Black at Heart

by Leslie Parrish

  She leaned over the table, dropping her forearms onto it. "You might be surprised by what I'm capable of doing these days."

  Seeing the narrowness of her eyes, suspecting the soft blue irises looked more like hard, gray flint right now, he very much doubted that.

  The soft-spoken Lily he had known might not have been capable of swatting a fly.

  The woman she had become, on the other hand, appeared capable of just about anything.

  "Very well."

  Her expression softened. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it that you don't treat me like some fragile flower in need of protection."

  "You are in need of protection," he said, blunt and to the point. "There's a man out there who wants you dead. And you can't afford to forget it."

  "Don't worry," she whispered, haunted, weary. "Not one single minute of one single day goes by without me remembering that."

  * * *

  Jesse wasn't supposed to take any unapproved documents back to his cell, and knew he'd have to hide this one before morning. That was fine-he had a few cubbyholes that hadn't yet been discovered during the weekly surprise cell tosses.

  If it was found, it would be confiscated and he'd find himself punished in all the little ways the guards liked to punish the inmates in this place. Yet Jesse had been unable to give it back to the lawyer after she'd let him read it. He'd carefully slipped it into his jumpsuit before the guard had returned him to the block. He'd just needed to keep it close. Keep it all real. For as long as he possibly could. He needed to keep convincing himself that it had really happened. That next week could really happen.

  That he could be set free.

  He read the letter again, alone in his cell, very late that night. The security lights spilling in from the rest of the cellblock provided ample illumination. His fat, stinking cell mate, who had watched while Jesse was held down and assaulted his first week here, snored on, but Jesse was still careful not to rustle the paper, to make no sound at all. Not even a happy sigh as he studied the words he had almost memorized.

  Dear Mr. Boyd:

  I suppose you have many questions regarding my intercession on your behalf, which is why I am writing this letter, which Ms. Vincent was instructed to deliver to you. My altruism may seem unusual, but I am, in fact, merely a person with a loathing for injustice in any form. Call me someone who has seen it firsthand, who wants only to see that the guilty are punished and the innocent protected. Therefore, please accept my assistance with your legal dilemma in the spirit in which it was offered: with nothing but positive thoughts, well wishes, and hopes for your speedy release.

  I am convinced an injustice was done to you and look forward to the day when the rest of the world sees that as well I am sure that with Ms Vincent on the case, that day is fast approaching. After it comes, I do hope we can meet, face-to-face, to discuss everything that led you to this difficult point. The choices you made, the people you met. The people who wronged you so terribly.

  How unfortunate, in a way, that your main accuser is not alive to see her lies exposed and your good name restored. I do hope that, wherever she is, she learns of your change in fortunes… and weeps.

  I will be anxiously awaiting the results of your hearing next week and wish you all the best.

  Sincerely yours,

  A friend

  Chapter 5

  The next morning, shortly before dawn, Lily left the house and made her way down to the beach. She'd taken care to creep past Wyatt's bedroom door, not wanting to awaken him, as shed obviously done during the night. She had put the man out enough to last her lifetime.

  By asking him to let her help in the investigation, she had done so again. He had already gone so far out on a limb for her, he was on the verge of falling into a very deep pit of trouble. Yet he had agreed, knowing, as Lily did, that with so few people aware of the truth, she could be a genuine asset.

  Just as the need to do the job-to keep other families from being hurt-had been enough to help her survive what had happened to her family, now, needing to know who had done this to her gave Lily the same motivation. She'd been recovering for months. Rebuilding her strength. Preparing. Now she needed to act.

  The sun was just on the verge of rising when her feet finally hit the sand at the end of her long descent. By all rights, she should have slept much later herself. She and Wyatt had remained outside on the patio talking until at least two a.m., and though she had fallen into bed shortly thereafter, sleep had been a long time coming.

  At least her dreams had not been dark ones.

