Cybele slowly pulled herself up, looking out the empty shell of a broken window. “I think I know where we are. There’s a stream nearby. If I’m right, there’s a trail through the woods we can use to head toward Ste.-Hélène. We should go.”
“You should go. I can’t even stand up.” He gestured to his ankle, now swelling out of the top of his boot. It looked awful. Christ, maybe it was broken.
“Mother of God.” She knelt beside him. Her touch was gentle, but still Charles had to bite back a curse. “Did you walk all this way on that? Carrying me?”
“No,” he said. “I ran.”
She looked at him, eyes wide, and he realized she’d misunderstood.
“I ran because I was afraid,” he explained. “See, it’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m really good at running away. Fear trumps pain. I didn’t feel a thing. Cowards usually don’t.”
Her eyes turned stormy. She didn’t understand half of what he’d said, but she understood enough. “Why do you always pretend to be someone you’re not?”
He was just as frustrated. “Why do you insist on seeing some kind of hero when you look at me?”
“I see what I see.” Cybele stood up. “Take off your boot. I’ll check if there’s water in the well in the yard. If so, it’ll be cool. We can soak your ankle in it. If not, we’ll figure out a way to get you to that stream.”
“I’ll go to the well,” he said, struggling to pull himself up. “Don’t you go out there without me.”
“You said you can’t even stand up.”
“Yes, I can. I was lying. See, I’m a liar, too.”
“I already know that,” she whispered, then turned away.
“Cybele.” Charles tried to follow, cursing and hopping.
She was back with a bucket of water before he’d painfully navigated his way around a pile of debris. His ankle wasn’t broken. He wouldn’t have been able to hobble on it if it were.
“Sit,” she ordered him back to the blanket he’d spread out on the floor. Her face was already clean, and she dipped the end of her shirt into the water.
“I can—”
“Be still.”
He let her kneel beside him and wash his face. He tolerated—yeah, sure—the sensation of her hands against his face, the sight of the softness of her belly as she pulled her shirt up slightly. But he couldn’t keep quiet. “You should go back alone. I can’t possibly move fast enough. I’ll put you into danger.”
“No,” she said with her customary, take-charge command. “We’ll wait until dark, and we’ll go together. Slowly.”
“Cybele—”
She looked down at him. “You want me to leave you here?”
“Once you get back, you can send Joe or—”
“Would you leave me?” There was no escaping the directness of her gaze, no denying that what he really wanted was to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, to love her. Would he leave her?
In a perfect world? Never. But this was no perfect world. “Yes.”
She laughed. “You are a liar.” But then her gaze softened, and she touched his face, gently pushing his hair back.
“I would. In a heartbeat.” He was desperate for her to stop touching him, but he couldn’t make himself back away. He used words instead to try to regain the proper distance between them. “Why do you think I’m in such a hurry to return to the American side of the line?”
It didn’t work. She dried his face gently with the loose sleeve of her shirt, that soft look never leaving her eyes. “Because despite what you think, you are a hero. Because you’re torn between what you want and what you believe is right.”
Charles laughed. Or maybe it was a sob that exploded out of him. It was difficult to tell. “A hero.” He grabbed her wrist, pulling her far too roughly toward him. “Would a hero do this?” He kissed her bruisingly hard.
She wouldn’t let him hurt her. She melted into him, taking his anger and returning it to him as passion. And it was. When Charles lifted his head to gaze down at her, only need—a powerful, burning need—remained.
He was going to kiss her again. He knew it and she knew it. It was wrong, but he was going to kiss her. And then . . .
“The world has gone crazy. Nothing makes sense anymore,” Cybele whispered. “All I want—just for these few hours, this one single day—is to forget all the pain, all the horror. I want only you, and me, and this beautiful summer day. This makes sense to me, Charles. It makes so much more sense than anything I’ve known or done in years.”
