“We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other for the next little while,” Slade told Hayley Letter to Reader Title Page ACKNOWLEDGMENT PROLOGUE CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN Copyright

“We’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other for the next little while,” Slade told Hayley

In your dreams, she said silently

“I’ve got to tell you something that will frighten you. But try not to panic, because it isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds.”

He hesitated, eyeing her, then continued. “We have your son. He was picked up just a few minutes ago, while he was out riding his bike.”

The world froze around her, and her heart froze inside her chest.

“Max is perfectly safe,” he added quickly. “I swear he is. And I promise he’ll stay that way as long as you cooperate.”

She almost couldn’t hear him over the thunder in her head. She’d never felt such terror before, and when she tried to speak, the words caught in her throat.

“I want my son back,” she whispered fiercely. “Right now... Get him back for me!”

“I can’t. Not—”

“What kind of man are you?” Her entire body trembling, she pushed herself out of her chair and stood glaring across the desk at him. “You’re trying to help a convicted felon plan a prison break? You let his men kidnap an innocent child? Are you a monster?”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever found yourself falling madly and passionately in love with a man you knew was totally wrong for you?

That’s what happens to Hayley Morgan in Falling for the Enemy New Orleans lawyer Slade Reeves has a certain je ne sais quoi that starts her heart beating faster the moment she gazes into the deep blue depths of his eyes.

But once she discovers the truth about him, feeling even a twinge of attraction is out of the question.

Still, have you ever tried to stop yourself from falling in love? Especially when you’re constantly thrown together with the man in question? If so, you know it would be easier to stop a tide from turning.

Hayley and Slade’s story is truly one of love against all odds. I hope you enjoy reading about how they manage to find happiness together

Warmest wishes,

Dawn Stewardson

P.S. I invite you to visit my web site at www.superauthors.com

Falling for the Enemy
Dawn Stewardson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

With special thanks to fellow authors Anne Logan

and Linda Kay West for generously sharing their

knowledge of rural Louisiana

PROLOGUE

MR. WILLIAM FITZGERALD, “Billy Fitz” to his friends, rated one of the “executive suites” at the Poquette Correctional Center in Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana. That meant he didn’t have to share. He was the sole occupant of a six-by-eight-foot windowless cell.

Despite his privileged status, every morning when Billy woke up he wished he were anywhere else on earth.

The cell walls were cinder-block gray. The sink and seatless toilet, which occupied one open corner, white. At least, he assumed it was the color they’d been before becoming permanently stained putrid yellowish brown.

The bed was concrete, the mattress a slab of foam. The cell door had a slot where a battered food tray was pushed through at mealtimes.

Inmates from the executive suites didn’t eat in the communal dining room. Prisons like Poquette were filled with meltdowns who figured they could make their reputation by killing someone with a big name. That meant living like a hermit was conducive to Billy’s continued good health.

Five days a week, he was allowed to take a shower while a guard stood outside the shower room. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays he had an hour in a fenced-off section of the exercise yard. Weather permitting.

He’d been in Poquette for three weeks that seemed like three years. The place was intolerable. Worse for him than for most because of what he was accustomed to—an old mansion in the elegant Garden District of New Orleans, where dinner was served on bone china in his enormous dining room.

In his cell at Poquette, he ate off a dented tin plate with a plastic spoon. No forks allowed.

Billy was fifty-eight years old, and came from long-lived Irish stock. With any luck, he’d see the far side of ninety. He had no intention, though, of seeing it from a prison cell. In fact, he had no intention of seeing fifty-nine from behind bars.

After being convicted on three separate counts of manslaughter, he didn’t have a hope in hell of his appeal going anywhere. But there were other ways for him to regain his freedom, and as head of New Orleans’ “Irish Mafia,” he had both the money and connections to get what he wanted.

All he needed was a little help from his friends. And from Dr. Hayley Morgan.

Until now, he’d never had much use for psychologists. But he certainly had use for her. She was the key. The weak link. A woman with something valuable to lose.

One way or another, she was going to get him out of here. “We’re better off to take things slowly and try the most obvious route first,” his lawyer had advised. “With any luck, she’ll cooperate. Then there’ll be one less problem to worry about.”

Billy didn’t like the prospect of taking things slowly. It meant spending longer in this rat hole. But although he’d never admit it to a living soul, if he’d listened to Sloan Reeves more often he might not have ended up in prison. So he’d listen now and see where it got him.

If Dr. Morgan didn’t cooperate, then they’d use their ace in the hole. Her son.

CHAPTER ONE

HAYLEY MORGAN HEARD Max coming long before he reached the kitchen—hardly surprising when he was doing his imitation of a jet plane breaking the sound barrier.

Satchmo switched his tail a couple of times, then scurried into the sheltered space beside the fridge. He was a smart-enough cat to avoid the paths of small boys in motion.

A second later, Max zoomed into the room, skidded to a stop in front of Hayley and focused on the shorts she was wearing.

“Not goin’ to jail today, huh, Mom?” he said with a grin.

She couldn’t help smiling. He thought his “goin’ to jail” line was hilarious and used it regularly—which was all right as long as he said it to people who knew what her job was. Last fall, though, he’d told his first-grade teacher that his mom was goin’ to jail and for weeks the woman had believed Hayley was incarcerated.

“It’s Saturday,” she reminded him, turning to get the orange juice from the fridge. With school over for the summer, he was finding that the days blended into one another.

As she poured the juice, he sat contemplating the three different cereal boxes she’d put on the table. “Jimmy’s mom got him some real good cereal,” he informed her at last. “It tastes like candy.”

She set the glass of juice in front of him. “Well, call me old-fashioned, but—”

“You’re old-fashioned,” he interrupted, bursting into a fit of giggles.

“Which is why,” she said, ruffling his hair, “I think cereal should taste like cereal.”

Once he’d decided on corn flakes and began shaking some into his bowl, she wandered over to the window.

This early in the morning a cool mist still hung in the air, but by noon the city would be ninety degrees and steamy, reminding residents and tourists alike that much of it was built on reclaimed swampland and lay below sea level.

Yet even in the scorching heat of the summer New Orleans had an appeal she’d never felt anywhere else.

Three years ago, when she and Max had moved here from Pennsylvania, the Crescent City had quickly lulled them with a gentle sense of belonging. And even though New Orleans was far from the safest city for raising a child, this section of the Bayou St. John District had a secure, friendly atmosphere. Children played outside without their parents feeling they had to be watching every minute. And there were enough stay-at-home moms right on their own street that Hayley never had a problem finding someone to look after Max.

She glanced at him, making sure he wasn’t mushing his cereal instead of eating it, then looked out again, this time focusing on the way the sunshine filtered through the branches of the ancient oak in their side yard, backlighting the gray beards of Spanish moss that hung from its branches and dappling the street below in light and shadow.

That century-old tree, perfect for a boy to climb, was part of the reason she’d bought this place. That and the house itself, of course. A scaled-down version of a French-Colonial plantation house, with cypress woodwork and beautiful columned room dividers, it had murmured it was the one for her the first time she’d walked into it.

She turned from the window and, for a few moments, stood watching Max eat his corn flakes. Fair-haired and blue-eyed, he looked like his father. Personality-wise, though, he was completely different—as happy and easygoing a child as any parent could hope for.

He was the single good thing that had come from her failed marriage. She loved him more than she sometimes believed possible.

MONDAY MORNING, SLOAN REEVES was a man on a mission. He had to convince Dr. Hayley Morgan not to make the wrong decision. And he had to do it without telling her even one of the reasons why.

After striding across the lobby of the Orleans Parish state government building, he walked into a waiting elevator and pushed the button for the sixth floor. That was where the regional office of the State Department of Corrections was located, and where he’d find Dr. Morgan, regional director of Mental Health Services for the three state prisons closest to New Orleans—among them, the Poquette Correctional Center.

As the elevator carried him upward, he reviewed what he’d learned about the woman. Her job was partly administrative, partly clinical. She normally spent two days a week in her office and three in the field, giving the prisons’ staff psychologists whatever support or direction they needed. And she’d been known to personally evaluate prisoners who, for one reason or another, warranted special attention.

She was thirty-four, which struck him as young for someone in her position of authority. But having worked closely with the previous regional director, she’d been the logical choice to replace him when he’d retired five months ago.

The elevator reached six; the doors opened. Sloan stepped off, straightened his tie and started down the hallway to his right, not even glancing in the receptionist’s direction.

He knew exactly where Hayley Morgan’s office was located and that, as of late Friday afternoon, she’d had no appointments until ten-thirty this morning. In his line of work, it was wise to check those sorts of things out beforehand and leave as little as possible to chance.

When he stopped outside her doorway, she didn’t immediately realize he was there. She was engrossed in an open file on her desk, so he took the opportunity to appraise her, surprised his source hadn’t mentioned how good-looking she was.

Her plainly styled blue suit was the only plain thing about her. She had smooth, lightly tanned skin, full sensuous lips and hair the color of rich cognac. It was long enough that she was wearing it pulled back into some sort of knot—an attempt, he suspected, to make herself appear both older and less attractive. Being young and good-looking would not be an advantage to a woman working with incarcerated men.

