“Promise me you’re one of the good guys,” Lily said softly.

Brand went totally still. Lily waited, not breathing. A tremor of apprehension slid through her. Finally, to her relief, he spoke, but his words were not comforting.

“I can’t promise you that. I don’t feel like a good guy right now. I feel like a heel, allowing you to get so deeply involved. I should have been able to do something to help you.”

“You saved my life.” Tentatively, she put a hand on his flat abdomen and felt the muscles quiver at her touch, felt him sigh in frustration.

“For now. There’s going to be more danger and there’s nothing I can do to avoid it. If I trust the wrong person, you could be facing a gun. But I can promise you that I will protect you with my life.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mallory Kane has always loved reading and writing stories. She credits her love of books to her mother, a librarian, who taught her that books are a precious resource and should be treated with loving respect. Her father and grandfather were steeped in the Southern tradition of oral history, and could hold an audience spellbound for hours with their storytelling skills. She aspires to be as good a storyteller as her father. When she’s not writing, Mallory creates and designs greeting cards. She lives in Mississippi with her husband, Michael, and their two cats.

For more information about Mallory and all her book projects, visit her website at www. mallorykane.com. Mallory loves to hear from readers. Write to her at mallory@mallorykane. com

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Lily Raines – Targeted by the mob to deadlock a jury and let a murderer go free, Lily finds herself on the run with the ruggedly handsome enforcer who threatened her.

Brand Gallagher – The brave undercover cop is forced to terrorise lovely juror Lily Raines. When she’s targeted for death, he knows one of his fellow officers has betrayed him. Can he stay alive long enough to get Lily to safety and expose the traitor?

Giovanni Castellano – When the crime boss’s number-one hitman is indicted for murder, he swears revenge. He will free his soldier, and woe to any innocents who get in his way.

Armand Foshee – The sadistic Cajun would have killed Lily if Brand hadn’t stopped him.

Thomas Pruitt – Brand’s new boss is tough and ambitious. But he’s lied to Brand at every turn. How far will Pruitt go to further his own career?

Gary Morrison – His former lieutenant has always been the one man Brand could trust. Suddenly the things he tells Brand don’t add up.

Al Springer – Brand’s fellow undercover officer has a spotless record. But has he finally crossed the line?

Leroy Carson – The third undercover cop infiltrating Castellano’s operation, Carson has always been a good cop, but is it just an act?

His Runaway Juror

MALLORY KANE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my friends in Magnolia State Romance

Writers. Thanks for your support.

Chapter One

Something was wrong. Lily Raines knew it as soon as the door closed behind her. It was too dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside her living room window. Hadn’t she left the light on over her sink? She set down her purse and keys and listened.

Nothing.

The light must have burned out. She puffed her cheeks in a weary sigh and shrugged out of her jacket, the rustle of silk echoing in the silence.

Her scalp tingled with that creepy spider-on-your-skin feeling—as if someone were watching her. She’d had it ever since the trial started.

Stress. That’s all it was. Goodness knew she had enough reason.

She reached for the living room light switch.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

Lily shrieked.

A dark figure rose up in front of her.

She tried to scream but her throat seized; tried to turn and run but her legs wouldn’t carry her.

Hard hands grabbed her shoulders, twisted her violently and shoved her onto the couch.

Gasping for air, Lily bounced back up and swung her fist at the dark shape. She connected with flesh.

“Ouch! Maudit!” The owner of the voice grabbed her and shoved her again, hard. She fell across the arm of the couch and onto the floor, bumping her hip and elbow painfully.

“Hey—”

Different voice. There were two of them. Panic clawed at her throat and she scrambled to regain her footing. She screamed for help and tried to get up but her head hit the end table and she saw stars. She tried to crawl away but there was nowhere to go. They were between her and the door.

“Get her!”

A different pair of hands closed around her upper arms from behind and lifted her with no effort.

“Let go of me!” she cried, kicking backward. The hands turned into steely arms that wrapped around her, immobilizing her. This one was big, tall, solid. His breath sawed in her ear.

She stomped but missed his instep. His hold tightened. She clawed at his forearms, but he squeezed her so fiercely she could barely breathe. She gasped for air.

The first man stepped in front of her and into the faint light from the window. She squinted. He was skinny. Her height, maybe. Shorter than the one who held her. She’d need that information later to tell the police—if they let her live.

Desperately she kicked, using the second man’s hold for leverage. He squeezed her until her ribs ached and whispered something close to her ear. She didn’t understand what he said, but the feel of his hot breath on her skin sent terror streaking through her.

The skinny guy laughed as he dodged her kicks. Then his laughter stopped and he grabbed her chin. He stuck his face in front of hers. His breath reeked of garlic. “Calm yo-self, Lily.”

He knew her name? She froze, horrified. These men weren’t burglars. This was personal.

“Who are y—”

The fingers moved from her chin to her throat. “Good girl. Now you gon’ be quiet for me?”

His fingers pushed painfully into her neck as she tried to nod. Tried to stop her brain from imagining what they planned to do to her.

Frantically, she searched her memory. She didn’t recognize the voice or the accent. Cajun, maybe. She’d never done anything to anybody.

“What do you want?” she gasped.

The Cajun bared his teeth and his fingers tightened. Her larynx closed up. He was crushing it. He was going to kill her.

“Di’n I tell you be quiet?”

She struggled for air. She didn’t want to die. She made a strangled sound and clawed at the arms holding her. Her vision went black.

“Careful,” the man who held her rasped. “She can’t breathe.” The punishing pressure on her chest relaxed slightly.

“You shut your face!” the skinny guy hissed, but he loosened his hold.

She sucked air through her aching throat. From behind her the rock-hard arms loosened a bit more.

Her eyes were beginning to adapt to the darkness, but she still couldn’t distinguish features or clothing. There was too little light and she was too afraid. She swallowed, her throat moving against the Cajun’s hand.

“Just tell me what you want. I don’t have much money—”

He released her throat and snagged a handful of her hair, twisting roughly.

Tears of pain sprang to her eyes.

From somewhere he pulled out a long, thin-bladed knife. He held it up before her eyes, then touched its point just beneath her chin. She automatically lifted her head, cringing away from the deadly blade.

“Come on, Lily, don’t make me hurt you. I will, and I’ll enjoy it.”

The man holding her tensed up. His forearms, strapped under her breasts, tightened.

She strained backward as far as she could. The Cajun grinned at her fear. She swallowed and felt the point of the knife prick her skin. Between the hand clutching her hair, the knife and the other man holding her, she was totally helpless. Totally at the mercy of merciless men. They could do anything to her. She was powerless to stop them.

“Understand?”

She nodded jerkily. Tears slid down her cheeks. They were going to kill her and she didn’t even know why.

“You’re on the jury for Sack Simon’s murder case.”

She stiffened in surprise. The trial! Her pulse thrummed in her ears.

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Her fists clenched automatically and her fingernails dug into the arms holding her.

“My boss, he wants the trial over. He don’ want Simon convicted.”

Lily stared at the shadows of his face. Sharp chin. Long nose. Eyes that were nothing but black holes.

“I—don’t understand.” She didn’t. The trial was half over. The prosecution had presented ample evidence to put Simon away for life.