She touched his face, leaned forward to gently press her lips to his. “But I don’t want this day angry. I don’t want it filled with guilt and pain. I want it pure and clean and perfect, just this beautiful glimpse of what might have been.”
Cybele kissed him again. “Please, Charles. Just this one day. It’s all I’ll ever ask of you.”
Charles caught her mouth with his, kissing her deeply, filling his soul with her light and life. With a groan of defeat, he pulled her back with him onto the blanket he’d found last night.
Their clothes fell away. She must’ve done it somehow. It seemed like magic, her smooth skin beneath his fingers, pale and cool against his heat.
She was beautiful, more beautiful even than he’d dreamed. He wanted to look, to touch, to taste. To slow time down. If he only had this one day, he wanted it to be endlessly long.
But she drew him to her, careful of his injured ankle, and he loved her with his body as well as his heart and soul—pure and clean and perfectly, just as she’d asked.
She whispered his name as her eyes burned into his, and he spilled his seed deep inside of her, knowing, for the first time in his life, what it truly meant to make love.
A shaft of sunlight streamed in through the broken roof, and it sparkled on her eyelashes, kissed the smooth perfection of her freshly washed cheeks, made her brown hair gleam. As she looked up at him, her eyes were dreamy, still lost in the breathless wonder of their joining. She reached up and touched his hair, his face.
“Angel,” she whispered.
Charles shook his head. What could he say? No guilt, no pain, no anger—yet they threatened to overwhelm him. He kissed her to banish them, then rolled over, pulling her into his arms.
He lay silently for a long time, holding her close, her heart beating against his. He watched the dust that hung in sunlight, refusing to think, just drifting.
Drifting.
Loving Cybele and drifting.
No pain. No anger.
Just Cybele in his arms, in his heart.
Just Cybele.
Kelly awakened with a start, sitting bolt upright in her bed, heart pounding.
And for good cause. Because there, standing in the balcony doorway, a dark shadow backlit by the waxing moon, was Tom.
He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
The clock on her bedside table read 3:38. Dear God, it was late.
She could hear it ticking as she gazed at him, as she willed him to come farther in.
But he didn’t.
“I can’t stay away,” he finally said, his voice low and rough in the darkness. “I tried, but I can’t do it.”
Kelly’s heart was in her throat. She held out her hand to him.
But still he didn’t move. “I didn’t come here to talk, Kelly.”
“I don’t care,” she whispered.
He moved toward her slowly, one step at a time. As he drew closer, she saw he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and the muscles in his chest and arms stood out in stark relief in the dim moonlight. He wore only cargo shorts, low on his lean hips. And he stepped out of them at the side of her bed.
“See, that’s the problem,” he said softly. “Because I do.”
She didn’t understand, and then she didn’t try to understand as he slipped into her bed, as he took her in his arms and kissed her.
And then neither of them said another word.
Nineteen
12 August
“GO HOME,”
TOM said. “Go someplace else—go anywhere else.”
Jazz sat in silence, rereading the email WildCard had sent just this morning. It was written vaguely enough to be sent through cyberspace, but for both Tom and Jazz, the meaning was perfectly clear. “The subject of your inquiry is believed to have permanently left the building four days after the ‘Twist and Shout’ clusterfuck. Reliable source cites eyewitness, also reliable, who claims to have been present at the departing event. IMO, it’s the real deal. To quote my favorite doctor, he’s dead, Jim.” He being, of course, the Merchant.
WildCard had found a reliable source who in turn knew someone else who claimed to have been present at the Merchant’s death.
Jazz shrugged. “Eyewitnesses been wrong before.”
“Yeah, but this time it looks like I’m the eyewitness who’s wrong.” Tom swore. “I’m the eyewitness who’s fucking crazy.”
Jazz thought about that for half a second. “Maybe. Maybe not. We’re here. Let’s play out the maybe-not scenario. It’s only a few more days until this celebration thing starts.”
