Читать книгу Egan Cassidy's Kid - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 12

Maggie couldn’t feel her body. Numbness claimed her from head to toe. She could hear the roar of Egan’s words as he continued speaking, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Suddenly the room began to spin around and around. Maggie reached out, grasping for Egan, but before she could grab him, she fainted dead away.

Egan caught her before she hit the floor, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. By the time he laid her down and placed a pillow under her head, she opened her eyes and moaned.

“Oh, God.” She tried to sit up, but Egan placed his hand in the middle of her chest and forced her to lie still.

“Are you all right?” He hovered over her, wishing so damned hard that he didn’t have to put her through the nightmare that lay ahead of them. It was unfair that Maggie was suffering because of him.

“I’m all right.” When she looked into his eyes, she smiled weakly. “Really. I’m okay. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never fainted before in my entire life. Not even when I was pregnant with— Oh, God! Bent!” She reached up and grasped the front of Egan’s shirt. “Bent’s been kidnapped by someone who wants to destroy you. This man knows…he knows that Bent is your son. But how?”

Egan helped Maggie to sit up, then eased his big, lanky frame down beside her on the tan-and-cream striped sofa. He ran his hand across the smooth silk fabric, but what he wanted to do was pull Maggie back into his arms. Comfort her. Tell her how sorry he was that this had happened. Beg her to forgive him.

“You put my name on your son’s birth certificate,” Egan said. “Cullen got hold of a copy. And he also has pictures of Bent. He told me that the boy looks a lot like I did when I was eighteen.”

Maggie nodded. “Bent does resemble you. He’s only fourteen and already six feet tall. He has your gray eyes. Your black hair.” Maggie’s quivering hand lifted ever so slowly and reached out toward Egan’s face. “Why, Egan, why?”

They stared into each other’s eyes, each seeking understanding, each sharing a realization that no parent should have to accept.

“He—he…this man you call Cullen, he’s going to kill Bent, isn’t he?”

Maggie’s hand dropped to her side. She sat very still. Egan could hear the sound of her breathing. Silence hung between them like a heavy veil.

“I won’t lie to you, Maggie.” He had never lied to her. Never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Never made her promises he knew he couldn’t keep. “I’m sure that’s Cullen’s plan.”

Maggie gasped loudly and the agony on her face was almost more than Egan could bear. For just a split second he had to close his eyes and shut out the sight of her.

“But Cullen won’t harm Bent,” Egan said. When Maggie’s eyes cleared and she looked to him for hope, he amended his statement. “Not yet. He’ll want me there. To watch.”

Egan shot up off the sofa. How the hell had this happened? He’d been so careful all these years, making sure no woman became important to him, so that Cullen wouldn’t have anyone to use against him. He had given up what most men wanted—a wife, children, a real home—in order to prevent this very thing from ever happening.

Pacing the floor, he forked his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath. “I’ll move heaven and earth to stop Cullen,” Egan vowed as he halted his prowl and faced Maggie. “I’ll find a way to save Bent.”

Squaring her shoulders, Maggie lifted her chin and glared at Egan. “What did you do to this man to make him hate you so much? Can’t you undo whatever it is you did?” Although she sat perfectly still, her hands folded primly in her lap, there was just a hint of hysteria in her voice. “You can’t let him kill…kill my…” Tears glazed her soft, brown eyes.

Egan rushed to her, dropped down on one knee and grabbed her hands. “If I’d only known about Bent, I could have—”

Maggie jerked away from him, shoved him aside and rose to her feet. “Don’t you dare blame me for this! You keep saying if only you’d known about Bent, as if it’s my fault that he’s been kidnapped by some lunatic who wants to punish you.” She pointed directly at Egan, who rose from his knees to his full six-foot-three height.

“I didn’t mean to imply that this is your fault.”

“Then why don’t you place the blame where it belongs,” she glowered at him, anger and hatred gleaming in her eyes, turning them from brown to black. “You’re the reason my son was kidnapped, the reason his life is in danger. You—” she jabbed her finger into the air, pointing it in his direction and then at herself “—not me.”

“Maggie, let me explain.” He held open his hands, the very act a plea for her understanding.

“Explain what? That you’ve lead such an unsavory life, such a wicked life, that you have evil men, capable of murder, searching for ways to punish you.” Maggie flew toward him, her arms lifted, her hands cupped into taut fists. “The hard, cruel world you chose to live in, the ungodly way you chose to make a living is the reason Bent’s life is in danger.” Maggie hurled her fists into Egan’s chest. “You’ve never cared about anyone—ever! You’ve lived only for yourself, never wanting or needing me or my child. You don’t deserve to be a father!”

