Dale flashed his badge and gave his name to a young African American attendant wearing medical scrubs. The attendant ushered them into an even colder room that reeked of disinfectant and something else, something she could not identify. The odor nauseated her.
Fran’s gaze jumped immediately to a gurney in the corner which contained a lump covered by a white sheet. The lump was the size of a twelve-year-old girl. The size of her Bella. Dark hair spilled from under the covering across clear plastic.
Hair the same color as her Bella.
Dale spoke to the attendant in hushed tones. Fran did not try to listen or understand. Her focus remained on the gurney.
And she knew. That lump was what was left of her daughter. Her daughter’s remains. Bella was dead.
The room spun. She reached out blindly to hold on to something. Anything.
Dale shouted her name and grabbed her before she collapsed to the floor.
When she came back to herself, she sat in a chair with her head between her knees. Dale squatted on the floor in front of her, rubbing her back, murmuring to her.
She inhaled deeply, slowly raised her head.
Dale’s troubled green eyes—oh, mio Dio—Bella’s eyes, searched her face.
She leaned against the back of the chair. “I am all right.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
She nodded.
The attendant handed Dale a plastic water bottle. He twisted off the cap and gave it to her.
“Grazie,” she murmured. After a long swallow, she returned her gaze to the gurney. She did not want to look, did not want to see what was under that sheet, but she had to.
“Just sit here another minute,” Dale said.
“I must do this,” she said. “I must know for sure.”
Dale rose and glanced back at the attendant. The attendant nodded. “That’s your Jane Doe. She came in about an hour ago.”
Jane Doe. Fran inhaled deeply and the odor of ammonia slammed into her, making her stomach turn. She pushed herself to her feet. I have to do this. No matter the cost, I have to know.
Dale supported her as they approached the gurney. The attendant pulled the white cloth away from the top of the body.
Steeling herself for the truth, for how much everything in her life would change, she looked down into a swollen face mottled with bruises.
A sob escaped Fran. She turned in to Dale, and he gathered her close.
“It is not her,” she cried. “This child was not our daughter.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DALE DROVE UNDER the canopy of Fran’s hotel and braked to a stop. A young valet rushed out to take his keys, but Dale waved him off.
He needed a minute. He and Fran needed to talk. She hadn’t spoken since they’d left the medical examiner’s office. He’d tried, but every time he asked a question, she shook her head and clutched her stomach.
Of course she was traumatized. Any mother would be. Identifying a body was rough stuff, even for law enforcement officers. His own thoughts had been disorganized for too long during the drive when he should have been concentrating on their next step.
He turned to evaluate Fran. She looked straight ahead, her normally active hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were wide open, staring blindly. How the hell could he break through to her, get her to open up?
After a moment of strained silence, he went with his training.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he said.
Fran slowly turned and fixed him with dark eyes full of despair. “When I first saw the body, the color of the hair convinced me it was Bella.”
He nodded. No wonder Fran had reacted so strongly.
“That poor young girl,” she murmured. “Someone beat her, beat her badly.
“But she wasn’t our Bella.”
“She was someone’s daughter. How could anyone do that to a child?”
“Don’t think about her. You need to focus on the positive, remember that our daughter could still be alive.”
“And perhaps some horrible man like Morales is beating her at this very moment.”
“Fran.”
“And I can do nothing to help her.” Her voice broke. “Absolutely nothing.”
The valet approached the vehicle again. This time he wore a determined expression.
Dale slammed his badge against the window. The jerk backed off, holding up his arms in surrender.
When Dale returned his focus to Fran, she’d buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs.
He blew out a breath. She needed sleep to regain her equilibrium.
But he couldn’t leave her alone. Not like this.
And she needed to eat. She’d almost fainted in the ME’s office. He’d been with her all day and had only seen her take—what? About three bites of rabbit food.
He exited the vehicle, moved to the passenger side and helped Fran descend from the high seat. He tossed his keys to the valet, who chased him down to hand him a receipt.
With his arm around Fran’s waist, Dale moved her through the lobby. She accepted his help willingly, an indication of how much the day’s events had affected her.
She’d been through hell and back, and they were no closer to finding their daughter.
In the elevator, she dug in her purse for the key. He took it from her and opened the door, clicking the deadbolt behind them.
She dropped her purse on the sofa and collapsed beside it, closing her eyes as if she wanted to shut out the world.
Dale spotted the whiskey she’d ordered last night on the kitchen counter next to the coffee maker. He opened cabinets, found two crystal tumblers and poured them both an inch of amber liquid.
“Fran,” he said softly.
She opened her eyes and accepted the glass from his hand. “Grazie,” she murmured.
He sat beside her, watching her sip and the grimace she made. Obviously not a fan of whiskey. He took his first taste, felt the burn slide down his throat, and hoped she drank every drop. The alcohol should help her sleep.