Tom shook his head. He felt like shit. His headache was back, and he was exhausted. He’d slept only about an hour and a half last night.
In Kelly’s bed.
He hadn’t meant to stay. He’d meant to have sex with her and leave. But she’d collapsed on top of him, and didn’t move. She seemed content not to talk—and for good reason. She’d fallen asleep. So he’d told himself he’d stay for just a little while. He’d wait until she was completely asleep before he moved out from under her. But a little while had stretched into a long while, and he’d woken up at dawn, still beside her.
He’d left then, afraid she’d stir, unable to face her when she awoke.
He still didn’t want to talk. Even last night, with so little said, he’d managed to say too much.
Yet he’d lingered next to Kelly’s bed, watching her as she slept. Wanting her still.
Today he knew for sure what he’d only guessed in the darkest hours of the night. He had to stay away from her. As much as he was trying to keep this thing between them just sex, he couldn’t do it. And he was going to end up completely trashed when all was said and done.
Jazz had already gotten back to work, scaring up the surveillance equipment they needed to outfit the van.
This folly—his folly—was costing money.
“God damn it,” Tom ground out, “let’s just shut this down now.”
But the phone rang before Jazz could answer him.
Jazz picked it up, handed it to him. “It’s your sister.”
Perfect. Just what he needed. Some of Angela’s crap. As if his day weren’t already foul enough. “Yeah,” he said, “Ang. What’s up?”
“Tommy, it’s Mallory.” Her voice was shaking.
Tom sat up. “What happened? Is she hurt?”
“She didn’t come home last night.”
Oh, shit. He didn’t need this now. “What, have you two been fighting again?”
“No. Not at all. She left a note saying she was staying at a friend’s house—”
“She left a note.” That was more than Angie usually did when she went missing. Tom shook his head. In the past, it had been Mal calling with a quiver in her voice, wondering if he’d seen Angela. “What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that this so-called friend is named David. He’s that college boy she’s been seeing so much of. The one who lent her that camera?”
What camera? “David.” Tom vaguely remembered David. “Dark hair, glasses?”
“I don’t know what he looks like. You think she’d bring him home and introduce him to me? The only things I know for sure about him are that he works the breakfast shift at the hotel and he’s male. He’ll get her pregnant, Tommy, and then where will we be?” Angela started to cry. “I wanted more for her, but it’s so hard raising a child alone, without a man in the house.”
Jesus H. Christ. Tom sighed. “Don’t cry, all right? What do you want me to do?”
“Who’s at the door?”
Tom could hear Mallory’s voice from inside the apartment.
“Well, I guess I’m in the right place,” he said to the skinny young man standing wide-eyed in front of him.
He had to give David credit—he was only speechless for a few short seconds. “It’s your uncle,” he called back to Mallory. He held out his hand to Tom. “How are you feeling, sir?”
Sir. Damn straight the kid better call Tom sir. “I’m fine. But Mallory’s mother was a little concerned about her.”
Mal pulled the door open farther. “But I left her a note.” She was wearing one of David’s button-down shirts and probably very little else. She smiled at him, smiled at David, and for David, her smile was radiant.
David wasn’t quite so relaxed. Although he smiled at Mal, he glanced warily at Tom. Still, he touched her arm, as if he couldn’t bear standing near her without some kind of physical contact.
“So I’m busted,” Mallory said, still cheerful. It was amazing. Cheerful and Mallory were two words Tom had never thought he’d use in the same sentence. “I spent the night with David. Have you come to drag me home by my hair?”
David stepped back. “Maybe it would be better to talk about this inside.”
Tom went into the apartment, finding himself liking the kid. He wasn’t the kind of man Tom would’ve expected Mallory to hook up with. He’d expected someone more like Sam Starrett. A crazy biker type. Or maybe one of those drearily self-absorbed, dirty-haired, over-pierced counterculture poets, living in squalor allegedly because one had to suffer for one’s art, but truthfully because they were too lazy or stoned to do the dishes.
