by Lisa Jackson
“Will come here, too. First, though, she’s going to be with Darlene at my folks’ house.”
“Your folks?” The term was almost comical, thinking of stolid, unbending Geoffrey Bastian, his icy wife, and the way they’d treated her, how they’d insisted that she was only a gold digger, how they’d sneered at Rory and her family . . . Nothing folksy about them. “That’s wrong on so many levels, starting with I can’t see Darlene anywhere near your parents.”
“It’s all arranged. There’s a guest apartment on the grounds, where Darlene can stay with Charlotte. Everyone agrees.”
“Really.”
He nodded, though Rory doubted his assessment. She didn’t think Stella Bastian would ever accept Rory, or probably Charlotte either. She was just that cold. “Your mother, too?”
“In the loop,” he said, satisfied with himself. “You can change everything later. Make other arrangements, once you know what you want to do. I just wanted a stable, safe place for Charlotte, considering how things have been going.”
She thought about Cal bursting into the cheap motel so easily and with murderous intent. For the moment, Liam was right, and even though Cal was behind bars, he could have had an accomplice. Liam would not rest until the shooting incident had been solved, the culprits locked up.
He leaned in ever so close and she caught her breath as he brushed his lips across hers, lazily, as if they had all the time in the world.
For once she decided not to worry, and as his arms pulled her closer and the kiss deepened, she let herself get lost in this man, her husband. With a moan, she opened her mouth and felt his tongue slide through her lips.
A frisson of desire slid into her core, and her blood heated.
How long had it been? Years. The last time they’d made love had been the night before the day they were to recite their vows at the hotel in front of all the guests. She’d already been pregnant with Charlotte.
It had been five long years.
There was no reason to wait a second longer. When he started tugging at her clothes, she helped, kicking off her jeans, pulling at her T-shirt, feeling the heat of his fingertips brush her back as he unhooked her bra.
“You’re beautiful,” he breathed against her skin, his lips scraping her neck.
She actually laughed as she remembered her visage in the Tahoe’s visor mirror: bruises and scrapes, a knot on her forehead, a fat nose.
He ignored her amusement, kissing the scratch on her chin before sliding lower. A pulsing warmth invaded her, caused her to ache deep inside. She cradled his head, and her fingers caught in his hair as he found her breast and began to suckle.
“Oh,” she gasped reflexively, and as she arched upward, he slid one hand under the small of her back, dragging her closer still, until their abdomens seemed to meld and the room spun away.
“Rory,” he whispered into her skin, pressing his knees between hers, pulling her upward as he nudged into her, waiting just a second before plunging into her depths.
Her breath caught in her throat, a strangled cry.
Three quick thrusts and her body strained with desire as if it had just been waiting for this moment. She clung to him, moving with him, catching his rhythm, closing her eyes against tears of relief and joy, teetering on the edge of true passion. Carried away, her thoughts spinning, she kissed him wildly, frantically. His tempo increased and she cried out with the first convulsion. The world shattered with each spasm, pleasure erupting, her thoughts centered only on him, just Liam, the man she still loved.
His climax came with a primal cry, his body jerking, his hips colliding with hers in a long, sweet moment before he collapsed atop her and let out a long breath. His heart was pounding, thudding in rapid counterpoint to her own, and she fought tears as, holding him close to her, she floated back to the stark reality that this couldn’t last, couldn’t be. It was just for the moment. He’d flat out told her he’d chased her down to end their marriage.
“Well, Mrs. Bastian,” he said, levering onto one elbow to stare down at her. “It’s been a while, but I gotta say, it was worth the wait.”
“Yeah?” She was still collecting her breath.
“Yeah.” A slow, sexy smile crawled across his jaw and he whispered, “Let’s do it again . . .”
“I—”
He didn’t wait for her to finish. Just began kissing her mouth and throat and lower, in a line down her center, not stopping . . .
With a strangled sound, she gave in, squeezing her eyes closed as she threw her head back, forgetting everything. Tomorrow, was the ragged thought that pierced her consciousness. She would think about what to do tomorrow.
* * *
Liam’s cell rang at seven thirty a.m.
Groaning and wiping a hand over his face to wake up, he snatched the damned phone off his nightstand so as not to wake his wife, who, all curves and warmth, was nestled against him. Why, he wondered, did it feel so right to be in bed with her, after all of her lies, all of her deception, all of her need to get as far away from him as possible?
Without an answer, he checked his cell’s screen and saw the caller was Lester Steele, his foreman.
Now what? he thought, shooting a look toward Rory, who was stirring. He wanted to enfold her into his arms, forget about all the questions and problems facing them and make love to her again.
“Yeah?” he answered, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to the spot on the floor where his jeans had landed after he’d so eagerly kicked them off. Dragging his attention back to the phone, he said a bit shortly, “What’s up?”
“Hate to tell you this, but there’s been more sabotage,” Steele informed him, and Liam’s heart sank. “This time at the Flavel Apartments.”
Liam swore softly, snagged his jeans, then padded quietly into the bathroom so as not to disturb Rory. “What happened?” he asked, shutting the door.
