Saving Alyssa (Mills & Boon Heartwarming) (15 page)

Billie's cell phone rang, shattering the moment. Giving Alyssa's hair an affectionate tousle, she read the number in the caller ID window.

“Uh-oh,” she said. “It's my mom.” She pointed at the deck door. “Be right back.”

Alyssa helped herself to a handful of popcorn as Billie stepped outside.

“Where did that come from?” he asked, popping a kernel into his mouth.

“I wanted a snack after Billie brought me home last night. She didn't think you'd like me eating sweets so close to bedtime, so she made popcorn.”

“Good woman,” he said, watching as she leaned against the railing. As she nodded. Shook her head. Shrugged. And tipped her head back to laugh. Did she throw herself wholly into
everything
this way? Yeah, something told him she did. Which made it harder still to accept that she could never be more than a friendly acquaintance.

She did a little jig. Marched in place. What in the world had her mother said to inspire that!

Noah didn't need to hear the discussion to know that Billie and her mom shared a warm, loving relationship. He'd always gotten along well with his parents, too. Oh, what he'd give to have an ordinary conversation with his mom, his dad, his sister Grace, like Billie was enjoying now! If it had been any other woman out there, enjoying an animated exchange with a family member, he'd wonder if she appreciated just how lucky she was. But it wasn't any other woman out there. It was Billie Landon, who didn't know how to do anything halfway. Exactly the type of woman who could make him break his Stay Single rule. If he had a mind to break it. Which he couldn't.

Liar,
he told himself as she reentered the kitchen.

“For the first time in my life,” she said, “I believe those doomsday people might be on to something.”

Noah chuckled. “What?”

“I invited my folks here for Thanksgiving, and I knew it was going to be crowded and maybe a little crazy, but she just canceled the holiday, and that has
never
happened before.”

“Nobody's sick, I hope.”

“No, no, nothing like that. My brother Todd—Troy's twin—and his wife are going on a cruise, and they invited Mom and Dad to go with them.” Billie grabbed a small handful of popcorn. “And they're going. More proof that the end of the world must be near, because my mother hates boats!” Laughing, Billie added, “I can hardly wait to see Troy's face when I tell him!” She popped a few kernels into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Guess it'll just be the five of us, then.”

“Five...?”

She tapped the kitchen table with every name she mentioned: “Troy, Bud, Alyssa, you and me.”

Meaning this year they'd have a full-fledged, eat-till-you-drop meal? Sure would beat the turkey TV dinners they'd eaten the past three years. “That's three more than we're used to, isn't it, cupcake?”

“Yes. It is.” Alyssa turned toward Billie. “Have you made Thanksgiving dinner before?”

Billie already looked pretty angelic, in his opinion. The woman must be easy to please, because it took only his daughter's voice to sweeten the look.

“Are you kidding?” she countered. “Why, I can whip up a turkey-day meal that will make you swoon.”

Alyssa's brow furrowed. “What does
swoon
mean?”

“Faint.”

“Have you ever fainted, Daddy?”

“Not that I recall. But if people are gonna be dropping like flies, I can't think of a better reason.”

“Dropping like flies,” Alyssa echoed, rolling her eyes. “He says old-fashioned things like that
all
the time.”

When Billie aimed a sideways glance at Noah, his pulse quickened.

“I can believe that,” she said.

Alyssa picked two unpopped kernels from the bottom of the bowl and showed them to Noah. “What do you call these again?”

“Flopcorn,” he said.

Alyssa looked at Billie. “See? What did I tell you?”

She was gazing at him, not his little girl, when she said, “Then I guess it's a good thing I like old-fashioned things.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“W
HOA
. U
NCLE
H
ANK
.
You look like something the cat dragged in.”

O'Malley glared at his nephew. “You try spending three years in a place like this, see how
you
look.” He slapped his hand on the stainless tabletop. “Park it. I won't be talked down to.”

Nigel sat and folded big hands on the table. Did he realize how ridiculous he looked, O'Malley wondered, with his hair plugs, fake tan and too-white teeth? It galled him that this sycophant shopped at Chicago's exclusive George Greene, while
he
was forced to endure stiff, scratchy prison garb. He blamed his sister for a lot of what was wrong with Nigel. O'Malley sniggered. She'd named him
Nigel
....

“Do you have news for me, or did you just come here to show off your Zanone sweater?”

Nigel sniffed. “This is last year's—”

“News, Nigel. Plain and simple. What is your father doing these days?”

