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ALWAYS FAITHFUL
by
Julie Miller
Ebook edition © 2012
Chapter One
The Present
Drew Gallagher shifted on the cold stone bench,
stretching his long legs into a more comfortable position. After five
hours on stakeout, he felt about as comfortable as the men who had worn
the suits of armor on display in front of him must have.
He'd already studied them in detail. He'd memorized
every hinge, every clamp, every bit of protective shielding on those
figures hours ago. Just as he'd analyzed and catalogued every visitor,
volunteer, and employee who strolled along the black marble halls of the
Nelson-Atkins Art Gallery in Kansas City, Missouri.
He sighed. This sorry case he was working on didn't
fall into his usual area of expertise. Anybody could do a simple
stakeout. He preferred the challenge of going undercover, assuming a new
identity, becoming whoever he needed to be. At that, he was an expert.
The charge of danger electrified him, gave him a focus, made him feel
alive.
Lying in wait for a suspect who might not even show
up was a tedious assignment by comparison. It gave him too much time to
think, too much time to ask questions. And too much time to realize how
few answers he had.
The D.A.'s office must be falling behind to hire a
freelancer like himself. And since his own private investigation
business had slowed during the post-holiday season, he'd taken them up
on their offer. He didn't need the money. He needed the favor in his
portfolio. He'd made a couple of questionable moves on his last case,
and a little brown-nosing with the county courts might ease their
scrutiny of his work.
Otherwise, he wouldn't be here. All Drew had to do
was wait for Stan Begosian to show his face, then record the man's
activities for the alleged child pornography case they were putting
together against him.
"Here we have examples of medieval suits of armor."
The tour guide's voice broke into his thoughts, the over-rehearsed
monologue a slight distraction in his continuing surveillance of the
room. It was the third group of students to come through in the last
hour. First- or second-graders, judging by the size of them. About the
same age as Begosian's usual victims.
"Are these ch-children's sizes?" A dark-haired
girl, front and center of the group, whispered the question.
"No." The guide laughed. "This armor was built for
full-grown men, the warriors of their time. The average size of humans
has increased over the years."
"Are they from the eleven hundreds?" one boy asked.
"I believe so. You know, around the time of King
Arthur."
The dark-haired girl tipped her head back. "The
real K-King Arthur lived in the s-s-sixth cent-tury. My Aunt Jasmine saw
where he and G-Guinevere are buried in G-Glastonbury, England."
"Yes, of course, dear."
Drew felt himself sitting up a little straighter,
worrying for the little girl stuttering through her explanation. He
silently applauded her for sticking to her guns in the face of the
guide's sugary condescension. She might have stumbled over some of the
big words, but she knew her stuff. Smart kid.
"Kerry." A woman's voice, soft and throaty, sounded
beside him, and a figure in a navy blue suit walked past to join the
students. "You can ask more questions later. We need to move along
before the next class comes through."
"O-k-kay, Mom."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ramsey."
Drew hunkered back down on his bench, watching the
cool way Mrs. Ramsey ignored the tour guide's fawning. Drew listened as
she talked to her daughter, and he found himself drawn to her voice. It
was seductive. Not that it was lewdly overdone like a woman making a
come-on. She still sounded like a mother, all right. He just liked the
sound of it. A lot.
The woman joined three other parents to herd the
thirty or so students through the doors at the opposite end of the room.
Drew enjoyed the view. Now she was something that could truly distract
him. He adjusted his glasses, peering through the narrow-framed lenses
to get the best view possible. The woman had legs.
Great legs that ran all the way up to her tight
little bottom. A picture made even more appealing by the fact she tried
to camouflage her sleek curves beneath the sensible cut of a navy
pinstripe business suit.
Everything about her spoke of sensibility. She was
taller than most women, almost his height, in fact, though she wore
low-heeled pumps to try to play it down. Dark, rich waves of hair that
must feel like soft silk to the touch were pulled back by a clip at her
nape.
