Warrior's Second Chance Read online

  “The last clear memory I have is of you,” Tag said.

  She looked up then, her soft gaze warm with care and optimism, and the words just burst out from the unguarded heart of him.

  “I never stopped thinking about you, dreaming about you. Loving you,” he added.

  For a moment she didn’t react and he experienced a terrible anguished panic. He was too late.

  Then she rose from her cross-legged position and came to him without a word. He stood there, frozen in place, afraid to hope, afraid to breathe. Her palms skimmed up either side of his immobile face, cradling him in that gentle V while she spoke the answer that fed his soul.

  “Neither did I.”

  Warrior’s Second Chance

  Nancy Gideon

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  NANCY GIDEON

  Portage, Michigan, author Nancy Gideon has a writing career that is as versatile as the romance market itself. Her books include many genres such as historicals, Regency contemporary and paranormal. She has won a Romantic Times BOOKreviews Career Achievement in Historical Adventure award, is a Holt Medallion winner and a Top Ten Waldenbooks series bestseller. When not working on her latest plot twist at 4:00 a.m. or setting depositions at her full-time job as a legal assistant, she’s cheerleading her sons’ interests in filmmaking and R/C flying, traveling (for research purposes, of course!) and rediscovering the joys of single life. Visit her at: www.TLT.com.

  For my friends at MMRWA as proof that perseverance pays off.

  Prologue

  “Don’t go.”

  Her soft plea held the strength to still his breathing as he reached for his jeans.

  “I have to. I have to report in tomorrow. I’ve got to pack. Besides,” he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, “we’ve already risked enough by you staying out here so long.”

  Fingertips grazed his ribs, effectively stopping his heart, as well. Her voice became softer still. So sweet, but an enticement nonetheless.

  “I meant, don’t leave me. Not tonight. Not tomorrow.”

  He gulped for air to get his pulse and thought process going again while devouring her with a hungry gaze. The offer was unbelievably tempting. Canada was so close, as close as this, his heart’s desire. And just as impossible to reach. He stood, pulling up his pants in the same strong motion. Those determined movements didn’t give away the wealth of frantic emotions beating him up on the inside. He couldn’t let her know how weak he was when it came to her request. When it came to her, period.

  She lay on the swing, his letter sweater hugged to her smooth, silky skin, skin still moist from his hurried kisses. She lifted up on one elbow to watch him readying to leave her. Not for just this night, but for countless nights to come. The tousled spill of her fair hair created an angelic frame for her even paler face. Light from the back porch gleamed along the trail of her tears. He reached out to soothe away one of those glittering tracks. His reply conveyed an unyielding regret.

  “Sorry, Barbara. Same answer to both things.”

  A heart-savaging smile tried to strengthen the tremble of her lips, making them all the more alluring. Then she spoke with all the honesty in her soul. “I know. But it doesn’t change how I feel. Not about you. Not about us. You can’t blame me for wanting to hold on to you just a little bit longer. What time does your bus leave?” Her words snagged at the end of that question.

  “Six o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  It was no easier for him to say than it was for her to hear.

  “I don’t want you to be.”

  Hurt and confusion flooded her eyes, making them into great salty seas in which a man could drown if not careful. He was already treading dangerously deep waters and knew he should just go. To linger only prolonged the inevitable. And hurting her was the last thing he’d ever wanted to do. Especially not tonight.

  “Let’s say our goodbyes here,” he urged, eager to restore the tenderness of moments before. “It’ll be better just between the two of us.”

  Her smile took a bittersweet twist, catching his meaning with a maturity far beyond her almost seventeen years. “Better than in front of half the town. I don’t care about that.”

  “Better than in front of your parents. And I do care.”

  “People will think it’s strange if I’m not there to see the three of you off.”

  “I don’t care what people think.”

  As long as it wasn’t the truth. The truth that a McGee from the wrong side of the justice system and Judge Calvin’s pristine, not-yet-of-legal-age daughter were romantically…and physically involved. If that truth were known, he wouldn’t live long enough to get on that bus to shake off this town and the stigma his family hung around his neck like a heavy, damning albatross. A reputation he could only live down if he got away, now, right now, before this beautiful, innocent woman-child suffered for its stain. That made him a hero in her eyes, a coward in his own.

  She didn’t argue the point. That always surprised him, her willingness to just let things go considering that arbitration and critical examination were part of her family tradition. The Calvins loved to sink their teeth into any situation…and bite down hard until they won that point, whether they were right in the first place or not. Blind justice and closed minds. A dangerous combination when it came to courting a rich man’s daughter. Courting in the shadows because the honorable front door had always been locked tight for security’s sake where he was concerned.

  But then he’d gone and stolen their most valuable possession anyway, despite their precautions. Like a thief in the night. That’s how he felt at this fragile moment. And he hated it, along with the name that made him so unacceptable.

  She sat up, letting the sweater drop, exposing her creamy, perfect breasts without a trace of guile or manipulative intent. Between them, on a slender sterling chain, where it should have warded him off like a virgin-corrupting vampire, was the religious medallion her father had given her upon her confirmation. She slipped it over her head and then reached for one of his hands, turning it palm upward to make a cup into which she poured that trickle of silver. She curled his fingers over the St. Christopher’s medal and pressed them tight with both her hands. Her touch was cool, her hands trembling.

