Listed: Volumes I-VI

by Noelle Adams

  “Why were you arguing?”

  “I’d just been arrested for drug possession.” Paul said the words matter-of-factly, but she knew how much this incident haunted him, and she couldn’t imagine how hard it was to have it all laid bare in a public courtroom.

  “So you were at fault?”

  Paul lifted his eyebrows. “For possessing drugs? Yes, I was at fault for that.”

  “That was the reason for the argument, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. The argument wasn’t about the drugs.”

  “What was it about, then?”

  “What it was always about. I wasn’t the son that he wanted.”

  “So it was his fault?” Barton made the question dubious, as if he couldn’t believe Paul’s pettiness.

  “We were both at fault.”

  “But you’ve always resented him for what happened?”

  “Yes, I’ve resented him.”

  “But you were the one who broke the law?”

  “Yes, I broke the law.”

  “And you were going after him in the argument, and all he did was defend himself?”

  Since that wasn’t a question, Paul just stared at Barton steadily and didn’t answer.

  “You’d asked him for help with—”

  “No,” Paul interrupted curtly. “I hadn’t asked him for help. I haven’t asked him for anything since I was thirteen. I’ll never ask him for anything again.”

  Barton looked nonplussed by the reply—far more forthcoming than anything else Paul had said during the cross-examination. He must not have thought of a way to use it, however, since he moved on. “Let’s talk about August 23—four years ago. You crashed your car that night, didn’t you?”

  Before Paul could respond, Hathaway broke in, “Objection, your honor. As I have pointed out several times now, the witness is not on trial. Whether or not he crashed his car is immaterial to the case.”

  “It goes to establishing a pattern of conflict between Mr. Marino and his father,” Barton explained.

  The judge shook her head. “That pattern has been sufficiently established. Dial it back, Mr. Barton. The objection is sustained.”

  Emily released her pent breath.

  “Mr. Marino,” Barton said, turning back to Paul, “Did you manipulate your way into your current position?”

  “Excuse me?” Paul asked. Emily couldn’t tell if he was really confused by the shift in topic or just stalling on purpose.

  “Your current job. Did you get that job through manipulation?”

  “Yes, it was a kind of manipulation. I didn’t break the law. I just applied an unorthodox kind of persuasion.” Emily was so proud of Paul. His voice and expression never wavered, and he wasn’t letting Barton fluster or confuse him in the slightest.

  Barton continued, “If you were willing to go to such unorthodox lengths to get a job, why should we believe you aren’t doing so now in fabricating a murder case against your father?”

  “You can believe it because I haven’t done so.”

  “You were the one who approached the authorities with the detailed information about your father’s alleged illegal activities. Not the other way around.”

  “Correct.”

  “But you only did this after Mrs. Marino had gone to the authorities first with her story about being threatened?”

  “Correct.”

  “How did you know she’d gone to the authorities at all?”

  “It was quite clear that my father had been threatening her for some reason, and then it was quite clear that the FBI had some basis for a case, since they’d started sniffing around. I put two and two together.”

  “You weren’t in collaboration with your wife before she went to the FBI?

  “She wasn’t my wife at the time. And, no, I wasn’t in collaboration with her.”

  Emily held her breath again, certain that Barton was going to pursue the same line of questioning he had with her—painting Paul into a heartless, manipulative seducer of teenage girls.

  But he didn’t.

  Maybe the dramatic conclusion of her testimony had convinced him that it wasn't an effective card to play with the jury.

  Instead, Barton began, “Hating your father as you do—”

  “I don’t hate my father,” Paul interrupted.

  “I’m sorry,” Barton said, feigning confusion, “I thought you just testified that…”

  “I said I resented my father. I never claimed to hate him.”

  “Ah, I see.” Barton smiled. “Resenting him as you do, would you be happy if your father was convicted in this trial?”

  “I would be pleased that justice was done.”

  “You wouldn’t be happy?”

  Paul met Barton’s eyes evenly. “I don’t think any scenario regarding my father has the power to make me happy.”

  “Why not?” For once, Barton seemed to be asking an honest question, as if he really wanted to know the answer.

  And, for the first time, Paul looked away from the defense attorney. In that moment, Emily knew why.

  “Mr. Marino?” Barton persisted, looking faintly pleased that he’d finally managed to flap this unflappable witness.

  Paul didn’t respond. He briefly moved a hand to his face, covering his mouth in a characteristic gesture. His eyes were focused on an empty spot in the air.

  “Your honor?” Barton prompted.

  “Mr. Marino, please answer the question,” the judge instructed.

  Paul looked back at Barton. His eyes were absolutely heart-breaking, even from as far away as Emily was sitting. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, and there was no way not to believe him.

  “Because I still love him,” Paul admitted. “But he’ll never love me.”

  The courtroom was dead silent for a long time.

  Emily’s eyes burned, and she raised a hand to her chest—instinctively trying to hold her heart in place because it just hurt so much. She could only imagine how hard those words had been for Paul to say. They must have been ripped out of him.

