by Gina Wilkins
Page nodded, her expression carefully blank. “That photo arrived when I was in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, along with another shot of my friend in Alabama. I moved the following day.”
“You, um, must have wondered who I was with.”
Page looked away. “I assumed you were getting on with your life.”
The lack of emotion in her voice annoyed him, particularly now, after that spectacular predawn interlude. “And that didn’t bother you?”
“I didn’t expect you to become a monk, Gabe.”
Her voice had become a bit strained, as if she were having some difficulty in staying so detached.
He shook his head. “I still can’t believe you thought so little of me. That you had so little faith in our marriage.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, sounding suddenly weary. Dejected. “Why can’t you accept that I only wanted what was best for you?”
They kept coming back to this same point, Gabe mused, rubbing his jaw. She insisted she’d had no other choice but to leave, and he kept asking himself if she had loved him as much as he’d once believed. As much as he had loved her.
He couldn’t imagine any force on earth that could have made him leave Page three weeks after their wedding.
Page released a deep, rather mournful sigh and turned her face away from him. “I’m tired,” she said, her voice small. “I...didn’t get much sleep.”
It was the first reference she’d made to the night before. Gabe had been rather carefully avoiding mention of their lovemaking. Maybe, he thought, because he still wasn’t sure what it had meant to her. And because it had meant too damned much to him.
“Why don’t you take a nap?” he suggested. “I have some paperwork in a briefcase out in my truck that I can work on for a couple of hours.”
She nodded. “I think I will. Let me know if Blake calls with any information, will you?”
“Of course.” He watched her walk a bit too quickly to the bedroom. She looked as though she was making a welcome escape.
“Page?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“You won’t jump out the window again?”
Her chin lifted in annoyance. “Not unless it becomes necessary.”
It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but he nodded. “Then you can close the door so I won’t disturb you by moving around in here.”
“How kind of you to grant me permission,” she muttered.
She closed the door. In fact, she slammed it.
Gabe winced and rubbed a hand over his face.
The day hadn’t exactly gotten off to a great start. He could only hope it would get better—and not worse.
BLAKE CALLED an hour or so later. “I have some information that might be of interest to you,” he said.
“Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” Gabe shook his head in amazement at Blake’s proficiency. “What have you got?”
“Professor Wingate’s son isn’t dead. He was shot three times, and came damned close to dying, but he survived. His name is Phillip. He’s in his early twenties now.”
“He’s alive? But Page said—”
“She was mistaken. Apparently, there was a common misconception that he died. He was hospitalized for a long time and there were no relatives to report on his progress. By the time he was released, Wingate’s murder-suicide was old news.”
Gabe could feel his pulse rate quicken. Page’s stalker had reason to hate her. He wanted her to be alone—as he was. He had been infuriated at her threat to kill herself, to “take the self-serving way out,” as he’d called it.
The pieces all fit.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“I wish I knew,” Blake replied, his tone a bit grim. “He reportedly left his hometown just over three years ago. No one who knew he was still alive seems to know what became of him.”
Just over three years ago. Again, the coincidence was too strong to discount.
“What do you know about him?” Gabe asked, confident that Blake would have already started checking the guy out.
“A loner in high school. Not well liked by his peers. No close friends that I could discover. He didn’t get along with his father, but he seemed unusually close to his mother. He had an affinity for computers, electronic gadgetry...and cameras,” he added meaningfully.
“Damn.” Gabe felt his stomach clench.
“I’m having his senior yearbook photo faxed to me. I should have it within the hour. And then I’m taking it to the garage where I had Page’s car towed. Apparently someone was there very early this morning, asking about the car. Wanting to know who’d brought it in. I want to see if anyone there recognizes the face in the photograph.”
Gabe frowned. “You think he’s found us that quickly?”
“I think he’s found her car,” Blake corrected. “And I’m beginning to wonder if that’s how he’s kept up with her all along. Didn’t you tell me it’s the same car she was driving when she left Austin?”
“You think he’s had some sort of tracking device on it?” It sounded like something out of a spy movie—but then, everything that had happened to Page was hard to believe. No wonder she’d doubted that the police would find her story credible: Had Gabe not seen her terror firsthand, he might still be doubting it himself.
“That’s something I’ll check out,” Blake promised. He sounded a bit chagrined that he hadn’t already thought of it. “He shouldn’t be able to track you and Page there, but don’t take any chances. Keep an eye peeled.”
“You can bet on that. Good job, Blake.”
“Remember, we don’t even know Phillip Wingate is the guy we’re after.”
“No. But it sounds like a damned good lead.”
“That’s what I thought How’s Page holding up?”
“She’s resting.”
“Any aftereffects from the sedative I gave her yesterday? Nauseau, rash, headaches?” Blake sounded a bit worried.
“Not that she’s mentioned. I think she’s just exhausted from the stress she’s been under for so long.” Gabe saw no need to add that her rest had been interrupted during the night.