But if she didn’t want them to notice her, she needed to do a whole lot more than just pull back her hair. And even the effectiveness of that was spoiled by the tendrils escaping the knot. If they could speak, he knew that right this minute they’d be whispering “Sexy” to him.

His visual inspection completed, he said, “Excuse me? Dr. Morgan?”

She glanced up then, her large brown eyes meeting his gaze. They were decidedly sexy, as well.

“Yes?” Hayley said, doing a three-second once-over of the man with the lazy Louisiana drawl.

In his mid-to-late thirties, he was well dressed, tall and attractive, with dark hair, an easy smile and eyes a deeper blue than Gulf waters on a sunny day. As he stepped into her office, she couldn’t help thinking they were the kind of eyes women found themselves drowning in if they weren’t careful. And sometimes, she suspected, even if they were.

“I’m Sloan Reeves,” he said, extending his hand across the desk. “May I have a few minutes of your time?”

His hand was warm, his handshake firm but not crushing, and she was absurdly aware of his touch.

When that realization skittered through her mind, she told herself it meant nothing. Her hormones were simply reminding her she was a woman.

That wasn’t something she exactly forgot, but between her job and Max, she seldom had time to notice men.

Checking her desk clock, she said, “I have a meeting in twenty minutes, but if you don’t need any longer than that...”

“I doubt I’ll need even that.” He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to her as he sat down.

Sloan Reeves, Attorney at Law, it informed her.

“I’ll come straight to the point,” he said. “I’m here on behalf of William Fitzgerald.”

“Oh?” And what, she wondered, did the newest executive-suite prisoner at Poquette want from her?

When she asked, Reeves flashed her another easy smile, then said, “Well, first off, I hope you won’t take any personal offense, but he isn’t happy he was sent to Poquette.”

“Really.”

She did her best to conceal her amusement. Fitzgerald should be grateful one of the smaller prisons had had space available for an inmate requiring protective custody. Otherwise he’d have ended up in Angola.

“What, specifically, does he find wrong with Poquette?”

Sloan Reeves leaned forward in his chair. “He’s being kept in virtual isolation.”

Reeves had to be aware of the reason for that, but since he was apparently waiting for an explanation, she said, “Surely he realizes it’s for his own safety. The prison staff can’t assign... celebrity prisoners, for lack of a better term, to the general population cell blocks.”

“No, of course not. But we both know isolation is brutal. That it almost always leads to deterioration—mental or physical or both.”

“You’re right, it’s far from ideal. I’m afraid there’s no magic solution, though. Even if Mr. Fitzgerald qualified for a minimum-security facility, we don’t have country-club prisons in Louisiana. He’d be segregated no matter where he was.”

Reeves nodded slowly. “I guess the basic problem is that he’s a very sociable man. He finds the lack of human interaction difficult to cope with.”

Rather than respond to that, Hayley merely gazed across her desk at Reeves. He was falling short on his promise to come straight to the point, because he couldn’t possibly be suggesting that Fitzgerald wanted to be moved into general pop. Not unless he’d like to end up graveyard dead, courtesy of some inmate with a shiv.

After a few seconds, she checked her clock again, assuming Reeves would get the message. He did.

“Here’s the bottom line. Mr. Fitzgerald wants to be transferred to a prison with a rehabilitation program. Being in one of them would give him both human contact and something to occupy his mind. And inmates in a rehab program shouldn’t be a threat to his safety.”

“I see,” she said again, still trying to figure out the game. Reeves wasn’t being straight with her, she knew that much.

The prison psychologists did a psych assessment on each new prisoner, and she’d read her copy of the one on Fitzgerald. He didn’t believe he belonged locked up with a bunch of low-lifes. So even if he did want more human contact, she wasn’t buying that he’d want it with his fellow prisoners.

As for a rehab program to occupy his mind, it would more likely bore him to death. Besides which, he wasn’t an even remotely viable candidate. The programs were strictly for prisoners nearing the end of their sentences, and she’d bet Reeves knew that. All of which added up to a hidden agenda of some sort.

Since she had a meeting to get to, she didn’t probe Fitzgerald’s motivations further but simply said, “You know, I rarely have anything to do with transfers. The person you should talk to is Warden Armstrong, at Poquette.”

“Yes—in fact I have an appointment with him this afternoon to file the request forms. But I wanted to let you know I’ll be asking him to have you do the mental-health assessment.”

“Oh?” That news made her more concerned about what the hidden agenda might be.

“It is something you occasionally do, isn’t it? Some of the mandatory evaluations? In this case, give your opinion about whether a transfer might benefit Mr. Fitzgerald?”

She nodded. Obviously Reeves had done his homework, and it had included checking into her job description. The realization unsettled her. She didn’t like having a stranger poke around for information about her.

“The staff psychologists at Poquette are more than competent,” she told him. “Why would you request that I assess Mr. Fitzgerald?”

“Because of your position. Because your signature on a transfer recommendation would carry more weight.”

“You’re assuming I’d recommend it.”

“I’m hoping you will.”

“Well... Look, there’s a fundamental problem here. The rehab programs are solely for prisoners close to their release dates, and with Mr. Fitzgerald not meeting that criterion...”

Reeves gave her a slow shrug. “I think I’ll be able to get around that by emphasizing his need for more human contact. You see, the way I look at it, there’s an Eighth Amendment violation involved.”

“A what?”

“I feel that his being kept in isolation constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.”

Hayley almost groaned. Sloan Reeves had things figured upside down and inside out.

“After you’ve talked with Mr. Fitzgerald,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll recommend a change of scenery to improve his mental health. If you don’t... Well, I’m sure you will.” With that, he leaned back and smiled at her once more.

It was a warm smile that reached his eyes and turned them an impossibly deeper shade of blue, a smile that under different circumstances she knew she’d have found both engaging and appealing. Under these circumstances, she found it neither.

Maybe her overdeveloped sense of fair play was coming to the fore, but she didn’t want to be involved in any attempt to manipulate the system.

And there was something else, of course. She was annoyed as hell at the way this man had walked in unannounced and told her what she was going to recommend.

THERE WASN’T a law firm’s name on Sloan Reeves’s business card, and several times during her ten-thirty meeting Hayley caught herself wondering whether he had a one-man practice. And whether he specialized in representing clients who were unquestionably guilty. The minute she got back to her office she phoned Peggy Fournier, a detective with the New Orleans Police Department, to find out.

A couple of years ago, Hayley had helped Peggy talk a jumper in off a ledge. During the aftermath, the two women had established that they were both single mothers with young boys. In no time, their sons were buddies, while she and Peggy became the sort of friends who were always trading favors.

If Peggy didn’t recognize Sloan Reeves’s name, locating someone who did wouldn’t take much effort. Since he was representing Billy Fitzgerald, three-quarters of the cops in the city could probably fill her in about him.

When Peggy proved to be on duty but not in the station, Hayley left a message. Then she grabbed a salad from the cafeteria downstairs, took it back to her office and spent the next hour reviewing every last detail in the Poquette psychologist’s intake assessment of Billy Fitzgerald.

He and his wife had divorced long ago, and she’d given him custody of their sole child, a son named Brendan, without an argument. According to Billy, at least. The wife’s version of the story would probably be very different. Something like, if she hadn’t given Billy custody he would have killed her.

His psychological profile, as Hayley had noted during her first reading of it, showed him to be a charming, highly intelligent, extremely manipulative psychopath.

Deciding she had as accurate a read on him as she could get from the file, she set it aside and started in on some backed-up paperwork while she waited for Peggy to return her call. It was close to four o’clock before she did.

“Sloan Reeves?” Peggy said when Hayley asked about him. “Good-looking? Smart enough to win on Jeopardy? Sets the ladies’ hearts aflutter with his smile? That Sloan Reeves?”

“Well, he hardly set my heart aflutter.”

Even as Hayley said the words, an imaginary voice reminded her that the touch of his hand on hers had sent a definite tingle through her. But that was before she’d known anything about him.

“It was more like he set my teeth on edge,” she told Peggy. “But yes, I’d say we’re talking about the same man.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“He walked into my office this morning and informed me that Billy Fitzgerald didn’t like his accommodations.”

Peggy laughed. “Well, Reeves should know. He’s the only lawyer in town with a client list of one. Or I guess it’s two at this point. We might have put Billy away, but so far it hasn’t stopped him from running the Irish Mafia. He’s just doing it through his son, Brendan, now. And I guess that means Reeves is acting as legal adviser to both of them.”

“Wait a minute, are you serious?”

“Hey, the world changes and the wise guys keep up. They’ve got legal advisers, financial advisers, certified public accountants—you name it.”

“Reeves works exclusively for Billy Fitzgerald?”

“I take it he didn’t mention this.”

“No, he didn’t.” And the fact that he was so close to Fitzgerald’s organized crime family—more like part of it, really, than close—made Hayley uneasier still about his visit.

She did her best to force the uneasiness away as Peggy continued.

“What a waste, huh? If he really did set your teeth on edge, you’re one of the few women in the city with that reaction. He’d probably get voted Most Eligible Bachelor in New Orleans if he wasn’t in bed with the bad guys. What exactly did he want?”

The question made Hayley hesitate. Sometimes, in her job, there was a fine line between what was confidential and what wasn’t. Still, she trusted Peggy, and she definitely wanted her take on the situation.

