Midnight Intentions Read online

  Midnight Intentions

  by Michele Bardsley

  Copyright (c)2003 Michele Bardsley

  Writers Exchange E-Publishing

  www.ebooks.writers-exchange.com

  Mystery/Romance

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment.

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  *Prologue*

  California Criminal Court

  "Madame Foreman, have you reached a verdict?"

  The Honorable Judge Raymond T. Conroy boomed the question across the courtroom. From long habit, Callie O'Brian flinched, then straightened, her fingernails digging into the chair's vinyl arms.

  A man's loud voice did not mean anger. A man's loud voice did not mean violence. A man's loud voice did not mean blows would follow. Callie's nails dug deeper as she silently repeated the mantra.

  Emma's cool hand rested briefly over hers. "Relax," she whispered.

  Swallowing the knot of dread lodged in her throat, Callie looked at her lawyer. Emma's brown eyes offered reassurance before she nodded toward the jury box. Callie's attempted smile trembled as she watched the jury foreman pass a small white paper to the bailiff, who gave it to the judge. The judge -- a big, gruff man with bushy eyebrows -- glanced at the paper then refolded it.

  Callie stared at judge's hands. Her future rested between his thick fingers. A wave of despair crashed over her. What if... She pressed her lips together, blinking back the hot tears threatening to escape. The judge handed the slip to the bailiff who returned it to the thin, pale woman responsible for verbalizing Callie's fate. The words, once spoken, would be recorded forever.

  "Ms. Tyler, would you and your client please rise?"

  Emma stood and Callie slowly followed. Legs shaking like palm trees in a hurricane, she steadied herself by grabbing the table.

  "Madame Foreman, would you please read the verdict?"

  Silence doused the filled-to-capacity courtroom. Callie knew reporters from all over the country, her husband's coworkers and friends, her father, and dozens of curious courtroom watchers waited to see how this infamous case would end.

  Whatever happens, I made the right choice. I made the only choice.

  The foreman adjusted her glasses. "On the count of second degree murder, we, the jury, find the defendant -- not guilty."

  An explosion of noise -- outrage, joy, amazement -- erupted behind Callie. Her legs buckled. She stumbled into her chair, tears scalding her face. God in Heaven. She was finally free.

  --------

  *Chapter One*

  Oklahoma

  Eight Months Later

  The redwood deck creaked as Evan Madigan stepped onto it. His sneakers lived up to their name as he crept along the back of the mansion, peering into each window. The 9mm automatic felt solid in his hand as he approached the glass French doors.

  When he looked inside, he saw the phone first, the cord stretched across the white carpet like a thin, black snake. The receiver was close to the door as if it had been thrown rather than dropped. Evan spotted the man, half-hidden by a navy blue wingback chair.

  He pushed the door's brass handles down. Damn. Locked tight. He crouched, trying to get a better look at the victim.

  The spreading red stain caught his attention. Evan rose, twisting the handles again. "Shit."

  Evan unloaded his weapon, shoving the clip into his back jean pocket. He checked the chamber once more for good measure, then grasped it by the barrel and smashed one of the middle panes. Glass shattered, tinkling to the carpet. A jagged hole allowed Evan to access the lock, but he hesitated. With the luck he'd been having lately, he'd probably cut his hand to pieces and need sixty stitches.

  "Good move, Madigan." Why wasn't anything ever easy? Stripping off his T-shirt, he wrapped it around his fist, finished punching out the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the doors. He yanked on the handles, breathed thanks to the door gods when they opened, and entered.

  "Sir?"

  No answer.

  "Sir?" he repeated louder.

  Silence met his second inquiry. Bad sign. Evan tossed his mangled shirt onto the wingback and hunched next to the victim. The man's breathing was shallow, but his pulse was strong. Evan checked the body and determined no bones were broken. He tipped the man's head and discovered the gash wasn't deep. Poor bastard probably hit it on the corner of the desk during the heart attack. He assumed it had been a heart attack -- that's what the dispatcher said when Evan had responded to the 911 call.

