Find Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 3)

by Tiffany Snow

“’m cold, Clark,” she said, frowning. “Why is it so cold? Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

  He forced himself to smile and stop bawling. “Nothing’s wrong, baby. I just wanted to tell you . . . h-how much . . . I love you. I thought you should know.” His fingers were dirt smeared, but he gently touched her cold cheek anyway. She was so pale.

  “That’s so nice,” she said, smiling. “You love me. I’m glad.”

  A gunshot rang out and Clark instinctively covered China with his body, waiting for the pain. But nothing happened. Tentatively, he looked up.

  Rob stood, an expression of shock on his face, as he looked down at the blooming red stain on his chest. Then he looked to his right.

  Jackson stood there, holding Clark’s discarded weapon. He was holding his left arm awkwardly against his side, but the hand pointing the gun at Rob was steady.

  “You’re one sick son of a bitch,” Jackson bit out.

  Rob fell to the ground and didn’t move.

  Jackson approached him carefully, removed the gun from Rob’s holster, and tossed it aside, then felt for a pulse in his neck. After a moment, he moved to the duffel and began rummaging through it.

  “Is he . . .” Clark couldn’t say the word. His own brother had wanted to kill him and China, but he couldn’t ask if he was dead.

  “Yeah,” was Jackson’s clipped response.

  The sound of helicopters in the distance made them look up. Jackson pulled something from the duffel. Emergency flares. He set four on the ground around them as the helicopters grew closer.

  “Are you okay?” Clark asked Jackson.

  He nodded. “Broken arm, I think. Other than that, I’m fine.” He fell to his knees in front of Clark, his haunted gaze on China. “Is she going to make it?”

  “I don’t know. Sh-she’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Then they couldn’t talk because the wind from the helicopters was too strong. Two choppers landed just in the clearing beyond where the SUV had turned over. Light flooded the woods, along with men toting automatic rifles.

  “Medic!” Clark called out. “Over here! Medic!”

  Men arrived with red crosses on their helmets, taking China’s limp body from him. She was unconscious now, and his fear ratcheted up another notch.

  “Her carotid’s been nicked,” Clark explained. “She’s lost a lot of blood.”

  “We’ll take care of her, sir.”

  Stretchers arrived for him and China. He didn’t want to get on, but he wasn’t given a choice. Jackson was helped into the second chopper by another medic.

  They were putting an IV in his arm and blocking his view of China. He grabbed the arm of the medic taking care of him. “Take my blood,” he demanded. “I’m O negative. She needs blood now.”

  The two medics conversed. Clark yanked him back. “I said, take my blood, goddamn it!”

  “Sir, you’re injured. It wouldn’t be wise to—”

  Clark grabbed the medic’s shirt front and pulled him down. “Save her,” he gritted out. “You think I give a shit about me? Swear to me you’ll save her.”

  The medic didn’t look rattled by Clark’s vehemence. “I swear to you, sir. We’ll save her. But we will need your blood.”

  Clark let him go. “Take it.”

  The sound of the choppers’ blades was loud and lulling. Clark closed his eyes, listening. What was it China had said?

  There are no atheists in foxholes.

  So he prayed. He hadn’t prayed since that night in Tripoli. That hadn’t turned out very well, he thought, but he shoved the thought away. All that was left to believe in was what he couldn’t see.

  And the choppers’ blades turned.

  20

  I’d had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime, which was why I wasn’t a bit sorry to see the outside of this one, though I should have been glad just to be alive.

  It had been close.

  I didn’t remember much after the bomb and subsequent car wreck. Jackson and Clark had filled in most of the blanks, telling me what Rob had done.

  He’d bled me. Slowly.

  The thought still sent chills through me.

  Jackson was waiting for me, his arm in a sling, as we walked outside to the waiting car that would drive us to the airport.

