THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 11

  He swiveled his head against the opening, trying to see in. His face was flushed with alcohol or anger. His trim blond sideburns were dark with sweat. "Ann," he called softly. "Let me in."

  Ann took a step toward the door.

  "No," Val said.

  Rob ignored her. "Ann, can you hear me? I know things got a little out of hand earlier. I'm sorry. Let me in, baby. Just to talk, I swear."

  Val wanted to throw up. Baby, he called her. As if he loved her. As if endearments and excuses could wipe away bruises and a broken nose.

  Sickly, she realized that they might. Because Ann was wavering in the doorway, knuckles pressed to her swollen mouth to keep herself from answering her husband.

  "Have you got our son in there? You don't want to do this to him, Ann. You don't want to get him all confused. What's he going to think of his father if you take him away like this? Let me see him. Let me talk to him. Mitchell!"

  Ann jerked as if he'd slapped her. "Let him in," she whispered.

  Familiar, helpless anger at Rob's manipulation coiled in Val's gut. "Annie…"

  Ann looked at her, her face and her tone flat. "I have to. He'll wake Mitchell."

  Rob dragged his "just folks" smile from somewhere and pasted it on. "Come on, Val. It's all right. I'm not going to do anything. Let me in just for a minute. Just to talk to her."

  She didn't believe him. But what could she do?

  "Don't do it," Con said.

  His warning rankled. She knew her anger was misplaced, and yet she resented being dictated to in her own home.

  She glanced at Ann, hugging her elbows behind them. A tiny crust of blood had formed under one nostril beneath the packing. Her bruises were slowly turning the color of egg-plant.

  "Please, Val. Just for a minute, and then he'll go home."

  Val tugged hard on her earring, as if the tiny pain could help her think. She had to consider Ann's safety. But she didn't want to take away Ann's power of decision. She'd had too many of her own choices thwarted or ignored to do that.

  "Just to talk," she warned through the crack in the door.

  She had to close the door part way to take off the chain. For a moment she was tempted to slam it and bolt it and lock all her troubles outside. But Rob would come back, of course.

  He always came back.

  She took off the chain and opened the door.

  He didn't muscle in, as she'd feared and half expected. He took two quick steps past her, his blond hair tousled and his starched shirt limp, the picture of a distraught husband.

  His voice was soft, a masterpiece of reproach. "Ann, you made me very worried. I didn't know where you and the boy had gone. You couldn't even write me a note?"

  Ann's gaze fell. "I'm sorry, Rob, I—"

  "Maybe she didn't want to drip blood on the paper," Val drawled.

  Rob's mask slipped a moment as he glared at her. Good. He'd always hated it when she'd talked back.

  And then he took another step toward his wife. "You should have let me drive you to the hospital, baby."

  Slowly, he reached out his hand. Val sensed more than saw Con tense beside her. Ann flinched and then went still under Rob's soft, exploring touch. His fingers trailed along her jaw.

  "You look pretty bad."

  Ann pressed broken lips together. "I'm—I'm all right."

  Another lie. Val pushed her hair back over her shoulder. "Except for bruises, black eyes and a busted nose, she's fine."

  "Your nose is broken?" His concern sounded almost genuine. "Aw, baby, that's too bad. Let me take you home."

  "I don't think that's a good idea," Con said evenly.

  "Butt out," Rob said. His hand drifted down Ann's arm to curl around her wrist. "Come on, Mrs. Cross."

  Ann slumped. "No, Rob, I—"

  Rob's grip tightened. Even from several feet away, Val could see the muscles in his arms flex and tense. "You're coming home now. You belong at home." He turned to Val, his voice still smooth, his eyes bright with triumph. "Get my son. We're leaving. Ann needs to rest at home."

  Dread uncurled in Val's stomach and forced its way up her throat. The situation was spiraling beyond her control. Once Rob got Ann home, who knew what he might do?

  "Rob, it's late." She had no idea what time it was, but late seemed safe. "We're all tired. Ann's not dressed, and Mitchell's asleep."

  Val didn't believe for a second that Mitchell had slept through Rob's arrival, but she was miserably certain the child had practice ignoring things that went bump in the night. Inside her wet socks, her feet were clammy cold.

