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  A Hero’s Promise

  She was moving things around inside the refrigerator, hoping to hide her embarrassment until her face recovered. Finally, returning with a can of whipped cream, she turned to him.

  "Okay, so tell me why you’re here. This better be good." Her tone was serious, as was her expression. She tilted the whipped cream can over his mug and depressed the nozzle. Whipped cream exploded from the can, over-filling the mug, spattering the table, the wall and Dane’s chin.

  "Holy shit, woman, I can think of better ways to get even," he said with a grin.

  "Oh! Oh, I am so sorry…" Jessica grabbed a paper napkin from the counter and hastily wiped up the mess from the table, and then tossed the napkin into the trash. Looking back at Dane, she saw the small traces of whipped cream on his face. Without thinking, she reached across the table and wiped them away with her finger.

  His eyes locked on to hers just as his fingers wrapped around her hand, pulling it slowly back toward his face. Helpless against his power, unable to deny him, Jessica sat mesmerized while Dane pulled her fingertip into his mouth, gently sucking the whipped cream from it before slowly releasing her.

  "Yum," he told her, now licking his lips and lifting the hot mug. "Now, you were saying? Or would you like me to spray this time?" He took a quick sip of the steaming cocoa, then picked up the whipped cream can. "This could be fun."

  Jessica swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling rapidly in response to his actions.

  "No, I--I think maybe I’ll just use marshmallows."

  What They Are Saying About

  A Hero’s Promise

  "...Dane has mellowed, but... he’s still the most amazing, vital, appealing hero I have had the pleasure of curling up between the covers with in a very long time!"

  --Roberta Olsen Major,

  author of BOUND

  Wings

  A Hero’s Promise

  by

  Anne Carter

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Contemporary Romantic Suspense Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Lorraine Stephens

  Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds

  Senior Editor: Anita York

  Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens

  Cover Artist: Pam Ripling

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books

  http://www.wings-press.com

  Copyright © 2002 by Pam Ripling

  ISBN 1-59088-211-3

  Published In the United States Of America

  April 2003

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  To Richard, Kevin, Mel, Harrison,

  Sean, Joe and Viggo...

  heroes all...

  thank you for the inspiration, guys.

  May your stars always shine brightly.

  Prologue

  I swore I would never again put my thoughts on paper after that last disastrous go at keeping a journal. Perhaps here, in the sanctity of personal cyberspace--like what is that?--I can release a few of the demons that still haunt me after all this time.

  It’s been three years, give or take a heartbeat, since I left L.A. and the woman of my soul behind. I guess I’ve seen her a couple of times since, but they were faux meetings; she might as well have been a stranger on the street, an acquaintance, the wife of my new business partner. A partner, and friend, to whom I made an impossible promise. Why do we do such foolish things? In my case it was because it was the only way out alive.

  Wyoming has been good for me. Ghosts have trouble breathing here, the air is so crisp and clean. Sometimes I have trouble breathing here, but it is not because of the air.

  I know it was crazy to think that distance would be enough. But the physical separation from temptation has, at least, afforded me my dignity and some minor relief from the madness that pervades in her presence.

  MacKendall has asked me to come back, to work on a new film with him. I haven’t made a picture for a year or so, haven’t done a decent one since the last one I did with her, and this is an excellent opportunity to get back into the dance. Reading the script, I could feel the heat of the lights, hear the crackle of electric excitement when the cameras begin to roll. I didn’t even realize I was already making notes in the margin.

  It is the picture that could turn my career around. Still, it will mean that I will see her; worse, her and him, together. Damnation.

  My fingers pause here, as I wonder if this keyboard will remain my ally, and my disk space a safe, password-protected harbor for my restless thoughts.

  The old journal is in the corner of my closet shelf, dusty, dark, forbidden. Chapters of my life that are closed.

  Can I do this? Can I wear the face of smiling deceit, playing the greatest role of my life, that of a caring but distant friend? She can never know of the turmoil, the torturous love that lives on inside me, of the indefinable need and monumental promise I made.

  I guess I will call him back.

  Filmmaking is in my blood.

  One

  Trade Off

  "Is that him?" the little boy asked, his small finger arrowed toward the tiny twinkle of light in the distant sky.

  "Maybe," the woman answered, leaning down to lift the toddler and support him on her hip. "It should be. Daddy’s not usually this late."

  "It looks like his plane!"

  Despite her anxiety, the woman chuckled. At this distance, the speck in the northern sky could be any type of aircraft, including Mac’s single engine Cessna.

  "Let’s hope so, sweetheart. My, you’re getting heavy!"

  Jessica MacKendall shifted her son to the other hip, and then pulled a wisp of hair away from her lips. Mac had never been so late before, and at last check, her friends in the tower had not heard from him. It was a short flight from Monterey to L.A., but she did not know exactly what time he had lifted off. Still, it was getting dark, and a fog was creeping in. Although Mac was licensed to fly by instruments, he disliked doing so.