“Good. She’s really something, Gabe. It took a lot of strength for her to get through the ordeal she described to us.”
Not at all certain he liked the open admiration in Blake’s voice when he spoke of Page, Gabe said, “I’m fully aware of what Page has been through.”
“Are you?” Blake murmured. “Are you really?”
Gabe didn’t know what to say.
“Tell her I said to hang in there,” Blake said after a beat of silence. “With any luck, this will all be over soon. I’ll be in touch.”
He disconnected before Gabe could form a reply.
This will all be over soon.
Blake had sounded so confident. And given the P.I.’s track record so far, Gabe had to share Blake’s confidence.
And then what?
Assuming this ended satisfactorily, with the stalker put away and Page freed from his threats, what would happen next? Could they really return to Austin and take up their lives as though nothing had happened between them?
They’d been married almost three years, and yet they were still newlyweds in a way, having lived together only three weeks before this nightmare separated them. Both of them had changed while they were apart.
Had their feelings changed, as well?
Could they ever get back what had been taken from them?
Remembering that he’d promised to tell her when Blake called, he walked quietly into the bedroom. Page was still sleeping, lying fully dressed on top of the sheets. She was curled on her side, one hand lying palm-up beside her face in a pose that made her look deceptively fragile.
She was pale, he thought, studying her closely. The faintest of purple smudges beneath her eyes testified to the strain she’d been under. Despite Blake’s doubt, Gabe was fully aware that it had taken an amazing amount of strength for Page to do what she’d felt she had to
do during her ordeal.
As much as he regretted her decision to handle the danger on her own, Gabe still loved her. His love had survived the pain, the anger, the grief and the anguish of the past two and a half years. He didn’t fully understand it. Nor could he have explained it had he been asked. But he knew it with a certainty no amount of self-argument could shake.
His assurance of his own feelings made it all the more important for him to believe that she loved him as fully in return. And that, he thought glumly, was something he still couldn’t take for granted.
“Page?” Emotion made his voice gruffer than he’d intended.
She opened her eyes, instantly awake and alert, instinctively braced to react. It disturbed him to think her experiences had left her so wary and anxious.
“What is it?” she asked huskily.
He sat beside her on the edge of the bed and touched her shoulder reassuringly. “Blake called,” he said. “You said you wanted me to tell you if he had news.”
He could feel her relax slightly beneath his palm. She cleared the remnants of sleep from her voice. “What did he find?”
Gabe quickly recapped his conversation with the competent P.I.
Page looked dazed when he finished. “Professor Wingate’s son is alive,” she murmured, as though to convince herself. “And you and Blake really believe he’s the one who’s been tormenting me all this time? Who murdered Jim Pratt?”
“Obviously, we can’t know that for certain with what little information Blake’s gathered so far. But you have to admit the clues point in Wingate’s direction. He was left alone by his father’s actions. He could blame you—unjustifiably, of course—for setting off the chain of events that led to the tragedy. He was a whiz with computers and electronics. No one has seen or heard from him in almost three years. No one, perhaps, except you.”
She shivered. “Oh, Gabe. If it is Phillip Wingate...”
“What if it is?” he asked gently.
She turned her face away. “Then maybe he does have reason to hate me.”
Gabe’s fingers tightened convulsively on her shoulder. “That’s crazy,” he said sharply. “You did nothing wrong, Page. You weren’t to blame for his father’s insanity.”
“I ruined his life. Instead of dealing with the situation myself, I turned him in, had him fired. And when his wife called to beg for my help, I hung up on her.”
“You were not wrong to ask for help,” Gabe argued. “You had a right to the university’s protection from its own staff.”
“I should have just left,” she murmured, lost in her old regrets. “I could have transferred to another school. Another state.”
“You think the right choice would have been to run away?” Gabe exerted pressure on her shoulder to roll her onto her back so that she had to look up at him.
“Why can’t you realize that running isn’t the answer, Page? Whatever his problems, Wingate had already gone over the edge when he started harassing you. There’s no way to know that he wouldn’t have killed his wife and himself regardless of whether you reported him or not. Running away wouldn’t have changed anything then—just as running hasn’t solved anything this time.”
“You’re still alive,” she said, her face flushed in response to his criticism.
“James Pratt is dead,” Gabe responded. “And his murderer, whether Phillip Wingate or someone we haven’t identified, is still out there, a threat to anyone who comes near him.”
Her flush receded to leave her skin deathly pale. “I know Jim’s dead. If I hadn’t asked for his help...”
Gabe cursed viciously beneath his breath, exasperated by his inability to make her see reason.
She was so convinced that everything was her fault. That she, alone, bore responsibility for every crime the crazy Wingates had committed. That she’d been fully justified in running away to protect Gabe.
“You are not alone in this, Page,” he said between teeth clenched in frustration. “You haven’t been since the day I put my ring on your finger. You are my wife. Whatever happens in the next few days, we’ll face it together. The way we should have from the beginning.”