  "Don't worry, bud, help's on the way." Evan checked the man's pulse again. Strong and steady. Good. The rusty scent of blood mixed with the room's leather-and-tobacco smell. He wrinkled his nose and settled down on the comfortable, plush carpet to wait for the ambulance. He glanced at the floor, thinking of all the havoc his tiny nieces could wreak on the pristine white. Evan shuddered. This man either paid a fortune for cleaning or he was childless. Evan surveyed the room, which appeared to serve as a study, and whistled low at the expensive furnishings. This kind of elegance could not survive children and certainly not his nieces' special brand of terror.

  A cold draft of air hit him across the chest, a reminder that he no longer wore a shirt. Air conditioning. He looked up at the ceiling vent. It had been one hot summer. And it was only May.

  "Get away from my father!"

  Evan's gaze whipped to the petite red-haired woman pointing a .22 automatic at him. A glance took in the bag of groceries slouched against the door frame and a small, brown purse tossed onto the floor. When he met her hostile stare, green eyes, hard as glittering emeralds, challenged him. He clutched the 9mm, then remembered that the clip was in his back pocket. Just his luck. Again.

  "You killed him."

  "No, ma'am. He's okay, though. Just let me -- "

  The click of the trigger and the bullet whizzing past his ear seemed to happen simultaneously. A solid thud told him that the bullet had lodged in the wall.

  "The next one goes into you."

  "Calm down, lady. I'm a cop."

  Another bullet whizzed past. "Try another one. I've been gone from Tulsa for awhile, but I'm sure they still require policemen to wear shirts. Now move away from my father."

  "My badge is in my wallet. Let me show you."

  "You know," she said in a conversational tone, "that naked chest gives me a particularly good target. I can aim right between your pecs -- into that nice swirly patch of hair."

  Evan ignored her comment, hoping she wasn't serious. "I'm going to stand."

  "Fabulous. That will give me an even better shot." She looked at him, a small cold smile curving her lips.

  Slowly getting to his feet, he said, "I'm going to reach into my back pocket."

  "Don't you dare. And just what do you plan on doing with that gun?"

  "I won't hurt you."

  "No. You won't."

  Evan stilled, dropping his arms to his sides. The woman's eyes narrowed. She stood in a typical firing stance: legs apart, arms straight, the gun steady as she pointed it at his chest. But her lower lip trembled. He also detected tremors in her arms. "I won't hurt you," he repeated, sensing her distress.

  He watched the emotions flit across her face, each one familiar to him. Anger. Fear. Doubt. Desperation. Mirrors of emotions he had seen on faces of other women -- on the face of his sister -- when confronting a larger, meaner, male opponent. This woman didn't see him as a cop -- as safety or as security. She saw him as a threat
.

  For an electrifying moment, they stared at each other. Evan saw the fear in her eyes then she tipped her chin, obvious determination straightening her stance. "I'm not afraid," she said.

  "I am."

  Her copper brows rose, her face registering astonishment.

  "You have the gun. The power. You can shoot me. You can kill me. My life is in your hands. Your choice."

  She bit her lip, seeming to consider his words. He remained still, not wanting to draw her attention to the fact that he was bigger, stronger, taller. Or that he could take her power away as easily as the small gun she held.

  "You're really a cop? A good cop?"

  A good cop? He frowned at the distinction she'd made. "Yes. I'm a good cop."

  "I don't trust you."

  The siren's wail prevented Evan from responding. "It's the ambulance. Why don't you put down the gun?"

  "What about my father?"

  "He's alive. Why don't you stay with him? I'll go meet the paramedics."

  She hesitated, looking at him for a long moment. He felt as that wide, emerald gaze searched his soul. Then she sighed, nodded, and lowered the gun in a jerky motion. Evan extracted it from her grasp, noticing how soft her smooth, pale skin felt against his calloused fingers. Surprised at his reaction, he looked into her startled gaze. She pulled out of his grasp, leaving the small, black gun in hands.

  "Thank you," she murmured in a husky voice. Then she hurried to her father's side.

  It wasn't until after the ambulance left, taking the woman and the injured man to the hospital, that Evan wondered why the woman had thanked him.

