Untameable: Merciless

“I am not leaving the country with you,” she said firmly.

“I have a nice little place there in Kenya, with a pet lion.”

“A lion? You got a lion?” Markie was out of his chair in a flash, looking up at the tall blond man. “Could I pet it?”

“You could even ride him,” Rourke assured him with a big smile. “He’s very tame. I raised him from a cub. Poachers got his mum.”

“Oh, that’s very sad,” Markie said. “I would feed him hamburgers, if I had a lion.”

“I don’t think they’d like it if you tried to keep him in your apartment,” Rourke assured him.

“These two guys in England did just that.” Joceline chuckled. “It was viral on the web about two years ago. Two boys bought a lion cub and kept it in their apartment, then they had to let it go to a preserve in Africa because it got so big. They went to see it, despite people warning that it was wild and would attack them. But it ran right up to them and put its paws on their shoulders and started rubbing its head against them. It even took them to see its mate.” She sighed. “I cried like a baby, watching it. They had the story on the news. Afterward, I sent a little check to the foundation that took in the boys’ pet.”

“Wild animals aren’t so very wild after all,” Rourke agreed. “Pity so many people see them as a way to quick profits.”

“Oh, I do agree,” Joceline said.

“See how much we have in common?” he asked.

“I want to go to Africa and see his lion,” Markie announced. “Can we go now?”

“Logistics aside,” Joceline told him gently, “I do have a job and you have to go to school tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He thought about that for a minute. “Can we go Saturday, then?”

Both adults laughed.

“Children make impossible things seem so uncomplicated,” Rourke remarked when Markie had gone back to his program and Joceline was serving up cups of strong black coffee. He wondered if her budget would stretch to giving free coffee to visitors, and decided that he’d bring her a pound of his special South African coffee next time he came over.

“Yes. Markie’s had a hard time of it,” she remarked with a sigh. “He has asthma and his lungs aren’t strong. We spend a lot of time in doctors’ offices.”

“There are allergy shots,” he said helpfully.

“He takes them,” she said. “And they help. But if he’s stressed or exposed to viruses, he gets sick easier than most kids do.”

“He’s a fine little boy,” he remarked, glancing at him. “You’ve done well.”

“Thanks.”

The diary was lying beside her right hand. She hadn’t let it out of her sight since they’d been in the apartment. It wasn’t really his business, but he was quite curious about what dark secrets she was keeping.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked, indicating it.

“Tear it up and burn it,” she said at once. “It must never be read by anyone except me. Ever.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Stop speculating.”

His eyebrows arched.

“My, you can say a lot without opening your mouth,” she muttered.

“Facial expressions 101,” he replied.

“Will they come back, you think?” she asked worriedly.

He shook his head. “Either they found what they were looking for, or it wasn’t here.”

“Found …?” She was staring at him with stark horror. She looked again at the diary. It was locked. Then she remembered something she’d heard from a visitor from a covert agency, about how easy it was to pick a lock and photograph a document. Her face went pale.

“Joceline,” he said gently, reading her horror, “what do you have in there that’s so frightening?”

“A great source of blackmail if I were rich,” she said heavily. She smoothed her hand over the diary. “But I’m not rich. And I can’t imagine what use anyone else would have for it.” That wasn’t quite true. The right person could do a lot of damage with the information in that little book. She shuddered to think what a criminal like Monroe could do with it.

“You mustn’t worry,” Rourke said gently. “I’ll check around and see what I can dig out. I have all sorts of sources.”

She searched his expression worriedly. “I’m not afraid for myself. I don’t want anyone else hurt.”

“You think someone else could be?”

She swallowed. “Yes.”

“What tangled webs we weave,” he murmured, alluding to a poem about deception.

“Indeed.” She sipped rapidly cooling coffee. “We make choices. Then we live with them.”

“Do you think you made the right one?” he asked.

She smiled. “I made the only one I could.” She looked toward her son, who was oblivious to everything except the Japanese manga on the television. “I’ve never regretted it.”

“He’s quite a boy.”

“Thanks.”

“His dad died in the service, I understand?” He didn’t look at her as he said it.