  "Why don't we call it a night?" she suggested, blinking away the sight of his knuckles bunching on Ann's thin arm. "In the morning you can come back, and we'll talk this—"

  A stifled sound of pain escaped Ann, and Con moved. Close enough that Val felt the rush of his passing, fast enough that she barely saw him grab Rob's other arm and twist it up and out behind his back. Rob grunted. Ann screamed and then covered her mouth with her free hand.

  "I have a better idea," Con said. "Let's take this out into the hall."

  Rob swore. Con jerked on his arm, putting pressure on his elbow and shoulder, forcing him to release Ann's wrist. His feet scuffled on the bare wood floor as he launched a punch behind him. Con slid to one side, jerking upward. Rob groaned and doubled over. They were both big men, former athletes, evenly matched. Rob was heavier, but Con's grip was implacable. His face was set in stone.

  "Outside," he repeated.

  "What in hell do you think you're doing? She's my wife, you jackass."

  "That's right. Your wife. Not your punching bag. Out."

  Val watched, shocked, as Con grappled Rob over to the door and kicked it open. Of course she wanted Ann to be safe. She wanted Rob to leave. But she would have preferred to persuade him to go. Con's violence dizzied and dismayed her. She had no control over it. She had no control over him.

  In the doorway, Rob lunged and lashed out with his feet. "Let me go, damn you. I'll have you up on assault."

  "And Ms. Cutler could have you arrested for trespassing."

  "No, she couldn't. She wouldn't. You don't know who I am."

  "You're a sorry son of a bitch," Con rasped, and bumped into the hall.

  Val ran to close the door behind them. Should she call the police? She had bitter experiences of Rob's ability to sway the town's opinion. Would Chief Palmer allow the arrest of Cutler's one-time champion quarterback?

  Behind her, Ann sobbed quietly, gulping because of the packing in her nose. The two men scraped and thudded on the landing.

  "You're crazy," Rob gasped. "I'll see you fired. Old man Cutler listens to me. I'll ruin you."

  Something hit the wall so hard a picture jumped inside the apartment. Val flinched.

  "Tell Cutler what you want. And while you're at it, explain what you were doing at his daughter's apartment."

  "Collecting my wife. A man has a right to his wife."

  "Not if he beats her," Con said, and threw him down the stairs. Val heard the heavy thumping and the crash.

  "Oh, Lord. Oh, dear Lord," Ann moaned.

  A painful silence penetrated from the hall.

  "I'll be back," Rob called thickly. "This is my town, and that's my wife, and the law around here doesn't look kindly on keeping a man from his wife."

  "Just keep away from here," Con said coldly. "Or the law will be the least of your worries."

  The downstairs door slammed. Val drew a deep breath and swung open the apartment door, prepared to offer bandages, aspirin and a piece of her mind.

  Con's head jerked around. She stopped in her tracks. His face was taut. His eyes were hard. The dim light overhead revealed a sheen on his forehead and high, carved cheekbones. He radiated heat. Energy. Tension.

  Her heart rate bumped up. Adrenaline, she told herself firmly. There was simply no way she was getting weak-kneed and short of breath because of some uncivilized female response to the all-conquering male. She hated violence.

/>   She inhaled sharply and shook back her hair. "Finished?"

  Con grinned, making his warrior mask even more attractive. "For now. Were you waiting to thank me?"

  "Not particularly. You didn't even give me a chance to talk him into leaving."

  He raised his eyebrows. She wished she didn't find his unconscious arrogance so appealing. "You' re assuming you could have. My way, we didn't need to wait to find out."

  "Your way, Rob is angry and vindictive."

  "Aw, hell, Dixie, that guy was born angry. And beating me in a fight wasn't going to make him less vindictive. What did you want me to do, lose?"

  No, of course not. If she were honest, she wanted Rob hurt. She wanted him punished, both for hurting Ann and for … other reasons. Reasons she had long ago schooled herself to forget. Her stomach contracted.

  She lifted her chin. "Not lose, no. But was it really necessary to throw him down the stairs?"

  Con shrugged. "If it's worth fighting, it's worth fighting dirty."

