by Lisa Jackson
Tears studded her eyes as her life began to make sense and the holes and gaps in the jigsaw puzzle of her existence became smaller. She had a life—a life she could recall.
She remembered dating Dave Neumann. Dave. He was her first truly serious relationship, the first man she’d ever considered marrying. He was handsome and witty and they’d spent hours together, planning a future that somehow hadn’t quite jelled. He’d wanted a condo in the city and she’d wanted a house in the suburbs. He’d wanted to wait at least ten years for children and wasn’t sure that babies and diapers and midnight feedings would ever fit into his well-ordered life. He’d planned vacations around his work schedule and insisted that he go where he could “write off” the trip for business purposes rather than choosing a spot for fun or adventure.
No wonder the relationship had died a slow and painful death.
As she wheeled her little Dodge off the freeway, she considered herself lucky. They’d broken up “temporarily” to “test their relationship” to “find out for sure that they weren’t making a big mistake.” It had been Dave’s idea and had all sounded so rational. So clinical. So lacking passion. Well, to hell with that. If Trent had taught her anything, it was that she was a passionate person. Sexually, intellectually and morally. For that, she supposed, she should be thankful.
Trent. Oh, God, what was she going to do with him? It had been easier to deal with him when she’d believed they were married, but now, knowing that there were decisions looming ahead—hard, painful, future-determining decisions—she was frightened. After the breakup with Dave, she’d told herself that she would never, never get involved with a man who tried to run her life. Well, Trent certainly had bulldozed his way past any barriers she’d put up and lied, lied to get what he wanted.
Her teeth gritted. She was still galled at the deception.
Then there was the matter of trust. For years she’d trusted and depended upon her father, never questioning his opinions, though recently, before the trip, they had argued, and it hadn’t been the first time. She remembered Ted Carrothers’s anger, not a red-hot fury, but a quiet seething that she’d suddenly become a woman with a mind of her own, as if he couldn’t quite accept that his baby had developed into a free-thinking, high-spirited female.
“Leave Jim alone,” he’d warned her just before she’d left for Salvaje.
Now, while driving into the parking lot, Nikki shook herself out of her reverie and stood on the brakes to avoid hitting the side of the apartment house. Her throat turned to dust as she thought about the argument. They’d been seated in the shade of a striped umbrella in a restaurant on the waterfront. The scent of brine had drifted upward through the plank decking and the wind had been brisk, ruffling her father’s short hair. She and Ted Carrothers had been the only souls on the deck, all the other diners having been sane enough to seat themselves on the other side of thick glass windows.
“Jim’s a friend of mine,” her father had said as he’d motioned the waiter for another glass of gin and tonic.
“But he’s involved in a lot of shady deals, Dad,” she’d replied, tilting her chin up with determination, the wind whipping a long strand of hair over her eyes.
“He’s a politician. It goes with the job.”
“No way. I don’t believe that. Just because someone’s an elected official doesn’t mean that he has to turn into a crook.”
“The temptations—”
“Everyone has them, Dad. You do in business. I do in my job, in my life. It takes moral fiber to walk away from them.”
Her father had shaken his head, then slipped into silence while the slim waiter, clad in a green polo shirt, white jacket and black slacks, had slid another drink in front of him. Ted had taken a long swallow, compressed his lips, then stared past her to the Sound, where noisy sea gulls floated on invisible air currents high above the water and ferries churned across the dark surface, leaving thick, foamy wakes. Pleasure craft and freighters had vied for space in the choppy waters and her father had smiled sadly as he viewed a sailboat skimming along the water. He glanced down at his drink. “I felt the same way you do thirty years ago, Nicole, but as you get older, have children, face the fact that the world isn’t perfect, you accept the way things are.”
Nikki hadn’t conceded. She’d never thought of her father as weak, not once considered the fact that he might be getting old and world-weary. “I’ll never believe that all men in power are corrupt.”
“Not corrupt, Nicole. Just human. Take my advice. Leave Jim alone.”
Now her stomach twisted into a painful knot as she locked her car and headed up the stairs to her apartment. She felt cold to the bone, as if a northern wind had howled through her soul, and for a second she had the same unsettling feeling, the same uncanny awareness, that she was being watched. Perhaps even followed. “That’s paranoia, Carrothers,” she told herself, but her skin crawled and she glanced over her shoulder, hoping to hear the roar of a Jeep’s engine, or catch the wash of headlights splash over the shrubbery of the parking lot. She saw no eyes hidden in the thick rhododendrons and vine maples, no evidence that anyone was watching her. Still she shivered, but Trent didn’t appear like some mystical medieval knight to save her.
Lord, she’d be grateful for him now and her heart nearly stopped beating at the thought. She stopped dead in her tracks, midway up the stairs.
She depended on him? Oh, no! Giving herself a swift mental shake she climbed the remaining stairs, unlocked the door, flipped on the lights and tossed her coat over the back of the couch. Opening the door of the refrigerator, she cringed, then yanked out a quart of milk gone sour and bread that had started to mold. So much for dinner.
