by Karen Rose
“They love you,” he said quietly.
“I know. And I know I’m lucky.”
“Or deserving.”
“I hope so. I want to make them proud of me. I want to make me proud of me.”
That was a feeling he completely understood. She returned her attention to her phone, answering the remaining texts, cutting and pasting the same message into each one, then adding “I love you” to her sisters and her father. But she didn’t look up, instead swiping at her phone screen and frowning at what she saw.
“I hope you’re not reading the comments on that article about you,” Gideon said. “That is never healthy.”
She shook her head. “No. I was looking for information on the case Rafe was telling us about. The missing woman with the little girl. But there’s nothing.” She looked up, her eyes filled with devastation once again. “Why?”
He shrugged. “Maybe the parents didn’t want the publicity. Maybe the reporters haven’t heard about it yet.”
“Or maybe because she’s a prostitute,” Daisy said flatly.
He nodded, because that was probably the best explanation. The public didn’t care about missing prostitutes, even ones trying to raise money for their child’s health care.
The server brought their meals and they ate in silence. Not an awkward silence. Just . . . thoughtful. Daisy pushed her plate away when she was finished and folded her arms on the table. “What are we going to do next, Gideon?”
“Go back to your place and watch TV.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t mean that.”
He hadn’t thought so. “Which thing then, Daisy?”
She looked him directly in the eye. “What are we going to do to find Eileen? And Ephraim Burton?”
He flinched, just thinking about the man. Then he exhaled slowly and reminded himself that he wasn’t thirteen and terrified any longer.
Her fingers brushed at his hand and he realized he’d balled it into a fist. And that he’d dropped his gaze to his empty plate. Fuck. Humiliation heated his cheeks.
I am not a child. I am not afraid. I am going to find him and . . .
And what, Gideon? the quiet voice in his mind asked. Not mockingly. More . . . curiously. I’ll make him pay. Of that fact he was one hundred percent certain.
How he’d accomplish it, he had no fucking clue.
Daisy moved his plate aside so that she could lean forward and cover both of his hands with hers. Her skin was warm, her hands so small. But so capable. This was not a woman who ran from danger or from life. She threw herself in headfirst, wore her heart on her sleeve even when it hurt.
He wanted some of that heart. Staring at her hands on his, he wondered what it would be like. To have someone to ground him when he needed it most.
“Gideon,” she whispered.
He looked up. The pity he’d feared he’d see wasn’t there. Instead there was a determination that should have come as no surprise. “I’m not sure,” he whispered back. “I don’t know where to start.” And that scared him to death.
He always knew where to start. He felt like he’d been dropped into a desert during an endless night with no compass. He never felt like this.
Not since he’d been dumped behind that bus station seventeen years before, broken and bleeding, with no family, no ID, no money. And wondering what was going to happen to him.
And suddenly he knew the answer.
“That’s where we’re going,” he murmured.
“Where?” she asked gently.
“To the bus station. In Redding.”
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because that’s where I was taken.”
“Taken,” she repeated carefully. “After what?”
“After I escaped a cult.” He closed his eyes on a sigh. Fuck it. He hadn’t intended to say that. Why was this woman able to pull words from his mind?
He opened his eyes to find her unsurprised gaze locked with his. “Eden?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yes. It was a religious community.”
“That married off girls when they were twelve years old,” she said, her jaw clenched, “and allowed grown men to beat teenagers.”
Among other things. “How did you know I was a teenager at the time?”
“Because you told my father that you’d known the Sokolovs for sixteen years. If you’d met them any earlier, I’d probably have met you myself. Sasha said you met Rafe in school, and he’s thirty. I can do simple math.”
He almost smiled. “I bet you can do more than simple math. You put all that together like another puzzle.” She didn’t answer, just tilted her head, waiting for him to tell her more. “I escaped when I was thirteen. Ended up at the Redding bus station before I was . . . moved to Sacramento.” By a medevac helicopter, but he wasn’t going into that here. Not in such a public place. Not when her questions would draw out more information that he wished to keep private.
She nodded once. “Then Redding it is.”
Releasing one of her hands, he flagged down the server. “Miss? Check, please.”
TEN
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 8:00 P.M.
Daisy looked up at Gideon, the umbrella giving them the illusion of privacy as they walked back to her house. The way his arm circled her back, encouraging her to lean on his shoulder as they strolled, made her want to forget why he was actually there.
Because someone tried to kill me last night. And that someone was somehow connected to Gideon’s past by the locket.
Redding. Eden. A cult. She hadn’t been surprised to hear him say the words. He’d seemed more surprised that he’d said them.
The man was not a vault. A small part of her wanted to believe that he was only that way with her, but she couldn’t let herself believe that. Not just yet.
This was an artificial situation. They’d been thrown together at a time of high stress and vulnerability—for both of them. Getting emotionally attached to the man was not a smart thing to do right now.
