by Lisa Jackson
“It’s common knowledge now.”
“But it hasn’t been. And I didn’t talk about it with you.”
“Well, I heard it. No big deal.” She gave him the look, leaning back in the booth, eyebrows faintly arching. Almost daring him to figure it out. And he did.
“You knew,” he said.
“Knew what?”
“Where she was.”
“Who? Rory? You’ve got to be kidding. How would I—”
“Someone told you. Who?” It hit him like a punch in the gut as soon as he asked the question. “Jacoby,” he said. Hadn’t Liam asked the Van Hornes if they’d ever used a private investigator? Hadn’t it been Beth herself who said her father worked with Brian Jacoby? Now it was his turn to feel the fool. “He told you where she was.”
“No . . . why would he?”
But she was lying. He could tell. “He told you where she was at the same time he told me.”
“No.”
And then he knew something else, the realization coming to him with icy clarity. “You hired him to find her before I did. You didn’t want me hiring him to find Rory. You wanted to find her.”
She didn’t deny it, just glared at him with such hatred he hardly recognized her. He realized Jacoby had been playing both ends against the middle. Collecting fees from both him and Beth. Suddenly, he asked, “Did you know where she was before I did?”
She didn’t answer for a second, weighing her options: truth against the lie.
“Beth,” he warned.
“Why would I look for her?” she blustered. “What good would that have done me?”
“How long have you known where she was?”
She let out a huff of disgust. Her silence was as much a deception as an outright lie.
“I love you,” she said as if it were a defense, then, gauging his reaction, she suddenly reached into her purse and retrieved the Yoda ring. “Talk about stupid.” Angrily she flicked the bit of plastic away as if she were a frat boy flipping beer bottle caps at his friends. The green ring skidded over the worn tile floor to settle against the edge of another booth. “It was a dumb thing. Almost as dumb as waiting for a real engagement ring from a man who was still hung up on his first wife. You were—are—still married to her, and I wanted you to get that divorce!” Her anger was palpable. “Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you’re still in love with her.”
Before he could respond, she stood abruptly and, either by intent or accident, he couldn’t tell which, knocked over the water glass, sending ice cubes and the lemon slice skittering across the table in a splash of icy water that landed in his lap. Muttering under her breath, she breezed past the teenagers, who didn’t so much as look up from their devices, then turned abruptly around and stormed back to him.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Wasn’t sure I was going to, but . . .”
Liam waited. She was clearly struggling with herself.
“Your family has secrets,” she finally said. “And I know about them. And they know I know about them.”
“Okay.”
“Oh, don’t be so smug!” she hissed.
“I’m not smug. I’m just waiting for you to tell me what you think you know about my family.”
His choice of words was wrong. He knew it immediately, but it was too late. She straightened up as if pulled by a string.
“To hell with you, Liam,” she choked out before stalking through the restaurant and across the parking lot to the well-worn path to the police station. Seconds later he saw her white Lexus tear out of the station’s lot to speed down a side street.
“Uh-oh,” the waitress said, showing up with a towel and mop. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked as Liam swiped at his pants with napkins.
He found his wallet and dropped a twenty on the table. “Trust me, it was never paradise.”
* * *
Rory couldn’t get out of the police station fast enough. They were decent to her, offering medical care, photographing her injuries for future documentation, bringing her water and asking her if she wanted anything else, but all she desired was to get back to Charlotte. She said as much as she told her story of the attack to a woman officer with the Laurelton Police Department who wrote everything down. In turn Rory learned that Liam had talked to the Portland detectives, alerting them to the fact that Cal Redmond was the would-be killer who’d attacked her at the wedding, that his motivation was his belief that she’d aborted his child and that his assault on her, then and now, apparently had nothing to do with the assassination at the wedding.
When she was finished, she walked outside and her knees nearly went weak when she saw Liam was waiting for her by his Tahoe. “Derek picked me up and took me to my car,” he explained as she climbed inside. “He had a million questions about Cal and he asked about you, too.”
“I’ve had enough explaining.”
“Yep. Finally talked him into leaving.” Liam put the vehicle in gear just as a police cruiser drove into the lot, the beams of headlights splashing against the side of the building. “Let’s get out of here.”
“To the hospital.”
“It’s the middle of the night and Charlotte’s sleeping. I just checked and I called Darlene. She’s already there.”
Rory felt her muscles relax.
“You,” he said in a surprisingly tender voice, “need to get some more sleep. I hate to say it, but you look like hell.”
He flipped down the passenger visor so she could see for herself the bruising that was already visible around her eyes. Her hair was a wild red mess, her pallor ghostly, her nose swollen. “I look like I’ve been in a bar fight,” she grumbled, as he started the SUV.
“Not quite that bad. But if you want to see a doctor—”
“No. No doctor. The only reason I want to go to the hospital is to see Charlotte.”
“Here.” He handed her his phone. “The last number dialed goes directly to the nurses’ station at Pediatrics.”