She took another swallow and blew out a breath. Meeting his gaze, she lifted her chin and said, “So what is our next move?”
“We’re not doing any more talking tonight,” he said. “It’s after midnight.”
“But we need to—”
“We don’t need to do anything. We’re done. I want you to finish your drink, take a hot shower, and climb into bed.”
She nodded and took another swallow. She stared into the glass.
“Finish it,” Dale said.
“I can’t turn off my thoughts.”
“I know.” He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face.
“I keep seeing that poor child’s destroyed face, wondering if someone has beaten Bella.”
“You need sleep.”
“But when I sleep, the images haunt my dreams.”
“Even so, your body needs the rest,” he insisted.
“Please don’t go.” She raised pleading eyes to his. “I don’t want to be alone.”
He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Releasing a deep sigh, she placed her cheek on his shoulder.
They remained together on the sofa for maybe ten minutes, silently nursing their whiskey. Her warmth, the fragrance of her hair consumed his senses, making him totally aware of the woman he held in his arms. The first woman he had ever loved.
After all these years his Frannie had returned to him. For so many nights he’d prayed for, dreamed about their reunion, how deliriously happy they’d be. Hard to believe that her return came under circumstances far worse than the way she’d left him.
Were they star-crossed, just not meant to be together? Seemed so. Frannie would go back to Italy—either with or withou
t Bella. She’d made a life there. She had a husband, a successful career with her art. His life and work were here.
When she swallowed the last of her drink, he took the crystal tumbler from her and helped her to her feet. As he walked her to the bathroom, he pushed away a fierce urge to get them both naked and into the shower, to smooth his soapy hands over each enticing curve of her body.
They’d endured one of the worst twenty-four hours of his life. Making love would make them both feel better.
In her present mood she wouldn’t refuse, but no way would he take advantage of that vulnerability. Not tonight. He wasn’t that big of a jerk. Besides, they didn’t need any more complications. Their situation was hard enough.
She turned to face him after entering the sleek, modern bathroom. Fearing that he’d lose control and ignore his inner compass, he refused to look at her face. Instead he peered into the giant mirror behind her that reflected her graceful back and neck.
He reached inside the shower, focusing on white tile with cobalt blue accents—anything but the lure of Fran—and turned on the faucets. He adjusted the temperature until steam mushroomed into the space, fogging the mirror.
“Take a hot shower, Fran. You’ll feel better.”
He stepped out of the bathroom, away from her pull.
“Dale.” She placed her hand on his arm.
Knowing he shouldn’t, he turned. The expression on her face made him suck in a breath. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Or was that his imagination?
She lifted her hand from his arm and fingered the top button on her blouse.
Did she want him to stay? Or to leave?
He shook his head. They couldn’t do this.
Her gaze remained locked with his as he closed the door, blocking her from his hungry eyes.
Dale grabbed his tumbler, poured himself another inch of whiskey and stepped outside onto the balcony. The temperature had cooled slightly, but not much. It was only September, and the first cold front of the season hadn’t yet arrived.
Too bad. Tonight he could use a blast of frigid air to cool himself off.
He took a healthy gulp of the liquor and settled onto a chair. He didn’t want to listen to the water running in the bathroom. He didn’t want to imagine Fran slick and wet. Oh, he’d seen her naked often enough, but it had been a long, long time. No doubt there’d been some changes.
For one thing, she’d given birth to their child.
He took another swallow of whiskey, smaller this time. He still had trouble wrapping his brain around the idea that he had a daughter.
Or he hoped he still did. And, man, what a revelation that was.
Intense relief had swamped him when Fran announced the Jane Doe wasn’t Bella. He’d been convinced the body was their daughter, that their search had ended, that Fran would take Bella’s remains, go back to Rome and he’d never see her again.
Would that have been the easier outcome? Damn, no. His life was about to seriously go off the rails, but losing Bella would not get it back on track.
He hadn’t taken a personal day off since graduating the academy, but if they made the trip to Tampa, he’d need more leave than his lieutenant had granted. Marshall would be seriously pissed, which would place his assignment to the joint task force in jeopardy.
He didn’t have to go. Most likely the journey would be a waste of time, but how could he refuse to help Fran? How could he tell her that he was done?
What kind of a man did that make him?
He sipped his whiskey. He hadn’t analyzed the trajectory of his life this closely in years, but apparently that’s what learning you had a kid did to a man.
In the morning, he’d contact Javi and inform him the Jane Doe wasn’t Bella and learn the results of interviews with the rescued children. If any of the kids had recognized Bella’s photo, he and Fran would make the trip to Tampa. He doubted Javi would show the kids the photo of the Jane Doe. Her face had been too damaged.
But no question Javi would show that gruesome image to Morales. And to Atwood during his interview. Maybe the fact that they’d found remains would shake some new information loose.