She had money. He could tell by the expensive
leather purse she carried. But she didn't advertise it in any other way.
No artful fingernails. No fancy jewelry. Just a plain gold wedding band
with a diamond solitaire on her left hand.
Moving nearer, Drew leaned back against a stone
pillar and watched unobtrusively until she vanished into the next room.
She was nice. Very nice. But not his type. Definitely not his type. The
whole air of the woman, in addition to the Grace Kelly figure, said
wholesome suburbia. Class. Culture. Respectability.
Pure trouble for a guy like him. Not that he didn't
enjoy playing out of his league every once in a while. There was a
perverse satisfaction in knocking one of those class-acts out of her
Ferragamos. He felt occasionally obligated to wake them up to reality,
proving that he wasn't so far beneath them on the social register as
they might think. Or as close to the seedy world of the streets as he
might feel.
But he drew the line at married women.
Look, but don't touch.
The sign near the room's entrance mocked him. "As
if you need the reminder, Gallagher."
Drew sighed and rolled his neck to loosen the
muscles cramping there. He'd enjoyed the show while it lasted. Mother
Pinstripe would never know how closely he'd scrutinized her. It was time
to get back to work.
"That place on his boot is shiny because all the
boys and girls rub it for good luck."
Drew turned at the high-pitched tenor of a man's
voice. He'd slipped. A man in a brown tweed overcoat with its collar
turned up to his ears had moved into the room without being spotted. The
man's face remained hidden, but Drew's hackles shot up, and a
time-tested sixth sense that alerted him to danger pushed him to his
feet.
Kerry. The name stuck in his head as something
familiar. Mother Pinstripe had used it. Kerry, the intelligent little
girl with the stutter, had slipped away from her class to study the
armor more closely. Mr. Tweed Coat sauntered in her direction, speaking
calmly, knowledgeably.
"Upstairs, the museum has tapestries that were made
in the Middle Ages. One of them portrays the legend of Arthur and the
Round Table. Would you like to see them?"
Though she sidled a few steps away, Drew crept up
close enough to see Kerry turn her big blue eyes on the man. "My Mom
says I shouldn't t-talk to s-strangers."
* * *
"Kerry?"
Of all the dark heads scattered throughout the
miniatures room, none belonged to her daughter. Emma choked down the
swell of panic. A second survey of the room confirmed her worry. No
Kerry.
Emma quickly retraced her steps toward the main
concourse. Her daughter had led the way in, while she'd brought up the
rear. But then she'd gotten to talking with Mrs. Simmons about
arrangements for the class's Valentine's Day party, and she'd lost track
of her daughter.
Calm in a crisis. Emma Ramsey had earned that
reputation running the administrative side of LadyTech, a software
communications corporation she owned with her two closest friends.
She'd be damned if she'd lose her composure now
just because her little girl had wandered off. Kerry was bright.
Curious. And Emma worried about her only child way too much. She trusted
the girl to be sensible. To stay safe.
It was all the other bozos and maniacs in the world
she didn't trust.
The armor room had several patrons milling about
inside. But it was empty of the one person who counted.
And that man.
She'd felt his presence when she'd entered the hall
earlier, felt the cool weight of his eyes on her.
Blond, she remembered. Longish hair, with a lock
that fell beside his temple. Glasses. An artist, perhaps. No? Too much
danger, too much mystery. Despite his golden good looks, darkness hung
around him like a cloak.
A chill raced along her spine, knowing he'd
watched her. A chill matched only by the heart-numbing fear of knowing
he'd now disappeared, along with her daughter.
She alerted the security guard at the entrance,
giving him a succinct description of Kerry. While he radioed his staff,
Emma walked back to the main concourse in Kirkwood Hall, turned in a
slow 360-degree arc, then waited for some instinct to tell her where to
look.
She imagined a tap on her shoulder, nudging her
feet into motion. She started walking, searching for either the blond
man or her daughter. The museum had two large wings, three floors and a
basement. A lot of square feet for a little girl to get lost in—or for a
dangerous man to lurk in.
