Annabelle hardly noticed when he reached down and locked the door, then pressed her back against it. What was it about this man that defeated every defense she attempted to erect? His touch made her forget her doubts. The taste of him awakened a craving within her so intense that she disregarded all her misgivings. And worst of all, the words he murmured over and over and over again . . . against her ears . . . against her throat . . . against the breasts he bared to his seeking mouth . . . those three little words seduced her to his will. Totally. Completely.
He entered her with one hard thrust. ‘‘I love you.’’
And Annabelle knew that, like it or not, she was his, now and forever.
But before she could put the thought into words, he moved. Ruthlessly, relentlessly, he took her, and Annabelle threw her head back and rocked against him, everything but this vicious need he’d created within her wiped from her mind. He drove her up until she quivered helplessly, poised at the precipice. Writhing. Waiting. Begging.
And then she fell; she flew; she soared, riding a wave of pleasure so intense that she was only vaguely aware when his hard body went rigid. When his body shuddered. When he muffled a groan against her neck.
She collapsed against him, her breathing rapid, her heart clubbing the walls of her chest; she was wishing they could stay as such forever when his lips said yet again, ‘‘I love you. I love you. I love you.’’
He loves me. I love him. He’s mine. My Mark. My husband.
Annabelle put all thought of killers and hospitals and babies born or yet to be conceived from her mind and concentrated on the moment. On the reality of their love.
And that maybe, just maybe, he loved her enough.
In the aftermath, Annabelle struggled to orient herself. She was . . . where? She blinked twice and made herself focus. A hospital linen closet. Her shorts were gone; her panties were in tatters. Her bra hung open, its front clasp undone, but she still wore her shirt and her sandals.
‘‘Oh, for God’s sake, Callahan. What did we just do?’’ She glanced around and took in the stacks of towels, a mop, a bucket, and a pile of tabloids the maids had collected.
In a thick, sleepy drawl, he said, ‘‘If you don’t know, then I didn’t do a very good job of it.’’
‘‘I can’t believe this,’’ Annabelle muttered. ‘‘Of all the stupid, idiotic, unconscionable things to do.’’
‘‘Unconscionable?’’
She grabbed her panties, surveyed the tears, then gave up on them and pulled on her shorts commando. She shoved the tattered panties into her pocket. ‘‘Yes, unconscionable. For all we know, Ron Kurtz could be standing outside this door ready to take a shot at us.’’
‘‘Well, if that’s the case, then I feel even better about what we just did.’’ He yanked up his pants and Annabelle was mortified to realize that he’d never taken them off. They truly were depraved. ‘‘And I have to tell you, sweetheart, I’m feeling pretty damned good right about now.’’
Annabelle paused from fastening her bra long enough to snarl at him, though she was trying hard not to laugh.
‘‘Oh, darlin’, don’t beat yourself up. In a way, we had a brush with death today, and it’s only natural to want to reaffirm life in a mutual expression of love.’’
She instinctively made a fist and had to stop herself from swinging. ‘‘You know something, Callahan? I’ve forgotten how chipper you get after you’ve been laid. Did I ever mention how obnoxious that is?’’
He winked, grinned, and said, ‘‘I love you, Annabelle.’’
She made a growl of frustration and reached for the doorknob. After giving it half a turn, she paused and glanced back over her shoulder. ‘‘You didn’t use a condom.’’
‘‘You’re right.’’
‘‘I could get pregnant.’’
He waited a beat, stared into her eyes, and said, ‘‘Annabelle, that wouldn’t bother me one bit.’’
Holy hell. She didn’t have a clue how to react to that, so what she did was throw open the door to flee. ‘‘I’ll go check on the twins in the playroom.’’
Damned if she didn’t hear his laughter follow her down the hall.
Once away from him, Annabelle waited for the doubts and regrets to grab her. Instead, she discovered a buoyancy to her step as joy and hope crept into her heart.
Maybe, just maybe, they had a future, after all.
From his position in the doorway of the public ICU waiting room, Ron Kurtz watched Annabelle Monroe stride down the hospital corridor, looking a little mussed following her interlude in the closet with Callahan. So, the two of them were an item. Talk about an unanticipated, but welcome, turn of events. It opened up all sorts of intriguing possibilities.