“Same thing. Broken windows . . . some graffiti. Might be the homeless, or maybe . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Flavel’s been boarded up for months.”
“They broke in. Smashed what wasn’t already smashed. Wrote some stuff that seemed kind of personal.”
“How do you mean?” He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—unshaven and naked, his hair tousled.
“The graffiti. Slurs against your family . . . and their business dealings.” He cleared his throat.
“Against the family?” So not just teenagers with a spray can, no curfew and hours to kill by getting into trouble.
“Yeah,” Steele said. “I’ve been thinkin’ about that.”
“And?”
“Well, I know Barlow tried to buy the building from your dad back in the day, even went to Flavel himself, but it was too late. By that time Flavel had sold everything lock, stock, and barrel to your dad when their partnership split up, and that included the Flavel apartment building.”
Barlow Industries was Steele’s old company, the one from which Bastian-Flavel Construction had hired him. Ned Barlow was reportedly still bitter about losing Steele and Jarrod Uller, and blamed Geoff entirely, though it had been Liam’s idea to hire the men, not his father’s. But Barlow didn’t know that, obviously, or that Geoff had railed against the hirings. Barlow was also purportedly upset about several other projects that the Bastians had won by outbidding their competitors, especially the ones “taken” from Barlow Industries. However, in the case of the Flavel building, which Barlow had offered good money for once upon a time and James Flavel had accepted, the deal had gone south through no fault of Barlow’s.
Geoff Bastian, then Flavel’s partner, had nixed that deal, refusing to sign when the contracts were presented to him. Barlow had called foul and threatened to sue. In fact the entire mishandled real estate negotiation had been one of the deciding factors in the breakup of the Flavel-Bastian partnership. Geoff had bought out Flavel, thus owning the company in its entirety, while Flavel, nest egg securely pocketed, had sailed off into the sunset.
But the legal threats and reshuffling of the company had happened years earlier. Hiring Steele and Jarrod Uller away from Barlow had been recent.
“Ned Barlow wouldn’t stoop to sabotage,” Liam said.
“Yeah? You’re probably right. But he’d look the other way if someone wanted to help him.”
“You know him better than I do.”
Steele sighed. “I’ve already called Uller and he’s going to get someone over to Flavel and assess the damage.”
“Might not matter. That building will be more of a gut job than Hallifax.”
“Okay,” Les agreed. “Just thought you oughta know.”
“Thanks. Can you send me some pictures of the graffiti? Just message them to me.”
“Will do.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Liam promised, then hung up, thinking about the Flavel apartment building, which wasn’t in the best part of town and was less centrally located than the Hallifax building.
Slurs against the Bastians . . .
It felt like he was being attacked from all sides.
Though he didn’t think Ned Barlow was behind the sabotage, he didn’t believe it was a homeless person, either. He agreed with Lester that the destruction seemed more pointed.
But then who? Who had a grudge against his family?
He thought back to the wedding. Pete DeGrere? Or DeGrere’s unknown accomplice? Or whoever hired him, if indeed, he was the assassin? And what was their gripe against the Bastians?
Or was he making a leap that didn’t exist? Maybe the assault at the wedding and the vandalism were unrelated.
Then what about Teri Mulvaney’s death?
Without any answers, he looked in on Rory, saw the tumble of red hair above the covers and almost stalked across the room to wake her up and make love to her again, see what the tenor of their relationship was this morning.
Call it crazy, he’d never gotten over her. If anything, his feelings had grown, and he wasn’t sorry that it was over with Bethany. That never would have worked, with or without Rory.
He took a quick shower and by the time he was toweling off, Rory stumbled into the bathroom herself.
“I should have gone back to the hospital and stayed with Charlotte,” Rory fretted, sweeping back her mane of hair. Beyond the scrape on her chin, she had a line of bruises down the left side of her face and a knot on her forehead, the aftereffects of Cal’s attack. Even so she was more beautiful than he remembered.
You got it bad, pal.
“Call her. She’s probably up.”
“Let’s just get there.”
“Okay.” He glanced at her body and kicked himself mentally for thinking of making love to her again.
“You said you had some of my things?”
“Right.” With a towel wrapped around his hips, he led her back to the bedroom, then rifled in the extra closet, pushing aside several jackets. “In here.”
“Amazing.” She pulled out one dress or blouse after another, then found a pair of jeans and a boat-necked T-shirt sitting atop a manila envelope. “I haven’t seen these chothes . . .”
“I know.”
“It’s okay if I run through the shower?”
He swallowed a wolfish grin and looked away, nodding. “Sure.” Just like the old days. “Just get a move on.”
As if she needed more incentive.
She dashed into the bathroom and he heard the shower spray, but within minutes she was back in the bedroom, dressed, her hair a mass of wet curls, digging through her purse for a compact, then scurrying back to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she returned, her scrapes and bruises covered by concealer.
“You look good,” he told her.
“At least the size of my nose has gone down.” She touched it carefully. “Sore, but okay. As long as I don’t get black eyes.”
“You would know by now if that was going to happen.”
