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  Andrew gave the tall, silent young man with the un-holstered weapon the once-over as he walked into the apartment. He usually considered it his business to know every aspect of his family’s lives and be up on what was happening on the police force he had once headed.

  In the prime of his life, having lived through more than most men could cite, Andrew Cavanaugh was regarded as a loving, benevolent patriarch by the entire Cavanaugh clan. The position had passed on to him ever since his own father had died many years ago. The oldest of three brothers, all of whom had entered into law enforcement, Andrew had assumed the mantle graciously and naturally. To Andrew, nothing was as important as family. Not even the law, which his wife had once called his all-consuming mistress.

  During times of trouble, large or small, Andrew could always be counted on. He’d been both uncle and father to Patrick and Patience when their own father, his brother Mike, had been less than noble in his behavior and in his treatment of his family.

  Born between Andrew and Brian, Michael could never shake the feeling that he was not as good as either one of his brothers. He’d coped with his feelings of inadequacy in a time-dishonored manner. By drinking his pain away. It was Andrew who tried to make him come around and Andrew who was there for Patrick and Patience, as well as for Mike’s wife, when things became too rocky.

  He was wearing the same grim expression now as he’d had the night Mike had been killed in the line of duty.

  For a second, Janelle could feel her heart freeze in her chest. Was it about one of the others? Had one of her brothers, her cousins or her father been shot? She was afraid even to phrase the question. “Uncle Andrew, what’s wrong?”

  Before answering, his dark blue eyes shifted toward Sawyer. “Give us a minute, will you?” It was a polite request, but not one he expected to be contested.

  Sawyer inclined his head. “I’ll be in the back bedroom if you need me,” he told Janelle.

  The second Sawyer was gone, Andrew looked at his niece. When he spoke, his voice was as stern as she’d ever heard him.

  “Now you listen to me, missy, I don’t know what’s going through that head of yours, but just because you found out something that doesn’t sit right with you doesn’t change who you are.” His steely eyes held her prisoner, not allowing her to dispute a word. “You are Janelle Cavanaugh. You were given that name and a place in our hearts the day you were born. And nothing that’s said or ‘discovered,’” he added with a touch of sarcasm, “changes any of that.”

  Andrew paused for a moment, fighting with his own emotions, then slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I saw Brian’s face the day you were born—you can’t fake love like that. We’ve been twenty-eight years raising you,” he informed her. “We’re not about to allow a parting of the ways now because of some ‘accident of birth.’ Do I make myself clear?”

  There was concern in his face. Concern, she knew, over her feelings. She remembered the last time he’d looked so concerned. It was when his wife, Rose, had disappeared. When Aunt Rose’s car had been found in the lake the next day, everyone had thought she was dead. For fifteen years, they’d thought that. Everyone but Andrew.

  And everyone but Andrew had been wrong.

  Her uncle was a man of strength, of faith and of convictions. And from the sound of it, he wasn’t about to release her from her family ties.

  Which was just fine with her.

  “Perfectly,” she replied.

  “Good,” he pronounced and then hugged her. Hard. “So I can tell Brian the problem is over?”

  She took in a deep breath and then let it out. And then nodded.

  “Good,” he repeated. “Because the next step was going to be kidnapping you. Sticky business, kidnapping.” And then he smiled, running a hand over her hair just as he’d done when she was a little girl. “We’ve missed you at the table.”

  And she missed them. But life kept insisting on getting in the way. “I’ve been very busy lately.”

  The look he gave her told her that was no excuse. “So have the others.”

  She thought of the crowded, noisy breakfasts, the celebrations they’d all shared together. She suddenly realized how lucky she was that her father hadn’t turned her mother out when she’d confessed her infidelity. That he had taken her mother back and, in doing so, had allowed her to grow up secure and happy.

  “I’ll try to make it,” she promised.

  His work done, Andrew began to leave. But he paused at the door. “Do more than try, Nelle. By the way, bring the bodyguard,” he said, nodding toward the back. “He looks like he could use a good meal.”