“He came to tell me,” she finally said, “that Fitzgerald is looking to transfer to a different prison.”

“Why?”

“The story is so that he can be in a rehab program.”

“What? They aren’t for lifers, are they?”

“No, and it gets better. Fitzgerald supposedly wants into one for the social contact.”

“Oh, puh-leeze. Like he wants to socialize with his fellow cons?”

Hayley almost smiled. Thus far, Peggy’s take was exactly the same as her own.

“I’m sure the real story is that, for some reason or other, Fitzgerald’s determined to get out of Poquette.”

“And you don’t know why?”

“No, but they had to come up with some explanation for a transfer request.”

“They came up with a pretty lame one. I wonder what Fitzgerald’s problem with the place is.”

“Me, too. But my problem is that they’re involving me in their game. A psychologist has to evaluate a prisoner’s mental health when he requests a transfer, and—”

“It’s going to be you, right?”

“Exactly. And Reeves is expecting me to recommend the transfer.”

“He said that?”

“He didn’t come right out and say ‘expecting,’ but there was no missing the message.”

Peggy was silent for a few seconds, then she said, “Does that have you worried?”

“I...yes, a little, now that you tell me he has friends in low places. But the final decision is the warden’s, not mine. I only give him my recommendation. And neither Fitzgerald nor Reeves will know what it is. So if the request’s turned down, which I’m certain it will be, they’ll have no way of knowing whether I—”

“Oh, Hayley, don’t play naive with me. Guys like those two can find out anything they want and you know it.”

“Maybe. But this isn’t the first time I’ve faced a little... subtle intimidation, shall we call it?”

“I could think of better terms,” Peggy muttered.

“Well, when you work with criminals this kind of thing comes with the territory, right? As a cop, you must see that all the time. I’ve never let anyone frighten me out of doing my job yet, however, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Yes, of course. I only... Well, this is a red-tape sort of thing, anyway, isn’t it. It’ll be forever before you have to assess Fitzgerald, so we can talk about it the next time we get together. But...”

“But what?” Hayley said uneasily.

“Look, I don’t think Reeves would get physical himself. Billy Fitz, on the other hand, has more than enough boys who play as rough as it takes. So if the good counselor pays you another visit I want you to call me.”

Once Hayley had promised that if Reeves showed up again Peggy would be the first to know, they chatted about their sons for a few minutes before hanging up.

It wasn’t ten seconds later that the phone rang again.

“Dr. Morgan,” Hayley said, answering it.

“Dr. Morgan, it’s Warden Armstrong at Poquette.”

“Yes, Warden?” A dryness settled in her throat. She had absolutely no doubt what he was calling about.

“You’ll be here in the morning, won’t you?”

“Yes. Tuesday’s my regular day.”

“Good, because Billy Fitzgerald’s filed an application for a transfer and he’s asked that you do the psych assessment. I want to give him a quick decision, so I’d like you to work the evaluation into your schedule tomorrow.”

CHAPTER TWO

HAYLEY HADN’T SLEPT WELL. Monsters wearing Sloan Reeves’s handsomely chiseled face had chased her through a series of nightmares, making it a relief when morning stole into her bedroom.

The first thing she did when she got up was phone Poquette and arrange to have Billy brought to the psych area at nine o’clock sharp. She might not know why Armstrong wanted to make a quick decision, but her job was to cooperate with him.

Naturally, Max picked this morning to dawdle. He usually ignored Satchmo’s game of always being on the wrong side of the door, but today he let the cat out and in three times before reluctantly sitting down at the table. Then he played a seemingly endless round of eenie-meenie before he decided which cereal he’d have.

Finally, she managed to get him to finish his breakfast and collect what he wanted for his day at the sitter’s.

After walking him and his pint-size two-wheeler the few houses down the street to Anne Kelly’s, she headed back to her car.

Despite Max’s delaying tactics she made it to the highway by 8:00 a.m. Once she started down the peninsula toward Poquette she was able to drive on automatic pilot.

The surrounding terrain was flat and wet—not completely barren but close to it—so the area wasn’t highly populated. That made for little traffic on the road, which gave her a chance to think through how she felt about this situation Sloan Reeves had dragged her into.

Peggy had been right in saying that prisons dealt with most requests from inmates at a snail’s pace. Armstrong’s asking for an immediate evaluation was highly unusual, and Hayley couldn’t help but wonder what leverage Reeves had used.

Regardless of how he’d done it, she was annoyed that he had Armstrong jumping through hoops. She didn’t like the idea of any prisoner, or his lawyer, having the power to force a warden into giving preferential treatment.

Force.

As the word repeated itself in her mind, she realized she shouldn’t assume Armstrong was jumping through hoops at all. She’d had enough contact with him to know that, like most wardens, he was hardly the type of man who’d let himself be intimidated.

Of course, bribery was always a possibility, although she seriously doubted Armstrong could be bought. In fact, she could readily imagine him throwing Reeves out on his ear if he tried either intimidation or bribery. So why this big rush?

Quite possibly, she’d never know. Armstrong wasn’t obliged to give her any explanations. When it came to things at Poquette, he was in complete charge. Which, in this case, was definitely a good thing.

As Peggy had said, if Reeves or Fitzgerald wanted to find out what Hayley recommended, they could. So it was just as well they were aware that the ultimate decision on a transfer wasn’t hers. Because, at least based on what she knew to this point, there was no way she could recommend one. Not with a clear conscience.

When she turned her attention back to her driving she was nearing the tall bridge that lay partway between Port Sulphur and Buras. The structure always struck her as spooky, although she wasn’t quite sure why.

Possibly it was the weirdness of there being freshwater on one side and saltwater on the other. Or maybe there was just too little land and too much ocean along this stretch.

Whatever, she was always glad to leave the bridge behind and drive the remaining few miles to the gravel road leading from the highway to the prison.

A couple of minutes later she could see it in the distance, a tired-looking big brick quadrangle in the middle of nowhere. Surrounded by a heavy link fence topped with razor ribbon, it always struck her as utterly depressing—the sight of it frequently reminding her she could have specialized in other areas of psychology.

But with a mother who taught criminology at Penn State and a father who was a district attorney, her interest in the correctional treatment of psychopathology was hardly surprising.

And even though the vast majority of prisoners were damaged beyond repair, there were enough she could help to make her work rewarding. In fact, one of her most treasured possessions was a little box containing cards and letters from ex-cons who’d made it on the outside.

Reaching her destination, she stopped at the concrete post in front of the gate and pressed the button.

“Yes?” a guard asked through the speaker.

“Dr. Hayley Morgan.”

The gate slowly swung open. She drove through, parked and headed for the staff entrance—where she stepped reluctantly from the cheery daylight into the dim interior of the prison.

After signing in, she passed through the metal detector and started down the hall. At the end of it, a correctional officer unlocked the heavy door and let her into another world. One in which an eerie sense of pent-up danger hung in the air like static before an electrical storm.

In contrast to the Orleans Parish state government building, with Muzak whispering in the elevators and sunlight streaming through the windows on every floor, Poquette was stark and harsh—the epitome of uninviting.

It felt...hollow was a good word. The clicking of her heels on the stone floor echoed far too loudly. And even though sounds from the cell blocks didn’t actually reach the admin wing, she couldn’t keep from imagining steel doors clanging and voices calling out from behind bars.

At Records she picked up Billy Fitzgerald’s file, then proceeded to the psych area. She barely reached her little Tuesdays office before nine o’clock. Minutes later, as prearranged, a C.O. delivered Billy Fitzgerald.

He was a few inches taller than she was, five foot nine or ten, and somewhat overweight, although not sloppily so. His eyes were blue, his thinning hair mostly gray, with just enough traces of red to tell her that was its original color.

In media shots she’d seen of him he’d been a dapper and confident-looking man. Not surprisingly, he was far less imposing in drab, prison-issue cotton. His bearing, however, said he was a man used to issuing orders and having them followed.

The C.O. caught Hayley’s glance and said, “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

After nodding to him, she looked at Fitzgerald again. “I’m Dr. Morgan, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Billy,” he said, giving her a smile. “Call me Billy.”

She returned his smile and gestured for him to sit, thinking that even though he’d lived in the Garden District before he landed in Poquette it wasn’t where his roots lay.

He spoke with a slight accent that was almost Brooklynese, almost movie gangster—typical of the Irish Channel part of New Orleans, where, generations earlier, a rough, tough collection of Irish immigrants had settled.

As he sat down across the desk from her, she opened his folder. The top document was a photocopy of his request for a transfer.

“Wishes to enter a rehabilitation program” was all that was typed as the Reason for Request.

She flipped through the routine incarceration documents until she located the original of the intake evaluation she’d studied yesterday.

“I have your initial psychological assessment records here,” she told him. “You’ve been at Poquette so briefly I don’t think we need to spend time going over the same things again. Why don’t we just talk about why you want a transfer.”

“Sloan Reeves spoke to you about that, didn’t he?” Fitzgerald’s tone was carefully nonconfrontational. He sounded like a man simply seeking information, nothing more.

“Yes, he came by my office yesterday. There was one question I didn’t think to ask him though. Is there any particular prison you’d prefer to be transferred to?”