The sculpture garden would be closed because of the
snow, so she didn't bother to look there. Something urged her up the
stairs to the west.
Fear hastened her steps. Her world had shattered
five years ago when her husband, Jonathan, disappeared. Lost on a
mission, she'd been told. MIA. The authorities had given her no body to
bury. No culprit to blame. He was just gone.
She'd rebuilt her life and heart around her only
tangible link to Jonathan—their daughter.
She couldn't survive losing Kerry, too.
* * *
"Th-th-this isn't the way to the t-tapest-try
room."
Drew hurried down the deserted marble hallway,
following the little girl's halting voice. He coached her beneath his
breath. "That's it, kid. Tell him off. Make a scene."
It was his duty to save the girl. Despite the
D.A.'s instructions to simply observe, he intended to take Begosian
downtown. But if Drew showed himself too soon, the dirt bag would
bolt—maybe escape. And the knowledge that he'd be free to molest some
other child, especially if they were all as gullible as this one, burned
in every chivalric bone in Drew's body.
Where were the damned security guards who swarmed
all over the first floor? He unzipped his jacket and unfastened the
catch on his holster before stepping into the Modern Art wing. Large
paintings of stripes and geometric figures and cans of soup lined the
walls, and unfortunately placed partitions blocked his view through the
center of the room.
"Are y-you real?"
The girl had stopped in front of a strikingly
lifelike figure of a patron staring at one of the murals. Drew had read
of this famous sculpture, and how startled visitors often apologized for
getting in its way before realizing it was one of the artworks on
display.
Drew rounded a partition and walked straight over
to the girl. Begosian jumped in his shoes, alarmed as if Drew himself
was a statue come to life.
"Put your hands where I can see 'em, Stan." He
pulled out his wallet and flashed his ID at the little girl without
taking his eyes off his prey. "I'm here to help you. Get over here
behind me."
Instead of obeying, the little girl stopped beside
Drew and reached for his hand. Startled by the unexpected touch, he
glanced down. The brief distraction was enough to send her stocky
abductor running toward the far exit. Drew's instinct to pursue jolted
through his legs, but the girl's trusting grip around his fingers
anchored him in place.
He bent his knees and hunched down to the girl's
level. "You need to find a security guard," he said softly. "Tell him
you're lost and you have to find your mother. He can call her name over
the intercom."
Drew straightened, took a step. But Kerry tugged at
his hand. He glanced over his shoulder, saw Begosian near the archway.
He turned back.
"Are you a g-good guy?" The little girl batted her
eyelashes, her curious blue eyes watching him.
He shifted impatiently on his feet. "I try to be,
kid."
"Faith t-told me I'd meet a g-good guy today."
Drew squatted down, took the girl gently by the
shoulders, and fought to comprehend how a child's mind worked. "Is Faith
your mom?"
Her sable curls bobbed around her cheeks as she
shook her head. "She's my friend. Mom can't t-talk to her because she
d-doesn't b-believe she's real."
Drew frowned and looked at the exit. Begosian had
vanished. Recalling the presence of his pint-sized companion, Drew
swallowed his curse. An invisible friend? What the hell would his
psychologist tell him about such childish fantasies? Well, this girl had
been kidnapped and rescued—both by strangers. That should be enough
stress to trigger a busload of imaginary friends. Drew lifted his
glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was way out of his league
with children.
"Are you oh-k-kay, mister?"
Drew nodded. He even dredged up a rusty smile for
the girl. "Let's go find your mom."
"Oh-k-kay."
"Let go of her!" A Louis Vuitton purse loaded with
bricks slammed into Drew's arm, knocking him off balance. "You stay
away from her!"
Falling to one knee, he felt the girl snatched from
his grasp. He reached for his gun, but the brick bag struck him in the
face, sending his glasses flying.
"Help! Security!"
