Jenny was incapable of replying. It was as if someone had just disclosed all her insecurities and shouted them aloud to the room.
All those times she’d mentally looked away when her mind was trying to tell her … She’d thought she’d been turning her back on the little gibbering demons of doubt, but it had been the voice of reason she had been ignoring, all along.
Oh, God! I knew, all along I knew I should have listened to my head! Not her treacherous, irrational, susceptible heart.
“Look,” it was the WPC speaking now. The strip lighting glinted on the silver numbers on her shoulder, making Jenny’s eyes hurt. “You don’t have to see him again. We’ll arrange for you to go home. You can leave now.”
Jenny stared at the floor. It hurt so much. What a terrible cliché, but it did, it really did. An incorporeal, grasping, gasping hurt. She stood very still, trying to isolate it, barely aware of the three women exchanging worried glances. With an effort, Jenny tried to pull herself together.
“No,” she said, and her voice sounded thick to her own ears. “No, that’s okay. If someone could give me a lift back to the cottage, that will do.”
“But Mr. McAllister …”
“You can tell him where I am. I’d like to speak to him. He can go where he wants.”
She closed her eyes. Everything hurt at once, legs, joints, head. But that, after all, was only a background to the pain inside.
It’s so easy for the weaker character to submit to the stronger.
Oh, damn.
Kier piled into the backseat of the squad car and fumbled with the seat belt.
He was a bad backseat passenger at the best of times, and the two flourescent-jacketed policemen were moving way too slowly for him. They got ponderously into their seats, the driver shooting him a slightly grim look.
Kier didn’t blame them. No law enforcement officer liked foreigners coming over and stomping all over their laws. Especially not when there were dead bodies involved. And especially when it seemed there was no one to blame.
They fastened their seat belts and the driver started the big Volvo. Rather an unusual model for a police vehicle, but since it was kitted out for high-speed motorway patrols, he guessed they had their reasons. He had to face it, he was bloody lucky they’d even agreed to give him a ride to the cottage. He’d thought for a while the only ride he’d get would be to the airport. But no. No charges. He was free to go. To Jenny.
They started moving competently through the town streets, but Kier was frustrated by the usual slowing down of traffic faced with a police car. He dug his nails into the backseat.
He needed to get to Jenny with a growing sense of urgency that was almost overwhelming. He wanted to be with her, now, wanted to find himself in the reality of her breath, her voice, her frighteningly arousing touch.
He was used to feeling down after a job. Feeling stale and dissatisfied. Empty. It was just part of it all, the adrenaline draining away, the mind coming down after working so hard.
It had meant time to reflect on what he’d done, time to consider who he was because of it. Time he didn’t want, didn’t need.
A red light stopped them on the edge of town. He held his breath till the amber lit, then clenched his teeth as the driver waited for green.
Now he felt crazy, light-headed, an unfamiliar sense of joy bubbling in his chest. It was over, and they were free. And about to be together.
They hit the main road, and the big car eased up to the speed limit and stayed there. Not far now.
Whatever Jenny’s feelings, whatever they’d been through, she’d gone back to the cottage and was waiting for him. And that gave them a chance.
All the chance he needed. He’d work on her, persuade her to stay with him. He imagined how fantastic it would be to always have her near him, just to be able to reach for her. To take the sounds she made into his mouth, and make her scream with pleasure. His hands were trembling in anticipation. He thought about the living silk of her skin, the sinuous line of her spine, the hypnotic way she moved, her mouth … He shifted uncomfortably, but he knew he’d soon be able to ease that discomfort. Soon.
They took the turning by the big grain silos, and he sat forward on the seat to see the way. Nearly there.
She was going to be so delighted it was all over, so overjoyed to be free of it. So grateful. His mouth curved into a smile as he anticipated just how grateful she might be. His breath came fast.
They stopped at the top of the lane. He didn’t linger over thanks. They didn’t really want to hear them, anyway. They’d rather have charged him, all things considered. Better luck next time, he thought.
