"Who's Julian?" Sam asked before he even thought, then suddenly remembered what he'd read about Jeannie having been raised by foster parents—Dr. and Mrs. Julian Howell.
"Julian is my father. My foster father."
"So you and your father think you need a bodyguard." But not me, Sam thought. I'll send you my best man. I'll make sure you're safe, but I will not come back to Biloxi.
"Of course, we'll pay you your regular fee. It isn't a question of money."
Sam swallowed hard. It wasn't a question of money for him, either. It was a matter of preserving his sanity. If he went to Biloxi to guard Jeannie, he would have to come to terms with his past. Jeannie Alverson would probably want to help him. He didn't want to be helped. He had become accustomed to living with the anger and guilt, had accepted it as his punishment.
"I'll send J.T. Blackwood to Biloxi tomorrow. He's one of my partners and the best at what he does." Sam heard the indrawn breath, then the silence on the other end of the line. "I don't take bodyguard assignments myself. Not anymore."
"Oh, of course, I understand. By sending your best man here to guard me, you'll still be keeping your promise to me."
Why had he ever made that stupid promise? If you ever need me, all you have to do is ask. He supposed he'd thought she'd never need him. Hell, he'd prayed she'd never need him, that he'd never have to deal with what had happened between them.
"What difference does it make whether I come myself or I send someone just as capable?"
"It doesn't make any difference," she said. "I understand. Believe me, I do."
"Ms. Alverson, I owe you my life." Blowing out an aggravated breath, Sam clutched the telephone fiercely. "I want to repay you, but … Biloxi holds a lot of really bad memories for me."
"You still haven't forgiven yourself, have you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I need help, Sam Dundee. My life could be in danger. If you feel you can't return to Biloxi, that you don't have the strength to face your ghosts, then send Mr. Blackwood. But ask yourself one thing. Do you really want to put my life in another man's hands?"
Bull's-eye. She'd hit the mark. Jeannie Alverson knew that for any other man the assignment would be nothing more than a job, but for Sam it would be personal.
"When do you need me?"
"Now," she said. "By tomorrow at the latest. I'm holding a press conference at the Howell School tomorrow, and I really need—"
"You're doing what? Where?" Sam hollered at her.
"I'm holding a press conference at the Howell School, in the gymnasium."
"What's this Howell School and why the hell would you agree to hold a press conference there?"
"The Howell School was founded by Julian's wife, Miriam, to help children with physical and mental challenges that make it difficult for them to receive the help they need in regular schools. I work at the school as a counselor. My degree is in psychology." Pausing, Jeannie took a deep breath. "Julian and I decided to hold a press conference where I'll have the opportunity to explain to everyone the exact limitations of my powers. We think it's a wise course of action."
"You're crazy if you hold a press conference anywhere," Sam said. "But especially in a school gymnasium. You'll be too confined. It's a stupid idea. Don't do it."
"I disagree," Jeannie said. "The press conference is already set for ten tomorrow morning. Can you be here by then?"
What the hell was the matter with her reasoning? And with Julian Howell's? Didn't they realize that the press would eat her alive? "I'll fly my Cessna down first thing in the morning and meet y'all at the Howell School."
"Thank you, Mr. Dundee. I knew I could count on you."
"Goodbye, Ms. Alverson." Sam slammed down the telephone. "Dammit!"
* * *
J.T. Blackwood stood in the doorway, holding two roast beef sandwiches in his hands. It looked like Sam was in rare form this evening.
His partner of over four years had become his best friend. Oddly enough, the two men had found they had a lot in common, despite the vast differences in their backgrounds and present lifestyles. J.T. admired Sam Dundee more than anyone he knew. Sam was a man you could trust with your life, a man you could count on to be a tower of strength.
Like J.T. himself, Sam didn't make friends easily. Of course, he could be a mean bastard at times, but that was part of his charm. And one more thing the two of them had in common. In any fight, J.T. would want Sam on his side.
A lot of men disliked Sam, but J.T. didn't know one smart man who wasn't just a little bit afraid of Sam Dundee.
"Got a problem?" He walked into the office, laid the sandwiches on top of the stack of newspaper clippings and sat down on the edge of the desk.
"Nothing I can't handle." Sam glanced at the sandwiches. "Roast beef?"
"What else?" J.T. eyed the coffee machine on the low shelf in the corner. "I take mine black."
"What?"
"My coffee," J.T. said. "I brought the sandwiches. I figured you'd fix the coffee."
"That stuff's been sitting there for a couple of hours. It'll probably grow hair on your chest."
"I'll take my chances."
Sam scooted back his chair, walked across the room and poured two cups of strong, well-aged coffee. "Here." He handed J.T. a bright red mug.
"So, are you going to tell me or not?" J.T. asked.
"I've got to fly to Biloxi in the morning. I don't know how long I'll be gone. A week, two, maybe more."
"Biloxi, huh?"
"Yeah, I know. I said I'd never go back there."
"What changed your mind?" J.T. unwrapped his sandwich, took a bite, then washed it down with the coffee.
"Jeannie Alverson."
"Who's Jeannie—? Hey, you mean the woman on the news, the healer who saved some kid's life after she'd been wounded in a drive-by shooting?"
"Yeah, that Jeannie Alverson."
"You're taking a bodyguard assignment? You haven't done that in years. Why now?"
Sam lifted his mug to his lips, tasted the bitter coffee and frowned. "I should have made us a fresh pot."
"Is there something personal between you and this Jeannie Alverson?"
"Yeah, you could say that. She's the woman who saved my life six years ago, when the DEA sting I was involved in went sour."
"So you owe her."
"Yeah, I owe her. I promised her that she could demand payment in full anytime she needed me."
"And she's called in your marker."
"Something like that."
There was more going on here, something Sam wasn't telling. J.T. had known the man for nearly five years, he considered him his best friend, but there was a lot the two of them had never discussed. Oh, they shared old war stories … Sam's days in the marines and the DEA … J.T.'s own stint in the army and his life as a Secret Service agent. He had explained to Sam why he wore the black eyepatch, had told him all about how he'd lost the vision in his left eye when an assassin's bullet lodged in his head. But he'd never told Sam about his childhood, had never told him about his Navaho mother. J.T. twisted the silver-and-turquoise ring on the third finger of his right hand.
A man usually didn't share the demons in his soul, those personal demons that kept him raw and bleeding inside, long after old wounds should have healed.
J.T. had known, when Sam told him the bare-bones details of his last DEA assignment, that something had happened during that time to change Sam's life forever. J.T. wondered if that something had anything to do with Jeannie Alverson.
Chapter 2
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Sweat coated the palms of Jeannie's hands, beaded across her forehead and trickled between her breasts. Her heartbeat roared like a runaway train, the sound drumming in her ears, pounding in her chest. Her legs weakened. She gripped the curve of her wooden cane. Nausea rose in her throat, bitterness coating her tongue.