“Overseas. In the military.”

“Sad.”

“Very.” She got up. “More coffee?”

He chuckled. “No, thanks. I tend to be wired even at good times. Too much caffeine can be a real killer, in my case.”

“I drink too much of it,” she confessed.

He got to his feet. “I’ll get working on those locks. Do you go back to the office tomorrow?”

She hesitated. “Well, I don’t know,” she said suddenly. “My boss won’t be there, and the only cases I’m working are his …”

Just as she said it, the phone rang.

She got up to answer it, hesitated, with her hand outstretched as if she were about to put it into fire.

She jerked it up. “Hello?”

There was a long silence.

Her blood felt as if it froze. “Hello?” she repeated.

The line went dead.

She turned and looked at Rourke with absolute horror.

He took the receiver from her, punched in some numbers, listened and then spoke. “Yeah,” he said to someone. “Do it quick. I want to know what brand of liquor he drinks in ten minutes or less. Just do it.” He hung up. Joceline was amazed at how authoritative, and how businesslike, he could be when he wasn’t clowning around.

“You have it tapped,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied curtly. “The minute I pulled into the driveway.”

She bit her lower lip. “I’m glad you came over.”

His eyebrows arched. His one eye twinkled. “You are? I can have a marriage license drawn up in less than an hour …!”

“Stop that,” she muttered. “I’m not going to get married.”

“But I have my own teeth,” he protested. “And I don’t even have a gray hair yet.”

“That has nothing to do with it.”

“A man with good teeth and no gray hair is a fine matrimonial prospect. I can also speak six impossibly difficult languages, including Afrikaans,” he added.

She went to clean the coffeepot, shaking her head the whole way.

ROURKE installed dead bolts and window locks. He also brought thermal curtains, heavy ones, for the windows. He didn’t tell her that a sniper would have a field day with the block of apartments overlooking hers. She wouldn’t have thought that anyone would be crazy enough to shoot at her or the boy.

That diary really puzzled him. He went out to get something to eat, and while he was out, he made two more telephone calls. Joceline would have had a heart attack if she’d heard the topic of discussion.

JOCELINE DIDN’T SLEEP WELL. She was certainly safe enough. Rourke had kipped down on the sofa in the living room, despite her protests, fully dressed. She was uncomfortable with a man in her apartment, but she couldn’t say much. That phone call with just heavy breathing had terrified her. She wasn’t afraid for herself, but she was afraid for Markie. There were good reasons that she didn’t advertise anything about his beginnings. Now they could serve to end his young life.

She tossed and turned. Jon would be all right, Kilraven had told her he was certain of it. But she couldn’t get the picture of his white face and closed eyes and bloodstained lips out of her mind. He was such a strong, lively man that it was more disturbing to see him helpless. If he died, she didn’t know what she’d do. She’d made decisions that had come back to haunt her. Perhaps she shouldn’t have kept secrets. It had seemed the only possibility at the time. But, now …

She got up just before daylight and went into the kitchen to make breakfast, bleary-eyed and sleepy.

Rourke glanced into the kitchen. She was already fully dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt. She wouldn’t wear that rig to work, of course, but she wasn’t making food in her nightgown with a strange man in her apartment.

“Hungry?” she asked, smiling as he joined her in the doorway.

“I could eat. Cereal?” he asked.

“Oh, no. I make biscuits and eggs and bacon for Markie. I want to send him to school with a good breakfast.”

“Biscuits? Real biscuits?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes.” She got out a wrought-iron skillet. “I make them in this,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the coal-black surface. “It belonged to my great-grandmother. It’s the only real heirloom I have.”

“Impressive,” he said, and meant it. “I haven’t seen one of these since I was a kid myself.”

She smiled. “It brings back a lot of memories.”

“Did you know your great-grandmother?”

“Oh, no, she died before I was even born. But my grandmother talked about her all the time.”

He frowned. “What about your parents?”

She swallowed. “My father died, years ago. My mother and I don’t speak.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too. It would have been nice if Markie had some grandparents of his own.”

He pursed his lips and watched her deft hands make the dough and roll it out and cut it.

