Second Chances: A PAVAD Duet Read online

  But it was her laughter that had choked Mal up. Free, uninhibited, audacious, beautiful, full of life and love. Heartbreaking when he considered the woman he knew now.

  Once he got over the initial shock he’d tuned back in to the action on the video. It took him a moment to realize the truth—Julia had stuck a cigar in Georgia’s hand. A pink and blue bubble gum cigar that signified one thing. Someone was pregnant, and from the way Georgia hugged her friend and squealed, Malachi knew it was Julia. He’d frowned and looked at his friend as she lay sniffling beside him.

  Georgia had read his mind, something she was good at. Her low explanation had literally broken Malachi’s heart. “This was recorded two weeks before the accident. She lost the baby the day of the funeral. That’s when we completely lost that Julia. I keep hoping, praying, we’ll eventually get her back. At least a little bit. Rick was her everything from almost the very moment they met. They’d been trying for two years for the baby. And having a difficult time. When she lost the baby, it terrified me. The Julia from that video was just...gone. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Julia Bellows hadn’t just lost her husband that day, she’d lost her family. Her hope. It explained so much to him.

  He pulled her closer, running a hand down her back when she protested, a gesture intended to sooth. He wasn’t fully aware of what he was doing, but as he recalled the Julia on video he needed the comfort. The danced on in silence.

  He fought the urge to close his eyes and bury his face in the thick softness of her honey brown hair. It was completely straight and smelled like the softest of flowers. They swayed together slowly as Paige sang on. He tucked her under his chin, held her against his chest until the music ended.

  He stepped back. She looked up at him, wariness and suspicion in her hazel eyes. “Thank you for the dance, Julia.”

  “My pleasure.” Her tone made the lie perfectly clear to him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I should go help Paige and Ana clean up the kitchen.”

  “Not necessary. It’s my kitchen after all.” Malachi followed her a few steps. He didn’t make it; his mother stopped him, dragging an eager-looking young woman behind her.

  Malachi heard Jules snicker as she escaped, leaving him to politely accept the dance partner his mother basically threw at him.

  As he lead the woman to the makeshift dance floor—normally his dining room—he decided to let Julia have her retreat. This time. Besides, he wasn’t too sure what he’d say to her right then, anyway.

  He didn’t see her again until half of the guests had dissipated. When he did find her, it was to see her standing protectively in front of Paige as both women glared at his brother.

  Malachi knew Paige and Mikhail hadn’t exactly started off on the right note, but it surprised him they’d be so openly hostile toward one another. If Mick had said something to Paige to upset her, Mal wouldn’t be happy. Mal loved that kid, and if he had his way he’d adopt her into his family completely.

  God knew Paige needed a family. He knew her story, knew how the courts had taken her and an older brother from her drug-addict mother three days after she’d been born. She’d been a ward of the state from that moment until the age of twelve.

  Paige had hit the streets at the tender age of twelve, somehow surviving the next six years living in dark alleys and overpasses. Malachi had nearly vomited when he’d learned how she and Carrie had survived, had learned how they’d sang for food money, how they’d hitch-hiked for warmer weather when necessary.

  He had even seen some of the scars on Paige’s scrawny body. Knife scars, belt marks, burn marks. The kid had been abused, had been through true hell—and still had an amazing capacity to love. Malachi did his best to protect her. In fact, he protected Paige more than he did his own sister. And she wasn’t even that much younger than thirty-year-old Alex. Of course, everyone protected Paige. Everyone. Even Julia, apparently. But Mick just ignored Julia, glaring at the much taller Paige.

  Malachi didn’t quite understand his brother at times. Ex-military special forces, Mick had gone straight into the FBI once his six year term was up. He’d then spent nearly a decade as an agent in violent crimes and white collar before making a startling jump to Internal Affairs. IA—one of the most hated divisions in the Bureau.

  Mal hadn’t seen him in nearly two years, until he’d shown up as a last minute replacement for one of the IA agents assigned to tear Ed Dennis’s career apart.