Fortunately, his astigmatism didn't prevent him
from seeing the bag hurtling his way for a third time. He deflected it
with his arm, twisted the straps around his wrist, and yanked the
offending weapon toward him.
Ms. Navy Blue Pinstripe came with it. They tumbled
backward, crashing onto the marble floor, her long legs twisting with
his. There was no time to enjoy the fantasy that sprang to mind. In a
split second she shifted, and Drew guessed the direction her knee was
headed.
"Damn it, lady, I'm on your side!"
He rolled over, pinning her to the floor beneath
him. She struggled valiantly, a sinuous, writhing, dangerous opponent
whom he dared not release if he intended to be physically able to chase
down Begosian.
"Mom! He's the g-good guy I told you about. He
s-saved me from the bad man! He's a policeman."
The girl's words stilled her mother's struggles.
With wary precision, Drew shifted the lower half of his body off hers
and knelt beside the woman. He helped her to a sitting position, but she
quickly jerked from his grasp, adjusting her clothes as she scooted away
from him.
"Show me your badge." Her throaty voice contained
more venom than sex appeal at the moment, and Drew judiciously obliged.
"I'm not a cop. I'm a private investigator working
for the district attorney's office," he explained. He pulled his wallet
from his pocket and opened it so she could match the picture on his I.D.
to his face.
All at once, Drew's world stood still. Face to
face, up close, he looked into eyes of deep smoky blue. She had
porcelain skin dusted with freckles, high cheekbones, and a regally
straight nose. Her perfect oval face, framed by dark brown hair, looked
familiar. Felt familiar
"Have we met before?" He heard his own voice as
little more than a rasp in his throat.
Her eyes narrowed. She studied his photo, then
looked at him. She scanned him from head to knee, from the crown of his
shaggy blond hair to the faded threads where his jeans had worn thin.
Then her gaze met his, guarded and dismissive. "I
don't think so, Mr. Gallagher."
She curled her legs beneath her. Drew stood and
extended his hand to help her up. Once on her feet, she pulled away as
if his touch might transfer some horrible disease. She circled her arm
around her daughter, the ewe drawing her lamb into the fold. "Thank you
for helping Kerry."
Drew choked back his annoyance. As verbally polite
as leggy Ms. Priss might be, she'd relegated him to the status of that
Begosian creep. What had he wanted, really, an invitation to dinner?
"Sure. You'd better have a talk with her about
strangers, though."
The woman released the girl and squatted in front
of her. "How many times have we talked about trusting people you don't
know?"
Kerry shrugged. "Faith said it was oh-k-kay."
Her mother bristled. Her deep, controlling breath
made Drew wonder what she might have said if he wasn't standing there.
"Sweetie, you shouldn't listen to Faith if she tells you things you know
are wrong. Use your common sense."
"Faith s-said she'd protect me." The girl grew
agitated in her defense, and her struggling speech became almost
incoherent.
"Kerry! She's not real. Angels don't… " The rest
of the reprimand disappeared behind a cool mask of control that slipped
onto her face as though it had been there all along.
She stood and faced Drew, a woman of backbone and
grit. With a quivering chin. That acknowledgment of her emotion was
fleeting, and quickly hidden with an arrogant thrust of her jaw.
"Sometimes my daughter's imagination gets the better of her."
Drew wondered why she fought the display of
weakness. Most moms would be sobbing with relief or cussing up a storm
by now. But not this one. Maybe her detachment had nothing to do with
him, after all. Maybe she'd keep all her feelings locked up no matter
who she was with, whether it was a smooth talker in a three-piece suit
or a cynical bum like himself.
"No problem. Just glad I was here."
The woman's expression softened a bit. "I'm Emma
Ramsey. Do you need me to file a report?" Even in this clipped,
businesslike demeanor, her voice had a sexy undertone.
He fought the nagging feeling of recognition. Where
would a no-name like himself run into a class act like her? Only in his
dreams. He shook off his confusion. "I'll take care of it. I'd better
see if he's still on the premises."
