Safe Harbor

by Christine Feehan

  Hannah closed her eyes, already weak and worn out, her voice still that husky thread. "Strong." It was too much trouble to talk out loud so she switched back. His magic is strong and ancient. He knows the old ways, the traditional ways.

  Jonas smoothed back her wild, springy curls. "Go to sleep, honey. Prakenskii kept you alive so I don't care if he's the devil right now. We'll deal with all that later."

  Tenderness. Who would have thought he was so capable of such deep emotion? And he was beginning to worry about the fact that she couldn't talk. The knife had slashed across her throat. Was there even more damage than the doctor had first thought? Probably. Most likely. Even with the Drakes coming together to heal her, they were trying to keep her alive, not worry about the little things yet.

  Jonas. Don't leave me alone here. I want to go home. I don't feel safe here.

  He smiled around her fingertips. "You don't have to worry about me leaving you alone, Hannah. I'm going to lock you up in a room at home." He felt her shudder, but it was more in his mind than anything else and he frowned. "You don't like the idea."

  There was a small silence. He thought she might not answer him.

  If I was outside, no one could have done this to me. I have little power indoors. I feel safe outside.

  Jonas frowned. "Hannah, I don't think I'm understanding what you're saying."

  That's all right. I don't know what I was saying.

  Her voice was fading again as exhaustion took over, but Jonas wasn't so willing to let her go. She was lying. She knew what she was saying and it was important. "You can control the elements outside," he said. "And that makes you feel safe."

  She didn't respond, but he felt her assent in his mind.

  Jonas shook his head. "Hannah, are you telling me you don't feel safe indoors? Here? In the hospital?" He felt that same tightening in his gut right before his alarms shrieked at him. She'd asked him to go to New York. He hadn't listened then but he was damn sure going to listen now.

  When you're with me.

  "Do you still feel you're in danger?" They got the couple. The kid couldn't pose a threat. She was under sedation at the eating disorder clinic. It was natural, he reassured himself, for her to be fearful. She'd gone through a brutal, life-altering attack. Being afraid was simply that--not precognition. Still, his mouth had gone dry and his heart had accelerated.

  What do you mean--couple?

  Jonas swore under his breath. What kind of idiot was he? An amateur? She turned her head back toward him and opened her eyes. He felt the impact of that blue gaze all the way through his body, like an electrical jolt. She was not happy with him. She'd caught his thought just as if he'd spoken it out loud. He knew better around her, especially when she was speaking telepathically. He mentally kicked himself.

  Jonas. What couple?

  He kissed her fingers again, wishing he could scoop her up onto his lap and hold her close. "The man's wife tried to inject Beuthanasia into your IV." Her gaze never wavered. It was impossible to look away.

  Did she say why she wanted me dead?

  "She didn't say anything." At least it wasn't a lie. She'd know he was lying, she always knew. Hannah continued staring at him. "For God's sake," he snapped, exasperated. "It isn't important right now. I'm taking care of things."

  She did blink then. Long lashes sweeping down, giving his body another jolt. Geez. She did it so easily to him. She always had. Even wrapped up like a mummy, she could make every cell in his body zing.

  I'm hurt, Jonas, not mentally incapacitated. Tell me. I have the right to know and I'm not some fragile flower that's going to wilt or be crushed, so just tell me.

  Fragile was exactly what she was. He touched her face with his fingertips, brushed at strands of her hair. "I think I have the right to protect you, Hannah. You took about ten years off of my life. I'm not hiding anything. The woman is dead. We have no idea what the motivation was, but we're looking into it. In the meantime, I'm staying right with you. There's no need to be afraid."

  He hoped he was right. Prayed he was right.

  There has to be a reason, Jonas. Did I know them? Had I slighted them in some way? Maybe they thought I was rude to them. Sometimes people try to talk to me when I'm going out to the car and I can't talk without stuttering so I just smile and wave.

  His heart ached for her. He bent closer, his posture protective, loving. He didn't give a damn if the entire world knew she turned him inside out. "This wasn't your fault. Stop trying to make sense of it. There is no sense to it, Hannah." He used the pad of his thumb, stroked little caresses over her brow. "I love you, Hannah. You know that, don't you? You know I love you."

