The Bride and the Mercenary Page 16

“Billy Dare. Jeez, man, what the hell have you gone and done to yourself?” Shaking Malone’s hand perfunctorily, Dare grabbed a nearby chair and dragged it over to the bed, tossing down the paper sack he’d brought with him.

  Ainslie came to stand beside the big ex-boxer. “Aunt Kate always said you should have been a surgeon, Billy. We need one right now,” she said tensely.

  “I chose the sweet science over medicine, baby girl.”

  He peered closely at the wound, not noticing the faint grin that Malone shot at Ainslie. Despite herself, she grinned back, amused at both the older man’s choice of endearments and his use of the sportswriter’s traditionally reverent phrase for boxing. He pulled back abruptly, and switched his attention to her.

  “I think I can fix your boy up. I’ve done it often enough in a dressing room after a fight.” He frowned. “But I won’t get in Dutch with Kate over this, not even to help out the best little boxer I ever took to see her first fight. You gotta be straight with me, sweetie—is this good-looking lug bad news for you? Should I be sending him on his way and calling your brother to come pick you up?”

  “If you call Sully, we’ll both be gone before you hang up the phone,” Ainslie said evenly. “It’s true we can’t let the authorities know about this, Billy, but that’s not Malone’s fault. We’re in a jam, but if you don’t feel easy helping us, we’ll understand.”

  “I’m supposed to have killed a man.” As Dare glanced swiftly at him, Malone went on, his tone flat. “Probably two, by now. You make that call to Sullivan, Dare. Just give me enough time to get out of here before the police arrive.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Billy,” Ainslie snapped. “If you check higher up under his hairline, you’ll see a scar from an old head wound. Sometimes he talks crazy. I’m not letting you leave here without me, and that’s final, Malone,” she added tersely.

  “Then that’s that.” Dare sighed and reached for the paper bag. He spared a briefly sympathetic glance for Malone. “The O’Connell women never change their minds once they decide on something. If Ainslie here says she’s sticking by you, she’s sticking by you and there’s not a damn thing you or I can do about it. As for the other, well…”

  His gaze hardened. “There was a fighter once, went by the name of Hurricane Carter. They hung a bum rap on him, too. It took twenty years behind bars before his name was cleared and he won his freedom back again. If you say you didn’t do what they’re saying you did, I’m inclined to take your side against the boys in blue.”

  “Thanks, Billy.” Ainslie swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “I won’t forget this.”

  “Neither will I, doll.” Dare raised an eyebrow. “I’m counting on you to plead my case before your mule-headed aunt the next time I come courting her. But let’s get your man stitched up first.”

  Aunt Kate had been right, Ainslie thought half an hour later, Big Bad Billy Dare had missed his calling. She watched in awe as he tied off the last stitch and clipped the thread close to the surface.

  Despite the pain medication that he’d taken on the insistence of Dare, Malone’s face was drained of all color by the time everything was finished. He mustered a lopsided smile as Dare stood back and surveyed his handiwork.

  “If that even leaves a scar, I’ll be surprised.” The craggy face bore an almost smug satisfaction. “Now, what do you intend to do about that car out back? It looks like it caught a few rounds, too.”

  “Ditch it,” Malone said regretfully. “Like you say, it’s noticeable.”

  “I know a guy who knows a guy…” Dare tapped the side of his nose, and Ainslie wondered briefly how many times it had been broken. “Give me the keys. I can have it back to you tomorrow morning, good as new. I’ll just have to make sure my buddy knows this one doesn’t get loaded onto a freighter heading to parts unknown for a quick resale.”