“Not really. Any one with a rehab program would be fine.”

“I see.” It had occurred to her that there might be some way he could arrange for special treatment at a specific prison, but his answer shot down that theory.

“Why don’t you tell me, in your own words,” she suggested, “the reasons you’d like to be in one of the programs.”

He nodded, the picture of cooperation, then proceeded to recite from the same script Reeves had used. He had a problem with the isolation; he wanted more human interaction; he needed something to occupy his mind.

Fitzgerald’s explanation was pat and polished. Hayley didn’t buy it from him any more than she’d bought it from Reeves.

She’d spent years in classrooms studying human nature, followed by more years in the real world doing the same. And she was absolutely certain Fitzgerald had no more desire to get into a rehab program than she did.

He obviously figured he had something to gain from a transfer, but the longer they talked, the more apparent it became that he wasn’t going to tell her what it was. Finally, she concluded the interview and opened the door to tell the correctional officer. they were finished.

“Thank you,” Fitzgerald said when he rose to leave.

He gave her another of his charming smiles and extended his hand with an uncertainty she doubted was real.

“I’m not up on prison etiquette yet, Dr. Morgan, but on the outside...”

She reached over and shook hands with him, guessing that his was damp because he was far more anxious than he’d let on.

After the C.O. escorted him out and their footsteps had faded into silence, she sat staring at the blank evaluation form in front of her for a few minutes. Then she picked up her pen and began to write.

Once she was done, she tucked the form into her briefcase. Then, after gathering up the file on Fitzgerald, she returned it to Records and headed for Armstrong’s office.

The instant she arrived, his assistant buzzed the warden and ushered her in.

“Dr. Morgan.” Armstrong half rose behind his desk and gestured for her to sit. He was a large, beefy man with a ruddy complexion that made her assume he liked his bourbon.

“I understand you arranged to see Fitzgerald first thing.”

“Yes. I’ve just come from the interview.”

“And what are you recommending?”

She handed him the form. He skimmed what she’d written, then jotted down something on a different form, scrawled his signature and looked at her once more.

“That’s it,” he said. “Mr. Fitzgerald stays where he is.”

“May I ask a question?” Hayley said before he had a chance to dismiss her.

“Sure.”

“Why did you want to get this done so quickly?”

He shrugged. “Fitzgerald’s like a lot of executive-suite prisoners. They’re used to wielding power on the outside, and they come in here expecting to do the same. I like to give them a dose of reality as fast as I can.”

“Ah.”

“Anything else?”

When she shook her head, he picked up the two forms and escorted her out of the office.

His assistant looked up expectantly as the door opened.

Armstrong handed him the papers, saying, “Make sure Fitzgerald’s advised of my decision.”

SLOAN REEVES ANSWERED his phone on the first ring. It was the call he’d been waiting for.

“She recommended against a transfer,” Armstrong’s assistant said quietly. “And the warden’s turned down the application.”

Sloan swore under his breath. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem.”

Right. Few people had a problem dispensing information if enough money changed hands.

Hanging up, he slowly shook his head. Why the hell couldn’t she have just gone along with them? Done what he’d asked and said a change of scenery would benefit Billy’s mental health?

It wouldn’t have made Armstrong approve the application. They’d known he wouldn’t do that. But if Hayley Morgan had simply said what they’d wanted her to, she’d have given them the perfect ammunition to go straight to the governor’s office and make a case there about getting Billy out of Poquette on the cruel-and-unusual-punishment angle. Since this was an election year and the governor counted on the support, or at least the noninterference, of the Irish Mafia, Billy would have been on his way to another prison in no time.

Now, though... Sloan knew only too well what Billy would say now.

It would take a while to arrange everything, probably till the start of next week, but he’d want the wheels set in motion as soon as possible.

Sloan glanced at his watch, aware that he had to talk to Billy just as soon as he could. Maybe he could convince him to try another tack. But if he couldn’t...

If the man was determined to proceed with plan B, with or without Sloan’s help, then Sloan’s only option would be to stay closely involved. Give Billy suggestions and hope to hell he took them. Otherwise, things could get awfully bad. For Morgan and for her son.

“DON’T FORGET THE RULES,” Mrs. Kelly reminded Max from behind the screen door.

“I won’t,” he told her.

She was nice, ’cept that every Monday she always talked about the rules. He’d told his mom he didn’t like that, but she said Mrs. Kelly was just afraid he’d forgotten them over the weekend.

He never did, though. So she didn’t have to keep tellin’ him over and over. And she always had the same look his mom did, the look that warned if he broke them he’d be in big, big trouble.

“Only ride on the sidewalk,” she said. “And don’t go off the block.”

“I know. I’m just goin’ to see if any kids are out playin’.”

Pushing off, wobbling a little until he got going, he headed toward the end of the street, watching real good while he passed the house where King lived. Sometimes he was out on the porch, and Jimmy’s mom said that dog was born to chase bikes.

He was born to chase cats, too.

His own mom said that Satchmo probably only had about three of his nine lives left ’cuz of King.

“Yes!” he whispered as he reached the far side of the yard. Now he was into what he and Jimmy called “the safe zone.” There were no more big dogs for the rest of the block.

But there were no kids out playing, either. Disappointed, Max stopped in front of the last house, wishing that Jimmy and his family hadn’t gone on their car trip. The summer wasn’t half as much fun when your best friend was away.

But Mom had circled on the calendar when he’d be back, and Max was marking off the days, so he knew Jimmy would be home soon. Then—

“Max? Max Morgan?”

Startled, he looked toward the curb. The man who’d called his name was in a car with another man. He didn’t think he’d ever seen either of them before.

Never talk to strangers. That was one of the serious rules.

“You are Max, aren’t you?”

He nodded. That wasn’t talking.

“Good, because your mother asked us to pick you up for her. But when we went to Mrs. Kelly’s and she told us you were out riding your bike, we didn’t know if we’d be able to find you.”

Max looked back the way he’d come, surprised they’d had enough time to talk to Mrs. Kelly.

The man who wasn’t driving got out and opened the back door. “Hop in. I’ll put your bike in the trunk.”

“I can’t,” Max said, feeling kinda scared.

The men hadn’t said the secret word, and if Mom wanted him to go with them she’d have told them it. She always said he should never go anywhere with anyone he didn’t know unless they told him the secret word.

“Max, it’s okay. Your mom’s getting off work early and she wants to take you someplace straight from her office. We’re not supposed to tell you where ’cuz it’s a surprise, but it’s a place you really like.”

He scratched his arm, thinking it might be the zoo. That was his favorite place, and the white alligators were his favorite things to see.

“Come on,” the man who’d gotten out of the car said with a smile.

Maybe they just forgot. “You have to say the secret word first,” he told them. “I can’t go unless you do.”

The man standing outside looked at the one driving. “Uh...Max,” he said. “We didn’t want to frighten you by telling you this, but your mom fell on some stairs and hurt her leg. She’s okay,” he added quickly. “But she had to go to a hospital and get checked over, so I guess in all the excitement she just wasn’t thinking about the secret word.

“She wanted us to drive you to the hospital, though. ’Cuz she’s going to take you out for dinner after she’s done there. And it’s really okay to come with us. We’re cops.”

“Detectives,” the other one said. “That’s why we aren’t wearing uniforms.”

He didn’t want to cry, but his eyes started to sting and tears began rolling down his cheeks. What if his mom was hurt worse than they were telling him?

“Come on, Max. When we get to the hospital you’ll see for yourself that she’s just fine.”

SLOAN STOOD in the lobby of the Orleans Parish state government building, waiting for O’Rourke’s call and assuring himself that nothing could have gone wrong.

Watching the sitter’s house for a few days last week had told them Max Morgan was a child of habit. Every day right after lunch he hit the street on his bike. So it was merely a matter of picking him up without anyone noticing.

But what if something had gone wrong? Despite the air-conditioning, that possibility was enough to start him sweating.

Both O’Rourke and Sammy were family men, though. And he’d suggested that Billy choose them for the job because he’d figured neither would ever harm a six-year-old. Just as he was reminding himself of that, his cell phone rang.

“Sloan Reeves,” he answered.

“Got him,” O’Rourke said. “No problems.”

“And he’s okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. But he ain’t a happy camper.”

Sloan exhaled slowly, not wanting to even think about how frightened the boy must be. “Do your best to reassure him, huh? And tell him his mom’s going to phone him soon.”

“Sure.”

He just hoped that Hayley Morgan was in her office. Otherwise, soon might not be possible. “You’re being careful not to use your real names?”

“Yeah, of course. Sammy’s ‘Tom’ and I’m ‘Dick.’ Like the Smothers Brothers. How’re we gonna forget that?”

He hadn’t figured either O’Rourke or Sammy was old enough to remember the sixties folk-song duo. He barely was himself. But since they did, it should help them keep from slipping up.

Once they’d finished their conversation, Sloan headed for the elevators. He waited until a car arrived, then stepped in and pressed the button for six, wishing to hell this hadn’t played out the way it had.

But there’d simply been no talking to Billy Fitz. He wasn’t a patient man and he wanted out of prison yesterday. So after Morgan had recommended against a transfer...

