One Wrong Step (Borderline Book 2)

by Laura Griffin

  “Celie.” His breath tickled her ear.

  “What?”

  “I’m dying to marry you.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Really?”

  “Really,” he murmured.

  And then he kissed her. His mouth was hot and tender against hers, and she wished she wasn’t such a physical wreck. She wanted to mark this moment. She wanted to show him how happy she was.

  She pulled away and looked at him. “When all this is over, will you take me camping? I want us to make love under the stars.”

  “Hmm…is that a fact?” His voice had that sultry drawl to it. “What about tonight?”

  “I don’t think my ankle—”

  “See now, you haven’t been paying attention.” His hands stroked over her, warm and strong. “Your ankle’s not the most important part.”

  In the morning light, the prickly pears didn’t look nearly as menacing. With their dewy yellow flowers, they actually looked beautiful.

  “Gosh, this is pretty,” Celie said, looking out over the softly lit landscape dotted with green mesquite and silvery sagebrush.

  McAllister grunted agreement.

  She kissed his cheek. “Guess you’re not too interested in the scenery, huh?”

  “Not really.”

  For the past hour, at his insistence, he’d been carrying her, piggyback, toward the distant golden ridge that marked Rancho Saledo. It had to be three or four miles away, but it was amazing how fast they could move in the daylight on McAllister’s long, healthy legs. They were making good time. Even if Marco wasn’t waiting for them, the road to the house was sure to be busy with cops today.

  “You okay?” she asked once again. She’d never been one of those featherweight girls men could carry around like it was nothing.

  “I’m just making a list,” he huffed.

  “Is it a list of all the things you’re going to eat for lunch when we get out of here?”

  “No, this is better. It’s a list of all the ways you can pay me back for hauling you out of the desert on my back.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I guess I owe you one, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “You take checks?”

  “I’ve always been partial to sexual favors.”

  She kissed his cheek again. “How’s that?”

  “It’s a start. What I really need is—” And then he halted. “Well, son of a bitch.”

  Up in the distance, Celie saw a tiny cloud of dust moving across the landscape, angling toward them. The reddish-brown cloud got bigger and bigger, and she made out something dark moving in front of it.

  “Looks like some kind of a comet,” she said, feeling her heart lift.

  “I was thinking more like a black Chevy pickup.”

  “How’d he find us out here?”

  “Hell if I know.” McAllister broke into a trot. “You can ask him over a round of margaritas.”

  Despite every rational argument that his brain could come up with, Rowe found himself standing in front of Kate Kepler’s door. He knew he shouldn’t be here. He knew this was a bad idea. But despite everything he knew, he’d had a nagging feeling for the past few days—ever since he’d been shot, to be precise—that he needed to see her, that he couldn’t stay away.

  And so, in defiance of all logic, here he was.

  He rang the bell, mildly encouraged that her phony rock had disappeared. His encouragement was short-lived, though, as he glanced next door and observed that her shirtless, dope-smoking neighbor had multiplied. Now three of them lounged on the back deck in chairs that looked like they’d been salvaged from apartment Dumpsters.

  Rowe rang the bell again, guessing the first ring hadn’t been heard over the din of music playing inside. Still no answer. He tried the door and found it unlocked.

  Rowe stepped inside, half expecting to see Kate sprawled out on the sofa watching MTV. But the sofa was empty. He glanced around the room and noticed the tired balloon bouquets and vases filled with wilted flowers. The music was coming from the bedroom.

  “Hello? Kate?”

  The volume decreased.

  “Kate, it’s Mike Rowe.”

  “I’m in the bedroom,” she called.

  Rowe walked down the short hallway, his dread increasing with every step. He saw the corner of an unmade bed, some laundry strewn about the floor, a lacy purple bra dangling from the doorknob.

  This was a mistake.

  He stepped into the doorway and found her seated cross-legged on the carpet. A hand-held device and an array of components sat on the floor in front of her. She gazed up at him curiously.

  “Hey, what’s up?” She wore a black halter top and denim cutoffs. Her feet were bare.

  Rowe glanced at the sling. He imagined her getting dressed this morning, and decided she’d probably stepped into the shirt and shimmied it over her hips.

  He cleared his throat. “I heard you’d been discharged.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  His gaze dropped to the thin, lifeless fingers protruding from the sling. She noticed him noticing, and shifted self-consciously.

  “So, I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She bent her head down over the device, which looked like an iPhone, and started tapping away with her left index finger. “If you’re here to gloat, I’m not in the mood,” she said.

  “Gloat?”

  She looked up at him, her expression hostile. “Yeah, lord it over me how smart you are, how you told me to stay away from the scene, and how it serves me right, getting my arm shot up.”

  Rowe leaned against the doorjamb and slipped his hands in his pockets. He always felt overdressed around her, even in khakis and a golf shirt. “I don’t think it serves you right.”

  She eyed him warily.

  “I do wish you’d listened—”

  “I knew it.” She shook her head and looked down. “You can save the lecture. My dad’s been at it for two weeks.”

  Rowe watched, intrigued, as she mumbled something into the device.

