by Naima Simone
A soft whisper of sound reached her ears, and she turned. And pretended her breath didn’t catch in her throat.
Raphael leaned against the sunroom entrance, that cool stare she was really beginning to hate focused on her.
He lifted his arm, showing her the paper in his hand. “I needed to talk with you about today.”
Sighing, she lowered her head and pinched the bridge of her nose.
“Okay,” she murmured, and glanced around the cozy room with its small couch, easy chairs, and ottomans.
“No, in the living room,” he said.
She resisted the urge to snort. Right. This room was too comfortable—in here he could possibly be tempted to—who knew?—bend. Soften. Hold her hand. Hell, hold her so she didn’t feel so damn alone. He’d banished the loneliness when he’d comforted her in the bathroom. But apparently he regretted his slip, because since then he’d shown her two sides: protective or reserved. For all intents and purposes, she was his client. Nothing more.
Pivoting on his heel, he left the sunroom and marched to the living room, not looking over his shoulder to see if she followed. He dropped down on the couch and, after a slight hesitation, she sat down beside him.
“Here.” He slid the paper along the coffee table. “Take a look at this list and let me know your thoughts on it.”
She scanned the sheet. A list of names. She clenched her jaw, her fingers gripping the paper as she spied the name topping the column. Count to ten. One. Two. Three… Nope, not going to work.
“Noah?” she asked, placing the list on the table and silently congratulating herself on maintaining her calm. “Why is his name on here?”
“Because he has possible motive,” he returned, just as cool.
Forget calm. “Like what?” she snapped. “There is no way he is responsible for any of this. He’s my best friend.” Just the thought of him being involved in the letters, doll, and—God!—bomb was ridiculous. He was one of the very few people she trusted not to betray her—who hadn’t betrayed her.
“Uh-huh,” Raphael drawled. “If ‘friend’ is a euphemism for ‘wanna smash,’ then yes, he feels very friendly toward you.”
She drew her face up in a disgusted moue. “That’s so crude.”
In a move that sucked the air from her lungs, he leaned forward until their noses almost bumped, and she tasted the peppermint scent on his breath. “He is in love with you, and love has made more than a fair share of men lose their damn minds.” She scoffed, leaning back so she didn’t taste him with every breath she took. “Maybe he sent the letters hoping you would run to him for protection? And when you holed up at your brother’s house instead, he could’ve upped the ante to make you even more scared for yourself, the baby, and Ethan,” he gritted out.
“Not. A. Chance,” she bit back, glaring at him.
“Why?” He cocked his head. “Because he’s your friend? Because of his zip code? Because he looks sane? I have news for you, princess, stranger shit has happened.” He jabbed the paper. “Noah stays on the list. Now what about Gregory and Karen Wells, Gavin’s parents?”
Because of his zip code. Where the hell had that come from? She wanted to argue with him, convince him he was being paranoid and just damn rude. But she swallowed the sharp retort and concentrated on his next possible suspects.
“They blame me for Gavin’s death. Like the police, they didn’t—don’t—believe I can’t remember what happened that night. It’s been several weeks, but for a while, Karen would call and leave hysterical messages on my voicemail. They were heart-wrenching…and terrifying. She’d vacillate between begging me to confess and give them peace and closure, and screaming that I’d burn in hell for what I did to her son. The rants were one of the reasons why I shut that phone off and requested a new number.”
“When?” he asked, frowning.
“When what?”
“When did you change your number?”
She shrugged. What did that have to do with anything? “Days after the murder. Between the reporters, the Wellses, and others just seeking out the latest piece of gossip, it rang constantly. I had to change it.”
“Hmm.” His frown deepened, and he rubbed a knuckle across his eyebrow. Then his expression cleared, his arm dropping to his side. “Damn, I added the Wellses to the list because it made sense—revenge is an excellent motive, almost cliché. But the screaming, threatening messages…” He shook his head. “I’ll check into them.”
“Really, I can’t imagine Karen or Gregory going around busting out windows or building bombs,” she mumbled, exasperated.
“They could hire someone to terrorize you. Believe me, no one is beneath doing some sick shit if their motive is strong enough. All kinds of reasons—revenge, love, hate, justice—could drive a person to commit the most unspeakable acts. The Wellses stay on the list, too.”
She didn’t argue. Not with the memory of Karen Wells’s high-pitched screech echoing in her ear. She glanced down at the paper again. The next name ricocheted through her.
“Aubrey Chandler,” she murmured.
“What? No reason why she couldn’t do it?”
She smiled, knew the gesture was bitter, but couldn’t help or conceal it. Aubrey had been a friend since high school; Greer had trusted her, would’ve never believed her capable of cheating with Gavin. She’d tried to apologize, called Greer nonstop the week after, begging her to talk to her. But what did a person say in that situation? Sorry I fucked the man you intended to marry. I accidently stripped off my clothes and fell on his dick. My bad. Even Hallmark hadn’t made a card for that occasion yet.
“I’m the wrong person to ask. If you’d asked me months ago if she would’ve been capable of screwing my fiancé behind my back, I would’ve said no then, too.” She loosed a humorless, sharp crack of laughter. “I’ve had an appallingly skewed sense of judgment lately.”