  We’d laid my dad to rest yesterday. I’d gotten a pass from the hospital for the night, but had to return today for one last checkup before getting on a plane. Jackson had insisted on flying in Dr. Morris, who’d had a near fit when he saw I’d been in another accident, and had rushed me in for another CT scan. Though I was okay, he’d lectured me long and hard about “taking it easy” and giving myself “time to heal.”

  The funeral had been a solemn ceremony, not least because my brothers had been subjected to armed men in uniform coming to their door four nights ago to explain that no, they hadn’t seen anything, and yes, their sister was just in town visiting for a few days.

  Oslo and Bill had looked at the bandages and bruises with questions in their eyes. None of which I could answer. So I’d just hugged them and stood between them as they lowered Dad into the cold ground.

  Heather was a godsend at the wake, handling the neighbors who came by with their casseroles and cakes, condolences and curiosity. They eyed me with my black-and-blue marks, Jackson in his sling, and Clark on his crutches. We offered no explanations, and the only one rude enough to ask was Old Widow Schaffer, who was too deaf to hear anything anyway.

  I escaped to my room when I couldn’t handle the prying and sympathetic eyes any longer. I felt as though I was hanging by a thread. My life was out of control, and nothing was what I’d thought. My father wasn’t my father. Clark’s dead brother hadn’t been dead at all, but a psychopath intent on making Clark pay for the past using my blood. Jackson had been the one who had pulled the lever that had set the events of the past two weeks in motion . . . six years ago.

  There was a knock on the door. “Yeah,” I answered tiredly.

  Grams poked her head in. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course,” I said, grateful it was her and not someone else.

  She came in and sat down next to me. “I saw this downstairs on the counter,” she said, handing me an envelope. “It’s addressed to you . . . and it’s in my daughter’s handwriting.”

  I looked at her, a question in my eyes. “You . . . do you know? About me?”

  “That your dear momma had an affair and you were the result? Of course, I knew, China-girl.”

  “You never told me?” I meant it to be a statement, but it came out a question.

  “I promised your mom I wouldn’t, and you don’t break a promise made to your dead daughter. Not even for you, China-girl.” She looked sad, but resolute.

  There was nothing I could say to that. I looked down at the envelope in my hand. Grams patted my leg.

  “I’ll leave you alone to read that. You just let me know if you want to talk afterward, all right?”

  I nodded, still looking at the worn envelope. I felt Grams press a kiss to the top of my head, then leave, quietly closing the door behind her.

  My hands shook as I opened the envelope, and it was as though I could hear my mom’s voice as I read the slanted, cursive writing.

  My dearest China,

  I know this must come as a shock to you, after all this time. The first thing I want you to know is that your dad—the man you know as your father and who raised you—is a good, good man. He loved me far more than I deserved. I was lucky indeed to have met him, and I didn’t regret a day we spent together, or the two wonderful boys we had.

  I didn’t—until I met Mark.

  He was everything I’d ever dreamed of. Dashing and charming. Exciting and dangerous. We instantly made a connection. The job we were doing was dangerous, which probably contributed to the intensity of our feelings. It was then that I regretted choosing security over a dream.

  You were the product of our love, Mark’s and mine. I would have done almost anything to
be with him—anything except leave your brothers without a mother, and break your dad’s heart.

  I told no one but Grams what had happened, though of course your dad figured things out. He was never a stupid man. He should have divorced me, but God love his soul, he loved me too much. I wish I could have loved him as much as he loved me.

  I think that there may be people who would like to use you for their own ends, my dear. Mark had many enemies within the CIA and other agencies. I’ve been worried, lately, that I may have been discovered here, in the backwoods country of Nebraska. Which is why I’m writing you this letter. Just in case I’m not around to tell you all of this. I hope I am, but the future is never guaranteed. I hope I’ve hidden you and your true parentage well enough.

  Please take care, dear China, and know that while your biology may have been a falsehood, the love of those closest to you has always been true.

  All my love,

  Mom

  I was crying so hard, it was difficult to read the last few lines. And since no one was there to see, I let myself cry. For my dad, my mom, and for me. This seemed like an excellent time for a pity party, guest list of one.