“If anything happens to you—”
“Then it happens,” he cut in. “But it will be because I chose to get involved, not because of anything you’ve done. Can you understand that?”
He knew it wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. She wanted him to promise her that nothing would happen to him. That there was something she could do to guarantee his safety.
He didn’t give her that reassurance. Truth was, he couldn’t. No one could predict how this situation would end. But he wanted her to know that he was an active participant, not a helpless victim. An ally, not an opponent. An equal partner, not another responsibility for her to assume.
That stubborn old-fashioned streak in him wanted her to see him as her protector. Her champion. Her husband, damn it.
He wanted her to need him as much as he’d needed her these long, lonely months.
She lifted a hand to his cheek. Her fingers were cold against his skin, and he could feel the fine tremors that ran through them. Her blue eyes were huge in her pale face, the pupils dilated with emotion. “I don’t want you to be hurt,” she whispered.
He caught her hand and planted a kiss in the palm. “Then don’t run away from me again,” he muttered.
“Oh, Gabe—”
He swooped down to kiss her into silence. Her arms locked around his neck, holding him to her.
He stripped her clothing away with urgent hunger. Rather than complain at his lack of finesse, she cooperated fully, helping him rid them both of the layers of fabric that separated them.
Only when they were pressed skin to skin, heart to heart, desire to desire, did Gabe allow himself to slow down and savor.
He made love to her slowly this time. There was so much lost time to make up for.
Page shuddered in climax, sobbing his name, her arms and legs locked tightly around him. Gabe closed his eyes, buried his face in her throat and surrendered at last to his own shattering release.
I love you. I love you. The words echoed in his mind, but he swallowed them. They were all he held back as he emptied himself deep inside her.
LIMP AND DAMP, Page lay against the sheets, staring at the ceiling and listening to Gabe’s movements in the bathroom. She felt slightly battered, somewhat bemused, and utterly baffled by Gabe’s behavior. One moment he was growling at her, still resentful of her leaving him, the next he was making love to her with a tenderness that turned her inside out.
Yet he still hadn’t told her he loved her.
Would she ever fully understand him? Could he ever completely understand her?
How could two people love each other as much as she and Gabe had and still not know what lay inside their deepest hearts?
She stroked a cool film of perspiration away from her breasts, her hand lingering at her tummy. They’d made love twice now, and hadn’t used any form of birth control. There’d been a time when they’d talked excitedly about starting a family, raising children together. Now the thought of being responsible for someone else petrified her.
A baby was so vulnerable. So helpless. And Page felt so woefully inadequate when it came to keeping her loved ones safe.
Not that the burden would all be hers, she mused slowly. If there was one thing she was beginning to understand about Gabe, it was that he took his commitments very seriously. He would willingly give his life for his child—just as he was willing to risk it now for her.
She wasn’t alone anymore. Gabe had been repeating that for days, but she was only now beginning to believe it The knowledge terrified her as much as it elated her.
She couldn’t bear to think about how devastated she would be to suddenly find herself alone after being with Gabe again, even for this brief interlude.
A sudden, shrill buzz from the nightstand made her jump, her hand flying to her throat. Realizing that it was Gabe’s cell phone, she g
lanced toward the closed bathroom door.
It was probably Blake calling, she thought, reaching for the phone. Maybe he had more news for them. She flipped the instrument open and spoke into it. “Hello?”
“I’ve taken care of your nosy investigator,” an ominously familiar voice snarled in her ear. “As a matter of fact, I’m calling from his phone. You’ve really blown it this time, Page. Kiss your devoted husband goodbye. Before this day ends, he’ll be a dead man.”
10
“NO-O-O!”
The anguished cry from the other room nearly stopped Gabe’s heart. Dressed only in white cotton briefs, he threw open the bathroom door and charged into the bedroom, tautly prepared for whatever awaited him.
Page sat nude in the center of the bed, the sheet pooled at her waist, Gabe’s cellular telephone clutched in her hand. She looked as though someone had punched her in the stomach.
“What is it?” he asked her sharply. “Is that Blake?”
Looking incapable of speech, she shook her head. Her eyes were filled with tears, her lips trembling.
Gabe took the phone from her and held it to his ear, but whoever had called had disconnected. He tossed the instrument aside and set his hands on Page’s shoulders.
“Page, what’s wrong? What did Blake say to you?”
“It...it wasn’t Blake,” she managed to say, her voice reedy. “Blake...Blake’s...”
“Blake’s what?” Gabe demanded, resisting an urge to shake the words out of her.
“Dead.”
Gabe recoiled from the stark syllable, raw denial coursing through him. “No.”
She stared through him, lost in her own horror.
This time Gabe did shake her, gently, but firmly. “Page, talk to me,” he said, his voice urgent. “Who called?”
“Him.” The word was said with revulsion, letting Gabe know exactly who she meant.
“Wingate?”
“If he’s the one who has been following me all this time.” She spoke mechanically, her face blank with shock.
“He told you he’d killed Blake?”