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“I didn’t walk out on you.”
“Funny, that’s sure how it looked to me when you packed your bags and hightailed it off to San Antonio.”
“I asked you to come with me,” she reminded him.
“Because you knew I wouldn’t go.”
It was true, Angela admitted in silence. She’d known he would never leave Mission Creek. So she’d run away to save both of them from hurting each other even more.
“Evidently you forgot what I told you when you left here.”
“I didn’t forget,” Angela told him. It was a scene she would never be able to forget no matter how hard she tried. Just as she’d never forget that look of shock and disbelief on Justin’s face when she’d told him she was taking the job in San Antonio. Nor would she ever forget seeing that shock turn to desperation when he’d pleaded with her to pass on the job, to stay in Mission Creek with him and work out the problems in their marriage. Even now she could still hear the lie trip off his tongue as he’d insisted that her being unable to have a baby didn’t matter to him. And when his attempts to reason with her had failed, his passionate pleas had turned into a white-hot anger that bordered on disgust and had left her chilled to the bone. She pressed a fist to her heart at the ache that came as she remembered the frigid way he’d looked at her and the coldness in his voice when he’d warned her that if she walked out that door, their marriage was over and he never wanted to see her again. Two weeks later she’d saved him the trouble and had filed for divorce.
“Then you know you’re not welcome here. Go back to San Antonio, Mason. You don’t belong here.”
Angela tipped her chin up a notch higher, met his cool gaze. “You don’t own Mission Creek, Justin. And you certainly don’t own the hospital. I have as much right to be here as you do.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Since when do you give a damn about Mission Creek? You wanted the bright lights of the big city, remember?”
“That’s not why I left, and you know it,” she told him, irritated with herself for letting him goad her. “We both know why I left Mission Creek.”
“Yeah. You left to get away from me,” he said, his voice bitter, his expression hard. “So I’ll ask you again, Mason, what are you doing here? Better yet, when are you leaving?”
His words stung, hurting her more than she’d ever thought they would. But after growing up in a household where her visions had made her a frequent target for her father’s verbal and physical lashings, she’d learned long ago that it was better not to show pain or fear. So she lifted her gaze and met Justin’s chilling green eyes. And with an aplomb she thought worthy of an acting award, she said, “In answer to your first question, I’m here as a guest. As to when I intend to leave, I’ll go when I’m ready. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
He blocked her path. “No. I won’t excuse you. I don’t want you here.”
He was so close, Angela caught the woodsy scent of his aftershave and spied the muscle ticking in his jaw. “You’ve already made that clear. Unfortunately, we don’t always get what we want.”
Johnny Mercado clamped a hand down on his son’s shoulder. “Ricky, quit badgering Sal here and go see to your lady friend. Looks to me like the sheriff is giving her a rough time.”
Ricky shifted his gaze to where the woman in question was in what appeared to be a heated discussion with Sheriff Justin Wainwright. “Angela can handle herself,” Ricky informed him.
“What kind of talk is that?” Johnny countered. “The lady came with you, didn’t she?”
“Angela Mason’s no schoolgirl, Pop. She knows what she’s doing. Give it a rest.”
When Ricky started to turn back to Sal, Johnny cuffed the back of his son’s head—something he had done many times when Ricky had been a teenager, hell-bent on getting into trouble. “You show some respect for me, and for that girl.”
Ricky smoothed a hand at his nape, eyed his father warily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
Johnny sighed. “I know you didn’t,” he said, softening toward this dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger that was his son. It had always amazed him that such a handsome and fierce young man had actually come from him and Isadora. Ricky had always been so much braver, so much stronger than he had been, Johnny thought. He still didn’t know what the hush-hush military mission was his son had just returned from, but he had no doubts that it had been dangerous. Ricky had never shied away from danger. And whatever this mission was his former commander sent Ricky on, it hadn’t frightened his son. Ricky hadn’t hesitated to go. Since his return, the boy had seemed different, more serious. But Ricky had said little about what had happened. Perhaps if he himself had been half the man his son was, Johnny thought, his Isadora would still be alive.
“Pop, you okay?”
Johnny shook off thoughts of his many failures. “I’m fine. Now, quit fussing over me like an old woman and go see about your lady friend.”
Ricky hesitated a moment, his gaze shifting from Johnny to Angela and back again. “All right. But you and I are going to talk, Pop. And I need you to be straight with me. I want to know what Del Brio said that’s got you upset.”
“Who says I’m upset? Do I look upset to you?”
“Cut the act, Pop. Sal told me you and Del Brio had words. I want to know what it was about.”
Johnny eyed his friend. “Salvatore doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now, go see about little Angela and quit fussing over me. I can take care of myself.”
