OVER HER DEAD BODY: The Bliss Legacy - Book 2

by Sheedy, EC

  She felt his hand stroke her hair, his fingers run along her cheek. He said something else, something about real massage needing skin; then she was gone.

  Keeley woke with a start, sitting abruptly upright and looking at the clock. Past four-thirty. She’d slept an hour, maybe more.

  “Feeling better?” Gus’s voice came from the darkness beside her bed.

  “You’re still here,” she said, the words as unnecessary as her hand flying to her throat and closing the open collar of her gown. He was only a shadow in the chair he’d pulled up to the bedside—a very still shadow. She couldn’t see his face, but she knew his eyes were on her. “We should talk to Erica, decide what to do,” she said, then added, “Did you know that Erica and her brother make, uh, explicit adult films?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You checked on her?” She guessed it made sense he would, given that he was in the security business. “You didn’t tell me.”

  “Would it have mattered? Didn’t make her less pregnant.”

  “No, I suppose not. But I should call Christiana, let her know she has … family.” Although Keeley knew she’d be underwhelmed by her new relatives—or at least the business they were in.

  “Erica can wait. So can Christiana. Tomorrow’s soon enough.”

  “It is tomorrow.” She let go of her collar and swung her body to sit on the bed, facing him. The bed was an old four-poster, too high for her to sit and have her feet touch the floor. She let them dangle, shoving her hair off her face. “I should go check on her.”

  “I already did. She’s sleeping sound enough. All you’ll do is wake her up.”

  Her eyes, losing the last of sleep, grew accustomed to the dim light provided by a watery moon seeping through the clouds. The room came into focus. A less shadowy Gus emerged, sitting comfortably in her wicker chair, his long legs stretched out in from of him. He was staring at her feet. “Pink nail polish,” he said. “You surprised me.”

  “That knife from nowhere surprised me. Where did you learn to do that? Better yet, why?”

  “Survival. My father gave me my first knife, taught me how to use it. I was seven. I thought it smart to hone my skills through the years.”

  “You could have hurt Erica.”

  “No, I couldn’t, but she could’ve hurt you.”

  “She’s pregnant, for heaven’s sake.”

  “She had a gun pointed at your face.”

  “I don’t want weapons in Mayday House. Knives or guns.” She gave him a pointed look. “I don’t want anyone hurt.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “Now if we’re done agreeing with each other, I’ll ask again. How are you feeling?”

  As agreements went, his had the solidity of smoke, but Keeley knew the end of a subject when she saw one. No point in pressing her point right now, but if he thought she was going to let this go, he was dead wrong. What she’d do was wait until her wits were less scattered, her mind less cottoned with sleep.

  “I’m fine.” She paused. “Your massage did the trick. You’re good with your hands.”

  His mouth twitched. “So I’ve been told.”

  Keeley felt herself redden, but knew he wouldn’t see it in the dimness of the room. “I meant in a professional sense.”

  Another twitch of his lips.

  She blushed deeper. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “You mean your discomfort with my past career choice?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I’m more caught up in my own confusion when I think of yours.”

  “My being a nun,” she stated, unable to say he wasn’t alone with his confusion. Despite the years she’d tried, she never did fit the mold. Mary Weaver had been right all along. Your calling is to do good in this world, girl, but you? A nun? Won’t suit you at all. Turned out she was right, even though Keeley’s decision to leave her order left her feeling a miserable failure. “I thought it was the right choice for me at the time. It wasn’t.”

  “Marc? Your husband. Was he right for you?”

  “Yes, he was.” His question made her hesitate. “But the truth is things weren’t feeling right for me in my order even before Marc. I’d already decided I wasn’t cut for the cloth.” A cloth woven of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The poverty was okay, and she’d coped with the chastity issue all right—until Marc, but the obedience? There she had messed up.

  “What cloth are you cut for?”

  She eyed him. “What makes you so nosy all of a sudden?”

