Maggie's Man Read online

  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 1011 12 13

  Epilogue

  MAGGIE FERRINGER WAS NOT HAVING A GOOD DAY...

  It was bad enough being called for jury duty—but being taken hostage...! Ok, maybe her captor appealed to her on a primitive level, but getting involved with a convicted murderer was hardly a sensible move. And Maggie was always sensible...right?

  AND CAIN CANNON WAS THE REASON.

  This was Cain's last chance to prove his innocence—and he needed Maggie along for the ride. She was the angel he had always despaired of finding. But how could he offer her a future, when he wasn't sure he had one himself?

  Chapter 1

  ^ »

  "Don't move."

  Maggie Ferringer looked up blankly from her seat on the wooden bench outside the second-floor courtroom. Eight-fifty a.m. and she hadn't had coffee yet. She was tired, disgruntled at being called for jury duty and still preoccupied with how she was going to rearrange all her appointments for the next five days. Plus, one of her cats was sick. She was thinking she'd better take him to the vet.

  "Don't move," the prison guard repeated, and this time his voice was very hard.

  She blinked rapidly, looking at the man with mild confusion. Strangers were always approaching her. There could be one hundred people on the street and the tourist would stop and ask Maggie for directions. She supposed it was because she was so unassuming. At five feet, she had a slight build and pale skin that only burned, never tanned. Her clothes ran toward the admittedly conservative—she had a weakness for low-slung, hopelessly sensible pumps. Today, she'd matched her favorite pair of beige pumps with a brown plaid wool skirt and simple pink blouse that declared, I am an intelligent, professional woman with really boring taste in clothes.

  Last week, her mother—one of those tall, wildly beautiful women who could actually wear leopard-print jumpsuits—had flown into town, greeted Maggie with two fofooey cheek kisses and dramatically exclaimed, "My God, Maggie darling! How did I ever give birth to a creature who will probably marry an accountant?"

  And Maggie, who felt the same sting she always felt when trying to understand her exotic, temperamental artist mother, had the sudden urge to toss back her red hair and retort fiercely, "At least an accountant would come home every night for dinner, which was more than I could ever say about you!" She hadn't said any such thing, of course. She was still slightly surprised she'd bothered to think it. After twenty-seven years, she'd come to the realization that Stephanie would always be Stephanie. Getting angry with her immature, self-centered, extremely un-Mom-like behavior was as productive as hating the sun for shining.

  "Lady," the guard was now growling tensely, "I said move!"

  "Move where?" she asked him politely. As far as she could tell, the second floor of the old courthouse was still deserted. Space should not be a problem for him.

  Then Maggie noticed the gun. The big gun. The big black gun pointed right at her, here, in the middle of the vast gray marble hallway of the Multnomah County Courthouse. The hallway was dead quiet, hushed as a courthouse should be hushed—particularly one that had opened its door just five minutes before. But this was only the second story of the building. Just one floor beneath them, she could hear the reassuring hum of people beginning to enter and the parrotlike chirp of the metal detectors as brass business-card holders, chunky gold earrings, key chains and pocket change occasionally triggered the systems guarding the door.

  She stared at the gun still held unwaveringly in front of her, blinked several times, then stared at it again.

  The prison guard abruptly jabbed her in the ribs with the cold, metal barrel. Oh God, it was real. She was being attacked by a prison guard!

  Maggie quietly stopped breathing.

  Hello, her mind whispered. Somebody come up here and do something. Somebody jump out and tell me I'm on "Candid Camera."

  The only person who moved was the prison guard.

  "Do exactly what I say," the light-haired man said steadily, his green eyes boring into her. He shifted, positioning his solid body between her and the top of the stairs where the first smartly dressed morning commuter was now appearing. That man was followed by a woman in a paisley-print dress, then another man in a suit.

  The guard in front of her shifted again and she lost her view of the top of the stairs completely. One moment she was admiring the grand gray marble staircase with its cast-iron and brass railing, the next her universe was reduced to bulging biceps, a granite chest and a pair of chilling green eyes that told her he was bigger, better and badder than she would ever be in her whole entire life.

