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  “I need you for protection.”

  He waited for her to start making sense. “Go on.”

  She moistened her lips. This sounded so damn melodramatic, she thought, but it was all true. “I need you to help me steal my son back.”

  “Then you do know who has him.” He’d had a feeling all along that she did.

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  “Look, Ms. Armstrong, if this is some kind of a custody battle, you need a lawyer, not me.”

  “No,” Dakota insisted, “I need you. Or more accurately put, what I need is a hero.” She turned on all of her considerable charm. “Will you be my hero, Andreini?”

  Heart of a Hero

  MARIE FERRARELLA

  Books by Marie Ferrarella in Miniseries

  ChildFinders, Inc.

  A Hero for All Seasons IM #932

  A Forever Kind of Hero IM #943

  Hero in the Nick of Time IM #956

  Hero for Hire IM #1042

  An Uncommon Hero Silhouette Books

  A Hero in Her Eyes IM #1059

  Heart of a Hero IM #1105

  Baby’s Choice

  Caution: Baby Ahead SR #1007

  Mother on the Wing SR #1026

  Baby Times Two SR #1037

  Baby of the Month Club

  Baby’s First Christmas SE #997

  Happy New Year, Baby! IM #686

  The 7lb., 2oz. Valentine Yours Truly

  Husband: Optional SD #988

  Do You Take This Child? SR #1145

  Detective Dad World’s Most Eligible Bachelors

  The Once and Future Father IM #1017

  In the Family Way Silhouette Books

  Baby Talk Silhouette Books

  An Abundance of Babies SE #1422

  Like Mother, Like Daughter

  One Plus One Makes Marriage SR #1328

  Never Too Late for Love SR #1351

  *The Pendletons

  Baby in the Middle SE #892

  Husband: Some Assembly Required SE #931

  Those Sinclairs

  Holding Out for a Hero IM #496

  Heroes Great and Small IM #501

  Christmas Every Day IM #538

  Caitlin’s Guardian Angel IM #661

  Two Halves of a Whole

  The Baby Came C.O.D. SR #1264

  Desperately Seeking Twin Yours Truly

  The Cutlers of the Shady Lady Ranch

  Fiona and the Sexy Stranger Yours Truly

  Cowboys Are for Loving Yours Truly

  Will and the Headstrong Female Yours Truly

  The Law and Ginny Marlow Yours Truly

  A Match for Morgan Yours Truly

  *The Reeds

  Callaghan’s Way IM #601

  Serena McKee’s Back in Town IM #808

  *McClellans & Marinos

  Man Trouble SR #815

  The Taming of the Teen SR #839

  Babies on His Mind SR #920

  The Baby Beneath the Mistletoe SR #1408

  *The Alaskans

  Wife in the Mail SE #1217

  Stand-In Mom SE #1294

  Found: His Perfect Wife SE #1310

  The M.D. Meets His Match SE #1401

  MARIE FERRARELLA

  earned a master’s degree in Shakespearean comedy and, perhaps as a result, her writing is distinguished by humor and natural dialogue. This RITA Award-winning author has one goal: to entertain, to make people laugh and feel good. She has written over a hundred books for Silhouette, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide and have been translated into Spanish, Italian, German, Russian, Polish, Japanese and Korean.

  1/1/2001

  To my family,

  May this be the beginning of something wonderful.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 1

  The scream filled the area around him.

  Eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut flew open as the sound registered in his brain. Restoring the recliner he’d just dropped into less than ten minutes ago to its original upright position, Russell Andreini cocked his head and listened intently to make sure he hadn’t just dreamed the jarring sound. But even as he strained to hear, Rusty was getting to his feet.

  The scream, he was almost certain, had come from the garden apartment just below his own. It hadn’t originated from a television set in the vicinity turned up too loud, or from some ridiculous radio commercial meant to catch your attention. It had come from a woman.

  A very terrified woman.

  Rusty was beyond bone-weary. He had come home after putting in eighteen hours of surveillance that had led to a gratifying payoff just two hours ago and was more than entitled to feel the way he did. But, like the professional he was, Rusty forgot his exhaustion as adrenaline began to surge through his body.

  He was willing to bet a month of his sister Megan’s Sunday steaks that the scream had come from the blonde directly below him.

  Not stopping for the shoes he’d carelessly discarded when he’d walked into his apartment, Rusty yanked open his front door.

  The echoes of the first scream were just fading from his head when he heard a second one.

  Hands braced on the balustrades on either side of him, he sailed down the narrow stone steps that led to the ground level.

  He was right, the scream had come from the apartment directly below his. Most likely from the woman who’d never returned his smile the few times their paths had crossed. He had to pass her door each time he either came down or went up the stairs that led to his own apartment.

  As near as he remembered, the woman had moved in about a month ago and spoke to no one. He’d once seen her in the laundry room and tried to start up a conversation. After a lengthy pause she’d responded with a monosyllabic sentence, dumped her soiled laundry back into her basket and, taking the hand of the little boy who seemed never to be far out of her reach, made a hasty exit.

