All I Need

by Christa Conan

  “The picture?” he repeated.

  She moved away, again distancing herself from his touch. “Do you think we could, um...talk privately?”

  Rhone deliberately took his time pocketing the small notebook and pen. He watched Shannen nibble on her bottom lip, remembering the nervous habit that had clued him in to stormy seas on more than one occasion. As though reading his mind, her glance darted from his. Rhone would have sworn she was hiding something, could have sworn he’d caught the foul scent of true confession. Quickly as the thought came, he discarded it. As usual, where Shannen was concerned, he was jumping to conclusions.

  Her words reminded him they weren’t alone and Rhone glanced around the room.

  Not bothering to hide their interest, their audience appeared to hang on every word. Rhone scowled and the officers shifted, a clearing of throats breaking the tense silence. A terse command was on the tip of Rhone’s tongue when Brian interceded. Ordering the men outside, Brian escaped with them.

  “I’ll take Maria upstairs to her room,” Shannen said, her tone reflecting the countenance of exhaustion and despair she didn’t try to conceal.

  He sighed again, wanting to take her in his arms, to reassure her, to take into himself her devastation and anguish if only she’d let him.

  “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Shannen added. “Help yourself.”

  A shot of Jack Daniel’s held more appeal, but Rhone doubted Shannen stocked anything stronger than her favorite diet cola. Other than an occasional glass of wine, he recalled she rarely indulged. Coffee would have to do.

  Her arm around the small dark-haired woman, Shannen paused next to Rhone. “Maria, this is my...” Faltering, Shannen’s glance flew to Rhone’s.

  “Husband,” he supplied smoothly. Without regard for Shannen’s obvious discomfort, Rhone took Maria’s hand into his own.

  Maria’s expression told of her pain and regret. “I am so sorry, señor.”

  In Maria’s native language, Rhone explained she had nothing to be sorry for, that she’d done nothing wrong.

  “I should never have opened the door,” she added, her tone resentful and unforgiving.

  Rhone understood only too well the feelings of regret that tormented her. “Do not mourn yet, Maria.”

  A small cry escaped her bruised lips as she flung herself at Rhone, hugging him with desperate strength.

  Surprised, he hugged her back, his glance seeking Shannen’s over Maria’s head. A flicker of compassion briefly warmed his wife’s expression, but whether it was directed at him or Maria, Rhone couldn’t tell.

  Shannen moved forward and gently pried Maria away from him to lead her toward the stairs. Rhone watched them ascend, listening to the calm and soothing tone Shannen used to reassure the housekeeper.

  In the kitchen, he poured coffee. He took a sip of the black liquid, pacing the length of the room. Something bothered him. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. More annoying was the fact that he sensed whatever it was, was ridiculously obvious. Like a forgotten word that resided in memory barely out of reach.

  Restless, he set the mug down, sloshing coffee over the rim. Unlocking the window over the sink, he opened it and breathed deeply. The night air, crisp and scented with pine, offered a measure of relief.

  Rhone felt rather than heard Shannen’s approach behind him. He turned, leaning his hip against the tiled counter. “This is as private as it gets. What’s on your mind?”

  It didn’t take long to figure she was in no hurry to share with him. He watched as she filled her own cup and doctored it to taste, the spoon clanking against porcelain as she stirred far longer than necessary. He was on the verge of yanking the metal utensil from her hand, when she rinsed it and laid it in the sink. With effort, he held his silence when she grabbed the dish cloth to wipe up the coffee he’d spilled. It was crazy, but for reasons he couldn’t begin to fathom, he refused to make whatever she wanted to say easier by encouraging her.

  “About Nicholas...” Shannen stared into the cup she had yet to drink from, her hands wrapped around it like a vise. “He isn’t Maria’s child.”

  Rhone had to lean forward to hear her last remark, so softly did she speak. The tension, the restlessness he’d felt earlier returned tenfold. “What exactly are you saying, Shannen?”

  “Nicholas is...” She put her coffee down, not meeting his gaze. “...Mine.”