“Den I make it simple, Lily. The jury can’t convict Simon.”

The way he kept saying her name terrified her.

“Can’t convict—?” she repeated, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Her brain wouldn’t work. How could they not convict? “But he’s guilty.”

The Cajun pressed the knife blade harder, just enough to sting her neck. “Damn it, woman. I know you ain’t that stupid.’ Cause if you are, I might as well just kill you now.”

Suddenly, she got it. They wanted her to hang the jury. “But I can’t—”

He let go of her hair and grabbed her throat again, squeezing.

She coughed.

“Pay attention, Lily. The only thing you can’t do is tell anyone we was here. My boss wants to know that you will vote not guilty.”

“Not guilty? That won’t work. There’s too much evidence. There’s DNA.”

“Shut up.” He tightened his hold on her throat.

She gagged and lost her footing as the man holding her pulled her away from the little guy’s punishing hold.

“Stop choking her,” he snapped.

“Hey, bioque. You don’ give the orders. I do.” The skinny Cajun turned his attention back to Lily. He grabbed her jaw again.

“Evidence can be wrong. Do you understand, Lily?”

One juror out of twelve. A hung jury. They wanted her to force a mistrial. She nodded.

“Tell me!”

“You want me to vote not guilty.” She coughed again, her throat raw and sore.

“You understand why?”

“To deadlock the jury. A mistrial,” she croaked.

“Good girl.” He patted her cheek. His fingers smelled of garlic and cigarettes—a nauseating, stomach- churning mixture.

By contrast, she had a vague sense of soap and mint from the man behind her. He’d bathed and brushed his teeth before coming here to terrorize her? She almost giggled hysterically.

The garlicky fingers slid down her neck and past the vee of her shirt to touch the top of her breast in an obscene caress.

Lily’s stomach turned over. She recoiled, straining backward against the other man. “Please—please don’t hurt me.”

The man holding her backed up enough to pull her away from the Cajun’s probing fingers.

Of the two of them, she’d rather be at the mercy of the bigger man. He seemed to be trying to keep her safe from the little Cajun’s pawing.

“Wh-why me?” she stammered, turning her head away from the man’s leering gaze.

“My boss, he’s a very smart man. He studied the jury. Then he picked you. You the perfect juror.”

She didn’t have to ask why. She knew. It was because she lived alone and her interior design business was at a virtual standstill since her biggest client had declared bankruptcy. She’d cleared her schedule to design the interior of their high-rise and now she was out of a job.

There were eight men and four women on the jury. The other women had children, husbands, jobs. The attorneys had asked each one about family.

Family.

“Oh, God.” Her eyes widened in horror as the real reason she’d been chosen dawned on her. Her father. He was in a nursing home, helpless to defend himself. They could hurt him if she didn’t cooperate. Her knees buckled. Only the big man’s arms kept her from crumpling to the floor.

“There you go. Now you figured it out. I knew you weren’t stupid, Lily.”

His voice lingered over her name, sending chills down her spine.

“You be hearin’ something very soon. Then you’ll understand how serious my boss really is.”

The Cajun backed toward the door. “Take care of her,” he ordered the man holding her.

The tall man released his tight hold and grabbed her wrist. She barely had time for a breath and a fleeting glimpse of his profile before he flipped the afghan from her couch up and over her head.

He spun her around a few times until she stumbled dizzily. Then he lifted her in his arms.

“Don’t mess with these people,” he whispered. “Do what he said.” He knelt and set her gently on the floor, then pushed her. She slid across the hardwood and hit the wall.

Kicking and struggling, she tore at the fuzzy material that blanketed her. Her limbs were weak with fear. She was shaking so badly she couldn’t catch hold of the afghan. She sucked in a deep breath, and lint and dust choked her. She coughed, then moaned at the pain in her throat.

Her front door slammed.

Finally she fought her way free of the tangle of knots and yarn. For an instant she crouched there against the wall, hugging the afghan to her chest. Were they really gone?

She held her breath and listened. Silence. She looked around. The apartment was dark. It felt empty.

Barely daring to breathe, she tried to push herself to her feet, but her knees gave way. She collapsed back to the floor, her sore throat contracting around the sobs that erupted from her chest.

She gave up trying to stand and crawled over to her couch, expecting at any moment to be grabbed again. She switched on the lamp with shaky fingers.

Nothing. They were gone.

She huddled in the corner of the couch, hugging her knees to her chest, unable to stop shivering. She was chilled to the bone, although it was September and still summertime-hot in Biloxi, Mississippi.

She didn’t know how long she sat there staring at the front door, terrified they’d return. Sick with the knowledge that they knew where she lived.

Still afraid to trust her trembling legs, she crawled over to the door and reached up to throw the dead bolt. The useless gesture was almost funny. They’d gotten into her apartment once. They could do it again. They could come back any time they wanted.

She pulled herself to her feet, her body aching with tension, her head woozy with fear. Leaning against her kitchen counter, she chafed her sore arms. Her throat and jaw hurt. She couldn’t stop trembling.

What was she going to do? They’d threatened her. Threatened her father.

Dad! The little Cajun hadn’t said anything specific, but his implication sent icy fear surging through her veins. His boss had chosen her because she was alone and vulnerable—and so was her father.

She had to check on him. Carefully she walked over to the couch. Where was the phone? It had been knocked onto the floor when she’d bumped her head on the end table. It was halfway across the room.

She moved unsteadily toward it as pain shot through her shoulders. The man who’d held her had been strong. Thank God he wasn’t as cruel as the Cajun.

Just as she touched the handset, it rang.

She jerked away with a startled cry and covered her mouth with both hands to keep from screaming.

It rang again. Her temples throbbed. Her heart raced. She forced herself to pick it up.

“Ms. Raines? This is Mary Bankston, night supervisor at Beachside Manor.”

Horror clutched at her chest. No, please!

“Ms. Bank—” Her voice wouldn’t work. She swallowed painfully and tried again. “Ms. Bankston. What’s wrong?”

“Don’t worry. Your father is fine. But I need to let you know that there was a small incident a few minutes ago. Somehow, some papers in the trash can in your father’s room caught fire. The nurse on duty put them out immediately, and made sure your father wasn’t injured. I can’t imagine how he managed to get matches or light a fire. But it’s all under control now.”

Lily’s hand cramped around the phone. “You’re sure? You’re sure he’s okay? I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“I don’t think he even realizes anything happened. You certainly don’t need to drive over here—”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” She hung up the phone, old, familiar guilt squeezing her chest.

Her father, a cop, had once been so vital, so big and strong, so courageous. But a gunshot to the head during a liquor store robbery had turned him into a bewildered, docile shell of the man who’d raised her.

He’d survived the shooting, but the loving father who had taught her right from wrong, who’d stressed the importance of truth and justice, was gone.

Unable to speak and barely able to understand rudimentary conversation, Joe Raines seemed to look forward to her visits, but the times were fewer and fewer that his brown eyes lit up with recognition.

The intruder’s Cajun twang echoed in her ears. You be hearin’ something very soon.

Bile burned her throat and nausea made her double over. They’d made their point. They’d already gotten to her father.

