He could focus on only one thing: that she had burned through every defense he had, that she had somehow slipped past every roadblock he'd ever built, that she had reached a part of him that had never been reached before. She'd said she didn't have a gift for him, and then had proceeded to give him the most incredible gift he'd received in his life.
It wasn't until he lay back, his body drained, his pulse at last slowing, it wasn't until he was drifting softly in some peaceful place he'd never known until she had come into his life, that it hit him. It was the thought that he wished this could go on and on, that he could spend every day like this, with her in his arms, that brought it on. That made him realize what he'd done. Something he'd sworn long ago he would never, ever do.
On top of everything else, he'd given the world a lever to use against him.
* * *
The winds of change had shifted.
"He was right," Laurey said as she read the newspaper Gage had stopped to pick up in the hotel lobby.
"Chief de los Reyes usually is."
He sounded odd, his tone one of resigned admiration, yet still edgy. Very edgy, as he had been all morning.
He'd been dodging the subject she knew was uppermost in both their minds. After a night spent in a passion that had surpassed even their first encounter in the safe house, Laurey knew there were things they needed to—things they had to—discuss. Like where they went from here.
"The whole slant of this article has changed," she said. "Listen to this. 'While Marina Heights Police are not saying that the attempts on the life of the case's lead investigator and a civilian witness are the responsibility of accused rapist Mitchell Martin, they are saying he is a primary suspect in the hit-and-run, two shootings and last night's bombing.'" She looked over at him. "At least he's an 'accused rapist' now, not 'a leading businessman.'"
"Reporters know how to say the same thing five different ways to get five different reactions," he said wryly.
"I noticed. This makes it sound like he was trying to kill me, too, when he didn't even know about me."
"But he does now." Gage's voice had gone flat; clearly he still wasn't happy with that.
"They didn't identify me," she said pointedly.
"That's only a matter of time."
"By then, maybe it won't matter. If this works, and the public he's trying to impress starts to think he might be guilty, then maybe he won't risk any more attempts. The chief told me it looked like the bomb had been set up before, not after he got out on bail, so maybe—"
"Maybe, maybe, maybe," Gage growled. "You want to trust your life to a maybe?"
"Why not?" she asked simply. "You do."
"That's different."
"Uh-huh."
With that brilliant retort she figured she'd said all there was to say on the subject and lapsed into silence. They were nearly at Gage's house, on their way to find out how much was left of it. He hadn't wanted her to come, fearing, she was sure, another attempt of some kind, but he couldn't push the point without admitting he shouldn't go, either. Besides, even Gage had had to admit that it was probably the safest place in town at the moment, with cops still all over and the arson/bomb squad still poring over the scene.
It looked both worse and better than she'd expected. Worse because the front of the house was a charred skeleton, with piles of unrecognizable debris still smoking in places, better because the back of the house still stood, and looked intact.
This time they were let through, with a warning to go carefully. She was going to have to buy more clothes, Laurey thought glumly as she picked her way through the wreckage of what had once been Gage's living room; she would be coated in soot and wet ashes before long. Gage had told her that she should wait outside, but she'd insisted on going with him, to help him salvage whatever he could. She almost wished now that she'd done as he'd said; there was something unbearably grim about this process. It reminded her too much of looking at the twisted mass of metal that had been Lisa's car, of going through the items that had been retrieved from it: cassette tapes, garage door opener and most heartbreakingly, the flashlight key chain Laurey had given her sister several years before. That small item, and the fact that Lisa had kept and used it all that time, had destroyed what little composure Laurey had managed to hang on to; the full impact of her sister's death had come rushing in.
This is different. Nobody died here, she told herself as she tried to concentrate on the task before her. Thanks to Gage and his quick reaction, neither of them had even been badly hurt.
She glanced over at him; he'd walked around a heap of charred timbers to the far wall. Or, rather, where the wall had been, where, she recalled from her peek through the sliding glass door, the stereo and television had been. Had it really only been four days ago? It seemed impossible. But she supposed, when you lived in the course of a week more than most people lived in a month, time seemed to compress. And Lord knew, she had—
She stopped as her toe hit something hard amid a pile of soft, wet ashes. She looked down and saw the glint of something metallic. She bent to look and realized it was a strip of brass.
Tentatively she reached out and touched it, having some vague idea that it might still be hot. Instead it was cold, and she nudged it gently out of the ashes, glad for once that they were still damp enough to keep from flying up into her face.
It was a picture frame, looking blackened but almost intact. She looked at it sadly; these were the things that were the most tragic loss: pictures, memories of those loved, the irreplaceable things. Almost reluctantly, she turned it over.
The glass had shattered and was black in places. The photograph it held was burned at the edges and scorched across the center. But she could still see the subject. Too well.
A young girl looked out at her from amid the ruins. A pretty girl, maybe fourteen, with a pale shade of blond hair Laurey had seen before, and a pair of green eyes she knew too well. Except these eyes were different. They were clear and bright, unhaunted, unshadowed, and she knew that in the face of his sister she was getting a glimpse of what Gage must once have been like, before Fate had brought on that darkness he carried.