  The floor falling away beneath him couldn’t have shaken him more. Without thought, he took her by the arm and pulled her closer. “Yours and who else’s?” he managed through clenched teeth. The thought of Shannen lying with another man sucked all rational thought from his mind, leaving a red haze of fury in its intense wake. “Adultery is grounds for divorce, but then, that’s what you’ve wanted all along.”

  Shannen glared, the tone of her voice mocking him. “Desertion is also grounds.”

  “You should know all about desertion.”

  She gave a firm tug, freeing herself from his grasp. “Oh, that’s rich. If you’ll recall, you left first.”

  “I had a job to do.” Dammit, why was he defending himself to her, knowing now what he knew?

  “What about me, Rhone? I needed you.”

  Wearily, he closed his eyes for several seconds. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “How could I? You never gave me a chance. While my life was an open book, yours was always one huge secret. God, how I resented that.”

  “Security,” Rhone said.

  “Oh, yes, it’s all coming back to me. Wouldn’t want to tell the little wife any security secrets. Can’t trust her to keep her mouth shut. Never mind that I had security clearance of my own.”

  “That’s enough.” His tone brooked no argument. “Above all else, your safety was my number-one concern.”

  Paying no heed, Shannen raised a brow, speaking with a caliber of spunk he hadn’t heard before. “Sure it was. Let’s ignore the fact you were gone seventy-five percent of the time. Of course, to ease your conscience, you did shove those self-defense lessons down my throat. As you can see, they did a lot to save my son from the raving lunatic who took him.”

  “Maybe if you’d been here, they would’ve helped.” The moment the words left Rhone’s mouth, he wanted to call them back.

  What little color had been in Shannen’s face fled. As he moved toward her, she held out her hand to stop him.

  Rhone halted. A razor-sharp edge of pain lanced through him with the knowledge she didn’t want him near her. Not now. Undoubtedly, not ever. He saw the self-made promise of a future with her, which had kept him alive in the past, waver on the brink of destruction. Shoving it over the edge was the vision in his mind of Shannen with another man.

  He took a deep breath and then another, letting each out slowly, willing his anger to ebb and numbness to take over.

  “We’ll find your son, Shannen.” After that, you can have your divorce, he promised her silently. He would have spoken the words aloud, but even under the circumstances the finality of their meaning was more than he was prepared to deal with.

  “Desperately, I want to believe you.” Shannen’s eyes implored his, then became distant. “Don’t make promises you might not be able to keep. Besides, I’d rather hold on to my hope than your promises.”

  Being on the receiving end of a firing squad would have been easier to face than Shannen’s command of the English language. He regretted that he’d given her the power to hurt him so deeply. Worse, he knew she was right. Her words evoked memories. Rhone remembered promising that he would quit taking on so many assignments, that he would spend more time at home. Promises he’d meant to keep.

  He gave himself a mental shake. Wallowing in the past was getting them nowhere.

  “Tell me what happened this afternoon.” He spoke with a quiet, even tone, making sure Shannen couldn’t interpret censure in his voice.

  She massaged her temples, squinting with discomfort.

  Unerringly, Rhone opened the d
oor of the cabinet to the left of the sink and reached for the bottle of aspirin. Shaking two into his palm, he handed them to her with a glass of water.

  “Thanks.” At his direction, Shannen sat down at the table.

  Sitting across from her, he reached for her hand. “Tell me,” he said again.

  She fidgeted, trying to withdraw her hand from his grasp, but he didn’t let her.

  Shannen spoke in a hollow tone, relating the events of the afternoon. “Then, while I was in town, Maria says a woman came to the door. Her car had broken down, and she needed to use the phone. When Maria turned to lead the woman to the phone, a man followed the woman inside. He grabbed Maria. She fought him and claims she scratched the side of his face.”

  “Norton?”

  Shannen nodded. “Maria says he made no effort to conceal himself at any time.”

