Knight Errant Read online

“He’s just playing with you,” Jolie needlessly pointed out to him. “He’s making you wait, giving you a false sense of security. When you start to think that maybe he’s forgotten you, when you think that maybe it’s okay to do something with your life, when you’ve got something worth having, then he’ll act. Then he’ll kill you.”

  As she spoke, Lainie came around the corner and started toward them. Her hair was still damp, but she’d changed into a dress the color of turquoise whose fibers were surely all elastic, because that was the only way it could cling and shift and give with her natural, easy, too damn sensual movements. Her timing, with regards to the conversation, couldn’t have been more perfect. Something worth having. She certainly was.

  Not that he had her... yet. Not that he was certain he wanted her for anything beyond sex and short-term companionship. Not that he thought there was any possibility of keeping her. Not him. Not a woman like her.

  She sat down in the chair Jamey had vacated and extended her hand first to Jolie, then to Smith. “I’m Lainie Farrell. I work over at Kathy’s House.”

  Nicholas gave Jolie a chance to complete the introductions before he spoke. “Lainie lives upstairs. She’s another of Jamey’s charity cases.” First had come Reid, then Cassie, then Nicholas and Lainie. Once she had moved on to a better life and he was gone—not necessarily dead, just gone—Jamey would find someone else who needed a cheap roof over his head. His old friend had quite a social conscience—but then, he had always looked out for others, even when they were kids. “If you have enough time to mind other people’s business, Jolie, why don’t you do some fund-raising for the women’s center so they can pay their employees a living wage?”

  “Pardon me for thinking that forty-three is too young to die.”

  “Hey, I’m not dead yet.” At his flippant reply, shadows darkened Lainie’s eyes, and he silently cursed Jolie and Smith for coming here, for forcing the issue when she was around. “Look, you want to talk about something else? Fine. Otherwise, this visit is over.”

  He was surprised when Smith rose from his chair, circled the table and helped Jolie to her feet. He had expected more of an argument, but he was relieved not to get it.

  “If you change your mind...”

  “I won’t.”

  Kendricks looked from him to Lainie, then back again. “Situations change. If yours does, let us know. In the meantime, be careful. I agree with Jolie. Forty-three is much too young to die. Lainie.”

  Nicholas didn’t turn to watch them leave, but instead spun the empty beer bottle in slow circles on the table. After a half-dozen rotations, Lainie caught hold of it and tugged it from his hand. “They’re worried about you.”

  “I can’t live my life waiting to see what Jimmy might do.”

  “Waiting for the inevitable, you mean.”

  “The only inevitability around here, sweetheart, is you and me in bed.” He watched a flush darken her cheeks and felt a corresponding heat spread through him. They were both mature, capable adults, with a lifetime of experience between them, and yet she could still blush. He could still respond like an infatuated kid.

  “You’re awfully sure of yourself.” Now she was the one making the bottle twirl, letting it slow to a stop before giving it another spin. When it stopped, pointing directly at him, he intercepted her hand as she reached for it and drew her out of the chair and around the table.

  “You owe me a kiss.”

  She pulled against him but not hard enough to free herself. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “You spun the bottle. The rules say you have to kiss whoever it points to.”

  “That’s a silly game. I was too grown-up to play it even when I was a kid.”

  He drew her across his lap, not straddling it, the way he would like—her dress was too short and too snug—but sitting sideways, hands folded in her lap, prim and proper, considering that his arousal was growing and straining against her. “You should never be too grown-up to play kissing games.” He drew his fingers down her bare arm, making her shiver and shift against him. “Just one kiss, and I’ll let you go.” But that was a lie. One kiss of the right kind, and he would carry her upstairs to one bed or the other and never let her go.

  For a time she simply looked at him, her hazel eyes steady, and then she touched him. She combed her fingers through his hair, sliding all the way down to his nape, then brushing just the tips of her fingers around to his jaw. Bracing herself with her other hand on his chest, she bent closer, moistened her lips, then stiffened. In an instant, the playfulness, the seductiveness were gone, and tension had taken its place. “I’m sorry. I can’t,” she whispered, jumping to her feet; hurrying toward the back of the bar.

