by Kara Braden
“It was because of red tape. Government negotiation and interference. They couldn’t rescue her in time.” He held out his hand to clasp her fingers gently. “That’s why he intervened to save you. He won’t let that happen to anyone again—not if he can prevent it.”
A tiny thread of guilt wove through her. She was alive because another woman had died. “I’m—”
“There’s no record of the organization that took you. They’re gone. Entirely eradicated, as though they never existed at all, except perhaps in some buried government record.”
Something inside her came undone, a little knot of fear deep in her gut, carried with her since she’d been taken. She closed her fingers tightly around his hand, letting the touch anchor her.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but…”
She shook her head and gave him a forced little smile. “No. It’s… It’s fine. I didn’t choose to live out here so they wouldn’t find me. It’s not like I’ve been living in fear of them.”
Carefully, he moved his other hand over hers, fingertips rubbing little circles over her wrist. “But you feel better, knowing they’re dead.”
“I do,” she admitted. “Maybe it’s wrong, but I—”
“No. You’re a survivor, Cecily. It’s not wrong at all—not after what happened.” He smiled softly and squeezed her hand.
She sighed, remembering the dead and the dying, the fear of captivity and the elation of rescue. She nodded, and this time, her smile was more genuine. “Thank you.”
He eased his grip to rub his fingers gently over her skin. “How would you like that massage tonight?”
Her words lodged in her throat. The thought of Ian’s hands soothing away her tension was nice, but the promise of intimacy was enticing and terrifying in equal measure. And her scars…He’d seen some of them, but not all, and she wasn’t ready to show him.
“Rain check?” she asked, smiling weakly.
He nodded, gently smiling. “Anytime.”
Chapter 15
October 31
Cecily looked out the expansive window as Ian walked through Marguerite’s yard, heading for the river. He was bundled against the cold but walking smoothly in the snow. She couldn’t help but wonder if he could be content here in the woods, away from Manhattan, even though she knew it wouldn’t happen.
Marguerite turned to take the next piece of venison from the box she had strapped to the quad early that morning. “You two are adorable together,” she said, fitting the meat into her freezer.
“Thanks,” she answered automatically, hiding her flinch. She turned to the bundle she’d brought with her—the antlers, wrapped in canvas. “Do you mind bringing these with you to the Tuckers?”
Mags slammed the freezer door shut and joined Cecily at the counter. “Trading them away?”
“Actually, I was hoping to get them mounted.”
“Really? Since when do you do trophies?”
Cecily glanced at the window, though she couldn’t see where Ian had gone. “I—”
“Oh, no. Say no more,” Mags teased, nudging Cecily with one elbow. “Should I ask them to get it done in time for Christmas? Two months should be enough time.”
Hoping Ian would stay that long, Cecily nodded. “Please.”
Mags laughed and hugged Cecily quickly. She went to the stove, picked up the kettle, and then carried it to the sink to fill, saying, “I’m so happy for you. You’ve been alone too long, you know.”
“Mags…” Cecily gave a smile. “He’s only here for the winter. He’ll be back in Manhattan before spring.”
“You say that, but I saw the way he watched you through lunch,” Mags answered slyly. “You can’t tell me there isn’t something between you two.”
Cecily nodded, caught herself at it, and shook her head instead as bands of tension locked around her chest. “It’s just…casual,” she insisted, and her smile turned brittle, because it wasn’t. Not for her.
Ian talked about Manhattan all the time—his cases, his social circle, his clients. But Cecily…somewhere inside, she’d still been living day-to-day, and he had just slotted into her life as if he’d always belonged there. She felt better now, better than she had in years, as if a part of her from before the war was slowly reawakening.
She didn’t allow herself to think about what would happen when he went back to Manhattan. He would pick up the pieces of his old life, and Cecily…Cecily would go back to the cabin, back to surviving instead of really living, back to being alone, and all the work she’d done to fortify herself would be gone, leaving her raw and condemned to her self-imposed isolation.
Mags’s quiet voice intruded on her bleak thoughts. “Cecily?”
She gave a quick, forced smile and shook her head. “Sorry,” she said, hearing the unsteady edge in her voice. “I’m just—I should go check on Ian. The weather. Unpredictable.”
Mags’s brown eyes went soft and sympathetic. In the years they’d been friends, she’d grown accustomed to Cecily’s mood swings. She’d once asked what was wrong, but she hadn’t pushed for an explanation. “Let me. The tea is almost ready.”
Cecily thought about going to find Ian. She could imagine how his eyes would sparkle with pleasure at the rare day of sunshine, and she flinched inside. Unable to answer, she nodded gratefully and was relieved when Mags left without another word.
***
The day was gorgeous, bright and brisk. Ian squinted against the glare that came through his polarized glasses and threw another rock into the river. This really was paradise, the sort of place city dwellers dreamed about one day having—somewhere to get away from it all, where life moved slowly and there was no constant buzz of cell phones and typing and shouting and traffic. Even his back felt better, despite the bumpy ride on the quad.
He should have hated it, but every time he felt resentment creep up at the thought of his willing exile, it died out at the thought of being here with Cecily.
