Night Shield

  “Ally. I was never sixteen the way you were. And I had your father.”

  Everything inside her softened. “That’s a lovely thing to say.”

  “It’s just fact. He made me go to school. He came down on me when I needed it, which was most of the time. And he was the first person in my life to ever tell me I was worth anything. To ever see I might be. He’s … I don’t know anyone who comes up to him.”

  She reached across the table, took his hand. “I love him, too.”

  “Let me get through some of this.” He squeezed her hand, then drew his away. “I didn’t go to college, even Fletch couldn’t browbeat me into that. I took some business courses because it suited me. When I was twenty, my father died. Three packs of cigarettes a day and a general meanness catches up with you. It was long and ugly, and when it was over, the only thing I felt was relief.”

  “Is that supposed to make me think less of you?”

  “There’s a contrast here, and you see it as well as I do.”

  “Yeah, you had a lousy childhood. I had a great one. As fate would have it, we both got lucky and ended up with Boyd Fletcher as a father. Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what he is to you.”

  “I’m going to make something clear to you before this goes any farther. I wasn’t a victim, Allison. I was a survivor, and used whatever methods worked. I stole and cheated and conned, and I don’t apologize for it. Things would’ve turned out differently if I hadn’t had your father hounding me. But they didn’t.”

  “I think that was my point.”

  “Don’t interrupt. I’m a businessman. I don’t steal or cheat because I don’t have to. That doesn’t mean I don’t play the game my way.”

  “A real tough guy, aren’t you? Blackhawk, you’re a fraud. Cool customer, slick hands, icy stare. And this big, soft heart. Soft, hell, it’s gooey.”

  Amused at the speechless shock on his face, she got up, sauntered to the fridge and hunted up an open bottle of white wine.

  She wasn’t tired anymore, she realized. She was revved.

  “Do you think I didn’t run you, pal? Run your friends, get the stories? You gather up your sick and wounded like a mama chick.”

  Enjoying herself now, Ally drew out the stopper, found a glass. “Frannie—got her off the streets, got her clean, gave her work. Will—straightened him up, paid off his debts before he got his knees capped, gave him a suit and some dignity.”

  “None of that’s relevant.”

  “I’m not finished.” She poured the wine. “The iceman got Beth into a women’s shelter, bought her kids presents from Santa Claus when she didn’t have the money or the energy to deal with it. Jonah Blackhawk was buying Barbie dolls.”

  “I did not buy dolls.” That was going just a little too far. “Frannie did. And it has nothing to do with this.”

  “Yeah, right. Then there’s Maury, one of your line chefs.” She sat down, wiggled into the chair and propped her feet up. “And the dough you lent him—and I use the word lent advisedly—to help his mother through a bad patch.”

  “Shut up.”

  She merely smiled, dipped a finger into her wine, licked it. “Sherry, the little busgirl, who’s working her way through college. Who paid her tuition last semester when she couldn’t scrape it together? Why, I believe it was you. And what about Pete the bartender’s little problem last year when an uninsured driver totaled his car?”

  “Investing in people is good business.”

  “That’s your story, you stick to it.”

  Irritation and embarrassment warred for top gun inside him. He tossed his weight to the side of irritation. “You’re ticking me off, Allison.”

  “Ooooh, really?” She leaned forward, leading with her chin. “Go ahead, hard case, slap me around and shut me up. Dare you.”

  “Be careful.” He said it, meant it, then pushed to his feet. “This is irrelevant and isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  She crossed her ankles and made clucking noises.

  “You’re really asking for it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’m shaking. Sucker.”

  He cracked and lifted her right off the chair. “One more word. I swear, it’s only going to take one more word.”

  She bit him, one quick nip on his already tender mouth. “Softy.”

  He pushed her aside and spun toward the door.

  “Where you going?”

  “To put on a damn shirt. I can’t talk to you.”

  “Then I’ll just have to rip it off you again. I’ve got a soft spot for wounded tough guys with gooey centers.” And laughing, she launched herself at him, landed piggyback. “I’m crazy about you, Blackhawk.”

  “Go away. Go arrest somebody. I’ve had enough of cops for one day.”

  “You’ll never get enough of me.” She bit his earlobe, his shoulder. “Come on, shake me off.”

  He would have. He told himself he could have. It was just his bad luck he looked down and saw the scar in the floor. From a bullet meant for her.

  He dragged her around, yanked her against him so hard, so fast, she swore her ribs knocked together. His mouth was on hers, fused there with a heat borne of desperation.

  “Better. Much better. Here, Jonah. Now. We both need to make it right again. I need you to love me. Like our lives depended on it.”

  He was on the floor with her, without any thought but to prove to himself that she was whole and safe and alive beneath him.

  The cool, hard surface of the floor might have been a feather bed or clouds or the jagged, unforgiving peaks of a mountain. Nothing mattered but that she was wrapped around him, that her breath was fast and hot against his skin, that her heart beat like wild wings against his.

