THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Read online

  Val glanced back over her shoulder. "Mitchell? Come on, honey."

  The eight-year-old shuffled forward. "Is she going to be all right?"

  She gave his bony shoulders a reassuring squeeze. When he didn't respond, she sighed and dropped her arm. "I think so. I hope so. I'm going to get her some ice, okay? You want a soda?"

  He shook his head.

  Ann hunched at the kitchen table, her arms protecting her body, one hand pressing the towel to her face. Blood spotted her neat denim jumper. Swallowing fury and frustration, Val stalked to the refrigerator to load a plastic bag with ice.

  "Frozen peas," Con said beside her.

  She frowned. "What?"

  "For her face. A bag of frozen vegetables conforms better to the site of the injury, and it won't leak all over her."

  She remembered. "Boxing."

  He didn't smile, but the gleam in his blue eyes momentarily lightened the burden in her chest. "Plus I fought with my brothers a lot." Glancing over her shoulder, he lowered his voice. "You want to get her to a doctor."

  Val spoke with a bitterness born of experience. "She won't go."

  She wrapped up a bag of frozen corn and carried it to the table. Kneeling at Ann's chair, she pried gently at her friend's hands. The short, neat nails bore quarter-moons of blood.

  "Here, honey, it's a clean towel. Can I get you something? Aspirin?"

  Ann shook her head, which restarted the flow of blood. "Oh! No. I took some before we came. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I just wanted … I just had to get out of the house for a while."

  Val's gaze flew to Ann's son, watching beneath the guard of his lashes. "He didn't… Mitchell?"

  "No," Ann assured her. "No. But Rob's been so keyed up the past two days. I wanted to get away. Just until he settled down. And I couldn't leave Mitchell alone with him."

  Neither one of them bothered to identify him. They both knew. There had only ever been one man for Annie Barclay Cross. And Val, God help her, knew him too. She swallowed convulsively at the memories and dabbed gently at Ann's face with a napkin. The kitchen towel wrapping the frozen corn was already bright with new blood.

  "She needs to get to the hospital," Con said.

  Ann made a choked sound. "No."

  Val glared. Con was going to scare Ann right back to her husband. "You're upsetting her."

  "I'm up—?" Con bit off whatever he'd been about to say. "She needs to see a doctor," he repeated quietly. "I think her nose is broken."

  Oh, dear heaven. Oh, poor Annie.

  "Mom?" Mitchell took a hesitant half step out of his corner.

  "It's okay," Ann said bravely through the blood-soaked towel.

  But it wasn't, and Mitchell knew it. His realization showed in his defeated posture and defiant eyes.

  Con dropped his big hand on the boy's shoulder. The boy turned to him, green eyes blazing.

  "Will you take us?" he demanded.

  "Yeah, sure, kid. We'll go."

  Ann made a broken bird cry of distress. "No. I can't. The insurance… If he finds out…"

  "Ann." Val drew a careful breath to still her internal trembling, to steady her voice. She had to be steady, for Ann's sake. Val knew better than anyone but Ann herself the difficulty of standing against Rob. But Con, with his stranger's eyes, saw what Ann did not, what Val herself had avoided seeing. It was time to act.

  "Come on, honey. You need help. We're going to the hospital."

  Eventually Ann, who was used to obeying, allowed herself to be persuaded. Val squeezed her hands on the way down to the car, as if she could infuse her friend with her own conviction. Con folded himself into the back seat beside Mitchell.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Val saw that he kept constant, unobtrusive contact with the boy—his palm curled over his shoulder, his crossed foot nudging his knee—and that Mitchell permitted his touch. At the hospital, he smoothed their way, requesting a wheelchair, parking the car.

  He caught up with them as Val steered Ann's wheelchair past the half-empty rows of chairs in the waiting area. A toddler with an ear infection screamed from her mother's lap. A flush-faced boy leaned against his father's arm.

  Just another quiet Sunday afternoon in Cutler, Val thought bleakly. Nothing to demand attention but bee stings, boating accidents and battered wives.