Suddenly her head spun and acrid saliva filled her mouth. She stumbled into the bathroom, making it just in time.

Collapsing onto the cold tile floor, she bent her head over the toilet, giving in to the spasms. She gagged and coughed until there was nothing left inside her.

Tears streamed down her cheeks as she flopped back against the wall and wiped her face with unsteady fingers. For a few moments she just cried. She was so scared. So tired.

It was amazing how fragile humans were. And how fast hope could turn to despair. In an instant, everything could change.

About the same time as her father was shot, she’d found out her husband was cheating on her. He’d always been controlling, but she believed in marriage, so she’d tried desperately to make hers work.

He’d asked for a divorce and moved out.

Then, because of the time she had to devote to caring for her father, her fledgling interior design business had suffered.

Still, she’d survived. She’d started over, like so many others.

Then, just last week, she’d begun negotiations to design the interior of a new high-rise being built in Biloxi. She’d started feeling hopeful once again. Strong and safe.

But no more. Today, her life and her father’s had changed again. Their lives were threatened.

Her dad’s beloved, confused face rose in her mind. He was all she had. And she was all he had. She had to get to the nursing home, to see for herself that he was all right.

She struggled to her feet, her muscles stiff from the cold tile, her stomach fighting the nausea that still clung to her. She splashed water on her face.

How would she face her father, knowing what she had to do? Vote not guilty. Let a murderer go free.

It went against everything he’d stood for all his life. Everything he’d taught her about justice and truth. To protect him, she would have to betray everything he believed in.

She looked at her pale face in the mirror. How could she do anything else?

BRANDON GALLAGHER TOSSED down a straight shot of Irish whiskey and grimaced. The burn felt good, but it didn’t wash the taste of self-disgust from his mouth. He slapped the glass down on the counter and nodded at the bartender, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

He splashed cold water on his face, and when he did, his senses were filled with the scent that clung to his fingers. Vanilla and fresh coconut.

He held out his arms and examined the scratches. A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

He turned on the hot water and scrubbed his hands with soap, then rinsed his face. Lifting his head he met his eyes in the flaking mirror.

“Can’t wash away your own stench with whiskey, nor her perfume with soap, can you, Gallagher?” he muttered. He patted his face and hands dry with a paper towel, then he wet a corner of it and wiped the specks of blood off his forearms. She was a fighter. That was good. She’d need to be.

Foshee had carped at him all the way down the stairs and back to Gio’s. This ain’t good cop, bad cop, salaud. You too soft. Mais, yeah, I better tell the boss you can’t handle it.

Brand hadn’t reacted, although his insides had clenched with worry. He’d prayed he was reading the little Cajun right. Foshee was merely flexing his nonexistent muscles. He wouldn’t really go to Castellano.

Feigning unconcern, Brand had just grunted and muttered that there were better things to do with females than rough them up.

To his relief, Foshee had laughed.

You better watch her. Make sure she don’ turn tail.

You watch her and I watch you. Boss wants to hear how you handle this job. You try something with her, I be waitin’ my turn, yeah.

As soon as he’d gotten free of Foshee, Brand had driven back to Lily Raines’s apartment. He was surprised to see her car still there. But just about the time he cut his engine, she’d rushed out and taken off in a spray of gravel. He knew where she was going. To Beachside Manor—her father’s nursing home.

She’d definitely gotten the message.

Satisfied that she’d understood the threat Foshee had made, and relieved that she hadn’t been hurt by his manhandling, Brand had turned his car around and headed straight here, to the neighborhood bar. He sent his reflection a disgusted glance.

The local watering hole. God love it. His dad would have been proud.

Grimacing at that thought, he pushed his hands through his hair, and went back to his seat at the bar.

He faced down the shot glass filled to the brim with pale brown liquid. The sight of it made his mouth water.

No. He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the day’s growth of stubble and smelling the last faint whiff of Lily Raines’s perfume.

He’d come too close too many times to sinking into a bottle, just like his old man. Just like his oldest brother. There were better ways to die.

And there’ll allus be worse ones. His dad’s slurred Irish brogue echoed in his ears.

“Shut up, Dad,” he muttered.

As much as he’d like to use a quart of Irish whiskey to drown the look of terror in Lily Raines’s eyes and forget the reason he’d been there to see it, he couldn’t afford to.

Three years and thousands of hours of undercover work were on the line. And as of tonight, his career probably was, as well.

Because Giovanni Castellano, the King of the Coast, had ordered “Jake Brand,” with Armand Foshee to watch over him, to make sure Juror Number Seven held out for acquittal in Theodore “Sack” Simon’s murder trial.

With a sigh, Brand threw some cash down on the bar, turned his back on the brimming shot glass and headed for his car. He maneuvered the dark streets to a private pack-and-mail store that rented post office boxes. The store was closed, but he had a key to the alcove where the boxes were located.

He parked at the entrance and took a moment to roll up the leg of his jeans. Gritting his teeth, he ripped the tape off his ankle and with it the miniature tape recorder that had been a part of him for the last three years.

He massaged his skin where the tape had abraded it, ejected the tiny cassette and inserted a brand new one. He stuck the tape recorder in his shirt pocket. His ankle could use a rest. He’d tape the device back on his leg first thing in the morning.

He pulled his sock up and his cuff down.

Then he wrote the date on the used tape’s label and dropped it into an envelope, unlocked the box and shoved it inside, just as he’d done three or four times a week for the past three years. His fingers encountered a note. A single sheet of paper, folded once. He stuck it in his pocket and grabbed the untraceable prepaid cell phone his contact had left in the mail box.

He dialed the only number programmed into it. The cell phone of FBI Special Agent Thomas Pruitt.

“Pruitt. It’s Gallagher.” He could hear voices in the background. It sounded like a ball game.

“What’s up?”

“I got an assignment today from Castellano.”

“No kidding? Hang on.”

Brand heard Pruitt tell someone he’d be right back. After a few seconds the background noise lessened.

“Sorry. My kid’s baseball game. Go ahead. What happened?”

“Castellano put me with a ratty little lowlife named Foshee. We paid a visit to a juror in the Simon case. Leaned on her hard. Foshee threatened her to vote not guilty, to hang the jury, or something would happen to her father.”

“Wait a minute. Castellano gave you this assignment himself?”

“Yep. I got called into his inner sanctum—his table at Gio’s. Foshee was there, along with a couple of muscle-heads with machine pistols.”

“I’ll be damned. Finally! We’ve waited for three years for a break like this. Who is she? The juror?”

“Name’s Lily Raines. She’s juror number seven.”

“Raines. I wonder if she’s related to a guy named Raines I used to know. He got shot on the job a couple of years ago.”

“That’s him. He’s in Beachside Manor Nursing Home. Something happened there tonight. Foshee didn’t tell me what, but it was enough to send Lily tearing over there about twenty minutes after we left her apartment.”

“I’ll check on it.”

“How do you want me to handle this? You going to let the D.A. know Castellano’s tampering with the jury?”

“How’d you handle it tonight?”

