Part 312 (1/2)

”It's supposed to be when it's right.” Feeling a bit misty, he touched

his rim to hers. ”He's the luckiest man I know.”

”We can make it work.” She sipped, letting the wine explode on her

tongue. ”We will make it work.” Dreamily she settled back and didn't

give a thought to Blackpool.

MICF=L THOUGHT OF HIM. He stood at the foot of the bed and studied the

man who had tried to kill Emma. He hadn't come out of it well. His

face was ruined. If he made it, he would need a series of operations to

reconstruct it. His survival didn't look promising with the internal

damage he'd suffered in the crash.

Michael didn't give a d.a.m.n whether he lived or died. He only wanted

five minutes.

He had the background report on Blackpool. It was still sketchy, but it

told him enough. The man swimming toward consciousness in ICU had been

born Terrance Peters. As a juvenile he'd racked up a record of petty

theft, vandalism, possession. He'd graduated to a.s.sault, usually on

women, dealing, and larceny before he'd changed his name and tried his

hand at singing in clubs. He'd let London swallow him, and though he'd

been under suspicion for a handftil of robberies, he'd always slid his

way out.

His luck had turned when he'd hooked up with Jane Palmer.

For the worse as it turned out, Michael thought. It's taken twenty

years, you sonofab.i.t.c.h, but we've got you.

”He won't be in any shape to talk,” the doctor pointed out. ”He needs

to stabilize.”

”I'll keep it brief.”