“
Dad
hasn't been doing anything,” his nephew began, “but my
brother
has been going through my drawers again.”

Thankfully, he'd remembered the plan, and picked up on the cues. “Hoping to find some Henri Lloyd socks, no doubt.”

Nigel flinched as if hit. Blanched. Poor dumb fool had no idea how to proceed. Hopefully, he wouldn't look at the camera hanging from the ceiling, because if he did, the game was over.

“Nigel. You know me. Always kidding.” O'Malley laughed, too long and too hard, but it bought him some time to think of a way to reassure his nephew. Time to send the coded message that he got it: “dad” meant the FBI, and “brother” the Marshals Service.

“I know perfectly well how much it upsets you when your brother pokes through your things. It upsets me, too. But don't you worry about it. Your brother will find something else to focus on soon, and when he does, he'll stop going through your stuff.”

Nigel exhaled the breath he'd been holding and removed his pricy leather jacket. He'd probably paid more for it than O'Malley had paid for his first car.

“Would you believe that wacky brother of mine has a girlfriend?”

Nigel laughed, a harsh nasal sound that reminded O'Malley of the Wicked Witch.

“Can you believe it?” he continued. “A tall redhead. Nice looking. Smart. And sneaky.”

Maybe his stupid nephew wasn't so stupid, after all. “How do you know she's smart and sneaky?”

“Because she loves keeping my brother on his toes. Never calls him at the same time twice, shows up when he least expects it.” He leaned forward to add, “And I caught her going through his things.”

“A little ‘what goes around, comes around,' eh?”

Nigel's smile was proof that he got the joke, told for the benefit of the goon monitoring the camera feed.

O'Malley pretended that he'd paused to work the kinks out of his neck, while he rapidly thought this through. There was only one reason for the Marshals Service to check up on him: Nate Judson. The rat was out there somewhere, living the good life, while O'Malley slept with one eye open every night. If Nigel could get hold of Judson's whereabouts...

Hank smirked. Clenched his hands. Oh, it would feel good, balancing
that
account.

“I know your brother annoys you,” he began, “but you have to do the right thing.”

Nigel frowned. “Which is...?”

“Follow his big redheaded girlfriend. Find out as much about her as you can. Because if she's sneaking around in your brother's things, who knows what other secrets she's hiding?” O'Malley signaled the guard. “It won't be easy, but it's best for everyone.”

Nigel nodded and looked directly into his eyes.

“You're a smart young man,” O'Malley said, “and I'm proud to be related to you.”

An hour later, he was seated in the library, doing his best to concentrate while the inmates around him cursed and scratched and blew smoke in each other's faces. He missed his private cell. What he needed to do next would be far easier with his personal laptop and cell phone.

The guy sitting at the next computer was taking a lot of razzing for the internet site he'd pulled up. Curious, O'Malley leaned slightly left to see what had prompted the coarse barbs aimed at Williamson—the least offensive of which was “sissy”—and the girl in the photo.

“Shut up, fools,” Williamson roared. “Show a little respect. That's my sister's kid.”

The men at Stateville were as different as the crimes that had put them here. It didn't surprise O'Malley to see that the pierced and tattooed giant had a soft spot for musicals. Had a soft spot for his niece, too, as evidenced by his outburst.

O'Malley recognized the old broad in the photo as the costar of a Broadway play he'd taken his wife to see, decades ago. But Williamson's niece? She reminded him of every brat he'd ever seen, smiling and posing as if she actually believed the lies her mama told about her looks and talent. He'd seen enough, and started leaning toward his own computer again. No sense calling attention to himself. A man like him had to keep a low profile.

But something stopped him. A caption under the photo that said Bonnie, with her Little Friend Alyssa. The child looked vaguely familiar. Something about the eyes, and the dainty lips. Wait...wasn't Judson's kid's name something like Alyssa?

He stood, bent close to Williamson's screen for a better look.

“Back off, pervert,” the big man snarled.

“What's the matter, Will? Is the senator sweet on your little niece?”

A chorus of obscenities shot back and forth as O'Malley held up his hands. “I was looking at the woman. That's Deidre O'Toole. She was a famous Broadway star, once upon a time. Took my wife to see one of her plays when—”

“What play?”

“Chicago.” Irony,
he thought.
Y'gotta love it.