  She had no idea why that made her smile, but it did. “Yes, Uncle Andrew.”

  His eyes crinkled as he laughed. “That’s my girl.”

  It had a nice ring to it, Janelle thought as she locked the door behind her uncle.

  Chapter 12

  The moment the front door closed, Sawyer came up behind her. If she hadn’t turned just then, she wouldn’t have known he was there. The man moved like smoke, which made her wonder where he had picked up that talent and why.

  “I can see where you get your pushiness from,” he said.

  He’d been listening, and she didn’t take that kindly. Nor did she appreciate his comment, seeing as how she wasn’t really related to the man who had just left, no matter how much she wanted to be. It made for a very sore spot.

  Janelle’s eyes narrowed as she gave him a look. He could almost read what was going through her head.

  “Genes aren’t everything,” he told her in a mild voice that was backed by experience. “Association had a lot to do with forming who and what you are.”

  She wanted to argue with him because he just set her off. But in her heart, she wanted him to be right. Because she was like the Cavanaughs, not like the mob leader who had begat her with no more thought than a fruit fly had to its progeny. She’d spent the last eighteen hours reading up on Wayne. The man was nothing like her—except for the exhibition of his love for his son. And who knew, that could still be an act for a reason she had no clue to. Yet.

  Janelle paused for a second, silently wondering what it was about the man in front of her that made her want to argue so much. Made her want to resist whatever he said even though she actually agreed with him. It wasn’t like her to be unreasonable. She always had a reason for her actions, even if they only made sense to her. This didn’t.

  The question shimmered before her, waiting for an answer. She had none. For now, she supposed, it would be better just to bury the question.

  “Yeah, maybe,” she allowed with a casual shrug of her shoulders. And then she smiled, remembering Andrew’s parting words. “Uncle Andrew wants me to bring you to breakfast tomorrow. Or some morning,” she expanded, leaving herself some wiggle room if she was running late tomorrow.

  “Breakfast?”

  “You know, morning meal. Cereal, pancakes, eggs. The one nutritionists all say is so important for you.”

  “I know what breakfast is,” he retorted. He moved into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The man was acting as if this were his home, she thought, annoyed. “Why’s he inviting me?” Sawyer took out the coffee can and put it on the counter. Opening the cupboard directly above the coffeemaker, he took out a fresh filter.

  With a sigh, she took the filter from him and placed it in the coffeemaker, then measured out heaping spoonfuls of coffee grounds and poured them into the filter. “He makes breakfast for the family every morning. He likes having family come by and he likes cooking.”

  Sawyer poured cold water into the mug he’d left on the sink this morning and dumped the contents into the urn. The machine began to gurgle immediately. “I’m not family.”

  She frowned at the mug he’d retired to the counter. The inside looked permanently stained. Her health instincts getting the better of her, she took out a scrub pad and applied it to the dark brown coating on the interior of the mug. “Technically, neither am I—”

&
nbsp; “Don’t start,” he warned, raising a brow. He didn’t want her to cry because he had no idea what to do when confronted with her tears. Other than walk away. But he couldn’t walk away from Janelle. For a number of reasons he didn’t feel like examining just now.

  She shrugged. Maybe he was right. Glancing at the mug, she smiled in satisfaction. It was white again. With a flourish, she placed the mug on the counter and pushed it in front of him. “He likes us to bring our friends with us.”

  A hint of amusement crossed his lips. “So is that what I am now? A friend?”

  She supposed it was as good a label for him as any. Resident-pain-in-the-butt just didn’t have the same ring to it as friend did, although in this case, this was a more accurate assessment.

  “Yeah,” she agreed after a long moment, “a friend. You don’t have to be here,” she told him. “You could be home, catching up on the rest of your life—provided you have one.”