The elevator slowed, nearing the sixth floor. As the doors opened, Sloan squared his shoulders.

The last thing he wanted to do was tell Hayley Morgan her son had been kidnapped. When you worked for Billy, though, you followed orders. Otherwise, you ended up floating in Lake Pontchar-train.

He strode down the hall, reminding himself his work had its rewards. But this session sure wouldn’t be one of them.

When he reached Hayley’s office she was sitting behind her desk again, every bit as appealing as she’d been the first time he’d seen her. He barely had time to think that a woman in her line of work just shouldn’t look the way she did before she glanced through the doorway and met his gaze—making him wish, once more, that he didn’t have to do this.

Without taking her dark eyes from him, she slowly sat back in her chair. She obviously wasn’t pleased to see him, even without knowing why he’d come.

“I have to talk to you,” he told her.

Hayley glanced at her desk clock, wishing she had a legitimate reason for telling Sloan Reeves she had no time to talk. She didn’t like him. Didn’t like what he stood for.

And she particularly didn’t like the fact that she was so aware of his animal magnetism.

Just looking at him did funny things to her, which made her very uncomfortable. She couldn’t recall her brain and her body ever being completely out of sync before, and the sense that they were when it came to him was most disconcerting.

“It’s urgent,” he said. “And personal,” he added, stepping into the office.

When he closed her door, isolating the two of them from her co-workers, her sense of discomfort grew.

“I prefer that open,” she told him.

“As I said, this is personal.” Leaving the door shut, he sat down in the visitor’s chair.

Her anxiety level began edging higher, even though there was no logical reason it should. Her brain was in charge, not her body. And being alone with him didn’t represent any actual danger.

Lord, how many times had she been alone in interview rooms with prisoners? Too many to remember. So being in her own office with Sloan Reeves, attorney at law, shouldn’t faze her in the slightest.

The problem, she decided, was simply that he was Billy Fitzgerald’s lawyer. She could certainly live without some lawyer to the mob walking into her office—on two consecutive Mondays yet—and taking charge.

Leaning forward in his chair, he said, “Billy was disappointed you didn’t support his transfer request.”

She let that pass, although it struck her as strange that he was still working at intimidating her after the fact.

“You see, applying for it was part of an escape plan. He intended to make a break while he was being transported from Poquette.”

For a moment she was so stunned she couldn’t speak. Then she said, “And you were helping him try to get the transfer? Mr. Reeves, does the word disbarred mean anything to you?”

Never mind disbarred, he’d probably go to prison. Sloan Reeves was nothing but a criminal in lawyer’s clothing.

But why in the world had he confided in her? He must realize she’d tell Warden Armstrong. Along with a few other people.

“Just hear me out,” he said. “Unfortunately, when you deep-sixed that transfer—”

“Look, I don’t want to hear you out.” Her opinion of Sloan Reeves, not high to begin with, sank lower each time he opened his mouth. “In fact, I don’t want to listen to anything more at all. I’d like you to leave.” She had better things to do than waste another minute with him.

“Not until I’m finished. Trust me, you need to hear the rest.”

She didn’t trust him any more than she respected him, but something in his expression made her decide against calling Security.

“All right,” she said, slowly sitting back in her chair. “What’s the rest?”

“Billy wants you to help him. As you know, breaking out from inside Poquette is practically impossible. He’d likely end up dead if he tried it.”

“He wants me to help him escape.” She could scarcely believe that was what Reeves was saying, even though it clearly was.

“Yes. We had a solid plan, but you screwed it up. So he wants you to help figure out some other way of getting him on the outside.”

“Are you insane? Why on earth would I?”

When he didn’t reply, she just sat watching him. If he seriously thought she’d—

“Hayley...is it okay if I call you that?”

She nodded. For all she cared he could call her Lady Godiva—just as long as he finished what he was obviously determined to say and left.

“Good. And please call me Sloan, because we’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other for the next little while.”

In your dreams, she said silently. She intended to blow the whistle as soon as he left.

“I’ve got to tell you something that will frighten you. But try not to panic, because it isn’t nearly as bad as it sounds.”

He hesitated, eyeing her, then continued. “A couple of Billy’s men have your son. They picked him up just a few minutes ago, while he was out riding his bike.”

The world froze around her and her heart froze inside her chest.

“Max is perfectly safe,” he added quickly. “I swear he is. And I promise he’ll stay that way as long as you cooperate.”

She almost couldn’t hear his words over the thunder in her head. A couple of Billy Fitzgerald’s men had Max! She’d never felt such utter terror before, and when she tried to speak the words caught in her throat.

“Look...I can’t tell you how sorry I am this has happened,” Sloan said. “But—”

“I want my son back,” she whispered fiercely. “Right now.”

“I know.”

“Then get him back for me!”

“I can’t. Not—”

“What kind of man are you!” Her entire body trembling, she pushed herself out of her chair and stood glaring across the desk at him. “You’re trying to help Fitzgerald plan a prison break? You let his men kidnap an innocent child? Are you a monster?”

He shook his head. “I don’t ‘let’ either Billy or the people who work for him do anything. Sometimes he tells me what he’s thinking about and asks my opinion. But even then my advice doesn’t always carry much weight with him.

“Your son’s going to be fine, though. I’ll ensure you get him back safely. I just can’t do it until Billy. gives the okay. And that won’t be until he gets what he wants.”

“Oh, God,” she murmured, choking back a sob.

“Hayley, all you have to do is help him out. And as long as he can count on your silence, no harm will come to either you or Max.”

She ordered herself to calm down. As frantic as she felt, it was essential she think straight.

All she had to do was help Billy out. Enter into a conspiracy to help a convicted felon escape from prison. Betray the trust the State of Louisiana had placed in her. Knowing that if anyone ever learned what she’d done, the career that meant so much to her would be over.

Her career would be over? How about she’d end up in prison herself if she got caught? After all, she’d be breaking a hundred different laws.

But what would happen to her didn’t matter. All that mattered was what would happen to Max. And if by agreeing to go along with this...

“No one will ever know you played any part,” Sloan said. “I guarantee that. However it gets set up, Billy will arrange things so it doesn’t look like an insider was involved.”

She took a slow, deep breath. Helping with a prison break wasn’t something she’d ever in a million years have thought she’d consider. But right this minute that was exactly what she was doing. Because if she didn’t agree...

“Just help him out and you’ll get Max back safe and sound,” Sloan was saying. “That’s the deal he’s offering you, and even his enemies admit he’s a man of his word.”

Was that true? Was it something she could believe, something to give herself a ray of hope? If she did conspire with the devil, would it really save her son? Or would they simply kill both Max and her in the end anyway?

Was William Fitzgerald actually a man of his word or not? Think. What was the likelihood?

Most psychopaths were consummate liars, yet that didn’t mean they were compulsive liars. And she’d run across a few who’d actually taken pride in keeping their word. They’d just been careful not to give it very often.

Staring down at her desk, telling herself she wasn’t going to cry, she tried to stop her fears from tumbling all over one another. She simply couldn’t fall apart.

“Hayley,” Sloan said, “I tried my damedest to convince Billy that taking Max was a bad idea. But when I couldn’t, I volunteered to act as go-between. You’ll be better off dealing with me than with some of the others he might have chosen.”

“I see.” She took a deep breath, still not looking up. Before she met Sloan’s gaze again, she had to recover enough control to keep from telling him that she’d like to see him hung by his thumbs and flayed. If he was the go-between, angering him would be a very bad move.

What would be a good move, though? Calling the police the minute he left? Or the FBI?

No. How could she do that when Max’s life was at stake? How could she do anything other than what Fitzgerald wanted?

For the moment, at least until she pulled herself back from the edge of hysteria, the only smart thing to. do was say she’d try to help. Then, when she was thinking more rationally, she could figure out if there was any other realistic course of action. One that wouldn’t end up with her and Max dead. In the meantime, she had to see if she could make what was happening less traumatic for him.

Desperately wishing she had more bargaining power than she did, she focused on her visitor once more.

When Hayley finally looked at Sloan again, her eyes were filled with foreboding. And pure, unadulterated hatred.

Even though it was exactly what he’d been expecting, it made him feel hollow inside. There were aspects of his job he downright loathed.

“All right,” she murmured. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good.” He breathed a sigh of relief, even though he’d been certain she’d agree. “The men who have Max, who’ll be looking after him, have kids of their own,” he offered. “He’ll be just fine with them. But would you like to talk to him? Assure yourself that he really is all right?”

“Of course I would!”

“Then we’ll call him. I want you to phone your sitter first, though. So she doesn’t start worrying. And before you do, we’ve got to agree on a story. One that’ll explains why Max will be gone from home for a while.”

“A while,” she repeated. “How long is a while? How long is this going to take?”

“That’ll depend. The sooner Billy’s out, the sooner—”

“But there’s no guarantee he will get out, no guarantee I’ll be able to help him.”

Her voice was shaky, as if she were hanging on to her self-control by nothing more than her fingernails. Sloan tried to ignore the pang of sympathy he felt.

“Even if it turns out I can help, it won’t happen overnight. And I can’t go indefinitely without seeing Max. At the very least, I want to spend a couple of hours with him every evening.”

“Billy’d never agree to that.”