  As if conjured by Con's arrival, the nurse appeared, a solid woman in white pants and jacket, her dark hair shaved close to her head. Tucking her clipboard up on her hip, she bent close over the wheelchair.

  "All right, now, honey, want to tell me what happened to you?"

  Ann's gaze slipped past the nurse to Mitchell. Her swollen eyelids squeezed shut. Val's heart constricted at her friend's dilemma. What could she say in front of their son?

  "The explanations can wait. She needs attention now," Con said.

  The nurse straightened, her round face disapproving. "And who are you?"

  Val could imagine what she suspected. A beaten woman accompanied by an overbearing man had to be a typical sight in the ER.

  "A friend," she said hastily. "We're her friends."

  The nurse's guard relaxed. "Well, you brought her to the right place." She took the back of Ann's wheelchair. "Okay, honey, let's get you down to X ray. This your boy?"

  Ann nodded. "Mitchell."

  "We've got a real nice waiting room. How about we get one of the other nurses to show Mitchell where the Nintendo is while we go take some pictures?"

  "I don't want to play Nintendo. I want to stay with my mom."

  "I'm sorry. No children in the treatment area."

  Mitchell's voice shook. "No! I want to stay with my mom."

  Ann moaned. Val rubbed a circle on the back of her hand, her insides churning.

  Con dropped to his heels so that he was eye to eye with the boy. "Look, I'll stay with you. Val will go with your mom. As soon as she knows anything, or it's all right for you to go back, she can come get us. Okay?"

  Mitchell searched Con's face, his own expression troubled. Apparently he trusted whatever he found there, because at last he nodded jerkily.

  "Good man," Con said quietly.

  The boy's thin shoulders straightened.

  Val released her pent-up breath. Thank God for Con. His compassionate firmness was just what Mitchell needed. Not what he was used to, but what he needed. No wonder he watched the man with that hopeful, hungry expression. She wondered uneasily if she looked at Con the same way.

  "Thank you," she said.

  He shrugged. "No big deal. We'll be here when you're ready for us."

  No big deal, Val repeated to herself. But as she followed Ann's wheelchair down the hall, she brooded over Con's quiet assumption of responsibility. He determined what needed to be done and did it. She was grateful and more than a little surprised. No other man she knew would have taken his cues from Ann. No other man would have shouldered the charge of a frightened boy for an indeterminate hospital wait. His calm cooperation bewildered her.

  This time, his support hadn't felt like interference. And that was a very big deal for her.

  * * *

  On the animated screen, the monster roared and lunged for the jeep. Mitchell, his pale face set, pressed buttons with rapid-fire accuracy. Tiny sparks flew from the car and ignited. The jeep's attacker disappeared in a red-and-yellow fireball.

  Mitchell grunted in satisfaction, and Con gave a silent sigh of relief. Maybe it wasn't politically correct, but he was all in favor of a little therapeutic destruction. Let the kid defeat his demons, even if it was only on TV.

  He felt Val enter the room before he saw her, with a new sixth sense that operated only in her presence. She'd been by twice before, once to reassure Mitchell and once to tell them it would be at least another hour before Ann could be discharged.

  Somewhere along the way, he saw, she'd wiped Ann's blood from her face, but drying streaks still stained her pretty tank top, brown against blue. She looked tired, and so beautiful she made his heart ache.
/>   She perched beside him on the vinyl couch, backbone straight as a debutante's. "Hey," she said in a Southerner's greeting.

  He wanted to pull her onto his lap and kiss the worry from her mouth and rub the tension from her shoulders. Except that she held herself so stiffly he was afraid the wrong touch might shatter her.

  He nodded instead. "Hi."

  She glanced at Mitchell. "How are we doing?"

  He debated telling her about the tears and the five trips they'd made to the vending machines and then decided that some things were best kept between men.

  "Okay, all things considered. We seem to be beating the bad guys."

  Her smile was wan, and still it stopped his breathing. "That sounds nice."

  "Yeah. Score one for our side. How about in there? Is she pressing charges?"

  "No. At least she's agreed not to go back to him tonight. And she let them take pictures."

  She sounded discouraged. He wondered if she ever let herself lean on anyone. He wondered what it would take to make her lean on him.