Her slender, white fists flayed him repeatedly. He barely felt the blows in a physical sense, but emotionally he felt as if Maggie had stripped him down to his bones, with one angry, cutting accusation after another.

He stood unmoving, allowing her to vent her frustration, to beat her fists against his chest until she was spent. He deserved her hatred. She was right. It was his fault that Cullen had kidnapped Bent.

When Maggie’s blows lost their strength and she seemed barely able to raise her hands, Egan wrapped his arms around her. If only she would allow him to hold her, to comfort her, then perhaps he could find some small amount of comfort himself. Her head lay against his chest as she sucked in her breath, gasping for air. Uncertain how to proceed, Egan lifted one hand to her head and caressed her hair. He remembered how much he had loved Maggie’s long, mahogany-red hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’d give anything if I could have spared you.”

As if suddenly realizing that the man who held her was the enemy, Maggie disengaged herself from his embrace and shoved him away. “I don’t want your apologies. Saying I’m sorry now is too little, too late. All I want from you is for you to save Bent.”

“I’m going to do everything—” Egan’s cellular phone rang.

Maggie jumped. “Would he call you on your cell phone?”

“No. There’s not any way he could get this number. All the phones issued to Dundee agents have restricted numbers and operate with a scrambling security frequency.”

Maggie laughed, the sound harsh and brittle. “You’re still in the cloak-and-dagger business, aren’t you?”

“Look, I need to get this,” Egan said, then removed his small cell phone from the clip on his belt. “Yeah?”

“Egan, I’ve called in our top six men,” Ellen Denby, the CEO of the Dundee agency, said. “And I’ve put in a call to Sam to alert him that you’re going to need not only manpower, but that he’ll need to use all his connections to make sure we head up this operation and we get full cooperation from the FBI. By the way, are you already in Alabama?”

“Thanks for handling things for me,” Egan said. “And, yes, I’m in Alabama, with the mother of my child.”

“Any word from the kidnapper?”

“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’ve already called in a few favors of my own,” Ellen told him. “I’ll have a dossier a foot thick on Grant Cullen by morning. I’ll know what toothpaste he buys and how many times a day he uses the john.”

“Have the men on standby,” Egan said. “As soon as we hear from Cullen, I want to move in quick and hit him hard.” When Egan heard Maggie gasp, he glanced across the room at her and their gazes locked. “My one and only objective is to rescue my son. Getting Cullen will be a bonus.” Egan saw the startled look on Maggie’s face, the shock in her eyes, the very minute she realized that in order to save Bent, Egan might have to annihilate his abductor.

“When you’re ready to move, just let me know,” Ellen said.

“You’re the best, Denby.”

“Yeah, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Egan hit the Off button and returned his cell phone to its nest on his hip. “I work for a private security and investigation firm based in Atlanta,” he explained to Maggie, who was staring at him questioningly. “I’ve been with them for a couple of years now. Most of the agents are former special forces or former lawmen, all highly trained professionals. My boss has just called in the top six men at Dundee’s to be ready to act on my command, once we hear from Cullen.”

“You’re planning Bent’s rescue as if it’s a commando attack, as if this man Cullen is going to tell you where he has Bent and invite you to come and get him.” Maggie flung her hands out on either side of her body in an are-you-insane? gesture. “This is my child’s life we’re talking about. I’m going to call the FBI right now. I’ve had enough of this craziness.”

Maggie swerved around and headed toward the white and gold telephone sitting atop the chinoiserie cabinet positioned along the back wall. Egan reached her in three giant strides and grabbed her arm just as she lifted the receiver.

“Put the phone down.” His voice brooked no refusal.

Maggie glared at him, hesitating to obey his command. When he tightened his hold on her arm, she winced. “Why should I listen to you? Why should I do what you tell me to do?”

“Because handling this situation my way is the only chance we have of getting our son back alive.”

Maggie continued staring at Egan, but she gradually lowered her arm and replaced the telephone receiver. “So, what do we do now?”

Egan released her and when she rubbed her arm, he realized he might have held her too tightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, not really. You just don’t know your own strength.”

“You’ve got to believe me, Maggie, I’d never intentionally hurt you.”

“That’s debatable,” she told him. “But it isn’t important. Not anymore. But you didn’t answer my question, what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait for Grant Cullen to call us and give us his demands.”

Grant Cullen strolled the grounds of his secluded Arizona camp, hidden away in the mountains southeast of Flagstaff. It had taken him years to build and stock his retreat and to man it with his own army. His troops, though few in number, were well-trained young men—schooled personally by him. Two dozen well-trained and obedient followers were worth more to him than a hundred ordinary men.