Emma nodded. "Thanks again."
"You'll need these t-to c-catch the bad guy." Drew
looked down and found Kerry offering up his glasses.
"Thanks." Acting on an unusual impulse, Drew
reached out and cupped the girl's cheek. Her soft skin reminded him of
home. At least, it reminded him of the kind of place he wished he could
call home. The gentle touch earned him a shy smile that warmed him
despite her mother's frosty dismissal. "You listen to your mom, you
hear?"
"Oh-k-kay."
Drew put on his glasses and gave a mock salute to
Mrs. Ramsey. She clutched her daughter in front of her. He turned and
walked toward the exit where Begosian had disappeared. This do-gooder
stuff wasn't exactly his thing. The reluctant gratitude shining in that
mother's eyes and the wide-eyed trust placed in him by that little girl
were undeserved. And unwanted.
He came out at the top of a back stairwell.
Begosian was a cockroach kind of criminal. He'd keep to the dark, try to
blend in unnoticed if people were around. Drew pulled out his gun and
slipped down the stairs, noiselessly closing in on his prey. The
cockroach might not have escaped yet. He had probably moved slowly, not
wanting to draw attention to himself. Drew had no intention —
"Freeze! Drop your weapon!"
A door swung open and a security team swarmed in.
Surrounded, Drew slowly lowered his gun to the floor, keeping his free
hand raised in surrender. "Easy, guys, I'm with the D.A.'s office. I
have a permit. I was cleared when I came into the building."
One of the guards thumped him on the back, forcing
him to the floor. "Face down and stay put!"
The clock ticked away as Drew seethed with
indignant frustration. Several guards frisked him. One found his wallet
and identified him.
But Drew's opportunity had passed. The guards
returning his gun and i.d., dusting off his jacket, and apologizing
repeatedly did little to reverse Drew's darkening mood. Begosian was
long gone, and by now the trail would be cold. He'd botched what should
have been a textbook assignment for a seasoned pro like himself.
Nope. This was definitely not a good day. Sweet
little girls and sensible mothers weren't just out of his league. They
were bad luck, pure and simple. They'd never mix with a man like Drew
Gallagher.
* * *
Emma waited for the school bus to pull away before
hurrying across the parking lot to her customized van. After talking to
the police, it had taken a considerable degree of willpower to let Kerry
get on the bus with her classmates. What she really wanted to do was
bundle the girl up in her arms, take her home, lock the doors, and stand
watch over her.
But Kerry had begged to finish the day with her
friends, and Mrs. Arnold, her teacher, had assured Emma that maintaining
a normal routine would be beneficial to her wayward daughter. So Emma
had waved good-bye and buried her fears deep inside.
She concentrated on reviewing the rules of
self-defense that Jonathan had taught her, and she made a mental note to
reinforce those same precautions with Kerry. She had her keys ready as
she approached her van, and casually scanned the area, alert to spots
that offered hiding places for the kind of man who would steal a child
from her mother. Or detain a woman with bad come-on lines.
Have we met before? She allowed herself one,
short laugh. She'd heard all the lines—good and bad—and had turned them
all down. She was a married woman, after all. Although her heart might
be gathering dust on a shelf, it still belonged to her husband.
A voice inside her said he was still alive
somewhere, struggling against captors or injury to find his way home.
The men Jonathan Ramsey had served with continued to pursue any leads on
his whereabouts. She'd traced him through military channels. Foreign
embassies. Police. Private investigators.
But in five years, she'd found nothing. Nothing but
heartache and loneliness and a dying faith that he would one day return
to her.
Emma glanced beneath the frame of the neighboring
car and her van before stepping between the vehicles. She fought off a
feeling of guilt. Somehow, that Gallagher man had diverted her attention
long enough for her to lose track of Kerry. He was lanky and lean. So
intense, so unpredictable. With those incredible eyes. Behind his
glasses, Mr. Gallagher's eyes reminded her of rough-cut emeralds—deep
green, without a tinge of blue or gray.