“You do that very well,” he said.

She laughed. “I’ve had lots of practice.”

“You can cook. But you won’t make coffee at the office.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” she replied. “If I start doing menial tasks, I won’t ever stop. My job is demanding. I spend most of the day on the phone trying to track down information, talking to people, making contacts. There’s a rhythm. If I break it to go make coffee or start serving it to visitors, I lose my concentration.”

“I see.”

“My boss doesn’t,” she said with a wicked little grin. “But over the years he’s learned to accept it.” She put the biscuits in the preheated oven. “He looked terrible,” she said, her expression far away.

“Gunshot victims mostly do,” he said. “But his injuries were slight, compared to what they could have been, I assure you.”

She turned to look at him. “You think he’ll really be all right?” she asked, concerned.

“Of course.”

She studied him intently for a moment. “You’ve been shot,” she said.

He nodded, and he didn’t smile. “Twice. Once in the chest, once in the leg. Neither occasion was pleasant.”

“They say Africa is a very dangerous place.”

“It is,” he agreed. “It depends on where you go. But violence is international. You find it in a lot of places.”

“I guess so.”

“I am South African, but I have a place in Kenya, near a game preserve,” he told her, and his expression was wistful. “I have a manager there to oversee it, but I miss being able to do that myself. I spend a lot of time traveling. More than I like.”

“You work in a dangerous profession.”

He pursed his lips. “Dear girl, you don’t know what my profession is.”

“Oh, I think I could make an educated guess,” she retorted.

“Which would be wrong. I don’t work outside the law.”

“Well!”

He nodded. “You remember that.”

She laughed and shook her head.

SHE TOOK Markie to school. She took time to talk to Mr. Morrison about the break-in and the threat by Monroe. He was furious that someone would threaten a child. He promised to keep a careful eye on Markie and make sure his teacher knew the situation.

Then she drove to the hospital. She knew she was going to have a war trying to get past Cammy Blackhawk, but she was going anyway. She couldn’t go on with her job and her life without knowing for herself how Jon was.

She walked into the lobby and up to the desk, to ask which room in ICU he was in and if she could see him. But they’d already moved him out of ICU into a room, she was told. Her heart lifted. He couldn’t be dying if they’d done that!

It turned out to be a private room on the second floor, very clean and bright. She stopped in the doorway, gripping her purse, waiting for Cammy to explode out into the hall and tell her to go away.

Jon turned his head on the pillow and spotted her. His dark eyes brightened. “Come in.”

She looked around warily.

“She’s not here.” His voice was strained. “She’s gone shopping with the fashion adviser.”

She laughed then walked to the bed and looked down at him quietly. “I’m glad you’re better.”

“I’m better?” he asked with a grimace.

“You must be, or you’d still be occupying a cubicle in ICU,” she assured him. “I called the office but they said I didn’t have to go in today. I told them I was coming to see you,” she added. “Everyone sends their regards and some of the other agents in your squad are coming to see you as soon as visitors are allowed.”

“I work with a great group of people.” He drew in a painful breath. “I’m going home to Oklahoma, to the ranch, when they release me. I won’t be able to work at the office for a couple of weeks, and the scenery is better there. So is the security,” he added grimly. He looked at her pointedly. “You’re coming with me.”

Her heart flipped over. “I … I … what?”

“You and the child,” he said curtly. “Rourke told my brother what happened. You’re not going to be killed because I made an enemy.”

Her legs felt wobbly. “I can’t go to Oklahoma,” she said quickly. “I’d have to take a leave of absence and take Markie out of school …!”

“Details that can be worked out quite easily. I sent Mac to deal with all that.” He waved an elegant hand and winced at the movement.

“But …!”

“Don’t argue,” he said heavily. “I’m in no condition for a fight.”

She bit her lower lip. There were a dozen good reasons why she shouldn’t let Markie be anywhere around this man, ever. She couldn’t find an argument that would work without telling the truth, which would never do.

“It’s a nice ranch,” he said curtly. “Your son loves animals. He can even ride a horse.”

“No!”