  He stood up, too, but she was already disappearing around the corner. “Lainie, wait—”

  A moment later, her apartment door slammed. A moment after that, the Kendrickses drove past on the flooded street.

  He went upstairs and tried the door. It was locked. “Lainie, open the door.”

  There was silence inside.

  “Come on, it’s no big deal.” Just maybe the biggest deal in his life. He’d gotten himself into a hell of a mess—damn near desperate to end too many years of celibacy and determined to end it with only Lainie, who couldn’t decide whether she wanted him. At the church her answer had been a definite yes. In spite of the rain and the peculiar location, he had no doubt that he could have taken her there. If he hadn’t preferred the comfort of a bed over the frantic hurry-up-and-explode they were building to, if he hadn’t wanted all the time in the world for looking, touching, kissing, pleasuring, if he hadn’t wanted the privacy for something special, something meaningful, something memorable, he could have already ended this long, painful phase. But he had wanted more, and now she didn’t. She couldn’t.

  Frustrated, he banged the door hard enough to rattle it on its hinges. “Damn it, Lainie!”

  Absolute silence.

  For a long time he stood there, hearing nothing but his own uneven breathing, feeling nothing but his own restless edge. Finally he went downstairs to the kitchen, where he fixed a sandwich he didn’t particularly want, and then to the bar, where he pulled up a stool behind the bar, popped the top on a can of soda and ate lunch to the lonesome accompaniment of rain beating down.

  At five minutes till twelve, Jamey made a repeat dash across the street. He left his jacket near the door, combed the water from his hair, then settled on a stool on the opposite side of the bar. Without waiting to be asked, Nicholas fixed a glass of ice water and slid it across.

  After the silence had dragged out, Nicholas finally broke it. “You want me to get out of here?”

  Jamey looked surprised. “Why would I want that?”

  “At least it would stop the feds from coming around here.”

  “Smith? Nah. He and Jolie come down here pretty often, either to the center or to see Cassie and Reid. Remy Sinclair and Michael Bennett come by a lot, too. Michael’s wife helps out from time to time, and Susannah, Remy’s wife, is one of Karen’s full-time nurses.”

  Now that was news. He’d probably seen Susannah Sinclair—Duncan when he’d known her—a dozen times or more when he’d watched at the window for Lainie, but he’d never recognized her. Of course, he’d never really known her. Like so many others, she had been just one more of Jimmy’s pawns. After one attempt on Sinclair’s life had failed, leaving him wounded and in need of nursing, Jimmy had persuaded Susannah to take the job by kidnapping her younger brother, then offering to trade the kid’s future for information regarding Sinclair’s habits and movements. The information was meant to facilitate a second, hopefully successful attempt to get rid of the FBI agent who had long been a thorn in Falcone’s side.

  Unfortunately for Jimmy, he had chosen the wrong go-between. Nicholas had had no desire to play a role in anyone’s death, particularly the FBI agent who was his best chance at seeing Jimmy punished. He had deliberately distorted Susannah’s information, had left out certain
details and completely fabricated others. Unfortunately for Sinclair and Susannah, Jimmy had gone around Nicholas and had almost succeeded in killing them both anyway.

  “Have you even considered Smith’s suggestion?”

  Nicholas scowled at Jamey. “I don’t need protection. The FBI has somebody watching Jimmy twenty-four hours a day. If he decides to come after me, they’ll know.”

  “They could have someone watching you without your agreement, couldn’t they?”

  “They could, but they haven’t.” He grinned. “A stranger in this neighborhood draws more than a little attention. He would be real easy to avoid.” It wasn’t as if he were new to the surveillance game. Most of the time he’d worked for Falcone, he’d been under the FBI’s microscope. It had provided him with something of a challenge there toward the end, when he’d begun passing evidence and documentation of Jimmy’s crimes to Jolie. Giving both Jimmy’s watchdogs and the feds the slip had added a little danger and excitement to the process.