  Rob’s body had disappeared from the woods, as had all evidence of everything that had happened. Even the barn had somehow been fixed overnight, the Gemini symbol gone as though it had never appeared.

  And now I watched from Jackson’s private plane as Omaha receded into the distance behind us. I wasn’t sorry to see the last of it. The nightmares I would have from what had happened I was sure would haunt me for years. Mia decided to stay through the weekend with her parents, and we made plans for her to fly back to Raleigh next week. I was glad she was getting along well with Oslo and Heather, but I already missed her. I needed her to give me random hugs that I wasn’t prepared for, stay in the shower too long so I was four minutes late for work, and ooh and aah over the Winchester brothers with me.

  A couple of hours into the flight, Jackson appeared and sat down next to me. He’d been in the back on the phone taking care of business calls. Now, he sighed and took my hand in his.

  We hadn’t talked much the past few days. Between the physical pain of our injuries and the emotional turmoil of the trauma, we’d spent more time just touching than talking.

  Clark had left immediately after the funeral, after giving me a careful hug and a kiss on the forehead. Jackson had been gracious enough to provide a car and flight home before the plane returned for us. Being rich had its benefits.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  I looked up at him, my heart squeezing at the sight. He was so dear to me. And he’d saved me. Me and Clark.

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, which was a true statement. I wasn’t fine, but time healed all wounds. I was realizing, finally, why all those idioms were so prevalent. They were true.

  “This has been . . . a helluva couple of weeks,” he said with a tired sigh.

  “I know. And I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  Jackson just smiled and lifted my hand to kiss my knuckles, which made what I had to say next even harder.

  “And I don’t know what I’m going to do . . . without you.”

  His smile faded. “What do you mean?”

  “I love you, Jackson, but not for the right reasons. I love you because you make me feel secure and safe. I can depend on you. I know exactly what our life together would be, and it would be picture-perfect.”

  “And what’s wrong with that?”

  I shook my head. “You deserve better. I deserve better. We shouldn’t settle for what’s safe and comfortable. Yes, we get along wonderfully and we understand each other. But I don’t think that’s enough to base a lifetime on.”

  Jackson looked away and cleared his throat. Then he cleared his throat again and straightened in the seat.

  “A lot has happened,” he said at last. “Too much to take in. Don’t make a decision right now. Take some time.”

  “And keep you waiting on me?” I asked. “That’s cruel. I won’t do that to you.”

  “You’d rather break my heart now?” For the first time, I saw the crack in his composure, then he looked away again. “It’s because of Clark, isn’t it.”

  I’d known he would bring that up, and I was ready for it. “I know you probably think so, but no. Not entirely.”

  He looked at me, anger and disbelief in his eyes.

  “I care about Clark, yes. He’s definitely made me see a kind of man I’m . . . attracted to. But that doesn’t affect how I feel about you, Jackson. I loved you and still love you. But I need time to figure out the kind of man I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

  “And what if you decide that kind of man is me?”

  I gave a helpless shrug, trying not to cry. “Then I’ll have made an awful, terrible mistake,” I whispered.

  Looking down, I worked the engagement ring off my finger. “Here,” I said, handing it to him, but he stood.

  “Keep it,” he said, his voice flat. “This isn’t over, China.”

  I looked down, tears dripping onto my lap. Breaking up was as horrible as I’d known it would be. And worse.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered again, but he was gone.

  He didn’t appear again until we’d landed. Then, ever the gentleman, he escorted me down the air stairs to the car waiting.

  “Lance, please take China to her home,” he instructed. “I’ll grab a cab.”

  “No, Jackson, please—”

  “You’re not the only one who needs some time,” he said. He didn’t look angry anymore, but the pain in his eyes made me want to take back everything I’d said, just so it would go away.

  Lance took me home, and I gave him an impromptu hug goodbye when he dropped me off. I didn’t say anything, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew. And he hugged me back.