He snorted. “I don’t know whether to be offended or ask for a do-over.”
Jerking her head up, she flinched as her words bounced against her skull, growing louder with each pass. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I didn’t mean—”
“Uh-uh, princess,” he drawled, a cynical half smile curving his lips. “No need to backtrack. Hindsight being twenty-twenty and all that, right?”
“Raphael—”
“Do you think Aubrey could possibly be behind this?”
She briefly closed her eyes. Let it go. He’s not hearing you. “If I had to answer, I would say no. She’s called me since the night I found them together, trying to apologize. Besides, there’s one thing I think you’re forgetting in all these scenarios.”
“And that is?”
“Whoever is behind this knows I’m pregnant. The Wellses, Aubrey—they don’t know. Hell, my own mother didn’t know until a couple of nights ago. I’ve only been aware of the pregnancy for two weeks myself, and the news hasn’t been leaked to the press. Because believe me, if the media had wind of this, it would be splattered all over the papers. Just another salacious tidbit to add to the ‘murderous love triangle.’” She scrunched her fingers in air quotes. Damn vultures. They’d made her life a living hell for months.
“If that’s true, then you just x-ed off all but one person on the list.” She clenched her teeth, already knowing where he was headed. Not this again. “Noah.”
She surged to her feet and stalked across the room, needing space. Needing distance between him and his remote analysis of the relationships in her life. While he listed why the people she knew had reason to hurt her, she felt lonelier. And lonelier. They were more than suspects, damn it. They were people she loved or at one time had a connection with. Each word out of his mouth reminded her that she was alone. Cut off. Except for him. And he couldn’t stop resenting her long enough to show compassion. Because right now, she didn’t need his investigative skills as much as she needed…him. Just a touch to beat back the cold.
Coming to a halt in front of the fireplace, she stared into the dormant gr
ate as if the stacked logs were the Dalai Lama, able to answer all the universe’s questions.
“Your amnesia,” Raphael said. “You remember absolutely nothing about that night?”
“Nothing after you dropped me off and before waking up in the hospital. It’s a complete blank.” A scary, terrible, complete blank. “It’s like someone took an eraser and wiped those hours clean.” Except for the nightmares that faded as soon as she awoke.
“Gavin was found inside your apartment. And from what I’ve read, the wounds were up close and personal. That means he knew his killer; had to in order to let them that close. And since you two were in a long-term relationship, it’s very possible you know his killer, too. Just because you don’t remember what happened in that apartment doesn’t mean the murderer doesn’t.” He paused. “It could be your stalker and the killer are one and the same. Maybe if we catch the one, we catch the other.”
Of course she’d exhausted herself about what information and events her mind blocked. The amnesia, in a way, was both a curse and a blessing. A curse because she felt so damn lost and vulnerable. But a blessing because…what if the amnesia was her brain’s way of protecting her from the truth?
What if the truth was more horrible than not knowing?
“What if it’s a random crazy person who fixated on me? Someone who considers me another privileged person getting away with murder? Why are you not considering that option?” She detected the desperation in her own voice—detested it. But she was grasping at rapidly shrinking straws here.
“It’s possible—I haven’t ruled out anyone. But the letters, the doll, and now the bomb? It appears personal. Smacks of it. We can’t afford to rule out anyone because you have a relationship with them.”
She didn’t reply. What could she say? Logically, he was right. But emotionally…emotionally she was weak. Wide-open like a fresh wound.
His heat warmed her shoulder and back. She stiffened, shock racing through her, punching the breath from her lungs. She hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t heard him approach. Now he stood so close behind her, only negligible inches separated them. Need dipped and rolled in her stomach, pulsed between her legs, and he hadn’t even touched her. Common sense yelled at her to shift forward, plant space and breathing room between them. But she ignored it. Right here, now, all she desired more than distance was his heat. His arms. His strength. His comfort.
She huffed out an abrupt chuckle. “It seems silly and naive, doesn’t it? I would prefer that the person behind this ends up being some strange fanatic who is obsessed rather than someone I know. Someone close to me. Especially since said strange fanatic would be harder to identify and catch.”
“Yes,” he replied bluntly. “It’s naive.”
She sighed and allowed her shoulders to slump just a little bit. As if his abrupt agreement had pricked a hole in her, creating a slow leak. Jesus, did he ever give?
“In the past four months,” she said, suddenly very tired, “I’ve discovered a man I respected and trusted—a man who was not just my fiancé but a good friend—betrayed me. A woman I also called a friend was screwing that fiancé behind my back. And when I was accused of his murder, my parents abandoned me. They were never affectionate, but still…they were my mother and father. I expected them to at least stand by me even if it was to maintain the image of a loving family. Instead they threw me to the wolves. People I knew, loved, relied on…believed in. And they deceived me, hurt me, threw me away. Raphael, if one more person I trust turns out to be…” She didn’t finish the thought, but inhaled a shuddering breath, shaking her head. “I think it would break me. So yes, I was happy when I didn’t recognize the man on the video. Because it means one more person I love doesn’t resent or despise me.”