  He felt her withdrawal, her mind pulling away from his. At once she was cautious. You don't have to say that, Jonas. I don't want you to, not now, when I don't even know what I look like.

  "Now you're just pissing me off, woman. Do you think you're talking to that little rodent, Simpson? Why the hell did you keep him on as your agent?"

  Hannah blinked at his shift to anger and then to Greg Simpson. He's amazing in the fashion world. Really has a feel for the designers, who are going to make it and who aren't. He's abrasive and arrogant, but he's made the careers of some of the biggest names in the business. I would never have made it without him.

  Jonas wasn't altogether certain that was true, but what did he know about the fashion industry? Greg Simpson was a respected name in the business and he certainly brought in the deals for Hannah. Jonas had never really inquired too much about the kind of money Hannah made, but he knew it was a lot--more than he cared to think about. "Is he always like that?"

  No. He's a shark during contract negotiations and the clients adore him. He knows exactly what to say to them. He wields a lot of power in the industry.

  There was something more--something he wasn't getting. If Greg Simpson was such a hot agent, then it would stand to reason he'd be smart enough to treat his number one client with kid gloves, but he wasn't doing that. He was insulting and rude. He was giving press conferences when he should be shielding her. Something was very off. "Hannah. Did you tell him you were going to quit?"

  She was silent, but he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes. His gut clenched and twisted into tight knots. Everything inside him went still and the cop took over.

  "When did you tell him you were quitting?"

  Hannah turned her face away. It doesn't matter.

  "That's why he's been such a pompous little weasel. You wouldn't have put up with him if he always treated you like that. You told him you were quitting. You're his number one client and he gets a lot of mileage out of being the agent of number one. Damn it, Hannah, why didn't you tell me you quit?" He leaned over her, upset enough to catch her bandage-covered chin and tug until she looked at him. "When we were together, why didn't you tell me? You'd already quit, hadn't you?"

  There was the smallest of nods. I still had contracts to fulfill. I told him no more, that I wouldn't take any more.

  "When?" he demanded.

  Do you remember when you walked in and Greg was on the speaker phone a few months ago? He suggested I get a breast reduction. There was painful embarrassment in her voice--in his mind. Shame even. I don't always fit into the standard size made for runway models, and with the huge fashion shows coming up, apparently some of the designers complained.

  Jonas had been furious, he recalled. Hannah was already starving herself and Simpson was pushing her to lose even more weight. She was as thin as a rail, but she still had generous breasts--something not welcome in the fashion industry apparently.

  That had been several months ago. "You actually told him then that you wanted out?" He was definitely going to look into a tie between the couple who had attacked her and Simpson, although it didn't make sense, but he was paranoid where she was concerned. Simpson stood to lose a lot of money if she quit.

  I'd been in the business long enough. I'd made enough money to live comfortably wherever I wanted and I wasn't about to get
a breast reduction.

  "Thank God something brought you to your senses. Give me a timeline on this, Hannah. You told him--what was his reaction? When did he start getting nasty with you?"

  Hannah's brows drew together. What are you thinking? That Greg would want to hurt me because I told him I was quitting the business?

  "Of course not." It was exactly what the cop in him was thinking. Simpson was getting a lot of media coverage out of the attack, and what would it have been like to lose your most famous client? He could well imagine Simpson smoldering with rage and wanting to get back at her. Now, not only was there an outpouring of sympathy for him, but he would be even more sought after.

  Jonas just couldn't get behind the fact that a couple with no priors, no hint of mental illness, would develop a hate so deep they would attempt to kill Hannah in such a vicious manner. The attack, had personal written all over it. It was dramatic, had been on television. Inside Entertainment, the popular celebrity gossip show, had advertised heavily that they would carry what they proclaimed as the party of the century--that every star was attending. That meant Albert Werner had wanted the attack to be caught on film. He had wanted the world to see it. He had known he was going to get caught and must have been prepared to end his life, just as his wife had.