David’s apartment was remarkably clean—taking into consideration, of course, that he was a man in his early twenties who was living alone. His place was a studio, with a kitchen in one corner, a table by the door, covered with shiny, color photographs. He had some kind of drawing board in another corner, a camera on a tripod, and a state-of-the-art computer setup, complete with a scanner and video camera. It looked like something that WildCard, too, would’ve considered bare necessities for a summer vacation. Forget about packing clothes—just make sure you’ve got the computer.
Tom was bemused. He’d never have thought Mal would hook up with a computer geek.
“Do you want some coffee?” Mallory asked, going into the kitchen to take an extra mug from the cabinet.
“Yeah.” A jolt of caffeine would help his headache. Particularly as he stood looking at the double bed in the far corner of the room—the sheets rumpled, a box of condoms spilled onto its side, and opened wrappers scattered colorfully on the floor. Busted indeed. Busy night, kids.
He’d intended to come in to preach safe sex and throw a few intimidating looks in David’s direction. But David was not intimidated, and they obviously had the safe sex part handled.
Besides, who was he to preach safe sex when over the past few days he’d had the most dangerous sex of his life? Sure, he and Kelly had used a condom every time. Kelly was always prepared. No, their sex had been dangerous because Kelly didn’t love him, would never love him. She’d planned not to love him, right from the start.
And realizing that had ripped the heart out of his chest.
Because he loved her. That was his big problem here.
He’d loved Kelly for as long as he could remember.
He’d figured that out last night, as he was lying alone in his bed, trying his damnedest not to go to Kelly’s room.
So here he was now, a fool and a loser, about to put a frigging damper on the joy and enthusiasm and, yes, sweet love he could see in both Mallory’s and David’s eyes.
Maybe it wouldn’t work out. They were both so painfully young. Maybe Mallory would end up ripping David’s poor heart to shreds. Or maybe David would be the one to hurt her. But whatever was to come didn’t matter. Because for now, anyway, they’d found heaven in this crappy little walk-up studio.
“I’ll
go home and talk to my mother,” Mal was saying quietly to David now. “And then I’ll meet you downtown. Under our tree.”
They had a tree. Tom could’ve cried, it was so damn sweet. He and Kelly had once had a tree. The tree that held her tree house. There was a swing tied to one sturdy branch, and he’d met her there, every evening after dinner, for more weeks than he should have, considering how young she’d been at the time.
“I’ll go with you,” David said. “I’d like to meet your mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, you wouldn’t.”
He caught her hand, pulled her toward him, gently touched her face. “Yes, I would.”
It was so obvious. This kid wasn’t taking advantage of Mal. He wasn’t using her. He was crazy about her. And if Angela had any brains in her head—and Tom thought despite everything that she did—she’d see that, too, and welcome David Sullivan into their lives with open arms.
Tom cleared his throat, moving back toward the door. “I’m going to skip the coffee. And the long lectures, too. Safe sex, all right? No exceptions, not even if you run out of condoms at three in the morning on the one night the convenience store is closed, is that clear?”
Mallory laughed. David nodded solemnly, holding his gaze. “Yes, sir.” It was more than Tom had been able to do when Charles had given him a similar speech just last night.
Tom turned to make a quick exit, but then stopped.
Wait a minute. He stepped closer to the table, closer to the photos. The Merchant. His face—his surgically altered face—looked out at Tom from among the dozens of brightly colored pictures scattered there.
“Holy shit. Holy shit!” He picked up the shots, looked from David to Mallory. “Who took these?”
“I did.” Mallory was looking at him as if he’d snapped.
“When?”
She shrugged, glanced at David. “Yesterday? Some the night before?”
Tom fished through the rest of the photos. There were more than one of the Merchant. There were three separate poses, all taken at the front desk of the Baldwin’s Bridge Hotel. Another of him in the lobby, speaking to another man, both faces clearly in focus.
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