by Karen Rose
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yeah, it does. It matters to me.’
She stood up, leaning heavily on the cane. ‘It’s late. I need to get Cordelia to sleep.’
Hope gave way to frustrated anger and he took a step forward, blocking her exit. ‘No.’ He moved closer, crowding her space so that she had to look up at him. ‘You can’t keep saying that to me without a reason. I want to know why, Stevie. At least you owe me that much.’
She glared, but the pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttered. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’
‘Yes, you do,’ he said silkily. ‘You said so yourself, not ten minutes ago. “I am in your debt, Clay” were your exact words. This is how I want to be repaid. I want the reason you believe it can’t be you. And I want it now.’
Chapter Eight
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 12.25 P.M.
Stevie couldn’t breathe. Clay was big, so big she could see nothing but him. Big in a way Paul had never been. Maybe it was because Paul never loomed over you, looking so fierce.
Paul had managed her with charm, never like this. Clay stood toe-to-toe, leaning so that he towered. Forcing me to look up. Or away. But she found she couldn’t look away. His dark eyes held hers, demanding an answer, and she knew he wouldn’t budge until she gave him what he wanted. There was a small part of her that was challenged. Excited.
A little bit turned on. Which is so wrong of me.
You owe me that much, he’d said. And even though she’d denied it, she knew he was right.
‘I never wanted to hurt you, but I know I did. I’m sorry.’
He didn’t move a muscle. ‘That’s not an answer.’
‘I know.’ She gave in to the urge to retreat, shuffling back a step. It didn’t help. Still can’t breathe. ‘Can you give me some room? You’re making this worse.’
He straightened a fraction. ‘Stop stalling, Stevie.’
‘I loved my husband.’
‘I know you did. I’m sure you still do. And?’
She blinked, thrown off balance. ‘And? And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘If you hadn’t loved him, you shouldn’t have married him. Wouldn’t have grieved him.’ He hesitated. Lifted a shoulder in a gesture that was anything but careless. ‘You don’t just stop loving someone because they’re gone. Or because they don’t want you to.’
She closed her eyes, his meaning clear. ‘I won’t love anyone the same way as I loved Paul.’
‘Of course you won’t.’
She looked up at him, frustrated. ‘Stop that. Stop agreeing with me.’
One brow lifted maddeningly. ‘Really?’
She gritted her teeth. ‘You’re making me crazy.’
‘Join the club,’ he said wryly. ‘So you love him still. He’s not here, Stevie. He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Do you think he’d want you to be alone for the rest of your life?’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘I’m still waiting for the point.’
‘The point is that I could never feel about you the way I felt about Paul. You’d be second best. Always. And eventually you’d come to hate me.’
Something flickered in his eyes and she wasn’t sure if it was anger or hurt. ‘You’re not being rational.’
She sighed. ‘You just don’t like my answer. I’ve met your demand, now please let me go.’
But he stood firm. ‘I want you to think about something. Seriously consider it. You didn’t just lose your husband that day. You also lost your son.’
She sucked in a shocked breath, flinching. ‘And?’
‘You have Cordelia. Do you love her less? Is she second best to you?’
Stevie’s mouth fell open, words failing her as she stared numbly. ‘You sonofabitch,’ she whispered. ‘How dare you?’ Then fury blasted through the numbness. She shoved him, but he didn’t budge so she gripped her cane like a bat. ‘Let me go or I will hurt you and mean it.’
He finally stepped aside. ‘Just consider it,’ he repeated. ‘Please.’
She wished she could stalk out with her head high, but her leg ached and she could only hobble. She paused at the door, not looking back. ‘I appreciate the use of this facility tonight,’ she said stiffly. ‘I’ll find another place to hide with Cordelia tomorrow.’
‘As you wish,’ he said quietly.
She stared down the dock, hearing him lock the door to the boathouse behind them, aware of him following her. Watching my back, still. She wanted to yell at him, tell him to get the fuck away. But the truth was, she needed his coverage at the moment. It was either that, or let him pick her up again and carry her.
It had felt too good before. Too safe. Not gonna happen again. Besides, with all that James Bond equipment in there, there was no way anyone was close enough to take another shot at her.
