Caught up in describing the beauties of Italy, Bella continued to talk on the way home, gesturing with her hands as she spoke.
She was still talking when they pulled up in front of the brownstone. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey, I didn’t give you an opportunity to catch me up with your life since I’ve been gone,” she apologized as he helped her out of the ‘Vette.
He pulled her close. “We can remedy that,” he said, his voice low and seductive.
His remark barely registered. Her skin pricked with unease. They were standing in full view, illumed by streetlights. Someone watched them from the dark. She could feel heated intensity from staring eyes.
She rubbed her arms, chilled. Maybe she should consider his offer. Maybe it would keep whoever was out there at bay for the night. Over his shoulder, her gaze darted up and down the block.
She looked up the street then over to the other side. As her brain registered what her eyes had seen she glanced back up the street as unobtrusively as possible, not quite believing.
Deep in the shadows sat a battered old pickup. Her heart swelled and her breath caught in her throat. He’d come. For whatever misplaced sense of duty or because of the code he lived by, he’d come to protect her. Bless his remarkably stubborn heart.
She placed her hand on Jeffrey’s chest, feeling the smooth, silky texture of his expensive shirt and knew the man in the pickup was probably wearing worn cotton. “I’m sorry, Jeffrey, not tonight, I have a show to get ready for.”
Always the gentleman, Jeffrey didn’t push. But she felt his chest heave with frustration beneath her hand.
“Soon I hope.” Before she could ward him off he planted his mouth on her upturned lips and drew her close in a firm embrace.
Oh great
.
I have no need to feel embarrassed
, she told herself as the kiss went on and on, each second a minute, each minute an eternity.
“Your thoughts are elsewhere. You must be tired,” he murmured, as his arms finally relaxed their death grip.
“You have no idea,” she muttered under her breath.
“Goodnight, Jeffrey.” She practically ran into the building.
“I’ll call you.” The door swinging shut muffled whatever else he may have said.
She waved at him, turned and walked toward the elevator.
George walked over and punched the button. “I’ll see you up, Ms. Bella.”
“That’s not necessary, George. I’m sure you’ve been right here since we’ve left. Has anyone called for me?” she asked casually, hoping he didn’t notice her thundering heart.
“No, ma’am.”
She took a deep breath. “If a tall drink of water, dressed in faded jeans, worn-down cowboy boots and a plaid shirt wants to see me ask his name. If he says Hank McHenry let him in.” She pointed a finger, her thumb under her chin. “Oh yes, his face is chiseled like it was cut from granite and his hair is red running to gray.”
Behind his glasses, the doorman’s rheumy blue eyes lit up. He grinned. “Do I smell a romance?” he asked archly, wiggling his eyebrows. “Perhaps a little competition for that smooth-talking lawyer?”
Heat swept her face. She knew her peaches and cream features were brick red. “He’s an old friend. And when you meet him what you’ll probably smell is horses. He works on a ranch.”
George nodded. “Of course, he’s an old friend,” he said, his expression so smug she wanted to hit him. “I’ve never known you to give
carte blanche
,” he pronounced it carty blanchy, “for anyone to enter your apartment before.”
“I’m trying to save you a punch in the nose. He’s stubborn and used to getting his way.”
“He doesn’t sound like most of the men you see.”
“He’s a Yankee,” she said darkly, glowering. “You’ll know him by his Northern twang.”
“Well,” George drawled, “there’s probably some Confederate blood somewhere on his family tree.”
She shook her head. “You, George, are a romantic.”
“So are you, missy,” he said softly, “Though you do a good job of hiding it.”
She threw up her hands in surrender and entered the elevator.
When the shiny steel cage slid to a halt in front of her apartment she hurried out. Her hand shook as she unlocked the door. “Pull yourself together,” Bella muttered as she pushed open the door and headed for the bedroom to change clothes.
Her heart thumping with anticipation, Bella donned a pair of black leggings and an elongated fitted white tee. She looked in the mirror, sexy but casual. She had no intention of letting Hank McHenry know she’d spied him and make him think she was dressing for him. She touched the amulet for a quick glamour sweep then went around the apartment, picking up discarded papers and clothes, Puss–Puss at her heels.
Taking a last glance around, she sat down on the couch to wait. Puss–Puss jumped up on her lap. “I shouldn’t have worn black,” she muttered, staring at the white cat hairs on the legs of her pants.
Fidgeting, she picked up a magazine, flipped a few pages then threw it down.
It took her about forty-five minutes to realize he wasn’t planning on making an appearance. Dimming the living room lights so she wouldn’t be visible, she looked down the street. Her stomach muscles tightened and she felt sick. The truck was gone.