Brand made a rude gesture toward the phone. He didn’t like Pruitt. “How the hell do you think? I went along. I didn’t know any specifics until we got to her apartment.” It had sickened him to have to hold her still while Foshee manhandled her and threatened her. “I tried to keep Foshee from being too rough.”

“You did right. You’ve gotta play along. Three of you undercover for three years and this is the closest we’ve gotten to Castellano. We had a feeling he would try something during the trial, but this is better than we’d hoped. We can’t risk any screw-ups at this point.”

Brand’s gut clenched. His lieutenant, Gary Morrison, who had been his contact for his first year undercover, had stressed the importance of not going outside the law any more than necessary. If an undercover cop was going into a situation where he would be forced to commit a felony, his commanding officer had an obligation to extract him.

Brand and the other two officers working inside Castellano’s operation were protected up to a point, but they were required to report any illegal activities in which they were involved.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been working with the damn mob for three years. I don’t want any screw-ups, either, but I’d like to know you’ve got my back once this is all over.”

“You do the assignment. I’ll protect your back.”

Brand blew out a frustrated breath. Pruitt was FBI, and there was no love lost between the Feds and local law enforcement. He wondered if he was being set up to take a fall.

He pulled the microcassette recorder out of his pocket. With his thumb he pressed record and held it near the phone. Never hurts to have insurance.

“Gallagher? You there?”

“Yeah. Just thinking. Make sure you understand, Pruitt. I’ve worked too hard to end up getting my badge yanked for committing a felony.”

“Listen to me. The justice department is behind this operation one hundred percent. They’ve given us carte blanche. Any means necessary. Have you talked to Springer or Carson?”

His fellow officers working undercover. Brand frowned. “Nope. Hardly ever see ’em.”

“Well, Carson is working the docks. He’s convinced Castellano’s moving weapons and explosives in. Springer agrees. Plus, he says they’re bringing in illegal aliens.”

“Terrorist activities.”

“Right. So you’re covered on all sides, by justice, homeland security—you know the drill.”

Brand did. Job one was to protect his fellow officers. Job two, earn Castellano’s trust.

“You think we can get Castellano on terrorist charges?”

“I think so.” The excitement in Pruitt’s voice was obvious through the phone line. “If we can, he’ll go away for a long time and the careers of everybody involved will be assured.”

Yeah, Brand thought. You mean your career. But he didn’t say anything.

“So do what Castellano wants you to do. You’ll be protected. We’ll have plainclothes watching you and the lowlife, what’s his name?”

“Foshee. Armand Foshee.”

“Right. Foshee. The task force will step in before the verdict. We’ll probably pull Foshee in on some lesser charge. You, too, so your cover isn’t blown. The trial will end in a mistrial, but it won’t come down on you. Trust me, we’ve got plenty on Simon. We can pick him up on another murder charge before he sets foot outside the courtroom.”

Pruitt made it sound easy. But then he wasn’t out in the field. He didn’t have to worry about who got hurt.

Brand’s thoughts returned to Lily Raines. Terrified, trembling, her soft breasts pressed against his forearms, her dark, shiny hair tickling his nose. He grimaced as his body began to stir. “What about the woman? What about her father?”

“They’re not your concern. We’ll take care of them.”

“The hell they’re not. I’m the one leaning on her. I don’t like it. I don’t like the threats against her father, either. Can’t the police give him protection?”

“We don’t want to blow your cover or endanger your juror. We can’t afford to let Castellano see any change in her father’s care. You just do your job.”

Damn. He didn’t like working with the FBI. They played everything too close to the vest. He rubbed his neck. “Should I call you back to confirm?”

“No. You’ve got the go-ahead. I’ll take care of making it right with the justice department.” Pruitt disconnected.

Brand turned off his cell phone and stuck it in his pocket. Then he stopped the tape recorder, ejected the cassette and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

Like he’d told Pruitt, he’d worked like a dog to pull himself out of the chaos of his childhood. He was not going to let anything ruin his career as a police detective. It was all he had.

He tossed the cassette a couple of inches into the air and caught it in his fist. Insurance. He had Pruitt on tape promising to cover his butt.

As he walked back to his car, he stuck the cassette in his pocket. His fingers encountered the note he’d picked up from the mailbox.

After climbing into the driver’s seat, he scanned the note and cursed. He shook his head as he crumpled the note in his fist. His request for two days’ leave to go to Alexandria, Louisiana, for his father’s funeral had been denied.

He’d expected it. He was in too deep with the Gulf Coast mob to risk disappearing even for a day or two. Especially now that he had finally penetrated the impenetrable armor surrounding Giovanni Castellano.

His eyelids stung and he blinked rapidly. Pop had been dying for a long time. The alcohol had finally killed him. But his death dredged up memories of another death, that of his oldest brother, Patrick. There was nobody to blame for Pop’s death except Pop himself.

But Patrick was another story. Brand’s brother had gotten in too deep with gambling and drugs. He owed Castellano more money than he could ever pay, so the mob boss had ordered his execution to make an example. For all Brand knew, Sack Simon had pulled the trigger.

Patrick was the reason Brand had become a cop. The reason he’d volunteered for this particular assignment in the first place.

He sighed. Now to catch Castellano, he had to let the assassin who may have killed his brother go free. God, he hoped Pruitt was telling the truth when he’d said Simon wouldn’t walk out of the courthouse before they arrested him again.

He cranked his car and pulled away. He had to be up early tomorrow to go to the courthouse with Foshee.

As he drove back to his apartment, the remembered scent of vanilla and coconut filled his nostrils. He squirmed as his body reacted to the memory of Lily’s slender, sturdy body pressed against him.

The justice department had damn sure better protect his badge, because he had no choice but to do this. For more than one reason.

Sure, he was doing it to avenge his brother’s death and to protect his fellow undercover officers. But there was a third reason. His body tightened and a thrilling ache throbbed in his loins. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pressure of the tight denim.

Lily Raines needed him. She had no one else to protect her.

Chapter Two

The empty halls of the courthouse mocked Lily as the click of her heels echoed through the silent corridors. Within an hour, these same halls would be buzzing with activity, and yet she’d still be alone.

She hadn’t slept a wink all night. She’d been afraid to turn off the lights, and every noise she heard sent fear slicing through her.

Her father’s bland, trusting face haunted her. He was so helpless, and Castellano was ruthless. He’d gotten to her dad inside the nursing home. How could she keep him safe anywhere?

Still, she’d done her best. She’d stalked into the nursing home, indignant and worried, and demanding that whoever had let her father get hold of matches should be let go. She pulled it off with just enough of a touch of frantic daughter that she’d managed to back the head nurse into a corner.

She had agreed to move Lily’s dad next to the nurse’s station so they could keep an eye on him.

She also promised Lily that she would find out who had left matches lying around and have them fired. Lily didn’t bother to tell her that she wouldn’t find anything.

Lily stepped through a set of double doors, and passed one of the assistant district attorneys assigned to the Sack Simon case. The medium-height young man looked smart and capable as he nodded absently at her. Lily wondered what he would do if she told him Castellano had sent thugs to threaten her.

But she kept walking, her hand clenched around her purse strap. The spider-on-your-skin feeling was still with her. She glanced around, expecting to see the little Cajun or his tall partner watching her, but the only person she spotted was a security guard.

