Tyler O'Neill's Redemption

Her eyes dilated, her lips parted, but she didn’t move, didn’t back away and his body got hot, tight with a furious want.

The air was still between them, as if they were frozen in time. But inside he raged with hunger for her. Always for her.

He lifted his hand, slow, careful, ready for her to snap but she didn’t. He placed his calloused, shaking fingers against the perfection of her cheek. Her breath hitched and for a moment—the most perfect moment in ten miserable years—Juliette let him touch her.

And then, like the good girl she was, she stepped away from the riffraff. Her eyes angry, her skin flushed.

“You’re way too good for the likes of me, Juliette Tremblant,” he murmured.

He got in Suzy and slammed the door. The humidity inside the car was an insulation between him and her, an insulation he needed. He needed metal and barbed wire and pit bulls straining at their leashes between them, because he knew, like he’d always known—underneath her totally justified anger, her reluctance, her disgust—he knew Juliette Tremblant wanted him as much as he wanted her.

I can’t see her again, he thought, starting the car, Suzy’s rumble a welcome sound. Familiar. This was his world. Suzy, his father waiting at home, the clothes on his back, his money in the bank.

And there was no place in it for Juliette.

And there was no place for him in Bonne Terre.

He was an O’Neill. One of the most notorious of them all, which meant that Juliette and the past and those fledgling dreams he thought he’d forgotten about were wasted on him.

And whatever he thought he was going to find in Bonne Terre, whatever peace or solace he was looking for—it wasn’t here. It wasn’t anywhere. Not for him.

Gaetan was right—he was always wanting what other people had. Coming back to The Manor, looking for the kid he’d been, the family he’d known. That wasn’t for him.

He got hotel rooms and card games. One-night stands with women so beautiful they could only be fake. Late nights and later mornings, days vanishing under neon signs. That was his life. That’s what he got.

And it was time to get back to it.

JULIETTE SHOOK. FROM the inside, through her blood and muscles, from her hair to her fingers, she shook with anger.

Oh, and don’t forget the lust. The lust that churned through her and over her and under her.

She slammed the impound door too hard and the chain link rattled and bounced back at her. So, she slammed it again. And again. Her hair flying, the gate rattling and crashing.

“Damn him!” she screamed, slamming the gate so hard it bounced, rebounded and stuck shut.

Damn him.

Ten years without a word, after what she’d done for him. After what she’d given him in the cramped backseat of that stupid Chevy he used to drive. Ten years. And he waltzes back here and realigns everything.

She put her hands on her hips, feeling the weight of her badge and gun, the solid strength of those things against her hips. She was not the girl she’d been, and Tyler O’Neill was not going to ruin her life again.

“Chief?”

She turned and found Miguel standing beside the back door of her sedan.

Great, she thought, just what I need. Miguel with an earful.

“You okay?” Miguel asked, his concern fierce and palpable. She melted a little; her little hoodlum was so gallant.

“I’m fine,” she said, and took a deep breath. “And, actually, so are you. The owner of the Porsche isn’t going to press charges.”

“Tyler O’Neill?” Miguel asked.

“How do you know that?”

“I recognized him in the car. I’ve seen him playing poker on TV. He’s rich, huh?”

“Hard to say,” she said. “Not much ever sticks to Tyler.” She turned back to Miguel, narrowing her eyes. “You were just pretending to sleep in the backseat, weren’t you?”

He nodded, unapologetic. Probably a skill he’d learned to survive.

“I’m not going to jail?” Miguel asked, as if he couldn’t believe it. Juliette put her hands on his shoulders and waited until he looked at her. The impact of his wounds could still take her breath away and she wondered again whether she really was doing the right thing, or if calling in the social workers wasn’t the way to try and save this boy.

“It’s not too late,” she told him. “I can call the Office of Community Services—”

Miguel shook his head. “I’ll run. I swear it.”

He wasn’t lying. And while she didn’t doubt that she’d be able to find him, if he took his sister, who knew what kind of trouble might find them before she did. Two kids, no money—it was a disaster in the making.

“Okay,” she said. “But we’ve got to keep you away from your dad. Where is he now?”

“It’s Monday, so he’s sleeping it off and then he’s back out at the refinery until Saturday.” The refinery was over the state line, and employed many of the men and women of Bonne Terre. Due to the commute, many of them, like Miguel’s father, spent part of the week in a cheap hotel closer to the refinery.

“Your sister?”

“She’s at Patricia’s. I’m gonna pick her up for school tomorrow.” Patricia was an old friend of Miguel’s mother, who did what she could for the kids, but the woman was eighty, on welfare and barely spoke English.

She nodded. What to do? What to do?

“All right.” She ducked her head, looking hard into his good eye. “Tomorrow after school you come right here. In fact, after school you come here every day.”

“To the police station?” he asked, horrified as any good delinquent would be.

“It’s your only choice, Miguel. And considering what I’ve done for you, if you don’t show up I’ll be—” He looked away. “Miguel,” she snapped and he looked back up, sighing. “I will be very, very insulted.”

Miguel nodded, his lip lifting slightly. Nearly made her cry to see it. Here he was, face beat in, future up in the air, and the kid could still smile. Sort of.

Maybe she could make this work—as long as Dr. Roberts didn’t tell anyone and Tyler kept his mouth shut. And if no one in the station cared about an attempted grand theft she made disappear, or wondered why Miguel was cleaning squad cars every day after school.

And particularly if no one else saw Miguel’s file.

Panic nearly swamped her. Who was she kidding?

Thinking about what she was doing made things worse. She needed to move, act, do something. Give Ramon Pastor a warning that even he would understand.

“Get in the car,” she said, following Miguel toward her sedan.

“Chief!” Lisa came running out into the impound yard, her blond ponytail a little flag out behind her.