  Maria was lucky to be alive to tell about what had happened, and Rhone knew it. He doubted Shannen’s fate would have been as good had she been home. Her knowledge of self-defense was limited at best and would probably have only served to incite Norton rather than deter him.

  “Nicholas is only a baby.” Shannen said. Dry-eyed, she stared down at their interlocked fingers. Rhone knew it was the image of her child that she saw. Her son. Damn. Nicholas should have been hers and...

  Rhone breathed in shallow gulps.

  Silently calculating, he realized it was entirely possible Nicholas was his son, too.

  Yarrow’s hesitant muttering when he tried to waylay Rhone from bursting into the living room came to mind. At the time, his fear for Shannen had absorbed his concentration. He’d heard Yarrow, but the words hadn’t registered.

  Rhone wanted to ask, needed to know, but the words froze in his throat. Denial that Shannen, after all they’d shared, could be so devious as to keep his son a secret, battled with the cold facts of logic.

  If Nicky wasn’t his son, then Shannen had wasted no time in lining up a replacement, but that didn’t jibe. Easy wasn’t a word he would have used to describe getting to know Shannen intimately, especially since she had proven to him she was the living and breathing definition of old-fashioned values. That was two years ago, though, Rhone reminded himself. People change.

  Shannen squeezed his hand in silent communication. He knew she wanted him to tell her everything would be all right, but as she herself had said, she would rather cling to her hope than his promises.

  Likewise, he would rather cling to denial that Nicky was his than accept the idea she could so heartlessly, purposefully deceive him.

  Rhone swore succinctly. He had to know. Taking a deep breath, he released Shannen and sat back in the chair. “I want to see a picture of Nicholas.” His piercing gaze defied her to deny him.

  He would see the proof before he would give Shannen the opportunity to lie by asking her.

  For pulse-stopping seconds, Shannen stared at him. She seemed about to say something, then changed her mind. Rising, she moved as though in slow motion to a bookshelf in the adjoining dining room. She retrieved a framed photo and with reluctance evident in each step, returned to his side. Hesitating, she held the photo close to the midsection of her body. Her eyes met his as he firmly eased the picture from her grasp. In the virescent depths, he saw the truth before he ever glanced at the five-by-seven he held.

  With a sick feeling, he lifted it to the light. His hand shook as he stared at the miniature replica of himself. Without a doubt, Jimmy had seen the same similarities. Had capitalized on them.

  “I want you to suffer.”

  Jimmy’s words ran rampant in Rhone’s mind. He felt an acute sense of rage at the cruel injustice of involving an innocent child in a cold-blooded scheme for revenge. Thinking that Nicholas was Shannen’s child had been horrifying enough. That it was also Rhone’s child was indescribable.

  This time, Norton, you’ve gone too far. You’ve made a grave error. One that eternal hell—and I—will see you pay for.

  Rhone raised a finger to the glass and with a slow, gentle touch, outlined the face of his son. His voice was rough with inner torment, barely above an incredulous whisper. “It’s possible you could have left me not knowing you were carrying our child. For that, I could have forgiven you.”

  He battled an urge to make Shannen suffer—and lost. He glanced up, not trying to conceal raw anger and bitter resentment. Rhone saw her draw back as though he’d slapped her. He didn’t care. “You’ve gone way beyond omission, Shannen. You’ve robbed me of the first fifteen months of my son’s life.

  “For that, I swear, I will never forgive you.”

  Chapter 4

  “Shut that kid up,” Jimmy demanded.

  “I’m trying.” Naomi sent him a pleading look.

  “Maa-Maa!”

  “Shuddup!” Jimmy snapped. He extended his hand toward the small neck. It would be so easy....

  “No!” Naomi yelled, her words barely audible over the screaming. “If you kill Mitchell’s brat now, it’ll screw up everything.”

  Jimmy sneered, then pounded his fist on the steering wheel. “Then shut him up before I do.”

  “I think he’s hungry.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes.

  “You’d better see about findin’ someplace where we can get a bottle or something. Diapers, too.”

  He swore.

