Witness (32 page)

“Is there any way you can keep those people from blocking the school entrance?” Jeannie asked. “It's important for me to be able to go to work.”

“Ma'am, all we can do is disperse the crowd and arrest anyone who isn't cooperative or is causing any harm.” Painter shook his head. “I'm afraid we just don't have enough manpower to keep officers at the school all the time.”

“Jeannie?” Reaching down, Marta took Jeannie's hand. “Most of the children didn't come to school today.”

“What?” Jeannie stared up at Marta, who squeezed her hand.

“We had numerous parents call to say that they saw WXBB's morning newscast showing the crowd outside the school. They're afraid, Jeannie, and I can't blame them.”

“This situation is intolerable!” Rising off the sofa, Jeannie lifted her cane. “Our children are being punished by that swarm
of reporters and that picket line of so-called Christians. And it's all my fault. Because of me, the children can't even come to school.”

“This isn't your fault,” Marta said. “You've done so much good for the children. You've helped them in a way none of us can.”

“But now my coming to the school will harm them.” Jeannie walked over to Sam. “I thought I was doing the right thing going to school today, but I see now that as long as things stay the way they are, I can't continue my work at the Howell School. My presence would pose a threat for the children and the staff.”

“The staff is one hundred percent behind you,” Marta said.

Jeannie smiled that warm, gentle smile that tore at Sam's heart. He couldn't let her smile or her tears keep getting to him this way!

“Marta, you and the others will have to carry on without me. Until I have control of my life again, I can't come back. But I would appreciate being kept informed on each child's progress.”

“I'll call you every day and fill you in on all the details.” Marta gripped Jeannie's free hand tightly.

“Thank you.” Jeannie closed her eyes for a brief moment, absorbing Marta McCorkle's fear and concern. “Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right.”

“I know it will.” Marta bit her bottom lip. Tears gathered in the corners of her hazel eyes. “I'll handle things.” Marta glanced at Sam. “Please take care of her. She's very dear to all of us, you know.”

Sam swallowed hard. Damn sentimental females! He nodded. What was he supposed to say? Hell, he owed Jeannie Alverson his life, and he was going to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe.

Jeannie looked at Sam. “I'm sorry I overreacted. You were right and I was wrong.”

Sam didn't say anything; he simply nodded again. Maybe now she'd follow his orders without question. It sure would make life a lot simpler if she did.

One of the young policemen standing in the foyer called for Lieutenant Painter. “I think you'd better come here, Lieutenant. Take a look outside.”

“Stay here,” Sam told Jeannie.

“All right.” Jeannie held on to Marta's hand.

Sam stood behind Lieutenant Painter, looking over his head, when the man gazed out the panel window on the right side of the front door.

“Damn,” Painter said.

A live news team from WXBB had one camera aimed at the Howell house and another at a small group of Righteous Light brethren surrounding their leader. Reeves, his mane of sandy red hair glowing like fire in the morning sunshine, stood atop a folding chair in the midst of his followers, who waved their signs in the air and looked to Reeves for cues. A shout of “Repent, devil's daughter!” rose from the disciples.

“I ran a preliminary check on Reverend Reeves,” Sam told Painter. “He talks a good game, and he appears to be a spell-binding speaker. I'd say he sees an opportunity for publicity and intends to use his damnation of Jeannie Alverson as a stepping-stone to national recognition.”

“I'd say the man could be dangerous.” Painter motioned to the two uniformed policemen. “Go outside and ask the reverend to take his band of merry men and women somewhere else before I have their butts tossed in jail.”

“Yes, sir,” the two men replied in unison.

Painter opened the door for his men. “Whatever you do, Dundee, keep Ms. Alverson inside.”

Sam stood in the open doorway, watching Painter walk out onto the veranda. Suddenly a war cry of “Witch!” rose from the Righteous Light disciples. Reverend Reeves, sweat dripping from his flushed face, pointed a neatly manicured index finger
toward the Howell house and demanded that Jeannie end her unholy alliance with the devil. The WXBB newswoman shared with her audience the hoopla surrounding the Howell home, where the Mississippi faith healer lived. The camera zoomed in on Reeves's face, showing plainly the righteous indignation of the evangelist determined to bring Jeannie Alverson to repentance.