  “Is that a phone?” he asked.

  “Sort of. It’s a computer, too, with voice recognition. If I can ever get it to work.” She blew out an exasperated breath and gazed up at him. “I’m on a freaking leave of absence until I can prove to my prick editor I can do my job one-handed. You want to help?”

  “Sure.”

  “Hand me that box.”

  Rowe stepped into the room and looked around. A cardboard box sat on her dresser, and he passed it to her. She poked through all the foam packaging until she found a cellophane bag, which she tore open one-handed. She shook out a black earpiece.

  “You’re pretty good with your left hand,” he said.

  “I’ve been practicing.”

  The sole chair in the room was piled with laundry, so he sat on the end of the bed. “I heard you got a private specialist. How’s the therapy going?”

  “Slow.”

  His gaze shifted to the vase of shriveled red roses beside the computer monitor on her desk. A card lying nearby bore Kate’s name. In Nick Stevenski’s handwriting. Rowe stared at the envelope for a moment, thinking he might be mistaken. But he knew his partner’s scrawl because he was constantly trying to decipher it on reports. The handwriting belonged to the man who, less than forty-eight hours ago, had saved Rowe’s life. Rowe looked at Kate, who was too immersed in her project to catch his snooping.

  He noticed the PlayComp logo on the box in front of her. “I thought your dad’s company made games,” he said.

  “And gaming systems. This is just a prototype. It’s supposed to do everything—phone calls, gaming, Web surfing. It’s designed for kids, which is good because I’ve got small hands.”

  Rowe watched her for a long moment. She did, indeed, have small hands. Slender arms and shoulders, too. But she was muscular. She had been a vision of health before the shooting, and Rowe guessed she felt frustrated now by her new limitations. He felt frustrated, too. And angry at himself for failing to keep h
er safe.

  She tried to plug in the earpiece, but the cord was tangled.

  “Here.” He crouched down, wincing as a bolt of white-hot pain zinged through his side. Saledo’s bullets had cracked two ribs. He looked to see if Kate had noticed, but she seemed oblivious.

  He unknotted the cord and passed her the earpiece. Then he sat on the bed again.

  “So you can compose articles on that thing?”

  “That’s the plan,” she said. “I’ve got it loaded with software that’s supposed to translate my voice into a text document. I can also use it to record interviews and stuff so I won’t need to take notes.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I still don’t know if I’ll get my old job back.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked up, and he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. “Maybe they think I’m a liability. Maybe they’re just afraid to fire me because of who my dad is.” She sounded matter-of-fact, but Rowe thought this was the crux of her insecurity. Because of her dad, she had to work twice as hard to prove she was talented and competent, not just some spoiled rich girl.

  Rowe watched her work and reminded himself that he had about a thousand things he needed to be doing right now besides sitting in Kate Kepler’s bedroom.

  “Why are you really here?” she asked, looking up at him.

  He stared into those deep brown eyes. She was beautiful, and smart, and he shouldn’t have come. He stood up and pulled an envelope from his pocket.

  “Here,” he said, handing it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “A pair of tickets to see U2. They’re coming to Houston in a few weeks.”

  Her head snapped up. “I love U2!”

  “I know.”

  “You must have spent a fortune!”

  He shrugged. “It’s no big deal. Anyway, you spent your birthday in the hospital, so I thought you might like to treat yourself. Enjoy.”

  She glanced down at the envelope, then back up at him, puzzled. “Don’t you want to go?”

  “No, they’re for you.” He stepped toward the door. “Take a friend.” Anyone but Stevenski.

  “Wait!” She caught her elbow on the bed and levered herself to her feet. “Why can’t you come with me? They’re your tickets.”

  He gazed down at her. “No, Kate. They’re your tickets.”

  “But—”

  “Go have fun.” He looked her up and down, forming a picture of her in his mind. “Happy birthday. I’m sorry you had to spend it in the hospital.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Konakovo, Russia

  Sixteen months later

  John didn’t care what anyone said about global warming, this place was fucking cold. And it was barely fall, for Christ’s sake.

  Their guide turned off the narrow road and meandered up a bumpy driveway. After a few moments, he halted the car in front of a gray prefab building.

  “Shit, is this it?”

  “This is it,” the guide replied.

  They’d been driving for hours through endless stretches of barren countryside and countless industrial towns. John peered out the window of the cramped Opel sedan. They’d seen plenty of unattractive buildings over the past few days, but this was the winner, hands down. The two-story concrete structure was depressing as hell. John couldn’t believe nearly fifty kids were warehoused here.

  He turned to Celie. She was shivering in her down coat beside him, but he didn’t think it had to do with the cold or the lack of heat in the rental car.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She leaned over his lap and gazed out the window. Then she sank back against the seat and took a deep breath. “I’m okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. Let’s go.”

  They got out of the car, and John held Celie’s hand as they walked up the sidewalk. Their guide—who was also doubling as a translator—led the way as they darted curious glances around the grounds. John knew Celie’s thoughts must be similar to his own. How could children live in this place? There wasn’t a single toy or piece of play equipment anywhere. The sole decoration was a pot of bright yellow tulips by the building’s front door, and the flowers were the most depressing feature of all because they were so obviously fake.