Daisy wanted to believe she was smart, but deep down she knew the long glances they’d shared, the little touches that seemed to soothe them both, were not insignificant. Maybe Irina had the right idea. Maybe they would be a good fit.
Not that Daisy was going to admit that to the matchmaking woman, no matter how good her pirozhki were. Pirozhki. “Shit,” she muttered.
Gideon went on immediate alert, head whipping from side to side. Not like he hadn’t been on alert before. She’d been aware of his gaze taking in everything and everyone around them from the moment they’d left her apartment earlier. But now he was shoving the umbrella into her hand. “Take it,” he bit out and reached for his gun.
She obeyed, but countered, “Whoa, Mr. G-man. Nothing’s wrong. I just remembered that I left Irina’s pirozhki out, which sucks because now I’ll have to throw it out and I could have warmed it up for at least one more meal. So you can be at ease or whatever.”
He relaxed a bit, taking back the umbrella. “Mr. G-man?”
She shrugged. “Special Agent Reynolds takes too long to say.”
“I suppose so. Don’t worry. I put the food in the fridge so you wouldn’t get E. coli.”
The word “E. coli” was delivered in so dire a tone, she had to smile up at him. “That was nice of you. Thank you.”
“You’re w—” He paused, his jaw going hard. “You have company.”
They’d just rounded the corner to her street to find two news vans parked across the street from Rafe’s house.
“Shit,” she muttered again. “I don’t want to talk to them. The more times I do, the more likely it is they’ll figure out my day job. I was hoping to keep the two separate.”
“Why?”
“I lucked into my job at the station because Boomer got sick, but I really
like it. I don’t want to be Daisy Dawson, the victim. I don’t want that to be the first thing people think of. I want them to think, there’s Daisy Dawson and she’s damn good at her job.”
He nodded, his eyes serious. “I get that. What do you want to do? We could turn around and try to run or I could push you through the gauntlet.”
“One way I look like a coward, the other I confirm I needed a bodyguard.”
He waited patiently, saying nothing as the rain beat down on the umbrella.
She squared her shoulders. “I gotta go home sometime.”
His arm tightened around her waist and he handed her the umbrella once again. “I’ll clear you a path. I don’t want any of those reporters coming too close. Especially any who are male and six feet tall.”
She understood the implication. Her attacker could hide in plain sight and she’d never know, which was why he’d freed his gun hand. “Let’s go.”
She dug the house key from her coat pocket as he led her up the sidewalk to the house, ready to make a run for it if she needed to. The barrage of questions came fast and furious as two reporters, one male and one female, ran from the shelter of their vans. The reporters were under umbrellas, but their cameramen were not so fortunate.
“I hoped the first interview would be enough,” she murmured. “How stupid was I?”
“Never stupid.” Gideon hugged her even closer so that they were pressed together, shoulder to thigh. “Maybe a little optimistic.”
She chuckled, but sobered quickly, halting on the first porch step when the male reporter called out, “Poppy Frederick, how did you escape your attacker last night?”
She allowed herself a heavy, silent sigh. Straightening her spine, she held herself taller. “Stay with me,” she murmured to Gideon.
“You got it.”
She tugged, and he followed her lead, turning them so that they faced the reporters, him keeping his arm around her waist and his gun hand free.
“Hi, guys,” she said, motioning the news teams to come a little closer. “I’m going to tell this one more time, but first I want to ask why I’m getting this attention. Yes, I was attacked and I appreciate you all getting the word out so that hopefully a witness will come forward. But I’m here. I’m okay. I’m safe. There are victims all over this city that don’t get this kind of attention from you who could use it a lot more. People who disappear and don’t come home. Prostitutes and drug addicts go missing in this city—in every city—every day and nobody pays them any attention. So yes, I’ll answer your questions, mostly in the hopes that you’ll leave me alone, but I want you guys to do better. I want your viewers to do better, too, to demand more from you.”
She quickly recounted what had happened in the alley, once again giving the description of her attacker and Rafe and Erin as the detective contacts.
“Were you being stalked at the radio station?” one of the reporters asked.
Daisy frowned, wondering for just a moment where that line of questioning had come from. But then she knew. Tad Nelson Todd, Mr. TNT himself. Bastard. “All I can tell you is that the police are investigating all leads.”
“It’s been rumored that you set this up,” the same reporter called out. “Is this some kind of publicity stunt to improve your ratings?”
Tad, you sonofabitch.
Beside her, Gideon stiffened but continued to say nothing, allowing her to run the show. For now. She had no doubt that if either of the reporters came closer, he’d be on them before they could blink.
The other reporter, a woman who had kind eyes, stared at the loudmouth in surprise before stepping forward. “Miss Frederick, do you have any words of advice for women who might be nervous walking the streets at night alone?”
