Untameable: Merciless

“What?” she exclaimed.

A dial tone was the only response she got. She wanted to think it was a mistake, a wrong number. But she knew it wasn’t. She felt cold chills at the threatening words.

“Who was it, Mommy?”

“Just a wrong number, baby,” she said, and forced a smile. “I have to get your clothes ready for school tomorrow. I’ll be in the laundry room.”

“Okay,” he said absently, already lost in his video game.

Joceline closed the door of the playroom and leaned back against the wall with her eyes closed. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so afraid.

She almost called her boss to tell him about the threat, but she thought she’d involved him too much already in her private life. It wasn’t a good policy, to bring domestic problems to work. She didn’t want to jeopardize his job, or her own. She didn’t want him around Markie, either.

On the other hand, she had a sneaking hunch about the identity of her caller. She couldn’t prove it. She’d only heard Harold Monroe’s voice once, when he’d called brazenly to tell her boss he was out of jail. Strange, though, the voice seemed deeper than Monroe’s. But he could be disguising it.

THE CALL BOTHERED HER. So after she reminded Mr. Blackhawk about his day’s schedule and noted that he had ten minutes free before he was due in federal court to testify on a case, she walked into his office and closed the door.

He gave her a surprised look.

She sat down in front of the desk. “I’m sorry, but I had a phone call last night, and although I can’t swear to the identity of the caller, I think it might have been Harold Monroe.”

He sat up straighter. His black eyes narrowed. “What did he say?”

“That you were first, and I was next.”

His expression was hard to read. “Do you have an answering machine on your phone?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, sir, and a ham radio and a plasma TV, a couple of sports cars …!”

“Ms. Perry,” he said curtly.

“Sorry, sir. I forgot myself. Won’t happen again.” She crossed her heart.

He shook his head. “It’s not a laughing matter.”

“I wasn’t laughing. It’s just that I don’t have the budget for that type of equipment,” she said with a straight face.

“I should have known that.”

Probably so, but, then, he and his brother—not to mention his seethingly rabid mother—were worth millions, if the gossip was true. She didn’t doubt that he could walk into the nearest electronics store and purchase the highest-ticket item it contained without blinking an eye. Joceline was on a much stricter budget.

“You live in an unsecured apartment house,” he said, thinking aloud.

“We have locks on the doors and a telephone.”

He glared at her. “Locks keep honest people out. That’s all they do.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “Over the years that I’ve worked here,” she began, “I’ve heard a lot of people make threats. I don’t know of a single one that actually turned into an incident.”

“Yes, well I do,” he said curtly. “I won’t take chances with your life, or your son’s.”

“It was your life I was thinking about,” she said quietly. “He has a reason for wanting to harm you.”

His eyebrows arched. “Are you actually expressing concern for my welfare, Ms. Perry?” he asked with mock astonishment.

“Yes, sir,” she said calmly. “It’s very difficult to train a boss not to expect impossible menial tasks,” she added with a gleam in her blue eyes. “I’m not anxious to break in somebody new.”

He laughed faintly. “Touché.” He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I’ll talk to a few people and see what sort of arrangements I can make for someone to keep an eye on you after work.”

“On our budget, sir, we can probably afford a ten-year-old boy in a trench coat with one of those Junior Spy kits.”

He really glared at her then. “My brother has all sorts of shadowy contacts that we don’t talk about. I’m sure at least one of them owes him a favor. Rourke comes to mind.”

“No,” she said at once. “No, absolutely not. I will not have that one-eyed lunatic anywhere near me!”

His eyebrows arched. She’d rarely been so outspoken about any of the people who came through the office. “He’s very good at private security.”

Her jaw set so tightly that it bulged.

“Out with it,” he ordered.

She shifted restlessly. “He said I should be gagged and locked in a closet.”

He had to stifle a laugh. “May I ask what prompted him to make such a remark?”

Her eyes avoided his. “He was making fun of my shoes.”

He looked down. She was wearing the ballet slippers she usually wore to work, bad for the instep but extremely comfortable—and affordable.

“Some of us can’t manage Neiman Marcus even on a good government salary,” she said, still ruffled months after the remark was made.

“Rourke pops off and thinks he’s being amusing.”

“He’ll get popped off if he makes another such remark to me,” she said curtly.

He chuckled. “I’ll see if anybody else owes Mac a favor.”

“It sounded like Harold Monroe, but I couldn’t prove it. He was probably just fishing, to see if he could frighten me. And he knew I’d tell you what he said,” she added. She hesitated. “Sir, you really could use someone to watch your back. Monroe may be a certifiable idiot, but he has family connections who aren’t.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Don’t get insulted,” she added when he looked annoyed. “You FBI types always think you’re the biggest, meanest dogs on the block and usually you’re right. I don’t like funerals,” she added firmly.

“Or breaking in new bosses.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Exactly.”

“I’ll do my best to stay alive.” He started out the door and hesitated. “If my brother calls, tell him I want to talk to him. I’ll be back after two.”