LITMIR.BIZ

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she’d still had the inclination to seek out dangerous stories. For her, there was no story more dangerous than this one. He had to make certain she was far away from him.

      “Use your GPS,” he ordered, “and tell me where she is now.” Hopefully still at home, asleep in the bed he’d struggled to leave. He had wanted to hold her all night; he’d wanted to hold her forever.

      Some strange noise emanated from the phone.

      “Charlotte?”

      “She’s on the move.”

      “But I took her car.” She must have borrowed a neighbor’s or maybe Mrs. Mallory’s. Hopefully, she’d left their son with his babysitter.

      “The Volkswagen, too?”

      “I didn’t know she had another.” As modestly as she’d been living in that small, outdated house, he hadn’t considered she’d had the extra money for another car.

      Charlotte sighed. “I’m surprised that clunker was up to the trip.”

      “Trip?”

      “She’s in Chicago.”

      “Damn it,” he cursed at her. “I could have used you here. I’m surprised you didn’t come to help protect her. She thinks you’re her friend.”

      “I am.”

      “You’re also a princess. What is it? Couldn’t spare the time from waving at adoring crowds?”

      “I’m also pregnant,” she said, and there was that sound again. “And currently in labor … since last night. Or I would have come. I would have sent someone I trusted, but they refused to leave me.”

      Brendan flinched at his insensitivity.

      “So like you asked me to, I trusted you,” she said. “I thought if anyone would keep Josie safe, it would be the man who loves her.”

      “I’m trying,” he said. And the best way to do that was to remove the threat against her.

      He glanced at the monitors flanking one side of the surveillance van. One of the cameras caught a vehicle careening down the street, right toward the estate they were watching on the outskirts of Chicago.

      For all the rust holes, he couldn’t tell what color the vehicle was. “Her second car,” he said. “Is it an old convertible Cabriolet?” Even though the top was currently up, it looked so frayed that there were probably holes in it, too.

      “Yes,” Charlotte said.

      “I have to go,” he said, clicking off the cell. But it wasn’t just the call he had to abort. He had to stop the whole operation.

      “Block the driveway!” he yelled at one of the men wearing a headset. That agent could communicate with the agents outside the van. But he only stared blankly at Brendan, as if unable to comprehend what he was saying. “Stop the car,” he explained. “Don’t let her get to the house.”

      “From the way you’re acting, I’m guessing that’s the reporter you dated,” another of the agents inside the van addressed Brendan. He must have been eavesdropping on his conversation with Charlotte. Or he’d tapped into it. “The one you just discovered was put into witness protection and that she had the evidence all this time?”

      This agent was Brendan’s superior in ranking, and even though he had worked with him for years—four years on this assignment alone—he didn’t know him well enough to know about his character.

      Could he be trusted?

      Could any of them, inside the van or out?

      His blood chilled in his veins, and he shook his head, disgusted with himself for giving away Josie’s identity so easily. All of his fellow agents had been well aware of how he’d felt about Josie Jessup.

      “It isn’t?” the agent asked.

      “No, it’s her,” he admitted. “And that’s why we have to stop her.” Before she confronted face-to-face the person who’d tried to kill her.

      The supervising agent shook his head, stopping the man with the headset from making the call to stop her. So Brendan took it upon himself and reached for the handle of the van’s sliding door. But strong hands caught him, holding him back and pinning his arms behind him.

      Damn it.

      He should have followed his instincts to trust no one. He should have done it alone. But he’d wanted to go through the right channels—had wanted true justice, not vigilante justice. But maybe with people as powerful as these, with people who could buy off police officers and federal agents, the only justice was vigilante.

      HE WAS GOING TO kill her.

      Josie had to stop him—had to stop Brendan from doing something he would live to regret. Taking justice into his own hands would take away the chance for him to have a real relationship with his son.

      And her?

      She didn’t expect him to forgive her for thinking he was a killer. She didn’t expect him to trust her, especially after she’d come here. But she had to stop him.

      She hadn’t seen her white SUV along the street or along the long driveway leading up to the house. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t exchanged it for one of those she had seen. The house, a brick Tudor, looked eerily similar to Brendan’s, just on a smaller scale. Like a model of the original O’Hannigan home.

      Brendan had to be here. Unless it was already done ….

      Was she was too late? Had he already taken his justice and left?

      The gates stood open, making it easy for her to drive through and pull her Volkswagen up to the house. But she hadn’t even put it in Park before someone was pulling open her door and dragging her from behind the steering wheel. She had no time to reach inside her bag and pull out the gun.

      Strong hands held tightly to her arms, shoving her up the brick walk to the front door. It stood open, a woman standing in the doorway as if she’d been expecting her.

      Yet she acted puzzled, her brow furrowed as if she was trying to place Josie. Of course, Josie didn’t look the same as she had when she’d informally interviewed Margaret O’Hannigan four years ago. Back then the woman had believed Josie was just her stepson’s girlfriend. And since they’d only met a few times, it was no wonder she wouldn’t as easily see through Josie’s disguise as Brendan had.

      But Margaret must have realized she’d given herself up during one of their conversations. That was why Margaret had tried to kill Josie.

      While Josie had changed much over the past few years, this woman hadn’t changed at all. She was still beautiful—her face smooth of wrinkles and ageless. Her hair was rich and dark and devoid of any hint of gray despite the fact that she had to be well into her fifties. She was still trim and tiny. Her beauty and fragile build might have been what had fooled Josie into excluding her as a suspect in her husband’s murder.

      But now she detected a strength and viciousness about the woman as she stared at Josie, her dark eyes cold and emotionless. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

      “Josie Jessup,” she replied honestly. There was no point clinging to an identity that had already been blown.

      “Josie Jessup? I thought you were dead,” the woman remarked.

      Josie had thought the same of her. That Brendan might have killed her by now.

      “Are you responsible for this?” Margaret asked, gesturing toward the open gates and the dark house. An alarm sounded from within, an insistent beeping that must have driven her to the door. “Did you disable the security system, forcing open the gates and unlocking the doors?”

      Brendan must have. He was here then. Somewhere. Josie wasn’t too late.

      “Search her car,” Margaret

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