  Weary, she put the boy back down and stretched her muscles.

  "Maybe he crashed!"

  "Devon! Don’t ever say that!" Alarmed, Jessica squatted down and took her son by the shoulders, peering into his soulful brown eyes. "Daddy is a really, really good pilot. He is really very careful when he flies, so don’t worry, okay?"

  Devon nodded solemnly and wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck. Over his shoulder, Jessica squinted at the single headlight, hoping with all her being that it was Mac’s plane.

  What would I do without him?

  They were rarely apart. In the three years since Devon’s birth, their marriage had grown steadily stronger, their lives fuller. Sure, the spotlights made it difficult; the media and the couple’s notoriety often threatened to diminish their intimacy, taking every opportunity to invade their privacy. Even now, standing on the tarmac at the small, community airport nearest their home, Jessica could see fans gawking from the terminal window.

  How could I go on?

  Mac put up with the fans better, she thought. So patient, and genuinely friendly to everyone he met. If he were here right
now, he’d be waving at those people.

  Those rude people. They have no idea how worried I am.

  He said he’d be home in time for dinner. They were going to pick up barbequed beef sandwiches on the way home. Dinnertime, to Mac, was over an hour ago. Around the time Devon had turned two, Mac had instituted a set mealtime, telling Jessica how important it was to have routines. Especially for Hollywood kids.

  "That’s him, Mommy. He’s hungry for dinner."

  Jessica cupped her young son’s cheek in her hand.

  If he ever shows up, I’ll have to tell him to never do this to me again.

  There was a time when he left her. Worse, he had left her in anger, and had traveled halfway around the world to get away from her. Years ago, now, and the jealousy that had surfaced into rage was all but gone. And so was the man triggering that jealousy. The other man.

  "I never want us to be apart again," Mac had said, when, at last, they reconciled.

  And we won’t. Ever.

  They usually flew together, Jessica sometimes taking control of the plane while Mac patiently taught her the ropes. Like most pilots, he was fascinated by aircraft, passionate about flying. But she had never met a more cautious man.

  Jessica turned her face into the wind, letting the brisk breeze pull the hair away from her face. The craft in the northern sky banked, correcting its path, then straightened out again.

  He’d had all new gauges installed. New tires put on. The vertical stabilizer was next for maintenance, but there was really nothing wrong with it, Mac had assured her. Still, there was that annoying rattle on their last trip to Santa Barbara.

  "Probably just the passenger side door," Mac had assured her. The door was damaged in a windstorm several years earlier.

  Jessica nibbled at her thumbnail. What if it wasn’t the door?

  "Mommy, I’m tired."

  "I know, darling. He’ll be here soon."

  Soon. Please, God. I know I’m being unreasonable. I know I begged you for a baby just last night. But please, I’d rather have Mac. I’d rather--

  "Mrs. MacKendall?"

  Jessica jerked to attention as a man wearing a baseball cap tapped her on the shoulder.

  "Thought you’d like to know, that’s your husband on approach," he said, waving a finger toward the headlight beam that was now descending at the north end of the runway.

  Jessica let out the deep breath she had been holding. "Yes," she said, "I know. My son told me."

  ~ * ~

  "How can she not know who the father is?" Jessica asked, looking up for the third time from the open screenplay in her lap.

  "She knows. She’s just not saying," Mac murmured. Leaning over a one-inch thick document that was neatly stacked on the desk before him, he raked his fingers through his shaggy locks. "Dane must be nuts to let these guys put all this crap in here. There’s got to be a simpler way to form a corporation. Oh, by the way, is this our weekend to have Megan?"

  "No. She called and said her mother is taking her to Catalina as a belated birthday gift. I swear, your daughter sounds more like seventeen than ten." Jessica paused, then returned to their previous discussion. "I thought Charlene had really cleaned up her act."

  Mac stopped reading and twisted around to gaze at his wife.

  "She has. You know my sister. She gets bored."

  "Bored? Is that any reason to get pregnant?"

  Mac turned off the desk lamp and stood up. "Okay. What’s eating you?"

  Sullen, Jessica looked back at the script. "Nothing."

  "Right." He sat on the couch beside her, throwing his arm across the back as he turned to face her. "Look, I’m sorry I was so late. I should have called you when I put the plane down in Santa Barbara. I just got so hung up on trying to find out what was wrong with that damned oil gauge--"

  Jessica lifted her eyes slowly to meet his, her annoyed expression softening to one of sadness tinged with fear. "Of course you had to land. What if--what if you had really been out of oil? I was just so… worried," she said softly, her eyes now glistening with unshed tears. "And Dev was getting freaked out, too. You should talk to him."

  "I will." Mac took her into his arms and gently rocked her. It was enough of an apology for Jessica.

  "I didn’t mean to be critical of Charlene," she said later as they prepared for bed.

