day that he looked more like her than his father.

When they got home, just after dark, the front door was standing open.

“Stay here,” Joceline told Markie firmly.

“What is it, Mommy?”

She didn’t answer. She went to a point where she could see the front door. Nothing was visible inside it. She knew better than to walk into the apartment. Someone had broken in. Someone who might still be in there, might be armed, might want to kill Joceline and Markie just for their closeness to Jon Blackhawk …!

“Well!” came a deeply accented voice from inside the apartment. “It’s a good thing you didn’t come home sooner.”

And Rourke appeared in the doorway, big and handsome and smiling.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“ROURKE!” JOCELINE EXCLAIMED. “You idiot! You scared me to death!”

He strode down the steps, his hands in his pockets, whistling. He was tall and lean and muscular, with long blond hair in a ponytail down his back. He had one light brown eye. The other was hidden under a rakish black eye patch. “Now, darlin’, if I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d have had a very bad shock when you opened that front door. Hi, little feller. How are you?” he asked the small boy in the backseat in a very pronounced South African accent.

“I’m good,” Markie said. “Who are you?”

“Rourke,” was the amused reply.

“You only got one eye.”

“I noticed,” Rourke told him, not taking offense.

“I’m sorry.”

The man looked at the boy with a visible softening. “Nice of you to say that.”

“Did some mean man hurt you?”

“You might say that,” Rourke replied.

“I like your eye patch. You could be a pirate on Halloween.”

Rourke burst out laughing. “You know, I’ve been called a pirate a time or two.” He looked pointedly at Joceline.

“Why are you here, and what’s wrong with the apartment?” she asked worriedly.

“Nothing major. Step over here a bit.” He smiled reassuringly at Markie. But when he turned back to Joceline, his hard face was solemn. “Someone had a go at your desk. At a guess, they were looking for something. Any idea what?”

Her heart stopped. She had no important papers, nothing that would interest an outsider. There was only the usual things, bank deposit records, tax information, Markie’s birth certificate and her own, nothing … nothing … There was her diary!

She brushed past Rourke and ran into the apartment in a panic. She kept the diary in her bedside table, but it was under a mass of other objects, like paperbacks and a pad and pen, over-the-counter analgesics, booklets and instructions for electronic things like her clock. She fumbled in the drawer, horrified at some of the things she’d written down. It had never occurred to her than anyone would rob her!

She pulled out books, scattering them, scared to death. But then, there it was, at the bottom of the drawer, its small lock intact. It hadn’t been opened. She clutched it to her breast and shivered with reaction.

“Something damaging in there, I presume?” Rourke asked gently.

She looked at him with sick fear. “People write things that they never should.”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

She drew in a harsh breath. “I’d better burn it, I think.”

“Put it in the bank, in a safe-deposit box,” he suggested.

She stared at him. “Along with my diamond collection and my gold bars.”

He laughed.

“Listen, I can barely pay the rent. There’s no money for extras. It’s better to destroy it. No good could come of keeping it, anyway.”

“Keeping what, Mommy?” Markie asked as he joined them. Rourke had brought him inside the minute Joceline vanished into the apartment.

She grimaced at her lack of instinct, leaving Markie alone in the car.

“It’s all right, I’ve got your back,” Rourke assured her with a smile.

“It’s just a diary, Markie,” Joceline told him. “I wanted to make sure I knew where it was, that’s all.”

“Can I read it?”

She swallowed. “When you’re older.” “Okay.”

Rourke was watching her through a narrowed pale brown eye. Something in that diary was enough to make her panic. He wondered what it was.

THE REST of the apartment was seemingly untouched, at first glance. Joceline was nervous. Someone had touched her things, invaded her privacy. She felt violated. Now she wondered if she needed new locks.

“Yes, you do,” Rourke said when she mentioned it. “I’ll install dead bolts tomorrow. Do you need permission from the landlord?”

She shook her head. “I asked once before and the manager approved it, in writing. I just didn’t get around to it.”

Rourke nodded.

Her expression was briefly unguarded as she looked up at him. “I wasn’t scared before,” she said unsteadily.

His one eye narrowed, and his lean face hardened. “Any normal human being would be afraid for a child,” he said quietly, so that Markie didn’t hear.

She turned on the small television. “Time for someone’s favorite show, I believe?” she teased, putting Markie in his little beanbag chair in front of the TV.

He giggled. “I love this one,” he told her, and immediately became entranced by the cartoon characters on the screen.

“He can already pick out certain characters in Japanese just by watching that cartoon,” Joceline told Rourke. “I think he may have a flair for languages.”

“Do you speak any?” he asked without appearing to care.

She laughed. “I can barely speak my own language.”

“Then he must get it from his father or someone else in his family,” he said easily.

Joceline went pale. “You think so? I’d better check and make sure nothing was taken.” Which brought back the enormity of having her apartment ransacked. She was terrified and trying not to show it, because she didn’t want to upset Markie

She went quickly from room to room and found that though she’d thought nothing else had been touched, she was wrong. There were papers scattered, drawers askew, even chair cushions upended.

“What in the world could they have been looking for?” she wondered uneasily.

“What sort of important papers do you keep here, besides that diary?” Rourke asked, nodding toward the diary that she was holding so tightly in one hand.

She pushed back her hair and looked around worriedly. “Nothing much. The usual bills and important papers. Birth certificates.”

“Are they all here?”

She went to the folder where she kept her personal documents, in a cheap cardboard filing cabinet, and pulled out the file folder. There was nothing that would prove anything. She’d been very careful about that.

She opened the folder and looked inside, and sighed with helpless relief. “Everything’s right here,” she said, and laughed unsteadily.

Rourke’s eyes were narrow and thoughtful. He wasn’t going to tell her that there were ways to collect documents without physically removing them. Any good agent carried a tiny camera, often disguised as a cigarette lighter or pen. A lock on a diary was so simple to open that a beginner could do it with ease, and without leaving any telltale mark of tampering. She was unusually worried about that diary and some of her important papers. Why?

She saw his mind working and her face tautened. “Don’t pry.”

“Was I prying?” he exclaimed, and grinned.

“You were thinking about it,” she accused.

“Pretty and smart and reads minds, too,” he teased.

She flushed. “Let’s leave it at ‘smart.’”

“And doesn’t like flattery. I’m taking notes,” he added. He smiled at her. “How would you feel about living in Africa?”