  All the fear, the tension, the ugliness poured out of her when he touched her. Her hands tangled with his, fighting to strip away boundaries. Until they were free to drive together.

  When he filled her—temper, passion, desperation—it was like coming home.

  His breath was in rags, his system spent, and still he rocked against her.

  “Just hold me a minute more.” She pressed her face against his shoulder. “Just hold me.” But she felt the warm wetness on her fingers and pulled away. “Damn it. You’re bleeding again. Let me fix it.”

  “It’s fine. It’s all right.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.”

  “Ally, leave it be.”

  The snap of his voice had her eyes narrowing. “Don’t think you can step back from me now. Don’t think you’ll get away with it this time.”

  “Just get dressed.” He pushed back his hair and began to follow his own orders.

  “Fine.” She snatched at clothes, dragged them on. “You want to go another round, we’ll go another round. You stupid son of a bitch.”

  He heard the tremor in her voice, cursed her. Cursed himself. “Don’t cry. That’s playing dirty.”

  “I’m not crying. You think I’d cry over you?”

  He could feel his heart start to shatter as he brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb. “Don’t.”

  She sniffled, flicked her hands over her face to dry it and sneered. “Sucker.”

  Fury whipped into his eyes and scalded her. She couldn’t have been more delighted. She got to her feet before he did, but it was close.

  “You’re in love with me.” She punched her fist against his chest. “And you won’t admit it. That doesn’t make you tough, it makes you hardheaded.”

  “You weren’t listening to me before.”

  “You weren’t listening to me, either, so we’re even.”

  “Listen now.” He grabbed her face with both hands. “You have connections.”

  “Why, you insulting …” She wondered why the top of her head didn’t fly off. “How dare you talk about my family’s money at a time like this.”

  “I don’t mean money.” He jerked her up to her toes, then dropped her back on the flat of her feet again. “Now who’s stupid? Money’s nothing. I don�
��t give a damn about your portfolio. I have my own. I’m talking about emotional connections. Foundations, roots, for God’s sake.”

  “You have your own there, too. Frannie. Will. Beth. My father.” She waved a hand, settling down again. “But I get you. You’re saying, basically, that someone like me, who comes from the kind of place I come from, should hook herself up with a man who, say, comes from a good, upstanding family. Probably upper-middle-class. He should have a good education and hold a straight job. A profession. Like, say, a lawyer or a doctor. Is that the theme here?”

  “More or less.”

  “Interesting. Yes, that’s interesting,” she said with a considering nod. “I can see the logic in that. Hey, you know who fits that bill to a tee? Dennis Overton. Remember him? Stalker, tire slasher, general pain in the ass?”

  She’d turned it around and boxed him into his own corner. All he could do was steam.

  “Don’t cop to excuses, Blackhawk, if you haven’t got the guts to tell me how you feel about me, and what you want for us.”

  She flipped her hair back, tucked in her shirt. “My work is done here. See you around, pal.”

  He got to the door before she did. He was good at that. But this time he slapped a hand on it, held it closed while she glared at him. “You don’t walk until we’re finished.”

  “I said I was finished.” She jerked on the door.

  “I’m not. Shut up and listen.”

  “You tell me to shut up one more time, and—”

  He shut her up. One hard, exasperated kiss. “I’ve never loved another woman. Never even came close. So cut me a damn break here.”

  Her heart did a lovely bounding leap. But she nodded, stepped back. “Okay. Spill it.”

  “You hit me between the eyes the first minute you walked in the room. I still can’t see straight.”

  “Well.” She backed up, slid onto a stool. “I’m liking this so far. Keep going.”

  “You see that? That right there.” He stabbed a finger at her. “Anyone else would want to deck you.”

  “But not you. You love that about me.”

  “Apparently.” He crossed to her, laid his hands on the bar on either side of her. “I love you, so that’s it.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Make me a deal.”

  “You want a deal? Here it is. You ditch the apartment and move in, officially, upstairs.”

  “Full gym and sauna privileges?”

  Half the knots in his stomach loosened when he laughed. “Yeah.”

  “So far, I can live with it. What else are you offering me?”

  “Nobody’s ever going to love you like I do. I guarantee it. And nobody’s ever going to put up with you. But I will.”

  “Same goes. But that’s not enough.”

  Those wonderful eyes narrowed on her face. “What do you want?”

  She rested her back against the bar. “Marriage.”

  Now those narrowed eyes darkened. “Do you mean that?”

  “I say what I mean. Now, I could ask you, but I have to figure that a guy who makes a habit of opening doors for women and buying Christmas presents for little children—”

  “Leave that part alone.”

  “Okay.” But she sat up, brushed her knuckles over his cheek. “We’ll just say I figure you’ve got enough of a traditional-guy streak to want to propose on your own. So, I’ll let you.” She linked her hands at the back of his neck. “I’m waiting.”

  “I’m just thinking. It’s the middle of the night. We’re in a bar and my arm’s bleeding.”

  “So’s your mouth.”

