Before the Storm

by Leslie Tentler

  “He made you work for him?”

  “It was his club. I-I thought I was in love with him. But then things changed…” Her breath hitched. “He told me I had to earn money for him, to pay him back for everything he’d done for me.”

  Mark winced at what her words implied.

  “You could’ve just left,” he reasoned.

  “I tried.” She felt a chill sweep through her. “Devin was dangerous. No one crossed him.”

  Her throat convulsed at the recollection, cutting off her words. She was unable to say more, to tell him about Devin’s possessiveness and need for control. About the mental abuse, or the times he had beaten her so badly she had to be hospitalized. Mark had been born into a loving family with social standing and wealth. She wondered if he fully realized that men like Devin or his brother, Red, even existed. He would think she was lying, making herself into a victim.

  “Is he who you went to see at the Sea King?”

  Samantha shook her head. “No.”

  She thought he might press her further, but Mark took a step away. He picked up the wine bottle on the counter as if he intended to pour himself a drink, but then set it back down on the chopping block she had used to make their salad. For a time, he simply stared at the tiled backsplash, his shoulders slumped.

  “I don’t even know what to call you,” he murmured.

  “Samantha.” She heard the desperation in her voice as she inched closer to him. “It’s who I am. It’s who I’ve been for six years. I’m not Trina—”

  He turned to face her again. “The Memphis Police are looking for you. They want to question you about a murder.”

  Samantha felt the floor fall away underneath her. Mark’s gaze weighed heavily on her, his face ravaged as he waited for her to respond. How much did he already know? Had he been giving her a chance to come clean about all of it and she had failed him again? Her heart thudded hard. She’d never said the words aloud. “I-I killed Devin.”

  Mark’s face went paler.

  “I…stabbed him to death.”

  The confession unleashed rapid-fire images of that fateful night. Devin punching her. Choking her as he raped her. Nausea inched up her throat as she thought of the jagged glass she’d shoved into his neck and the bright spill of his blood. Panicked, Samantha pulled at the hands that held her in place, until she became aware that it was Mark, grasping her forearms to bring her back from where her mind had gone.

  “Samantha,” Mark urged. “Tell me what happened.”

  His face swam in her vision, her lungs cramping with the memory. “He was…hurting me.”

  “If it was self-defense, then you didn’t have to run—”

  “I was an adult entertainer, and his lover!” Emotion thickened her voice. She looked at him, grief and shame welling inside her. “Do you think the police would’ve believed me?”

  “You could’ve tried.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. Devin’s brother is looking for me, too.” Her insides twisted at the thought of Red Leary. “Even if the police hadn’t pressed charges, Red wouldn’t have been so forgiving. He’s involved in bad things—he makes Devin look like a choirboy. If he finds me, he’ll kill me for what I did.”

  The weight of it seemed to crash down on him all at once. Mark’s eyes roamed her face, as if searching for some sign of the truth. For the woman he thought he knew. Releasing her, he walked to the counter, holding on to it as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. Samantha said a silent prayer for forgiveness. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. But by letting him into her life, letting him fall for her, that was exactly what she had done. She’d been uncompromisingly selfish by letting him in. Slowly, she walked up to him, hesitantly touching his back. Her heart sank at the way his body tensed under her fingers.

  “I know this is a lot to deal with. Too much—”

  “I have a little girl, Samantha,” he said hoarsely. “I knew you had secrets…but I can’t drag her into something like this.”

  Samantha didn’t move at all, her body absorbing the impact of his words.

  “I understand,” she managed to whisper. Numb, she asked haltingly, “Are you going to turn me in?”

  He made a soft sound at her question, his eyes filled with anguish when he turned to her. “If I say yes, are you going to run?”

  She shook her head faintly. “I’m tired of running, Mark.”

  He no longer appeared angry, just sad. She wished he would curse at her, shake her. Hurt her physically for the way she had hurt him. Anything would be better than the devastation written on his features. Her hands trembled as she moved to one of the barstools and reached for her car keys and purse. Tears clogged her throat.