Silence permeated the room, her last words reverberating in the room like an echo in a cave. Closing her eyes, she dropped her chin. Why did she think he’d understand—?
His chest pressed to her back. His thighs braced hers. His arms—his strong, tattooed arms—closed around her. His sun-and-sand scent enveloped her, soothing her. She could almost believe his lips brushed her hair and ear.
He covered her—sheltered her.
Tears stung her eyes, and she shivered in his embrace as he chased back the cold…
Then he was gone, taking the warmth with him. She stood, motionless and stunned by the abrupt departure.
“We’ll finish going over the list later,” he stated, voice flat.
She didn’t reply, didn’t acknowledge him. She couldn’t.
Only when she heard him retreat from the room did she turn around.
And face the fact that once again she was alone.
Chapter Thirteen
Blood. So much blood.
No. Gavin, no.
The blood. Hot, wet. Crawling up her nose, gagging her.
Oh, Jesus.
Greer jerked awake. With a harsh gasp she clapped her hands to her head. As if her palms could contain the agony stabbing into her skull and the bloodstained memories trying to gush out.
She tried not to move, to remain as still as a statue. Maybe the sickening throbbing would ebb. Maybe it would go away just as the terror-filled images she’d woken to dissipated like smoke up a chimney. She tried to grab them, tried to retain something from the nightmare, but they evaporated, leaving behind clammy horror on her skin like a souvenir. Finally, she gave up trying to remember; it only amplified the pounding in her head.
A whimper escaped her, followed by another.
“Greer?” The door to her room creaked open, and she pried her lids apart to find Raphael in the doorway. “Are you okay?”
She parted her lips to answer—or tried to. A low moan emerged instead.
One moment he hovered in the entrance to the bedroom, and in the next he crouched beside the mattress, fingers smoothing across her forehead, his big palm settling over her belly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, and she grasped a hold of the soothing calm in his voice as if he were a lifeboat in a storm-ridden sea. “Is it the baby?”
“No,” she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut as another vicious knife of pain speared her brain. “My head.”
His touch disappeared, but moments later the click of the wall switch in the en suite bathroom and the rush of running water reached her ears. Absurd relief coursed through her as strong and loud as the water streaming from the sink faucet. For a brief moment she thought he’d left her as he’d done in the living room earlier. Stupid—so stupid to be thankful he’d stayed with her. Or worse. Stupid to become dependent on his presence and comfort. First the bout of morning sickness. Now the headache. Soon she would yearn for him to be there through the entire pregnancy when he’d made it clear that wasn’t going to happen.
She groaned, crushed her palms harder against her head.
“Sit up for a second.” The order accompanied a gentle nudge under her shoulders, and she rose, careful as if her head would tumble off if she moved too fast. The bed dipped behind her, and when Raphael eased her back, his strong chest cushioned her head and cheek instead of the soft give of the pillow. She stiffened as several sensations slammed into her at once. The warmth from his naked skin penetrating the cold left behind by night sweats. The unique scent she associated with him wrapping around her like a pair of embracing arms. The press of his hard thigh against her hip like an anchor in a sea of pain, fear, and sickness.
Silently, he draped a cold cloth over her forehead, and she groaned with pleasure. And when he removed her hands and replaced them with his, rolling his fingertips over her temples, she went limp. He continued applying the light pressure, and the combination of his gentle ministrations and the cooling relief of the cloth started to force the pounding ache into a slow retreat. “Can you take anything?” he murmured.
“The doctor gave me a prescription, but I didn’t get it filled,” she mumbled. “Don’t want to chance it with the baby.”
“Is the headache because of the baby?”
A heaviness settled in her limbs, and she shifted a little on her hip, snuggling closer to his heat, his scent. Just for a moment, she promised herself as she curled her fingers over his thigh, the gray cloth of his sweatpants soft against her palm. I’ll allow myself just a moment to lie here before I move and he leaves.
“Greer?”
“Hmm.”
“Is the headache due to the baby?”
She yawned. “No.” The world drifted behind her closed lids, swayed, then settled. “The murder.”
…
This time when Greer woke, nothing greeted her.
No dreams. No pain. No sickness.
Blessed nothingness.
She sighed, curled onto her side, and burrowed deeper into her pillow…and encountered rock-hard abs instead of downy softness. She jerked up, heart pounding in her chest like a runaway train seconds from derailment.
Shock sucker punched her as she stared down at a sleeping Raphael.
What the hell?
As if the question twisted the key in the lock in her head, memories flooded back. The god-awful headache. Raphael rushing to her rescue. Again. Comforting her, soothing her. Holding her.
Her belly flip-flopped and the somersault had nothing to do with morning sickness. And everything to do with the man lying in her bed.
With his back propped against the wooden headboard, his ridiculously-long-for-a-man lashes hiding his too-razor-sharp gaze, his full lips slightly parted, and his big body relaxed, he appeared younger, that hard edge somewhat dulled by sleep. Like a slumbering giant.
“How’s your head?” The question came seconds before the thick fan of lashes lifted, revealing the piercing stare that never seemed to rest.