“Pop—”
“La Madre di Dio! Basta! Leave it alone, Ricky. Just leave it alone,” Johnny commanded, and stalked away from his son toward the bar.
By the time the bartender handed him the glass of red wine, Johnny’s hands were no longer trembling from the rage that had been burning inside him for weeks now, ever since he’d put two and two together and had realized the truth—that Frank Del Brio had played a hand in Isadora’s death. Mixed in with the rage was shame. Shame at his own cowardice. He stared at the glass of red wine, remembered the sight of his Isadora lying in the hospital bed all battered and bruised. What kind of man was he to have gone along with Isadora’s claim that she’d been mugged when in his heart he’d known the truth? She’d been beaten as a warning because he had not followed Del Brio’s orders.
He hadn’t been a man at all, Johnny conceded. He’d been a coward, a yellow-bellied coward and a weakling. And because of him, Isadora was dead. He took a swallow of the merlot and squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of his sweet, tiny wife who had never had an unkind word for anyone.
Forgive me, Isadora. Forgive me.
How could he have been so blind? Johnny wondered as he left the festivities and wandered outdoors, away from the noise, away from the lights, away from the memories. He stared up at the sky, noted the dusting of stars, the half-moon. Yet his thoughts remained on Del Brio. How could he have failed to see before now how truly evil the man was? And to think at one time he had even condoned the man’s offer and allowed him to become engaged to his daughter, Haley.
Haley. My pretty, smart Haley. You knew what he was, didn’t you? That’s why you disappeared. It’s why you pretended to drown and let us believe you were dead. But all these years, all these years, your mama knew. She knew you were alive. And that baby girl, the little one called Lena that was kidnapped, she’s your baby, isn’t she? My granddaughter. My flesh and blood.
“I’m going to get her back for you,” Johnny murmured. And once Haley’s baby was safe, he would make Del Brio pay. He would pay for destroying his family. For forcing his daughter into hiding. For what he’d done to Isadora. Johnny clutched the now-empty wineglass between his palms as anger festered inside him. And when the pig was pleading for his life, when he was begging that he not be killed, Johnny would show the dog the same mercy that he had shown Isadora. None.
“Johnny, I’m sorry,” Sal said as he came up behind him. “That boy of yours, he tricked me. He said you’d told him you and Del Brio had had an argument. So I thought he knew.”
Johnny held up a hand to stem his friend’s apology. “It doesn’t matter. Ricky’s a smart boy. Both he and his sister have always been smarter than their old man.”
Sal frowned at him. “You talk as though Haley’s still alive. I thought you said you didn’t believe all that stuff Del Brio’s been spouting off, you know, about her not dying in that boating accident.”
“I don’t believe it,” Johnny lied, and silently cursed his slip of tongue. It was bad enough that he’d persuaded his son that Del Brio was right in his suspicions that Haley was alive. Now he wished he hadn’t. While he was convinced that the nun the nurse reported seeing in Isadora’s room shortly before her death had been Haley, he’d probably have been wise to keep that to himself. “Sometimes I get confused and forget that she’s dead. Too much vino, I guess,” he explained, holding up his empty glass.
Apparently satisfied, Sal nodded. “So, you going to tell Ricky what you found out? You know, that stuff about Del Brio ordering that potass…that potass…”
“Potassium chloride,” Johnny said, supplying the name. He’d read up on the subject after learning that Del Brio had taken a keen interest in the substance shortly before Isadora’s death. He’d also discovered that potassium chloride was one of the four electrolytes found in the body, but if injected into an IV in large doses it would be lethal and cause a victim to suffer a heart attack. His Isadora had never had a heart condition. That she had suffered a heart attack within a week of her hospital stay was reportedly a coincidence. Well, he’d lived too long and seen too many people he cared about hurt to believe in such coincidences. “And no, I have no intention of telling Ricky. I don’t want him involved. This is between me and Del Brio.”
Sal’s eyes darted around, searched the shadows. “Talk like that will get you killed,” Sal hissed in warning.
“I’m not afraid of Del Brio.” And he wasn’t, Johnny admitted silently. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t afraid.
“Then you should be. You know what kind of man he is, Johnny. He sees shadows when there are none. He thinks you’re out to get him, and he won’t hesitate to kill you.”
“Not if I kill him first.”
Sal swore. “You’re my oldest friend, Johnny. I’m godfather to your son. I’m begging you to listen to me. Forget about this plan of yours,” Sal pleaded. “You’re no match for Del Brio. Not only is he almost half your age, he’s dangerous, and he has the power of the family behind him. His taking over for Carmine the way he did instead of Ricky, it only made him more dangerous. For you to even think of taking him on would be suicide.” He placed a hand on Johnny’s shoulder. “Let it go, Johnny. Forget what I told you about Frank ordering that drug. It’s too late to help Isadora now. And she wouldn’t want you to do something stupid that could get you killed.”