Williamson exposed a gleaming row of gold teeth, with a diamond front and center. “Saw the movie,” he said, nodding approvingly. “My favorite part was when—”

The chaos behind them escalated, making conversation impossible. Williamson got to his feet and faced the crowd, hands balled into fists as he glared at each man in turn.

“Oh, now see there?” said one. “We done woke the monster.” But despite his bravado, the man looked a little like O'Malley felt: intimidated, and determined to hide it.

The tension was as thick as the gray-blue cloud of smoke above them. “You ain't s'pposed to be smokin' in here,” Williamson told them. “Go ahead. Make a fuss and give them monkeys an excuse to come in here and confiscate your cigarettes.” It was quieter when he sat back down.

Quieter, but certainly not peaceful. O'Malley had unintentionally become a pawn in the never-ending game of survival, for Williamson's intervention had put Hank in his debt. Having a friend who was willing to go to bat for you was a good thing—on the outside. Not so in Stateville. The inmates lived by the “choose your battles well” code, and taking this skirmish to the next level wasn't worth the price.

Yet.

O'Malley had dodged
this
bullet, but the war was far from over. Just last week, he'd seen a man killed for standing too close to another in the chow line. Anger, resentment, fear...mix them with a desire to appear invincible, and the will to survive, and the result was a dangerous recipe. A recipe that, consumed daily by the entire prison population, produced the expected outcome: volatility. A situation that, if not vented regularly, could produce a brutal explosion.

If he kept his head down and his back to the wall for the next day or two, some poor fool would do or say something that would put himself in the line of fire. And when that happened, O'Malley could get a message to Nigel, instructing him to contact his friends...the ones who'd hacked some of the world's most elaborate computer systems. The big redhead might have nothing to do with the little girl in Williamson's picture, but if her connections led him to Judson and his daughter, O'Malley could kill two birds with one shot.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“S
OMEBODY
 
NEEDS
 
TO
tell Mother Nature that it's only November 3,” Max said, shaking snow from her hair. “It's way too early for this Chicago-like weather!”

“Better not let Alyssa hear you. She's lovin' the stuff.”

Max hung her jacket on the hall tree, withdrew a fat legal envelope from an inner pocket. “Where is she?”

“Out back, trying to make a snowman.” Noah laughed. “A good lesson in coping with frustration. It's melting as it hits the ground.”

“She's outside? Alone?” Max felt his forehead. “Well, you don't
look
delirious from fever....”

“That's a twelve-foot fence out there—one of a hundred reasons I'm glad you didn't stick us in a subdivision ruled by a homeowners' association—and the gate squeals louder than a horror movie heroine.” He patted the baby monitor's receiver clipped to his belt. “If an acorn falls, I'll hear it.”

Max tilted her head and tucked clasped hands under her chin. “Aw, my little boy is growing up.”

“You're a riot,” he said, and using his chin as a pointer, added, “What's in the envelope?”

“Letters.” She handed it to him. “Thought I'd save time and deliver them myself.”

This wasn't the first time Max had chosen to become a link in the chain of events that brought mail from his family to his door. Much as he appreciated the good intentions, Noah wasn't comfortable with her decision. If the wrong person noticed the pattern, it could raise suspicion.

“There's coffee in the kitchen. Care for a cup?”

“Love some,” she said, hugging herself. “It's freezing out there.”

“Might be time to trade your cool ‘I'm a tough cop' jacket for something more practical.”

Laughing, Max shook her head. “I'd rather suffer than look like a geeky civilian.”

They sat facing each other at the table, Max munching store-bought chocolate-chip cookies, Noah reading letters from his family. As he finished each, she picked them up and read them, too.

“I know I've said it before, but they seem like really great people.”

“They are. This,” he said, tapping the stack of mail, “would be a whole lot easier if they weren't.”

He hadn't seen any of them since that last day of the trial, when O'Malley's deadly threat had echoed through the courtroom. Were they being honest, writing that all was well on the home front, or putting on a good show to keep him from worrying?

“What would happen if one of them got sick—or worse?”

“If you're asking whether or not you could go back for a visit...” Max sipped her coffee, looking grim and gloomy. “Let's just say I'd put my full powers of persuasion into talking you out of doing anything that dangerous.” She set the mug down with a clunk. “And dumb.”

He nodded. “I figured that's what you'd say.” If he got word that something had happened to his folks, to his sister, would he stick to the WITSEC guidelines? Noah honestly didn't know.

“If something happens to O'Malley, now that he's in the general population, what then?”