  My house felt emptier than it had in a long time. I set my luggage down and stared. Mia was gone. Jackson was gone. Clark was gone. Even the Doctor was floating in his tank. Again.

  I’d cried enough to fill ten buckets, and I was done. No more.

  It was a Friday. Chinese night. I ordered my usual pre-Mia menu, unpacked, and went through my e-mail. I ate two Fig Newtons before bed and was under the covers at precisely ten thirty. Just like I had before . . . but I felt much different now. Usually my routine made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Tonight I felt . . . as though I was missing something.

  Saturday I decided to do something unexpected, which made my nerves dance and the butterflies in my stomach set up a hoedown.

  Around noon, I pulled my Mustang into Clark’s driveway, heading toward the beautiful log cabin in the woods that he’d shown me months ago. I wasn’t even sure he was there.

  I tightened my ponytail and pushed my glasses up my nose before I got out of the car, too late rethinking my I Want to Believe T-shirt. But it wasn’t like I could back out now. If he was home, he’d likely seen and heard me drive up.

  Retrieving the bag I’d brought from the back seat, I headed for the front door. I almost tightened my ponytail again before I realized I didn’t have enough hands for it. Reaching out, I rang the bell, then winced. It sounded really loud.

  I shifted from one foot to the other, waiting, and rethinking this whole stupid thing. But before I could run from the porch back to the safety of the car, the door opened.

  Clark stood there with one crutch, eyeing me. He wore loose cotton pants like sweatpants but thinner, and a worn T-shirt that fit him like a second skin. His hair was tousled, and his eyes were as blue as I remembered.

  Neither of us spoke for a moment.

  “This is . . . unexpected.” His lips lifted on one side.

  “I . . . thought you might need cheering up,” I said, talking too fast. “So I brought you something. But it’s stupid. You probably don’t want it anyway. Listen, I’ll just go. Sorry for bothering you.” I was halfway down the steps by then.

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on, wait,” he calle
d out. I stopped and turned. “I would love some cheering up,” he said. “Come in.”

  I followed him inside to the bar in the kitchen.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the bar stools.

  I climbed up on one, wishing I could do it more gracefully, but it was what it was.

  “Um, here you go,” I said, handing him the bag. I noticed he took a long glance at my bare left hand.

  He set the bag carefully on the counter and reached inside, pulling out the cardboard container.

  “Open it,” I said.

  He did, revealing half a dozen freshly made cannoli. He looked at me, his brows furrowed in question, and I cursed my stupid idea.

  “Um, it’s dessert,” I said weakly. “You know, dessert first. You’re not supposed to . . .” My voice trailed off as my utter mortification reached its peak. I was awful at this sort of thing. I didn’t know why I’d tried. “Never mind.”

  I hopped off the stool. “Anyway, I thought it might—”

  He yanked me toward him until our bodies met, cutting me off midsentence. I looked up at him in surprise.

  “Yes, please,” he said, his lips curving into a smile. “I would very much like to have my dessert first.”

  Epilogue

  “You should be resting.”

  President Blane Kirk glanced up from where he was sitting behind his desk, going through the stacks of briefs and memos that had piled up during his absence. His wife had entered the Oval Office.

  As always, the sight of her momentarily took his breath away. A reaction he’d had from the first time he’d laid eyes on her in New York nearly ten years ago.

  He’d been at a charity event—a fashion show with designers with names like Versace, de la Renta, Chanel, and more—that had drawn the very wealthiest of New York’s elite. Anne was one of the models, and when she’d walked the runway—clad in a diaphanous silver gown, her dark hair cascading down her back, with eyes that were deep pools he could get lost in—he’d been unable to think of anything but meeting her.

  She’d proven somewhat elusive. Born to an old-money family, she’d been wary of his interest. But Blane himself wasn’t unfamiliar with those drawn to wealth and beauty. He’d persisted, even as she was finishing her master’s degree in fashion design. They’d married in a New York cathedral—with more than five hundred of their closest friends—and honeymooned in France.