  “When you were working…did you sleep with the men?”

  He meant the club’s patrons. He was asking if she was a whore. Fresh self-hatred bubbled up inside her.

  “No,” she whispered, her back rigid. She felt a hard chill.

  “Samantha, I…” But he just looked at her. She saw him swallow. He clearly didn’t know what to say.

  She filled the space left between them. “I’m so sorry, Mark. For letting things go this far. You deserve better.”

  Placing her purse strap over her shoulder, she stumbled blindly to the foyer only to come face-to-face with Mercer and Emily, who had just entered the house. Emily stared up at Samantha with questioning blue eyes.

  Wiping the tears from her face, she pushed past them and rushed down the porch stairs. Behind her, she could hear Mark telling Mercer that he’d left her a message asking her not to bring Emily home yet.

  “…Mantha.”

  Samantha froze. Was that? She turned. Emily had followed her onto the porch. Her little voice was rusty from disuse, but it caused what was left of Samantha’s heart to crumple like old paper. She went back up to her. Dropping to her knees, she caught Emily in a hug, amazed by what she’d just heard. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything’s fine.”

  “Why you…cry?”

  Emily concentrated hard to get some semblance of the words out, her forehead furrowed. She had a strong lisp. The sweet sound of it made Samantha’s eyes mist all over again, genuine joy mixing with her pain. She didn’t draw attention to the fact that Emily had spoken, fearing she might spook her.

  “I’m just tired. You know how you feel when you miss your nap?” Still kneeling, she held Emily’s small fingers in hers. “I’m going to go home and rest now.”

  “Don’t…go.” Emily’s lower lip trembled, her eyes afraid.

  “I’ll be right in town. And I’ll see you soon.”

  “Prom…ise?”

  “I promise, Emily.” Despite her best effort, her voice trembled. “I made dinner for you. Let Mercer get you a plate, all right? There’s macaroni and cheese.”

  She peered up at Mercer and Mark, who were frozen in place in the doorway. They’d obviously heard Emily speak. Mercer’s fingers covered her mouth in astonishment. Mark stood slightly behind her. He scrubbed a hand over his reddened eyes.

  Weak-kneed, Samantha rose as Mercer called to Emily. She held out her hand and, with a questioning look at Samantha, took Emily into the house. Mark’s gaze remained fastened on her. He appeared shattered. Her heart felt equally broken.

  There was nothing left to be said. Whether Mark turned her over to the police or took her secret with him to the grave, Samantha realized she no longer cared. She was actually surprised she was still managing to breathe. Pivoting shakily on her heel, she forced herself to walk to her car in the driveway. Samantha started the engine and drove away, sobbing, leaving Mark behind.

  “Emily’s in bed now. She had a big day. I think she’ll be asleep soon.”

  Mark looked up as Mercer entered the living area. He sat on the couch, gripping a tumbler of scotch.

  “Thanks for staying for dinner, Merce.” He briefly caught her fingers as she walked past. He and Mercer had done their best to keep Emily talking during the meal, managing to draw out a few mo
re precious words from her. Afterward, Mercer had taken over. Having witnessed Samantha’s flight from the house, she’d obviously wanted to give Mark some time.

  “You’ve been a lifeline to Emily and me since Shelley died,” he said quietly. “I want you to know how much I appreciate it.”

  “I think the scotch is making you maudlin.” Her tone was light, although he could see the concern in her eyes. Mercer eased down on the couch beside him. “I still can’t believe Emily spoke tonight.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, smiling faintly and releasing a breath of heartfelt relief. Hearing his daughter’s voice after so long had brought tears to his eyes. But his joy that Emily had talked also mingled with a fear that she might stop again…especially if Samantha disappeared from her life. Clearly, what had happened tonight between Samantha and him had been the inciting incident that had led to her speaking. Mark felt overwhelmed by the revelation of who Samantha really was. He hadn’t even asked her about the money she’d supposedly stolen, he realized.

  “What happened with Samantha?” Mercer asked.