The wind, which had assisted the incoming tide so spectacularly, had dropped again. Over the roof of the cottage, he could see the bay, filled with sea and gleaming. The door was unlocked, he burst into the living room, making Jenny leap to her feet, one hand to her chest.
“It’s over,” he almost shouted. “It’s all over, Jenny. We’re free of it.”
Her mouth was tight. “I know.”
He came closer, catching hold of her hands and lifting them between his. “John’s going to be fine. He told them to drop the charges against me, that you were blameless. The Agency’s being shut down, the top guys arrested.” The words tumbled out, he let loose, opened up. And it felt fantastic. Her eyes, lifted to his face, seemed dazed, almost unfocused.
“All they wanted from me is to stop doing my job. For them or for anyone. Which is more than fine by me, Jenny.” He squeezed her hands, making sure he had all her attention.
“You’re free. I’m free. It’s over.” And he bent his head to kiss her.
She jerked away with a violence that was jarring, shocking. He felt like she’d slapped him, leaving him standing in the middle of the room like a fool.
“Jenny!” he exclaimed, shocked and outraged, and even to his ears it sounded all wrong. Sounded like he’d had expectations. Like she owed him.
But he had had expectations. And the creeping realisation of how that would make her feel was making him sick and unsteady.
She’d got around the table at the other end of the room and was poised there, flight in every line of her body, her hands pressed to the polished wood in front of her. Watching him wide-eyed and closemouthed.
He hung desperately on to the idea that he only had to soothe her, only had to hold her to get through to her. Surely if he tapped into that astonishing energy between them, her doubts, her concerns would just melt away. She was being crazy. He wasn’t going to hurt her. He moved to come round the table to her side, reaching for her.
“Don’t touch me.”
It was like taking a bullet. He could have sworn he felt his heart begin to bleed in strong, draining strokes. But it was only his heartbeat, loud in his ears.
“Jenny,” he pleaded, hands held towards her, palms upraised.
“You said it yourself, it’s all over, McAllister,” she said quickly. She hadn’t moved, but the tension was radiating off her, infecting him. His shoulders ached.
Moving slowly, so as not to startle her, he stroked a hand over her shoulder and down her arm. He felt her tremble, and saw her lips part. That was it. That was the reaction he’d wanted, expected. He only had to …
He moved closer again, pressing up against her side, feeling the warmth of her like a balm. He stroked his hand back up again, letting it slide back around her neck, under the crazy mass of thundercloud curls. He stoked her skin with his thumb, dropping his head closer, nuzzling her temple, sliding a kiss across her brow.
She turned against him, as suddenly as she’d rejected him earlier, pressed against the whole length of him. She lifted her hands to his head and pulled him down to her, kissed him like he was oxygen in a vacuum.
He groaned as her tongue slipped over his lips, and pressed forward, stealing control from her. She made a sound in the back of throat and he moved, sliding one thigh between her legs and swiftly backing her up against the wall. She writhed ag
ainst him, and he could feel the heat of her on his leg, feel the hunger that flared wild and uncontrolled between them.
His hands moved blindly, urgently, imprisoning her waist, crushing her breasts. And then she wasn’t there. Not with him. Oh, she was under his hands, but she had stilled against him, her hands were dropping from his shoulders and she was suddenly barely there at all.
He lifted his head. “Jenny,” he breathed, “please …”
“Please, what?” she asked, and her voice was low and without expression. His racing heart slowed, faltered, and began to beat again in slow strokes that physically hurt him. “Sleep with you? Why?”
Because I want you. Because I need you. Because …
“I didn’t think we needed a reason.” In spite of all his efforts, he could hear the disgruntled bitterness that rising dread was feeding into his voice, and stepped back from her, pushing his hands through his hair.
“Then you don’t know me at all.”
