What Mattered Most (5 page)

“Steve, really.” Lanie huffed a sigh and pulled the pin from her hair, letting the heavy mass fall about her shoulders. Her spine ached all the way from the base of her skull to her lower back. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“What if the FBI chick is right and this nut decides to come after you?” Steve tapped his fingers on the open refrigerator door, examining the contents of her fridge. “Did you know you’re out of beer?”

“First, she’s not a chick—she’s my cousin and she’d kick your ass if she heard you call her that. Second, she’s been wrong before, and she’s wrong this time. Mitchell wants Beth. Not me. Third, I have a state-of-the-art security system, not to mention a rather large caliber handgun. And yeah, I knew I was out of beer. The rat drank the last one yesterday.”

Steve straightened, a soda in hand, and swung the door closed. “You’re really ticked at him, aren’t you?”

“Ticked doesn’t begin to cover it.” Lanie moved by her partner to the refrigerator and grabbed the milk, drinking from the carton. Satisfactory spite warmed her veins—John
hated
when she did that.

After taking a swig of soda, Steve shook his head. “Getting involved with your partner is always a bad idea. I don’t know why guys do it.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, do you, Martinez?” Even if she’d ever been remotely attracted to him, she was off men for life. Lord, she should have followed through on that vow the first time she made it. She slumped against the counter, swirling the milk in the carton. “I think I’ll become a lesbian.”

He brightened. “If you do, can I watch?”

She slugged his shoulder and stuck the milk back in the refrigerator. “No.”

He laughed, opening the cabinet and surveying the junk food selection. “Listen, I really don’t mind hanging out here. I can crash on the couch, catch the end of the game on the tube—”

“Eat me out of house and home,” Lanie finished for him. She resisted the urge to push him toward the door. “I appreciate it, truly I do, but I really just want to be alone right now.”

“All right, but let’s check and make sure you have everything locked up. Then I’ll call dispatch and have them put a car outside, just in case.”

The plan sounded like overkill, but Lanie relented, following him from the kitchen. “I’ll sleep with my weapon, too. Will that make you feel better?”

Steve grew serious. “Yeah, it will. This whole thing makes me nervous.”

They moved through both levels of the house, checking the locks on all of the windows and doors. Lanie endured her partner’s safety instructions and breathed a sigh of immense relief when she closed the door behind him.

Solitude.

The quietness wrapped around her, sheltering her from the emotional storm brewing on the horizon. She walked to the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the living room wall. Rain clouds gathered over the Gulf, wind whipping at the white-capped waves. She wrapped her arms around her stomach and leaned her cheek against the cool window. Tears leapt to her eyes. How could she have been so wrong? The story had been so plausible—a young widow moving to escape the memories, her partner with no family ties seeking the excitement and warm weather of Houston. John’s attitude toward Beth had been friendly and warm, never that of a lover, not in Lanie’s presence.

And God knew, if anyone could see the signs of infidelity, she could. She’d lived them, had them drummed into her psyche by her mother’s litanies.

Lightning streaked across the black-purple sky. Acting on protective instinct, she backed away from the glass, drawing the ivory sheers closed. Picking up the remote, she fired the gas logs in the fireplace, the cheerful flames doing little to elevate her spirits. Everywhere she turned were reminders of the folly that had been her relationship with John O’Reilly.

Relationship. Anything but. She’d been a convenient lay. Scratch that—an eager, ultimately inconvenient lay, she corrected, still hugging the swell of her baby. Could she have made it any easier for him?

Tears dripped down her cheeks, and she let them fall as she gathered emergency candles, matches, blankets and pillows. The electric service was notoriously unstable in windy weather, and she couldn’t face sleeping in the bed she’d shared with John. The cold sheets were still rumpled and tossed from their early evening lovemaking, and she would not crawl between them.

This wasn’t much better. With a shuddery sigh, she settled onto the couch. How often had they made love in front of the fire, the curtains open so they could look at the water afterward? The images came too easily—firelight on burnished skin, highlighting the ripple and play of muscles as he moved above her, within her.