“I’ve got my phone,” she said, but memorized the number from his before making the call. She learned from one of the nurses that, as he’d said, not only was Charlotte still sleeping, but yes, Darlene had arrived. She next placed a call to her mother, but before she could say anything, Darlene jumped in with, “Oh, my God, Rory! Are you all right? Liam said you were attacked by Cal. I never liked him, you know. Untrustworthy. You could see it in his face!”
This from the woman who had tied the knot with Harold Stemple, a thief who lately had spent more time behind bars than as a free man. But at least Darlene was concerned and willing to stay with Charlotte until Rory could pull herself together. “If Charlotte’s sleeping, I think I’ll go back to my motel and do the same.”
“Oh, absolutely, honey. I’m here. For as long as you need me.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Rory said, heartfelt. She was suddenly close to tears. She clicked off and closed her eyes, fighting a hot wave of emotion. As soon as the emotion passed, she reopened them and for the first time noted that they were heading east, toward Portland and away from the center of Laurelton. “Where are we going?” she asked. Street lamps glowed, offering watery blue light against the dark sky.
“My place.”
“Wait. What?” Liam’s home? “No. I have a motel room.”
“That’s currently a crime scene,” he pointed out as he merged onto Highway 26.
“But my things? I don’t have—”
“I do.”
“What?”
“Some of your stuff.” He cast a glance at her in the darkened SUV and she saw the self-deprecating turn of his lips. “Never got rid of it.”
“Oh . . .” She didn’t know how to feel about that. Glad that he’d kept reminders of her or sad that he hadn’t let go. Hadn’t he said he wanted a divorce? Then, why? Because he didn’t believe you were dead. He hoped you were coming back, that he would see you again, if only for a final showdown, a prelude to the divorce. “I don’t know about being at you
r place.”
He didn’t change course.
“What about Bethany?”
“It’s over.”
She cast him a disbelieving look.
“She’s out of my life.”
“Since when?” she asked.
“Since earlier this evening. We had a break up, ring and all.”
Ring? “I didn’t think you were engaged already,” she said, processing.
“We weren’t. I’ll explain later.”
“Okay.”
Again there was silence, the interior of the Tahoe illuminating in flashes as they passed streetlights and oncoming cars. Finally Liam said, “I know you’re sick to the back teeth of talking, but I’d like to know about Cal, when you’re ready.”
“He thought I killed our baby. His and mine.”
Liam’s head swiveled quickly her way, so she launched into the story, what she knew of it, of her miscarriage and Cal’s subsequent belief that she’d aborted the child, of his jealousy and obsession with her, how he’d gotten the catering job at the wedding, how he’d hidden his injury from the police. “He says he didn’t know the suspected shooter, DeGrere, that he had nothing to do with what happened at the wedding.”
“Do you believe him?”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know.”
They were silent again for a while, but the silence was becoming more companionable. “Were you coming to Portland when Charlotte got sick?” he asked.
“No.” She felt guilty admitting the truth. “I was heading south. As far as I could get. I figured everyone would think I’d go to Canada, I mean it was so close to Point Roberts and all. And I did for a while . . . you know.”
“With Kent Daley and his friend Maude.”
“Right. I thought driving as far as I could in the opposite direction would be a smart idea. LA or Phoenix, maybe. But then Charlotte got sick, so . . .” She cast him a look. “I ended up in your backyard.”
“The place you wanted to avoid.”
They crested a final hill before dropping through the canyon cutting into the center of the city, streetlights blurring past. Liam maneuvered through the one-way streets on the west side of the river and into the parking garage of a high-rise located in the Pearl District. A converted warehouse, the brick-and-concrete structure still held on to some of its authentic nineteenth-century charm, while equipped with the latest conveniences and finishes. When Rory walked out of the elevator and into Liam’s penthouse, she found herself in a huge, nearly cavernous room with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the city lights and one of the bridges crossing the dark Willamette River.
The living room area opened to a roof-top deck. “Nice,” she said, eyeing the shimmering stainless steel-and-white kitchen equipped with all the bells and whistles. A far cry from the apartment they had shared in Seattle.
“One of the first projects I worked on when I took over the company,” he said, but didn’t add, After the sniper attack on the wedding. After you disappeared. After I recovered from gunshot wounds that nearly took my life. “Hungry?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“No.” Her stomach grumbled loudly at that moment. “Okay, changed my mind. Make that ravenous.”
“Sit.” He pointed to a long couch backing the kitchen area and she didn’t argue, just dropped onto the plush cushions as he rattled around in his bachelor pad. There was no sign of Bethany that she could see. No earrings left on the table, no pictures of her on the mantel of a tiled fireplace, no lingering scent of her perfume. Not that it was any of her concern, she reminded herself as she closed her eyes and listened to the sound of bacon sizzling on the stove. Nudging off her shoes, she told herself to still the questions that spun crazily through her mind and just relax. She smelled the warm scent of coffee and was aware of the familiar sounds of a coffeepot gurgling and hissing. Once more her stomach responded noisily.
She’d thought she’d barely closed her eyes when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Blinking, she found Liam in front of her. On the glass-topped coffee table was a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, and beside the platter sat a cup of steaming coffee, cream clouding the dark liquid. “Eat first. Then sleep.”