She was stood there, leaning against the wall, hands loose by her side. Lips swollen and wet. It was all he could do not to lean in to her again.
He tried again. “Stay with me.”
She closed her eyes, her mouth twisting as if in pain, and didn’t know what to say to ease it, didn’t know what to do if he couldn’t touch her.
“There’s no reason to, is there. You …” She swallowed and her chin trembled, and he clenched his hands into fists by his side, registering the pain distantly. “You stayed with me to keep them away from me. To get me safe. Well, it worked, or something did. I’m safe, you’re safe, and there is no reason for you to stay.”
“I thought … I thought we could … we could try—”
“No.”
“Jenny—”
“No.”
Kier knew then there was nothing he could say. She’d made up her mind. Oh, he could probably make her change it, given enough time and enough effort, but he found now that he had wanted her to come to him of her own free will. Anything else was a dreadful parody of the happiness he had thought was his for the taking.
He felt like a stupid, crass oaf. He’d had every chance in the world to make her his, and he’d screwed up.
Jenny was watching him out of blank eyes. Boy, had he screwed up.
He’d made his bed and now he was going to have to lie in it. Alone.
He spoke with difficulty. “So what now?”
“Call me a taxi. I want to go home.”
The taxi blared its horn at the top of the lane.
Kier stood silently, offering a hand to Jenny, who sat on the sofa. She ignored it, like she had ignored everything else he’d offered her for the past half hour or so and stood on her own, pulling the bag onto her shoulder. He opened the door for her, and set off beside her to the car.
He adjusted his stride to her speed and looked down at her. She’d left her hair down, and it hid her face effectively. When she’d spoken, if she’d had to, her voice had been soft and level. Once he’d thought it trembled.
It was dark outside now, the one streetlamp on the road staining the white taxi amber. She was going to get in that car and disappear from his life. Forever.
He shook off the stupid thought, but he couldn’t stop the rising tide of panic inside him. She was going. It was all over.
But it wasn’t over. Jenny had started changes in him that weren’t finished yet and he still needed her. Still wanted her. Was still desperate to be near to her.
They were only a few yards from the dour taxi driver, standing by the open door, when it hit him.
He loved her.
He loved Jenny Waring with a need that was life itself, with a passion that would never die.
He wanted to cry, to howl like a wounded animal. Now he worked it out. Now, when he was seconds away from losing her. When the fact that he loved her didn’t matter a tinker’s damn, because she didn’t care enough to want to stay.
And, loving her, he knew she deserved better than a brutal thug, who’d hurt her, again and again.
She stopped and turned, and he looked at her for the last time, certain he’d never really seen her until this moment. Even in that orange light, her pale skin was flawless, the veins showing a faint tracery here and there. Her eyes had those bruised shadows that spoke of too many worries and too many nights without sleep.
He remembered, oh so clearly, what they had been doing instead of sleeping.
She faced him, but she wouldn’t quite look at him. The taxi driver looked between them, then took her bag and loaded it up without a word.
She cleared her throat lightly. “Well. Good-bye, McAllister,” she said.
Don’t go. Stay with me. I love you.
His throat ached, he didn’t know why. But talking was difficult.
“Good-bye.”
Don’t go. Please don’t go.
She tugged her borrowed jacket straight, and started to turn away. He thrust his hands into his pockets, because he wanted to grab hold of her, and he shouldn’t. She hesitated, turned back, and leant in to kiss him briefly. The touch was there and gone, a desperate shadow of what he craved. He wanted to shout and scream at the world for taking something so perfect and wonderful from him. But he only had himself to blame.
She got in the taxi, and it drove away, out of sight, leaving behind a taint of diesel fumes. To his mild surprise he kept on breathing. His heart continued to beat. A car drove by, radio blaring, thumping through the closed windows, and he wanted to shout at them for breaking the silence, for having fun.
The car passed. He could hear the sea, and the softer breeze sighing in the sycamore trees across the road. The world passed around him like it didn’t care, like he didn’t matter. He didn’t. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.