Surely he hadn’t left because he’d seen Jeffrey kiss her. It might cause some men to walk away but not Hank. Even if he was angry or hurt, Hank wouldn’t leave her in danger. She’d bet her life on it. It wasn’t his style. Not that she’d spent that much time with him. But she knew him, knew him inside and out. Or at least it felt like she knew him. Sensed what was inside him.
She glanced across the street. Relief flooded her out of all proportion to the situation. Hank had just moved across the street. She paced the floor, waiting. He wasn’t coming in. The tough guy was going to spend the night in his pickup, trying to find out who was watching the apartment.
Fisting her hands on her hips, Bella tapped her foot. He was just being stubborn. There was absolutely no reason he couldn’t keep an eye on her and still be comfortable.
Grabbing her keys, she walked out of the apartment and took the elevator downstairs.
“Where are you going, Ms. Bella?” George asked, alarmed, as she headed out the door.
“Just across the street, George. You can watch me from right here.” She pushed through the doors. The cool night breeze of late March ruffled her hair. Standing under the streetlight, she looked up and down the quiet street then started across.
An engine purred softly.
“Bella, get back!” Hank yelled as he threw open the door and came racing toward her.
Startled, she looked up. The car, its lights off, came out of nowhere. For a moment she felt like a deer caught in the headlights, her jaw slack, her mouth gaping.
Hank tackled her. He knocked her to the ground, rolling over and over with her, absorbing most of the shock from the hard concrete with his tough body.
As the car sped by, he yanked her up. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t immediately respond, he shook her, his tone urgent.
“Yeees.” She lifted a shaky hand to the side of her head, her keys still clutched in her hand.
He shoved her toward her apartment building. “Get inside,” he ordered, already racing for the truck. With three long-legged strides, he reached the pickup and hopped in the cab.
“Ms. Bella, are you all right?” George came running toward her. He stumbled to a halt beside her, trembling worse than she was.
“I’m fine, George.” She brushed off her shoulders. She had a nasty scrape on her right arm but it could have been worse, a lot worse.
She turned to watch Hank as he gunned the motor. Wrenching the steering wheel, he missed the little white Honda parked in front of him by a hairsbreadth. The motor whined as the truck went fishtailing down the street.
* * * * *
I will retrieve the amulets
,
he muttered to himself.
I need the creativity amulet to get me out of this cubicle of concrete and steel bars
.
After I
’
m out
,
I will go after the power amulet myself
.
I can
’
t trust anyone else to
,
except perhaps Victoria
,
blood of my blood
,
bone of my bone
.
Victor shook his head.
I will tell her about the healing amulet and the power amulet when I am free
.
Chapter Three
Hunched over the wheel, Hank barreled his pickup through a red light, keeping his eye on the dark sedan several car lengths ahead of him. A taxi tried to cut in front of him but he punched on the gas, determined not to lose sight of his quarry.
He crossed onto the oncoming traffic lane then swerved back in front of a Toyota. The driver threw on the brakes and laid on the horn.
Now just two cars were between him and the sedan.
Tires squealing, the sedan skidded around the corner on a red. The light turned green. Hank stayed with him, causing a pedestrian starting across the street to jump back on the curb. The man placed his palm under his elbow and thrust his arm up in an obscene gesture.
The sedan accelerated down narrower and darker streets.
“He’s made me,” Hank muttered, both hands on the wheel, never taking his eyes off the sedan.
The car slowed. The driver waved a gun out of the window and fired, missing the truck by a mile.
“Punk.” Hank’s jaw tightened. He smiled grimly. “So you want to play.” His gaze locked on the sedan, Hank drove with one hand as he leaned toward the glove compartment and flipped it open. Feeling around, he pulled out his pistol and clicked off the safety.
With a light tap on the brakes, he slowed, leaned out the window, took aim and fired.
The pistol barked, followed by a loud pop as the left back tire of the sedan exploded. Tires screaming, the car fishtailed off the road and into a lamppost.
The driver’s head snapped forward and hit the horn on the steering wheel. One long continuous honk blared from the car horn, grating at Hank’s nerves.
He heard the whoop-whoop-whoop of sirens several blocks away.
Tires slid on the pavement as Hank stomped on the brakes and slammed the gears into park then leaped out of the truck.
In four long strides, he was beside the disabled vehicle. He didn’t bother with the door. Just reached in, grabbed the thug’s shirt collar and yanked him through the open window, taking off several layers of the man’s skin as he did so.
“What are you doing?” the hoodlum yelled. A goose egg stood out on his forehead.