Johnny shook off Sal’s hand and whirled around to face his friend. “You think I really care what happens to me now?”
“You should,” Sal told him. “Frank isn’t like your brother, Carmine. He’s ruthless. He’ll kill you, Johnny. He’ll kill you without blinking an eye.”
“I told you, not if I kill him first. I intend to have my vengeance. An eye for an eye.” Una vita per una vita. A life for a life, he added silently.
Sal looked furtively around them again. “We shouldn’t even be talking about this, not here. You know as well as I do that the shadows have eyes and ears.”
“I don’t care.”
“You should. Maybe you’ve lost Isadora and Haley, but you’ve still got a son, Johnny. And Ricky’s still part of the family.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Ricky,” Johnny said, and stared at Sal Nuccio, a man much like himself. Someone who had been born into the life of corruption and had followed the dictates of the ruling family all of his sixty years. It wasn’t the life he’d wanted for either of his children. Haley had been smart enough to try to get out. But instead of escaping, Ricky had used the skills he’d learned as a marine to grow more entrenched in the family business. It was one of his greatest regrets, Johnny admitted. Maybe if he could make things right now, find Haley and her little girl and take out Frank Del Brio, Ricky would finally break away, lead an honest life, the life that he and Isadora had wanted for their son. “This is between me and Del Brio.”
“Do you really think that will matter to Del Brio?”
It would, Johnny promised. Just as soon as he found Haley and his granddaughter, he’d make sure that Del Brio never hurt anyone in his family again.
He was being a real bastard, Justin admitted. Though she’d tried to hide it, he hadn’t missed Angela’s wince before she had lowered her gaze. Disgusted with himself, he didn’t have to stare into those blue eyes of hers to know that he’d hurt her. He could remember all too well that bruised look she got when he’d hurt her feelings in the past. Hell, he’d been haunted by the memory of those sad blue eyes of hers for more years than he’d wanted to admit. Just as the woman herself had haunted every corner of his life for the past five years.
When she’d first walked out on him, he hadn’t been all that sure he would get over her. Those first few weeks had been a real bitch. But eventually time and burying himself in work had helped to dull the pain.
He’d gotten over Angela Mason. Or at least he’d thought he had gotten over her—until she’d walked through the doors of the hospital for tonight’s party. And now in less than an hour after seeing her again, she had him all tied up in knots.
He didn’t want her here. At least he’d been honest with her about that. What he hadn’t told her, and had no intention of telling her, was that he didn’t want her here because he didn’t want to remember what it was like to be with her, to hold her, to touch her, to taste her.
Justin shoved a hand through his hair. Dammit, he didn’t need this kind of grief. Not now. Not when he had so much on his plate trying to train a rookie deputy, finding the judge’s murderer, dealing with Del Brio and finding that missing baby. Having Angela show up now would only screw up his head, something he could ill afford at the moment. She would simply have to go, Justin reasoned.
“Justin? Are you all right?” she asked, and touched his arm.
Justin stilled even though his body went on full alert. Angela had always had that affect on him, from day one when he’d first seen her at the police academy. With a look, the brush of her fingers, one little word, she set off some primal instinct in him—an instinct that had caused him to practically bully her into marrying him because his need to bind her to him had been so strong. It was also an instinct that invariably led them to bed where the sex had been mind-blowing. And thinking about having sex with Angela was the worst thing he could do. He jammed his fists into his pockets to keep from reaching for her as that instinct kicked in again now. “Go away, Mason,” he told her, his voice deliberately hard. “Just go away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, in much the same way she had that day when she’d told him that their marriage wasn’t working and that she was taking the job in San Antonio. “Truly, I am.” There was regret in her voice and in her expression as she turned away from him.
It was like déjà vu, Justin thought, watching her walk away from him. Five years ago, he’d been a lovesick fool. He had swallowed his pride and pleaded with her to stay. When she’d refused and kept right on packing, he’d resorted to threats and then anger. But nothing had worked. She’d walked away from him, anyway. He’d almost gone to San Antonio after her—until what little pride he had left kicked in and kept him from making a bigger fool of himself. And it was that same stubborn pride that kept him from going after her now. Pride and the fact that he wasn’t the same lovesick fool he’d been all those years ago.
But not even pride could stop him from tracking her movements as she crossed the room. And pride didn’t have a thing to do with that kick in his gut when he saw her hook up with Ricky Mercado again. Irritated with both Angela and himself, Justin marched over to the bar.