She went through the door into the jury room. It was empty. She managed to make a pot of coffee, but spilled a little when she poured herself a cup. Standing at the door, she searched the face of each person who walked by. She recognized some, such as the ADAs, one of the court reporters and a couple of police officers who knew her father.

Every single time someone walked past, her heart sped up and she prayed for the courage to reach out— to ask for help. But each time she gripped her cup more tightly and remained quiet. None of them could protect her against the most powerful man on the Gulf Coast.

How could this happen in this day and age? Years ago, organized crime had been rampant up the eastern seaboard, along the Gulf, even in the Midwest. Back then the mob was into drugs and prostitution, loansharking and money-laundering.

Giovanni Castellano was of a totally different breed. He owned legitimate businesses, paid health insurance for his employees. He was even on the committee for the renovation of the Gulf Coast.

According to defense counsel, Castellano and everyone who worked for him, including Sack Simon, were model citizens.

Whatever illegal activities Castellano was involved in, they were hidden behind a facade of honest business practices. And that meant it would be almost impossible to find anyone who could protect her against him. Who could she trust?

Icy fear crawled up her spine. Even if she could get protection for herself, what about her father? Giovanni Castellano, the King of the Coast, was untouchable.

It was the Gulf Coast’s worst kept secret that Castellano’s money came from illegal activities such as smuggling and loan-sharking. Yet somehow he’d never been indicted by the police. Her father had always complained that Castellano had a politician in his pocket.

“Lily Raines? Little Lily? Is that you?”

She jumped and almost spilled her coffee again.

A man in an ill-fitting brown suit smiled at her. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said.

Swallowing the urge to back away, she smiled quizzically. “Yes. I’m Lily Raines. Do I know you?”

“Bill Henderson. I used to be on the job. Worked with your dad.” The man’s florid face lit with a smile as he tugged on his belt, adjusting it over his pot belly.

“Of course, Officer Henderson. It’s been a long time.”

Henderson’s smile faded. “Sure has. Last time I saw you, you were still in high school. Call me Bill. I heard about your dad. Been meaning to get by to see him, but you know how it is. I’m real sorry. He was one of a kind.”

She nodded. She remembered her dad talking about Henderson. Good people, her father had called him.

“You’re on jury duty?” Henderson asked, raising one gray eyebrow.

“The Sack Simon case.”

“Whoa! That rat bastard.” Henderson shook his head. “He’s guilty as sin. Everybody knows he’s Castellano’s top hit man. Got at least fifteen notches in his gun.”

Lily nodded and glanced up and down the hall. As a juror on the case, she wasn’t supposed to talk about it with anyone. “You said you were on the job?”

“Yep, I took my twenty-five and retired. I do some private work here and there, when I’m not fishing.”

“What brings you to the courthouse?” she asked, her thoughts racing. He knew her dad. He’d been a police officer for twenty-five years. She could trust him.

“Divorce case.” He made a face. “I’ve gotta testify. I took the pictures the wife is using to squeeze a bundle out of her soon-to-be ex-husband.”

Lily’s pulse thrummed in her ears. Maybe he could help her. If she knew her father was safe, she could vote guilty. Then, as soon as the trial was over, she and her dad could move far away from Castellano’s reach.

She glanced around again. “Can I ask you a question, Bill?”

“Sure. Anything for Raines’s girl.” Henderson laughed. “You need a ticket fixed, I’m your man.”

A nervous smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Not exactly.” She took a deep breath just as the double door opened.

It was the bailiff. Lily blew her breath out in frustration. He would reprimand her if he caught her talking in front of the jury room.

Two of her fellow jurors entered behind the bailiff.

As she watched the bailiff approach, Lily decided to go ahead. If she was going to reveal what had happened, what difference did it make if the bailiff overheard? Maybe she could let the court know what had happened to her, and Castellano could be arrested for jury-tampering.

“Bill, what if I told you that—” The door opened again, and when she saw who entered, terror sheared her breath.

Sauntering in behind the jurors was a skinny man with sun-darkened skin and coal-black eyes. He leered at her and bared his teeth.

Just like last night. It was him. The Cajun. Lily’s throat closed up. She couldn’t breathe at all.

Behind him came another man—taller, broad-shouldered and confident. It was the Cajun’s tall, menacing partner. His gaze met hers and he frowned. His eyes were a piercing blue, she noticed abstractedly.

He gave a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

She froze, unable to look away from his intense blue gaze. Her fingers tightened reflexively around the ceramic mug in her hands. He was warning her.

She looked from him to the Cajun.

“Lily?” Henderson raised his bushy brows.

She sucked in a long breath and forced herself to face her dad’s former colleague. “N-nice to see you,” Lily stammered as the bailiff stopped in front of her.

“Good morning, Ms. Raines,” the bailiff said.

Lily nodded jerkily.

“I’ll let my father know you asked about him,” she said to Henderson, stepping backward into the room. Her voice was too loud, but she couldn’t help it.

Please don’t say anything, she silently begged Henderson.

More people entered the hallway. The Cajun and his partner passed the door. The Cajun’s black eyes sparkled and he made an offhand gesture at the level of his neck. Lily read his message loud and clear. She touched her throat where the point of the Cajun’s knife had pricked her the night before.

The other man kept his gaze averted, but she felt his presence, his overwhelming attention, and she remembered that he’d stopped the Cajun from hurting her— twice.

She watched the back of his head as he followed the Cajun through the door into the main corridor of the courthouse. Just as he stepped inside, his head angled, as if acknowledging her gaze.

She shuddered, her stomach flipping over. They had to be here checking on her. There was no way she could escape them. They would be there through every minute of the trial. They’d watch her when she went in and out of the jury box. And anytime they wanted to, they could hurt her father.

She ducked inside the jury room, her stomach rebelling at the black coffee she’d swallowed. How would she make it through the day, much less the whole trial?

“WHAT THE HELL’S the matter with her?” Foshee said.

Brand bit back a curse. He knew exactly what Foshee was talking about.

Lily looked as if she might faint and fall right out of her chair. Her face was pale and her eyes had dark circles under them. Her dark hair hung limp and straight around her face, and she clutched the armrest of the jury box chair so hard he could see her whitened knuckles from across the room.

He bent his head and whispered to the shorter man. “She didn’t sleep. She’s probably so scared she’s sick, and I can see the bruise you left on her jaw from here.” You stinking little bully, he added silently.

“Whassup wi’ you, Brand? You sweet on her?” Foshee grinned, showing crooked, stained teeth.

“Nah. Guess I just know better than you how to handle a lady.”

“Zat so?” Foshee angled his head. “Mebbe I let you handle her after I finish wit’ her, eh?’ Cause if she don’ straighten up, she get herself kicked off the jury. See how the DA’s watching her?”

Brand clenched his fists. He’d already noticed. The Assistant District Attorney in charge of the case had been watching Lily all morning, probably worried about the same thing Brand feared. She was so pale and drawn. Was she about to faint?

It was time for the ADA’s summation to the jury. He looked at Lily again, then whispered to his co-counsel. Brand could imagine what they were saying.