  They entered the orphanage and within minutes found themselves seated in a drafty office, staring across the desk at a stout woman with wispy gray hair. She had kind brown eyes, but they did little to soften her message.

  “There has been a mistake. Our last eligible baby was placed last week. Sozhaleyu. ”

  “Come again?” John looked at the translator as Celie deflated beside him.

  “No babies for adopting,” the translator said.

  “No, I caught that part.” John took Celie’s limp hand. “I mean, how could this happen? At the hearing they told us to come here—”

  The director interrupted him and spoke to the translator in brisk Russian. John struggled to follow the body language as Celie stood up.

  “I need some air,” she said.

  “Hey, just wait. We’ll work this out.”

  She put on her coat. “I can’t sit here.”

  John recognized the look in her eyes. She’d had it since yesterday after the hearing, after the judge had told her the baby they’d traveled thousands of miles to meet for the first time had been matched with another couple. She looked bereft.

  “Celie, we’ll work this out.” He clasped her hand. “I promise, we will.” But as he said the words, he wasn’t so sure. This entire trip had been one snafu after another, beginning with the ice storm in Helsinki that had grounded their connection for twenty-four hours and caused them to miss their original court date.

  Celie nodded halfheartedly and slipped out of the room. As soon as she was gone, John turned to the director.

  “Listen here,” he said. “I don’t know what happened, but we need to fix this. We were told you could help us.”

  She gave him a pitying look.

  “Our paperwork’s all in order.” He turned to the translator. “Tell her. We’ve been approved for months.”

  More Russian back and forth as John tried to tamp down his frustration. The director looked at him. “That is not the problem. Your dossier, it says you want a baby.”

  She turned and spoke to the guide in Russian, and he translated. “She says the newborns are still on the list for Russian families. The other children here are older. Or they are baleznenniy.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They have medical conditions.”

  John gritted his teeth. He’d heard all this before. They had fetal alcohol syndrome or mercury poisoning or some other health issue that made them damaged goods. Just the concept sent Celie into fits. He tried to summon some patience as he looked at the director.

  “We’re okay with a special-needs baby. It’s all in our file. Did you even read it?”

  “Da,” she said. “I’m sorry. We have no baby for you.”

  John glanced at the door, glad Celie wasn’t present to hear those words. He knew he needed to be with her.

  “Excuse me,” he said, standing up. “I need to go find my wife.”

  Celie stood in the doorway of the nursery gazing wistfully at the row of cribs. The babies were quiet, unnaturally so. A room filled with babies should be noisy, but this one wasn’t.

  Celie knew she wasn’t supposed to be in here. This wing clearly wasn’t open to the public because none of the children here were wearing diapers. Instead, they lay in their little beds, naked from the waist down until it was time for an overworked staffer to come in and change the bedding. Celie stared at the soiled sheets and wondered how often that happened.

  She turned her back on the miserable room and wiped her cheeks. She couldn’t stand this anymore. All the restrictions, all the red tape. Why did this have to be so difficult? All she wanted was to love a child.


  She turned down the hallway and wended her way back through the corridors toward the director’s office. John would be worried. He’d be wearing that look again, that grave, concerned look. He’d been wearing it ever since the hearing yesterday.

  She neared the main hallway just as he emerged from the office. She started to say something, but a high-pitched giggle caught her attention.

  A little girl stood atop the staircase. She was smiling. Celie smiled back, mesmerized by her beautiful face. She was thin—much too thin for a toddler—but her laughter drifted down the staircase and filled Celie’s ears.

  “Hello.” Celie moved up the stairs, transfixed by her sunny smile.

  Another giggle.

  “What’s your name?” Celie struggled to remember the Russian she’d practiced on the plane. “Kak vas zavoot?”

  The girl’s smile widened.

  “Celie?”

  She glanced down the stairs and saw John looking up at her, his brow furrowed with worry.

  “Just a minute.” Celie mounted the steps, taking in every detail about the girl. She had smooth, ivory skin, and ice blue eyes set slightly too far apart. Given her long brown hair and toothy grin, Celie put her at three years old. A thin, heartbreakingly small three years old. She wore purple cords that drooped around her waist, a dingy white sweater, and scuffed sneakers without socks.

  Celie sat down beside her. “Hi,” she said. “Privyet.”

  The girl plunked herself down on the top step and smiled up at her.

  “Kak vas zavoot?” Celie repeated. Her Russian must be terrible, because the girl simply laughed. But then she reached down and touched the faux fur on the cuff of Celie’s coat. Her tiny hand stroked it, like it was a kitten, and then came to a rest in Celie’s palm.

  Celie squeezed gently.

  At the base of the stairs she heard her husband’s voice, and the translator’s, and the orphanage director’s. She heard the words “fetal alcohol syndrome” and “irreversible damage.” She heard the translator say “attorney” and “waiver” and “special hearing.” But those words lost all meaning for Celie as she stared into this child’s face.