Footsteps crunched through the snow and leaves. He turned, grinning with anticipation, and then blinked in surprise to see Marguerite, rather than Cecily. “You have a great view of the river,” he said conversationally.
“Thanks.” Mags came up beside him, hands shoved into her pockets.
Like Ian, she had her hood down, though her scarf was tucked high up under her chin. He glanced at her elegant profile, noting the way the sun brought out light shades in her rich brown hair. He should have been attracted to her. In Manhattan, he would’ve approached her anywhere, whether in a bar or nightclub or even the courtroom. Now, though, there wasn’t a hint of interest—not when his thoughts were full of pale, freckled skin and short red hair.
A hint of accusation crept into Mags’s voice as she said, “We were talking about you.”
“Me?”
“You.” She tossed her head and said, “She said you’re leaving her.”
The words hit him like a punch, stealing his breath. “What?”
Defiantly, she crossed her arms and said, “I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart when it comes to people.”
He sighed. “I’ve heard every bad lawyer joke—”
“She loves you!”
He froze, staring at her, convinced he’d misheard.
As though his silence gave her courage, she turned and snapped out, “You’re breaking her heart.”
He actually backed up a step, scrambling to try and rally himself. This was ridiculous. Cecily was affectionate and friendly, yes, and she smiled more often now than she had just a week ago, but love? They were nothing more than friends, as much as he might have liked it to be otherwise.
“You don’t even care, do you?” Mags pressed. She stabbed a finger into his chest, hard enough that it actually hurt, and demanded, “If you don’t care, why don’t you just go back to New York now? Maybe give her a chance to g
et over you?”
“Whatever you think is going on, you’re wrong,” he insisted, going automatically on the defensive. He looked around at the trees, hoping to see Cecily coming to his rescue, but he and Mags were alone.
“At least tell her now, so she—”
“Tell her what?” he demanded, glaring at her so fiercely that it was her turn to back away.
Then she rallied and snapped, “That you don’t love her! It’s not fair, leading her on like that.”
Icy cold calm settled over him—always a dangerous sign when it happened outside the courtroom. “Please do me the courtesy of staying out of our private affairs. You have no idea what’s going on between us.”
“She’s been my best friend for seven years.”
“And what have you done to help her?” he asked sharply.
Apparently, she wasn’t expecting to hear that. She stared at him, her angry expression melting into surprise, and he took advantage of her silence to leave the riverbank.
Anger carried him across the yard, though his steps slowed as he approached the house. A hint of worry and doubt began to creep through his confidence. What if Marguerite was right? She couldn’t be. Ian would know if Cecily was in love with him.
Cecily came out of the house, bundled in her parka, ready to go. After ten days, he could read her mood almost perfectly. He could see the first hints of tension and anxiety before they even registered in her consciousness. He knew when she was bored or tired or frustrated with her writing. He knew how to provoke a smile or that dark, needy shade of brown that came into her eyes when they touched.
She wanted him. But love? He knew how he felt. He knew he wanted her to come back to Manhattan with him—to see if they could have something more together—but Cecily… She didn’t love him.
Cecily joined him at the foot of the stairs up to Mags’s back door. “You all right?”
“Yes.” He fussed with her scarf to have the excuse to touch her face and watched as her smile bloomed. “Are you?”
Her smile faltered a bit. “I’m fine. You’d better put your gloves on,” she said and went to say good-bye to Marguerite, who’d followed them back to the cabin. He looked at her, noting the mix of guilt and stubbornness in her expression, though she didn’t say anything to Cecily, as they hugged good-bye. Perhaps she was rethinking her assessment of their relationship, or perhaps she just felt guilty for interfering. Either way, she said nothing, and Ian breathed a sigh of relief when Cecily climbed onto the quad for the ride home.
***
“It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?” Cecily asked a couple of hours later, breathing deeply as she walked into the cabin. Before leaving, she’d filled the Dutch oven and buried it in the coals of the wood-burning stove. Now, the smell of onions and garlic and rich broth made her stomach growl.
“I think so, yes,” he answered as he followed her inside.
“Halloween, then. God, I used to love Halloween,” she said idly, leaning against the archway between the kitchen and living room. She didn’t expect a response—he wasn’t one for idle conversation—but when he ignored her completely to go into the living room, she couldn’t help feeling a little bit alone. She glanced back to see he’d sat down to open his laptop.
Wonderful. So they weren’t talking at all. Or was she just being oversensitive? A week ago, she’d been glad he was quiet company, not placing demands on her time. She needed to find that detachment again. In a few months, he would be gone.
Fuck. She needed to stop thinking about it.
She got rid of her jacket and went to the kitchen to make coffee. She focused on tonight, looking forward to a hot meal and Ian’s attentions and maybe, just maybe, having only one nightmare. He’d enjoy tonight and not think about next week or next month, and it would all be fine.
“Dinner should be ready by now,” she said.
“Bring it here,” he answered, never looking away from his laptop.
Forgetting her resolution to enjoy their time together, she snapped, “Do I look like a waitress?”
His head came up, and he frowned. “I’m sorry. I’m just…distracted.”
