Risky Reunion

“You can’t promise me that,” Eloise said, anger giving her strength. “You promised me that once before, remember? And I almost lost my baby girl. I gave her up to protect her and I won’t change on that. I have to stay away from her for the same reason.”

His hand on her arm steadied her, but the warmth she felt from his touch only added to her misery. Because she’d put him in danger, too. He’d die for her; she knew that. And she couldn’t have that on her conscience.

PROTECTING THE WITNESSES:

New identities, looming danger and forever love in the Witness Protection Program.

Risky Reunion—Lenora Worth, June 2010

LENORA WORTH

has written more than forty books, most of those for Steeple Hill. She has worked freelance for a local magazine, where she wrote monthly opinion columns, feature articles and social commentaries. She also wrote for the local paper for five years. Married to her high school sweetheart for thirty-five years, Lenora lives in Louisiana and has two grown children and a cat. She loves to read, take long walks, sit in her garden and go shoe shopping.

Risky Reunion

Lenora Worth

MILLS & BOON

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He reveals the deep things of darkness and brings deep shadows into the light.

—Job 12:22

To Nate

Thank you so much!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

LETTER TO READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

MEMO: Top Secret/Top Priority

TO: FBI Organized Crime Task Force; U.S. Marshal’s Office

FROM: Jackson McGraw, Special Agent in Charge, Chicago Field Office

RE: Operation Black Veil

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Date: June 2, 2010

Chicago Mafia kingpin Salvatore Martino is dead. Per informant—Vincent Martino, now the head of the Martino crime family, will make good on a final tribute to his father by executing Eloise Hill, the woman who testified against Salvatore twenty-two years ago.

Recent sightings place Vincent Martino in Montana—READ—he intends to oversee this hit himself. Through joint investigation with the U.S. Marshal’s office, we’ve learned that even though Eloise Hill left the Witness Protection Program, she is still living in Montana under an assumed name. Current location and name—on a “need to know” basis. Agents currently in place. Witness under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Subject will be immediately informed of these developments and will remain under protection until suspect is apprehended.

Please contact SAC Jackson McGraw on any new leads or changes regarding the above information or any new developments in the Martino case.

Special Agent Jackson McGraw did a visual sweep of the trees on the other side of the little stream then watched as a butterfly fluttered around a cluster of vivid pink bitterroot blooming just outside the window of the vacant apartment he’d been holed up in since 3:00 a.m.

The brown, yellow-tipped butterfly was beautiful, a quiet and graceful contrast to the tension coiled like a snake inside Jackson’s gut. Something wasn’t right.

Something hadn’t been right for the past six months, but now he instinctively knew that something was about to go all wrong, completely wrong, if he didn’t move quickly. This entire investigation had boiled down to one thing—he had to keep Eloise Hill alive.

But in order to do that, he had to find the leak that seemed to stem from the U.S. Marshal’s office, a leak that had jeopardized the entire Witness Protection Program and caused a number of people to be killed. And he had to find Vincent Martino and stop him, one way or another.

Jackson thought back on his last conversation with his informant—the Veiled Lady—back in Chicago two weeks ago. They’d met on a sunny day near a heavily wooded park by the lake. But even though the day had verged on being warm, the woman had worn the same outfit she always wore—a wide-brimmed black hat with a heavy veil covering her face and a black wool coat, gloves and dark shades. And there under the cover of trees surrounding the secluded park, she’d told Jackson the very thing he didn’t want to hear.

The woman spoke in a whispery, low voice, her words slow and carefully formal. “Salvatore is dead. He died late last night in his home with several of his top capos there by his side. Vincent was there, too, but as soon as his father is buried, he will be leaving for Montana. He is going to find this woman—Eloise Hill—and finish the job himself. This will be his final tribute to his father. As if Salvatore Martino would care one way or another. The man had no heart.” She’d paused, taking a deep breath that almost sounded like a sob. “And neither does his son.”

Those chilling words spoken two weeks ago contrasted sharply with the beautiful June morning, Jackson thought now as he looked out the window. His gaze didn’t stay on the butterfly. He was watching the other apartment just across the quaint little bridge between the chalet-style brown-and-beige buildings. And he was waiting for the woman who lived there to turn on a light, indicating she was up for the day.

Finally, he’d get to see her and make sure she was all right with his own eyes.

This had been a long journey, trying to find Eloise Hill before Vincent Martino did. She called herself Ellie Smith now, but she would always be Eloise—his Ellie—to Jackson. He’d often called her Ellie many years ago. And apparently, she would always be a threat to the powerful Martino crime family, since Vincent Martino was determined to see her dead. Jackson had the body count to prove it, and he was determined to end Vincent’s obsession with revenge. He had to warn Eloise. He had to protect her.

And he also had to tell her that her daughter, Kristin Perry, knew about Eloise and wanted to see her.