  And that brought the entire matter right back to psychic powers. Who had them and who stood to gain by forcing a couple to kill Hannah Drake? He was going to start digging for a connection with Simpson. The man would come out of this a media favorite. And, it had to be said, he had to look a little deeper at Prakenskii.

  Jonas.

  He nibbled on her fingers. "I'm right here, baby. Don't worry so much. You know me. I like everything neat and tidy." He glanced over his shoulder as he heard the Drakes arriving. "Your family is here for another healing session and then we're going to move you to another room."

  Her fingers hooked his. When can I go home?

  "Soon, honey. I promise. I'll get you home soon."

  Chapter Ten

  HANNAH stood in the center of her room, shaking, bile rising in her throat. Around her, face up on the floor, were shards of the full-length mirror, replicating over and over a horrifying, monstrous image of her body. She looked like a cross-patch quilt, not real, someone sewn together.

  She pressed her fingers to her eyes hard, stemming the flow of tears. She would not do this. She wouldn't. She was alive. Her sisters were healing her. Anyone else would be dead. Dead. She needed to be grateful for the miracle they'd handed her, not too vain to cope with the results. The slashes on her body would fade with time--much faster than normal. Libby was certain the Drake sisters could keep most of the scars from showing too much. She needed to be grateful.

  "Hannah?" The knock on the door was soft. Hesitant. Persistent. "Honey, we heard a crash. Are you all right?"

  Hannah swallowed hard and grabbed her robe, hastily covering her body. She didn't dare take a step with her feet bare. Glass was scattered all over the floor. Large, jagged pieces and small tiny shards. Ruined. Like her life. Like her face. Her body. Everything. "I'm fine, Sarah. I just dropped something. I'm just about to lie down."

  "Let me in, honey. I'll help you pick it up. I heard something break."

  "I've already got it." She needed Sarah to go away. They all had to leave her alone and give her some time. She was broken into a million pieces, just like the mirror, and she had to find a way to put herself back together. She had to find a way to believe in herself. She didn't want to be like this--scared and lost and feeling so alone.

  Mostly she couldn't stand the deception anymore. She could feel her sisters' pity. Poor Hannah. Whatever will she do? We have to think for her. Figure her life out, now that she's ruined. The sympathy was killing her. She couldn't be in the same room with them, and they whispered. Whispered. As if she was on her death bed. Maybe that's the way all of them viewed her now. Hannah Drake, the model, certainly was. And who the hell was she now?

  "Hannah?" Sarah knocked again. "Let me in."

  "Sarah." Hannah's voice broke. She choked. "You've got to give me some space. I'm sorry, I just need time. Give me time."

  There was a moment of silence. She could feel the weight of Sarah's hurt and sorrow crushing her--crushing both of them.

  "Hannah, open the damn door."

  There was nothing soft or hesitant about the command or the voice. Jonas didn't believe in coddling. He'd see her for the coward she was. He'd think it was vanity. Poor little Hannah, unable to stand not being the Barbie doll.

  Immediately following Jonas's demand, she could hear her sisters whispering to him, furious that he would use that tone and maybe upset her. Protecting her, standing up for her and she so didn't deserve it. She hated that they wanted to protect her--that they felt it was necessary. All of them jumped him, demanding he back off and let them handle her. Because poor little broken Hannah needed to be handled.

  She felt the insistent burn of tears. How utterly pathetic could she get, standing in the middle of her room with broken glass surrounding her--mocking her--and her sisters and Jonas crowding together outside her door whispering together. If it wasn't so wretchedly sad, she would laugh.

  She'd managed to keep everyone at bay the first week home by simply staying in bed, but her refusal to eat had upset them all so much, and she could see she was wearing them out as they tried to heal her, so she'd made the effort to get up.

  "Hannah. I'm not kidding around with you. Open the fucking door now." There was an edge to his voice, as if he were gritting his teeth and biting out each word. Her heart accelerated and her throat seemed to swell.