They wouldn’t want a sick juror, or one who was terrified, helping to decide the fate of Sack Simon. They had to be sure all the jurors were capable of coherent thought and rational reasoning.

Brand had been there through the jury selection and voir dire. There were two very competent alternates waiting in the wings. The ADA could easily replace Lily.

After another few seconds of whispering, the ADA nodded at his colleague and stood. “Your honor, may we approach?”

Brand stiffened. This was about Lily. He knew it. What if the ADA demanded she be excused from the jury? What would Castellano do then?

He wished he could catch her eye, but after last night, anything he did would be interpreted by her as a threat. If he even made eye contact with her, she would faint.

The judge and the two attorneys consulted while eleven jurors fidgeted. Lily sat stiff and still, her too-wide eyes watching the lawyers and the judge talk. Every so often, her gaze would flicker toward either him or Foshee.

He saw her throat move as she swallowed nervously.

Get yourself together, Lily, he begged her silently. They’ll kill you.

Then the defense attorney glanced their way with a tiny smile.

The lawyers returned to their seats and the judge rapped his gavel. “We’ll recess until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

Brand let out a deep sigh.

“What’s going on?” Foshee asked in surprise as they stood while the judge left the bench.

“We just dodged a bullet. I’m guessing the ADA was asking to excuse juror number seven.”

Foshee’s black eyes glittered. “We gonna have to pay our girlfriend another visit?”

“No,” Brand said quickly. “Look at her. She looks better already. She’s exhausted and scared to death. A good night’s sleep and she’ll be okay. She just needs some time.”

“Mais, oui. We call her, eh? Tell her good-night?”

Brand shook his head. “Leave her alone, Foshee. You hurt her. You scared her half to death. Trust me, she got the message. Let’s give her a day to think about it. She’s smart. She’ll come around.”

They filed out of the courtroom with the rest of the curious onlookers and walked around to the side of the courthouse to stand at the door where the jurors exited. They mingled with the media and the onlookers.

Brand stood beside Foshee, dreading the moment when Lily walked out and saw them waiting for her.

She was the last one through the door. Her face was still pale, and she clutched a tissue as she was escorted to the door by a security guard.

“Sure you’re okay, honey?” the uniformed woman asked her.

Lily nodded and smiled faintly. “Thank you. I feel much better. I appreciate the ice water. It’s probably just a bug. I’ll be fine by tomorrow I’m sure—” Her gaze met Brand’s and she faltered.

Brand lifted his chin and sent her a faint nod.

Her gaze flickered from him to Foshee. She brought the hand holding the tissue to her mouth and hurried past them, catching up with a middle-aged man—juror number three, if Brand wasn’t mistaken.

“Okay. We gotta check in,” Foshee said. “See if the boss wants us to follow her.”

“She’s not going anywhere. Other than maybe to see her father.”

Foshee squinted up at him. “You sure do know a lot for a two-bit bouncer.”

Brand glared down at the little man. “Castellano obviously thinks I do. He gave me this job.”

“Mais, non. He give me the job. He give you to me to train. And I guarantee you he ain’t gonna like how you’re so ’fatiated with our girl.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, Ry.”

“Hey.” Ryan’s voice was remote.

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

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

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

Ryan was silent.

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

“Did you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Castellano’s calling card.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Is Mom okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. We understand.”

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

“Try to stay out of trouble—okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ever since her mother had died when she was twelve, she and her dad had depended on each other. She didn’t count the months right after her mother’s death, when her dad had retreated into his own grief. For the most part, he’d been a great dad. He’d taught her how to defend herself, how to handle a gun, so she’d never be helpless. He’d listened when she’d cried with her first broken heart. And he’d been there to cheer when she’d graduated college with a degree in interior design.

“I need you now, Dad,” she whispered. “More than ever. I need to know what to do.”

The father who’d raised her would be appalled if he knew she was even considering voting not guilty. Not with the kind of evidence the prosecution had against Simon. He’d have waved away the danger.

I can take care of myself, he’d have told her. And I can take care of you.

But there was no way he could do that now. She had to take care of him. And if that meant letting a killer go free—so be it.

Still, the strong, beloved voice she’d listened to all her life echoed in her ears.

It all comes down to what’s right, Lilybell. You can’t outrun your conscience.

She slapped the steering wheel with her palms, and wiped her eyes. Enough of acting like a baby. She’d find a way to get help. There had to be someone she could trust.

A car’s headlights glared in the rearview mirror, causing her heart to leap into her throat. She’d broken one of the basic rules of personal safety. Don’t park the car and sit in it. She needed to get inside and put the chain on the door.

Imaginary spiders crawled up the back of her neck as she grabbed her jacket and purse. She shuddered and glanced around. Then she took a deep breath, jumped out of her car and ran up the steps to her second-floor apartment.

As she unlocked her door, her shoulders tightened in awful expectation of the feel of a heavy hand.

She looked over her shoulder. Nothing. She pushed open the door and sighed in relief when she saw her living room bathed in the light from the lamp she’d left on.

The attack came from her left.

A hand clapped over her mouth.

No! Not again! She kicked and bit and tried to scream for help.

The hand pressed tighter and a rock-hard arm pinned hers to her sides. She flung her head backward, trying to head-butt her attacker, but he dodged and pressed the left side of his head against the right side of hers, then pushed her inside and kicked the door shut.

She smelled soap and mint. Alarm sent her heart racing out of control.

“Shh! Lily!” His voice was raspy and soft. “Be still. Shh. Stop struggling.”

Desperately, she stomped his instep.

“Ow. Stop it! Listen to me.” He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her into the living room.

She was so helpless, so weak. None of the defensive moves her father had taught her worked against this man. She struggled, but he was like a massive tree—immovable, sturdy, unbending.

His hand over her mouth loosened and she took a breath to scream.

“Don’t.” The hand tightened again, as did the arm across her chest. She could barely breathe.

She went limp, tears of frustration and fear filling her eyes.

“Promise?” his whisper rasped in her ear. His stubble scraped her cheek.

She tried to nod.

“This is serious, Lily. Don’t try anything. Don’t yell, don’t hit, and for heaven’s sake, don’t bite.”

She nodded again. Her chest burned for air. She sucked as much as she could through her nose. It wasn’t enough.

His hand on her mouth eased up.

She gasped.

He slid his hand down past her jaw, which was still sore from the Cajun’s punishing fingers the night before, to her neck. He didn’t grab her, he didn’t punish. His thumb touched the minuscule wound left by the Cajun’s knife.

In another world, in another time, she might have thought his fingers were gentle, caressing. But here and now, she knew who he was. He’d been here last night. He’d held her—let the Cajun touch her. A quiver of revulsion rippled through her.

He’d threatened her with a searing glare and watched her like a hawk in court.

Lily felt sick. A cold sweat broke out across her face and neck.

He tightened his hold. “Don’t faint on me, Lily. I need you to be strong. You have to listen to me.” His breath was hot on her ear.

She tried to turn, but he held her in place, tight up against his unyielding body. The heat he gave off burned her to her core.

“You almost got kicked off the jury today. Do you know that?”

She swallowed against his fingers, which still held her throat in an ominous caress. Any second he could tighten them and choke her.