“Dammit, the man’s sitting in a prison cell and he wants me to help get him out of it. He wants me to risk my job. Maybe risk my life, depending on what happens. And I might do that. But I don’t want Max suffering any more trauma than he has to. And being separated from his mother for any length of time... Sloan, you just have to make Fitzgerald understand I won’t try to help him unless I get to see my son. That simply isn’t negotiable.”

He knew she was bluffing. Now that she’d said she’d go along with them, she’d do whatever she had to. And if that included not seeing Max for the duration, she’d accept it.

She was right about nothing happening overnight, though. It could be weeks, possibly months, before they managed to spring Billy. And hell, it wasn’t hard to imagine how tough having no contact would be on both her and the boy.

He tried telling himself that was just the way kidnappings worked, but it didn’t do any good. He might have to help Billy but he didn’t have to like what the man was doing. And if he could make this nightmare easier for Hayley and her son to get through, why shouldn’t he?

If he couldn’t, at least he’d feel better knowing that he’d tried. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll speak to Billy and see what I can do.”

CHAPTER THREE

STILL SHAKEN TO THE CORE, Hayley dialed Anne Kelly’s number, not at all sure she’d get through the conversation without breaking down.

But she had to. If Anne realized something terrible had happened to Max, she might call the cops. And if that happened, Lord only knew what would become of him.

As Anne’s phone began to ring, Hayley looked across her desk at Sloan, thinking she’d never despised a man more. And that included every single murderer and rapist she’d encountered in the course of her work.

Almost without exception, they’d had everything going against them from birth, whereas Sloan Reeves had everything anyone could ask for—brains, looks, an easy manner and a good education. So how could he be warped enough to be part of Billy Fitzgerald’s sordid scheme?

“Hello?” Anne answered.

She took a deep breath, then said, “Hi, it’s Hayley.”

“Oh, hi.”

“Anne, I did something so absentminded I just can’t believe it. I forgot to tell you I asked a couple of friends to pick up Max from your place this afternoon.”

“Well, that’s all right, you’re telling me now. He’s out riding his bike but—”

“No, what I mean is my friends already got him. They saw him down the block so they didn’t bother going to your house. Max is here with me now, and it wasn’t until they walked into my office that I realized I’d forgotten to call you.

“I guess things have just been in such a turmoil that I wasn’t thinking straight. You see, my custody agreement gives Max’s father the right to have him for part of the summer. And...well, it’s a long involved story, but the bottom line is that his father phoned late last night and I’m putting Max on a plane to Pittsburgh at four o’clock. So he’ll be away for a while. Exactly how long’s still kind of up in the air. But as soon as we decide when he’ll be coming home I’ll let you know.”

“Hayley? Your ex isn’t trying to get custody, is he?” Anne asked, her voice filled with concern.

“No, no, it’s nothing like that. What happened is his parents suddenly announced they were coming to visit him. And they wanted to see their grandson. So there’s no real problem, it’s just that everything happened awfully fast.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, tell Max I hope he has a good time.”

“I will. And thanks. Bye.” She hung up, then looked at Sloan.

“Good,” he said. “That was perfect.”

“Now, let me talk to my son,” she demanded.

He nodded, dug a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

She watched him, unable to keep from thinking that something awful had happened and he was going to hear about it right now.

“It’s Sloan,” he said when someone answered.

“Put the boy on. His mother’s waiting to talk to him.”

After listening for a few seconds, he passed her the phone. Her hands were shaking so badly she almost dropped it.

“Max’ll be a minute or two,” he said. “He was watching TV in another room.”

She exhaled slowly. He was all right, then.

He’s all right so far, a voice inside her head whispered.

“Don’t ask him any questions about where he is or the men he’s with,” Sloan warned her.

A moment later, Max’s reedy little voice said, “Mommy?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, I’m here, darling.”

“Is your leg okay?”

Her leg? Oh, Lord, what did they tell him? “My leg’s fine, Max. Did someone say something was wrong with it?”

“Uh-huh. The policemen you sent to get me. I said I couldn’t go with them ‘cuz they didn’t know the secret word. But they said you forgot to tell them ’cuz you fell and hurt your leg. And they were gonna take me to the hospital. But then they said it would be better to come here and wait for you. So when are you comin’ to get me?”

“Well...I can’t come just yet. But you’re okay? The...policemen are being nice to you?”

“I guess. They gave me ice cream. Chocolate. And one of them said he’ll play catch with me after. But I want to go home. So when are you gonna come?”

She closed her eyes against more tears. “Darling, I’m going to come just as soon as I can. But I have something very important to do and—”

“More important than me?”

“No,” she said, wiping her eyes. “No, nothing’s more important than you. But it’s something I just have to do. So I really need you to stay where you are for a little while.”

“With the policemen?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Well...at least until tomorrow.”

There was a silence. Then, his voice quavering, Max said, “You mean sleep here? Without you?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t want to. Why can’t I stay at Mrs. Kelly’s?”

“Because she’s going out tonight.”

“But I don’t have my jammies,” he whined. “And Satchmo won’t have me to sleep with.”

“Max...darling, I know it’s scary to stay in a strange place, but you’ve done it before, remember? When I went to that conference a few months ago? And you stayed with Peggy and Pace?”

“Yeah,” he admitted slowly. “But that was different.”

“Well, it was kind of different but kind of the same. And I need you to be brave and do this for me. Okay?”

There was another silence before he said unhappily, “I guess.”

“Good. And I’ll phone you again just as soon as I can.”

“In the morning?”

She looked at Sloan, blinking back tears, and said, “Can I call him in the morning?”

“I’ll have them phone you at home. Early. Before you leave for work.”

Leave for work. It suddenly struck her that they expected her to carry on as if everything were normal. But she’d have to, of course, if she was going to help Billy Fitzgerald. The question was, would she be able to function even seminormally?

“Max?” she managed to say. “The policemen will let you phone me in the morning, okay?”

“And then you’ll come get me?”

“As soon as I can, darling. I love you. Bye.”

“Bye, Mommy.”

Her heart feeling as though it were in a vice, she handed the phone back to Sloan.

“He’s fine?” he asked.

“Fine? He’s a six-year-old child. He’s in a strange place with two men he doesn’t know and he isn’t sure when his mother’s coming to get him. How fine do you think he can be?”

Sloan raked his fingers through his dark hair. “I’ve arranged to visit Billy first thing in the morning.”

So he could give a play-by-play account of today’s events, she thought bitterly.

“I’ll do my level best to convince him to let you see your son,” he added.

But he hadn’t been able to convince Fitzgerald not to kidnap Max in the first place! If he’d actually tried to.

He pushed back his chair and rose. “Tuesday’s your regular day at Poquette, right?”

She nodded, knowing he didn’t really have to ask.

“Then I’ll stop by the psych area after I’ve seen Billy. Let you know where things stand. Oh, and I probably don’t have to warn you to keep quiet about what’s happening, but I’m mentioning it because of your detective friend.”

Lord, they even knew who her friends were!

“I’m sure it’ll be tempting to ask her for advice, but don’t. Being a cop, she’s liable to steer you wrong. Or, worse yet, take the matter into her own hands. And if Billy learns you’ve been talking out of turn...well, I’m sure you know how this would end up if you made him unhappy.”

With a brief nod, Sloan opened her door, stepped out into the corridor and disappeared. That left her staring at the blank wall in the hallway. And thinking that if he was lying to her about trying to convince Billy, or if his level best wasn’t good enough, she might never see Max again.

Doing her damnedest not to cry, she tried to decide which she hated more—the fact that Sloan Reeves represented her only potential source of help, or the man himself.

HAYLEY DIDN’T SLEEP a wink all night, and seventhirty the next morning found her sitting at the kitchen table—numb with fear that the kidnappers hadn’t called yet because something had gone wrong. Because her son was dead.

Fiercely, she told herself that couldn’t be. Billy Fitzgerald needed Max alive to make her cooperate, so his men would be taking good care of him. For the time being, at any rate. Until Billy Fitz got what he wanted. But after that...

Even though she’d already cried a river of tears, fresh ones started spilling over. She didn’t even try to stop them until Satchmo began winding himself around her ankles, loudly reminding her she’d forgotten to feed him.

She pushed herself up and poured some dry food into his bowl, then went back to waiting for the phone to ring, focusing her thoughts on having to help Fitzgerald.

The prospect ran counter to every principle she’d been raised believing in. And to her professional integrity, as well. But as important as her work was to her, Max was her world. If she didn’t go along with Fitzgerald, if she went to the authorities, instead, would they be able to find her son and get him back alive?

She doubted the odds on that were very high. Far more likely, they’d barely start working on the case before Billy’s boys would learn what she’d done. And then...

Wiping her eyes, she turned her thoughts to her other option. She’d promised Sloan Reeves she’d do what she could to help. But if she actually did that, would Billy live up to his side of the bargain?

Sloan had assured her he would. “All you have to do is help him out,” he’d said. “And even his enemies admit he’s a man of his word.”

The problem was that she didn’t know whether she could believe Sloan any more than she could believe Fitzgerald. So even though Sloan had told her to not to say a word about what was happening, she had to find out if she could trust Billy. And since she didn’t have any friends who were members of the New Orleans organized crime establishment, the obvious person to ask was Peggy. Regardless of what Sloan had said.