  "No, they were almost worse," she muttered, shaking her head at her own foolishness. Because instead of dreaming about the terrifying night Wyatt had saved her, she had instead been troubled by intense, surprising visions of some other nights she had spent with him. Other moments, when she had been less vulnerable and he less noble. When he'd let down his guard and looked at her with eyes that weren't pitying and protective, but instead piercing, hot, and perhaps even interested.

  You're imagining things.

  He was as interested in her as any good person would be in a wounded animal. That was all. Dreams inspired by solitude and a long drought of physical intimacy didn't mean a damn thing other than that she needed to be extra vigilant to keep her feelings hidden.

  Not romantic feelings, she had to believe that. She felt only friendship and genuine appreciation for Wyatt.

  But she couldn't deny that when she let herself really think about the idea of him desiring her, something deep inside the untouched, cold part of herself flashed with unexpected warmth.

  "Forget it," she reminded herself. "It's never going to happen." She had never been the kind of person who could separate sex from emotion, so the idea of just taking a bit of physical relief from the most attractive man she'd ever known was out of the question.

  At least, Lily had never been that kind of person. The Lily she'd once been.

  "You're not that Lily anymore."

  Maybe the woman she was now could take what she needed, get it out of her system. Maybe that woman even had the nerve to try to take it from Wyatt Blackstone.

  It bore consideration. But not now, not while he was here, filling the house with his magnetic presence. She'd think about it long and hard after Wyatt left and she was again alone, lost in her own thoughts and free from any outside distractions.

  Remaining at the base of the steps, she sat down on the weathered wooden plank, cut into the side of the rocky hill, and rested her forearms loosely on her knees. The bottom cuff of her sweats pulled up a little, enough to reveal the ankle holster and small-caliber handgun she carried at all times. Self-conscious, though she was entirely alone, she pulled the fabric down. Wyatt knew she had weapons- he just didn't need to know she carried them every time she set foot outside the perimeter of the house.

  Streams of orange and pink had begun to appear far away where the black ocean met the dark blue sky. As always, Lily held her breath, waiting for it, enjoying this one moment of the day more than any other.

  She was soon rewarded, paid off for her patience. Between one blink of the eye and the next, the golden globe of the sun popped up to send streams of light racing across the water. Within seconds, day had broken, bathing the beach, and her face, with the very first hints of warmth that cut through the morning chill.

  "Okay, another day," she told herself. "Make something of it."

  Though she seldom ventured far from the house, she did enjoy her occasional workout on the beach. The stretch of shoreline, called Dead Man's Beach by the locals, probably because of some ancient shipping tragedies off the rocky coast, was far from any of the crowded tourist areas. Not private and exclusive to Wyatt's house, it was still far enough from civilization to discourage visitors. A lighthouse, long abandoned, remained perched on a jutting bit of land a half mile to the north, but almost no one ever came by to explore it.

  Today was no exception. No human was visible, as far as her eye could se
e. So she took full advantage, first with a quick jog along the shoreline, up to the lighthouse, then back, followed by stretches and position practice for this afternoon's lesson with the sarge.

  Something else Wyatt seemed to disapprove of, though he had never said a word. He had been all for her taking a few martial arts lessons after she'd gotten through physical therapy to strengthen her badly damaged leg. He had. however, somehow sensed that she was no longer doing it just as a way to get back into shape, or even entirely for her own peace of mind.

  They had not discussed it, but he was no fool. He knew what demons drove her, knew she felt with an undeniable certainty that the man who'd kidnapped her would come after her if he ever found out she was still alive.

  And she was getting ready. Not just to defend herself But perhaps to avenge herself.

  "The way you balance, no one would ever guess how badly damaged that leg was," a voice said.

  She didn't turn around. She'd been aware of Wyatt's approach down the steps for a minute or two. She just hadn't allowed herself to think about it, not wanting the old self-consciousness to interfere with her workout. Especially because she knew if she glanced at him, she'd end up staring.