  "That's good, right?"

  "It's evidence," she agreed wearily. "They'll keep it in her record. But it doesn't do any good if she won't file charges."

  "You want me to talk with the husband?"

  Val looked at him as if he'd offered to beat the guy's head in. Which, come to think of it, wasn't a bad solution.

  She primmed up her mouth. "No. It would only make things worse if she decides to go back. The nurse told me if Rob suspects Ann's seeking help, there's no telling what he might do."

  In one short, graphic phrase, Con suggested what Rob could go do.

  "Well, if you think that would help…" Val deadpanned.

  Reluctantly, Con grinned. Even drooping with fatigue, she was no fragile Southern flower.

  Another monster exploded on the screen. Mitchell watched the television with blank intensity, his thumbs jigging and pressing the controls as if the safety of the world rested on his reactions. Con's jaw tightened. Maybe, in his kid's mind, in his kid's world, it did.

  He turned back to Val, still erect on the couch. "So, what's the deal? Are they going to a shelter?"

  "No. She's not ready. She's staying with me."

  Fear fisted in his gut. "Bad idea," he said instantly.

  "Why? I have two bedrooms. It will be better for Mitchell—more like a sleepover."

  "It's not safe."

  She tilted her chin. "Safer for her than going home."

  "And what about you? What if Cross comes after them?"

  Her slim throat moved as she swallowed, but she replied resolutely. "I'll call the police. I can take care of them."

  He would have admired her bravery if he weren't so worried about her. "You can't even take care of yourself. You forget to lock your damn doors."

  She sighed in exasperation. "So, tonight I'll remember."

  "I have a better idea," Con proposed.

  She arched her brows.

  "I'll sleep at your place tonight."

  The offer surprised them both.

  Con didn't intend to jeopardize his professional plans by thrusting himself into Val's personal life. Besides, after seventeen years of sharing bedrooms, first with Patrick and then with Sean, he guarded his space. But despite his reluctance to get involved, he didn't question his instincts. Staying at Val's apartment was the right thing to do.

  He wasn't going to fail her.

  Apparently, she didn't see things that way.

  "You must be kidding," she said.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  Con raised dark eyebrows. "It's the logical solution."

  Val frowned. It was one thing to accept his help parking the car. And maybe a bodyguard wasn't such a bad idea. But just whose body did Con imagine he'd be guarding tonight?

  "I have a ten-year-old boy sleeping in my guest bedroom. Or had that little fact escaped your attention?"

  His eyes narrowed. "It's because of Mitchell that I'm spending the night. Unless you'd like him to see what his father does to his mother after Cross breaks into your apartment?"

  The calculated brutality of his response should have offended her. But he was right.

  "All right. But you sleep on the couch."

  "Of course."

  His matter-of-fact acceptance shamed her. She had no business reacting like an outraged virgin while Ann and Mitchell's safety was on the line.

  "Although," Con added smoothly, "I'll be disappointed if you don't at least offer me … a cup of coffee?"

  Val bit back her smile and stared down her nose at him in her best Aunt Naomi fashion. "I don't drink coffee," she reminded him again. "And it's just for one night."

  "Understood."

  "Tomorrow, if I can talk her into it, Ann has an appointment with one of the advocates at the women's shelter."

  His expression sharpened. "A lawyer?"

  "More like a cheerleader, I think. But it's a start."

  "Yeah. How's her face?"

  Val glanced at Mitchell, engrossed in his game, and kept her voice low. "You were right. He broke her nose. They packed it and gave her a prescription for pain pills."

  Con nodded. "That's about all they can do."

  She tried not to stare. "Did you ever…?"

  "Once. Regional tournament." He rubbed the slight bump on the bridge of his nose. "Sean's the pretty one now."

  His quick grin scrambled her insides. She'd thought Rob Cross had cured whatever susceptibility she'd once had for high school athletes. It was disconcerting to discover her immunity didn't extend to ex-jock Con.

  "You'll have to introduce me to your brother," she said lightly.

  "No."

  She thought he was joking. "Pardon me?"