It would have to wait, though. She couldn’t call from home when Billy’s people might have her phone bugged.

Glancing over at it, she wondered whether she should take it apart and have a look. Just as she was deciding that was a good idea, it rang.

She jumped a foot, then rose so quickly her chair toppled behind her. After racing the few steps to the counter, she picked up and said hello.

“Hi, Mommy,” Max said.

“Hi, Max.” She closed her eyes and offered up a tiny prayer of thanks. Then, reminding herself that if he could tell she was worried it would only upset him, she said, “How are you doing?”

“Okay.”

“Are the... men being nice to you?”

“The policemen?”

So they were going to continue that ruse. “Yes, the policemen.”

“Their names are Tom and Dick.”

“Oh.” And if there was a third one, she knew his name would be Harry.

But their not telling him their real names was a good sign. If they had, it might mean they figured it didn’t matter—because they knew he was going to end up dead.

That thought sent a shiver through her. Doing her best to ignore it, she said, “And do you like them all right? Now that you’ve gotten to know them better?”

Please say yes, she added silently. Please don’t tell me they’re mean, or that you’re scared of them.

“Uh-huh. You know what?”

“What, darling?”

“They got me that good cereal Jimmy’s mom buys. The one that tastes like candy. ’Member I told you?”

“Yes, I remember.” And she didn’t care if they fed him pure sugar for breakfast, just as long as they didn’t harm him.

“So are you comin’ to get me this morning?”

The question made her feel as if someone had reached inside her chest and was pulling out her heart.

“No, I can’t come this morning, darling. This is a workday.”

“Then after work?”

“Well, I’ll try. I’ll try my very best, but I can’t promise yet.”

Lord, somehow she had to make him understand what was going on. But she didn’t want to even attempt explaining until after Sloan had talked to Fitzgerald this morning. Until after she knew if there was even a chance he’d go along with her demand.

“Tom said you might not be able to come for a while,” Max told her. “‘Cuz if your leg was still sore you’d have to go to the doctor. But if you’re goin’ to work it’s not sore, right?”

“Well...actually, Tom’s right. I might have to get it looked at. And that just might keep me from coming as soon as I’d like to. But...Max, I’ll be there as soon as I can. And in the meantime, you be a good boy today, huh? And do what the policemen tell you.”

“And you’ll come after work? If you can?”

“Yes, darling. But don’t be too disappointed if I can’t.”

“But I want you to,” he insisted, his voice quavering.

“I know, Max. And...honey, I’ve got to say bye now. I love you, darling.”

“If you love me then you should come.”

“As soon as I can,” she told him once more, blinking back tears this time. “Bye, darling.” Difficult as it was, she made herself click off then, before her emotions completely wasted her.

After taking a few deep breaths, in a futile effort to make herself feel better, she grabbed her car keys and headed out. The burger place she and Max usually went to had a pay phone; she’d stop there and call Peggy.

Getting into her car, she tried to figure out exactly how she should explain why she was asking her question. It would be tricky, because Detective Peggy Fournier was no dummy. And since she knew about Sloan’s initial visit, she’d be suspicious as hell.

There had to be a way of sounding casual, though, and she spent the drive trying to come up with one.

At the restaurant, she parked and hurried inside, ignoring the people catching breakfast on their way to work and making her way straight to the phone. She wasn’t sure what shift Peggy was on, but with any luck she’d be able to reach her either at home or at the Ninth Division.

She tried the home number first, her pulse leaping when her friend answered. “Hi, it’s Hayley,” she said, making an effort to sound normal.

“Hi, how’s it going?”

“Good. Terrific. Except that Max’s father decided he wanted him for part of the summer, so I had to send him to Pennsylvania and I’m feeling a little lonely.”

“Oh? I thought you said his father wasn’t interested in maintaining contact. They’ve never had a summer visit before, have they?”

“No, but...” Taking a calming breath, she launched into the explanation Anne Kelly had bought—about Max’s grandparents wanting to see him.

Then, without giving Peggy a chance to ask any more questions, she said, “But Max has nothing to do with why I’m calling.” Not exactly a lie. He had everything to do with it. “Remember I mentioned I’d be doing an assessment on Billy Fitzgerald?”

“Of course. We said we’d talk about it the next time we got together.”

“Right. In the meantime, I had another look at his intake evaluation. And could you check on something for me?”

“What?”

She swallowed anxiously. “Well, he made a big point of talking about being a man of his word. He claimed even his enemies give him credit for that. Apparently it was very important to him that the assessing psychologist believe him, which got me wondering. You know what I mean?”

“He doth protest too much, and all that jazz?”

“Exactly. I couldn’t help thinking it might not be true at all.”

“And you want to know whether it is because...?”

For a moment, she almost gave in to the urge to tell Peggy everything and ask her advice. If Billy’s people had grabbed her son rather than Max, what would Peggy do? Would she trust the scandalplagued New Orleans police force enough to report the kidnapping? Trust it with her son’s life? Or trust the FBI?

Hayley couldn’t ask, though. She was too terrified that, as Sloan had intimated, Peggy might take the matter into her own hands.

There couldn’t really be much chance of it. Still, any chance was too much, so she simply said, “Knowing would make my assessment easier.”

When only silence followed that, her skin began to feel clammy.

“Why?” Peggy finally asked. “You think Billy Fitz might give you his word about something while you’re assessing him?”

“Well...sort of. I mean, if he swears he has no ulterior motive, that he really does only want a transfer so he can get into a rehab program...”

“I thought we agreed that was a crock?”

“Yes, but I’ve been thinking more about it and... Oh, Lord, am I out of line here? Maybe I shouldn’t ask you to do this. I didn’t figure it would be a big deal, but if it is I can—”

“No,” Peggy said slowly. “No, it’s not a big deal. I’ll talk to a couple of informers, see what they say. You just surprised me. The question seemed strange.”

“It did?”

“Yeah. But I guess that was just the cop in me. Once a perp’s in for life, nobody on the job cares whether his word’s worth two cents. Actually, at that point nobody cares anything about him. But I guess my mind-set’s not quite the same as yours.”

Hayley forced a laugh. “Right. Your job’s putting them behind bars. Mine’s keeping an eye on their mental health once they’re there. And I don’t want to make any mistakes when it comes to Fitzgerald. Don’t want to see my name in the Times-Picayune , in some article on how the head of the Irish Mafia is getting special privileges. Or in one saying we’re treating him unfairly, either.”

“Yeah...I see your point. Well it shouldn’t take me long to ask around. I’ll give you a call when I’ve got something.”

“Do you think it might be today?”

Peggy didn’t answer for a couple of beats. That started Hayley sweating even harder.

“I thought the assessment on Fitz wasn’t going to happen for ages,” her friend said at last.

“Oh, it probably won’t. I’d just like to finish my notes for the file. So I can get it off my desk.”

“Ah. Okay. I’ll see what I can do today. But it might be tomorrow or Thursday before I get back to you.”

“Whenever you can. And thanks, I owe you one. Bye.”

“Bye, Hayley.”

She hung up, her hands trembling. She wasn’t used to lying and she didn’t like the way it made her feel. But at least she’d learn what she needed to know.

SLOAN PRESSED THE BUTTON on the post, then identified himself to the disembodied voice that responded. When the gate opened, he reluctantly drove into the Poquette Correctional Center compound, really not looking forward to this visit with Billy.

Hayley Morgan had done anything but endear herself to him by not recommending a transfer, so predicting how he’d react to the idea of letting her see her son wasn’t tough.

After parking his Cherokee in a visitor’s space, Sloan climbed out into the gathering morning heat and checked the staff section of the lot for Hayley’s car. One of Billy’s boys had told him it was a silver Taurus and given him the plate number, which made it easy to establish that she was already here. Here and expecting him to stop by after he’d seen Billy.

And if he had to report that Billy had said “No way she can see her kid...” Hell, that was undoubtedly what he would say, regardless of how hard Sloan argued.

Telling himself he’d just have to hope the luck of the Irish was on his side today, and that his powers of persuasion were in top form, he started across the dusty parking lot toward the dirty brick quadrangle that was Poquette.

When he opened the front door, stale air wafted out toward him. Wishing for the tenth time that he didn’t have to be here, he stepped inside and walked the few feet to the metal detector, sticking his keys and loose change on a tray before stepping through.

Once the correctional officer on door duty nodded for him to proceed, he retrieved his things and headed for the reception counter, trying to stop remembering the way Hayley had looked yesterday when he’d told her Billy’s men had snatched Max.

He couldn’t force the image from his mind’s eye, though. Hadn’t been able to, in fact, since he’d woken up this morning. In mere seconds, she’d gone from a picture of calm composure to a portrait of anguish.

Seeing her face grow pale and her dark eyes fill with terror had made him feel lower than an alligator’s belly. He hated being a part of what was happening to her and her son, and if he could, he’d simply deliver the boy back to her.

But that just wasn’t an option.

Exhaling slowly, he reminded himself he was only doing his job. That usually helped.

It didn’t this time, though. Probably, he knew, because Hayley Morgan wasn’t like most of the other women he’d had dealings with while working for Billy.

Actually, unless his memory was failing, she wasn’t like a single one of them. She was intelligent and cultured and...