  A more unlikely guardian angel would be hard to imagine, Ainslie thought a few minutes later as Dare crashed out of the unit, the sedan’s keys dangling from one meaty finger. But Dare, despite his rough-hewn exterior and his dubious contacts, had come through for his old flame’s niece. She would put in a good word for him with Aunt Kate when this was all over, she thought, closing the door behind him. And that reminded her…

  “I have to call Tara,” she said firmly, turning back to Malone. “I won’t tell her where I am, but she and Aunt Kate will worry if—”

  She broke off in midsentence. He was sprawled across the bed, his face a muddy gray under his tan, his breathing even enough. The loss of blood combined with the strong pills he’d taken had been too much for even his constitution, Ainslie thought. Sleep was probably the best thing for him right now. Crossing quietly to the bed, she covered his prone body with a light blanket, and then squared her shoulders as she sat at the desk. She would have to contact Pearson after calling Tara, she told herself somberly. It wasn’t a conversation she felt ready for, but she had no right to put it off.

  Two men had been killed in the past twenty-four hours. Malone had been right—the Executioner’s latest hunt had begun, and so far the deaths were his way of flushing his real prey out into the open. Sooner or later even he would tire of the hunt and would want to bring it to a conclusion—and when he did, he might well decide to strike at them closer to home.

  Malone knew that. Already he had tried to persuade her to leave. But she had hostages to fortune, too.

  Tara was one of them. And as unlikely as it seemed, she couldn’t afford to dismiss the possibility that as far as the Executioner was concerned, the other would be the quiet, considerate man who’d cared enough for her to want to make her his wife.

  Twenty minutes later Ainslie shakily hung up the phone and took a deep, calming breath. If she’d had any idea that Sullivan would be at Aunt Kate’s, of the two calls that would have been the one she would have dreaded more. As it was, she’d been totally unprepared when he’d answered the phone. After he’d reassured her that Bailey and Megan were both doing well and expected home the next day, the conversation had rapidly gone downhill.

  At first he’d refused to believe her assertion that Malone was not only alive, but that she was with him. She couldn’t really blame him for that, she thought wearily, since only yesterday she herself had conceded to him that the man she’d seen outside of St. Margaret’s couldn’t have been Seamus. But finally he’d had to accept that what she was telling him was true. Then the real fireworks had started.

  Part of his anger at her masked his anger at himself, she guessed, anger that he’d kept silent about Malone’s mercenary past when it might have made a difference. When she’d told him that she knew of Seamus’s former career and still intended to stand by him, Sully’d switched tactics, asking her how she could be so certain that the Agency had gotten it wrong, asking her if she could be sure that the man she was with—the man, he reminded her forcefully, who’d already lied to her once—wasn’t the killer the authorities believed him to be.

  And for that, as well, she couldn’t blame her brother, Ainslie told herself heavily. How could she, when for one split second today doubt had touched her, too?

  In the end Sullivan had tersely informed her that he would assign round-the-clock security for Tara, without informing his teenage niece of the real reason why. He’d made one last attempt to get Ainslie to tell him where he could reach her, and when she’d refused he’d told her that he would expect another call from her by noon the next day or he would be going to the authorities. Ainslie wasn’t sure which of them had managed to slam their respective receivers down on the other first, but their conversation had terminated abruptly.

  She glanced over at Malone, her expression softening as she took in the regular rise and fall of his chest under the blanket she’d laid over him. Some of the color had returned to his face, and the lines of pain that had bracketed his mouth earlier were smoothed in sleep. Once again she felt a rush of gratitude for that other woman who had watched over him. Anna Nguyen had probably saved his life, she
reflected somberly. If the grocery store owner’s faith in him had wavered even once, he would have been doomed.

  That thought cut too close to home. Her shoulder bag was gaping open beside her on the desk, and she pulled it toward her. Although she knew Pearson’s Beacon Hill number, she’d seldom phoned him at Greystones, but she was sure she’d noted it in her address book. She extracted the slim volume from her purse and then frowned.

  Instead of her address book, what she had in her hand was a collection of poetry—Yeats, she saw with faint surprise. But how—

  She remembered the pile of books that Pearson had been going through not twenty-four hours ago, and a sudden pang of sadness shot through her. It wasn’t the first time she’d come across some token of his affection for her tucked into a pocket or dropped unobtrusively into her purse, for her to find later. Yeats was one of his favorite poets. He’d obviously hoped his spur-of-the-moment gift would have some meaning for her.