  “Interested, not ‘nosy,’” he said. “And it comes with the job,” he said, adding, “The panic attacks. When did they start?”

  She slid off the bed, slipped on the thick terry robe she’d draped over one of its posts. Pulling the sash tight to her waist, she turned back to him. “First off, it’s none of your business, and second, they’re not panic attacks—at least not like they were.”

  “How were they?”

  Lord, she’d never known a man so still—so relentless. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  “No.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Keeley wasn’t afraid to face her weaknesses, just reluctant. Talking about her past, her personal difficulties since leaving Africa, smacked of self-absorption. Yet there was something inside her wanting—needing—to get her story out. Whether Gus Hammond was the person to hear it, she didn’t know. While she wasn’t sure he’d understand, something told her he wouldn’t judge. It was enough.

  “The last six months in the Sudan were tough.” She closed her eyes a moment. “So much death. When the militia stormed into the villages, they didn’t care who they killed—or how. People were butchered. Men, women, children, it didn’t matter to them. It was like a murderous frenzy. Everyone was afraid, no one felt safe—and no one knew when or if their village would be hit next.” She took a few steps away from him, then back. “Our camp, close to the Chad border, had been lucky. But the luck didn’t last.”

  She rubbed her upper chest, her heart. “They came at sunup. The first thing we heard was the sound of trucks—and horses. There were horses … Odd, I thought. Then the yelling. Gunfire …” She licked her dry lips as the images came. “They started shooting, first into the air, then at … everything, the villagers—running for their lives—their homes, the animals … just shooting. Shooting. Shooting.” Keeley massaged her temples. She’d never forget the din. The wailing and screams. The old man with one leg, trying to run with his cane. Falling. The shiny rifles spilling red death into the already-miserable refugee camp.

  More bullets in the guns than stars in the sky.

  She took a breath and went on, “Our hospital and sleeping tents were on the edge of the village. That gave us a little time, but in the end there was nothing to do but run and hide wherever you could. There were five patients in the hospital, an old man, a young girl who’d just given birth, her newborn, and two children. We, myself and two of the aid workers attached to Medics-At-Large, gathered them up, and along with the people streaming out of the village, ran—as my mother would have said, as if the devil himself was on our heels.” She stopped. “Which in this case he was.”

  “You made it.”

  “Ashai, the new mother, died of hemorrhage, and over half the village was killed. They took some people with them. Young boys mostly.” She looked away, unable to stop the pain, the powerlessness, from washing over her. “But, yes, I made it.”

  “And came home.”

  “I stayed on for a while after the raid, but I couldn’t sleep. Then the panic attacks started.”

  “How long had you been in Africa?”

  “Not always Sudan, but on and off, almost seven years.”

  He whistled softly.

  “When the directive came for me to come home, I didn’t fight it.” She paused, hoping he’d understand her reason for leaving, which for some reason mattered to her. “The Sudan didn’t need another addition to the walking wounded,” she said. “They were right to br
ing me home. The shape I was in, I was no use to anyone.”

  “That’s what counts with you, isn’t it? Being of use?”

  If he looked at her with any more intensity, she’d turn to a heap of ash or a wash of tears. She didn’t intend that to happen. “If you’re asking if I aspire to change the world, right every injustice, and banish all sickness and evil from the face of the earth”—she swept her hand in a wide, purposely careless arc, anxious to lighten the mood, change the subject—“or if you’re thinking my heroine of choice is Wonder Woman, she of the narrow waist and magic belt, you’d be wrong. I’m not that good, not that pious, and not that dedicated.”

  “That’s how you see it.” He shook his head.

  “All I want to do is work in my little corner of the universe—Mayday House. If I can make it a decent, safe haven for women who need one, I’ll be content”

  “No plans to go back?”