  There were more whispers. She could have told her sisters all the demands in the world wouldn't work on Jonas. He was going to come in. There were no walls between Jonas and Hannah. He never allowed them unless he was the one erecting them. He simply smashed every barrier down. She closed her eyes. When he opened the door--and he would--her sisters would see the mess she'd made and the sympathy would pour from them with such force she would be overwhelmed and drowning instantly.

  She wished she could just disappear. Instead, when she heard Jonas working the lock, she reached out to him. Please don't let the others see in, Jonas. It cost what little pride she had left, but she made the plea. Her sisters didn't need to see just how weak and useless she really was. Jonas already knew. Maybe they did, too, maybe that was why they always bailed her out, thought for her, directed her and babied her. She hadn't been able to bear the look on her mother's face so she asked her to leave along with the aunts. If one more person fussed over her, she might jump off the balcony.

  "Sarah, Kate, just stay out," Jonas barked, holding the door closed. "I'm not going to hurt her. She's quite capable of putting me in my place if she needs to. Go away and let me talk to her alone."

  "She's fragile, Jonas. Don't be such a bear with her." Kate's voice was low and anxious. "You can't just barge in on her and yell at her."

  "Why would you think I'd do that?" Jonas asked.

  "Maybe using the 'F' word was a clue," Kate said.

  Hannah found the churning in her stomach easing a bit.

  Jonas was not going to treat her as if she might break apart any second--even if she already had.

  Jonas slipped inside, shut the door and turned the lock. She stayed very still as he surveyed the damage. Her full-length antique free-standing mirror was shattered, only two small, jagged shards hanging from the frame. The glass was everywhere, scattered all over the floor, pieces even sticking up like small daggers, glittering like silver.

  "Don't move, baby," he said. "Not one step."

  "In spite of what everyone thinks, I'm not suicidal, just irrational." Her voice came out in a husky whisper, one the doctors said she would have to get used to. She kept her hand in front of her face. He'd seen her swathed in bandages, but she'd taken them off to look and the sight had been hideous. She didn't want to look in a mirror and she didn't want to see her reflection in his eyes. Most of a
ll, she didn't want to see pity on his face.

  Jonas stepped through the glass and caught her up, cradling her in his arms. "On the bed or out on the balcony?"

  She blushed. Not just her face, her entire body. His breath was warm on her neck. Her robe had gaped open and he was staring down at the slashes standing out so raw and angry across her bare flesh. "Jonas. Don't look."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Stop swearing at me. And you know why. It's aw-awful." She closed her eyes. She would not stammer. She refused to be any more of a mess than she already was.

  Jonas took her to the edge of the French doors and set her on her feet, his hands going to the front of her robe and sweeping it open before she could stop him. "I'm so fucking glad you're alive, do you really think I care what the stitches look like? I want to see if you're healing properly. The docs didn't want you to come home yet."

  All the color drained from her face. She gasped. A single strangled cry escaped as she attempted to step back and jerk her robe closed, but he held the material apart ruthlessly.

  "I don't know, baby," he mused, "it still looks painful." The pads of his fingers brushed the curve of her breast. "Has Libby taken a look at this? Because she needs to. It's very red. Could be infected."

  Only a few short weeks earlier, Jonas had touched her breasts, his mouth had been right where his hands were, hot and hungry with need and desire. She expected to feel his revulsion and outrage, but instead, there was calm acceptance mixed with worry for her and approval of the rate her sisters were healing her. Not so fast that it drained all of their energy and left them unable to function, yet she was alive and the wounds were healing from the inside out.

  But not where anyone could see.

  She felt very vulnerable standing there naked, her robe held open while he inspected the wounds as clinically as if she was a broken statue glued together rather than a real flesh-and-blood woman. She didn't know which was actually worse. The wounds traveled from her face to her belly. Horrible deep slashes and punctures, shallow ones that ripped across her pale skin.

  "What did Libby say about children?" His voice turned gruff. His fingertips drifted up to her throat, slid over the gashes there, traced a path along her breast, down her ribs to her stomach and finally to her abdomen, where he lay his palm, fingers splayed wide. "Can we still have children, Hannah?"