  Sitting back in the chair, she balanced the book on her palm. Yesterday she had been ready to marry the man who had given her this. Yesterday her life had been set to follow a predictable pattern that would never have included the numbing fear she’d experienced today when she’d seen Noah Watkins murdered…but that also would never have included the starry highs she and Malone had reached last night in each other’s arms. If she’d taken the vows that she’d gone to St. Margaret’s to pledge, she would have kept them, Ainslie thought. But eventually something inside her would have withered away forever, and Pearson, with his sensitivity where she was concerned, would have come to realize it.

  She never would have made him happy. Leaving him at their wedding had been unforgivable, but marrying him would have caused him much more grief in the end. He deserved a woman who shared his interests, who was content, as he was, with experiencing life at one step removed from all its intensity. Even his dreams and ambitions weren’t for himself, but for his brother.

  She leafed through the small book in her hand unseeingly. Brian was Pearson’s alter ego, the public figure who chaired committees, wielded growing influence, and who quite probably would one day achieve the position of ultimate power he sought. Other and better contenders might challenge him, but his golden-boy charm was a formidable asset.

  It had bound his brother to him, Ainslie thought, often, she knew, against Pearson’s own better judgment. But despite Pearson’s indulgence there was a moral line over which he would not and could not cross, not even for Brian. She had sometimes wondered if the younger man knew that line existed, and if he knew, how he would react if he stepped over it and found his brother had turned his back on him forever.

  She shivered suddenly, and for no discernible reason. Her gaze focused on the open book in her hand, and she read the words she had been blankly gazing at for the last few minutes.

  “September, 1913.” It had to be one of Pearson’s favorite poems, because in pencil he had lightly underscored portions of it, including the line whose reference to wild geese had its roots, Ainslie presumed, in the same legend that Sullivan had told her of so long ago. She closed the book, thoughtfully running her fingertips along the richly embossed calfskin binding. Pearson was a very private person, but in giving her this book he had allowed her a glimpse into his soul. Behind the outward facade of stuffy correctness was a man romantic enough to believe in the concepts of truth and honor reflected in the poem he’d marked, no matter how outmoded those concepts might be today.

  He and Malone had that in common, she thought slowly and with a return of the fear that she’d earlier pushed aside. Those beliefs were what made both of them strong in their individual ways…but those beliefs could also prove to be their undoing at the hands of someone as ruthless as the Executioner.

  Dropping the volume of Yeats into her purse, she pulled out her address book, quickly flipping to the entry for Greystones and dialling the number before her courage faltered. She had no idea what kind of message she would leave if he wasn’t there, she realized suddenly, but almost immediately the phone was picked up.

  “Hello?”

  The calmly courteous voice belonged to Pearson himself, and at it Ainslie felt her foolish hesitation melt away. She wouldn’t be able to tell him everything, she thought, but even if her warnings and hints struck him as puzzling she knew he would take her as seriously as he’d always done.

  Wanting to ease into the reason for her call, she gave him the news about Megan Angelique, and promised to pass on his congratulations to Bailey and Sullivan. Then, taking a deep breath, she launched into the same vague explanation her brother had told her he would tell Tara—that Sullivan Investigations had received a threat against not only its owner, but anyone connected with his family, and that until the perpetrator of the threat was uncovered Sullivan was taking the matter seriously.

  “I think you should, too, Pearson. Is anyone with you at Greystones?”

  “Not at the moment, no, although Brian arrives tomorrow for a few days. But the estate’s well secured, Ainslie. I’ll certainly take every precaution, if you think it’s necessary.” He sounded dubious.

  “I’m probably making a mountain out of a molehill,” she admitted. “It’s just that I…” She hesitated, and then went on, her voice soft. “I don’t want any harm to come to you. I care for you very much, Pearson.”

  On the other end of the line he was silent for a moment. All at once she could see him in her mind’s eye—his tall, spare figure immaculately if casually dressed, his reading glasses pushed up into the pale hair that he’d ruefully told her had been getting annoyingly thinner since he’d reached forty, his mobile and sensitive mouth turned down a little at the corners. She hadn’t given him her decision in so many words, she thought heavily. But he knew.