Sam realized that Reeves considered himself a power to be reckoned with. His gut instincts warned him that the scripture-quoting evangelist was evil incarnate, a disciple of hate, not of love. And Jeannie was right. The man probably did intend to kill her.

What Sam needed was a complete, detailed report on Reeves's life. Somewhere there was bound to be a well-kept secret, a little flaw in the man's holier-than-thou armor. Sam hoped he could show the police proof that Reeves was a real danger to Jeannie before the man actually tried to harm her.

He had to find a way to stop Reeves. Even if that meant killing him to defend Jeannie. If it came down to that, he'd have no other choice. But what would she think of him then, gentle, tenderhearted Jeannie? Would she be able to understand the savage warrior in Sam, the primitive nature inside him that made him capable not only of dying to protect her, but also capable of killing, if need be, to keep her safe?

Sam shouldn't give a damn what Jeannie thought of him. But, heaven help him, he did.

L
ATER THAT
F
RIDAY
evening, Jeannie decided to face the mounting correspondence piled on her desk. She divided the letters into three separate stacks on top of the pale pink heir-loom quilt that covered her bed. Every day, more and more letters poured in from across the United States, and now requests were coming in from Canada, Mexico, South America and Europe. In a week's time, her sane, sensible, orderly life had been completely destroyed. Poor little Cassie Mills, in all her sweet innocence, had opened a Pandora's box of problems for Jeannie.

“Why do you read those things? You should throw them in the trash.” Sam Dundee stood just inside the open door, pure masculine beauty in his tailored gray pin-striped suit and coordinating burgundy-and-gray silk tie.

“I divide them into categories.” Jeannie patted the stack directly in front of her. “These I throw away—” she pointed to the stack on her left “—and these, too.”

“Let me guess.” Sam closed the heavy wooden door behind him. “The throwaway letters are from journalists requesting interviews and from crackpots condemning you as a witch.”

Jeannie looked up at Sam, standing by her bed, his steely blue-gray eyes piercing in their intensity as he stared at her. Her heart skipped a beat. “These—” she cleared her throat “—are from people asking for my help.” Lifting the large stack of letters in her hands, she pressed them to her bosom. “They break my heart. So much misery and suffering, and I can't even offer them hope.”

Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Sam looked away, not wanting to see her cry. Why the hell did she care so much about people she didn't know? And why weep over the fact that she couldn't permanently heal the whole world of its illnesses? Because Jeannie was that kind of person. She cared too much, and that caring caused her great pain.

He realized there was a lot he didn't know about Jeannie. And he wanted to know everything, yet at the same time he was afraid to find out more.

Sam walked over to the window and looked outside. Early-evening shadows, violet blue and cool, wavered in the August twilight. He kept his back to Jeannie, hoping she wasn't crying and hoping she didn't realize what he was thinking. Sam Dundee was a man who'd seldom been afraid of anything, and yet Jeannie Alverson frightened him in a way nothing and no one ever had.

In some ways, she reminded him of his niece Elizabeth. Both of them were unique women, born with special talents. But there was a vulnerability in Jeannie that Sam had never seen in Elizabeth. A sadness that ran so deep in her that he instinctively knew that only an abundance of love could ever lessen it.

The telephone on the nightstand rang. Jeannie reached out to answer it; Sam grabbed the phone.

She glared at him. “I don't like not being able to answer the phone in my own home.”

He thrust the phone at her. “Here, answer it!”

Snatching the telephone out of his hands, she scooted to the center of the bed and turned her back on him. “Hello. Oh, hi, Julian.” She cut her eyes in Sam's direction. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “No, no, you musn't come home for dinner on my account. Ollie's prepared us a nice light chicken salad. You go ahead and take Marta out for dinner.”

Sam hated it when Jeannie confronted him with her displeasure over his specific orders. One of his rules was to always
let Ollie, Julian or him answer the phone if she chose not to let the answering machine get it. He'd also strongly advised her to allow him to take care of her mail, without her ever having to see it. But she was so damned stubborn. She didn't like having her routine disrupted and seemed to resent his suggested changes, changes meant to protect her.

Jeannie replaced the telephone on the nightstand. “Who did you think it was, Maynard Reeves? I doubt he has our new number, since it's unlisted.”

“There are ways to get unlisted numbers.” Sam stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, lifting the edges of his jacket, revealing the hip holster that held his Ruger.

