Phillip’s life flashed in front of him in neon color—his lonely childhood in his mother’s Houston mansion with all those rooms that echoed as a solitary little boy walked through them in search of love.
Nobody had ever wanted him…until Patricia, his college sweetheart. For a time she’d seemed so perfect, but in the end, she hadn’t wanted him enough to understand his determination to see the world and become a Marine.
Neither had Celeste. Both his loves had left him.
The flashlight zeroed in on his face, blinding him again. What was the use? He held up his hands in surrender. All he said was, “If you’re going to kill me, just be done with it.”
Cobarde.
“Not tonight, sir,” said a familiar respectful voice that slammed Westin back to his days in the Marines, back to the Gulf War. Phillip’s eyelids stung when he tried to stand. Once again his legs crumpled beneath his weight. The lights spun and he nearly fainted.
“Friends,” came that familiar, husky voice that made Phillip’s eyes go even hotter.
“Tyler….”
Westin blinked. Ty Murdoch, his handsome face painted black and green, his night-vision glasses dangling against his broad chest, towered above him like a warrior god.
“Tyler—”
Phillip was trying to stand but was falling again when Tyler’s strong arms grabbed him and slung him over his broad back in a fireman’s lift.
“You’re going home,” a woman said.
“Celeste?”
Before the beautiful woman could answer, Phillip fainted.
He was going home. Home to Celeste.
When he opened his eyes, they were beyond the compound, hunkering low in the tangle of bushes on the edge of the lavish lawns. Dimly he was aware of the pretty woman cradling his head in her lap.
“Celeste?”
He was sweating and freezing at the same time.
An eternity later he looked up and saw a chopper coming in hot, kicking up dust and gravel before settling on the ground.
A rock that felt like a piece of hot metal gouged Phillip’s cheek.
“Damn.”
Then Ty was back lifting him, up…up…into the chopper. They took off in a hurry. They were going home.
Home to Celeste.
He shut his eyes and saw Celeste…blond and pretty, her eyes as blue as a Texas sky. She was crying, her cheeks glistening. The image, even if it was false, was better than a funeral.
Phillip’s hand shook as he lifted the razor. He paused, staring at the gaunt face with the slash across the cheek. It had been seven days since the rescue, and he was still as weak as a baby.
When the infirmary door slammed open, he jumped like a scared girl, panicking at the sound of boots because they reminded him of Xavier. The razor fell into the sink with a clatter.
In the mirror, the dark-haired stranger with the hollowed-out silver eyes was pathetic. By comparison the darkly handsome man who strode up behind him was disgustingly robust.
“Mercado?”
Ricky flashed his daredevil grin. “Good to see you up and about.”
“Yeah.” Westin had to grip the sink with tight fingers so he wouldn’t fall. No way was he walking back to the hospital bed. No way would he let Mercado gloat at how wobbly he was.
“After this, you’d better lay low, amigo. You stirred up a hornet’s nest.”
“You think I don’t know that.”
“El Jefe’s big. And not just down here. They’re well connected in Texas.”
“Why the hell do you think I came down—”
“These guys won’t give up. They’ll be gunning for you and yours.”
“There is no yours. She left me, remember.” Phillip shut up. He didn’t want to talk about her. Still, Mercado was one of the few who knew about Celeste. Most of his buddies believed he’d never gotten over his first love, Patricia, the classy girl he’d loved in college—the proper girl. It was better that way, better not to cry on their shoulders about a trashy singer he’d picked up in a bar and been stupid enough to fall for.
“Yeah, and Celeste’s the reason you’ve had a death wish for seven damn years.”
“Shut up.”
“You’re forty-one, amigo.”
“You make that sound old.”
“Too old for this line of work.”
“This was personal. You know that. The bastards were moving into Mission Creek. They were using kids to run guns. Kids—”
“Why don’t you go back to your ranch? Find a nice, churchgoing girl, get married and hatch some rug rats.”
“Sounds like fun. What about you? You straight? Or are you gonna run arms for the family? What the hell were you doing down there?”
Mercado scowled. “Saving your ass.”
“You had some help.”
“What does it take? A declaration written in blood. Like I told you—I’m straight.”
“You’d better be.”
His face and eyes dark with pain, Mercado shut up and stared at the floor. Phillip felt instant remorse. “Ty told me you were useful in the Mezcaya rescue,” Phillip admitted.
“I’m surprised he said—”
“He did. Thanks. I owe you…for what you did for Ty. And for me.”
Suddenly Westin was no longer in the mood to question the character of a man who’d helped save him. The heated exchange had left him so weak, Mercado’s dark face began to swirl. His fingers couldn’t seem to hold on to the sink. No way could he shave.
“Oh, God,” he muttered as the gray tiles rushed up to meet him.
Mercado lunged, barely catching him before he fell.
“Find that nice girl,” Mercado muttered. “Lean on my arm, old buddy, and we’ll get you back to bed.”
“Hell. I don’t go for nice girls. I like ’em hot…and shameless.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change of pace…in your old age.”
“Old age?” Stung, Phillip almost howled. The truth was, a ninety-year-old was stronger than he was. Oh,