  Rusty recalled glancing at his watch, noting that the woman had hurried away less than three minutes after he’d entered the laundry room. She’d made him wonder.

  She seemed far too young and attractive to appear so solemn-eyed and distant. And though the green eyes she’d turned up to him had been hard, he thought he’d detected fear beneath the wariness. That had made him wonder, too. He never liked seeing anyone in pain.

  “Hey, everything all right in there?” Rusty called as he knocked loudly on the woman’s door. The only response was another scream. “Dumb question,” Rusty mumbled under his breath as he tried the doorknob.

  The door was locked. He glanced around to see if anyone else had heard the screams and was coming to help, but apparently everyone else in the complex had a life they were attending to. There were very few lights on within the surrounding apartments. It was Friday night and the residents in the complex were predominantly single. In all likelihood, they were all out enjoying themselves.

  “Open up. It’s Rusty.” He added as a clarifying afterthought, “From upstairs.”

  He’d introduced himself to her during their run-in in the laundry room. Etiquette notwithstanding, she hadn’t felt the need to tell him her name in return. When he’d tried to talk to her son, a boy he judged to be around two, she’d scooped the boy up and quickly retreated from the area. The brunette who’d been quick to take up her space had also tried to fill her place in the conversation,
being far more communicative than her predecessor.

  Rusty had fallen into the conversation easily, even though he’d been distracted by the woman who’d walked out so quickly with her son. People usually found him incredibly easy to talk to and he had wonderful rapport with kids. The whole incident had taken him somewhat aback.

  But he figured his silent neighbor had her reasons and he wasn’t the kind to pry, at least, not in his private life. He did enough of that professionally.

  When there was no response to his pounding, Rusty called out again. “Ma’am?”

  This time there was no scream, no answer. At least, no answer that fell under the heading of human. It was just a keening sound that sliced through him, going clear down to the bone. Cutting into him far more than even the scream had.

  He’d only heard such pain once before. When his mother had realized that someone had kidnapped Chad.

  Without pausing to think, Rusty backed up, then rammed his shoulder into the door as hard as he could. The door groaned and then finally gave, slamming against the opposite wall.

  In a delayed reaction, pain shot through his shoulder like an exploding grenade.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to Rusty that breaking down a door, or at least forcing it open always looked a great deal easier when the hero did it in the movies or on TV.

  Real life was a whole lot harder. But then, he already knew that.

  Rusty scanned the area. The apartment layout was a carbon copy of his own. There was a tiny kitchen with a square table immediately to his left and a small living room directly in front of him. Neither was occupied. He raced to the back of the apartment. There was a room on either end of the abbreviated hall.

  He found her in the smaller of the two.

  Rusty saw why the screams had momentarily halted. Barefoot, wearing a thigh-length, cotton-candy-pink nightgown, the woman was covering her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were opened so wide with shock and terror that for a second he said nothing, afraid of setting her off.

  The empty wooden crib in the corner registered belatedly.

  The next moment, as if suddenly becoming aware of the fact that she was no longer alone, the woman grabbed up the small, free-standing lamp and grasped it in both hands, prepared to wield it like some sort of martial arts weapon.

  “What did you do with him?” she demanded. The terror he’d seen in her eyes a heartbeat ago was replaced with anger. “Damn it, answer me! Where is he? Where’s Vinny?”

  Rusty stood a healthy distance from the woman, wondering how best to disarm her without risking hurting her. He’d seen that look before, more times in the last couple of years than he would have liked to think about. It was the look of a mother forcibly separated from her child.

  “Your son?” he asked needlessly, his voice low, soothing. It was the kind of tone used by an animal tamer trying to gentle a crazed animal that had been abused.

  Except it wasn’t working. If anything, she looked even more incensed. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving his.

  “You know damn well who I’m talking about,” she snapped, her hands tightening around the shank of the lamp, her manner growing more desperate. “Yes, my son. Now what have you done with him?” She’d just barely managed to keep from screaming into his face.

  Who the hell was this man and what was he doing here? How had he managed to “conveniently” come along just at this moment?

  Was he part of it?

  Her heart pounding madly, afraid to turn her back on him, she eyed him the way someone would a pit bull that had suddenly appeared in their path.

  Spreading his hands wide on either side of his six-foot-three lanky body, Rusty took only a half step forward. He kept his eye on the lamp, afraid she might wind up hurting herself more than him.

  “I haven’t done anything with him. Lady, I was just nodding off when I heard you scream.” His expression still open, affable, his tone sharpened just a shade, instantly becoming authoritative. “What happened?”

  She looked as if she wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, or if she should trust him. It was apparent to Rusty that if she was going to let her guard down, it wouldn’t be too far.