  “I think it’s over,” he managed, believing it the most discreet answer. Mark took a sip of scotch and then leaned forward to place the empty glass on the coffee table.

  Her shoulder rubbed his. “So you two had a fight. Whatever it’s about, I’m sure it’s something that can be worked out—”

  “Mercer…” Wearily, he bowed his head. He’d been keeping up a strong front for Emily but felt emotionally exhausted. “I’m really not up to talking about it.”

  She waited for several heartbeats. “You’re upset, Mark. I don’t want to leave you like this. I could sleep in the guest room and help with Emily—”

  “We’ll be fine.” He wasn’t so sure, though. But he had leaned on Mercer far too much over the last two years. “Besides, don’t you have someone at the hotel to get back to?”

  “Jonathan has plenty to do. He’s working on a paper for some academic journal. And he’s going back to Atlanta tomorrow afternoon. The fall session at the university is starting soon.”

  “Then all the more reason to go be with him now.” Mark pressed his lips together as he looked at her, only half-joking. “Although, we haven’t had time to talk about your cradle-robbing professor. I feel obligated to give you some kind of older brother lecture.”

  Mercer frowned. “I’m not going to let you distract me, Mark. We’re talking about you. You don’t have to tell me what happened tonight, but Samantha’s been good for you, and Emily is obviously crazy about her.”

  She added carefully, “I know things have been moving fast, but I think maybe you’ve fallen a little in love with her, too.”

  Mark’s throat tightened. Mercer laid her hand on his forearm and squeezed softly. “It’s like you’ve come back to life since you met her. You’ve been happy lately. Something you haven’t been in a long time.”

  He remained silent, both unwilling and unable to open up about all the unsettling things he’d learned. He wondered what Mercer would think if he laid out the story for her. But he didn’t want to expose Samantha further, and he was still trying to process the whole of it himself. Right now, his mind was stuck on an endless loop of their confrontation. He’d had every right to question her, but the torment he’d seen on her face was something that not even the numbing effects of the scotch could scour away.

  “Okay then…” Mercer gently slapped her hands on her thighs and stood, apparently accepting that Mark wasn’t going to talk to her. “I’m going. But I’m just a phone call away. If you need anything, I can be here in ten minutes.”

  Mark closed his eyes as his sister reached back down and hugged him.

  “Thanks, Merce,” he whispered.

  A minute later, she had gathered her purse and was gone. Mark waited until he heard her convertible pull from the driveway, then rose from the couch and splashed another measure of scotch into his glass. As he sipped, he stared out at the white blanket of beach and dark night above it.

  He’d wanted the truth, hadn’t he?

  Samantha had warned him from the start that she was wrong for him and Emily. She’d fought their involvement until Mark and fate had worn her down. He had believed he wanted to know her secrets, but now…

  He hadn’t been prepared for anything remotely like this.

  Her time spent working at a strip club, dancing nude, was a shock to him. But her involvement in a man’s death, theft, living under an assumed identity…Mark felt a choking disquiet. The revelation that Samantha was a wanted woman, on the run, rocked him to his core. And he did have Emily’s welfare to consider.

  Feeling hollowed out, he dropped his head into his palm and massaged his forehead.

  There was still too much he didn’t know. Who had she gone to the Sea King to meet that night, and why had she needed money? It sounded like an obvious blackmail attempt, and it worried him that someone knew her real identity other than him and Carter. He thought of the man Samantha had mentioned. Red Leary.

  He makes Devin look like a choirboy. If he finds me, he’ll kill me for what I did.

  Even if they weren’t together, Mark didn’t want a life of fear for Samantha, which was what she had been living all this time, apparently. Or a life behind bars. Especially if she’d told the truth that she had killed only to defend herself. Unsure, he tried to bring his racing thoughts under control.

  Walking down the hallway, he stopped in the doorway to Emily’s bedroom. A pink seashell nightlight provided a soft glow that made his daughter’s curls look like a golden halo around her head. Upon seeing Mark, she raised up a bit and blinked at him.