“Joceline, both Mac and I were riding ponies at the age of three,” he told her. “I wouldn’t let him get hurt. We have cowboys trained to work with disabled children who come to the ranch to ride our horses.”

“You do?” She was surprised. She’d never thought that disabled people could ride.

“Yes.” He shifted and grimaced. He was sore and sick. He hated being confined to a bed, being hospitalized. It was the first time in his law enforcement career that he’d suffered a bullet wound. He could remember vividly the sense of sudden slowing when the bullet hit. He’d not felt the pain at first, just a hard blow, like a fist in his back. Then everything slowed down and he saw the sidewalk coming up to hit him, and felt blood in his mouth. It had been an absolute shock.

“You shouldn’t be moving around,” Joceline said, concerned. “You might reopen the wound.”

He glared at her. “I have my mother to harass me about such things. I don’t need you to help her!”

She bit her lip again. Faint color touched her cheeks. “Sorry. Slip of the tongue. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.

He laughed despite himself and then groaned, because it hurt.

“Another slip. Very sorry,” she said quickly. “I just wanted to see you, to make sure that you were all right.”

“I got shot,” he said icily. “I’m not all right!”

“You’re not dead, either,” she reminded him.

He sank back on the pillows and fiddled with the lightweight sheet and blanket that covered him. The hospital gown was barely visible above it. “I’m freezing to death,” he muttered. “I want a real blanket and a comforter. And I want to go home!”

The nurse stuck her head around the door and grimaced. “Sir, could you complain in a little quieter manner?” she asked gently. “There’s a gentleman next door recuperating from a knife wound. He’s trying to sleep.”

Jon glared at her.

She cleared her throat, and walked back out.

Jon muttered unspeakable things under his breath.

“Your mother will have kittens if you even suggest taking me to Oklahoma,” Joceline told him firmly. “I cannot work in a combat zone.”

He sighed. “Neither can I, really, but what sort of choice do we have?” he asked. His black eyes narrowed. “Rourke told me that you had a break-in at your apartment and that there was a harassing phone call.”

She looked as tired as she felt. “Yes. We had to call the police and have them investigate. Markie was scared to death until one of the investigators gave him a piece of chewing gum and enthused over his Diego toys,” she added, alluding to a children’s program on TV.

Jon was surprised. “Not your typical investigator.”

“It was Rick Marquez,” she said, laughing. “He’s sort of in a class all his own. He knows Rourke, too, apparently.”

“Most people in law enforcement know Rourke, or know about him,” he added. He shifted and grimaced again. “I don’t want you alone in your apartment until we get the case wrapped up. Peppy may have been involved in my niece’s murder. If that’s the case, and he’s helping Monroe get even with me, he’d have no problem shooting another child,” he added meaningfully. He didn’t say that he was convinced that Monroe would never have been able to carry out the shooting without flubbing it.

She knew what he was referring to. It made her pale. “That being said, I would feel safer at your ranch. I understand you have at least one retired federal agent on your payroll.”

“We have three,” he corrected, “plus a former hit man for the mob.”

She stared at him without blinking.

He laughed. “He was very young and desperate when he did his first job. He was tricked into it and he didn’t fire the fatal shot. He did go to prison and he was able to redeem himself before he became a hardened criminal. He did his time and paid the price. It was twenty-five years ago. He needed a job when he got out and he’d worked with livestock at the prison where he served his time. I talked to him there several times when I was interviewing convicts on current cases.”

She was still leery.

“You’ll understand when you meet him. I’ll have our private jet fly you and Markie up there tomorrow.”

“Your mother …”

“She’s on her way to Paris tonight, with the fashion consultant, to see the new spring lines,” he said in a droll tone. “I promised to call her daily about my progress. She’ll never know you were there.”

“You should tell her,” she said worriedly.

“If I do, you’ll never arrive. She’ll commandeer the plane and land you on a desert island somewhere.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

“It’s only for a few days. When you come home, we’ll have to make some sort of security arrangements to keep you and Markie safe. I’ve already talked to the SAC about giving you time off to help me work on cases at the ranch.”

She hated her financial inability to do anything about that, but she had no choice except to accept help. She couldn’t put Markie at risk.

