LITMIR.BIZ

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      Brendan had devoted himself to just the opposite, trying to prove himself as unlike his father as possible. Until the old man had died, drawing Brendan back into a life that he had been unable to run far enough away from when he was a kid.

      “Yeah, if you shoot me, you better hope the police find you before any of my family does,” Brendan warned the man. But it was a bluff.

      He really had no idea what his “family” would do or if they would even care. He was the only one who cared about his father’s murder—enough to risk everything for justice. Hell, his “family,” given the way they’d resented his return and his inheritance, would probably be relieved if he died, especially if they knew the truth about him.

      The man stepped back and lifted his gun so that the barrel pointed toward the ceiling, waving it around as if there were a white flag of surrender tied to the end of it. “I don’t want any trouble—any of your kind of trouble.”

      Brendan didn’t want that kind of trouble, either. But it was too late. He was in too deep now—so deep that he hadn’t been able to get out even after he’d thought Josie had been killed. But then her death had made him even more determined to pursue justice.

      “If you didn’t want trouble,” Brendan said, “then you shouldn’t have messed with my son and his mother.” Now he swung his fist into the man’s face.

      The guy fell back, but before he went down, Brendan snapped the gun from his grasp and turned it on him. There was no greater power play than turning a man’s own gun on him. His father had taught him that, starting his lessons when Brendan was only a few years older than his son was now.

      “What the hell do you want with her?” he demanded.

      “I just got paid to do a job, man,” the man in scrubs said, cringing away from the barrel pointed in his face.

      “What’s the job?”

      The man opened his mouth but hesitated before speaking, until Brendan cocked the trigger. Then he blurted out, “To kill Josie Jessup!”

      “Damn it!” he cursed at having his suspicions confirmed.

      He had only just discovered that she was alive and that she’d given birth to his son. He didn’t want to lose the boy before he’d gotten the chance to claim him. And he didn’t want Josie to die again. He glanced back at the elevator, at the numbers above the doors that indicated it had stopped—on the top floor.

      “You’re not going to make it,” the man advised. “You’re not going to be able to save her.”

      Brendan cursed again because the guy was probably right. But still he had to try. He turned the gun and swung the handle at the man’s head.

       One down. Two to go …

      THE WIND ON the roof was cold, whipping through Josie’s light jacket and jeans. She slipped the side of her unzipped jacket over CJ’s back to shield him from the cold bite of the breeze. He snuggled against her, his face pressed into her neck. Her skin was damp from the quiet tears he surreptitiously shed. He must have felt the fear and panic that clutched at her, and he trembled with it while she tensely held herself together.

      She had to do something. She had to make certain these men didn’t hurt her son. But since she hadn’t reached Charlotte, earlier, the former U.S. marshal couldn’t come to her rescue as she had last time. Josie had only herself—and the instincts she’d previously ignored—to help her now.

      The two men were huddled together just a few feet away from them, between her and CJ and the elevator. There was no way to reach it without going through them. And with the bulges of weapons at their backs, she didn’t dare try to go through them. Nor did she want to risk turning her back on them to run, for fear that they would shoot. And since they were on the roof, where could she go? How far could she run without falling over the side?

      One of the men spoke into a cell phone about the change in plans: CJ.

      While they had somehow discovered that she was really alive, they must not have been aware that she was pregnant when she’d gone into hiding.

      Despite the fact that he’d lowered his voice, it carried on the wind, bringing the horrifying words to her.

      “… never agreed to do a kid.”

      “… someone else knows she’s alive and hassled her in the hall.”

      Because Brendan wasn’t any happier she was alive than these men apparently were. Of course he hadn’t seemed as eager to rectify that as they were.

      “Okay, I understand,” said the man holding the phone before he clicked it off and slid it back into his pocket. Then he turned to his co-conspirator and nodded. “We have to eliminate them both.”

      A shudder of fear and revulsion rippled through Josie. Thankfully CJ wouldn’t understand what they meant by “eliminate.” But eventually he would figure it out, when he stared down the barrel of a gun.

      “I don’t know what you’re getting paid to do this,” she addressed the men as they turned toward her. “But I have money. Lots of money. I can pay you more than you’re getting now.”

      The man who’d been on the phone chuckled bitterly. “We were warned you might make that offer. But you forfeited your access to that money when you faked your death, lady.”

      They were right. Josie Jessup’s bank accounts and trust fund had closed when she’d died. And JJ Brandt’s salary from the community college was barely enough to cover her rent, utilities and groceries. She had nothing in her savings account to offer them.

      “My father would pay you,” she said, “whatever you ask.” But first they would have to prove to him that she was really alive. She hadn’t dared step inside his room. What would happen if gunmen burst inside with her? The shock would surely bring on another heart attack—maybe a fatal one.

      The men shared a glance, obviously debating her offer. But then one of them shook his head. “This is about more than money, lady.”

      “What is it about?” she asked.

      As far she knew, Brendan was the only one with any reason to want her dead. If these men worked for him, they wouldn’t have held him back from boarding the elevator with her. If they worked for him, they wouldn’t have dared to touch him at all. She still couldn’t believe that she had dared to touch him, that she’d dared to go near him even to pursue her story. The police had been unable to determine who had killed his father, the legendary crime boss, so she had vowed to find out if there was any truth to the rumors that Dennis O’Hannigan’s runaway son had killed him out of revenge and greed.

      She had found something else entirely. More than the story, she had been attracted to the man—the complex man who had been grieving the death of his estranged father while trying to take over his illicit empire. She had never found evidence proving Brendan was the killer, but he must have been worried that she’d discovered something. Why else would he have tried to kill her?

      Just because he’d learned she’d been lying to him about what she really was? Maybe. He’d been furious with her—furious enough to want revenge. But if he wasn’t behind this attempt to eliminate her, had he been behind that bomb planted more than three years ago?

      Could she have been wrong about him?

      “I have a right to know,” she prodded, wanting the truth. That was her problem—she always wanted the truth. It was what had made her such a great reporter before she’d been forced to give it all up to save her life. But since it was probably her last chance to learn it, she wanted this truth more than she’d ever wanted any other. If not Brendan, who wanted her dead?

      “It doesn’t matter what it’s about,” one of the men replied.

      She suspected he had no idea, either, that he was just doing what he had been paid to do.

      “It’s

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