  “I want you to take this.”

  “I’m not Catholic.”

  “God won’t care. I don’t care. I just want you to have a piece of me with you wherever you go.”

  Silly girl. Didn’t she know she had already carved out a permanent niche within his soul?

  “Okay.” His tone sounded brusque despite the shaky state of his own emotions. He couldn’t afford to let her know how much the gift meant to him. How much she meant to him at this very moment when parting was only hours away.

  She released him so he could loop the chain about his neck. The medallion fell against his chest, next to the agitation of his heartbeats, the metal still warm from her skin. Burning there with the heat of their desperate passion. He knew he’d never take it off, that sacred symbol of their love.

  “You’ll write?” Her question quivered slightly with intensity.

  “I’d like to but—”

  “I’ve got a post office box in Roseville so no one will know. Please.”

  He tried to ignore an angry jab of unfairness at that necessity. So no one would guess what the two of them had become to one another. Loves. Lovers.

  “Whenever I can,” he promised a bit tersely.

  “It won’t be like this forever,” was the promise she gave him in return.

  He’d heard it before. An empty promise made from a pure and painfully innocent soul. One not yet scarred by the ugliness of the society denying them approval and legitimacy
in their relationship. Things a girl like Barbara Calvin needed. Deserved.

  “They’ll change their minds. I’ll start working on them the minute you leave and will have them worn down by the time you come home a hero.”

  Didn’t she realize it would take more than a chestful of medals to outshine the blackness of his past? But because she looked so hopeful, so damned gorgeous in her conviction, he only nodded.

  She leaned forward to kiss him. Passion tasted wild and fierce in that long, wet exchange. And when she sat back, her expression was set with a strength that almost convinced him.

  “I will marry you, Taggert McGee. You keep that promise close to your heart, too, and you come back for me. I’ll be waiting.”

  So he took that promise with him on the bus the next day, along with a PO box number. He pretended he didn’t see her standing at the edge of the curb trying to hide her tears.

  He carried that promise through the rigors of basic training while he sent off letters and waited anxiously for a reply. A reply that never came.

  And the next time he heard anything about her, just before he shipped out, was that she now carried his best friend’s last name.

  Even after thirty years, the pain of that discovery was still close to unbearable. Even as he stood in the cemetery glaring down at the name carved into pale marble. A stone as hard as his heart had become.

  “You son of a bitch. You were supposed to take care of her. You’re the one she should be depending on, not me.”

  Pride wouldn’t allow him to rejoice in his chance to take Robert D’Angelo’s place. That place promised to him one sultry evening a lifetime ago, and now offered again only because it was a matter of need, not love.

  He crumpled the note that had pulled him back into the painful hell that was his past, letting it drop on a true hero’s grave. Walking away, because he wasn’t now, as he hadn’t been then, worthy of the woman they’d all loved.

  Chapter 1

  Death hung suspended at arm’s length.

  She stared with hypnotic horror down the barrel of the gun, seeing no light at the end of that long black tunnel. Only darkness and death.

  Hers and her daughter’s.

  Lifting her gaze from the empty hole that held her demise, she looked into the eyes of her killer. What had she expected to find there? Sympathy? Regret? There was nothing, a flat void of expression as deadly and cold as the bore of the gun.

  Was this what her husband had seen, this empty, soulless stare, in the last seconds of his life?

  Would this be the last intimacy exchanged between man and wife, this shared precursor to their own end at the same indifferent, yet well-known, hand?

  Robert D’Angelo was dead already, his life taken in this same room some months before by this same man. By this man who’d been his friend, his betrayer.

  Her heart beat fast and frantically, pounding in her chest, hammering inside her head, the sound amplifying, intensifying like a desperate, unvoiced scream.

  Please! I don’t want to die!

  Tessa sat beside her, calm, fierce, her father’s daughter. Instead of begging for mercy, she argued with, even taunted, the man who held their futures in cruel hands. So brave, so confident. So precious. In the twenty-eight years they’d shared, had she told her how precious she was?

  An anguished plea burned in her throat, twisting, tearing for release.

  Don’t take my daughter.

  If she jumped forward, if she grabbed the gun, using her body for a shield, perhaps Tessa could get away. There was a chance one of them might survive. Tessa. It should be Tessa, who had so much to live for.

  Her breathing caught as an awful realization slammed through her. These could be the last moments of her life.

  And then his words, with their terrible finality.

  “Sorry, Babs. Nothing personal.”

  Something moved in his fixed stare. Something so dark and unbelievably terrifying, her plan to save her daughter by sacrificing herself froze in timeless terror.

  Pleasure. He was going to enjoy killing them.

  An explosion of movement coincided with a shrill of sound. Her dream shattered like that remembered glass as Barbara D’Angelo woke to the ringing of her phone.

  It took her a long moment to separate nightmare from reality.