He had founded the Ultimate Survivalists thirteen years ago when he had realized that eventually he and other brave souls would have to defend themselves against an ever strengthening left-wing, liberal government. There were many men such as he who felt it their God given right to govern their own lives without interference from Uncle Sam. The time would come when chaos would reign and only those who had prepared themselves for the confrontation would survive. When martial law was declared and men were stripped of their rights and their weapons, he and his followers would be prepared to fight to the death.

He had spent a lifetime acquiring the means to secure land in the United States and create a hideaway where he could retreat after every mercenary mission. He and Egan had been in the same line of business, ever since they’d returned from Nam. The only difference was that he hadn’t been choosy about the people who hired him. He had no allegiances to any country, not even his own. He hired out to the highest bidder and did whatever nasty little chore that needed to be done.

And all the while he had been planning and preparing, he had known this day would come. The day of reckoning. The day he would finally have the revenge that was long overdue.

His rottweilers, Patton and MacArthur, trotted on either side of him, two ever-alert canines with the same killer instincts he himself possessed. And like the men under his command, obedient unto death.

After sunset, even springtime in the mountains maintained winterlike temperatures and tonight was no exception. A cold north wind whipped around Grant’s shoulders. He breathed deeply, dragging in as much fresh, crisp air as his lungs would hold. Invigorated by thoughts of triumph over his nemesis, he experienced a feeling of pure happiness that he hadn’t known since before Nam. Before having been a POW. Before having had his promising military career destroyed by an eighteen-year-old recruit with a Boy Scout mentality.

Grant Cullen had been the son, grandson and great-grandson of West Point graduates and no one had been prouder than he the day his name was added to that family tradition. And no one had been more willing to serve his country than he. Everyone who knew him had been certain that he would one day be a great general, just as his heroes, George Patton and Douglas MacArthur had been.

But Egan Cassidy had ruined any chances he’d had of a distinguished military career. Once Cassidy had exposed him as a traitor, even his own father had turned against him. It had been his word against Cassidy’s until that snot-nosed Vietcong major had been captured and had collaborated Cassidy’s story.

Revenge had been a long time coming, but finally Cassidy was going to get what he deserved. He was going to learn what real suffering was all about.

Grant entered the two-story fortress through the wrought-iron gates that opened up into an outdoor foyer. Two guards, one outside the gate and one inside saluted him when he passed by. He marched into the interior entrance hall, the rottweilers at his heels.

“Winn! Winn!” Grant called loudly. “Where the hell are you?”

The stocky, hard-as-nails Winn Sherman, stormed down the long corridor that led from Grant’s office and met his commander halfway. “Yes, sir!” He clicked his heels and saluted.

“Bring the boy to my office.” Grant checked the time. “In exactly forty-eight minutes. I’ll be making a phone call precisely at three o’clock and I want young Bent Douglas to say a few words to the folks at home.”

The corners of Winn’s thin lips curved into a smile. Grant liked his protégé, a man who shared Grant’s thoughts and beliefs. A man he trusted as he trusted few others.

“You will personally be in charge of Cassidy’s son from now until…” Grant laughed heartily, as he contemplated the various ways he could kill the boy—slowly and painfully while his father and mother watched.

In her peripheral vision Maggie saw Egan down the last drops of his third cup of coffee and then set the Lenox cup on the saucer that rested on the silver serving tray. The grandfather clock in the foyer struck the half hour. Maggie lifted her head from where it rested on the curved extension of the wing chair. Instant calculations told her it was now two-thirty. Her muscles ached from tension. Her frazzled nerves kept her on the verge of tears at any given moment. And her heart ached with a burden almost too great to bear. No mother should ever have to endure what she was being forced to endure.

But she had never been a pessimist or a quitter or a whiner. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up hope. She had to trust Egan, had to believe that he could do what he had promised—save their son. But who did he think he was, some kind of superhero? Maybe he was a rough, tough, mean son of a bitch. Maybe he did know a hundred and one ways to kill a man. And maybe he did have an elite force of Dundee agents prepared to do battle with him. But did that mean he could rescue Bent?

She watched Egan as he treaded across the Persian rug centered in the middle of the living-room floor. Weariness sat on his broad shoulders like an invisible weight. He plopped down on the couch and tossed aside a white brocade throw pillow, which landed on its mate at the opposite end of the camelback sofa. Bending at the waist, he dangled his hands between his spread legs and gazed down at his feet. He repeatedly tapped his fingertips together and patted his right foot against the hardwood surface, just inches shy of the large, intricately patterned rug.