“It will be all right,” he assured her.

“Nothing ever really is,” she mused. She smiled. “I’m glad you’re getting better.” She looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

“I’ll have the pilot phone you tonight,” he told her. “Is Rourke staying?”

She glowered at him. “Yes. He won’t leave and I’m not strong enough to pick him up and toss him out the door.”

He smiled. “He’s the best at what he does. Don’t argue.”

“Okay.”

His eyes searched hers and held them. It was like a mild electric shock. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Joceline.” His deep voice was almost purring.

She drew in a steadying breath. Her heart was turning cartwheels. “Okay.”

He smiled. “Thanks for coming to see about me.”

She shifted. “It’s in my job description. Take dictation, run down leads, keep a neat filing system online and come see the boss when some idiot shoots him.” She glanced at him. “But I don’t make coffee.”

He just shook his head. But there was a light in his dark eyes that was puzzling. She thought about it all the way home.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE PLANE WAS a small jet. Joceline was surprised at the luxury inside. The plane had a cabin that was more luxurious than the best hotel she’d ever seen. It had everything from thick blankets to wrap around Markie to beverage service, and even meals.

“We try to make sure that our bosses have everything they need when we fly.” The steward chuckled.

“It’s very nice of Mr. Blackhawk to let us fly up,” Joceline told him. “My car would never make it to Dallas, much less Oklahoma,” she added with a laugh.

He laughed. “I know what you mean. Until I landed this job, I considered any vehicle with less than a hundred thousand miles on it as brand-new.”

She leaned forward. “Mine just turned over on a hundred thousand. But it’s one of those little Japanese imports and in great mechanical shape. It should go for a few more miles.”

“I agree. They’re great cars for people on budgets. Hey, sport,” he told Markie, “you ever seen the inside of a cockpit?”

“No,” Markie replied from inside the blanket.

“Want to?”

He sat up. “You mean it?”

“I do.”

He pushed off the blanket. “Sure!”

“Come on, then,” the steward said with a grin, and held out his hand.

“It’s okay?” Markie asked his mother.

“Certainly,” she assured him, smiling.

He went with the steward and Joceline sat back in her seat, worrying again. So much turmoil in her life, in such a short time. She was sick with fear and she couldn’t let it show because it would upset Markie. She was afraid to be in the apartment, but even more afraid to go to the Blackhawk family ranch. She’d kept Markie separate from her work all his life, away from her boss and his family. It was awkward and difficult, this trip. But she comforted herself with the knowledge that it was only for a couple of days. Surely in that short length of time, nobody would pry.

She closed her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping well. She kept seeing Jon’s pale face and bloodstained lips the night they’d taken him to the hospital. He could have died without ever knowing …

She bit down hard on that thought. He could never know. She’d made a hard decision and now she had to live with it. She closed her eyes and was suddenly asleep before she knew it.

“MA’AM?”

She heard the voice through a fog. She’d been riding an elephant and carrying a buffalo rifle, dressed in buckskins and a floppy hat yelling “Lay on, McDuff!” to someone in the distance.

She opened her eyes and blurted out the dream, laughing.

“Something you ate, maybe?” the steward asked with twinkling eyes.

“Must have been something awful,” she agreed, sitting up straight. “An elephant of all things, and carrying a Sharps buffalo rifle, .50 caliber.” She shook her head. “I guess it was that first-person account of a fight Quanah Parker was in that I’ve been reading.”

“The one they call the fight of Adobe Walls, where Comanches led by Quanah Parker, outnumbered them something like five-to-one, got into it with a handful of buffalo hunters armed with those rifles and they fought him off?”

She grinned. “The very one. Quanah Parker was quite a guy.”

The steward nodded. “His mother was white, a captive who was married to the chief of that particular Comanche tribe,” he added. “The whites traded for her and took her, forcibly, back home. She tried over and over to escape and go back, but she couldn’t. She just died.”

She shook her head. “She loved her Comanche husband. And he never remarried. People are always trying to make other people do what they want,” she said with a quiet smile. “Nothing ever changes much.”