  “To Africa?” Her thoughts stumbled, then righted themselves. “No plans as such. But someday? Maybe. You don’t walk away from Africa—it won’t let you.” She felt the sharp clutch in her chest, the ache there when she remembered the desperate suffering people of Darfur, her work there. “I left part of my heart there. With Marc … and others.”

  Gus looked at her a long time, but he didn’t appear inclined to speak.

  Curious and increasingly uncomfortable, she asked, “What are you thinking?”

  He stood and walked up to her. “Not thinking exactly. More like wondering.”

  “About what?”

  “About whether or not the part of your heart you brought home has room for something new. If it’s up to another risk.”

  Wary now, she asked, “Like what?”

  He lifted her chin, forcing their gazes to meet. “Like me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Keeley said, too aware of his warm hand on her face, his dark eyes looking down at her. She couldn’t move. It was as if someone had stolen into her dimly lit bedroom and nailed her feet to the floor.

  “Not sure I know myself.” He moved his thumb along her jaw, the gesture idle, his expression thoughtful. “We’re the last two people on this earth who should come together. An ex-nun and an ex … gigolo, for want of a better word.” He stopped, both his words and the movement of his thumb, then added, “But there’s a sense of inevitability to it. To us.” He didn’t look as if the idea made him happy.

  Keeley knew he was right, knew it was what she’d been feeling and fighting since she’d seen him that first day, standing in Mayday’s front yard. Like a gift.

  “Definitely inevitable.” He whispered the last, his tone smoky when he bent to brush his mouth over hers. “But it ends with this.”

  When his lips met hers, they came softly, questioningly, as if he were tasting woman for the first time. As if he couldn’t stop himself.

  As if he were waiting for her to stop him, giving her time to say no.

  The word refused to come.

  Instead, Keeley’s breath surged and swirled in her lungs, even as her mind softened to a warm gray light.

  She wanted to close her eyes, but it would mean taking them from his, and she couldn’t; she was too mesmerized watching the fire in his gaze deepen, from the glow of rich brown to the darkness of desire.

  Inevitable. Another word for fate.

  She’d never believed in fate, things happening under their own momentum. She believed in God’s hand and making things happen by hard work and commitment. Good things didn’t simply come to you, you had to earn them.

  But Gus had come to her, unplanned, unannounced. And since that day, she’d known a growing tension she could neither identify nor still—as if his presence had short-circuited her internal wiring—and her will. He was too big, too beautiful, too … dazzling for her.

  Yet she leaned into him, drawn to his strong body, the strength of his arms, his hard length warming her deepest reaches. Making her want. Making her need.

  Their gazes locked, and he slid his hands from her face, down her neck, over her shoulders. Grasping her waist, he pulled her flush against him. He stared down at her, then kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her ears, her throat. His every movement fluid, insistent.

  Finally he came back to her mouth—this time boldly.

  Keeley’s neck curved backward, and she shifted her body to get closer to him. Closer yet, desperate to feel the hardness of him against her belly. She knew this feeling, the power in it, what it could mean, but she was unafraid—oddly serene. If that was a word you could use in the middle of a sexual maelstrom.

  Gus pulled back, slowly, carefully, until he again held her face in his hands. Using his thumbs, he rubbed her cheeks.

  “Definitely stops here,” he repeated, and she heard the rasp and harshness in his breathing. His jaw tensed when he drew in another hard breath, looked heavenward. Dropping his hands from her face, he said, “I should have listened to Barton.”

  “Father Barton?” His name entering the bedroom scattered her already errant thoughts.

  “He told me to leave you alone.”

  “He said that?”

  “Close to it.” A wry smile briefly turned up his lips. “He said no ‘sleep-and-runs.’”

  “You talked to Father Barton about us?” The word us slipped into her surprise of its own free will. She had no desire to call it back, even if confusion at Father Barton’s giving an opinion on the dos-and-don’ts of her sex life did set her brain on spin cycle.

  “More like he talked to me.”