And dammit, she appealed to him in a way he couldn’t let any woman appeal to him. A way that was physical, yet dangerously more than that.

There was something about her, some substance or inner strength, that had reached out and grabbed him. As upset and frightened as she’d been, as close to dissolving into tears as he’d known she was, she’d pulled herself together and coped with the situation as best she could.

He liked that strength, liked the way... But hell, there was no point in defining what touched him about her. Since she had to figure he was the scum of the earth, thinking about that was nothing except a waste of time.

At the reception counter, he gave his name and identified himself as William Fitzgerald’s lawyer. The correctional officer checked the appointment log, then buzzed the door unlocked. It led to a small room where another C.O. had him empty his pockets.

“What’s that for?” the officer asked as Sloan set his minirecorder on the table.

“I use it to tape conversations with clients.”

The C.O. picked up the recorder and examined it, removing and then reinserting the cassette before checking that the space for the batteries contained nothing it shouldn’t.

As he put the unit back down, Sloan began to breathe more easily again. It hadn’t happened yet, but there was always the risk that one of these guys would notice the extra switch.

“Face the table and place your hands on it,” the C.O. ordered.

When he did, the man treated him to a thorough pat-down—one of the joys of visiting someone in protective custody.

“I’ll call ahead and have the prisoner brought from his cell,” the C.O. said when he’d finished. “Then I’ll get someone to escort you to the visiting room.”

CHAPTER FOUR

BEYOND THE PUBLIC AREA of the Poquette complex, the stale air was heavy with disinfectant. But even an industrial-strength cleaner couldn’t quite mask the smells of urine, vomit, smoke and body odor. By the time the guard escorted Sloan all the way to the small room used for visits with segregated prisoners, he felt as though he hadn’t showered in a month. Billy was already there, waiting with another guard. The man retreated into the hall when Sloan arrived, ostensibly assuring them of privacy by closing the door, but they were easily visible through its chicken wire window. Plus, Sloan suspected prison officials often listened in to what was being said in the room—despite the fact it would contravene prisoners’ rights. That, of course, was the real reason for his tape recorder.

After setting it on the small table between Billy and him, he pushed both the switch that started the cassette recording and the one to activate the bugdetecting gizmo in the. secret compartment.

Billy sat gazing at the unit, a look in his eyes that told Sloan he was smiling to himself. But why wouldn’t he be? He loved beating the establishment. Any aspect of it. And the tiny detector was state-of-the-art. There wasn’t an electronic listening device in existence it couldn’t pick up on, and if it sensed one within a hundred feet its warning light would start blinking.

They waited a few seconds, but the light didn’t come on. Even so, they’d watch their words and speak mostly in whispers—just in case the guard outside the door had supersensitive hearing.

“Mission accomplished,” Sloan said once he was satisfied that nobody was eavesdropping electronically.

“I know. Brendan phoned last night.”

Sloan nodded, not surprised. Most prisoners weren’t allowed unrestricted access to a phone, but Billy had more than enough money to buy whatever privileges the guards were willing to sell.

He also had enough smarts to carry on conversations that, although they’d sound perfectly innocuous to anyone listening in, were actually full of messages and orders. That was what enabled him to be pretty much still running the Irish Mafia.

His son was the heir apparent, and no dummy himself. But at the moment Brendan’s main job was simply to keep Billy informed and relay his orders to the boys.

Leaning across the table, Billy quietly said, “Does our friend have any good ideas?”

He was referring to Hayley, of course. And asking if, since she’d screwed up their plan, she’d suggested an alternative way of getting him outside the prison.

Other ways certainly existed. They all knew that. But someone like her, on the inside, would know which ones were most likely to succeed at this particular prison. And which one she could be the most help with.

“We haven’t really gotten into that yet,” Sloan said. “Our friend wants something first.”

“Oh?” Billy’s expression suggested that nobody had invited her to negotiate.

“Wants...visiting privileges with her son,” he whispered. “An hour or two an evening.”

For a moment, Billy merely stared across the table. Then he sat back and said, “Fat chance.”

Sloan swore under his breath. He’d known that would be the reaction.

“Getting what you want’s going to take time,” he said. “And our friend’s concerned about the...item’s emotional well-being. And...”

He paused when he saw that Billy was already growing impatient. The man didn’t give a damn about why Hayley wanted to see her son. Or about Max’s mental health. Hell, he never really gave a damn about anyone except himself. So the only thing to do was convince him it would be to his benefit to let Hayley have what she wanted.

“Look, Billy, I’ve given this a lot of thought, and the way I see it, agreeing would be a good idea.”

Billy shook his head. “As long as we’ve got the item, I don’t have to agree to anything.”

“No, you don’t have to.”

“But you think I should? Why?”

“Because as things stand, if our friend cooperates it sure won’t be willingly.”

“If?” Billy repeated with a mean grin. “Like I said, as long as we’ve got the item...”

“You’re right. We can take the cooperation as a given. But say our friend goes along with us, then sees an opportunity, or creates an opportunity, to double-cross us.”

“Not a chance. She’d have too much to lose.”

Sloan told himself he had to do better. “Okay, here’s what’s really worrying me. You know everything we learned about our friend as well as I do. We’re talking someone who takes job responsibilities seriously. Plus, being part of the system, doesn’t look at things the same way most people might. And if you and I are making assumptions that might not exactly apply in these particular circumstances...”

After a glance at the guard, Sloan looked back at Billy and whispered, “Aside from anything else, for all she knows she’ll never see the item again even if she does cooperate. That just might make her try something we’re not expecting.”

Billy hesitated, then said, “You did promise the item would be returned safely, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“But you weren’t convincing enough?”

“I did my best. The problem is that we’re not talking about someone naive. We’re talking someone who knows how often this sort of thing ends badly. So I can’t see why we shouldn’t give a little. It wouldn’t hurt us, and there might be a major benefit.”

“What?”

“It would show you’ve got a heart. And it would be taken as a sign that you sincerely intend to return the item. If our friend is convinced you really will, that’ll practically guarantee cooperation.”

When Sloan stopped speaking, Billy resisted the impulse to say that no way was he letting that bitch anywhere near her kid. Even though he hated the thought of giving in to her, if Sloan figured the idea had merit then he’d better not dismiss it too fast.

Sloan was paid help, not part of the family, so he wasn’t always worrying about his place in the pecking order. That meant he didn’t always say what the boss wanted to hear. What he said usually made sense, though. So if he figured Hayley Morgan really might try to cross them...

Maybe it was a possibility. She was smart. And as Sloan said, she knew the system. So maybe she would be arrogant enough to figure she could...

But, dammit, they had her kid. Didn’t that outweigh everything else?

“Billy?” Sloan said quietly.

He continued to stare at the table, not done thinking his way through this. He wanted his freedom back so badly he could taste it, and he’d get only one shot at escaping. If he tried and failed, the guards wouldn’t take their eyes off him until he was so old he couldn’t walk.

But how great was the risk that Morgan really might throw him a curve? He figured it was damned 70 FALLING FOR THE ENEMY unlikely. Still, damned unlikely was no guarantee that she wouldn’t.

“Billy?” Sloan said again.

Billy looked across the table this time, reminding himself that Sloan was both a smart guy and a good judge of people. So if he thought that tossing Morgan this bone would convince her she’d get the kid back safe in the end, that it would keep her from trying anything funny...

The boys wouldn’t like it, though. They’d read it as a sign of weakness.

But what if he put Sloan in charge of the game plan? Then letting her see the kid would be viewed as his weakness.

That’s good, he silently congratulated himself. He hadn’t lost his touch yet.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’ll talk to Brendan and tell him you’re calling the shots as far as the kid goes. He’ll let the boys know, and you make the arrangements. Be careful, though. You’ll have to be sure our friend doesn’t... But hell, I don’t have to tell you how to handle the details. You’ve never let me down before.”

“And I won’t this time.”

Billy nodded. His people almost never let him down. They knew that anyone who did it once wouldn’t be around to do it again.

EVERY TIME SHE HEARD footsteps in the hallway outside the office, Hayley froze. Thus far, though, none of them had belonged to Sloan Reeves.

She was starting to wonder if he’d actually bother “stopping by,” as he’d so casually put it. Maybe he’d just call, avoid having to deliver the bad news face-to-face.

She told herself not to assume the worst. But promising he’d try to convince Fitzgerald and actually doing it were two different things. Even if he honestly did his “level best,” believing she at least had a chance of getting what she wanted was probably just a pipe dream.

It was all she had to cling to, though. And thinking about going day after day without seeing Max, about how the ordeal would be even harder on him if—

“Dr. Morgan? Gentleman would like to see you.”

When she looked up her throat went dry. Sloan Reeves was standing beside the correctional officer.

“Thank you,” she managed to say. “I...there’s no need to wait. I’ll see Mr. Reeves out of the secure area when we’re done.”

The officer nodded, then headed off, while Sloan stepped into the office and closed the door.

As he turned back toward her, she searched his chiseled face for a clue to Billy’s decision. She saw none.

“Mind if I switch this on?” he asked, taking a tiny tape recorder from his suit pocket and setting it on her desk.

“No.” But why would he want to tape their conversation?

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