  Changing the subject, he gestured toward the street. “You get many customers on a day like this?”

  “Not too many. There are a few who need a drink more on a day like this, but most of them stay home. That’s where I’d be if I had a choice.”

  “So go on home. I’ll watch the place.”

  Jamey gave his offer about a moment’s serious thought, then grinned. “Are you serious?”

  “I’ve got nothing better to do.”

  “Oh, Nicky, you’re a sad man.” He slid to the floor. “There’s a price list posted, some of the regulars have an account, and you know your booze. If you have any problems, give me a call.”

  It was that easy—no protests, no worries. Just a simple offer, and he had a job for the day.

  Not much of a job, he acknowledged later in the afternoon. Lainie remained silent and locked away upstairs, the rain continued to fall, no customers came in, and the hours crawled past. He caught a football game on TV, even though he didn’t care much for the sport, and watched part of a movie before wandering over to settle at a table near the door. Periodically the rain let up enough to allow the excess water to flow down the street and empty into the ditches there; then it seemed to come harder and faster than ever, rising to the top of the curb, once covering nearly half the sidewalk in front of O’Shea’s. Major portions of the city were flooded, creating an emergency of minor proportions, but down here on Serenity all was quiet. People didn’t expect help from the city’s pumping stations or from God or nature. They just quietly coped.

  He’d been sitting at the table for well over two hours, playing solitaire with a well-worn deck of cards Jamey kept behind the bar, when the car first drove past. Jimmy had a whole garage full of expensive automobiles, but he had never sat inside any of them. The limo was his only form of transportation. Even when he got arrested, he always found out about the warrant and turned himself in before the cops could show up to haul him off to jail in the back of a patrol car.

  The car was barely moving but still created a wake. Nicholas watched the little ripples of water washing high up onto the sidewalk as the car passed out of sight. The driver would go to the end of the block, turn around and come back at the same slow pace. Just giving Nicholas the message that Jimmy hadn’t forgotten him? He knew that. Jimmy never forgot a slight, real or imagined—and Nicholas’s had been very real.

  In less than five minutes, the limo returned, stopping in the middle of the street directly in front of Nicholas. The press of a button sent the back window silently down, giving him a glimpse of the darkened interior of the car before Jimmy leaned forward. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at Nicholas for a long, still moment, the look on his face one of pure sorrow. Then, in the space of an instant, his expression went blank, he leaned back, the heavily tinted window went up again, and the driver pulled away.

  Goodbye. That had been the message. Now the games would begin. He’s just playing with you, Jolie had told him. Jimmy loved cat-and-mouse games. Playing with his victim—keeping him off balance, giving him days, maybe even months, of peace, then tormenting him, never letting him guess when or how it would happen—would bring him almost as much satisfaction as actually killing him. It would be business well done.

  Well, Jimmy was going to have settle for just the killing this time. The game wasn’t going to work. Nicholas didn’t care when he did it or how or where. He didn’t give a damn about any of the details, didn’t even give a damn about the final result. Dying six months from now wasn’t going to be any more punishing than dying tonight. He was ready. He’d been ready ever since he’d knelt on a wet Baton Rouge street and watched the only woman he’d ever really loved die before his eyes. He was ready.

  So why did his hand tremble as he played the two of hearts on a black three?

  Why were the muscles all through his body knotted and taut?

  And why did he feel tremendous regret at the thought of Lainie?

  He heard her footsteps in the back hall an instant before she entered the bar. He didn’t turn to look at her but continued with his game, moving a black seven to a red eight before playing the red six on the bottom of the deck. As she came to a stop somewhere close behind, he picked up the deck, counted out three cards and turned them faceup on the table.

  “What was he doing here?”

  She must have been sitting on the ugly sofa in her apartment, staring out the window in exactly the way he passed too much of his time. Usually, though, he was looking for her. What had she been looking for?