Jeannie shivered at the sight of the gun. She hated guns, hated weapons of any sort. But she understood the necessity of Sam carrying a gun. There were bound to be times when a man in his line of work would have to rely on more than brute strength.

How difficult it must be for him, Jeannie thought, to protect others, to carry the burden of their security on his wide shoulders. She could not imagine a man more suited for the job, a man more capable. Despite his cool and aloof attitude, his hard, ironclad exterior, Sam Dundee possessed a golden center of gentle strength and loving compassion. He would deny its existence, perhaps didn't even know of its existence, but Jeannie knew. She knew because she had once tapped into that golden core, had touched the secret heart and soul of this man.

She knew she shouldn't be fighting him at every turn, repeatedly refusing to follow his orders. No, not
orders,
exactly. Perhaps
directions
was a better term. He didn't make suggestions to irritate her, even though they did; no, he made suggestions he thought would protect her.

“You're right about these letters. There's really no need for me to go through them.” She mixed together the three piles of correspondence, scooped them up in her hands and placed them
in the curve of her left arm. Bracing herself with her cane, she walked into the sitting room and tossed the letters into the brass wastepaper basket near the mahogany writing desk. “From now on, you can handle all the mail. And I won't answer the phone again.”

“Such easy compliance, Ms. Alverson.” Sam's lips twitched in an almost smile. “What brought about this sudden change of heart?”

“It wasn't sudden,” she admitted. “I've been thinking about all the suggestions you've made, and I realize that if I continue being stubborn, I'll make your job more difficult. I don't want to do that.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.” Dear God, how he wanted to pull her into his arms, kiss those full, sweet lips and hear her sigh.

Jeannie avoided eye contact with Sam, sensing a growing hunger within him. She had never before been confronted with a man's needs—needs that she wanted to fulfill. She knew very little about male-female relationships, had distanced herself from the sensual side of her nature, but Sam Dundee made her want to explore that unknown.

A soft knock on the door came as a welcome relief. Sam opened the door to Ollie, who came bustling in, carrying a cloth-covered silver tray.

“I've brought your supper up here, just as you requested,” she said to Jeannie, who willed herself not to blush. “Just leave everything on the tray when you're finished, and I'll take care of it in the morning.”

“Thank you.” Jeannie smiled at Ollie, then turned her attention to the silver tray that the housekeeper had placed on the Battenburg-lace-covered round table.

Ollie excused herself, leaving Jeannie and Sam alone. Lifting the cloth covering the tray, Sam surveyed the contents of their meal. Chicken salad, croissants, fresh fruit and cheese.

“Sit down, please.” Jeannie lifted her eyes and glanced directly at Sam.

“Ladies first.” He pulled out her chair and seated her, his hand brushing her shoulder. He sat across from her, watching while she poured hot tea into the delicate Lenox cups. Her hands quivered ever so slightly. Sam glanced down at the china plate containing a mound of freshly prepared chicken salad lying on a bed of crisp lettuce.

He made her nervous. Sam found that realization strangely reassuring. Obviously he wasn't the only one experiencing an unnerving, unwanted attraction. Since arriving in Biloxi yesterday, Sam had felt unbalanced, as if his equilibrium were a bit off center. Jeannie Alverson had that effect on him.

With emotions he usually had no trouble keeping under control gone haywire, Sam had no point of reference in how to deal with what he felt. He was torn between his desire to protect Jeannie at all costs and to repay the debt he owed her for saving his life, and another, equally strong desire. The desire to claim her, body and soul…his primeval masculine need to possess. Heaven help him if he ever acted on his desires—heaven help them both.

“You aren't eating.” Jeannie's smile trembled, her brown eyes questioning his silent absorption in his dinner plate.

Picking up his fork, he lifted a small portion of salad to his mouth and ate. He nodded, then glanced at Jeannie. “It's delicious.”

But not as delicious as her mouth last night, when he'd taken one tender kiss. Being with her, wanting her so desperately and knowing he was totally wrong for her, only added to Sam's confusion. He had never known a woman like Jeannie, and he'd have bet his last dime that she'd never known a man like him. They were poles apart, opposite ends of a spectrum—a physical man and a spiritual woman.

He had once run away from his past, from the painful memories and the woman who had saved his life. Now he was trapped
by a promise he'd made, captured by his own deepest, most primitive needs. Needs that could destroy him if he didn't keep them under control.