  Malachi wouldn’t have Mick giving Paige a hard time.

  Apparently Julia felt the same way. She slid her small body more fully between Paige and Mick. Malachi fought the urge to laugh at the bulldog expression on her face as she glared up at his brother. A long way up.

  Julia was five inches of five feet tall-he’d learned that during a previous case—nine inches shorter than Mal. His brother stood twelve inches taller than Julia. Minimum. And Mick was extremely thick with muscle. He could pick Julia up one-handed if he wanted. And not even break a sweat.

  But Mick didn’t even seem aware of Julia, all his attention focused on the much taller Paige. His brother growled something that had Julia’s expression darkening and her chin rising. Paige glared up at him, her arms crossing in front of her body.

  Malachi stepped between them. “Mick, how about a beer before we clean this place up?”

  His brother switched his glare to Mal’s face. He nodded down at Mal, though the dark scowl stayed on his face. Mick had a bit of a temper, Mal remembered many fights between them as boys. He was three years older than Mick and the battles they’d engaged in had been intense. Mal wouldn’t trade them for anything in the world.

  Brothers did that. He slapped his hand on his brother’s shoulder as he led him back to the makeshift bar; he’d missed him, pain in the ass though he was. Infrequent phone calls and emails just hadn’t been the same.

  Still, now that Mick was in St. Louis for two weeks Mal intended to make the most of it. They could catch up. Spend the Christmas holiday together with their mother and father and sister.

  It would be their first Christmas all together in nearly a decade.

  He knew his parents would like that. They’d moved to the city two years ago, a year after Alex had transferred to St. Louis. Two of their children in one city had been the incentive. Mal loved having them close, and knew Alex felt the same way. “It’s good to have you here, little brother. I’ve missed your ugly face.”

  “Sure you have.” Mick snorted. “I’m sure you had plenty of people around here to keep you company if you needed it.”

  “Yes. I had plenty of friends. But a brother’s a little different.” Mal handed his brother a cold bottle then grabbed one for himself. “So what was that all about?”

  “What?” Mick glared down. Mal always found it ironic that his little brother stood three inches taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds. He wasn’t so little anymore.

  “Paige and Julia.”

  Mick scowled. “That girl. She’s going to get someone killed someday. Probably herself.”

  “I take it you mean Paige? She’s very good at what she does. Why do you think differently?”

  “I’ve seen her kind before.” Mick took a swig from the bottle in his hand. Both men watched the two women as they helped the Brockman parents in the kitchen. Their mother hugged Paige, patted Julia’s shoulder. She liked the two younger women, everything in her body language made that clear to Mal.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Young. Impulsive, reckless, idealistic. Pampered. Spoiled. Dark eyes that get them whatever they want. Until it gets them hurt or killed.” Mick slammed his bottle on the counter as he glared at the dark-eyed girl dancing around the kitchen, laughing with his sister. Mal watched his dad ruffle Paige’s dark hair. Watched her throw her arms around him and give him a hug. His father blushed, his mother laughed.

  He pondered his brother’s words a moment...dark eyes? “You’ve lost someone, haven’t you, Mick?”

  His brother’s eyes fl
ashed, eyes the same color as Malachi’s. “None of your damned business, Mal. It’s not open for discussion.”

  “Anytime it is...” Mal watched as his brother stormed into the kitchen. Grabbed the obviously heavy trash from Paige’s hands and shouldered open the outside door. The kitchen’s occupants paused a moment, watching him, as well.

  Mick’s behavior confirmed Mal’s suspicion. Paige reminded his brother of someone—someone he’d cared a great deal for. Someone he’d lost. And Mick was taking his grief out on Paige. Unfairly. Mal would have to make sure the situation didn’t get out of hand—for either Paige or Mick.

  In the meantime—that bag of trash Julia held did look somewhat heavy. He walked into the kitchen with purpose.