  Driving to a small convenience store, he made Naomi go inside, taking the kid with her. He ground his back teeth together when she came back out, asking for money. Having to use his money to buy the stuff infuriated him. But Mitchell would repay. In more ways than one. Oh, yeah, Jimmy would see to that. It’d been his promise to Jack before he died.

  Jimmy shook out a cigarette and held the lighter to the end long after the flame started to burn the tobacco. He released the flint wheel.

  Before taking a deep drag, he laughed in the quiet of the cab.

  “Got it,” Naomi said, juggling the door, a package and the baby.

  Jimmy made no move to help. Before she was situated, he dropped the transmission into Drive and floored the accelerator. Jimmy wanted to reach his destination soon, so he could put phase two of his masterfully crafted plan into action.

  * * *

  The sound of Rhone’s voice, rubbed raw with emotion—hurt, anger and a myriad of others she couldn’t identify—scraped painfully across Shannen’s conscience. She’d known keeping their child a secret would hurt him if he ever found out. Never in her worst nightmares had she imagined his tone would be this ragged, this tormented.

  “Why, Shannen?” he demanded, voice hoarse, yet echoing around her as if he’d screamed at her. Dropping another octave, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She noticed he gripped the picture frame tightly, the long length of his fingers biting into the glass with a force she thought would shatter it.

  He took a step toward her.

  She retreated.

  Rhone stopped. His head lowered and from the distance, she saw how his gaze arrested on the features of their son, the same features that so closely resembled Rhone’s own. And then she saw his shoulders tremor.

  A knot formed in her stomach. No, it wasn’t possible. The man who’d always been tough and dependable, rugged and aloof couldn’t possibly possess this kind of emotional depth.

  Every instinct told her Rhone couldn’t possibly be crying. “Rhone?” When he didn’t answer, she took a hesitant step forward. She wanted anger, accusations, anything but this silent punishment. They’d had plenty of experience fighting, arguing. They’d done it as much as they’d made love. But this...

  Shannen didn’t know what to do, what to say. Never had she felt more helpless. She twisted her fingers together in front of her. The cuckoo clock in the room ticked off each second, escalating the tension, the unspoken hurt. She spoke his name again, forcing the single syllable around the ball-size lump in her throat.

  Rhone looked up then. Shannen recoiled.

  She saw moisture in his eyes, but no tracks from tears
. He cried, but not on the surface where it showed. She could see the bottled-up pain that demanded release, but knew he wouldn’t give in. God forbid Rhone would lose control and be human. Then, sadly, she remembered discussing this very subject with him once.

  Rhone had told her he’d been taught showing emotion made men weak and vulnerable. As a youngster, he had cried at the loss of a pet. And had been beaten for it. Rhone had sworn to her if he ever had a son of his own, he would teach the boy that it took more guts for a man to cry than not to. As for Rhone himself, he’d said it was too late, that some things just couldn’t be changed.

  If she had thought the sound of his tortured voice would destroy her, Shannen knew the sight of his anguished eyes would haunt her forever. The knowledge that she could have saved him this pain seared her heart.

  The glass protecting her son’s likeness shattered, startling her.

  “Damn you, Shannen,” he said, seeming to see all the way to her soul.

  She shook her head. Anguish and despair nearly doubled her over.

  “Why didn’t you just cut out my heart and feed it to me with a spoon? The result would have been the same.” He balled his hands into fists at his side. “No,” he corrected. “That would have been merciful.”

  The thread of hope had been tenuous, but deep down she’d never given up. Never stopped praying for the miracle that would bring them together again. Until now. The realization that she’d clung to a dream that couldn’t be left her empty. Like the nursery upstairs, like the space beside her in bed every night.

  “Look at me, Shannen.” When she didn’t, he repeated, “Look.” Drawing in a deep breath, he finished, “Take a good look. I want you to see what your selfishness cost me. Cost us.”

  Slowly, knowing he wouldn’t be satisfied until she did as he demanded, she forced herself to stare up at him. She winced.