They ate in silence, each sneaking occasional glances at the other. The room was utterly, devastatingly quiet, the steady tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the clink of silver against china the only sounds.

If the silence continued much longer, Jeannie thought she might scream. How had this happened, this long stretch of tense stillness? They were aware of each other to such a heightened degree that Jeannie began to sense Sam's thoughts. The moment she realized he was fighting the desire to kiss her, she immediately withdrew, ending the connection.

Jeannie's telepathic abilities had always been extremely limited. She and Manton could converse, and in the last days of Miriam's life, they had been able to connect. But Sam was the only other person with whom she had shared this rare joining, and he would not admit it, even to himself.

Scooting back his chair, Sam stood, then tossed his linen napkin down on the table and glared at Jeannie. “You were doing it again, weren't you? Trying to get inside my head.”

Tilting her chin defiantly, she looked up at him. “I couldn't have made the connection without your cooperation. You were connecting with me, too. That's why I was able to sense what you were feeling.”

He rounded the table so quickly that when he hauled Jeannie to her feet, she cried out in alarm. She clung to his arms, feeling the bulging muscles beneath his jacket and shirt.

“Don't do it again! I don't want any connection, any ‘spiritual joining.' Got it?”

“You want to kiss me,” she said. “That's why you're so angry. You don't like my knowing how much you'd like to kiss me.”

“What?”

“I'd like to kiss you, too.”

“Lady, are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe I am, but I've never been truly kissed by a man, and the thought of your kissing me intrigues me.”

“You're paying me to be your bodyguard,” Sam said. “Not your lover.”

She covered his lips with her fingertips. “Shhh. I'm not asking you to make love to me, just to kiss me. What's wrong, Mr. Dundee, are you afraid to kiss me?”

With one hand, he tightened his hold around her waist, and with the other he grasped her chin. “All right, if you're sure it's what you want. Just remember that it doesn't mean anything. I've kissed a hundred women before you, and will probably kiss a hundred more before I die.”

“Then I expect you're very good at this, at kissing, aren't you?”

Her eyelids fluttered. She clutched his arms. Drawing her up against him, Sam slipped his hand under the wavy fall of her hair and gripped her neck. His heartbeat roared in his ears like the hum of his Cessna's twin engines.

A steady, throbbing ache spread through him, threatening to overpower his restraint. When he lowered his head, his lips just making contact with hers, she seemed to melt into him, to become a part of him. He felt her surrender, her eager compliance, in every cell of his body.

Of all the women he'd known, all the pretty faces, all the luscious bodies, not one had ever sent him into a panic. But then, he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted Jeannie. And it was that need, that raging, all-consuming need, that frightened the intrepid Sam Dundee.

“I'm no good for you,” he warned her. Or was he warning himself? “So don't let this kiss give you any ideas.”

Slipping her arms around his neck, she closed her eyes and welcomed his kiss. Her soft, sweet, giving lips met his. Innocent and untutored, she gave herself over completely to his mastery, absorbing the undeniable pleasure he was experiencing, realizing that she felt their shared enjoyment in the kiss.

Opening her mouth on a sigh, Jeannie accepted the tender thrust of his tongue, the sensual probing. Her body tingled with excitement. A slow, steady throb of desire began to build inside her.

Sam deepened the kiss. He cupped her buttocks, shifting her body, lifting her up and into him, so that his arousal pulsated against her femininity. She moaned loudly, then slid her tongue inside his mouth, exploring him the way he had her. He ached. She ached even more. He groaned deep in his throat, the power of Jeannie's nearness rendering him helpless against his own masculine needs.

Jeannie cried out from the hot, pounding hunger and demanding desire raging inside her. Sam's hunger. Her desire. She felt them both, and felt them simultaneously.

She scratched his back, her short, rounded nails clawing fiercely at his cashmere jacket. Her body undulated against his, feeding his hunger, fanning the flames of her desire. She was on fire with their combined passion, and was no longer in control of her actions. Sam's needs dictated hers. The greater his desire was for her, the more she desired him.

She overpowered him with the fervor of her response, momentarily stunning him. Slowly ending the kiss, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out of the sitting room and directly toward her bed, then lowered her on top of the quilted pink coverlet. Her arms still draped around his neck, she pulled him downward. With his lips almost touching hers, he braced his hands on each side of her.