  * * * *

  "Samuel has an excellent chance of recovery, Callie. He's strong, reasonably healthy, and he's as stubborn as a mule."

  Callie looked at Dr. Morris's kind blue eyes and nodded. "Thank you. When can he come home?"

  "It will be some time, I'm afraid. I want to monitor his progress closely. And it will give me the chance to get him to exercise more and eat right. Maybe if he gets into the habit at the hospital, he'll continue to do it at home."

  "I doubt Dad will give up his double-decker cheeseburgers. But it's worth a shot."

  Dr. Morris patted her on the shoulder. Callie flinched, then gritted her teeth and sent him an apologetic smile.

  "There's an excellent abuse education program -- "

  "Thank you. I've been through one in California. It's hard to get out of the habit, that's all."

  "I'm sorry about -- "

  "Excuse me, doctor, but I need to go check on my father." Callie brushed by him and entered her father's dark, quiet hospital room. The monitor's constant beep-beep reassured her that all was well. At least with Daddy. She slid into a chair and clasped her father's limp hand. He'd regained consciousness in the ambulance and had given the paramedics hell all the way into the hospital. Dr. Morris had confirmed that her father had suffered a heart attack, ordered a battery of tests, and promptly shut up the old man's mutterings with a shot of pain medication.

  Damn Dr. Morris. Damn everybody. Did all of Tulsa know what had happened to her? She ran from sympathy just as quickly as she did scorn. When would her life begin again? When would the old pain and fear dissolve? She rubbed her belly, resenting its flatness.

  The door opened. Callie turned, expecting the nurse. She straightened in shock.

  "Hello, Ms. O'Brian."

  He stood inside the door, his broad shoulders blocking out most of the light spilling in from the busy hallway. Callie's mouth dried. He was so big. Dark hair curled around the collar of his pale blue shirt and he still wore the faded, tight Levis. He might have been handsome, but his face was all angles, his nose crooked in the middle, his chin rough with stubble. Not exactly handsome. But striking. He smiled at her and she noticed the sensual fullness of his lips.

  "What do you want?"

  Her question sounded brusque, but she didn't apologize. She didn't want him here. Didn't want him evoking the unfamiliar emotions swirling through her. Her gaze swept over the shirt and memory betrayed her. Callie pictured his bare chest, dark swirls of hair beckoning a lover's touch, his jeans riding low on lean hips. Heat crept into her cheeks and she turned away from him.

  "I came to see how your father was doing. And you."

  "He's fine. What about me? Am I," she swallowed, "under arrest?"

  "Why would I arrest you?"

  "Why would -- I shot at you! You're a cop."

  "Shot at me? When?" His brows furrowed in mock remembrance, then he grinned. "I can't recall such an incident."

  Numb with the knowledge that this -- this cop had not reported her, Callie slumped against the chair. She looked at him through her lashes, finally seeing the offering in his left hand. "Are those flowers?"

  "Leave it to a woman to notice gifts," he teased, stepping forward. The door shut behind him. Callie released her father's hand, stood, and blindly reached for the light switch. She couldn't remain in the darkness with such a powerful man. Before her fingers could touch the panel, soft light invaded the room.

  "Better. Now I can see the woman who almost shot me." The teasing glint in his voice made her uncomfortable. She sat in the chair, then stood, not wanting him to tower over her -- although he already did by at least a foot.

  "My name's Evan Madigan. Do you want to see my badge?"

  "No." She paused. "My name's Callie O'Brian. But you know that, right?"

  "Callie." He said her name as if he were savoring a fine wine. The impression left her vaguely uneasy. He also ignored her attempt to find out how he knew her name.

  Her gaze locked onto the bouquet he held. "You can put them over there," she said, pointing to a table in the corner. Already flowers and balloons inhabited the room. Her Dad had a lot of friends.

  "These aren't for your father. They're for you."

  He handed her the bouquet and stepped away, almost as if he knew how his size affected her. Callie brushed the delicate tulips with a fingertip. "Beautiful," she whispered. Gratitude and wonder fill her then she thrust the flowers at him. Who was he to give her flowers? She'd had enough of niceties followed by earnest promises followed by ... she pushed the ugly thoughts away.

