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A Man Worth Keeping
Molly O’Keefe
Table of Contents
Molly O’Keefe has written eleven books. When she isn’t writing happily-ever-after she can usually be found in the park acting as referee between her beleaguered border collie and her one-year-old son. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, son, dog and the largest heap of dirty laundry in North America.
To the person at Webster University who assigned
Jennifer Kavanaugh to the dorm room across from mine. Whoever you are, you changed my life. Thanks.
You’re not too shabby either, JK.
Prologue
WAS THAT…a frog?
Max Mitchell tried to clear his vision, but the pain and blood made it impossible. But the frog—if that’s what the green blur on the ceiling was—seemed to sway and scream in time with his charging heartbeat.
He was dying, his blood pumping out of his body beneath a flying, screaming frog.
Is this shock?
His brain sent the message to his nerves to lift his hand so he could wipe the blood from his face.
Come on, hand, lift. Here we go.
But it didn’t work. The nerves didn’t respond.
He spit out the blood that pooled, coppery and hot in his mouth, and groaned from the effort.
The screaming, he realized when his ears suddenly popped, wasn’t from the frog. It was from the baby in the crib under the frog. The frog mobile, blood spattered and cockeyed.
Nell picked up the baby and the screaming stopped.
Relief rattled through his body, slowing his heart rate.
Or it could be loss of blood. Either way Nell had lived and he was so tired.
“Mitchell!”
Someone called his name and he made the effort to turn his head, but agony screamed through his neck and the black edges of the world closed in.
“Mitchell, can you hear me?”
The frog was replaced by the bearded face of his partner.
Good—Nell, the baby and Anders are still alive.
“You’ve got a bullet in the groin and it looks like another one creased your neck and cheek.” Anders was putting a good face on it, trying to smile, but Max could feel his partner using both hands and all his weight to stanch the blood pouring out of Max’s body.
“Hurts.”
Anders laughed. “I should think.”
“Groin?”
“It’s bad, lots of blood. But you’ll live to love another day.”
“Where—” The blood made it difficult to talk, but he spit out more and tried again. “Where’s Tom?”
“Tom?”
“The dad. Adult male.”
Anders glanced briefly behind him, where blue shapes and the screaming and the frog all lingered just out of Max’s focus.
“The wife is hurt, but not bad. The infant is fine, but we were too late for the dad. The first bullet was right through the chest. He died instantly.”
Justice,