  She would grant him that. She was one of those people who could never even get the lid off the pickle jar. C.J., Brandon … help!

  "Listen up and don't make a sound," the "prison guard" murmured. His voice didn't waver, the gun didn't waver, his gaze didn't waver. He exuded one-hundred-percent-focused, honed control. She was a dead woman.

  "Okay," she whispered weakly. Her eyes flew from his face to his brown uniform, to the badge on his chest. Then her eyes fell lower and she realized the shirt was too tight across his chest, the pants unbuttoned at his waist, the hems ending a good two inches above his ankles. His feet were squashed awkwardly in the shiny black boots, as if he was forced to walk tiptoe by the constraining leather.

  "You're not a prison guard!" she exclaimed softly.

  The left corner of his lips twisted up. "Very good, you win the double-jeopardy question. Next time, give your answer in the form of a question. Now stand up and do exactly as I say."

  The gun dug into her ribs with clear authority and she jumped to her feet as if it had been a cattle prod. Her oversize beige purse promptly fell off her lap and vomited onto the floor.

  "Damn!" her prison guard/captor swore. With a harsh impatient gesture, he planted one broad palm on her thin shoulder and shoved her down. "Grab it and let's go."

  "Okay," she said again, her fingers trembling so hard she scrambled three lipstick tubes, a set of house keys, a metal nail file, four throat lozenges, a pocket calculator, two cat rabies tags and her checkbook all over the floor.

  "Lady!" he warned.

  "I don't know what I'm doing!" she cried out perilously loud. The ringing footsteps of one man's dress heels against the marble floor came to a suspicious halt.

  The guard hunched down immediately, the gun sharp against her ribs and his shoulder hard against her body. One sweep of his broad hand and everything was back in her oversize leather purse. He leaned so close she could feel his breath on her lips, smell soap and sweat, and see the burning-green determination of his eyes.

  "One more stunt like that," he told her quietly, "and you're dead."

  His fingers wrapped around her thin arm. Effortlessly he dragged her to her feet, her body pressed against him as if she were weightless. And all she could think was that her tax dollars had probably paid for the prison barbells that had made him so strong.

  Ha, ha. Reform doesn't work. She was going to break into hysterical laughter any time now.

  Her tour guide didn't seem to care. With quick, breathless steps he dragged her boldly right to the stairs. Maggie caught the gaze of a startled man in a deep gray suit still watching her. Run, yell, do something, she thought. Fingers dug into her upper arm and she smiled at the halted man instead. He politely nodded at her, she nodded back. And he walked away as Attila the Hun dragged her bodily down the rapidly flooding stairs.

  They were going against the flow of traffic, but nobody seemed to mind. The stream of humanity split around them without a second glance. Executives in their suits passed so close she could touch them with her fingertips. One judge already in his black robe walked up the broad steps just two feet away. Court clerks in profe
ssional, but not too professional clothes sipped coffee and chatted about the beautiful spring weather as they moved to one side so an escaped felon could drag her down to the front doors.

  Say something, do something, her mind whispered. Lydia always said your hair marked you as one of the legendary Hathaway Reds, and all the Hathaway Reds were women of great courage and passion. So do something! Just this once, actually do something!

  As if reading her thoughts, the Terminator's fingers dug into her skin, clamping her arm tightly and effectively. She had to half jog to keep up with his long, lean strides, which cut through the stairs like butter. Obviously, the man not only lifted weights but ran on the prison treadmill machine. Did they give convicts StairMasters, as well, so they could climb skyscrapers as modern-day versions of King Kong? She was definitely writing a letter to her state congressman after this. Definitely, definitely, definitely.

  They made the turn of the sweeping staircase. The huge bay of glass doors loomed before them, guarded by the standing metal detectors everyone had to walk through. For a minute, Maggie felt the hope soar in her chest. The minute he dragged her through the detectors, his gun would set them off and she'd be home free!