She gave him a quick smile and asked, “Ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He locked the condo behind them and guided her to the elevator to the parking garage. On the way down, he said, “We had some more sabotage last night. A different building that’s not as close in as Hallifax, the one where Teri Mulvaney was found.”
“Oh, no.”
“The building might be razed anyway, but I’ve got to check it out.”
“Okay, but I need to go be with Charlotte—make sure my mom’s on board to stay up here. At your folks’ house. It still feels wrong.”
“Got a better idea?”
“Not yet.”
“Let’s pick up your car on the way. I had it sent to an all-night service and the mechanic texted me that it was just a loose wire.”
“Really?”
“That’s what he said. We’ll find out. Never used them before.”
“I hope he’s right.”
“I’ll drive you, and then I’ll meet you at the house.” He’d given her the address, which she’d entered into her phone.
“I thought you had to be at the job site.”
“It can wait.”
“That’s ridiculous. You go. I’ll be fine.”
He arched a brow.
“Mom and Charlotte will be with me,” she insisted.
“I know.”
“I can handle your family, Liam.” That was probably a lie, but it wasn’t as if she were a child. “If things get hairy, I’ll—”
“Leave?” he asked.
She flushed. “No, I’ll call you.”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
They reached the parking garage and Liam’s Tahoe. Rory climbed in, and as Liam slid behind the wheel he warned himself not to fall into the trap of believing that everything was as it should be, that his wife was home and he had a daughter and they would be together every day and make love every night. A nice pipe dream. They still had a lot of hurdles to leap before they could repair their marriage, if Rory was even so inclined.
And what about you? Are you ready to forgive and forget?
He didn’t have an answer to that one.
* * *
Just as they arrived at the repair shop Liam got another call. “Derek,” he muttered.
He seemed about to click off, but Rory said, “Take it. I’ve got this.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.” She almost added, “I’ve been on my own a long time,” but hurried inside the building. No need to point out the obvious.
She was starting to feel anxious about her daughter. In the light of day she wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to let Charlotte be under Liam’s family’s care. It was going to be a problem, even with Darlene on her side.
But you wanted to be with Liam.
Well, fine, yes. She’d wanted to be with him. Her mind touched on their lovemaking and she almost blushed. Five years hadn’t diminished how wonderful it was, how familiar. And oh, God, what did it say about them that they hadn’t used protection? Rory knew she wasn’t anywhere near a conception date, but Liam didn’t. She wondered what that meant, given his recent relationship with Bethany. What form of contraception had they used?
She heard Liam answer slightly impatiently, “Yeah?” to his brother as she walked through the open door of the repair shop. Gauging from its construction, it had once been a gas station, now converted into car repair, the smells of oil, dust, and cleanser tickling her nose as she told the one guy working, a mechanic wearing dreads pulled into a ponytail and a full beard covering the bottom half of his face, that her car had been picked up the night before.
He nodded. “The Honda. With all the stuff in it?”
“That’s the one.”
When she tried to pay, Stu, if the name embroidered on his gray jumpsuit was any indication, waved her off. “No worries. The man who called gave a credit card number. All taken care of.”
She wanted to argue, but he was already handing her the key and pointing to a gravel parking lot surrounded by a mesh
fence topped with razor wire, as if the place were some kind of minimum security prison. If he noticed her scrapes and bruises, he was polite enough not to say so and for that, she supposed, she was thankful.
The car started with a flick of her wrist, the engine sparking easily, which was encouraging. She’d bought it used from Mr. Wharton in Point Roberts. She grimaced, realized she should probably text or call Connie again, but couldn’t face all the questions right now. Instead, she drove straight to the hospital. She looked to the road behind, half expecting some vehicle to be following her. Old habits died hard and she’d been hiding out for years, feeling as if she was being followed. Now, she should feel safe. Cal was in custody and the private detective, Jacoby, was no longer tailing her. So why did she still feel as if she was being watched, her every move recorded?
“Paranoia, that’s why,” she muttered. She flipped on the radio, heard static, and fiddled with the dial, trying to locate a Portland station, only to give up. Following the street signs to Laurelton, she tried to keep her mind off Liam, their lovemaking, and thoughts of being with him again. “One day at a time . . . actually, more like one minute at a time,” she told herself as she parked in the lower lot of Laurelton General and made her way to Charlotte’s room in Pediatrics. Charlotte was up and dressed, her hair pulled into pigtails, as she sat on her grandma’s lap watching a video playing on Darlene’s phone.
“Mommy!” she squealed, happily sliding off her grandmother’s lap and crossing the room in three bounds to land in Rory’s open arms. “I misses you!”
“Me, too, bug,” Rory said, her heart lighter. She had to rub her tender nose to stop it from burning.
“We gets to go home!” she said.
“Well, close to it,” Rory equivocated. She held the little girl until Charlotte couldn’t stand it another second and wriggled away. She was so relieved that her daughter was, indeed, well, that she felt near collapse. She caught Darlene’s eye and asked, “Are you okay with all of this?” as Darlene shoved the phone into the pocket of an oversized cardigan.
“I should be asking you that. Goodness, your face!”
“Does it look that bad?” she asked anxiously. “My nose isn’t swollen as much.”