And it was this girl's awful, painful, ugly death that had done it. Emotion welled in her, sorrow for the ordeal of this girl she'd never known tangling with the pain of the contrast between open, innocent youth and the wounded, shadowed look in her brother's eyes.
He looks like my animals do when they're hurt. They can't say it, so it shows in their eyes.
Little Samantha Gregerson's wise words had never seemed so true. A deep, unrelieved ache grew inside Laurey, an ache to see Gage looking like this, free of the darkness. And in that moment, kneeling in the wreckage of what had been his home, looking at the sister whose murder had haunted him with guilt for nearly two decades, she finally admitted why.
She had fallen in love with Gage Butler all over again. Not with the same childish naiveté as she had eight years ago, but with all her adult heart, and despite her own vow never to love a man who loved his job more than anything else. And there was little doubt that nothing was more important to Gage than his work. And understanding why, that he was driven by the memory of what had happened to this sister who looked so like him, would not make it any easier to live with.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the girl in the photograph. "You were so young. But can't you let him go? He's never had the chance to be young, because of what happened to you. Please, let him go. Make him see—"
"Just what is it you'd like me to see?"
Laurey sucked in a swift, audibly startled breath. "God, you scared me."
She looked up at him and saw that he was staring intently, his brows lowered ominously, at the picture she held. "Gage," she began, but something in his eyes, something hard and cold, stopped her.
"Go ahead," he instructed. "What is it I'm supposed to see?"
She steadied herself. "That it's time to let go of the past. You couldn't save her. And saving the entire pl
anet won't make up for it."
His eyes went even harder, and she hated having them turned on her. There was no sign of pain or shadow in the green depths now, only anger. Directed at her. But somehow she sensed more was at stake here, more even than her newly admitted love for him. It felt as if his very soul was the prize here, and she was terrified that he was losing more of it every day he kept on this way.
"She wouldn't have wanted this, Gage," she said, not even caring that he had to hear the pleading note in her voice. "Can't you see that? It's gone beyond dedication, way beyond. You work too long, too hard, to the exclusion of everything else. You wear that jacket like a hair shirt. And as if that wasn't enough to keep your guilt close, you live in the house where she died, so every day you're reminded that you couldn't save her. So you're reminded that the best you can do is kill yourself trying to save all the rest. That's not dedication, Gage, that's obsession."
"You know," he said, his casual tone at odds with that stony glint in his eyes, "I'm getting real tired of everybody telling me I'm obsessed. I wish you'd all just leave me the hell alone and let me do my job."
It took most of what nerve she had left after the past week to do it, but she held that stormy gaze. "You should be glad people care enough to worry about you. You certainly don't make it easy."
She saw him shift his attention to the photo she held. For a long moment he just looked at the image of his dead sister. "I didn't ask anyone to care," he muttered, barely loud enough for her to hear. "That's a fool's game."
Laurey's hands trembled suddenly. She set the scorched photo down with care and slowly stood up, wiping her sooty hands on the jeans she'd bought this morning. Caitlin, Kelsey and Lacey had all offered clothing, but she was too tall to wear anything of theirs. She turned away and began to make her way out of the wreckage. She moved cautiously, picking each place she put her feet with care. She concentrated on walking out of that pile of ashes as if every step could be her last. She felt as if it were the truth.
She knew why she was making the simple act of walking so all consuming. She knew it was to keep from thinking about the ludicrous fact that in the space of less than a minute she had admitted she loved Gage Butler and had that love, albeit undeclared, thrown back in her face. She'd given it her best shot, tried desperately to reach him through the guilt that drove him, and she'd failed. No one could care more than she did, but she'd failed.
That's a fool's game.
She could hardly deny that, not when she'd been the biggest fool of all. Fool enough to think that he wasn't like her father. Fool enough to believe that the reason for being obsessed with his work made a difference. Fool enough to believe that any man like that could, or would, make room in his life for her. There was no more room in Gage's life and heart for her than there had been in her father's.
He might care about the victims he helped, about the kids he was dedicated to saving, but just as her father had used his work as an excuse to stay remote from his own family, Gage was using his to keep his caring impersonal, detached from himself. Oh, he cared, probably more than any cop around. But always from a distance. A safe distance.
That's a fool's game.
If that was how he felt about simply caring for another human being, then it was fairly clear how he would feel about love. There was no room in his life for any one person to be that important to him.
Don't ever give the world a lever to use against you…
Ryan Buckhart's words rang in her now aching head. He'd been right, perhaps more so than he'd known. Gage would never give the world the lever of loving someone.
She reached the grass, stepping across a small branch from the lantana bush that had been destroyed. It was oddly intact, the bright flowers a vivid contrast to the destruction. But cut off from any chance of survival, they, too, would die. Quickly. No doubt much more quickly than the love she'd finally admitted to. It would take time for that to die. A very long time.