“They bury him.” She gave an indifferent shrug. “One less convict being fed and housed by my tax dollars.”

“Yeah, yeah...but
then
what? Do I get to go back to Chicago? Pick up where Alyssa and I left off?”

Groaning, Max slapped a hand over her eyes. When she came out of hiding, she leaned forward, flattened both hands on the table. “Help me understand why all of you guys
say
that! I mean, why would you
want
to go back? You think people will welcome you with open arms? Put their hair up in Pollyanna pigtails and adopt a sunny forgive-and-forget outlook?” She aimed her trigger finger at him. “Trust me, there's no forgiveness out there. None. And if you go looking for it, well, let's just say if you think life stinks now...”

He thought she'd decided to let him finish the sentence in the privacy of his mind. He'd been wrong.

“I know what you're thinking. You're thinking your story will have a different ending, that the love and acceptance of your family and friends is all you need.”

Noah nodded, amazed yet again that Max had gotten into his head and pretty much put his thoughts into words.

“Well, think about
this,
smart guy: if you go back, Alyssa is going to find out the truth about you. Everything. Up to and including the fact that if you hadn't made a deal with that devil O'Malley, her mom wouldn't be dead. You think she'll be okay with
that?
”

Heart hammering, Noah frowned. “Man. You don't believe in beating around the bush, do you?”

The agent sat back, crossed her arms and drilled him with a long, hard stare.

“Look. I like you—and you should know that I don't say that to everyone in my care. Most of the guys in your shoes are as sleazy as the people who want them dead. You're a good guy. And a great dad. I respect that. Which is exactly why you have to understand....”

She leaned forward again, and this time gripped his wrists, hard.

“It's like we're a weird family. I'm the mom, you and Alyssa are my kids. Sometimes I have to say things you don't want to hear. Make you do things—or
keep
you from doing things—that you don't agree with. Because I care about what happens to you guys.”

Max let go and slumped in her chair, watching him, waiting for him to show her some sign that he got it.

“I don't mean to sound ungrateful,” Noah began. “You've been good to Alyssa and me, real good. Gone way above and beyond the call of duty, all the time. No way I can repay you for all you've done for us. So thanks, Mom.”

Laughing, Max said, “You have no idea how ironic that is!”

He failed to see any irony in what he'd said, but Noah knew if he gave her a moment, she would explain.

“The guys at the office think I'm sweet on you. They say I treat you like a beau, treat Alyssa like she's mine. It's one of those damned if you do, damned if you don't situations. If I deny it, they'll think they're right. If I don't deny it, they'll think they're right.” She threw her hands into the air and laughed. “So thanks,
son.
Thanks a
lot!
”

They shared a moment of laughter, but Noah's heart wasn't in it. He saw her dilemma, and felt helpless to correct it. Yeah, this was her job, and she was professional enough to take the good with the bad. He felt guilty for adding to the latter.

“Sorry,” he said, meaning it.

But it didn't stop him from thinking that with some serious effort and patience, he
could
make a go of it in Chicago...provided O'Malley was out of the picture.

“Don't fool yourself, Preston. There's no forgiveness and there are no guarantees, either. Even if that miserable thug is shanked by one of his own kind, you can't be sure he hasn't given one of his flunkies orders to find you,
end
you, to avenge his death.”

Yet again, she'd read his mind. He would never admit it to her, but Noah was relieved that she could.

He tried not to dwell on the sad, depressing elements of life in WITSEC. Far healthier, he thought, to focus on things he could be thankful for. Like the bike shop, which kept a roof over their heads and provided enough money to meet every physical need. They had a true friend in Max, and thanks to her diligence, they'd remained safe. If the price to pay for that was never again seeing Chicago, or those near and dear who called it home...

He'd learned to live without the accolades that were a result of his former profession. The big house. The status car. But if he hadn't learned to live with the restrictive nature of the program by now, would he
ever?

“Sometimes,” Max said, “it is what it is.”

“Now there's an original line. Maybe I'll have it printed on a T-shirt.”

“Sorry, somebody beat you to it.” She dunked a cookie in her coffee. “Bumper stickers, too. And if I'm not mistaken, wall posters, magnets, pencils—”

“Uncle,” he said, waving a paper napkin. “I get it.”

She wasn't smiling when she said, “I sure hope so.” She slid a second, smaller envelope from her jacket pocket. “Because if you don't, you
will
get it. Literally.”