  The coffee was ready. He poured it into the mug and took it black and steaming. Sawyer allowed himself a long sip. He didn’t care for the coda she’d added. Because, strictly speaking, other than when he went off fishing by himself twice a year, he had no life, no hobbies that spoke to him, nothing that made him glad for a few days off. He was, first, last and always, a cop. Nothing else mattered; nothing else made sense to him. The rest was just dead time until he could get back to work.

  He didn’t like her insinuation that there was something wrong with that. She, of all people, should know better.

  “Being a cop is my life,” he informed her tersely. “I like solving puzzles. Like being a cop,” he emphasized, “doing cop things.”

  “Yeah, you’ll fit right in tomorrow,” she told him with a smile. “That’s how they all feel about their careers.” She was careful to call it that and not a job, knowing the latter would be taken as an insult. A job was what saw you from paycheck to paycheck. A career was something you poured your heart into. “The only difference being is that they do it for themselves and their families, as well. You know, protect and serve, that kind of thing.”

  As she talked, Janelle pulled the pins out of her hair. It flowed down around her shoulders now. He’d seen her do it enough times now not to have it capture his train of thought the way it did. But for some reason, he couldn’t draw his eyes away. Couldn’t remember what he was saying, or even if he was saying anything at all.

  Maybe it was the way the light glinted in her hair, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his thoughts had gone off the track, along with his tongue.

  “Yeah,” he echoed, not really sure what he was agreeing to, except that it seemed safe enough.

  “So why do you read Shakespeare?” she asked him suddenly. When he didn’t answer, she tried to guess at his reason. “Trying to infuse a little beauty into what you see as a predominantly gritty world?”

  “Something like that. Keeps my mind sharp. Occupied.”

  He should be reading now, Sawyer thought. Because he really needed to occupy his mind, keep it from wandering and his urges from growing. For some reason, being with her tonight felt as if he were sitting on a huge percolator that was going to, at any second, announce that it was through brewing and ready for the next step.

  Janelle realized that she hadn’t heard what he’d said so much as felt his words along her skin. She’d been watching his mouth the entire time he’d been attempting to speak. There was absolutely no reason to feel suddenly so drawn to him. To feel as if her small apartment were growing smaller. Tightening around the two of them.

  And yet…

  Okay, she thought, this was wrong, all wrong. She needed to leave, withdraw. Retreat into her room and shut the door until whatever was going on here with her passed and she came back to her senses.

  Retreat had a very bad sound to it. It was too much like giving up. And she wasn’t one to give up.

  Give up what? her mind demanded. This wasn’t a territory war. What the hell was going on with her? Why did she have this sudden urge to discover what his mouth would feel like against hers?

  This hadn’t come out of the blue. If she were really honest with herself, she’d have to admit that this was days in the making. Her insides had been tumbling around like a washing machine for the last few days every time she was anywhere close to him. Even in court, her razor-like sharpness had dulled and it had taken concentration to keep focused. Because she knew he was in the courtroom and she wanted to impress him. Like some adolescent cheerleader executing intricate cheers for the captain of the football team.

  No, Sawyer would have never been captain of the football squad. He wouldn’t have even been on the team. He wasn’t a joiner. But man, he did rattle her teeth. Right down to her core.

  Make him go home, her mind pleaded. Before you beg him to stay.

  “Oh,” she mumbled. “Do you want to work on what we know? About the case,” she added, stumbling over her own tongue. “I could send out for pizza—”

  He shook his head. He’d had his fill of pizza. “Chinese.”

  Janelle inclined her head. “Okay, Chinese. We’ll see how far we get.”

  That was exactly what he was afraid of, he thought as he sat back on the stool, nursing the already cooling mug of coffee between his hands.

  “Probably not too far,” he speculated, only hoping that, on the level that hit closest to home, he was right.

  Janelle went over the evidence against Marco’s son for what felt like the umpteenth time, except now, she did it for Sawyer’s benefit. They had the testimony of Sammy Martinez, a convicted felon who had come forward without being coerced and offered to give up information as to Anthony Wayne’s wrongdoings in exchange for having a few years shaved off his sentence. Not exactly a sterling witness, except that what he had told them turned out to be true.