“I’ll ask the questions.” Tight-lipped, Hank pushed him up against the car. “Who sent you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The man struggled in Hank’s grasp. He was thin and wiry, of medium height.
“Wrong answer.” Hank grabbed him by his slicked-back, greasy hair and slammed his face on the car’s hood, still warm from the chase.
The man screamed as blood spurted out his nose and onto the car. “Are you crazy?”
Hank yanked him up. “Appears I am. Now who sent you?”
“I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The sirens were getting closer. “I don’t have much time. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that anyway to talk to your elders?” Once again, Hank shoved the man’s face against the car hood, this time with more force. He had the satisfaction of hearing the man’s nose break. “Who?”
“Christ. You broke my fucking nose,” the man howled.
“Who?”
“I don’t know,” the thug screamed.
Hank shoved him facedown, hard, crushing the man’s broken nose. “Who?”
“Johnny,” he blubbered.
Hank’s grip on the man’s hair tightened. “Not enough information. Johnny who?”
By now the man was babbling, tears mixing with the blood on his face. “Morelly, Johnny Morelly.”
“Where can I find this Johnny Morelly?”
“After tonight, he’s going to be finding you,” Though he shook like a leaf, the man managed a weak sneer.
“Where?” But before he could get any answers three squad cars came fishtailing around the corner, lights flashing and sirens screaming.
As their cars squealed to a stop, uniformed officers jumped out. “Put your hands over your head,” one yelled as they approached, guns drawn.
Moments later Hank found himself facedown on the car, his hands cuffed behind his back. He grimaced as he felt the warm blood, spattered on the hood, against the side of his face.
“Spread ’em.”
Hank complied and was patted down.
I hope to hell they don’t search the truck.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a lawyer and have a lawyer present with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer one will be appointed for you if you so desire. Do you understand these rights as I have read them to you?”
“Yes,” Hank said.
“Looks like this one needs to go to the hospital, Sarge. His face is pretty messed up,” the cop cuffing the thug said.
“You take that one to the hospital. Officer Gordon, take this one to the station.” The sergeant hauled Hank to his feet and strong-armed him toward one of the police cars. He opened the back door and pushed Hank’s head down as he shoved him inside.
A bulky policeman got behind the wheel.
The adrenaline rush Hank had been operating under ebbed. Aches and pains from his roll in the road were making themselves known. The handcuffs biting into his wrists rubbed against a raw patch of skin, driving him crazy. Alcohol and vomit vied with the smell of coffee and donuts. But he could deal with a few aches and pains. Right now he needed to know about Bella. He leaned forward. “Officer…”
The policeman looked at Hank in the rearview mirror, his face gray with fatigue. A deep scar on his cheek stood out against his drawn features. “Gordon. Officer Gordon. What do you want?”
“That man back there tried to run down a woman. Can you check on her?”
The cop paused for a moment as if weighing the question. “A call did come through over the radio a few minutes ago. What’s the address?”
“One-twenty-five Magnolia Place.” Hank rotated his wrists trying to get some relief from the handcuffs.
“That’s usually a pretty quiet area,” the officer responded, his eyes on the street.
“Couldn’t prove it by me,” Hank said in a dry voice.
“What’s the subject’s name?”
“Isabella Tremaine.”
“Isabella Tremaine?” The officer jerked the wheel, shock in his voice.
Hank clenched his jaw. His gut churned. The cop’s reaction cemented what he already knew. Isabella Tremaine was way out of his league. One look at that dandy she’d been pressed up against tonight like lunchmeat on bread had been enough to tell him that.
“Are you talking about Isabella Tremaine, the artist?” The cop’s eyes narrowed, his expression speculative.
“Yes,” Hank responded tight-lipped.
“Are you saying that punk back there tried to run down Ms. Tremaine?”
“That’s right.”
“And you went after him,” Officer Gordon persisted.
“He was getting away.”
“And when you caught him, you beat the sweet hell out of him.”
Hank’s gaze locked with the policeman’s in the mirror.
“That’s pretty much how it went down.”
“Where you from, cowboy?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Well, that may be the way things are done up north but here in the South folks call the police when there’s been a crime committed. Next time you call the cops. You got that.”
Hank jerked his chin in a clipped nod.
The policeman picked up the car radio and clicked the button. “5872 to 5941.”
“This is 5941. Come in, 5872.”
Officer Gordon spoke into the radio. “Does your passenger have a name?”
“Danny Amato.”
The officer let out a whistle. “As in Johnny Morelly’s muscle? Is he pressing charges?”
Static crackled over the line. “Nope. It was just one big misunderstanding.”
“I’d say his face is the misunderstanding,” Officer Gordon responded.