She'd been wary of him. Yet he'd helped Kerry, and
for that she was grateful. But she couldn't shake the way his eyes had
stared at her. Hungry. Pleading. He'd made a silent request of her, but
she hadn't understood the question. Maybe they had met before. But she'd
have remembered a man like him—so polished beneath his coarse veneer,
with fluid strength and precise movements. He was coiled, cautious.
She had barely unlocked the van door when it was
yanked from her fingers. "Get in!"
A leather-gloved hand pushed her inside. "Move
over."
Emma obeyed the breathy commands. Shock clouded her
ability to think clearly, but she reacted on instinct. She jumped to the
other side of the vehicle, and her fingers worked like a broken toy,
struggling to open the passenger door handle.
"Don't."
The man's fingers clamped on to her elbow and
twisted it behind her back. He leaned over her, pinning her with his
heavier weight. Flight would not be possible. Out of breath, the man's
heavy panting fogged up the windows, leaving Emma to wonder if anyone
could see her plight. She schooled her panic.
"Who are you?" Her own breath caught on a strangled
whisper. "What do you want?"
"My name doesn't matter." She craned her neck to
study his face. She saw sweat beading on his forehead, despite the chill
of the day, and his wild gaze darted from the back of the van to the
windshield, looking for something neither of them could see. She
flinched when his gaze landed on her.
"I didn't intend to hurt your girl."
"You took her?" Fury swelled in her, overriding her
fear. Emma jerked against his grip, but the movement only angered him.
"You listen to me!" He yanked her arm in its
socket, forcing her down onto her knees in the space between the two
front seats. Emma yelped at the pain shooting through her shoulder, but
chose not to struggle. She gritted her teeth and listened to his
coldblooded offer.
"I have a computer disk with proof your husband is
still alive. For two hundred fifty thousand bucks I'll deliver it to
you."
"My God. You were going to give that message to my
daughter?"
She didn't know whether to scream or cry. To
deliberately involve Kerry in this cruel scheme as bait or incentive to
ensure her cooperation sickened her. But Jonathan? Could this bastard
really know something about her husband? The possibility beckoned her.
But her husband would never want her to be a part of something like
this. He'd made a career risking his life to save the world from
conscienceless predators like this lowlife.
"Where is he?" She heard herself ask the question,
five years of grief and despair overwhelming the morals of a lifetime.
His hot breath lapped against her ear as he bent
closer. "For another fifty, I'll tell you. Deal?" The driver-side door
wrenched open.
"Having car trouble, Mrs. Ramsey?"
The deadly quiet voice startled her assailant. His
grip slackened, and a blast of cold air swept over her Pulling her arm
down and cradling it against her stomach, she could turn just enough to
see a steel handgun pointed right at the man's temple.
She looked beyond his dazed expression to see the
predatory gleam stamped on the taut features of Drew Gallagher's angry
face. "Hands up, Begosian."
The eyes of her assailant dulled as he slowly
turned and placed both hands on the steering wheel. With his gun still
resting against her attacker's scalp, Gallagher spoke. "Let me help you
out."
Drew dragged the man from her van, and Emma
scrambled to her feet and climbed out after them. He hauled the man by
the lapels of his brown tweed coat into the open parking lot and shoved
him onto his knees upon the asphalt.
"Face down," he ordered, following the man down to
frisk him for weapons and handcuff him. Then, with his knee squared in
the middle of the guy's back, Drew pulled a cell phone from his jacket
and punched in a number.
Emma huddled inside her coat, chilled by the cool
efficiency of Drew Gallagher's actions as much as by the damp January
wind. The shiver drew his attention, and he finally looked at her. His
strange eyes narrowed. "You hurt?"
"Nothing serious." She dropped her gaze to the
dirty slush that stained the hem of her coat where she'd been forced to
kneel on the floor of the van. Had she been rescued a moment too soon?
Was the chance to find Jonathan about to be bundled off to the police
station?