She snapped on the disposal and poured globs of sour milk and slices of fuzzy white bread down the drain. Kitchen duty accomplished, she checked her messages and listened while her sister, Jan, started asking a dozen questions on the tiny tape. “I thought you were going to call me. Come on, Nikki, I’m dying to know what’s going on.”
Her mother, too, had called, expressing concern about Nikki’s injuries and hasty marriage. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, and if your father decides to put on some kind of reception, you know that Fred and I will want to help. You’re my daughter, too, you know.”
Funny how that sounded from a mother who had left three half-grown children to find herself and a new family in L.A.
The last message was from Dave. “I don’t know why I’m calling. Just a glutton for punishment, I guess. But I need to see you and know that you’re happy.” Oh, sure. The truth of the matter was, Nikki suspected, that Dave was suddenly interested in her because she was no longer available. Now that someone else wanted her, he did, too. She laughed a little. She wasn’t married. Her relationship with Trent was doomed, but there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that she’d ever try to patch things up with Dave again. If Trent had taught her anything, it was about her need for independence and the sorry fact that she needed a stronger man than Dave Neumann for a lifelong partner.
She didn’t want to return any of the calls, but decided there was no time like the present. Besides, she’d rather speak without being overheard by Trent.
She dialed from memory and smiled to think that something so simple was such a relief. Jan was out, her mother was worried, and she had just left a simple message on Dave’s recorder when there was a quick rap on the door, a click of the lock, and Trent, balancing two sacks of groceries, appeared on the other side of the threshold.
Startled, Nikki asked, “How’d you do that?” but, with a sinking sensation, she guessed the answer before he even replied.
“I have a key.”
“You what?”
“When we were on Salvaje. I had one made.”
She opened and closed her fists in frustration. Certain there was no male more maddening on the face of the earth, she narrowed her eyes on his arrogant expression. As if he belonged here! “You don’t live here.”
He didn’t bother to answer, just set the bags on the table and began placing groceries in the refrigerator and cupboards. “I figured you were out of just about everything.”
“Did you hear me?”
He sent her a sizzling glance over one leather-clad shoulder. “Loud and clear, lady.”
“You can’t just waltz in here like you own the place, like we’re married, for the love of Mike. No way.”
“Until this all dies down.”
“What? Until what dies down?” she said, closing the distance between them in long, furious strides. “Crowley.”
“Right.”
“What the hell have you got to do with it?”
“Crowley’s dangerous. You’ve figured that much out, I assume.” His gaze skated down the side of her face that had been so bruised and battered.
Her shoulders stiffened involuntarily.
“I know you think you’ve got to do some damned exposé on him, but I think you’d better leave Crowley to me.”
“What will you do with him?” she asked, shoving a sack of groceries out of the way, grabbing Trent’s arm and forcing him to face her. A head of lettuce rolled off the counter and onto the floor, but she didn’t care, didn’t give a damn about the food.
Trent’s face hardened. “I’ll handle him.”
“Will you?” she tossed back at him. Her piece on Crowley came back to her, a series of articles about bribery and special interests. If her sources were correct, the senator not only took care of the few and the wealthy, he also accepted large gifts from corporations in the state of Washington and all along the Pacific Rim.
She was still holding on to Trent’s arm. “Look, Nikki, you can believe what you want about me, I don’t really care, but I don’t want you getting hurt.” His words were soothing, and she stepped away from him, away from the magic of his voice, the seduction in his eyes.
“Don’t start this again, okay?”
“It’s true, damn it!” Muttering under his breath, he dragged her into his arms and she froze. How easy it would be to let her knees and heart give way; to fall against him and rely upon him, to let him make decisions for her, to depend upon his judgment. She wanted to tell him to leave her alone, take his hands off her, take a long walk off a short pier…
But she couldn’t. Bracing herself against the refrigerator door, she turned her head and her curtain of hair fell over one shoulder. He pressed his advantage, his lips brushing the back of her neck. Tingles of anticipation raced along her nerves and his arms wound around her waist, pulling her close, her buttocks wedging against the hardness forming in his jeans. She wanted to melt against him. Her bones were turning liquid as his mouth moved along the bend of her neck and his hands splayed over her abdomen, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts.
“Don’t,” she whispered raggedly.
He didn’t stop.
Swallowing against the urge to fall down on the floor and wrap her arms around him, she pulled his hands away. “Don’t,” she said more firmly, and he reluctantly stepped away.
Turning, she pressed her back against the refrigerator. “Don’t use sex as a weapon.”
“Is that what I was doing?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know damn well what you were doing. And I can’t go along with you on this Crowley thing,” she said, picking up the head of lettuce and tossing it into the sink. “It’s too important.”
“He’s just one crooked senator.”
A hard smile curved her lips. “But one I can take care of.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I must be doing something right, or he wouldn’t have tried to do me in on Salvaje.”
“He’s dangerous, Nikki, and apparently desperate. You can’t take any chances.”
Waving away the argument she saw in his expression, she strode to her computer and snapped on the power switch. “There’s got to be something,” she said, drumming her fingers impatiently as the machine warmed up. “Something in here. If only I can find it.”