“What can I get for you, Sheriff?”
Justin glanced up at the petite redhead he recognized from the Lone Star Country Club. “Erica, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Erica Clawson,” she replied, and gave him a smile that was a shade too saccharine for his taste. Not at all like Angela’s warm smile, he thought, then chastised himself at once for thinking of her again.
“You got anything besides soda pop and wine back there, Erica?”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked, tipping her head to one side flirtatiously.
“Whiskey, neat,” Justin said, choosing to ignore the come-on. Besides the fact that he wasn’t interested, he’d heard noises that little Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth Erica Clawson had been keeping company of late with Frank Del Brio.
“Here you go.” She slid the glass toward him, gave him a soulful look.
“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the drink and turning his back to her. He tossed the whiskey back, welcomed the fiery burn down his throat and the way it spread like acid in his stomach. Like radar, his gaze sought out Angela. She was still with Ricky, their heads bent close together, the two of them in what appeared to be a deep conversation. Justin tightened his fist around the glass, wishing it was Ricky Mercado’s throat. Agitated with himself for letting her get to him, he turned away and slapped the empty glass down on the bar.
“Another one?”
“Yeah.” He had the glass halfway to his mouth, was already anticipating the fiery kick, when he noted Ricky leading Angela toward the exit. In the blink of an eye, he had an image of Ricky sliding into the car next to Angela, reaching across the seat to touch her face, to taste her mouth.
Unable to shake the image, Justin slapped his glass on the counter. Ignoring the slosh of whiskey, he started to get up and follow them when a firm male hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You might want to let your head and your blood cool before you go after her,” Hawk Wainwright told him.
Justin narrowed his eyes, stared into the sun-darkened face of his half brother. Although he’d been aware of his father’s long-ago affair with the Native American beauty who had been Hawk’s mother, only recently had he and Hawk acknowledged the blood bond between them. The relationship was tenuous at best, and there were old wounds that needed time to heal. But tonight he was feeling too edgy to mince words with Hawk and blurted out, “That a Native American thing? You being able to tell what’s going on inside a man’s head?”
Hawk smiled, something Justin realized that he could rarely recall the other man doing. “More like an observation.”
“Then you have some pretty amazing observation skills,” Justin told him, and went back to nursing his drink.
Hawk declined a drink with a shake of his head and urged Justin away from the bar. “Not all that remarkable. I remembered that the woman you watch with hot eyes was once your wife.”
“Was being the operative word here. We’re divorced now, have been for more than five years.”
“There are still strong feelings between you.”
“Not the kind you’re talking about,” Justin assured him. “Whatever Angela and I had ended a long time ago.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”
“Neither. And since discussing my ex isn’t exactly one of my favorite things to do, I’d just as soon drop the subject.”
“Whatever you say.”
Noting his brother’s stoic gaze, Justin asked, “What?”
“I was just wondering if you’ll be able to shut off your feelings for her as easily.”
“What are you talking about?” Justin asked.
“I’m talking about the green-eyed monster that eats at your heart now as you think of your woman with another man.”
“She’s not my woman anymore,” Justin insisted.
“But you want her to be. Or am I wrong?”
Justin gritted his teeth and met Hawk’s steady gaze, refusing to answer the question even to himself. “It’s not that simple.”
“It’s not that complicated, either.”
“You don’t understand,” Justin told him.
“Maybe I understand far better than you realize. I may have Apache blood in my veins, but I also have Wainwright blood,” Hawk explained. “I know what it is to want something, to want someone, until that want becomes a hunger that burns like fire in the belly. And I know what it is to feel the steel talons of pride digging deep into the soul until it’s pride that rules one’s tongue and actions instead of what’s here,” he said, thumping a fist against his heart.
But Justin didn’t need to be reminded that Hawk had spent much of his life wanting to be accepted, to be acknowledged as Archy Wainwright’s son and not merely the bastard half-breed who had been at the root of Archy and Kate’s divorce. Even now Justin couldn’t help but feel a measure of shame at the callous way their father had treated Hawk. Justin also couldn’t help but feel shame of his own, as well as regret, for not doing more to bridge the gap that had long existed between Hawk and the rest of the Wainwrights. Not only had Hawk lost all those years, but he and the rest of his family had lost, too.
“I nearly let pride cost me the thing I wanted most—Jenny,” Hawk told him, referring to the interior designer who’d recently become his wife. “Don’t make the same mistake I almost did and let pride cost you what you want most.”
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,” Audrey Lou Cox told him the following morning as Justin prepared to take a sip of the coffee he’d just poured himself.