  He didn't smile. "I don't share."

  She ignored the primitive feminine thrill created by his possessive tone. She wasn't anyone's possession.

  "Nobody's asking you to share. Nobody's asking you to do anything." She pushed her hair back over her shoulders and stood. "Mitchell, honey?"

  The boy cocked his head, his eyes still fixed on the TV.

  "Let's go check on your mama, all right?"

  * * *

  Well, he'd blown that one, Con thought.

  He stood in the middle of Val's living room, a pillow clutched to his chest, listening to the quiet murmur of women's voices in the other room. At least she hadn't thrown him out on his ear.

  She'd told him she didn't want anyone telling her what to do, running her life or her business. He knew she had control issues with her old man. So what had possessed him to fall back on the primate routine at the hospital?

  She worried him, Con admitted. Without a thought for her own safety or convenience, she'd opened her home and her heart to Ann and the boy. He could admire her loyalty and compassion. He even respected her decision. But the thought of Val mixed up in the middle of an ugly domestic dispute threw a punch at his cool appreciation of her finer qualities.

  And that worried him, too. He didn't know what to make of his instinctive response to protect her no matter what she wanted. Val reached him on an elemental level that had once been closed to everyone but family. He'd certainly never felt the need to drag Lynn by her hair to the nearest safe cave.

  Con tossed the pillow down on the couch. Hell, if he was going to react like a gorilla, he might as well make himself useful. He was here. He would keep her safe.

  The bedroom door cracked open. Val appeared in the widening rectangle, her face in shadow and her curling hair haloed by the soft yellow lamplight.

  Con's heart thumped in quick anticipation. He crossed his arms over his chest. "How's it going?"

  "All right. We've almost got Mitchell settled." Her smile flickered. "I had to convince him he'd be okay in one of my T-shirts for the night."

  It sounded like a good deal to Con. He wouldn't mind getting into Val's shirt, especially if she were still wearing it. Unfortunately, he figured she wasn't making him the o
ffer. He tried for cool. "And?"

  "I found an old Knicks shirt that wasn't too sissified." She hesitated. "He wants to say good-night to you."

  He was surprised and a little embarrassed. From years ago, the memory surfaced of five-year-old Sean, his dark hair sticking up from his bath, coming down the hall to the big boys' room to say good-night. I love you, Con. And himself, touchy with eleven-year-old consequence, not knowing what to say in reply.

  Patrick had known. Even at fourteen, Patrick had known what to say. I love you, buddy. Now get to bed, or I'll have to sit on you.

  Con cleared his throat. "Yeah, sure. He coming out?"

  She turned her head, speaking over her shoulder. "Mitchell?"

  His skinny body edged past her in the doorway. He dragged his feet over to the couch and stood an arm's length away. Close enough to touch, if Con took the initiative; far enough away to retain his dignity.

  "Good night, Mr. MacNeill."

  "'Night, kid."

  "Will you be here in the morning?"

  Beneath the casually voiced question, Con heard the child's need for reassurance. He felt the grave, sweet weight of Val's regard. He didn't want to be found lacking in either one's eyes.

  He reached out, pretending not to notice the boy's involuntary flinch, and messed up his short, neat hair.

  "You bet. Now get to bed, or I'll have to sit on you."

  A gleam lit Mitchell's too thin, too solemn face. "Okay. Good night, Aunt Val."

  "Good night, honey. Give your mama a kiss for me."

  She waited until the bedroom door had closed behind him before she turned to Con, a rueful smile on her face. "I wish I knew how you do that."

  He lifted one shoulder, uncomfortable with her praise. "It's a—"

  "—guy thing. I know. It was very nice." She didn't fidget—she was too well brought up to fidget—but her gaze slid from his. She toyed with her earring, a sparkle of silver in the dim light. "I don't think I've thanked you for all your help today."

  "Yeah, you did. At the hospital."

  "Oh. Can I … can I get you something to drink?"

  It was just one more example of her thoroughbred manners. He knew better than to ask her again for coffee. He knew better than to imagine she was offering anything more. What he needed was a cold drink. A cold shower would be even better.