  Her eyes wary as she watched him, she finally inclined her head toward the empty crib. “I came in to check on Vinny before I went to bed and…and…”

  “He wasn’t there?” Rusty supplied gently, moved by the anguish he heard beneath the bravado. Empathy had always been his gift. It had sharpened considerably since he’d found his vocation in life.

  Exercising supreme effort, Dakota Armstrong struggled to pull herself together. She wasn’t going to do her son any good if she fell apart the way she so dearly wanted to. But, God, she was tired, so tired. Tired of running and hiding. Tired of always looking over her shoulder, of being suspicious and weighing every word, every look, that came her way.

  She couldn’t fall apart, she told herself again. She was all Vinny had and he needed her. Now more than ever. Needed her to save him before he was forever lost. Lost to her and to himself.

  Tossing the sea of blond hair over her shoulder with a quick movement of her head, she echoed Rusty’s words. “He wasn’t there.”

  There were questions, a whole host of questions that sprang up instantly, crowding his brain. But rather than ask them, Rusty hurried past the woman to look out the open window. At first glance, there was nothing.

  Bracing his hand on the windowsill, he lowered himself out. The questions would keep until later. Right now, every second that went by might be precious. It was the first thing he’d been taught.

  Wood creaked beneath his foot. Outside each ground-floor apartment that faced the inside of the complex there was a small wooden structure that served as a pseudo-bridge. The bridge, which stretched picturesquely over a minuscule pond, took the place of the patio awarded to the second-floor occupants.

  Rusty held his breath as he looked around. Visibility was limited. There were no stars out, no moonlight. Illumination came from the tall street lamps scattered equidistantly throughout the 110-unit complex. He saw no one out walking, much less running from the apartment or in the general vicinity.

  Except for the artificially induced gurgling of the water within each pond, the entire area was quieter than a tomb.

  Turning back toward the window, he felt his sock catch on a sliver of wood. He stooped to work it free and glanced down. Right next to the wooden bridge, just beyond the window, was a footprint in the mud. A sneaker, as best he could tell. Squinting, he tried to examine the print and decided that he would need a flashlight.

  Without a flashlight, all he could tell was that the print was elongated, as if someone had slipped before regaining his or her footing. And it appeared to be fresh.

  Rusty lowered himself back into the missing boy’s bedroom. He would have expected to find the woman on the telephone, calling the police. Instead she was standing in the center of the room, just as he had left her, looking not unlike a lost waif herself. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she was mutely trying to offer herself comfort.

  Backlit by the lamp she’d returned to its original position on the floor, the nightgown she was wearing was translucent. Every inch of her long, supple body was highlighted.

  Rusty felt his mouth suddenly grow drier than dust. It took him a beat before he found his thoughts and put them into some kind of coherent order. “There’s no one out there.”

  She moved past him to the window and looked out. The same window she’d looked out before without any success. This man in her apartment wasn’t saying anything to her she didn’t already know.

  Still, she clung to denial.

  “There has to be,” she cried. “Vinny couldn’t have climbed through the window himself.” She swung around from the window to glare accusingly. “They took him.”

  She said it as if she had someone in mind, Rusty thought. Did she? “‘They’?”

  Maybe it was his imagination, but her
shoulders seemed to stiffen at his question.

  “The kidnappers,” she amended. “Whoever took my baby.”

  Maybe now was the time to start questioning her in earnest. “When did you last see your son?”

  He saw her struggle to try to think, to push aside the confusion and shock that he knew had taken hold of her. She put her hand to her head as if that could help sort out the answer.

  “An hour and a half ago.”

  There were tears shining in her eyes. And then they began to wet her lashes, about to spill out.

  Angry with herself, she wiped them away with the heel of her hand. More came.

  What Rusty did next was second nature to him. He took her into his arms and gently held her against him, comforting her. She was someone in need, suffering from shock, and he wanted to help.

  For a moment she seemed to soften against him, all but dissolving as she accepted the silent offering. The next moment she jerked back as if she’d suddenly realized what she was doing. Her back stiffened like soldiers’ facing down the enemy.

  Taken by surprise at the sudden change, Rusty managed to act as if her behavior were perfectly normal. In some ways, he supposed that it was. Disorientation and denial took on many forms. This kind of thing never failed to leave a parent in emotional shambles, strong one minute, crumbling the next. Needing sedation was a common enough occurrence, but he had a feeling that the woman in front of him would not be one of those who found solace that way.

  He looked around. “Where’s your phone?”

  “In the kitchen.” Her response was automatic. “Why?”

  That should have been evident to her, but then that wasn’t factoring in disorientation. “You need to call the police.”

  Dakota’s mouth dropped open. Calling the police was the last thing she wanted to do. There was no doubt in her mind that if she so much as dialed 9-1-1, she’d never see Vinny again.

  She rushed after him, trying to get in front of him, to reach the telephone on the wall before he did.

  She just made it. “No!”

  Dakota quickly covered the receiver with her hand in case the word hadn’t sunk in.