That hadn’t been making love. That was sex, pure and simple. The memory of the desire that had seemed so pure, so strong, pulled at her, and she shuddered with self-disgust.

All he ever had to do was look at her with those dark blue eyes, smile at her a certain way, and she was ready for him. Once upon a time, the reaction thrilled her. Now it damned her, made her feel again like the girl she’d been in high school—the one who had sought with desperation the love and affection so lacking at home, who traded her body and her self-esteem for the illusion that someone cared.

She’d taken years to rebuild that self-respect, and in one night, John O’Reilly had taken it away again.
Hell, be honest, Falconetti. He didn’t take anything. You
gave
him everything.

She pulled the blanket closer to her chin and stared into the leaping flames. The baby stirred, rolling beneath her hand. The tears fell faster. What was she going to do?

Wind gusted, rattling the glass, and the rain began, harsh sheets of water blown against the house. Lanie shivered. Beth was still out there somewhere. Lord, this entire situation was a mess, the emotional equivalent of an atomic bomb waiting to go off, but she wanted the other woman safe.

Repeating prayers for all of them, she drifted into sleep.

“Let me get this straight—your girlfriend’s idea of a joke involved handcuffing you to the hospital bed?”

John met the security guard’s incredulous gaze and nodded, trying not to look like the worry-crazed maniac he was becoming. The more he’d thought about it, the more Caitlin Falconetti’s theory made a sick sort of sense. Mitchell could very well go after Lanie, and John meant to stop him. “We’re both cops. She got mad at me and…”

He let the words trail away, lifting his cuffed wrist for illustration.

After radioing the main desk, the security guard shook his head and released John’s wrist. “Craziest damn thing I ever heard.”

His bladder threatening to burst, John rubbed at his wrist and swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Thanks.”

The guard eyed him with lingering suspicion. “Where do you think you’re going, young feller?”

One hand keeping the back of the too-small gown closed, John tested weak legs. “To take a leak.”

Still muttering, the guard left the room. John eased into the bathroom, trying to get his thoughts in order. He didn’t even have his watch. He had no clue what time it was, what was going on with the search for Beth, or how long Lanie had been alone.

Please let Martinez be with her. The wish was pointless, though. Lanie’s stubborn independence had been one of the traits that had drawn him to her most strongly. She could stand on her own; she didn’t
need
him. Lanie could take care of herself.

That’s what you thought, O’Reilly. How do you know what she needs? You never asked. You just took what you wanted and the hell with her feelings.

The memory of the awful hurt in her eyes stabbed him with renewed guilt, but he shook off the emotion. She knew what she was getting into from day one with him. Her eyes were open.

Yeah, sure. But she didn’t know everything, did she, O’Reilly?

Guilt grabbed at his gut again. After flushing the toilet, he ran cold water over his hands, splashing his face. He’d worry about blaming himself later. Right now, he had to get to Lanie before Mitchell, and maybe in the process, he could help Beth as well.

First, though, he had to find a way to cover his bare ass.

She reached for the matches and froze at the sticky wetness between her thighs. Hands trembling, she lit a candle, and the leaping flame cast shadows dancing about the room. The material of her leggings clung to her upper thighs, and she touched the dampness, holding her fingers to the light.

Blood.

The crimson stain on her skin sent panic skittering along her nerves. Her hands folded around the stillness of her swollen abdomen.
Move, baby. Please move.

No response came. No movement, no pain, just the blood. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought. Maybe it was just the pre-labor show. Somehow, even weeks-early labor seemed preferable to this painless bleeding.

With shaking hands, she grabbed the candle and the cordless phone and edged her way to the bath off the small foyer. The gush of fluid between her legs took her breath. This wasn’t normal. No way was this awful flow of blood normal.

Frightened tears clogging her throat, she sat on the edge of the tub and tried to dial her doctor’s number. The only reply was a dead line. Oh God, not the phone lines, too. Not now. A panicked sob tore at her lungs.

Her cell phone would be in the charger next to the refrigerator. Maybe the battery had enough power to let her make a call, and Steve had said he’d have a car posted outside. Help was available.

