Warrior Without A Cause. Nancy Gideon

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      “I don’t suppose it would do any good to speak to your innate sense of decency. Men like you can’t afford any, can they?”

      A thin smile warped his lips. “No, ma’am. We’re not do-gooders like your father. We’re not flag wavers who think justice will always triumph. We know better. That’s why people like you always come to people like me. I have no illusions left.”

      “I feel sorry for you, Mr. Chaney. How sad not to believe in anything worthwhile.”

      “I believe Detroit will have another crappy year despite a new billion-dollar home field. I believe the new fall season on television will end up in early midyear replacements. I believe a man can spit in the wind and have a better chance of not getting wet than you’ll have in proving your father is innocent of the nasty things this paper says about him.”

      “I believe you’re a coward, Mr. Chaney.”

      “Then you would be right, Miss D’Angelo, if being a coward means never taking on a fight you know you can’t win.”

      He gathered up his heavy coat and laid two wadded bills on the tabletop. He no longer bothered with eye contact. He obviously didn’t want to see her disgust.

      “With or without you, I’m not giving up.”

      “Good luck, Miss D’Angelo.”

      And he was gone, just like that.

      Tessa sat for a moment, struggling to take a decent breath. Now what was she going to do? All her bold statements blew apart like smoke in a sudden breeze when she thought of the darkened corners of her parking garage and the 2:00 a.m. ringing of the phone. There would be shadows and threatening silences. And she would experience, all over again, the crippling panic of being helpless.

      To hell with Jack Chaney. He was about as useful as the Metro police. Both wanted to take the easy way out in spite of the very real danger she was in. So be it. Tomorrow she would buy a gun. And she would keep right on digging for the truth until someone stopped her with something more than whispers over the phone and footsteps in the dark.

      With something more than a beating disguised to be a robbery.

      It was cold outside. October bit with the force of January but she’d been cold even before she’d left the diner to traverse the near empty streets. When she’d arrived, the only space available had been three blocks away. Now, with the curbs abandoned and the sidewalks a wasteland of tumbling wind-tossed litter, it seemed like three miles.

      Gripping her keys, she started down the walk, hurrying between the weak pools of light spilling out from liquor stores and places of dubious entertainment value. She didn’t look around but stayed focused on her goal: a lone silver Lexus promising warmth and protection with the turn of a key and click of a latch.

      Footsteps.

      Her own quickened in pace with her heart. She fought the fatalistic desire to turn around, to confront the skulking threat head-on. What kind of weapon was a car key gripped in a sweaty palm against the fear that banged within her breast?

      The footsteps grew bolder, closer, more determined in their cadence. The urge to run the length of that last block twisted within Tessa’s belly and trembled down her legs. If she ran, there was a chance she would be pursued. Could she outrun whatever followed? Her breathing shivered noisily as she bunched her calves and cursed the heels she’d worn to impress Jack Chaney. Three inches of fashionable thinness. She might as well be on stilts.

      Anxiety knotting through her, she held her coat together and readied to bolt for safety.

      And just then, safety in the person of Jack Chaney separated itself from the shadow of her car ahead. A true professional, he’d checked her background to learn what she drove. He’d been leaning there, waiting for her. She didn’t have to listen to know there were no longer footsteps behind her. Intimidation was a solitary business, not one meant for an audience.

      “This is a dangerous neighborhood for a lady alone at night.”

      She smiled crookedly at his generic observation. “You have no idea.” She came to a stop in front of him and was momentarily surprised. She thought he’d be taller. He’d seemed like a veritable giant seconds ago. Nervously she risked a look over her shoulder.

      “He’s gone.”

      Her gaze jumped back to him. “Who?”

      “We didn’t exchange names. I noticed him outside Jo’s and wondered who he was waiting for while trying so hard not to be seen. Shall I try to catch up to him?”

      “No.” Her hand flashed out to fasten upon his coat sleeve just in case he might be serious about leaving her alone on the barren sidewalk. “It doesn’t matter who he was. I know what he was.”

      Jack took the keys from her cold, cramped fingers and unlatched her door. He opened it for her and stepped aside as she slid in behind the wheel.

      “Would you like me to follow you home?”

      Yes!

      She bit back that frantic cry and forced a competent smile. “I don’t think I’ll have any more problems tonight.” At least not until she closed her eyes. But what could she do? Ask him to sleep at the foot of her bed like a faithful watchdog? He’d already said in so many words that her problems were her own. “Thank you, Mr. Chaney, but I’ve taken up enough of your time.”

      He didn’t shut the door on their conversation. He draped his forearms over it and gave her a long, assessing look before asking, “And how much of your time are you willing to spend to see this thing through?”

      “I beg your pardon?”

      “A day, a week, until the thrill rubs off and the work gets too hard?”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “I don’t think you have what it takes to take what I dish out.”

      She stared up at him, hope crowding into her throat. She forced a steady stare so he wouldn’t know how close she was to believing what he said. Her words were heroic even though she quivered in frail doubt inside.

      “I can take it.”

      “Really? Day in, day out, until I think you’re ready? Not until you think you are? Do you have that kind of commitment, Miss D’Angelo? I run a boot camp, not a Club Med. What I do isn’t a trendy gym class in pseudo-self-defense for bored housewives. I’ll work you until you drop and push you until you beg for mercy.”

      “I won’t beg, Mr. Chaney.”

      Begging hadn’t helped her before.

      Her fierce statement gave him pause. “Maybe, maybe not. But I guarantee it’ll be on your mind every minute. You’ll either cry uncle or I’ll shape you into something that will make them think twice before sneaking up on you in the night.”

      “I want them to think twice, Mr. Chaney.”

      “Then you think twice, right now, while you can. If you come with me, I’ll show you no mercy.”

      “I’m СКАЧАТЬ