  “I know you do, my dear,” he said quietly. His sigh was so light it was nearly inaudible, but almost immediately his voice lifted. “If I see any suspicious characters slouching around the property I’ll call the police right away, I promise. Does that ease your mind?”

  “It does, Pearson. Thank you—and not only for that.”

  Her throat threatened to close, and she gripped the receiver tightly, knowing that a display of emotion at this point would only make him uncomfortable.

  “Thank you for everything,” she ended inadequately, hoping he hadn’t heard the quaver in her tone.

  If he had, he gave no sign. “I’ll make sure the alarms are set, although most likely Brian will forget the security code and set them all off when he comes.” He gave a small laugh that she knew was for her benefit. “I’ll tell you all about it when we meet for dinner later this week.”

  He probably would, she thought unhappily as she hung up the phone. They would sit across from each other amid shining cutlery and sparkling glassware, and he would attempt to smooth the awkwardness of their parting with casual conversation. Pearson would see that as simple good manners.

  “Except I’d feel a whole lot less guilty if he reamed me out like I deserve,” she muttered, abruptly standing and looking at her reflection in the nearby dresser mirror with sudden distaste.

  Her appearance wasn’t the real reason she found it hard to meet her own gaze in the mirror, she thought dully. She turned away and shrugged out of the ruined jacket.

  She’d been given a miracle. The man she loved had been returned to her, and she’d told herself that nothing would ever shake her faith again. But at the first test of that faith she’d failed.

  “You lied to Watkins.”

  Startled, she looked around, wondering just how long he’d been awake. As he removed the blanket and swung his legs off the bed, she went to him.

  “You shouldn’t be up, Malone.” Ignoring what he’d just said, she sat beside him and peered worriedly at Dare’s handiwork. “How are you feeling?”

  His smile was wry. “It’s just as well that I’m nearly at the end of those pills. I could get used to the buzz. You lied to Watkins, honey.”

  He wasn’t going to let it go. A
inslie met his gaze.

  “I shaded the truth a little, but so what? I know you didn’t shoot Paul Cosgrove.”

  “Maybe I did.” His smile was gone. “I went back to the house while you were getting into the car, like Watkins said.”

  “You were gone for half a minute, if that,” she countered. “You wiped the door handle where I’d touched it, just like you’d wiped my prints from the bottle and the glass I’d handled while we were talking to him. If you hadn’t done that, the police might trying to pin his murder on me by now.”

  “But if he was alive when we left, why would I have been worrying about leaving prints?” He didn’t let her answer. “Oh, I know what I told you, Lee—that if Paul called in the Agency I didn’t want them to have anything they could use against you. But maybe I went back and killed him.”

  She stared at him in confusion. “Except you know you didn’t.”

  “I don’t remember doing it. But somehow that doesn’t reassure me a hell of a lot.” He looked down at his hands, and when he spoke again he seemed to be talking to himself rather than to her. “What if it’s all true? What if I’ve done all the things they say I did, and I’ve learned how to block out the guilt by erasing all those memories? All except one,” he added tightly.

  “Fine. If you want me to play devil’s advocate, I will.” Ainslie forced a sharpness into her tone. “If you did go back and kill Cosgrove, why didn’t I hear the shot?”

  “I used a silencer.” His reply was automatic. “I got rid of it later. Try again, Lee.”

  “I suppose you’ll say that what happened at the hotel yesterday could all have been rigged up by you to convince me that we were in danger, so I won’t even bother with that,” she said shortly. “But what about Watkins? What about the sniper who was shooting at us today from that burned-out house? Dammit, Malone, you said yourself that had to be the Executioner.”

  “And that’s exactly what I would say. Especially if the person I was really trying to convince was myself, Lee.” His eyes darkened. “That shooter could have been there as Noah’s backup, and when he saw that the situation had turned bad on his partner, he tried to take me out. But he missed, and got Watkins instead. It wouldn’t be the first time a man was killed by friendly fire.”