She wanted John with a breathless urgency, wanted the feel of his strong arms, the security of his deep voice. Lanie forced herself to breathe at a normal rate. She was on her own in this, and she might as well get used to that now. John O’Reilly didn’t belong to her. He never had.

When she opened the door, the draft extinguished the flickering candle flame. With a muttered curse, Lanie felt her way along the wall. If only the batteries weren’t dead, a flashlight lay in the junk drawer by the stove. As she made each sliding step, more blood pulsed from her body. Weak tears burned her eyes again.

Guilt tore at her. Earlier, glaring at John, she’d wished she weren’t bearing his child, and now that wish seemed to be coming to pass.

No. Stop it. The baby will be fine. You’ll be fine. You’re a Falconetti, and everyone knows a Falconetti never quits.

A few more feet and she would reach the kitchen. A few more seconds and she could call for help. Afraid moving too quickly would accelerate the blood flow, she took slow, easy, sideways steps, her hand sliding along the wall for guidance.

Her fingertips brushed wet, warm human skin, and she jerked away, her heart pounding in a sick, accelerated rhythm. A flashlight beam flared, blinding her, and a deep, raspy voice reached out for her. “Well, hello, babe.”

Lanie screamed.

Cruel fingers covered her mouth and nose, cutting off the scream. A tall, stocky body pressed hers against the wall, her womb compressed at an uncomfortable, awkward angle. Her lungs screaming for oxygen, she clawed at the smothering hand.

“Scream again, and you’re dead.” The whispered promise iced her veins. He removed his hand with slow deliberation, and Lanie drew in a deep breath. The mingled scent of sea air and stale sweat assaulted her nostrils, and she forced her mind to click through her training. Her attacker made himself vulnerable by getting this close—she could take him down, but she assumed he was armed. The certainty he would carry through on his threat settled into her mind.

He’s going to kill you anyway
.

The disjointed thought flitted through her mind, along with the knowledge that Caitlin had been right again. “Doug Mitchell?” she whispered.

“At your service.” His ugly laugh sliced at her ear, and he pressed closer. Nausea climbed in her throat. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

Where was Beth? Was she in the house? Already dead? Lanie swallowed. “There’s a deputy en route. My partner—”

“Your partner never had a chance,” Mitchell whispered against her ear, and she gagged. Oh God, not Steve. “No one’s going to interrupt us. No one’s going to save you.”

Her lungs froze, and cold fear trickled down her spine. She was truly alone in this.
Lord, please. Help me. Don’t let me panic. Help me think
.

Her gun. She’d left it on the kitchen counter, next to her cell phone. Her hope lay in that gun, in distracting him. “If you’re hoping to get back at John by hurting me, it won’t work. He won’t care… Our relationship is over. He never loved me.”

“He helped take my daughter out of my life.” The flat blade of a knife pressed to the swell of her stomach, and Lanie fought down a clenching wave of terror. “We’ll see how he feels about having his kid cut out of his life, won’t we?”

Lanie forced her muscles into deliberate relaxation. “We can talk about this. My father is very wealthy.”

“I don’t give a damn about money,” he snarled. “Money’s no good to me now.”

“You think? My father…” She sagged, throwing her entire weight on him. His grip went slack, and Lanie drove her forearm against his throat, followed by blows to his solar plexus and instep, her movements made clumsy by her increased weight. The flashlight fell to the floor, and he doubled over, cursing. She made a break for the kitchen, using the reflected light as a guide.

More blood left her body, and she bit back a terrified sob. Her hands closed on her gun and phone. Mitchell cursed, crashing down the hall, and she chambered a round, sliding the safety off. The phone hit the floor when she dropped it to grip the gun in a two-handed combat grip. His silhouette appeared in the doorway, and she fired, the muzzleflash appearing before the report exploded in the room.

She fired again, but he was on her before she got the third shot off. Her head glancing off the cabinet, she hit the floor, and his knee slammed against her chest. Mitchell’s hands gripped her skull, and with a mad growl, he thrust her head into the floor. Lights and agony exploded behind her eyes, and her hands covered her stomach, protecting her child, as blackness descended.