  She sat up on the leather love seat, drenched in a sweat of panic. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows of the enclosed porch where, after another restless night, she’d fallen, exhausted, to sleep. She forced a constricted breath. Then another. The threat was gone, now behind bars awaiting justice. She was here, safe in her home, not at her husband’s office at the mercy of his killer.

  The only thing that didn’t change upon waking was the fact that her husband was dead.

  Vestiges of fear beaded coldly upon her skin. She scrubbed her hands over her face. Only then did she reach for the insistent phone. In another few weeks it would be turned off, the number disconnected as she removed herself forever from this place, from this life. She would be moving on, leaving the past and its ugly scars behind. None too soon.

  She lifted the receiver and spoke with what she hoped was coherent civility.

  “D’Angelo residence.”

  An amiable greeting sounded on the other end of the line. It wasn’t a solicitor trying to coerce her into opening her checkbook for some worthy cause. It wasn’t a friend requesting a long overdue lunch. It wasn’t her realtor wondering if the house was ready for the market. It was a voice from the past. One that still echoed, horribly, impossibly, from her nightmare of moments before.

  The voice of her husband’s murderer.

  “Hello, Barbie. Did you think I’d forgotten you?”

  For a moment she couldn’t respond. Her entire system shriveled into a tiny knot of disbelieving panic. How could it be? How could it be him?

  “Babs? You still there? Cat got your tongue?” His chuckle was warm and jovial, making it all the more terrifying. “Nothing to say to me after all we’ve shared? That’s okay. You can just listen. Guess where I am?”

  Finally, her shocked stupor ended upon a snap of outrage. “You should be burning in hell, but a life behind bars will have to do.”

  “I’ve been to hell, Babs. It was hot and green. But no, I’m not going back there, not for a long while. And right now, there’s nothing between me and a fine view of Lake Michigan. Nothing but two lovely young ladies.”

  He was out. That knowledge stabbed through the protective bubble of her supposed safety, leaving her exposed and alone. She gripped the receiver in sweat-slicked palms, clinging to it in desperate denial. Another more awful notion began to germinate like a toxic virus in her brain. She wanted to hang up, to sever the link, to halt the horrible truth she feared was coming. But she couldn’t. She had to know.

  “Why are you calling me?” It was little more than a whisper.

  “It’s a beautiful day. It’s great to be alive. At least I’m sure that’s what your daughter is thinking. I’m watching her right now.”

  Barbara’s eyes squeezed shut. Panic and helplessness tightened within her chest. Tessa…

  “We’ve been having a wonderful time here on the Navy Pier,” Chet Allen continued cheerfully as if he were a part of the outing of school children her daughter was chaperoning in Chicago for the long weekend. “Your Tess particularly enjoyed the display of stained glass inside, but the girls are dragging her down to the Ferris wheel. She’s not afraid of heights, is she? I didn’t think so. Your scrappy little girl isn’t afraid of anything. That’s because she doesn’t know what you and I know. She doesn’t know that her life could be over before she finishes paying for those ice cream cones.”

  “What do you want?” she all but screamed into the phone.

  She could almost see him smiling on the other end of the line, a cold, smug smile of control.

  “I want you to do me a favor. But first, a few ground rules just in case you get confused about who’s in charge here.�
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  She could hear carnival music in the background and the innocence of happy girlish chatter. She could hardly breathe as she heard him say, “Excuse me, young lady. I think you dropped this.”

  And then Barbara trembled at the sweetly familiar sound of her adopted grandchild’s voice with its delicate Spanish accent.

  “Thank you, señor.”

  Rose. Sweet Rose.

  After a brief pause, Chet Allen spoke crisply, clearly, so there would be no mistaking the danger.

  “You see how close I am? I could have just as easily given her a blade between the ribs as returned her bag of cotton candy. Do we understand each other, Barbara? Do you get the picture?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. She got the picture in Technicolor.

  “Good.” He was all pleasant humor once again. “Make no mistake. There is nothing, no one, that can come between them and me if you don’t do exactly what I tell you. Before you can call your commando son-in-law, before you can scream for help to the Windy City police, I’ll have them. They’ll be dead. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yes.” Clear as her Waterford crystal.

  “Excellent. Now, back to that favor. You’re flying to D.C. this afternoon. I’ve expressed a ticket to your office. It should be there in about an hour. That doesn’t give you much time to pack your party dresses. You’ve got reservations for two at the Wardman under your maiden name.”

  “For two?”

  “I’ve arranged for a traveling companion for you, seats 12A and B. Someone who’s capable of handling the behind-the-scenes work that needs to be done while you dazzle and distract. The two of you will have a common goal when it comes to saving your daughter’s life. Whether you want to tell him why he’s got so much at stake is up to you. Just make sure he’s motivated to help you. And to help himself.”

  Surely he couldn’t mean…

  She couldn’t even bring his name into focus for fear of remembering all. She tried to take a breath through the complex emotions wadding in her throat. The effort nearly strangled her. She forced herself to get behind the paralysis of surprise. Not now. Not yet. She could deal with that later. Right now, she had to think of Tessa. She made her mind move forward. Think. “How did you get out?” Suddenly, that mattered, knowing who was pulling the strings. “They said you couldn’t make bail. The evidence—”