Daisy smiled at her. “I trained in martial arts and self-defense for years, but that’s not possible for a lot of women in your viewing audience. There are moves they can learn, but the truth is, when you’re in that situation, you get scared. You forget. Some training is better than none, and if they can take just one class, by all means do that, but realize the limitations. Take the class again, every year or so. Renew your skills.”
“Do you have any recommendations?”
Daisy shook her head. “I’m new to the city. But I’ll find out and I’ll share those on my morning show, if my management agrees.”
The woman studied her shrewdly. “Do you know of a specific person who’s disappeared in the city?”
“I’m sure you have ways of getting all that information,” Daisy told her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m super tired.” She smiled at them politely. “And if you come back, I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing. Have a good evening.”
Gideon sent her up the stairs, waiting in the rain at the sidewalk until she’d opened the front door. He backed up, keeping his eyes on the group below, not even pausing when the obnoxious reporter shouted, “Who’s the muscle, Poppy? Why do you have a body—”
“You have thirty seconds,” Gideon barked at the man. “Vacate the property or you’ll be under arrest for trespassing.” To the nicer reporter he said, “Take your time, ma’am.”
He pushed his wet hair away from his face when he came into the house. “That fucker you used to work with has been spreading those rumors.”
Daisy began to tremble the moment he shut and locked the door, closing them off from the rest of the world. “I know,” she whispered.
Gideon took the umbrella from her hand, collapsed it, and set it in the umbrella stand by the door before removing his coat and then hers and hanging them on the coat tree to dry. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. “You were amazing out there.”
Shaking her head hard, she took a step forward and his arms came around her, drawing her close. “Daisy, honey,” he murmured. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”
The tears started to come and she couldn’t hold them back. Her teeth were chattering, so she clenched them and burrowed her face into his chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you say you’re sorry,” he ordered softly. “That was hard, but you were wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“Tad is a bastard,” she whispered.
“I should have punched him in the mouth when I had a chance this morning.”
“I wish I’d let you. Dammit, Gideon, I didn’t even get that jerk reporter’s name.” She’d been far too rattled.
“It’s okay. I got the station call numbers of both vans and their license plates, plus photos of all of the reporters and their cameramen. Rafe has security cameras as well.”
“I know. That’s why I asked them to come closer. They weren’t in camera range.”
He chuckled, low and deep, and she wanted to hear that sound forever. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
She tilted her head, something he’d said just sinking in. “What do you mean, the fucker I used to work with?”
“Rafe said that Tad got fired.”
“Good. I’m glad.” She burrowed closer, sliding her arms around his waist. “Thank you for having my back out there.”
His arms tightened around her. “Thank you for having my back when I had my little meltdown earlier.” He laid his cheek on top of her head and she wanted to sigh because it felt so damn good. “What are we going to do now, Daisy?”
There was only one answer to that question. “We are going to paint.”
“We are?”
She could feel him nuzzling the top of her head with his cheek, his beard catching on her hair. “Yes, we are. We’ll paint and you’ll tell me about Eden. Okay?”
His chest pressed against her as he drew a deep breath. “Okay.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 10:15 P.M.
His skin hurt. He winced as he pulled his shirt on. It always hurt when he left Sydney’s bed. His back burned from where her
nails had dug deep trenches. His chest and arms were raw because he’d scrubbed a layer of dermis off in the shower.
She’d marked him once again. And he hated her. So much.
Why do you always say yes? he asked himself for the one-millionth time. Just tell her no. But he never did. And probably never would.
I wish I’d killed her when I’d had the chance. He stared at his reflection in her bathroom mirror, knowing the truth in his mind. He’d never really had a chance. Not with her. He’d been too young. She’d been too . . . much. Too much of everything.
But the truth had never seemed to make a difference. He always came back. He always said yes. And he always hated himself afterward as much as he hated her.
“Sweet boy.” Her voice drifted to him through the open door. Because she didn’t permit him to close it. She never had.
It wasn’t an endearment, her “sweet boy.” It was a call to heel. Because I’m her personal dog. Still he answered dully, “Yes?”
There was a beat of silence and he felt her disapproval, even from the next room.
“Yes, Sydney?” he amended.
“Come here.”
He obeyed, buttoning his shirt as he walked from the bathroom into her bedroom, where she lounged in a peignoir, looking like a movie star from the 1940s. “Yes, Sydney?”
Her lower lip pushing out in a pout, she held out her hand. “You broke my nail.”
No, she’d done that while laying trenches in his back. His feet kept him moving to the side of her bed because he knew what she expected.
And he always ended up doing what she expected. Just get it over with and you can leave. He sat on the side of the bed, careful not to touch her anywhere, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to the finger with the broken nail.
“I’m sorry, Sydney,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re lying to me. You’re not sorry.”
But he was. He was so sorry. Sorry that he couldn’t break away from her. From whatever invisible chain bound him to her. Sorry that he couldn’t be a real man and strangle her the way he wanted to. The way he dreamed of doing.