  She didn't understand him. Where was the cool, dispassionate businessman now?

  "More MacNeill Road

  Rules?" she asked.

  "Not really. Patrick fought because it was his duty. Sean will fight for fun. I fight to win."

  She understood that. Edward Cutler liked to win. So did Rob. Under the circumstances, Val supposed, she should be glad tonight's champion had been in her corner. She shivered, both attracted and repelled by his victory.

  "And what if Mitchell got up? Don't you think he's seen enough violence in his short life?"

  Con narrowed his eyes. "As a matter of fact, I do."

  His words lay like a challenge between them. Con had taken action to prevent Rob from hurting Ann, from dragging Mitchell from his bed. Val flushed. The uneven light of the overhead bulb picked out the grim set of Con's mouth, the swelling rising along one cheekbone. Somewhere along the way, he'd taken a punch that could have been directed at her or Ann or Mitchell. Her annoyance thawed, an unfamiliar warmth spreading to take its place.

  "Well, you were certainly … effective. At least in the short term." She reached tentative fingers to the angry reddening under his eye. "Let me get you some ice."

  "I don't need—"

  Her touch drifted to his mouth, stopping his protest. She smiled wryly. "It's got to be ice. We're all out of frozen vegetables."

  The blaze in his eyes banked to a slow burn. Capturing her hand, he pressed warm lips to the center of her palm. Her heart pounded. The man was dangerous, all right Dark and dangerous and desirable.

  "I can think of something else that would make me feel better," he said huskily.

  Heat collected inside her. She felt like a teakettle threatening to explode. She didn't want this attraction to a confident, combative Yankee. She didn't trust it. She didn't trust herself. She blew out a quick breath, as if she could somehow let off steam, and tossed her head.

  "In your dreams, MacNeill."

  She retreated to the apartment, leaving the door standing open.

  Con stayed where he was, on the landing. He figured Ann Cross could use some time to recover from the latest ruckus in her life without him looming over her. He needed time to come down from the fight himself. He flexed his hands and heard his knuckles crack. They hurt.

  That was okay. As long as Cross hurt worse.

  He listened to Val as she urged her friend back to bed, snagged by the contrast between that soothing silver voice and her iron backbone.

  The woman was a messy bundle of contradictions, a rebel with too many causes. Con steered clear of messes. And yet, he admitted, something drew him. He didn't know if it was her sudden blush or sexy drawl, her determined independence or fierce loyalty, her open ways or guarded heart. Maybe it was the whole unlikely package.

  She hadn't conformed to the neat little box her parents had wrapped her in. She fit even worse into Con's blue-collar background. Val Cutler, with her wild hair and mismatched earrings, calmly eating Sunday dinner in his parents' white frame house? He shook his head. It would never work. They were meat and potatoes, and she was sprouts and tofu.

  He heard the click of the bedroom door and the soft pad of Val's footsteps as she crossed the apartment to her kitchen. Thoughtfully, he rubbed his face, assessing the damage to his jaw.

  Boston might appeal to her. After all, she'd lived in New York. But even if he could coax her to the city, to his designer-perfect condo, Val had no place in his plans for his future. Her roots were here. Her restaurant was here.

  Con grimaced, pulling a cut inside his mouth where a lucky punch had slammed his teeth into his cheek. The fight with Cross had obviously addled his brain. What made him think that after bucking her wealthy family Val would embrace the restrictions and pretensions of Boston's moneyed circle? She wouldn't, of course. He wouldn't want her to.

  So, if they had no common past and no shared future, what could he do but convince Val to make the most of the present?

  He pushed away the fleeting wrongness of the thought. Val herself had made it plain she wasn't looking for a permanent relationship. That didn't mean she was uninterested in exploring other options. She'd kissed him, hadn't she? Invited him up to her apartment? She was free and over twenty-one. Available.

  She called him from the kitchen, impatience edging her smooth drawl. "I'd like to patch you up before I go to bed. Or were you planning on staying out there until the ice melts?"

  He grinned at the fantasy he'd concocted from inflated ego and overactive hormones. Valerian Darcy Cutler available? Sure. In your dreams MacNeill.