  Barton asked Paul a few more questions, but Emily barely heard them. They didn’t matter. They weren’t important. And she was so relieved when Barton concluded his examination, and Hathaway said there would be no redirect.

  Paul got up from the witness stand and walked back to where Emily was seated. He was wearing another sleek black suit—and he held himself with the same confidence as always, his shoulders straight, his eyes steady.

  Emily was almost shaking with emotion when he sat down beside her. He hadn’t really even looked at her. He hadn’t looked at anyone.

  His body was tense beside her, and his eyes focused blankly on the courtroom proceedings. She wanted to hug him. She desperately wanted to hug him, but she knew she couldn’t do it.

  Paul would never be able to accept her affection openly, in public like this—not after what he’d just been through.

  But she couldn’t bear not to do anything, so she reached over and picked up the hand that he’d rested on the seat beside him. His hand had always been really warm, but it was cool right now. Far too cool.

  She squeezed his hand, focused forward, not wanting to make him feel awkward by even looking at him.

  She almost cried when he squeezed her hand back.

  She didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull his away. So she held his hand—the only thing she could do—until the judge announced the trial would recess for lunch.

  * * *

  Emily took a long bath that evening and then pulled on a white camisole and pink cotton pajama pants. She felt restless and upset, and she wanted to just hibernate. But Chris called, so she had to talk to him.

  She ended up crying on the phone, since she was already emotionally exhausted. He was her friend, but he didn’t understand any of her choices, and she couldn’t make him understand.

  When she finally hung up, she went to find Paul. She needed comfort, even just from his silent presence. She found him in the media r
oom, but this time he didn’t have his laptop. He was sitting on the couch, wearing the black trousers to his suit and the French blue dress shirt without the tie or jacket. He was staring at the television, but she didn’t think he was really seeing it.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, when she came into the room.

  She gave her head a little nod and sat down beside him, folding up her legs beneath her. She was afraid if she said anything, she would start to cry again.

  “You were talking to Chris?”

  She nodded again.

  He didn’t reply, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was far away. His shoulders were tense, and that muscle was twitching in his jaw. “How are you doing, Paul?” she asked. When her voice came out too hoarsely, she cleared her throat.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Don’t tell me that. I don’t believe you.”

  Paul met her eyes, and his mouth lifted at one corner, almost bitterly. “It’s nothing new, Emily. It’s just the same stuff I’ve dealt with for years.”

  “But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard.”

  He didn’t reply. He just stared at the television. Emily wanted desperately to hug him, to comfort him, to show him that she was there for him.

  But he still looked so stiff and guarded. She was afraid he would pull away, reject her, and that would hurt.

  She sat for a while and tried to decide what she should do. She just didn’t have any experience in dealing with men, particularly with someone as profoundly private as Paul.

  But she was sure—she was absolutely sure—he needed something, and she was the only one here to give it to him. If he rejected her, he rejected her. She didn’t have very long left to live with memories of rejection anyway.

  So she pulled herself up on her knees and reached over to wrap her arms around him.

  He froze, as if he were surprised or reluctant, but then, after a tense moment, his arms went around her too. Then they tightened, like he’d let down some sort of barrier, let himself go.

  He felt so warm and hard and needy that she couldn't pull away, and she ended up halfway in his lap, with her legs draped over his thighs and her upper body pressing into his chest. They hugged for a long time, tightly, nakedly needy. Then Paul’s arms loosened some and she relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

  The television was still on—it sounded like sports—but Emily was barely aware of it.

  She breathed in the smell of Paul, warm and masculine, and took comfort in the fact that he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.

  After a long time, she kind of wanted to say something, but she had no idea what to say. She idly stroked his side over his soft shirt and looked up at his face.

  He was gazing down on her, and his eyes were so tender they took her breath away.

  Her lips parted. She was trapped by his gaze, and something deep inside her started to shudder.

  Paul lifted a hand to her face. He brushed her hair back and then cupped her cheek. His eyes were the most beautiful, hypnotizing things she’d ever seen.

  A rush of feeling swept through her body and then rose up in her chest. She thought—she thought—he was going to kiss her. It looked like he wanted to, like he thought she was precious to him.

  And Emily desperately wanted to kiss him.

  So, without thinking, acting only by instinct, she stretched up and pressed her lips against his, very lightly. Then she pulled back just slightly, letting her mouth hover in front of his, feeling his breath on her skin.

  Then they were kissing again, deeper and more hungrily. Paul’s hand slid backward to cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair and holding her steadily against his mouth. She fisted both of her hands in the fabric of his shirt, reeling from emotion and sensation, needing to hold onto something.

  Paul’s mouth moved urgently against hers—more hungry than skillful—and now his tongue slid beyond her lips, licking the underside of each in turn. It felt so good she gave a silly moan at the back of her throat, and then his tongue was all the way inside her mouth. Stroking. Fluttering. Tangling with hers.

  Her eyes squeezed shut, and her back arched instinctively, pressing her breasts against his hard chest. She could feel the kiss so deeply—in her mouth, all through her body—that she started to squirm.