The other policeman snickered into the radio. “Yuh think? We just pulled into the hospital, I’m signing off.”
“Ten-four.”
Clicking off the radio, Officer Gordon glanced in the rearview mirror. “I don’t much care for Morelly or his ilk and that includes Amato. They give this town a bad name. Ms. Tremaine on the other hand is one of Atlanta’s own. It would have been a damn shame if a piece of trash like Amato had succeeded tonight.”
He cleared his throat. “Since no charges are being made, I don’t suppose there’s any point in taking you in.”
“Thank you, Officer.”
“Just try to stay out of trouble. Where do you want to be dropped off?”
Hank decided it was time to ask a few questions of his own. “Who’s Johnny Morelly?”
“Why do you want to know?” Officer Gordon asked, his voice gruff with suspicion.
Ignoring the question, Hank leaned forward. “You think Danny Amato went after Ms. Tremaine on his own or on orders from his boss?”
“I think it’s none of your concern. We’ll look into it. I’ll make you a deal. You stay out of it and I’ll swing by Magnolia Place.” Not waiting for an answer, he picked up the radio. “This is 5872. I’m in the vicinity and swinging by Magnolia Place.”
“5872, someone is already heading that way. No, wait. There’s a robbery in progress, they’ve been diverted. Go ahead.”
“Ten-four.” Officer Gordon clicked the radio off and sat it back in its holder. He braked for a red light.
When the light turned green, the officer tapped the gas and the squad car shot forward. Hank’s head snapped back against the seat.
“So what can you tell me about this Morelly?” Hank asked as he straightened up.
“You just don’t let up, do you? You her bodyguard or something?”
“Something,” Hank said shortly.
“Think you can get me an autograph? My wife’s a big fan.”
“I don’t know. They’re pretty hard to come by.”
The cop snorted. “That sounds perilously close to a bribe.” He relented. “Morelly is the crime lord around these parts. Keeps a few legit business fronts but everyone knows what goes down. He’s just too smart for us to prove anything.”
He can
’
t be too smart if he thought he could get away with taking out Bella
.
Hard knots of anger twisted Hank’s stomach. He clenched his fists then made himself relax. “Probably owns some big mansion outside town, right?”
“Don’t even think about it. If I hear you’re within a mile of Morelly’s I’ll haul your ass in. If there’s anything left of it. Chances are, after this night’s work, the next time I see you will be in the morgue. Morelly isn’t going to be pleased you busted up one of his boys.”
Hank shrugged. “I try but not everyone wants to be friends. Don’t understand it myself.”
Officer Gordon shook his head. “Cowboy, I don’t get you. I guess it’s because you’re from out of town and don’t know no better.” He pulled up in front of Bella’s apartment and cut the engine.
The cop stepped out of the squad car. He opened the back door and undid Hank’s cuffs.
Hank flexed his shoulders and scrubbed his wrists. Biting back a groan, he swung his legs out then put his hands on his knees to push himself up. Every damn bone in his body hurt.
The doorman hurried to the big glass door and threw it open. As Hank walked in the doorman exclaimed, “Mr. McHenry, you’re hurt.”
Hank’s head jerked up. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more—that the man thought he was hurt or knew his name. He glanced down. Amato’s blood was splattered all over him. He scrubbed his face. Dried blood flaked off and dropped like red confetti on the silver carpet.
“Thank you for your concern, sir, but it’s not my blood.”
The doorman tugged on the bill of his cap. “The name’s George and I hope you beat the holy shit out of that son of a bitch.” George colored when he looked at the policeman but his short, clean-shaven jaw remained locked. “Meaning no disrespect but that scum tried to kill Ms. Bella.”
Officer Gordon pulled a notebook from his pocket. “Care to give me a statement?”
“Sure, though there’s not much to tell.” He nodded toward Hank. “Mr. McHenry here was sitting out in his truck and Ms. Bella headed out to see him. The minute she stepped into the road a car pulls out three lengths behind Mr. McHenry’s truck and heads straight for Ms. Bella with his lights off. Mr. McHenry saved her life. He jumped out of his truck, tackled her and rolled her out of harm’s way.”
George turned to Hank. “Bet you played football in high school or college. That was one of the most beautiful tackles I’ve ever seen. You went sailing through the air like a first-stringer.”
The policeman cleared his throat. “And then what?”
George gave him a surprised look. “That’s all. He pulled Ms. Bella up and pushed her toward the apartment complex, jumped in his truck and went after the SOB.”
Officer Gordon tapped his pen against the notebook and looked at Hank speculatively. “So what were you doing sitting out in your truck? Were you expecting trouble? Why do you think Amato came after her?”