  * * *

  At eight o'clock on Monday morning, Ann's face was a Technicolor map of Rob's brutality. The harsh bathroom light and cold white tile leached her complexion of natural color and highlighted her bruises.

  Val rinsed out the washcloth and silently handed it back. Ann tried to smile. "I can wash my own face, you know."

  "I know. But it makes me feel better to do something."

  Ann dabbed carefully under her nose with the warm washcloth, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. "I have to leave."

  Disquiet stirred inside Val at her flat voice. "Leave Rob?"

  Ann set down the washcloth. "Leave here. He knows where I am now. He'll come back."

  "If he does, I will call the police. He can't touch you here, Annie."

  "You don't know that. You don't know what he's like."

  But Val did. Nine years buried, the memories squirmed, feeding in the dark on fatigue and fear and the smell of blood. She shifted on the cold, closed toilet seat. She remembered.

  "It doesn't matter," she said firmly. "You're still safer here than you are with him."

  "And what about you? I've done enough to you already. I can't put you in more danger."

  "Don't be silly. I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself, and I can handle Rob." She hoped.

  Her teeth worried the inside of her lip. She didn't want to offer her next argument. She didn't want to suggest that she was dependent on Con MacNeill for safety or protection or anything. But she couldn't place her pride before Ann's need.

  "Besides," she said, "Con's here."

  "Mmm. But he won't stay." A ghost of a smile flitted across Ann's swollen face. "I mean, what would your mother say?"

  "I'm a little old to worry about what my mother says. Ann, you have to leave him."

  Ann's smile faded. "I can't. He'll take Mitchell."

  "No, he won't."

  "He will. You don't know. I've done things…"

  "Nothing to deserve being beaten. Annie…" Val flung out her hands in frustration. "Can't you see what he's doing to you? Can't you see what he is?"

  "I know what he is." Ann's thin hands clenched the rolled edge of the white pedestal sink. "I know he hits me. I know he cheats on me."

  The last was news to Val. Her jaw sagged. "He cheats on you?"

  Ann nodded. "With Donna at the bank. Your mother told me. But I knew who he was when I married him. The Great Rob
Cross, who could have any woman he wanted. And he wanted me, Annie Barclay. I thought I must be someone special, for Rob to want me. I thought … well, it doesn't matter anymore what I thought. But he's been a good provider. And I made promises, Val, to him and to myself, that I can't break."

  "What about Mitchell?"

  "Rob's never hit Mitchell."

  "Maybe not. But what is he teaching him? What kind of example is he setting?"

  "I know. Oh, God, I know. But what can I do?"

  "You can get a restraining order. You can press charges. You have to stop him."

  Wearily, Ann said, "No one can stop Rob."

  Memory writhed again. Val set her jaw. "Then you need to get away from him."

  "To New York?" Ann asked softly.

  Their eyes met in the mirror. There were things Val had never told anyone, not even her best friend. She wondered what Ann knew and how much she had guessed.

  "If that's what it takes," Val said. "You do what you have to do." She laid her hand over Ann's on the edge of the sink. "But maybe you don't need to go that far. You're a grown woman with friends and a child. You could get legal help. You could keep your appointment this morning with the court advocate—"

  "At that shelter?"

  Ann couldn't keep the dismay from her voice. Val knew the joy with which Ann had left her parents' loveless, profitless farm, the hope she'd invested in the four-bedrooms-three-baths on Stonewall Drive

  . Domesticated Ann had taken such pride in her spotless kitchen with its matching canisters, her custom-made drapes and coordinating wallpapers. More than leaving her husband, leaving her house would be the desertion of her vows, the abandonment of her dreams.

  "Ann," she repeated softly, urgently. "You do what you have to do."

  Ann's throat moved as she swallowed. "What time?"

  Relief made Val almost giddy. "Nine-thirty. I'll drive."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  «^»

  Val blew into the office like a miniature force of nature, wearing a loose blue dress that should have looked like a sack and instead flowed over her curves like water. Her hair curled wildly in the suffocating Southern humidity.

  Her oversize canvas bag hit the floor with a thump. "I need you to find me enough money to offer Ann a job."