"I thought you weren't a cop."
"I'm not." His short answer surprised her. "I'm
doing a favor for the D.A.'s office."
Before she could redirect her question, his party
answered and he stepped away to conduct his phone conversation in
hushed, efficient tones. Emma plunged her hands into her pockets and
shifted her curiosity to the man lying handcuffed on the pavement. She
had to raise her voice to be heard over his cursing and muttering about
his rights.
"Do you really know my husband?" she asked.
"I'm not saying nothing now! You're screwed. He's
screwed. Hell, I'm—" He spat the words at her, and in an instant she
found Drew Gallagher's strong back positioned between them, protecting
her from her assailant's spew of foul language. She could see neither
Drew's face nor the man's, but suddenly the man fell silent.
"Anything else you want to say?" challenged Drew.
His lanky height topped Emma's by only a few inches, yet an indefinable
energy radiated from his broad shoulders, making him seem bigger and
brawnier. He shielded her, made her feel feminine. He made her feel
safe.
"What's this guy's interest in your family?" asked
Drew, taking her elbow and guiding her several feet away, but not so far
that he couldn't keep watch over the man in handcuffs.
Her personal life was none of his business, but
unnerved by the unexpected warmth that radiated from deep inside her at
the protective gesture, Emma answered. "He says he has a computer disk
that can help me locate my husband."
"Your husband? How long has he been missing? Have
you reported it to the police?" He slipped his hands into the pockets of
his leather jacket.
"He's been gone five years." Her tone silenced a
chain of professional questions he no doubt wanted to ask. The same
questions she'd answered more times than she could count. "And there's
nothing the police can do to help me."
"Five years?" He said the words and an odd
transformation took place. The intensity in his catlike eyes wavered,
and suddenly Drew Gallagher was miles away from her.
Realizing the hopelessness of her situation, she
tried to draw him back, to show him the validity of her concern. "How
can I know if he's telling the truth? If he has that disk hidden
somewhere, I may never get a chance to see it."
Suddenly back, he drilled her with a look that made
her feel silly. "That's Stan Begosian. He's wanted in an investigation
for creating and distributing child pornography. You want me to release
him before the cops get here so he can give you a disk he may or may not
have? For all we know, it's a scam. That disk—if it does exist—might
contain nothing more than pictures of children he's taken. It could have
been a picture of your little girl."
"That's enough."
"I'm not trying to be cruel, but whatever he claims
. . . don't believe it."
Emma bristled at his easy dismissal of her last
shred of hope. "He knows who I am. That has to mean something."
"It means he's a conniving lowlife." Drew splayed
his fingers across his hips and stepped closer. "Look, the cops will
search his place. Ask them to look for the disk."
Emma tipped her chin to look him in the eye.
"Apparently your goal is simply to get your man, regardless of the cost
his actions or yours have on anyone else."
He pressed his mouth into a grim, flat line. Emma
clenched her toes inside her pumps to keep from backing away from the
disquieting intensity of his eyes. "I rescued your daughter today from
that creep. I just saved your butt. And now I'm the bad guy?"
Two black-and-white units pulled up, giving Emma an
opportunity to sneak a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding. With
their hands on their holstered guns, the officers hurried out and
surrounded Begosian. Drew turned to acknowledge them, then raked his
fingers through his hair, shaking loose his mane of wheat-gold waves.
His shoulders rose and fell in a deep breath before he turned back to
her.
"This has been more fun than I can stand, but we
have to stop meeting like this."
Her heart thumped in a funny rhythm at the veiled
disdain in his voice. Maybe she hadn't properly thanked him. But, savior
or not, he'd cost her a lead in finding Jonathan.
More than that, she couldn't be around a man whose
simple eye contact made her pulse pound in her veins. The instantaneous
awareness felt too much like betraying her husband.
"No, Mr. Gallagher. We have to stop meeting,
period."
QUESTION: What is the name of
Emma Ramsey's daughter?
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