Dale finished the whiskey and reentered the suite. Fran stood by the bed wearing the white terrycloth robe from this morning with her hair wrapped in a towel turban-style.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said with a faint smile. “It felt good to scrub away such horrible smells from the medical examiner’s office.”
“I hear you. I need to do the same thing.”
She pressed a large pink plastic comb to her chest. “So you are leaving?” Her voice held a note of panic.
“I told you I’d stay.” He jerked a thumb at the bathroom. “I assume you don’t mind if I use your shower.”
She sat on the bed. “Of course not.”
“I’ll be out in a minute.”
Fran nodded and released the turban, causing wet hair to tumble to her shoulders. Dale turned away from her, from a sudden, sharp memory of sitting with Fran on South Beach after a swim, of combing out her dark silky hair.
Of smoothing coconut-scented sunscreen on the warm skin of her back.
“Get into bed,” he said, his voice hoarse. He needed her under the covers when he emerged from the bathroom. Away from temptation.
* * *
COMBING OUT HER wet hair, Fran stared at the closed bathroom door, listening to the sounds of the shower running, imagining what Dale looked like with water sluicing over the hard muscles of his body. Her lover had been a teenaged boy the last time she’d seen him without any clothing. How much had his body changed?
She longed to enter the room and join him under that steaming cascade of water. Why didn’t she?
What had happened to her?
The girl who had been with Dale thirteen years ago would not have hesitated. That girl took what she wanted, and she had wanted Dale. Oh, God, how she had wanted Dale.
But the woman that girl had become was now deathly afraid.
What am I afraid of?
Of rejection? No, Dale would not object to her joining him. She would have to be blind not to notice the ravenous way his eyes consumed her body. He wanted, but did not take. Although he could have.
Did he know that she had wanted him to remain with her in the bathroom, to shower with her?
Or was he also afraid?
She almost laughed at the idea. No, Dale was never afraid.
But she was paralyzed with the fear of making another shattering mistake. Taking what she wanted, giving herself to Dale with such abandon all those years ago had been an enormous blunder that had almost ruined her life—no, had actually destroyed her for too many miserable years.
And the fates were not yet done with punishing that young girl for being so impatient, for boldly going after what she desired.
A beautiful baby had been the one reward for her foolishness, her saving grace, but now Bella might be lost to her mother forever.
Fran looked down at her hands, turning her palms up and then down, opening and closing her fingers. And she was still not able to draw. Her daughter was gone. Had her art been taken from her forever as well?
She looked up when Dale emerged from his shower and sucked in a breath at the sight of his bare chest, the damp hair curling next to his skin, disappointed that he’d put on his trousers. Since he didn’t have a change of clothing, she had hoped for a towel wrapped around his waist. She wanted to see more of his body.
She needed to see more of his body so she could draw him again. His anatomy would be all the inspiration she needed.
Obviously trying to be quiet, he briskly rubbed a towel over his head to dry his damp hair. Like her, he had no doubt washed his entire body in an attempt to cleanse himself of the dirt and ugliness they had experienced on this horrible day.
&
nbsp; When he lowered the towel and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, his jaw tightened.
“Feel better?” she asked, using the same flat tone he’d used.
He didn’t answer her directly. “Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I waited for you.”
“Why?”
She shrugged, deciding not to tell him her artist’s eye wanted to appreciate his physique.
“I’ll sleep on the sofa, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said.
She glanced to the sofa. “It’s too small. You won’t be comfortable.”
Dale stepped to the couch, tossed its cushions to the floor and lifted a strap. A folded mattress covered with sheets emerged.
“It makes into a bed,” Dale said. “I’ll be fine.”
She nodded, swallowing her disappointment as Dale moved the coffee table so that he could extend the mattress. She’d wanted the comfort of Dale in bed beside her. She wanted him to hold her, yes, to make love to her. She believed that he wanted that as well.
But Dale had made the decision not to touch her. She could only guess at his reasons. He certainly had cause to resent her.
Could she change his mind? No doubt.
Did she want to? Right this moment, yes. Desperately.
Should she? Would seducing Dale be another disastrous mistake? Would she regret that action tomorrow?
She did not know the answer to those questions. Or maybe she knew and chose to ignore the truth.
Beneath the hotel’s terrycloth robe, she wore a loose cotton T-shirt and panties, her usual comfortable sleepwear. She hadn’t thought to bring sexy lingerie on a journey to locate her missing daughter. But it wouldn’t matter what she wore or didn’t wear.
The Dale she remembered from her youth never required any enticement. She doubted that had changed.
She placed her comb on the bedside table. She needed Dale’s help to find Bella. Too much time had already passed, and she could not locate her daughter alone. She had no choice but to allow him to keep his distance.
Dale strode to the balcony doors and closed the blackout curtains. Next he moved toward the room door and checked the locks. Apparently satisfied they were secure, he paused by the light switch, his expression unreadable.
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