  He played another card before answering. “Just making his presence known.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Nope. He didn’t need to.”

  After a long, still moment, she came around and sat down on his left. She was still wearing the turquoise dress, but she’d added a jacket, ivory, long, ending only an inch or two higher than the dress. The sleeves were long, too, meant to be folded back and cuffed, but she wore them down, covering all but the tips of her fingers. In spite of the jacket, she looked cold. Well, he had a remedy for that, but damned if he was going to offer. Not yet, anyway.

  “Why are you so dead set against accepting the government’s help?”

  The five of diamonds he’d been looking for turned up in playing position, and he moved it into place, which allowed him to move one column and turn over the last ace. He added it to the three above before glancing at her. “I think I’ve said all I want on the subject.”

  “Say it to me. Tell me why you’re willing to sit back and let that man kill you.”

  “I’ve told you before. I don’t give a damn.” He gave her long, bare legs a long, leisurely look, then grinned. “Of course, if you want to give me a reason to live, I’d be happy to consider it.”

  Her scowl was proportional to his grin. “How about the fact that people care about you? Jamey and Jolie and Smith—”

  “What about you?” He wasn’t grinning now, and the cards lay forgotten in his hand. “Do you care about me, Lainie?”

  For a long time she stared at him, her eyes wide with dismay. Her lips parted, then compressed, then she drew a deep breath and gave the answer he wanted to hear. No, the answer he didn’t want to hear. “Yes, Nicholas. I care, too.”

  Chapter 6

  “Did you know that you’re standing on the east bank of the Mississippi facing east?”

  Lainie looked over her shoulder at the man who had spoken with more than a little wariness. She had expected Sam to show up, as usual, for this Wednesday afternoon meeting. She was disconcerted to see Smith Kendricks instead.

  “It’s because of the way the river loops around the city. You can stand here and watch the sun rise over the west bank.”

  She turned her gaze back to the river and the twin bridges rising high above it. “Where is Sam?”

  “I told him I would fill him in.” As the U.S. Attorney, that was his prerogative. He could get as involved in an investigation as he and the FBI wanted. There was no question
that the Falcone case had long been personal for him and, with his good friend Remy Sinclair the case agent, no question that he was going to be very involved. “What happened Saturday afternoon?”

  Her muscles tightened and her face started to warm before she realized that he was referring to Falcone’s visit, not to her tremendous lapse in conduct. He hadn’t seen her sitting on Nicholas’s lap after he and his wife left O’Shea’s, hadn’t seen her bend to kiss him. If he had, she would have heard from him long before now. She would have been stood at attention in her boss’s office and given a blistering reminder of exactly what constituted professional misconduct. She probably would have been yanked off this case and sent back to Atlanta in disgrace, and Nicholas would have official protection, whether he wanted it or not.

  Even though Smith hadn’t seen her, she had fortunately seen him when he, Jolie and the O’Sheas had come out of Kathy’s House. The brief glimpse had been all she needed to remember who she was, why she was there and how much she had to lose. It had been enough to send her fleeing for the safety of her room, where she had brooded and worried until she’d seen the car on the street.

  She’d been brooding and worrying even more since she’d seen the car on the street.

  “According to Nicholas, Jimmy was just making his presence known. He drove by, turned around, stopped in front of O’Shea’s, rolled the window down and let Nicholas see him, then left.”

  “There was no conversation?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any sign of Jimmy since then?”

  Another shake.

  “What does Nick do with his time?”

  “Not much. As far as I know, he doesn’t go anywhere. I see him sometimes during the day just standing at the window. Yesterday he helped me plant some flowers at Kathy’s House.” She’d been on her knees in front of the long raised bed that stretched from one end of the iron fence to the other, with breaks for the center gate and the driveway where it entered and had once exited, when he’d joined her. Flat after flat of pansies in shades of violet, deep purplish-blue and white had stretched across the yard, donated by a local nursery, and he had remarked that, if she stayed around, in another year or two she could be planting her own pansies, grown in her own nursery.