“Mmm, so now you’re a chef?” she asked, yawning and stretching.
He grinned. “An apprentice fry cook at best.”
She swung into a sitting position and Liam joined her.
“We made the news,” he said as she took a swallow from her cup and felt the warmth of the coffee slide down her throat.
A television, mounted over the fireplace, was turned on but muted, closed-captioning running along the bottom of the screen. “Oh, God.” The coffee that had tasted so wonderful a moment earlier suddenly curdled in her stomach as she saw Pauline Kirby’s intense face on the screen and noted that she was standing, microphone in hand, in front of the Lamplighter Inn. “Turn on the volume.”
“You’re sure?”
“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”
He touched the remote and Pauline’s voice was suddenly filling the room.
“. . . details are incomplete at this time, but we do know that Liam Bastian and his wife, Aurora, known as Rory, the runaway bride, were questioned and released about an hour ago. Calvin Redmond, an ex-boyfriend of Aurora’s, is being held, charged with assault against her at the Lamplighter Inn late last night. There is speculation, as yet unconfirmed, that Redmond might have had a part in the shooting at the wedding ceremony of Liam and Aurora Bastian in Seattle five years ago. That attack left one man dead and several others wounded—”
Liam clicked off the set. “Okay?” he asked her.
She nodded. She’d had enough as well.
He plunged a bite of eggs into his mouth, then when he noticed Rory hadn’t taken a bite, pointed at her plate with his fork. “Eat.”
She did. At first mechanically, and then with more gusto as the food hit her stomach. Very little was said as they ate their meal, and as she took the last slice of bacon from the plate, Rory felt her limbs go liquid as her tension subsided. It was all she could do to follow Liam to the bathroom while he sorted through his meager medical supplies. The bruises beneath her eyes were more pronounced and the cut on her chin had healed to a small scrape. Her nose looked like she’d run into a door, which, well . . . she had.
She cleaned up as best she could, and as she turned off the faucets she caught Liam’s gaze in the mirror. He was leaning in the doorway, faintly smiling. “Good as new?”
“More like ‘as good as it gets.’”
She turned around to find his gaze moving slowly up her body. “Pretty damned good, I’d say.”
“You must be blind,” she accused.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“Just come here.”
“That is not a good idea.”
“Yes, it is.”
She could feel the sexual tension rising between them. Heart beginning to pound, she stepped closer to him, knowing she shouldn’t, unable to stop herself. He reached forward, clasped her by the shoulders, the pressure points of his fingers warm enough to permeate her top and heat her muscles.
He’s going to kiss me.
Her pulse skyrocketed as he leaned in close, his coffee-laced breath whispering across her skin. His face was so near that she noticed the changing color of his eyes, the way his whiskers were starting to appear. Panic and a little bit of anticipation surged through her. “Come on,” he said in a low voice and applied a little pressure, pulling her forward until she was in the bedroom—his bedroom—as he guided her toward the bed.
I can’t, she thought wildly.
I can’t stop was the quickly following thought.
He gave her the slightest of pushes toward the bed and then said, “Now. You. Sleep.” And then he was backing out of the room and closing the door and she wanted to cry out and call him back, to close her mind to the world and tangle in the cool sheets and his warm arms.
But she di
dn’t.
Instead she dropped onto the mattress, snuggled under the covers, closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Chapter 19
Charlotte!
Rory’s eyes flew open.
Charlotte was in the hospital and she was . . . Oh, Lord, she was lying in Liam’s bed, in his penthouse and . . . he was sleeping beside her. As if the last five years hadn’t existed.
“Hey,” he said as she stirred.
“What’re you doing here?”
“This is my bed.”
“Clearly, but . . .”
He levered himself up on an elbow, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his eyes full of lazy amusement.
He thought this . . . situation was funny?
“I have to get to the hospital.”
“It’s the dead of night. When I called them, they said Charlotte’s going to be released, but the doctor has to sign the forms and she won’t be there until around eleven. We’ve got hours. Might as well use them.”
“Meaning?”
He didn’t answer but she could see his expression in the strip of moonlight that penetrated his bedroom window shades. She recognized the look in his eye, even felt a ridiculous sense of anticipation deep inside. “You’re insane.”
“Nah . . .” He reached over to clasp a warm hand around her wrist.
“Liam,” she protested as he tugged her toward him and she slid across the small expanse of sheets. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Probably not.” he agreed pleasantly, then lowered his head and kissed her, his lips warm and pliant and oh, so familiar, a sweet pressure that brought tender memories to the fore. She’d always looked forward to making love with him. One arch of his eyebrow in the right situation, a suggestion that he wanted to take her to bed, could cause her to melt inside. She’d thought she was long over those feelings, but not so.
“Cal?” she asked.
“In custody. I double-checked.”
“My car—”
“Already towed to a mechanic.”
“And I need a place to stay.”
“Here works.”
“Here? With you?” The idea had its allure. “And Charlotte . . .”