Mallory Kane - His Runaway Juror

Brand shrugged. “It’s your fault she’s too scared to function. Give her a break. She’s got a lot of thinking to do.”

The Cajun laughed, showing his crooked teeth. “That she does, brau . That she does.”

BRAND DIDN’T EVEN GLANCE at the neighborhood bar on his way to his cover apartment that night. He licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair. He’d been deep undercover too long. Hanging out with thugs and lowlifes put a bad taste in his mouth, and he knew from his childhood that it couldn’t be washed away with whiskey.

As soon as this assignment was over, he was done with the undercover racket. He’d take homicide. Working with plain old murderers. At least that way he could feel like a cop, instead of some lowlife.

In his one-bedroom apartment, he turned the radio to an oldies station and grabbed a bottle of water from the small refrigerator.

Flopping down on the sagging couch, he glanced at his watch, took a long drink of the cold water, then sucked in a dose of courage. He needed to call his brother, Ryan.

Ryan was four years older than Brand, and he’d often protected Brand against their father’s alcoholic rages.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed. It took several rings for Ryan to answer.

“Hey, Ry.”

“Hey.” Ryan’s voice was remote.

“How’d it go?” Brand sat forward and propped his elbows on his knees.

“How do you think it went? It was a funeral. Dad missed you.”

The jab hit home. Brand’s chest constricted. “Yeah, well, lift a glass to him from me,” he shot back.

Ryan was silent.

“Come on, Ry. You know why I can’t be there. I asked. They turned me down.”

“Did you?”

“What do you mean, did I? Hell, yeah, I did.”

“Hard to believe they wouldn’t let a guy go to his own father’s funeral.”

“Cut it out, Ryan.” Brand stood and paced, clenching and unclenching his fist. Maybe it was a bad idea to call him so soon. The funeral had been today.

“You know better than that. I’m undercover, and I just got my first break in the case. I can’t afford to blow the operation by disappearing. There are lives at stake.”

“Yeah. You’re so damn important. Everybody was asking about you. Mom’s made you into a hero around here—big bad cop who’s too busy to see his own father buried.”

“Well, at least I saw Patrick,” he threw back.

Damn it . It happened every time they talked. The same old argument. The same old hurts.

Ryan felt guilty because he had been away at school when their oldest brother, Patrick, was murdered. Thirteen-year-old Brand had found him lying across the doorstep of their house, dead from a single bullet to the head, with a dollar bill stuffed in his mouth.

Castellano’s calling card .

“Yeah, and you finally got what you wanted. Revenge.” Ryan’s voice was rough with emotion.

Grief, Brand figured, and guilt, mixed with disapproval of how Brand had chosen to live his life.

“Come on, Ry. I’m not doing this for revenge. I’m doing it because it’s the right thing.”

“Sure you are. That’s why you chose to isolate yourself from your family, and why you went so deep undercover that you’re becoming one of them.” Ryan took a breath. “I saw Aimee the other day. She’s engaged.”

“Aimee?” Brand’s gut tightened. He’d been thinking about giving her a ring when the undercover assignment had come up. He’d only seen her once in the past three years, and he’d had to pretend he didn’t know her.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Is Mom okay?”

“She’s making it.” Ryan’s voice sounded less tense. He’d needed to blow off some steam, just like Brand had.

“I think we might stay for a while. Mom’s having a fit over the baby. Cassie can help Mom clean out Dad’s stuff, and I might see what kind of contracting jobs are available.”

“Stay? In Alexandria?” A pang in Brand’s chest made him realize how much he’d miss his brother. Even if they didn’t always get along, even if he hadn’t been able to see much of him while he’d been undercover, he’d always known Ryan was just across town if he needed him. Ryan had always been there for him. But Alexandria, where his parents had moved once he’d moved out, was almost three hundred miles away.

“What about the house? Cassie’s studio?”

“I’ve got a guy watching the house. And Cassie hasn’t used the studio since she got pregnant. Fumes from the oil paint and turpentine. I’m thinking about selling it.”

“Right. Tell her I’m sorry I haven’t gotten to see the baby. I didn’t want to put y’all in danger.”

“Sure. We understand.”

Brand cleared his throat. “Gotta go, Ry. Tell Mom I’ll call her when I get a chance. Tell her I love her.”

“Try to stay out of trouble—okay?”

“Always do.” Brand disconnected, blinking hard. He didn’t know why his dad’s dying had affected him. The old man had either been in a rage or passed out drunk during most of Brand’s life. Brand had learned early that the best thing to do was stay out of his way.

He finished his water and shot the empty plastic bottle into the trash can like a basketball.

Thoughts of his father led to thoughts of Lily Raines, and the horror in her eyes when she’d realized Foshee was threatening her father. Her obvious love and fear for her dad haunted him. The way she’d frantically rushed to his side as soon as he and Foshee left made Brand feel guilty and somehow deprived.

He’d felt a secret relief when his request to go to his father’s funeral had been denied. And that had made him feel even more guilty. But the truth was, he hadn’t seen his dad in five years, and as far as he was concerned, that wasn’t nearly long enough.

For him, family equaled pain. His childhood memories were those of crying, yelling, fists and rage. He’d spent his boyhood hiding behind Ryan or hanging out with kids from school—kids whose fathers didn’t trash the house if dinner wasn’t on the table when he got home. Mothers who didn’t jump at every little noise, or stare out the window with haunted eyes in the late afternoon. Kids whose parents were normal.

Then there was his oldest brother. Poor Patrick had followed in his father’s footsteps, all right. He hadn’t even made it to thirty.

He didn’t remember ever feeling the way Lily obviously felt about her father. He had no concept of that kind of love. A place inside him ached—hollow, empty. He ran his hand over his face trying to wipe away his maudlin thoughts.

But he couldn’t wipe away the vision of Lily with her big, frightened brown eyes and her soft, vulnerable lips. He couldn’t get the smell of vanilla and coconut out of his nostrils.

Damn it, he wished he could warn her how necessary it was for her to be strong and brave. This was life and death. He hoped she knew that.

He longed to tell her he would do anything in his power to keep her safe, but that she had to make it through the trial without faltering.

He ached to touch her again, this time to comfort her, rather than scaring her half to death. But if he broke cover, not only would her life and her father’s be forfeit, he and two other cops could die.

LILY PULLED INTO her parking lot and glanced at the dashboard clock. She’d intended to be home before dark, but her father had seemed so happy to have her visit she hadn’t had the heart to leave early. He’d nodded sagely when she mentioned Bill Henderson. He’d even repeated his name.

She’d told him about Castellano’s hit man, and the men who’d threatened her, but he’d just nodded again.

For a moment she sat in her car as her eyes filled with tears of grief. Her dad had once been so strapping and smart.