Callahan himself stepped out of the closet, and as rage flared in his veins, Kurtz’s hand went instinctively to his handbag. These big tote bags women carried now certainly came in handy when a man dressed in a dress needed a place to stash his .45, not to mention his knife and his knuckle-duster.
With his prey so close and unaware, the urge to precipitously end the game almost overwhelmed him, but this new development where Monroe was concerned stayed his hand. If Monroe was more to Callahan than an easy lay—and from what he remembered about Annabelle, he doubted ‘‘easy’’ had anything to do with it—then taking her out along with part of his family would turn Callahan into a raving loon. He’d be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.
‘‘I love it,’’ he said softly as he watched Mark Callahan pause and speak to the guard at the door of what served as the family’s private waiting room. Then, after a subtle adjustment to his wig, he hooked his handbag over his shoulder and followed Monroe.
He caught up to her while she stood in front of the elevator. The button with the arrow pointed down glowed yellow.
Kurtz decided to use the stairs. He took them two at a time and paused on the second-floor landing. Peering through the small window, he watched the elevator pass two headed for one. He exited the stair-well just behind Annabelle Monroe and indulged himself in the pleasure of watching her walk. Damn, but the woman had curves. Maybe he should incorporate a little private time for the two of them into his plan before he did her
. I could do her, before I do her,
he thought with a smirk.
She turned down a hallway marked WOMEN’S CENTER, and he figured she must be going to check on Callahan’s brother’s wife. Toward the center of the hallway, he spied a burly guy in a suit standing in front of a door. Another obvious member of security—a woman this time—held position in front of a set of double doors at the very end of the corridor. Hmm. Must have family in both places.
Some ten steps or so from the male guard, Monroe paused to speak to an old geezer wheeling his way down the hallway on a metallic blue walker. Kurtz slowed his steps and tuned in his ears.
The old guy was saying, ‘‘. . . my boys say you saved my daughter-in-law’s life by getting her here so fast.’’
‘‘We were fortunate to have the helicopter available,’’ Monroe replied as Kurtz walked past.
He sensed her gaze upon him and gave his purse a little hitch as a distraction. By then he stood parallel to the male guard and he stole a glance past him into the room. Plastic toys in bright, primary colors. A children’s playroom. A door connecting to an outdoor playground.
Aware of the wary gazes on his tail, Kurtz turned into the first hospital room he came to as if he belonged there. Luckily, the occupant of the private room’s bed was asleep and sawing logs.
Kurtz kept the door cracked and put his ear to the space. Annabelle was saying, ‘‘. . . looks like your granddaughters are having a good time with those wooden blocks.’’
‘‘Old-fashioned toys that don’t go out of style.’’
The geezer had to be Callahan’s father, Kurtz decided. This just kept getting better and better. And the granddaughters Monroe referred to must be the twins he’d heard about when he’d stopped in that coffee shop searching for gossip and a turkey sandwich for lunch.
‘‘Hmm . . . ,’’ he murmured. ‘‘So much family. So many choices. What’s a girl to do?’’
He waited until he heard Monroe and old man Callahan enter the playroom; then he closed the door and took a few minutes to sketch out a plan.
The easiest thing would be to kill them all and that particular idea did have some appeal. He could go in slick and quick and get out before anyone knew he’d been here. He imagined how Callahan would react when he walked into that playroom and found his lover, father, and nieces dead, knowing he’d failed to protect them, aware that their deaths could be laid right at his feet.
It’d kill him.
But it would be quick. Too quick.
Kurtz reached down and readjusted the padding for his boobs and considered the situation further. Callahan needed to hurt. He needed to anguish and ache and be ripped into painful little pieces. He needed to be tortured.
Kurtz’s gaze flickered over to the old lady snoring in the bed. He plotted; he planned. He pulled his gun from his purse and screwed the sound suppressor onto its barrel.
Then he ducked into the patient’s bathroom and touched up his makeup. When he decided his disguise would hold, he winked at his reflection in the mirror. ‘‘Torture Callahan? I know just how I want to do it.’’
Annabelle sat cross-legged on the floor, accepting blocks from Catherine and Samantha. She used the multicolored blocks to build two towers, which the girls knocked over with flailing arms and squeals of glee. Branch Callahan sat in a chair behind her, helpinghis granddaughters choose which colors to add to the stack next.