Her feminine instinct told Maggie that Egan was suffering in his own strong, silent way. He hadn’t shed a tear. Hadn’t shown much emotion at all, except anger. And he most certainly hadn’t fainted, as she had. But she knew he was in pain. In some strange way she could feel his agony and understood that he probably could feel hers just as intensely.

Was he feeling guilty? she wondered. He should feel guilty! Because of something in his past, her son’s life now depended upon the whims of a madman.

A part of Maggie hated Egan, more than she’d ever thought possible to hate anyone. But a part of her pitied him and shared his grief. And yet another part of her, a small, nagging emotion buried deep inside, still cared for him.

You fool! she chastised herself. This is the man who broke your heart. He left you and never looked back. He didn’t want you and he wouldn’t have wanted Bent. The only reason he wishes he’d known of his son’s existence is so he could have figured out some way to have protected Bent from Grant Cullen.

Don’t you ever forget what kind of man Egan is. You were naive enough once to think that your love could change him, could liberate him from the bonds of a lonely, unhappy existence.

“Would you like me to make some fresh coffee?” she asked.

Egan’s head snapped up; his eyes focused on her. “Yeah, sure. And maybe something to eat, for both of us. I’ll bet you haven’t had a bite since lunch yesterday, have you?”

“I’ll fix you something,” she said. “I don’t think I could eat anything.”

“Why don’t I go into the kitchen with you and we’ll fix something together, and then I want you to try to eat something. You can’t help Bent by making yourself sick.”

I can’t help Bent at all, she felt like screaming. But she held herself in check, suppressing the urge to rant and rave.

Egan stood, walked over to her and held out his hand. She stared at his big hand, studying his wide, thick fingers, dusted with dark hair just below the knuckles. A tingling awareness spread through Maggie as she recalled exactly how hairy Egan was. Dark curls covered his muscular arms and long legs. Thick swirls of black hair coated his chest, narrowing into a V across his belly and widening again around his sex.

Sensual heat spread through Maggie, flushing her skin and warming her insides. How could she be reacting to Egan sexually at a time like this? her conscience taunted. What sort of power did this man have over her, that after fifteen years, she was still drawn to him in the same stomach-churning, femininity-clenching way?

Apparently tired of waiting for a response from her, Egan reached out, grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet. She wavered slightly, her legs weak, as she stood facing him, her gaze level with his neck. He had once teased her about being tall and leggy.

I’m a leg man, he had said. And you, Maggie my love, fulfill all my fantasies.

Without asking permission, Egan slipped his arms around her waist and held her, but didn’t tug her up against him. “You haven’t changed much, Maggie. You’re still… You’re even more beautiful than you were the first time I saw you.”

She told herself to move away from him, to demand that he release her and never touch her again. But she knew that all she had to do was slip out of his hold. His grip on her was tentative, featherlight and easily escaped.

Everything that was female within her longed to lean on him, to seek comfort and support in the power of his strong arms and big body. She was so alone and had been for what seemed like a lifetime. And who better than her son’s father to give her the solace she so desperately needed at a time like this?

Don’t succumb to this momentary weakness, to the seduction of Egan’s powerful presence and manly strength, an inner voice warned. If you do, you’ll regret it.

She lifted her gaze to meet Egan’s and almost drowned in the gentle, concerned depths of his gunmetal-gray eyes. “I have changed,” she told him. “I have very little in common with that starry-eyed, twenty-three-year-old girl who rushed into your arms…and into your bed, without a second thought.”

“I was very fond of that girl.” Regret edged Egan’s voice.

Fond of. Fond of. The words rang out inside her head like a blast from a loudspeaker. Oh, yes, he had been fond of her. And she had loved him. Madly. Passionately. With every beat of her foolish, young heart.

Maggie eased out of his grasp. He let her go, making no move to detain her flight. When she turned and walked away, he followed her.

“You put on the coffee,” she said, her back to him. “And I’ll make a couple of sandwiches.”

Egan went with her into the kitchen and although the room had been redecorated since his weeklong visit years ago, the warm hominess mixed quite well with the touch of elegance, just as the decor had back then. Creamy cabinetry, curtains and chairs contrasted sharply to the earthbrown walls, the brown-and-tan checkered chair cushions and dark oak of the wooden table.

He went over to the counter at the right of the sink and there, where she had always kept it, he found the coffee grinder. “You still keep the beans in the refrigerator?”

“Yes.” She didn’t glance his way. Instead she opened the refrigerator, retrieved the coffee beans and held them out to him, without once looking at him.