  Then she realized the detectors were only for the people walking in. There were no such protective devices for the people walking out.

  His footsteps quickened and she was helpless to stop the momentum.

  The security desk was to her left. Three men sat there in uniform. Look over here, darn it! Hey, hey, someone set down your jelly doughnut and look at me!

  But they only watched the people entering the building.

  Maggie rolled her eyes frantically to the right. Phones, the bank of phones. If she could twist away, if she could make it to the phones. Her brother would help her. C.J. had joined the Marines when he'd turned eighteen and taken to it like a seal to water. He even had more medals than their grandpa had gotten in World War II and Korea combined; no one messed with C.J. Or Brandon. Where was he these days? He just hadn't been the same since burying his young wife two years ago, taking off and traveling the world in a manner frighteningly similar to their late, departed father.

  She made an instinctive lunge for the phone banks. At least she thought it was a lunge. Her captor glanced at her quizzically as if she'd hiccuped, then proceeded to drag her through the big glass doors like his own personal Raggedy Ann.

  She blinked like an owl beneath the sudden harsh glare of sunlight. A part of her was instantly relieved. It was daylight, after all, prime commute time on a bright spring day in downtown Portland; everyone knew bad things only happened after midnight in dark alleyways where stark streetlights reflected off big puddles.

  Attila, however, showed no signs of slowing down. He dragged her to the corner, then came to an abrupt halt. She was so unprepared for the stop, she tripped in her low heels and practically flung herself around him like a spider monkey. He caught her hundred-pound body effortlessly, not even swaying from the impact. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and righted her curtly. Again, she did her impression of a blinking owl.

  "God, who taught you how to walk?" he muttered, then pinned her with a determined green gaze. "Where's your car?"

  "Car?" she asked weakly. They were on Fourth Street, populated pulsing Fourth Street, swamped by morning commuters on foot and in cars. Beautiful wide street, nice clean sidewalks because Portland was a nice, clean city. Wide blue sky, bright spring sun, gentle wafting breeze from the waterfront just four blocks away. Across the street, a simple city park offered a touch of emerald green and a thoughtful memorial to the U.S. Volunteer Infantry. Behind it, she could see the towering white stone building of the Justice Center.

  The walk signal's green man lit up, indicating for pedestrians to proceed, and her captor dragged her briskly across the street. Drivers watched them politely, fellow commuters rushed by hurriedly. Abruptly, Attila pushed her into the park, ducking them both behind a four-foot-high hedge. She had time for one gulping gasp of air, then he pinned her between the prickly hedge and his rock-hard frame.

  Her hands were captured against his broad chest, her legs clamped between his muscled thighs. She was just a tiny, delicately built woman, and he looked as if he could bench-press a sumo wrestler. She blinked, then blinked again. No matter how many times she did it, he remained standing before her, his steely thighs clamped around her legs.

  "P-p-please," she begged weakly. Her body began to tremble, her eyes squeezed shut; she had no pride. She was very scared and she would do anything if this man would just let her go. "D-d-don't hurt me…"

  "Look at me," he commanded.

  She had no choice. She opened her eyes to find his face looming over hers, those bright green eyes hooded by thick, blond brows. For the first time, she could see the sweat beading on his forehead and upper lips, the smooth texture of his skin. His cheeks held the faded gold stamp of old sun and the fresh pallor of a man who hadn't been outside in a long while. His jaw appeared to have been carved from a mountain, strong, square and absolutely unrelenting. His neck was so strong she could see corded lines of muscle from the tense way he held his shoulders.

  By God, he didn't look like someone who believed in compromise. And those lips were only an inch from hers, the closest any man's lips had been in a long time.

  "I don't want to hurt you," he said quietly and without any trace of warmth. His green eyes scrutinized her, not cruel, not crazy, but unrelentingly sharp. She imagined scientists used the same gaze on lab rats right before they conducted the next horrible experiment.

  She giggled hysterically; she couldn't help herself. In response, he jammed the gun against her side so sharply that she hiccuped.