‘‘I’m feeling blue, Mitten,’’ his voice boomed.
‘‘Papa boo. Papa boo,’’ Samantha babbled.
Annabelle’s eyes widened as the toddler picked up a blue block and chucked it at her grandfather. Demonstrating quick instincts for a man his age, Branch caught the blue wooden cube inches before it would have hit his nose. ‘‘Whoa. Look at that. We need to get that girl a softball right away.’’
‘‘And gloves for the rest of us,’’ Annabelle replied with a laugh.
Branch chuckled and gazed at his granddaughters with eyes filled with tenderness and love. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Instead of a powerful, patriarchal villain, she saw a simple old man with arthritic joints who sincerely cared about his family. Watching him interact with Catherine and Samantha, Annabelle couldn’t help but think of another of Branch Callahan’s granddaughters. Considering that his actions all those years ago continued to have a real effect on her own life today, she wouldn’t mind hearing his side of the story.
His thoughts might have traveled in a similar direction, because the next time he spoke, he said, ‘‘I understand that you and my son Mark are close.’’
Her lips twisted wryly. ‘‘Sometimes closer than others.’’
‘‘You know, he would hate to hear me say this, but of all my boys, Mark is the most like me.’’
She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘‘You’re right. He would hate to hear you say that.’’
‘‘I know, but it’s true. We are both stubborn cusses with heads hard as stone.’’
Annabelle wouldn’t argue with that.
‘‘I like to think I’m a little softer now than I was back in the day, but Mark . . .’’ He sighed. ‘‘Damn near impossible to move him off a position once he’s taken a stand.’’
She wouldn’t argue with that, either.
‘‘I’ve made a million mistakes in my life, missy. Hell, probably a billion. It’s the mistakes I made with my boys that top the list of my biggest regrets. I’d trade my life to change them, but . . .’’ He gave his shoulders a weary, weighted shrug. ‘‘Some things . . . you just can’t fix. Some things are beyond a man’s power, and other times trying to fix ’em would only make ’em worse. I think that’s one of the harder lessons I’ve had to learn in this old life. By nature, I’m a fixer, Ms. Monroe. It’s been a bitch kitty to accept that there are some things in this world I just can’t fix.’’
A fixer. Annabelle couldn’t help but smile at the irony.
Like father, like son.
She wondered if he had any clue about Mark’s work with the team. Probably not.
‘‘Mark told me about his wife and child, Mr. Callahan.’’
‘‘So you know, then.’’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘‘Hell. If I could only live those decisions over again. I never guessed he’d take it so hard.’’
He raked his hand through his hair, repeating the gesture she’d seen Mark do countless times. Compassion melted a corner of her heart.
‘‘Before I die, I hope . . . I pray . . . he’ll let me explain,’’ Branch continued. ‘‘Not excuse, mind you, but explain. I feel a powerful need to make it right with him, but I’m afraid. . . .’’
‘‘Mr. Callahan.’’
‘‘Call me Branch, please. And, Annabelle? Just in case that doesn’t happen, I want you to know that I’ve written him letters. Been writing them for years. They tell the whole story. If after I’m dead and buried, hell freezes over and he changes his mind . . . well . . . it’ll be there for him.’’
‘‘Actually, Branch, I think there might just be a cool breeze knocking at the door to Hades now.’’
He sat up straight. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘I think there is a chance he might be mellowing a bit.’’
The old man’s eyes widened and filled with hope. ‘‘Really? You think he’ll listen to me?’’
Annabelle’s teeth tugged at her lower lip. She didn’t want to give the man false hope. ‘‘I don’t know that he’s ready to sit down with you right now, but—’’
‘‘The letters.’’ Branch gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. ‘‘The letters. Maybe he’ll read the letters. That’s the best way, anyway. I say it all there. Everything. About his wife and the baby. About John.’’
‘‘Papa, Papa, Papa,’’ little Catherine said, holding her arms up for him to lift her.
‘‘Later, Kitten. Papa’s gotta go now.’’ He grabbed his walker and wheeled himself toward the door, speaking to his assigned security guard as he exited the playroom. ‘‘C’mon, Jeeves. We need to make a quick run home.’’