  ***

  Julia was exhausted, but she wasn’t leaving until the last of the kitchen was spotless. She’d enjoyed spending the time with Alex’s parents and had probably stayed a little too late. She was exhausted and her whole body ached. Still, it had been nice to see how a family interacted. Marilyn and Kenneth Brockman were the kind of parents every child from a dysfunctional family dreamed about. Alex and her brothers were very lucky.

  Julia’s mother and step-father had drunk themselves into oblivion every night until they’d died in a drunken accident around Julia’s twentieth birthday. Not exactly Norman Rockwell. Not like the Brockmans.

  Julia, Paige, and them—Mick and Malachi—shooed the elder couple out the door. They’d worked hard enough pulling the party together, they didn’t need to worry about the cleanup, too.

  After they left—Alex driving them home, Jules, Paige, and the two brothers worked diligently returning Malachi and Alex’s home back into the spacious open floor living area it was intended to be. Jules took down the decoration with silent help from the giant Mikhail. Paige and Mal collected all the trash scattered throughout the house. Even though the house was huge by most standards—huge and open, airy—it’s first level wasn’t designed to hold over two hundred people comfortably. But it had. And it was left to four people to clean up the results.

  If Malachi Brockman and his brother weren’t there, Julia wouldn’t have minded at all. But they did come in handy for heavy lifting.

  Soon it was all finished, the only thing left to do was carrying out the remaining trash bags. Paige and Julia agreed the brothers could handle that little chore, and Jules gathered her things. Paige would be staying the night. She lived clear across town, in a small basement apartment that was currently being repaired. It had been damaged by fire two months ago, and Paige had been staying with Alex and Malachi until the repairs were finished. Normally she stayed in the guest room, but had given that up for Mikhail.

  Paige disappeared, but Jules knew she’d most likely found her bed. Paige ran on an odd metabolic clock. She could stay up for days at a time and be fine, but once she hit bottom, she slept hard. Jules worried about her friend. Paige’s nightmares would catch up to her one day.

  Her sigh was long as she threw her backpack over her shoulder. Thankfully, Jules didn’t live too far away. Fifteen minutes and she’d be home in her own bed.

  ***

  Malachi knew when she was ready to leave, and he met her by the back door. “Ready to go, Julia? You’re more than welcome to stay here. We still have a bed free.”

  “What about Paige?” Her words were low, exhausted, and suspicious. Mal fought a soft smile. He resisted the urge to torment her somehow—she was obviously too tired for a good sparring match. In fact, she looked more than tired, she looked almost wan.

  “Crashed on the porch. Hammock.”

  “It’s thirty degrees outside! And snowing!”

  “It’s enclosed and there’s a small heater out there. She’ll be fine. She’s done it before. She likes sleeping outside.” Probably a remnant of sleeping in alleys and on park benches. It made Mal frown. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing. He’d have to give it more thought. Later.

  “No. I’m going home.” Jules shook her head. “Don’t leave her out there. It’s too cold for her to lie out there.”

  “Honestly—I think she did it deliberately. Put some space between her and Mikhail. He makes her nervous.”

  “That’s because he’s a jackass. I think it’s a trait his brother shares.” Her dig was said around a yawn so it lacked impact. Mal grabbed her arm and shook it chidingly.

  “That’s not nice, Dr. Bellows. I’m a perfect gentleman. My brother’s the same. That’s the way our mother raised us.”

  Julia snorted then sniffled. “Your mother may be a remarkable woman—and I do mean that—but she failed in one area. Two, if you count your brother.”

  “You are a heartless woman.”

  “I never said otherwise.” Jules walked carefully down the drive, her heels crunching in the snow. Malachi stayed at her side in the uneven drive.

  Jules said nothing as they approached her car. She slipped her key in the lock and turned to her companion. “Well, as you can see I’ve arrived at my car. Your duty is done—”

  He grinned. “Juli—”

  The thud sent him reeling into her. Jules screamed, arms reaching up to catch him as he fell. Dark shadows seemed to come from everywhere, surrounding them quickly. Malachi jerked, his hand falling against her car. He spun, fist shooting out at the first shadow…

  Coming 2013

  Ana & Fin’s Story…

  The PAVAD Prequel

  WAITING

  Chapter 1

  Anastacia Sorin was screwed.