  "You were right, though. It was a dumb thing to do. I’m thinking of asking her to come out."

  "Here? When? Isn’t the baby almost due?"

  "Yeah. I think she should be here when it comes." Mac paused, toothbrush in hand, watching for his wife’s reaction.

  Jessica stopped brushing her hair and returned his gaze. "Well, if you think that’s best, of course she can stay here."

  Mac sighed and tilted his head, giving her a look she adored. "She’s never been through this, you know? I’d hate for her to be alone."

  "That can be scary," Jessica agreed, looking down in memory at her own abdomen, now slender and flat.

  "Hey, I got here in time!" he reminded her with a smile.

  "Barely. Just barely, husband dear."

  "As I recall, you were in good hands."

  "Dane, good hands? Ha! Who are you kidding?" Jessica pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them, her eyes now glazed in memory of the night their son was born.

  "Well, with any luck, I’ll be here the whole time for the next one."

  "If we ever get a next one."

  Mac dried his face, then sat on the bed beside her and grasped her chin in his fist. "We will. Soon." Pressing her back against the pillow, he brought his lips against hers with such gentle purpose that Jessica was filled with new affection for her husband. He pulled away only long enough to turn out the light, and then recommenced his amorous demonstration of love. "Who knows, maybe tonight’s the night," he whispered in the dark, prompting giggles from Jessica.

  "Maybe," she whispered back, her frivolity waning as she remembered her prayers for another child and the trade-off she had opted for that day on the runway.

  It was silly, she decided. She hadn’t made any deals with God, either way. He alone decided when and where babies were conceived and airplanes crashed. One woman’s hysterical plea in a world of billions would not have caught His ear.

  Two

  Wrongful Death

  Dane Pierce left the front door opened wide and stepped out onto the broad, wooden plank porch. Fixated on the sunset before him, he slowly lowered himself into the Adirondack chair and slouched into his usual comfort zone. Dusk signaled the end of another peaceful Wyoming day, but Dane did not absorb the tranquility to which he had grown accustomed.

  He barely saw the dramatic reds softly become magenta and pale pink, as the sun dipped lower above the prairie’s farthest point. His ear, normally keen to every sound, every nuance to the tiniest degree, could not discern the horses’ cranky discourse or the onset of the crickets’ evening song.

  Peering out through slightly squinted eyes, he pulled at the moustache now adorning his lip, seeing not the palette of colors before him but instead the woman who colored his soul more brilliantly than any sunset tinted sky.

  Mac would be calling soon. Dane recalled the text of the e-mail waiting for him this morning, chastising him for his failure to respond to the offer. The script was a good one, and just the right vehicle to re-establish Dane Pierce as a top box office moneymaker. But if he went back, it would not be for this deal or that. There was any number of outstanding screenplays stacked on his own desk.

  No, he would have to examine his motives very carefully; for should he stumble, the consequences were hefty.

  How could he go back? Back to Hollywood, back in close proximity to the one thing he could not have?

  Unbidden, his fingers moved upward to the bridge of his nose, sliding downward and tracing its shape thoughtfully. It was too big, had always been too big. She had called it distinguished. A smile curled his lips at the memory, and he shook his head slowly.

&nb
sp; She would never willfully hurt anyone. Not knowingly. But she didn’t know, did she? She had never really believed him, never trusted him, never thought his interest in her was anything more than unadulterated lust.

  And why should she.

  The smile faded from his lips and fingertips now felt their way across them and down to his chin, bearing the stubble of two lazy days.

  No, Jessica didn’t know the depths of his love. And his task, his ultimate challenge, was to get in and out of Hollywood once again without her finding out.

  As expected, the shrill ring of the telephone interrupted his meditation, and he reached for the cordless on the table beside him.

  "So what’s holding this up?" Mac wanted to know. "You could be here in the morning."

  "I don’t know."

  "This is it, pal. Think about it. Another year off and all those sweet young girls will tear your posters out of their school lockers."

  "All right. You’ve convinced me."

  "No lie? You’re coming then? I can get my wife off my back?"

  Dane paused. Mac’s reference to Jessica grew a small mound in his throat. "I… have a few loose ends to tie up here. Gimme a week."

  "Hallelujah. I can set up a meeting with Access a week from Monday?"

  "Access?"

  "Michelhenny’s new group. They’re the guys that spun off of Paramount, I told you about them. Can we count on you?"

  "Yeah, sure." Dane paced across the porch as he talked, his anticipation building. "Jessie in on this?"

  "You’re kidding, right? You want to say hi? She’s right here."

  "No, that’s--" Dane cut himself off as he heard the muffled sounds of the phone already being handled. Like an ornery horse wary of being saddled, he filled his lungs and held his breath. He didn’t want to talk to her; he couldn’t wait to hear her voice.

  "Hi, stranger." Jessica’s words drifted into his head like the sweet notes of a familiar love song. "Do say you’re heading south."