“Do you?” he snapped.

She nodded jerkily.

“You’ve got to be brave. You’ve got to stop looking like a doe facing a rifle.”

His low voice sounded earnest, as if he was worried about her. She closed her eyes and fought the urge to give up, to lean against him and stop struggling.

But she knew he couldn’t be trusted. He was the enemy. He had hurt her. He’d held her while the Cajun had hurt her.

“That’s pretty much what I am,” she said shakily.

“You’ve got to look confident. Can you do that? It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

“Wha-what are you talking about?” she croaked, confused by the urgency in his tone.

His hands slid down over her sleeveless top and tightened on her bare upper arms. He turned her around to face him.

His face was grave, his blue eyes burning with intensity as they searched her face. He lifted one hand and traced the bruise the Cajun had left on her jaw with a surprisingly gentle brush of his fingers.

Conflicting emotions swirled inside her. He’d grabbed her, threatened her. Why was he being so kind? Was it a trick? Was the Cajun waiting outside?

She stiffened, and cut her eyes over to her front door.

“Shh. It’s okay. He’s not here.”

Her gaze shot to his, suspicious. “He sent you?”

“No. I came on my own, to warn you.” His left hand touched her chin. “Listen to me, Lily. Jury summations are tomorrow. They won’t take long. The prosecution thinks they’ve got the case sewn up. Get up in the morning, shower and fix your hair. Put on makeup. Do whatever it is you do to look good.”

Tears burned her eyes. She shook her head. “I can’t do it. I can’t sit there in front of the judge and the lawyers, with the families of people Sack Simon killed watching me with their hopeful eyes. I can’t betray them.”

“You’ve got to. You have to walk into the jury box like you own it. Don’t give the ADA a reason to kick you off the jury. If you do, your father will die.” His face darkened. “You’ll die.”

She blinked and the tears streamed down her cheeks, down her neck. His thumb moved, rubbing the dampness into her skin, touching her in a way he had no right to. Making her feel safe when she knew she wasn’t.

“Don’t cry, Lily. Be strong.”

She sobbed.

“Shh.” He bent his head and put his mouth against her ear. She sniffled and was hit with the scent of him— soap and mint.

He’d brushed his teeth to come threaten her again. A little hiccuping giggle burst up from her chest.

“If you can be strong, if you can hold out, I promise you I’ll keep you safe.”

“You?” she spat, jerking her head away from his seductive whisper. She hiccuped again and looked him in the eye. “I’d rather die.”

He sighed and his eyes went storm-cloud gray. “Then you will.”

He turned her around and pulled her back up close against him again. His soft, ominous whisper burned through her. “Think about it, Lily. It’s your only chance. It’s the only way your dad will survive.”

He pushed her toward the couch.

She stumbled and fell onto the cushions. By the time she’d righted herself, he was gone.

The smell of soap and mint lingered in the air.

Chapter Three

When the jurors filed into the jury box, Brand’s mouth fell open. He’d told Lily to do whatever she did to look good, but he hadn’t expected much.

Whatever she’d done, it had worked. She looked like a different person. Gone was the pale skin, the fearful, darting eyes, the entwined fingers.

Her brown eyes sparkled, her hair was shiny and wavy and her skin glowed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the courtroom.

He frowned, feeling the knots of tension in his neck tighten even more. He’d tossed and turned all night, worrying that his visit had been too much for her, that she wouldn’t show up at all this morning.

Her transformation was amazing. Too amazing.

A sick dread spread through his gut. She didn’t look like this because he’d warned her. He eyed the pugnacious lift of her chin, the determined line of her jaw, and his mouth went dry.

She looked like a new woman because she was. She’d come to a decision.

Beside him, Foshee whistled under his breath. “I reckon you was right about one thing, brau. She jus’ needed some rest. Looks like a whole new woman.”

Too much like a whole new woman. Ah, Lily, what have you done?

As the DA got up to make his closing arguments, Brand shifted and cursed under his breath for Foshee’s benefit. “Damn it, I gotta take a piss,” he muttered.

The little Cajun looked at him sidelong. “Mebbe I better go wit’ you.”

“Oh yeah? Like girls? I don’t think so. I’ll be right back.”

Brand stood and slipped out of the courtroom, aware of Lily’s eyes following him. He didn’t dare look at her—he wasn’t sure why.

Standing alone on the courthouse steps, out of earshot of anyone who might walk up, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the preset number.

“Pruitt.”

“It’s Gallagher.”

“Isn’t court in session?”

“Yeah. This is important.” Brand kept an eye on the courthouse doors. He didn’t want to be surprised while talking to his FBI contact. “What’s happened?”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t know what you mean,” the FBI agent said finally.

“I think you do. Yesterday Lily Raines was about to fall out of her chair, she was so scared. Today she looks like a new woman.”

“Maybe she got some rest.”

“Did she talk to someone? Has anyone talked to her?” Anger blossomed in his chest. “Damn it, Pruitt. If something’s up, I need to know.”

“I swear, Gallagher, I don’t know a thing. She didn’t talk to the DA’s office, or I’d have heard. Maybe you’re overreacting. Take a chill-pill.”

Brand commented on what Pruitt could do with his chill-pill. “What about Springer and Carson? Anything going on with them?” He rarely ran into the other two officers who were working undercover with Castellano’s operation.

“They’re checking in daily. Nothing from their end. Look, I told you I’d protect you, and I will.”

“Can you protect her, too?”

“We’re on it. We figure it’ll take about three days for the jury to figure out she’s not going to change her vote to guilty. We’ll be there to intercept you and Foshee, and to rearrest Simon. It’s all going smooth as silk.”

“I hope to hell you’re right.”

Brand disconnected and headed back inside. He sat down next to Foshee, who sent him a suspicious look.

“What took you so long?” he whispered.

“Got a call.” In case Foshee had looked out the courthouse door and seen him on the phone, he needed to stick as close to the truth as possible.

“Yeah?”

“Ex-girlfriend. Wants to hook up.”

Foshee grinned. “You could hook me up.”

“That would serve her right,” he muttered.

Foshee scowled at him.

Brand listened to the DA’s monotonous drone. Crap. In typical lawyer fashion, he was telling the jury what he was about to tell them. Then he’d tell them, then he’d tell them what he’d just told them.

After him, the defense attorney, paid for with Castellano’s money, got to put on his own performance.

And Brand was stuck here sitting next to Foshee, with his garlic breath and his bad teeth.

It was going to be a long day.

THREE DAYS LATER, retired police officer Bill Henderson drove his wife’s van toward Beachside Manor Nursing Home. He’d been surprised to hear from Joe Raines’s girl the other night. Lily had sounded frantic, scared to death. He’d tried to calm her down, but she’d begged him to listen to her.

He shook his head, amazed at what Lily had told him and ashamed at how hard he’d tried to weasel out of helping her. Especially now.

Like he’d told Lily, he’d done his twenty-five years on the force. He was looking forward to a lot of years of sitting out on the water in his little boat, fishing and drinking beer and just being happy to be alive.

He’d decided not to take any more private jobs. Most of them were just this side of sleazy. He didn’t like spying on cheating spouses or rounding up deadbeat dads.