  "I don't want them."

  He made no move to take the bouquet. The plastic wrapping crinkled in her hand as she clenched it. The flowers shook in her trembling grasp.

  "My mother planted tulips every spring. Said they gave her hope and renewed her spirit." He looked at her, his midnight eyes holding her hostage. "She once told me tulips were kissed by angels and sent to earth to give us happiness."

  His hand curled around hers. The heat of his skin penetrated her fingertips. A warmth, a calmness flowed through her, then he let go.

  "How's your father?"

  "He'll be all right, but he's going to stay in the hospital for awhile."

  "What about you? Are you going to be okay?"

  For a moment, Callie thought he knew about the incident in California, and she froze. An awkward silence fell as she scrambled to gather her scattered thoughts. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and inhaled deeply. "I'm fine."

  "If you say so." He paused. "Here. If you need anything, call me." He reached into his back jean pocket, drew out his wallet and extracted a small, white card. "I put my home number on the back."

  Callie took the card, glanced at the scrawled black ink, and looked at him. "I won't need you."

  A corner of his mouth lifted then he walked to the door. She watched him grab the handle, saw the corded muscles in his arm, and shuddered. So strong. Much stronger than her. He looked over his shoulder, his gaze capturing hers.

  "Hope, Callie. There's always hope."

  The door swished shut behind him and Callie brought the tulips to her nose, breathing in their wonderful scent. For the first time in years, an emotion bloomed inside her, cupping the fragile pieces of her heart. Tears met tulip petals. Hope. She laughed, pressing the tulips against her lips. She'd forgotten the sweet taste of joy.
Evan Madigan had indeed given her a gift.

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  *Chapter Two*

  Evan watched his sister maneuver through eleven cats, two dogs, and three toddlers. She shoved pan of lasagna into the oven.

  "Sharon?"

  "No, pumpkin, kitty doesn't like haircuts," she told one dark-haired munchkin. Evan grinned, then shook his head. "Uh, Sharon?"

  She turned, ushering the children out of the kitchen. "Mac! Come get your sisters. Now."

  "I'm doing homework," came a shout from the living room.

  "I fell for that last time. Besides, I can hear the noise from the television."

  "Okay, okay." Evan's six-foot tall nephew ambled into the kitchen, lithely avoiding cats and dogs, and scooped up all three tiny girls. "What should I do with them? The garbage man comes tomorrow, maybe we could put 'em in the dumpster."

  "Nooooo," squealed Mavis, giggling. "Want to go swing."

  "Swing," repeated Daphne. "Swing. Swing. Swing."

  "Twing," agreed Summer. "Twing now, brudder."

  "Mom, wasn't I enough? Did you have to have triplets? Did you have to have girls?"

  Sharon grinned. "Talk to your stepfather. Besides, he got a vasectomy, remember?"

  Mac looked at Evan, a mock expression of long suffering lighting his features. His brown eyes, however, twinkled. "Geesh, Uncle Evan, couldn't you take one off my hands?"

  "Your uncle and I are trying to have a discussion," Sharon said. "Take the dogs out with you, okay?"

  "Twing, brudder," Summer demanded from her upside-down position.

  Evan smiled at them, an odd pang in his heart. "You might as well get used to women's demands, Mac. At least you'll have plenty of practice bowing and scraping. And I'd practice 'I'm sorry' a lot, too, if I were you."

  A fresh-baked roll popped him in the head and tumbled to the floor. He swiveled on the barstool and caught Sharon's satisfied smirk. He rubbed his cheek. "Hey!"

  "I'm getting out of here," Mac said, laughing. "C'mon Jasper. Rosco, here boy."

  The two hound dogs shuffled out of the kitchen, following Mac out the sliding glass doors. Evan watched as the boy-man took his sisters to the monstrous wood and metal swing set. Three sets of swings. Three slides. Monkey bars. And tunnels. "Your children aren't spoiled at all," he observed.