  “Yeah.” He swiped at it with the back of his hand. “I guess that makes it close to perfect for you and me.”

  “Works for me. Jonah. You work for me.”

  He pulled the clip out of her hair, tossed it aside. “First tell me you love me. Use my name.”

  “I love you, Jonah.”

  “Then marry me, and let’s see where it takes us.”

  “That’s a deal.”

  Epilogue

  With a howl of outrage, Ally bolted up from the sofa. “Offside! Offside! What, are those refs blind? Did you see that?” Instead of kicking in the TV, which occurred to her, she settled for leaning down and pounding on Jonah’s shoulder.

  “You’re just mad because your team’s losing, and you’re going to owe me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffed, pushing back her hair. “My team is not going to lose, despite corrupt and myopic officials.” But it looked very dim for her side. She planted her hands on her hips. “Besides, must I remind you there is no bet because you don’t have a license for gambling?”

  He skimmed his eyes down her long black robe. “You’re not wearing your badge.”

  “Metaphorically, Blackhawk.” She leaned over to kiss him. “I’m always wearing my badge.” Then she narrowed her eyes. “You swear you didn’t hear who won this game? You have no information?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  But she didn’t like the way he smiled at her. They’d missed the regular Monday-night broadcast and were watching the hotly contested football game on videotape. “I don’t know about you. You’re slippery.”

  “We made a deal.” He skimmed his hand up the sleeve of her robe, trailing his fingers over flesh. “I never go back on a deal.” He reached for the remote, paused the screen. “Since you’re up …” He held up his empty glass. “How about a refill?”

  “I got it last time.”

  “You were up last time, too. If you’d sit down and stay down, you wouldn’t get tagged.”

  Conceding his point, she took the glass. “Don’t start the game until I get back.”

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  She headed back to the kitchen. There were times she missed the apartment on top of the club. But even a couple of die-hard urbanites needed a little elbow room, she thought. And the house suited them. So did marriage, she thought with a contented sigh as she poured Jonah’s habitual bottled water over ice.

  There’d been a lot of changes in the eighteen months since they, well, closed the deal, she supposed. Good changes. The kind lives were built on. They were building strong, and they were building solid.

  Sipping his water, she walked back to the great room and frowned when she found it empty. Then with a shake of her head, she set the glass down. She knew just where to find him.

  She wound her way quietly through the house and stopped at the door to the bedroom.

  The winter moonlight streamed through the windows, glowing over him and the infant he held in his arms. Love burst through her, a nova of feeling, then settled again to a steady warmth.

  “You woke her up.”

  “She was awake.”

  “You woke her up,” Ally repeated, crossing to him. “Because you can’t keep your hands off her.”

  “Why should I?” He pressed his lips to his daughter’s head. “She’s mine.”

  “No question of that.” Ally traced a finger over the baby’s soft black hair. “She’s going to have your eyes.”

  The idea of it was a staggering thrill. He looked down at that perfect little face, with those dark and mysterious eyes of the newborn. He could see his whole life in those eyes. Sarah’s eyes.

  “You can’t tell at two weeks. The books say it takes longer.”

  “She’s going to have your eyes,” Ally repeated. She draped an arm around his waist and together they studied their miracle. “Is she hungry?”

  “No. She’s just a night person.” And his, like the woman beside him was his. Two years before, they hadn’t existed for him. Now they were the world.

  He turned his head, leaning down as Ally lifted her mouth. As the kiss sweetened, the baby stirred in his arms. He shifted, tucking Sarah’s head on his shoulder with a natural grace that never failed to make Ally smile.

  He’d taken to fatherhood as if he’d only been waiting for the moment. Then again, she thought, thinking of her own
father, he’d had a wonderful teacher.

  She angled her head, studied the two of them. “I guess she wants to watch the game now.”

  Jonah rubbed his cheek over his daughter’s hair. “She mentioned it.”

  “She’ll just fall asleep.”

  “So will you.”

  With a laugh, Ally took the blanket from the bassinet. “Give her up,” she said, holding out her arms.

  “No.”

  Ally rolled her eyes. “Okay, you get her till halftime, then it’s my turn.”

  “Deal.”

  With the baby on his shoulder and his hand linked with the hand of the woman he loved, he went out to enjoy the night.

  If you liked Night Shield, look for the other novels in the Night Tales series: Night Shift, Night Shadow, Nightshade, and Night Smoke, available as eBooks from InterMix.

  Keep reading for a special excerpt from the newest novel by Nora Roberts

  THE WITNESS

  Available April 2012 in hardcover from G.P. Putnam’s Sons

  June 2000

  Elizabeth Fitch’s short-lived teenage rebellion began with L’Oreal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.

  For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she’d dutifully followed her mother’s directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother’s nutritionist and prepared by her mother’s cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother’s personal shopper.

  Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited—in her opinion—her position as Chief of Surgery at Chicago’s Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.

  Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she’d return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother; a surgeon, like her mother.

  Elizabeth—never Liz or Lizzie or Beth—spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She’d traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and