She shivered and rubbed her arms as she kept walking. She wasn't sure where she was going, only that she had to keep moving. His house wasn't the only thing in ashes, she thought morosely. She was sadly thankful that at least she had not told him she loved him. She supposed the only thing left for her to do was to go home and remind herself how many times she had sworn never to get involved with a man who placed his work above all.
Some pleading part of her mind was trying to be heard, to tell her that she was reacting too strongly to what had been a comment made by a man who had just had his house blown up. But nothing could change how he'd reacted when she'd almost involuntarily spoken to the image of his dead sister. Nothing could change the coldness in his eyes, as if she'd trespassed unforgivably on some sacred ground. Nothing could change that icy declaration that caring was a fool's game. She kept walking.
Nothing could change the simple fact that he didn't come after her.
* * *
Chapter 18
« ^ »
He hadn't slept in days. And he knew better than to think it was because of being in a strange bed. Kelsey's Oak Tree Inn was peaceful, restful. It was he himself who was not at peace, not at rest.
He was also under a microscope, or so it seemed. Everyone at Trinity West seemed to be watching him intently, with either wariness or concern. It had taken him a while to notice; in the two weeks since Laurey had left, he hadn't been aware of much. He'd kept going, sticking to the routine of long hours, of complete immersion in his work, because he could do it without thought; the routine was second nature to him, and it was the only thing that could distract him from the hole Laurey's departure had left. Even the fact that Martin was back in jail, after Gaylord had broken and confessed who had hired him to kill Gage, brought only a minor ripple of satisfaction.
As had his confrontation with the man, who wasn't quite as arrogant anymore, now that his attorney had threatened to quit over his stupidity in trying to murder the cop investigating him and hiring an idiot to do it.
"We've broken your alibi," he'd told Martin matter-of-factly, while lolling back in his chair. "We've traced the purchase of several of the ingredients to make the drug to you. And when that girl gets on the stand, looking as sweet and innocent as she was before you put your filthy hands on her, and when we have her priest testify she was considering joining a convent, you're going to look like the slime that you are."
His coolness affected the man where his anger never had. And Gage had smiled as Martin shifted uneasily in the small, hard chair.
"I guess I should thank you," Gage told him. Martin's brows, so sparse they looked almost plucked, rose in surprise over his reptile-cold eyes. Gage got up and, still smiling, leaned over the interview table. "You gave me more to hang you with. Drugs, rape, kidnapping … all gift wrapped with attempted murder. Thanks for my birthday present, Martin."
Martin had still been angry, still a blowhard, but Gage could see it was hollow now, and even the man's tirade against him as he'd walked out had had little effect.
Or maybe he just didn't care anymore. He didn't seem to care about much of anything anymore.
It was for the best, he told himself yet again as he went down the hall to the coffee room for yet another cup of the questionably consumable but caffeine-laced station brew. It had to be this way, he knew that, and better she should leave angry at him than hurt. He'd had no business letting it go so far anyway, not when he'd known what the inevitable end would be. For a while, when she was near and having that chaotic effect on him, he'd forgotten that there was no room in his life for such things, had even begun to wonder if maybe there was.
He'd come to care a great deal for Laurey, enough to question one of the basic rules he lived by, and that had scared him. Caring, letting people get close, was what got you hurt. Because they left. They always left, and you ended up sitting there with the pain of all your caring drowning you.
That's a fool's game.
His own words echoed in his head. And called up the vivid memory of Laurey
's pale face, her eyes wide with pain as she turned away from him, accepting the blow he hadn't meant to deliver then, but couldn't find the words to take back once it had been done.
His hands shook, and he had to set down the pot of coffee. A half cup would have to do, he thought. He wasn't going to risk getting scalded by trying it again. He turned and headed back toward the detective division office.
It was better this way, he told himself once more. A clean break, now, before either of them was irrevocably involved or irreparably hurt. Or at least, before she was; he wasn't so sure about himself anymore.
He snapped out of his unpleasant reverie when he nearly collided with somebody in the hall. He barely managed to keep from drenching the other man with hot coffee and was more than thankful for the fact when he realized it was Chief de los Reyes.
"Sorry, sir," he said.
"No harm done." De los Reyes stopped, and studied him for a moment, frowning. "I retract that," he said. "Step into my office."
Gage blinked, startled, as the man gestured toward the door at the end of the hall. "Sir?"
"I want to talk to you."
"Now? I have some work I need to—"
"The world won't collapse if it waits a few minutes. Now, Detective Butler."
Moments later he was in the chair he'd sat in the last time he was here. With Laurey. Determinedly he shoved the image out of his mind, tried not to think about the quiet courage with which she had told the chief to go ahead and make her existence public if it would keep Martin from trying to kill him. And it had worked; his life had been, if nothing else, uneventful since the day de los Reyes had held his press conference.
GAGE BUTLER'S RECKONING Page 22