Trent gave up arguing, and as she pulled up her chair, he propped his jean-clad hips along the side of the desk, bracing himself with his hands, crossing his ankles and watching her. She felt a rush of adrenaline as she settled her fingers over the keys and started entering commands. She’d been working on the Crowley piece for a couple of weeks behind her editor’s back. Dissatisfied with the turn of her career, she’d decided to take matters into her own hands when she’d been denied, yet again, a chance to write something more interesting than a story about the winners of a local bake fair.
She intended to prove to God himself, Frank Pianzani, that she could work with the big boys. She’d been trained as an investigative journalist and never been able to prove what she could do. Well, this time, people at the Observer were going to sit up and take notice.
Unless she got herself killed first, she thought with a shiver.
She scanned her work files, but nothing showed up. She flipped through the disks near her desk, shoving each one into the computer and viewing the documents on each one. Still a big zero. “Where is it? Where? Where? Where?” she mumbled, biting off the urge to scream in frustration. Impatience surged through her. The story and her notes had to be here. Somewhere.
Unless everything had been conveniently erased. Trent had a key and access to her apartment when she was gone. There were times when she left him alone in this room. When she’d taken a shower, when she’d been at work… She ground her teeth together in frustration. He was a proven liar of the worst order and he would do anything to stop her, for whatever reasons, noble or otherwise.
Her fingers didn’t move as her thoughts clicked steadily through her brain.
“Problems?” he asked, and when she looked up at him she expected to see mockery in his blue eyes, but he seemed genuinely concerned.
“I can’t seem to locate my file.”
Rubbing the stubble on his chin, he said, “Mind if I look?”
“Be my guest.” Warily she rolled her chair away from the desk, stood and stretched her back as he slid in front of the machine. Fascinated, she watched as his long fingers moved quickly over the keys. He was as familiar with her machine as was she, or so it seemed.
“You must have it under some kind of code,” he said, and she left him there, trusting him just a little. While he kept searching, she played the part of a domestic wife, washing the damned lettuce and using the groceries he’d picked up as the start of dinner. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation, but her mind was on the computer screen and her missing files.
She boiled linguine and cooked a shrimp, garlic and cream sauce while her thoughts swirled around Crowley. If he were behind her attack on the island, then good old Diamond Jim, her father’s friend, had tried to kill her. So he knew she was onto him. How?
She glanced at Trent and her throat grew tight. He wouldn’t! She licked the wooden spoon as she thought. What had Trent said—about a leak at the Observer. Connie? No! Frank? Max? “I can’t remember any code,” she said loud enough for Trent to hear. “It’s one of the last foggy details, I guess.” It was frustrating. Damned frustrating. Most of her memory had returned and yet this one important piece of information kept slipping her mind. “Come on, give it a rest. I’ll feed you.”
“Domestic? You?” He cracked his knuckles and stretched out, looking way too huge for her small desk chair.
“I figured I owed you, since you went to the trouble of restocking the larder.” She motioned him into a chair at the small table, where she’d set out place mats and lit candles. “Don’t get used to it,” she teased, but her laughter died in her throat when she remembered that their relationship was only temporary. Surprisingly her heart felt a little prick of pain at that particular thought and she disguised her sudden rush of emotion by pasting a smile onto her face and setting a wooden bowl of salad next to the pasta and sauce.
It was silly really. She slid into her chair and waited as he poured them each a glass of wine. The clear chardonnay reflec
ted the candlelight as it splashed into the bottom of her glass.
Oh, Lord, she would miss him, she realized with a sinking feeling that swept into the farthest reaches of her heart. She’d gotten used to him, looked forward to his laughter and his lovemaking.
He touched the rim of his wineglass to hers. “To marriage,” he said, and her heart felt as if it had been smashed into a thousand painful shards. He was kidding, of course.
She painted on another false smile and said, “And to divorce.”
“Can’t wait to get rid of me, eh?” he asked, and she thought she saw a shadow of pain cross his eyes.
“As soon as possible.” Tossing back the cool wine, she imagined the small circle of gold around her ring finger, and her throat grew so thick she could barely swallow. A new, fresh pain cut through her at the thought that no matter what, soon Trent would be just another murky memory in her mind.
They finished dinner in silence, each wrapped in private thoughts. As she put the dishes in the dishwasher, he started a fire, and they finished the bottle of wine with their backs propped against the couch and the flames crackling against dried moss.
When he turned to her, it was as natural as the wind shifting over the sea. His lips settled over hers and she fought a tide of tears that stung her lashes. His arms were strong and comforting, his hands possessive.
He slipped the buttons of her blouse from their bindings and she gave herself to him, body and soul, knowing deep in her heart that she’d never love another man with the same blind passion that now ruled her spirit as well as her life.
She was his wife. If only for a few more days. If only because of the lie that bound them together and would, as surely as the moon tugged at the currents in the sea, pull them apart.
* * *
Nikki woke up with a start. Sweat streamed down her back, and her heart was pounding a thousand beats a minute. The nightmare had stolen into her sleep, burning through her conscious and terrifying her. Even now, snuggled against Trent, one of his arms flung around her, she shivered. Would the fear never go away?