  “Too bad he didn’t talk to me, I’d have talked back.” She stopped, a clear thought rising from her mental disorder. “Is that what you want, Gus? A sleep-and-run?” A slice of her earlier panic came back.

  He rubbed his scar, seemingly locked in his own thoughts and not happy with them. He walked a few paces away from her, then turned to look at her. “The answer to your question is no.” He stopped. “When it comes to you, I’m not sure what I want” His lips turned grim. “Other than to toss you on that bed and make love to you until neither of us can breathe.”

  Her chest loosened, made room for her heart to pound.

  He paced again, then, with a careful few feet between, he slid his hand to the back of his neck, kept it there. “And that’s just for starters.”

  “And after the starter, what then?”

  He took his hand from his neck, put both hands on his hips, and cursed to himself. “I don’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

  “You started it. I repeat, what then?”

  A fog of silence fell over the room.

  “The ‘then’ part is having breakfast with you, then lunch, then dinner, then starting all over again.” He paused.”The trouble with you, Farrell, is you’re not the kind of woman a smart man walks away from. You’re what’s called a keeper.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It is when you’re not one of those ‘smart’ guys I mentioned.” His voice firmed. “I was a paid escort, Keeley, paid for services in bed and out. Before that I was running from a murder charge. Before that I lived on the streets, under the name Gus Vanelleto, among others, doing whatever it took to survive. I’ve spent a lifetime getting by and getting laid. A woman like you isn’t in my cards.”

  She let the last go. “A murder charge?” she said. “Tell me about it.” When he didn’t answer, she urged, “I want to know.”

  “It’s ugly.”

  “Life can be that way,” she countered.

  “Okay.” He paused, seemed to gather his thoughts. “When I was a kid, for a short time, I was in the care of Washington State. Specifically a woman called Belle Bliss, part-time prostitute, full-time child abuser. She made her living scamming Child Services. Alcoholic and stone mean, that woman. I owe her this.”

  He touched his scar. “When she got herself shot in the head, and very dead as a result, the cops pegged me and a couple of other kids in the house as the murderers. We spent fifteen years running bef
ore they got the guy who did it.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In the room they’d reserved for me. Behind bars.” He gave her a straight-on look. “That’s not all of it. I took Josh.”

  “Who’s Josh?”

  His eyes settled on hers. “Josh is my … brother, or as close to it as you can get. They put him with Belle the day she was murdered. When he was dropped off, she parked him in a broken-down crib and left him there to soak his pants, go hungry, and scream for hours. He was a baby, for Christ’s sake. Not even two years old. Belle was dead, lying in a pool of her own blood. I couldn’t leave him there alone, crying in that damn crib.” He rubbed his forehead. “So I took him and left the state. Raised him.”

  “You raised a child?” She couldn’t imagine it. “Why didn’t you drop him off at a hospital, some place safe?”

  “He’d already been ‘dropped off’ once,” he said, his tone hard, his face implacable. “At Belle’s house of horrors.”

  “But you were a kid yourself, the risk …”

  “The risk was me going to jail and Josh being dumped on someone else who didn’t give a damn. I didn’t exactly have a rosy experience with family life. What I knew was the streets. I figured I’d do as good a job looking out for him as anyone else. And I’d make sure nobody messed with him.” The last was said fiercely and with total conviction.

  She had no response to it. “Where is Josh now?”

  “When things finally got settled in Bliss’s killing, I found out his mother had died of an overdose, but he had a grandmother. Turns out he’d never have been at Belle’s place if she’d known about him. But she didn’t know he even existed until weeks after the murder. By then Josh and I were on our way east I didn’t know anyone was looking for him. If I had—” He shrugged and left the thought unfinished. “Anyway, he’s with her now. Staying with her and going to college. Straight A’s. He’s a good kid. A really good kid.”

  Keeley heard the pride in his voice—and the love. “And a lucky boy,” she said. “All we need in this life is one person in our corner, one person to care. You gave that to Josh.”