She met his eyes and felt a twinge of irrational guilt. He was probably anxious to get back home and get back to work. Not wanting to ruin what little time they had left together, she shrugged. “It’s fine,” she said and went to go serve up the roast that had been cooking all day.
She came back to the living room, carrying his plate, just in time to see him shut his laptop and flip the switch that turned off the satellite receiver and the modem. Irritation spiked through her, and she asked, “Change your mind, then?”
He caught her hand before she could move away. Her fingers were warm, and he pressed a kiss to the tips, saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He gestured at the laptop. “I’m sorry.”
He didn’t belong here. He had to be feeling edgy, needing any connection to the outside world. She looked into his blue-gray eyes and saw only contrition. She leaned in and kissed him, nothing more than a brush of lips. “It’s all right. Do you want to eat here?”
“Kitchen table, like sane adults?” he suggested.
She laughed. “Sane adults. Sure, we can pretend, for the night.”
***
Through the ride home from Marguerite’s, Ian had tried to figure out a way to spark Cecily’s interest in coming to Manhattan with him, even for a visit. But after a painfully slow crawl through event websites for the tri-state area, he realized that luring her to Manhattan surely wouldn’t be as simple as buying tickets to a museum showing or the symphony. But what did she like? Reading and writing, yes, but how could he use that? Offer a tour of Manhattan’s libraries? A shopping day to find treasures in little bookstores?
“Dinner okay?” she asked as he finished the last bite.
He smiled, brushing his leg against hers beneath the table. “Very good. I haven’t eaten this well since I lived with my family. Our cook won awards before he retired and came to work for us.”
“Wow. Count yourself lucky, then. I lived on noodles and pizza through college,” she answered with a laugh.
She stood to gather the dishes, and Ian caught her hands and rose with her. “Let me,” he suggested. He gave a tug to pull her close, though he didn’t put his arms around her—he didn’t trap her. Instead, he rested his hands on her hips and suggested, “Why don’t you go relax in the shower? I’ll clean up here.”
Her smile turned curious, and then pleased. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a quick kiss.
Feeling better, as if he’d redeemed himself for his earlier rudeness, he listened to the water heater gurgle as he washed up after dinner and put away the leftovers. Then he went to the living room and built up the fire.
She came out wearing jeans and a button-down shirt hanging untucked over her hips. He didn’t think she was carrying her gun, and he counted that as a positive sign that she was relaxed and happy. She sat down at the desk and took her clunky laptop out of the drawer. “Let me just check my email real quick.”
He decided to take her words as a good sign, and he considered building up the bedroom fire as well, but decided not to push his luck. Instead, he arranged logs and listened to her start up her clunky old laptop. When he heard her start typing, he rose, wincing at the residual ache in his back, and went to stand behind her. Instead of watching what she was doing, he combed his fingers through her wet hair, enjoying the silky soft feel. She didn’t use product that made her hair crunchy or sticky, which was one more appealing difference between her and the women he used to date back home.
Her sigh was nearly a purr. She closed her laptop and shut everything down, and he leaned close to brush a kiss against her ear. “All done?”
“Mmm. Yes.” She tipped her head back against his shoulder. Then she rolled the chair two inches back and turned to rise. He stopped her ca
refully, resting his fingertips lightly on her shoulder. He was wary of triggering another attack, but he needed to push her boundaries. There was no other way to prove to her that she was strong enough to leave the cocoon of the cabin and go back into the world, at his side.
“Stay,” he suggested, circling around in front of her. He stayed slightly off-center, leaving one side clear—a reassurance to her subconscious that she could walk away at any time, if she felt the need. Slowly, he moved his hand from her shoulder to her chest and down, fingers catching on the buttons and dipping into the gaps to brush soft skin underneath.
Tentatively, she leaned back again, eyes fixed on him. She licked her lips, and he couldn’t resist leaning in to chase her tongue back into her mouth in a kiss that seemed to catch her off guard. Her hands skimmed up his sides, holding him close with a light touch.
He caught her face much more firmly, biting at her lower lip before he swept his tongue back into her mouth. He lowered himself to kneel upright in front of her, body pressed against her right leg. He lifted his hand and touched her chest again.
This time, when he followed the trail of shirt buttons down, she shivered and whispered, “Ian.”
“Don’t talk,” he said, kissing her into silence. When she relaxed, complying, he kissed her again and brushed his fingertips over her eyelashes. “Keep your eyes closed for me.”
Tension rippled through her, but she nodded, her expression taking on an air of determination. She licked her lips again and opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed it again.
After one more kiss to reward her self-control, he knelt back on his heels, resting his hands on her thighs. Immediately, her legs parted just slightly, the movement so subtle as to be subconscious. He smiled, watching her expression as he trailed his hands down to her inner thighs. He pressed her legs open a bit more, taking the subconscious movement and making it his own.
He moved his hands up the insides of her thighs, reading the subtle responses on her face. He lightened his pressure as he ran his fingers over her fly, following the contours of her jeans. Cecily shifted her hips but made no effort to move away, and her eyes stayed closed. Her breathing was loud over the ever-present crackle of burning wood.