He grasped the jar, accepting her avoidance without comment, and pulled out a drawer, searching for a scoop. Then he asked her a question that had been bothering him. Tormenting him actually—ever since Cullen had told him that Maggie had married and divorced the man who had been her fiancé before Egan became her first lover.

“What happened with Gil Douglas?”

Maggie almost dropped the head of lettuce she held in her hand, but managed to grab the plastic container before it hit the floor. “Gil and I married when Bent was five.” After I’d given up all hope that you’d ever return to claim your son and me. “Gil and I managed to hold things together for five years and then we divorced.”

Beginning and end of story! Egan thought. Her meaning had been so clear that she might as well have made the statement.

“Gil adopted Bent?”

“Yes.” Maggie retrieved the makings for their sandwiches and dumped the ingredients on the work island directly across from the refrigerator.

Where was Bent right now? her heart cried. Was he hungry? Was he hurt? Was he frightened? Did he know that the lunatic who had kidnapped him intended to murder him?

“Are Gil and Bent close?” Egan asked. “Do they have a good father-son relationship?” His feelings were torn between hoping Gil was such a great dad that his son didn’t need him and wishing that he would have the opportunity to be a real father to Bent.

“Is Gil here, now, waiting with me, out of his mind with worry?” she asked, not the least bit of anger in her voice, only a sad resignation. “That should tell you what sort of relationship they have.”

“I assume Bent knows Gil isn’t his father.” Egan waited for her to respond. She didn’t. “Does he know…? Have you ever told him…? What I’m trying to say is—”

“He knows his father’s name is Egan Cassidy. Like you said, your name is on his birth certificate.” She opened the cellophane-wrapped loaf and pulled out four slices of wheat bread. “I’m afraid that I mixed truth with fiction when I told him about his conception.” She unscrewed the mayonnaise jar. “I told him that you and I had loved each other, but that we had ended our affair before I knew I was pregnant.”

Egan ground the coffee beans to a fine consistency, measured the correct amount, then dumped them into the filter. “What else did you tell him about me?”

Maggie searched a drawer in the island and brought out a knife, which she used to spread the mayonnaise on the bread. “I told him that you were a soldier of fortune who worked all over the world and that we had agreed there was no way a marriage between us would ever work.”

Egan filled the coffee carafe from the jug of spring water that rested on a stand in front of one floor-to-ceiling window. “You were generous, Maggie. More generous than I deserved.”

She washed the ripe tomato, placed it on the cutting board and sliced through the delicate skin. “I didn’t lie for you, Egan. I lied for Bent’s sake.”

Bent, her precious baby boy, who was alone and afraid. And probably asking why this had happened to him. Oh, God, where was he? And why hadn’t Grant Cullen contacted Egan? What was he waiting for? But she knew, as did Egan, that the man was prolonging their torture, savoring each moment he could make Egan suffer.

“Will Bent hate me when we meet?”

“You mean if you meet, don’t you?” Her hands trembled. The knife slipped and sliced into her finger. She cried out, startled by what she’d accidentally done to herself.

Egan rushed to her side, grabbed her hand and turned on the faucets of the island sink. Holding her injured finger under the cool running water, Egan said, “Cry, dammit, Maggie. Go ahead and cry!”

She snatched her hand from his and inspected the wound. Enough to require a bandage but not stitches, she surmised. “I’ll just wrap a piece of paper towel around it to stop the blood flow. Later, I’ll put a bandage on it.”

He stood by and watched her as she doctored her own cut, all the while wishing she would allow him to do it for her.

“Bent is safe,” Egan assured her. “And he’ll remain safe until Cullen has me right where he wants me.”

“Then don’t go.” Maggie shook her head, realizing how irrational her thoughts had become. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Tears glistened in Maggie’s eyes. Egan wished to hell she’d just go ahead and break down. He’d rather see her screaming and throwing things than to see her like this. Deadly calm. Numb from pain.

If only she would let him hold her. But he knew better than to try again. Every time he got too close, she shoved him away. He was the one person on earth who could even begin to understand the agony she was experiencing, and yet he was the one person she wouldn’t allow herself to turn to for comfort.

The telephone rang. Egan froze to the spot. Maggie cried out, the sound a shocked, mournful gasp.

Egan walked over to the wall-mounted, brown telephone that hung between two glass-globed, brass sconces. With his stomach tied in knots and his hand unsteady, he lifted the receiver. Maggie hurried to his side.

“Cassidy here.”

Maggie grabbed his arm.

“Hello, buddy boy,” Grant Cullen said. “I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to his mama.”