The static in his earpiece broke the taut summer silence of the early morning. “Big Mac, come in.”

Frowning at the nickname his team member Roark Canfield used, Jackson answered. “Talk to me.”

“Subject is late for work, sir.”

“So I noticed. It’s not her day off, is it?”

“Negative. She always leaves at sunrise. She walks a short distance to work just after sunup, no matter the exact time, and she has a big dog with her, sir. Really big German shepherd—dangerous animal.”

“I get it about the dog, Roark,” Jackson said. “GQ, what’s the status at your location?”

“She’s not here, sir,” Marcus Powell answered from his spot at the restaurant around the corner. “Staff arrived right on time and everyone’s busy preparing for the day.” A pause, then, “But the one named Verdie has tried calling her several times. No answer. Verdie seems a bit worried from the conversation going back and forth behind the counter.”

Jackson rubbed a hand down his neck, the tension going from coiled to twisted. “We’re sure of this schedule? Thea, what’s your take?”

A feminine voice purred across the line. “Her restaurant is a popular spot, and subject is never late for work. Or at least she hasn’t been in the time we’ve been watching her.”

“Affirmative,” GQ added. “Staff of three comes in around five every morning to prepare for breakfast rush, but proprietor and two part-timers come in later, just in time for the crowd. Subject stays after lunch to prepare next day’s menu from what we’ve seen so far. She should be on her way by now, sir.” Silence, then GQ said, “Uh, Jackson, we have another problem, too. One of the coworkers is also late. Young, blonde, pretty. Her name tag says Meredith. She’s usually at the door before anyone else.”

Jackson looked at his watch. It was six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning. The sun had been up a good twenty minutes and was now brightening the morning sky with each ticking second. And his gut was burning as hot as those incoming rays. Had the bad gone to worse already?

“I’m on it,” he said, his mind ticking off all the logical explanations while his stomach sizzled with the worst-case scenario. “Cover me.”

“You got it,” Roark said.

Jackson checked his holster, secured his weapon, did a quick surveillance of the nearby city park and the walking trail between buildings, then opened the front door a crack. With Roark stationed in the park and Thea in a car down the way, he didn’t need to worry about being secure. But he sure wasn’t prepared to see Eloise just yet.

He hadn’t planned on announcing himself this abruptly, but Eloise might already be in trouble.

Glancing around, he stalked along the perimeter of the trees, his heart pounding a heavy beat that matched the thud of his hiking boots against gravel. He hit the footbridge over the stream with a run, the echo of his steps chasing him with an eerie cadence across the arched structure.

He was about to come face-to-face with the woman he’d loved for over twenty years. And he prayed he’d find her alive.

She couldn’t stop shaking. First the roses and now this. Eloise stared at the clock on the wall of her kitchen, a forgotten cup of coffee steaming in her hand. She had to steady herself to keep from spilling the coffee. Her German shepherd, Duff, rubbed his nose against her robe, trying to get her attention. Duff could sense her trauma and her fear.

Touching a hand to the faithful dog, Eloise gently pushed him away then glanced at the trash can where she’d tossed the white roses. White with pink-edged petals.

Duff sniffed and whined, giving her some measure of comfort. She should have taken him with her last night when she’d deliberately gone out the door to help her friend, but she’d been afraid Duff’s barks would bring too much attention to the situation. She’d promised Meredith no cops, but Eloise wished she hadn’t kept that promise. She’d arrived only to find her friend dead.

This can’t be happening again, she thought, her stomach roiling as a wave of nausea assaulted her. Memories from two decades ago, brutal and raw, hit her with the force of a fist in her solar plexus. She could still see the blood everywhere, could still see Danny’s face as he’d begged for his life there in the seedy warehouse in South Chicago. Could still see the quick burst of smoke from the guns and hear the staccato spew of the silencers—once, twice—as Danny and another man were killed in cold blood while she watched from the shadows.

Killed in cold blood. Twenty-two years of trying to forget and it all still seemed as if it had happened last night. Twenty-two years of hiding, of staying invisible, of living like a shadow, always looking over her shoulder. And always wondering what had happened to the child she’d been forced to leave behind. She’d found solace in her faith, in her church and in her work.

She’d almost found a sense of peace.

And now, she’d witnessed another murder.

Remembering the elaborate spray of white roses at Danny’s funeral, Eloise rubbed a finger over the scar near her lips. Back then, the Martino family had sent the roses. Salvatore Martino loved roses; he grew them in the massive garden inside the Martino compound. And he sometimes sent them to the funerals of his victims.

She’d received a box of her own yesterday just before closing at the café. A dozen long-stemmed, lush roses—a creamy white with just the blush of pink around the tips of the petals.

And no card.

She’d been so paranoid she’d rushed out of the café, hurrying down the street with Duff right on her heels and the box of roses still crushed in her arms.