  Paul’s mouth tore away from hers without warning, and she let her head fall backward, gasping for air. He immediately took advantage of the exposure of her neck and mouthed a hungry line down her throat.

  “Oh God!” she gasped, clutching, almost clawing at his shirt. The sensations overwhelmed her, pulsing through her body with her blood.

  Paul slid his hands down to span her ribs, holding her steady and easing her into a deeper arch of her spine. He was sucking the pulse at her throat, and it felt so good she moaned helplessly.

  She could feel her nipples tighten and rub in delicious torment against the cotton of her camisole. One of Paul’s hands shifted to stroke over the swell of her breast, teasing the shameless peak of her nipple with the heel of his hand.

  “Eh heh!” she gasped out as the stimulation tugged with exquisite pleasure between her legs. She let go of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to hold on and hold his head in place at the same time.

  He made a rough sound against her skin that absolutely thrilled her and caused the throbbing to intensify between her thighs. She squirmed eagerly in his lap, trying to feel as much of him as she could.

  “Oh fuck,” Paul rasped, raising his head and drawing back. When she tried to pull him toward her again, he said, “I’m sorry. Emily, wait.”

  She was so disoriented from the sensations and so disappointed in the abrupt interruption that she gave a little whimper. She blinked at him, her skin flushed red, her body aching with arousal. “You don’t want to?”

  Very carefully, he eased her off his lap and back over to the seat of the couch. “I’m sorry, Emily. I shouldn’t have…I can’t do this.”

  She’d fallen into an awkward flop, but she managed to sit up. Her body was still hot and pulsing, and it was all she could do not to grab Paul’s tense body and pull him down on top of her. “Oh.”

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, sitting stiffly and staring down at the floor. His skin had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

  “But I wanted to,” she told him, hoping it would make a difference.

  “I know. I’m sorry.” He’d been breathing heavily, and she could see him trying to even out his breath. “But we can’t…I don’t want to do this just because we both had really bad days.”

  “Oh.” She swallowed hard, finally understanding. “Okay.”

  He looked over at her searchingly. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded at him, fighting not to look as crushed as she felt. “It’s okay.”

  She understood. He’d been weak. He’d needed solace, company, somebody’s warm presence. And she’d been there to give it to him. It hadn’t mattered, at the moment, that she wasn’t the kind of girl he was attracted to. It was a weak moment, and he’d succumbed to it.

  But she wasn’t someone he really wanted that way.

  Paul stood up with a strange, low groan and started to leave the room, but he looked back at her one more time. “I’m really sorry. Are you…”

  “I’m okay,” she finished for him, giving him the best smile she could. He’d done so much for her. She wasn’t going to let him feel guilty about this. “I understand. I’m okay.”

  Paul left.

  Emily collapsed onto the couch and lay in a hot, frustrated heap. She was brutally disappointed, and she felt utterly rejected. She breathed deeply, though, and talked herself down from the feelings.

  It wasn’t fair to Paul for her to place such expectations on him. He’d given her absolutely everything he could, and she just couldn’t expect him to want her the way she wanted him. She couldn’t—she just wouldn’t—let this get in the way of their relationship.
/>
  She only had two months left, and she wasn't going to spend them feeling sorry for herself.

  When she felt emotionally level again, she got up and went back to her bedroom. Her body was still overly heated, still pulsing with arousal. She’d never in her life felt this way. She’d been aroused before, of course, although usually by something she read or by her own sexual fantasies. More and more, when she was around Paul, she found herself responding viscerally to his physical presence.

  But she’d never felt like this—like she might actually erupt.

  She closed her bedroom door and lay down on her bed, rolling over onto her stomach. Then she slipped one hand under the waistband of her pajamas. She rubbed herself in tight circles over the fabric of her panties, feeling the tension clench in her body almost immediately.

  She kept her eye on the door, although she was sure Paul wouldn’t walk in tonight the way he had while she’d been doing this in Egypt. She still remembered her shock and embarrassment, although fortunately he'd just thought she had a fever.

  Her breathing quickened as her fingers worked and she thought about Paul, about how he’d been kissing her, holding her, touching her.

  She came with a muffled groan, panting hotly against the pillow and still rubbing herself urgently, trying to feel all of the pleasure she could.

  When her body finally relaxed, she stayed sprawled out on her stomach for a long time.

  Eventually, though, she felt basically normal again, and she managed to get up, wash her hands and face, brush her teeth, and go to the bathroom. It was time for bed, and she was really tired. But she wasn’t really sleepy.

  She tried to read some Shakespeare in bed. Then she put Shakespeare away and tried to watch TV. She just couldn’t focus on anything.

  She pulled out her list. It was half done now but, once the trial was over, she would need to start working on the remainder of the items on her list. She tried to decide what she should do next. Finally, she put the list away too and just lay on her bed, thinking about Paul.

  Nothing really had changed. He’d still had an agonizing day. He still needed her, and he was lying in the dark by himself.

  Emily’s heart ached for him. Finally, at about midnight, she couldn’t stand it anymore.