His Runaway Juror. Mallory Kane

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. СКАЧАТЬ