Who sent them? Who knew she was here?

Putting the horrible questions out of her mind, Eloise sank down in a chair, her thoughts reeling with what she’d seen and heard last night after she’d arrived at Meredith’s. Screams, a scuffle, then a distinctive thump and footsteps running, running. A man’s voice crying out, “No, no.” Then Meredith. Dead. Sweet, innocent Meredith. Her friend and her employee. Dead. Lying in a deserted parking lot, blood pooling underneath her head, her eyes open and vacant as she stared up into the night sky.

It seemed as if Meredith had been staring right up at Eloise, asking her why she hadn’t come sooner.

“Come up the back stairs,” Meredith had shouted over the phone. “He’s in the kitchen. I think he knows, Ellie. He’s going to kill me. Hurry! You have to get me out of here.”

“I’ll be there and I’ll call 911.”

“No!” Meredith was adamant. “No cops. They won’t help me. They won’t—they’ll side with him. Just hurry!”

“Why didn’t I get there in time, Lord?” Eloise whispered in a prayer for forgiveness. She shivered in spite of the summer morning and Duff’s efforts to console her. She’d tried to help her friend and she’d failed.

Meredith called her, crying and frantic, in the middle of the night. Eloise rushed into the dark night, her own fears somehow pushed aside in order to get Meredith away from her abusive husband. But she’d arrived too late.

“Why didn’t I get there sooner? Why didn’t I call 911 to help you?” She reached for Duff, rubbing her hand over his soft brown fur. “Why didn’t I take you with me, boy?”

But Eloise knew the answer to all of those questions. The roses. She’d been so afraid to leave her house after she’d received the roses. She didn’t even take her car. She’d walked the few blocks to Meredith’s house. And now, she had to stay hidden, had to stay out of the limelight. She couldn’t risk the glare of cameras and reporters and questions from the local authorities. Because she couldn’t trust anyone to help her, either. Not even the police.

If she’d been able to step forward sooner, to alert the authorities that Meredith’s husband was dangerous, their plan might have worked. Meredith would have gone to a safe place. But Meredith didn’t want to go to the local authorities, Eloise reminded herself now. Meredith knew, just as Eloise did, that sometimes the police were actually part of the problem. So they agreed to keep quiet and Eloise finally talked Meredith into escaping. They formed a solid plan, talked about it quietly and secretly for weeks. Everything was in place. And Meredith was finally ready to leave.

But apparently, Meredith’s husband had figured things out.

And for that reason, her friend was now dead.

And she was paralyzed with a fear she’d been running from for over twenty years. Paralyzed because Meredith’s husband had still been there at Meredith’s house last night when she arrived. He stood over the still body, crying quietly as he stared down at his dead wife. A killer crying in regret over the woman he’d murdered.

And that killer might have seen Eloise.

It was just a glimpse in the dark, she reminded herself. He couldn’t have caught a good look at her. And since she’d disguised herself with a big hat and a scarf, she prayed he couldn’t identify her. But he’d heard her intake of breath, heard the shocked gasp as she stood on the landing above, her silhouette hidden in the shadows.

But he hadn’t come after her. Yet.

No one had come after her. Yet.

But the roses…the roses meant that Randall Parker might not be the only person who wanted her dead and gone.

Had the Mob found her after all these years?

“I have to get to work,” she said, forcing herself out of the chair, her knuckles white from clutching her now-cold coffee. “I have to pretend everything is all right.”

Putting her cup in the sink, Eloise glanced at the clock. She was late and she was never late. Verdie had already called once, concerned. Verdie would send Frank to look for her.

Meredith won’t be there this morning, either.

Meredith would never be at work again.

Her limbs stiff and fatigued from tension and lack of sleep, Eloise managed to get dressed and pull herself together, doing her usual routine of downplaying her looks by pulling her hair away from her face and putting on brown contacts and dowdy clothes. No makeup, but then she rarely wore any—except for a bit of concealer over her scar. She tried to make herself plain and unremarkable and she prayed that ploy would work today. She had to act normal, as if nothing had happened. She had to go through the motions. She knew how to go through the motions; she’d been doing that for so long now it was like second nature.

She’d made it to the hallway, Duff right by her side, when a knock at the front door caused her to drop her purse. It thumped against the tile floor, making her flinch with fear and causing Duff to go wild, barking angrily as he sensed her tension and fear. Picking the purse up again, Eloise slipped her hand into the hidden side compartment where she kept her pistol.

“Duff, sit,” she said, trying to sound firm. The big dog whimpered, barked once more, then did as she commanded. But his snarl and his quivering body indicated he would attack if she gave him the word.

Shaking, Eloise adjusted the small gun in her hand, its familiar steel giving her a sense of reassurance. But her mind whirled between running out the back door and remembering the gun-training courses she’d taken.

Lord, help me, she prayed. I’m so very tired of running. I’m so very tired of being afraid.