  Wyatt almost always wore suits. Expensive, well-tailored suits. But he did, on occasion, dress down, which was almost worse for her peace of mind. His faded, worn jeans hugged his strong legs, and the casual polo shirt, with the collar turned up, highlighted the broad shoulders and thick arms. He looked a little less the boss she'd known and a little more the sexy man she'd had wicked dreams about.

  "Just don't look too closely at the scars," she replied, smoothly moving from Intermediate to Position Four.

  "Something else for the plastic surgeon to take care of."

  Another soundless turn. "Maybe I'll go down to Williamsburg to see one."

  He crossed his arms, his strong jaw jutting out. "Don't even think about it."

  She'd gotten the reaction she expected. "You said yourself that hearing the voices of some of the doctors from that symposium might be of use."

  "I meant recordings of their voices," he insisted, "which I'll have from Brandon sometime this morning. You are absolutely not going to stroll into the offices of the doctor whose car was stolen and try to listen for the voice of the monster who attacked you."

  Position Five. Breathe deeply. Slow and steady.

  "Maybe he'd see me and drop over dead from a heart attack, sure he was seeing a ghost," she said, not really serious. She wasn't crazy, and she certainly wouldn't waltz into a place that could put her face-to-face with someone who wanted to kill her.

  Well, at least not until she'd tried it Wyatt's way, listening to the recordings or searching for any other audible resources she could find.

  If all else failed, however? Well, she didn't think any- one else she had worked with on a daily basis would immediately recognize her now. So while she wouldn't necessarily make an appointment and walk right into the lion's den, perhaps there was another way. Shadowing a group going to lunch and sitting nearby? Delivering a package, or flowers? Something that would get her close-but not too close.

  "Stop thinking about it," he ordered.

  She paused to stare at him. "You can't control what goes on in my head."

  "No, but I can control whether I leave the keys to my Jeep here or not. And if I get the idea you're thinking of making any long-distance trips, I guarantee you I'll be taking them with me."

  A humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Gee, thanks for the reminder that I'm completely at your mercy."

  He thrust out a frustrated breath and stalked closer. "Damn it, Lily, you're not a charity case. I don't begrudge you anything. I just don't want you to get hurt again."

  "You're being kind. You have to admit, I am a charity case." The reality of that rankled. Lily had never relied on anyone, not since her parents had died and she and her sister had played a game of here-we-go-round-the-foster-care-system. She didn't like being completely supported by anyone. "I'll probably never be able to repay you for all my medical expenses, even if I can get back my unclaimed financial accounts."

  He waved a hand, as if money meant absolutely nothing. Though she didn't know a lot about Wyatt's background, other than the fact that his family owned this house-and that he never used it, for some deep, dark reason that the locals hinted at but she had never pried into-she had no doubt the man had money. So much money, he hadn't batted an eye when paying her bills, whisking her up here, renovating the house, buying the Jeep.

  That didn't mean she wasn't going to try to pay him back, somehow, someway. Sometime. Even if it took the rest of her life.

  "I don't care about the money. I only care about your need to do something leading you into a dark, dangerous situation."

  Hearing the genuine intensity, she had to try to mollify him. "Look, you and I both know I'm a hermit and the chances of me going more than ten miles from here are very slim, meaning a trip to Virginia is almost inconceivable."

  "You really have no desire to leave? Haven't had any impulse to just go?"

  Though his expression remained neutral, he seemed very interested in hearing her answer. She couldn't help wondering why he seemed so concerned. "What is it you're really trying to get at?"

  He shook his head slowly. "Just curious."

  Yeah, right. The man never asked idle questions; he was also after something. Now he seemed to be asking if she had the nerve to leave here, or if she just intended to give up and hide from the world forever.

  Well, haven't you considered it?

  She ignored the inner voice. "What is it you're accusing me of, Wyatt?"