  Georgia had her—and they both knew it. It had been as fair a fight as it could be. Both women were small in stature, of the same build and age. Both had at least eight years’ training in the martial arts, weaponless fighting, and hand-to-hand combat. Both were skilled supervisory special agents with the Child Exploitation Prevention Division of the FBI.

  But Georgia hadn’t been up all night fighting nightmares. And she coolly, methodically wiped the floor with Ana. Ana’s face hit the mat and a knee rammed into her spine. “Do you yield, Ana?”

  “Yield.” Ana’s relaxed every muscle in her body, pressed closer to the rubber floor beneath her cheek. Submitted. “Dammit, George! Get off me! Your knee’s sharp!”

  “Spill,” Georgia ordered ten minutes later, as the two women changed out of their sparring clothes and into their regulation business dress. “You’re not up to par today.”

  “What do you mean? Just because you beat me…this time…” Ana slipped her trousers over her hips before glancing at her friend. Georgia always managed to look stylish no matter what she wore—Ana would be the first to admit a small pinch of resentment as she compared Georgia’s black trousers to her own dark navy. There was dust on one navy knee, and a safety pin held the trousers together. Ana always somehow managed to look a bit ragtag. Especially next to Georgia.

  Even when she borrowed Georgia’s clothes, she never managed to look quite that good. The other woman was gorgeous, with long, curling dark brown hair, large dark brown eyes, and a small, curvy body. But Georgia never acknowledged that fact. Men looked at her, much more than they looked at Ana’s flat-chested, childishly angular body, her dark, ridiculously straight red hair and clichéd green eyes. She looked like a damned leprechaun. A tiny, redheaded, half-Ukrainian leprechaun who dressed funny and spoke in an even funnier accent.

  “You were missing blocks you shouldn’t have. Your attention was anywhere else but on me. And, well, you were making yellow-belt mistakes.” Georgia never sugarcoated. And as a profiler and behavioral psychologist, she most often knew exactly what Ana was thinking or feeling. It made it hard to lie to her.

  “Nightmares,” was all Ana said, knowing Georgia would understand.

  “Same ones?” Georgia paused to study Ana’s face.

  “Yes.” Ana didn’t elaborate. She’d told her friend what had happened to her within a month of them first meeting. They were the only female members of the seven-agent team, and always bunked together.

  The two women knew each other�
��s nightmares well.

  Georgia knew of Ana’s hours spent trapped in a collapsed elevator after a serial arsonist detonated a bomb and Ana knew of the colleague of Georgia’s father who broke into their house one day when Georgia was sixteen, intent on hurting her.

  They both still bore the scars. Inside.

  “Dreams are the subconscious mind’s way of telling us something,” Georgia said. “Anything different about this dream?”

  “No.”

  “No difference?”

  “This time, he bleeds to death in the elevator, and I’m trapped with him. For hours. Then he comes back from the dead, and we’re trapped in that supply closet in DC. Same story, minimal variation.”

  “And when you woke, how did you feel?”

  “Angry. Scared. Sad. Guilty.” Ana listed the feelings she’d felt nearly every time she woke from the dream. Just like Georgia had insisted the first time she helped Ana deal with them nearly two years ago. “When I first woke, I was sure he was dead. Dammit, Georgia. I’ve not had the dream in months.”

  “Subconscious telling you something?”

  “But what?”

  Their conversation was cut short as they entered the large conference room.

  Dr. Malachi Brockman looked up at their entrance, dark blue eyes warm over the wire-rimmed glasses he wore for reading. Ana loved it when he wore his glasses; it made him twice as hot. “You’re both late.”

  “Sorry, Mal,” they said in near unison as they took their seats.

  “Sure you are.” Malachi smiled. Ana was late at least once a week. He never chastised. “We’ve all been summoned to Conference room A.”

  “Great,” Ana whispered to Georgia as they immediately stood back up to follow him and the other four men out of the room. “Now what?”