  His eyes narrowed and when he spoke, his tone was all business. "Any minute now, a half-naked guard is going to come running out of that courthouse. You don't want that to happen, because if that happens, you're my insurance. It's going to be you between a convicted murderer and a corrections officer who doesn't want a black mark on his record. Understand?"

  "Convicted murderer?"

  Slowly, coolly, he nodded. His gaze was suddenly hooded. "After killing the first person, the second is easy."

  She flinched reflexively, once more shutting her eyes. Faint, Maggie. Just faint and then you'll be no good to him and he'll leave you alone.

  "Tell me where your car is."

  Her face crumpled further, the hysteria rising up in o sickening mixture of giggles and hiccups. Oh God, she was incapable of fainting. Whoever would've known? It wasn't as if she was a particularly strong person. In the violent war that had masqueraded as her parents' marriage, she had been a heartbroken, seven-year-old diplomat, not a soldier. Nor was she an adventuresome, temperamental wild-woman like her mother. She lived alone in the suburbs with two cats. These days, buying a new brand of panty hose constituted a major event in her life. Really, she thought she ought to be able to faint.

  "Are you listening to me?"

  "I don't have a car," she whispered glumly, her eyes opening and gazing at him miserably. "Want a bus pass instead?" She tried for a hopeful smile.

  "Damn!" His arms snapped around her upper arm, and suddenly his voice was hot and urgent in her ear. "Start walking. Fast!"

  Her eyes popped open. Behind her she could hear a sudden commotion. The real prison guard, she thought. He was coming out. And then she remembered what Attila the Hun had told her about her future opportunities when the real prison guard appeared. She started walking fast, her captor's hand still clenched tightly around her arm.

  "Car," he whispered urgently, his voice hot against her cheek. "We need a car. I'm not lying."

  "I don't have one," she whispered back just as intently, then winced as his grip tightened on her arm. "Honest! I took the bus! Don't you know what traffic is like on the Sunset Highway these days?"

  "Oh sure. In prison we listen to the traffic reports all the time. It would be such a shame to be caught in rush-hour traffic on our way over the wall." />
  He dragged her straight down the street, pushing bodily through the morning pedestrian traffic. His hand was so tight around her arm there was no way they looked like lovers casually strolling. But no one gave them a second glance as he pulled her past rapidly filling office buildings, then Starbucks, overflowing with well-dressed caffeine junkies desperate for a fix.

  That was big-city life for you, she thought resentfully. Where was a hero when you needed one?

  He yanked her abruptly into a public parking garage. "Do you have any money in your purse?"

  "What?"

  "Do you have money?"

  "A…a little."

  "Good, you can pay for our parking."

  "But we don't have a car."

  "We do now." He gestured to the wide concrete expanse of a second floor filled with shiny, gleaming automobiles. Then he turned back to her, his green eyes like hard emeralds. She stared at him with genuine horrified shock until he arched a single blond brow. "Did you really think I was a Boy Scout?"

  "But … but stealing is wrong." She smiled tremulously at the blatant banality of her statement, then shrugged. You're discussing morality with a convicted murderer, Maggie. Why are you discussing the evils of theft with someone who kills people?

  "Uh-huh," Attila the Hun said dryly, seeming to agree wholeheartedly with her thoughts. He nodded curtly and then, as if he was tired of waiting for her to make up her mind, jerked his head to the right. "We'll take that van. Let's go."

  He dragged her forward, his grip iron-tight around her wrist. She wanted to resist. She'd taken self-defense classes; she knew you should never let them get you into a vehicle. Once in the car, there would be no way to run, no way to break away. She'd be trapped as effectively as a moth pinned to a tray.

  He outweighed her by a good hundred pounds. He looked to be in tremendous shape. Those arms… Heavens, he could probably pull a tractor out of the mud single-handedly. Or wrestle an ox or pin a steer. Her footsteps slowed. She tried to dig in her sensible pumps; she yanked back her arm.