  “Hey, pumpkin,” Mark said, coming into the room. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the bed’s edge. He stroked her hair, his heart filling with love for her. “I thought you’d be asleep.”

  “You…sad, Daddy.”

  Mark’s chest ached at the sweet sound of his daughter’s rusty, lisping words. He looked at the stuffed bear tucked under the covers next to her. One of its button eyes was missing, and its synthetic fur had been worn to a fuzz. Emily had shelves full of toys, yet this one seemed to go to bed with her every night, maybe because it had been Samantha’s. He sighed. “No. I’m just tired, baby.”

  “Like ’Mantha?”

  For a bare moment, Mark’s throat closed up. He nodded softly, stealing time to regain his composure. “Yeah. Like Samantha.”

  Emily yawned, and he bent to kiss her forehead. “I love you to pieces. Go to sleep now, okay?”

  Mark got up and waited, his shoulder leaned against the doorframe as he watched Emily turn onto her side, her small hands tucked between her cheek and the pillow. After a short while, her eyelashes fluttered closed.

  Making a noiseless departure from Emily’s bedroom, Mark wandered into the small study that adjoined the master suite. He picked up his cell phone from where he’d left it on the Queen Anne-style desk, found the number on it he needed and made the call.

  “Todd? It’s Mark St. Clair. I know it’s a little late to be calling, but—”

  His former college roommate greeted him with obvious delight. The two had shared an off-campus apartment while Mark was getting his master’s degree in business and Todd Hamilton had been enrolled at Emory University School of Law. Mark hadn’t seen him since Shelley’s funeral. But they still kept in touch by e-mail and occasional phone calls. After school, Todd had returned to his hometown of Germantown, Tennessee, an upscale suburb outside of Memphis, to join his father’s law practice.

  “Todd, there’s something I need you to check into for me,” Mark said, growing serious once they’d engaged in a few minutes of conversational catch-up. He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “A murder, actually. It happened about six years ago in your neck of the woods. I’m happy to pay for your time.”

  “As much as I would enjoy taking your money, it’s no fun unless it’s over a game of poker,” Todd bantered, his usual good-natured self. “Just give me the detai
ls, starting with the name of the deceased.”

  “Devin Leary.”

  Mark heard Todd’s low whistle. “Holy hell. The infamous Leary brothers.”

  “You know them?”

  “I’m a defense lawyer, so yeah. Think Sopranos, only Irish.”

  Mark’s stomach clenched. “They’re Mafia?”

  “Something like that, although they front their illegal activities with a string of barely respectable businesses around Memphis. I vaguely recall Devin Leary taking the big dirt nap some years back.” There was a brief pause. “What’s your interest in all this, Mark?”

  “Can we go ahead and assume client-attorney privilege?”

  “Jesus. Not for you, I hope.”

  “No,” Mark said. “A friend of mine.”

  He trusted Todd, deeply, and he told him everything he had learned about Samantha. Once he’d hung up, Mark stood lost in his thoughts, listening for a time to the deep croak of a bullfrog somewhere outside the bedroom window. Then he went back into the living room to catch the latest weather bulletin on the television. The news unsettled him more, if that was possible.

  He woke sometime later sprawled on the couch, still wearing the rumpled clothes he had worked in that day. Perspiration made his white dress shirt stick to his skin, and his heart raced like a greyhound at the Myrtle Beach dog tracks. The television’s glow offered the only light in the room. Mark sat up and rubbed a shaky hand over his face.

  He’d had a nightmare about the car wreck. Not an unusual occurrence, unfortunately. Even awake his mind clung to the stomach-churning images, beginning with the twin beams of the car that crossed the center line and hit them head on. But in his dream, it had been Samantha, not Shelley, who was lying in the twisted metal next to him.

  Mark feared it was an omen.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  If Mark intended to turn her over to the police, Samantha realized she would have been in handcuffs by now. But nearly two days had passed, and no detectives or uniformed officers had shown up at her door. During that time, she had lived a numbed existence, with Café Bella and her promise to Emily the only things tethering her to the quiet beach town.