His pension was enough, with his wife’s income from teaching, to keep them comfortable.

He turned onto the street that wound back around the bayous to the grounds of Beachside Manor. Funny name for a nursing home that was nowhere near the beach.

Lily had asked him to go to the nursing home on Friday morning and pick up her father for what she’d termed a “day trip.” She said she’d called the nursing home and given her permission. All he had to do was show photo ID.

“Take him somewhere, Bill. Please. I’ll pay you. Take him up to Jackson to a hotel. Just for a few days, until this trial is over. Then I’ll come get him and we’ll be out of your hair. Please. Do it for a fellow officer. You know he’d do it for you.”

As soon as she’d said those words, Bill had known he was sunk. So here he was, about to abduct a buddy of his who didn’t even know his own name. Like he’d promised Lily, he’d lied to his wife—told her he had to be out of town for a few days on a case.

He’d asked Lily what was going on, but she wouldn’t tell him. He had a feeling he knew. Another reason he’d tried his best to refuse. This had something to do with Sack Simon’s murder trial. Therefore it had something to do with Giovanni Castellano. He sure as hell didn’t want to tangle with Castellano.

The idea made Bill very nervous. He ran a finger under his tight collar and checked his weapon, which he’d stuck in a paddle holster at his back. He rarely carried it anymore, even though he had a permit.

The road to Beachside Manor was asphalt, with a narrow shoulder that quickly dropped off into a swamp. He kept his van toward the middle of the road as he rounded a steep curve.

A car was stopped in the middle of the road, and a woman in a tight skirt and a tighter blouse with the top buttons undone waved both arms at him. She looked hot and harried.

Bill slowed down and pulled up beside her. He lowered his passenger window. “Got car trouble, miss?” he asked.

“I don’t know what’s wrong. It just stopped, right here in the middle of the road. I’m supposed to be at the nursing home to pick up my mother.” She gestured behind her with a hand holding a cigarette.

“Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.” Bill pressed the button that unlocked the doors. As soon as he did, the driver’s door jerked open and a hefty guy stuck a gun into the folds of skin at his neck.

“Wha—?”

“Don’t move, Henderson.”

Bill didn’t move. Sweat popped out on his forehead and under his arms. He should have been prepared for this. Twenty-five years on the force had taught him better than to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.

“What do you want? Money?” Stupid question. It wasn’t money. The gunman had called him by name. This was Castellano’s doing.

Icy sweat gathered and trickled down his back and under his arms. His mouth went dry as a bone.

“Come on, man, I’m not hurting anyone. I’m just visiting a buddy.”

“Too bad you won’t get to see him. Did you think we wouldn’t have a bug on his daughter’s phone? She wouldn’t know, but you, Henderson. You’re an ex-cop. You should know better.”

Bill shook his head as sweat dripped down his face. “Don’t, please. I got a wife—”

It was the last thing he ever said.

SEVERAL HOURS LATER, in the confines of the jury room, eleven pairs of eyes stared at Lily in disgust and anger. It was the end of the second day of jury deliberations and they were all hot and tired and sick of each other.

To their surprise, the judge had sequestered them. The trial was too public, he’d said. The media was all over it. He wasn’t going to risk a mistrial.

He’d instructed them that they could either have a family member bring them clothing or go to their home accompanied by a court official to pick up their things.

Lily had been given five minutes to gather her makeup, clothes and toiletries. No mail. No newspaper. No laptop.

The foreman stood at the head of the table, waiting. “Well, Ms. Raines? Did you hear me? We still have eleven guilty votes. I trust that now, after you’ve had several hours to review the evidence, you are prepared to admit that Sack Simon is indeed guilty?” The insurance salesman managed to sound irritable and defeated at the same time.

Lily glanced at her watch. Bill Henderson should have picked up her father hours ago. It was scary as hell not being able to talk with him to be sure everything went as planned.

The slight bulk of her cell phone pressed against her thigh. She’d hidden it in a secret pocket of her handbag, and had stuck it in the pocket of her black suit skirt this morning with the ringer turned off.

She knew she’d be in legal hot water if the bailiff discovered that she had it, but she couldn’t afford to be without some means to contact Bill Henderson. She’d given him her number. Of course, she’d had no time alone to call out or check for incoming calls. Even during the two hours she’d requested to go over the evidence again, stalling for time, a security guard had sat with her.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Bill. He was as reliable as they came. He would never let down a fellow officer. Plus, he and her father had been good friends.

By this time he and her father should have arrived in Jackson safe and sound.

As soon as she got out of here, she’d call and be sure everything had gone smoothly. Then she’d run home, pick up her important papers and the small stash of cash she kept hidden in her closet and head north to Jackson.

She’d pick up her dad and keep going north until she got to Memphis or even farther—so far away that Castellano’s influence wouldn’t reach them. She’d change her name if she had to. She’d started over before. She could do it again.

She looked at each of the jurors in turn, hoping the desperation and uncertainty she felt wasn’t reflected on her face.

It all comes down to what’s right, Lilybell. You can’t outrun your conscience.

I know, Dad. I’m doing it. You’d be proud of me.

“Ms. Raines, please don’t make us stay here another night. It would be a travesty of justice if we had to go out there and report that we’re deadlocked. Surely even you can’t still believe the evidence is inadequate.”

Lily took a deep breath, praying that Bill hadn’t had any trouble, wishing there was a way she could know for sure. But he had promised her he wouldn’t let her down. He was a former police officer. He could take care of himself and her father.

She had to trust him. She wasn’t sure she could live with herself or face her father again if she let a killer go free.

She clasped her hands together in her lap and took a deep breath. “I’ve studied the DNA evidence and the fingerprint, and the testimony,” she said, her voice trembling with anxiety. “I vote guilty.”

BRAND AND FOSHEE were waiting on the courthouse steps when someone shouted that the jury was back. Foshee dropped his cigarette and stomped on it.

“Let’s go. This oughtta be good.”

Brand’s phone rang. He stiffened.

Foshee turned. “Who’s that? Your ex-girlfriend again?”

Brand forced a smile. “Yeah. Go on. I’ll catch up.”

Foshee’s black eyes narrowed. “Nah. I’ll wait.”

Brand looked at the caller ID and felt his heart rate pick up. It was Pruitt.

“You know I’m busy, sweetheart,” he growled, turning the volume on the phone down. Foshee was standing uncomfortably close.

Pruitt laughed shortly. “Okay, I get it. You can’t talk. Got a report that an ex-cop buddy of Raines’s was shot in his van on Lindon Road earlier. The road to Beachside Manor.”

“Damn it!” So that’s what Lily had done. She’d tried to get her father away from the nursing home, away from the long reach of Giovanni Castellano.

She was going to vote guilty!

Sweat prickled his scalp and stung the back of his neck. He racked his brain for a way to give Pruitt a clue. “You know what that means, don’t you? Is everything else all right?”

“Yeah. A car came along and interrupted the killers. The driver called 911. The killers took a couple of potshots at the Good Samaritan, but he wasn’t injured. He got a partial tag number, too.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. So what are you going to do now?”

Foshee’s curious black eyes snapped as he did his best to eavesdrop. Brand turned away.

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