  He countered with a question. "Should I be accusing you of something?"

  "Don't pull that interrogator garbage on me, okay? If you have something to say, just say it, would you?"

  "Will you do the same?"

  She managed to smother a groan that he'd done it again, and think about what he'd asked. Would she do the same? Be honest and open? About most things, probably. About the case, her physical well-being, the house, what was going on in the outside world. Yes. Absolutely.

  But what went on in her head? What she was really thinking, feeling?

  Not bloody likely.

  "Forget I asked," she snapped.

  Deliberately turning away, she tried to get back into her exercise, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She heard the sarge's voice in her head as she moved, remembering how hard such simple movements had been a few months ago, when her muscles had only recently healed after the slash job the bullet and her attacker's instruments had done on them. After a few moments, she found her center, rediscovered her calm, and was able to focus.

  "So," she asked, ready to resume their conversation, "Brandon agreed that my voice idea was solid?"

  Wyatt backed off, too, as if knowing she had already put their harsh words out of her head. "He did. The owner of the car, Dr. Kean, was interviewed on tape, along with her sister-in-law, who provided an alibi and backed up her claim that she knew nothing of the stolen vehicle until the morning after your attack. Brandon is sending me a snippet of that interview."

  "Anyone else from the convention?"

  "All of the workshops were recorded, the audio copies offered for sale online. We're gathering every one of them. We'll have a lot of material for you to listen to." He glanced at his watch. "Probably starting by this afternoon."

  Position Eight. Flow. Calm.

  "Brandon must have gotten an early start."

  Wyatt leaned against the handrail at the base of the stairs, his feet crossed at the ankles, arms at the chest. "He responded to my e-mail at six forty-five this morning and said he'd work on this from home so there'd be no delay due to his commute to the office."

  "He's a good kid."

  He laughed softly.

  "What?"

  "That kid is only a couple of years your junior."

  Maybe in physical years. Not in experience. Not in the journey of the soul.
<
br />   "He's also in love with you."

  She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them to glare at him. "Damn it, Wyatt, I'd just gotten my calm back."

  He shrugged, unrepentant. "You need to deal with it."

  "I did deal with it," she snapped. "Why do you think I asked him to stop coming up?"

  Despite asking him to stop coming to visit her, as he'd done every single week last spring, she did miss him. Brandon was the closest thing to a brother she'd ever had. Putting a stop to his visits had been for his sake, more than hers.

  Lily wasn't blind. She had known before she was kidnapped that Brandon was a flirt and a player, and that he liked trying out his cocky charm on her. But after he'd been part of the rescue, he'd turned into a hovering, cautious caretaker who treated her as if she needed to be wrapped in cotton. And he wanted to be the one wrapping that cotton around her and carrying her in his pocket.

  Nothing brought the protective romantic gene out in a man like thinking he had a fragile, wounded woman to take care of. With Brandon, it had gone a step further. It hadn't escaped her notice that he had feelings for her. That-the thought of him wasting his time and emotion on her when she would never return it-had been the primary reason she'd asked him not to come back.

  "Well, now that we've gone to a subject you really want to avoid, shall we go back to the previous one?”

  She gritted her teeth.

  "Tell me something.

  Despite the mental warnings to remain focused and steady, she couldn't help stiffening. There were any number of questions Wyatt could be about to ask her. Many of which she didn't want to answer. Starting with what she was thinking, and ending with what she intended to do tomorrow. Next week. Next month. "What?"

  "Would you really go down to Williamsburg? Leave here?"

  Lily stopped the workout. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "You haven't left in months." His stare intent, he prodded, "Have you?"

  "I'm not a surf fisherman-I've had to eat," she said, finally giving up altogether on her workout. She couldn't concentrate with anyone watching, much less when Wyatt's unfiltered, undiluted attention was zoned in squarely on her. She shook her arms out and walked across the sand, toward the stairs. "I go to the market."