He stood at the top of the lane until he grew cold. And then tried to work out what he was supposed to do now.
I want to go home, she had said.
Suddenly, so did he.
Hospitals were the same the world over, John decided. Too many strange noises, too many artificial smells, and far too many uncomfortable beds.
He shifted, trying to find a way to lie that didn’t make his head pound. Not possible. Dozing on and off all day, under the influence of drugs and boredom, left him wide awake most of the night. Light seeped under the door of his private room, but the glow of the monitors was gone—they’d disconnected him from everything yesterday. Now they were just waiting for the pain to subside, until they were satisfied he could fly.
His skull wasn’t fractured; the bullet had only skimmed. But the trauma had concussed him, and he’d lost a lot of blood from the ragged scalp wound. The doctors had called him lucky. He didn’t think they’d be using that word if they had a headache like his.
But it was only his head, now, that hurt. Kendrick was gone, the Agency under investigation. Davids, he was told, was in custody, and Groven had been spotted in Mexico. There was a kind of peace in him. But there was a piece missing, too. He closed his eyes again, but that didn’t help.
Outside in the corridor, one of the night nurses went by, soft-footed and slow, shadowing the light under the door.
Inside the room someone stirred.
Blood beat in his ears. There was someone curled in the chair in the corner. Holding his breath, he could hear theirs, slight and even. His eyes flicked towards the panic button, but it was a long stretch, and he could hardly do it without being noticed.
“John?”
He gasped a breath, sweat breaking on his forehead. “Alice? How did you get here?”
“I can go if you want,” she said, dryly.
He retained enough wit to answer that one fast enough. “No! No, please stay. I didn’t expect you, I didn’t think …”
“The police got in touch. I got the next flight.”
She made it sound simple, when he thought they’d passed out the other side of simple a long time ago.
“Thank you,” he said, meaning it.
They sat toge
ther in silence for a while, long enough for the nurse to come back the other way.
He wished he wasn’t in hospital, in a bed. Wished he had any confidence that he could get up and go to her without passing out or throwing up.
“They’re expecting to discharge you in a day or two,” she said.
“Right. When do you have to go back?”
A little rustle of clothing—a shrug? “No rush. I’m not expected anywhere. Work can wait. You?”
It took him a moment to work out what she was asking. “I don’t have a job.”
There was a pause. “Good,” she said. “Maybe next time you can get a job you can talk to me about.”
He was scared to open his mouth, scared anything he said might break the thin, insubstantial strand of hope in him. He swallowed, hating the dryness of the hospital room that made his throat tight and painful. “I’d … like that.”
She didn’t answer.
“So where do we go from here?” he asked, knowing the answer he was looking for wasn’t the airport or a hotel.
He thought she shifted on the chair, but he couldn’t be sure. “Where do you want to go from here?” she asked, her voice a thin sound he had to strain to hear. Grimacing at the pain, he turned his head on the pillow, but she was just a loose shape in the darkness, indistinct.
Memory filled the gaps, though. He knew her face, knew her body. Knew the way she moved. Knew that when her voice faded, it was because her heart was beating the louder.
“Home,” he said. And now his eyes were stinging, and that had to be the air-conditioning, too.
“And do you want us to go home together, John?”
“I thought—”
“I got a police officer on my doorstep telling me my husband had been shot in the head, John. It tends to clarify things.”
He almost smiled, but his face was stiff, uncooperative.
“Do you want us to go home together, John?” she asked again, and he could barely hear her at all.
“Yes,” he said. “I do.”
It wasn’t happily ever after. But it was a start.
Two days later, a bird watcher from Hawick found Kendrick’s body in Budle Bay, rolled up against the high-water mark, near the dunes on the south side. The water had been cold, he wasn’t much disfigured, and the police were able to make an identification from records supplied.
Run Among Thorns Page 25