Eloise took a deep breath, gave Duff another command to stay, then walked toward the front door. “Who is it?” she called, her voice weak underneath the heavy, throbbing pulse pumping through her ears.

No reply. She swallowed, once, twice, pulling the gun out of her bag. Then she forced herself to look through the peephole. A man she didn’t recognize stood at her door. “I said who’s there?” But something about this man—

“It’s me,” came the terse answer. “It’s me…Jackson McGraw. Eloise, open the door and let me in, please.”

Jackson stood back, gun at the ready, as the door creaked open about an inch. He turned, doing a quick scan of the surrounding area. Roark jogged by, looking laid-back and casual in spite of the intensity of the situation. Satisfied that his team was still in place, Jackson slowly turned back to the door and put his gun away. Flashing his badge and ID, he said, “It’s Jackson. I have to talk to you.”

He heard an intake of breath then the door swung back.

And he took in the sight of her, standing there, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her skin pale as she tried to find air. Jackson heard the dog’s snarl but ignored it.

“Eloise,” he said, reaching for the door.

She swayed, her eyes fluttering, her head dropping.

Jackson stepped inside and caught her before she passed out. The dog went into a frenzied stance, barking and dancing in circles. Jackson issued a sharp command. The animal kept snarling but he stayed away.

“Eloise, it’s all right. It’s going to be all right.”

She felt tiny in his arms, fragile. She looked almost the same, older but still beautiful in spite of the jagged white scar bursting through the pale skin near her lips and the deep circles of fatigue underneath her eyes. And she was still afraid. Her whole body began to quiver with a gentle shaking as she held on to him, her head moving in denial against his shoulder.

“Subject safe,” he said. “Stand down.” He clicked off his wire with a touch to his wrist, shutting down any further communications for the sake of privacy.

Slamming the door with a booted kick, he helped her to the floral couch then carefully sat her down against the cushions, grabbing a blue chenille blanket off the back. After making sure she was coherent and her dog wasn’t going to eat him alive, he sat down beside her. And looked into her eyes again. They were brown instead of the vivid green he remembered, but the colored contacts matched the rich brown of her long, straight hair. Contacts might change the color of her eyes but he didn’t care. That look of fear mixed with disbelief and a bit of wonder broke Jackson’s heart and made him even more determined to protect her.

“Are you okay?” he asked. “Want some water?”

She shook her head, focusing on him. “What are you doing here?”

The whispered question hung in the air between them. He tried to formulate an answer. But before he could, she sat straight up, asking the same question again, this time with more strength and a defiant demand, realization clearing her eyes. “Why are you here, Jackson?”

Jackson took her hand then inhaled a deep breath. He’d always been straight with her before. He had to tell her the truth now. “Salvatore Martino has died and his son Vincent is here in Montana. And he’s looking for you. He’s put out a hit on you as a final tribute to the old don.”

She pulled away, her mind filling with a dark dread. Wrapping her arms across her midsection, she started rocking back and forth, a low moan escaping between her tightly clenched lips. “No, no, that can’t be. Tell me this isn’t happening! Not now, not now.” She waved a hand in the air, pointing toward the kitchen. “The roses. I got roses yesterday, Jackson. White roses. In the trash.”

Jackson glanced toward the kitchen then fell on one knee in front of her, his hands stilling her movements as he held her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “It’s the truth and that’s why I’m here. I’m going to protect you, Eloise. We’ll find him before he finds you, I promise.” Needing her to listen, he asked, “Who sent you roses? What are you talking about?”

She looked up at him, her eyes widening, her body going still. Jackson was afraid she was going into shock. “Eloise?”

And then she did something that scared him even more than the fear and shock in her eyes.

She burst out laughing.

TWO

Eloise pushed away the glass Jackson offered her, slapping at his hand. Water sloshed out and fell in a bright pool onto the wooden floor. Duff, now calm, immediately lapped at the water. Jackson set the glass on the table, wiped his hand on his jeans then stared down at her. “Eloise?”

Eloise realized her laughter had turned to tears and that Jackson was staring at her, the frown on his face an indicator of how much she’d confused and frightened him. She’d managed to frighten the fearless Jackson McGraw. That was a first. Or at least she remembered him as fearless, even at age twenty-three and even though he’d been a rookie back then. But he still looked that way—fearless, intense, completely serious and devoted to his job. Only now, he also looked self-confident and sure and a bit weary. His eyes were still that crystal-blue that reminded her of a deep, still lake, but his hair, once a golden brown, now held hints of glinting gray. It suited him.

Her fearless protector. And the man she’d trusted with her most precious possession—her child.

“I’m all right,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. She’d never had that luxury. “You just…surprised me.” She waved a hand at him. “I saw the irony of my situation and it…seemed so funny. But we both know it’s not so funny, is it?”