  Anthony Wayne’s cover, that of being a premed student who was in his senior year, had been completely blown. When the police were sent in with a warrant to search his off-campus apartment, they had found enough cocaine to rule out even the heaviest of recreational use.

  “Thereby bringing him up on charges of having an illegal substance with intent to sell,” she concluded.

  Why didn’t it feel right anymore? If Wayne hadn’t approached her, if she didn’t know her own connection to the man, would she even be giving the case a second thought? It would be a slam dunk.

  Maybe too easy a slam dunk, the devil’s advocate within her pointed out.

  She and Sawyer were in the living room, with containers of Chinese food spread out and opened on the coffee table. She was on the floor against the table while he sat opposite her, on the sofa. Her neck began to protest having to look up at him.

  “And this is supposed to be a way of controlling the father,” he recounted.

  “Right.” She subtly moved her head from side to side. Her neck made a small cracking sound, relieving the tension. “Except I’m not sure how—I can see it as a threat,” she explained quickly, “warning Wayne that if he doesn’t play ball, his kid gets set up and sent away to prison. But that part’s already done. Where’s the leverage?”

  “The leverage is getting him convicted,” Sawyer declared as he thought the matter through. His voice became firmer. “Think about it. This kid gets sent up, and if he’s the ‘good son’ that Marco claims he is, he’s not going to last that long in prison.” Sawyer looked at her. “Do you have any idea what they do to fresh meat in prison?”

  Janelle shivered. Things shouldn’t be this way, but they were. She couldn’t even allow her mind to go there. It was too awful. “I know.”

  “Once Wayne gives in, things turn around. The informant can conveniently ‘disappear.’” Dragging a carton over to him, he looked in, trying to remember if this was what he’d ordered. “Then pressing charges might get dicey.”

  But like he said, that would require Wayne backing off. Submitting to someone else’s authority. She couldn’t see the man doing it. “I don’t know. Marco didn’t look particular
ly nervous to me—”

  Sawyer dipped his chopsticks into the container and came out with a small ball of rice that promptly fell back into the carton as he tried to get it into his mouth. He muttered a curse, then glanced in her direction.

  “These people didn’t get to where they were by being jumpy. Marco will play it down to the wire, putting his money on you, so to speak,” he added. “If you don’t come through, he’ll take matters into his own hands.” It was a sure thing. Unlike his getting any dinner tonight if he used chopsticks, Sawyer thought.

  “And kill the informant.”

  He nodded. “And kill the informant.”

  “I’ll tell Woods he should have the guard doubled.” She was thinking out loud now, tossing out anything that occurred to her. All the while she was trying not to laugh as she watched Sawyer’s attempts at scoring food. Nice to know he wasn’t perfect. “Tripled if necessary.”

  “Doesn’t matter if you use all the king’s horses and all the king’s men,” he told her. “Wayne’ll find a way. He’s got a long reach.” Disgusted, Sawyer temporarily retired the uncooperative chopsticks. “Did anyone dust the cocaine bags they found in Wayne junior’s apartment for prints?”

  To her knowledge, cocaine bags weren’t generally dusted for prints. Something about the substance inside making it difficult to get clear prints. But Janelle thumbed through the records. First pass showed no mention of dusting for prints. “Not that I can see. Why?”

  “Stands to reason that if these were Tony’s bags, his prints should be on at least some, if not all, of them. If they’re not there, then they were wiped clean. Why? Unless they were planted.”

  She grinned. Why had something so simple escaped her? “Good point,” she agreed eagerly. She made a notation to herself to call the lab first thing in the morning. “I never thought of that,” she admitted. She saw him reach for the chopsticks again. The man was nothing if not stubborn. “Why don’t you use a fork?” she suggested. “You’ve been playing with those chopsticks all evening and you’re just getting frustrated, not to mention probably hungry.”