She got to the end of the dock and stopped, dread filling her. The stretch of sand was only about a hundred feet, but it looked like a hundred miles. Lifting her chin, she took the first step.
And her leg buckled right out from under her, pitching her face-first into the sand.
Stunned, she lay there for a moment, turning only her head so that she could breathe as a sob began to build deep within her chest. She clenched her jaw, holding it in. You will not cry.
She could hear him behind her, feel him. But he said nothing.
She pushed herself to her knees and brushed the sand off her face, her chest growing tighter as she fought not to cry. Strong hands grasped her shoulders and she found herself lifted to her feet. His hands disappeared, but she could feel his warmth at her back. Still he said nothing.
You lost your son. Is Cordelia second best?
Suddenly it was simply too much. The day. The gunshots. The two dead women. Her throbbing arm. Her damn leg that shook pitifully beneath her weight.
She sank to her knees, the sob barreling out. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hunched her shoulders, rocking back and forth, wishing he weren’t there to see her this way.
Glad he was.
A moment later she was in his arms again and he was carrying her across the sand. She turned her face into his chest, muffling the pathetic sounds she could no longer hold inside.
He let them in through the gate, but instead of going into the house, he carried her to a porch swing and lowered them into it, cradling her on his lap. Rocking them gently, he let her cry.
Finally the tears were spent and she felt hollowed out. He should be angry. He should hate her. Yet he held her tenderly and Stevie hated herself. ‘Goddamn you,’ she whispered.
‘I know,’ he whispered back.
‘Why can’t you hate me?’
His chuckle rumbled in his chest, tickling her cheek. ‘I’ve tried. I’ve really tried.’
She shuddered out a sigh. ‘I don’t want Cordelia to see me like this.’
‘Sitting in my lap?’
Stevie felt her cheeks burn. That, too. ‘I meant I didn’t want her to know I’ve been crying.’
He tipped up her chin. Winced a little. ‘I think she’s gonna know. I might have some frozen peas in the freezer, though.’
She smiled at him sadly. ‘I wish you were a mean man.’
‘If wishes were horses,’ he murmured. ‘You ready to go in?’
‘Yeah. It’s been a long day.’ But she didn’t move. For a moment she just let him hold her and soaked in the feeling. Because it felt good. Far too good. You’re going to hurt him again.
Either way this went, she knew it would be true. If she pushed him away once and for all right now, he’d hurt. If she allowed him to wear her down, if they had a relationship, she was certain he’d be disappointed. Eventually, anyway. He’d leave and they’d all be hurt.
Especially Cordelia. Who is not second best in my heart, dammit. She forced her body to shift off his lap, testing her leg before taking a step.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
No.
Not even close. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Then I’ll show you where you’ll sleep. I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.’
Baltimore, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 2.30 A.M.
The small beep woke him up. Robinette rolled over, reaching for his cell phone.
‘Who is it?’ Lisa asked sleepily.
He ran a teasing finger along her spine, pressed a kiss to her temple. ‘A text from Jimmy Chan in Hong Kong. I need to call him.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Only two-thirty in the morning. It’s the afternoon for Chan. Go back to sleep.’
He slid from the bed, pulled on his pants, and headed down to his office. He dialed quickly, except it was not Mr Chan of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange whom he called. The text had come from his source within BPD. ‘What is it?’ Robinette asked.
‘An address for Mazzetti’s safe house.’
Robinette smiled. ‘Good to know. ETA for arrival?’
‘She’s there now with her kid.’
‘Solo?’
‘Yeah. She made that a condition of going – that no one was to disturb her privacy.’
That sounded like the detective who’d made his life a living hell. Cocky and bossy. Her way or the damn highway.
‘Text the address to 301-555-1592.’ Westmoreland’s cell phone. Robinette had every confidence that Westmoreland was smart enough to learn from Henderson’s mistakes. Mazzetti would be dead within the hour.
‘Will do.’
Robinette hung up the phone, satisfied. Now life could get back to normal. And I can get back to Lisa. He found those benefit dinners to be hellishly boring, but his wife thrived on the gowns and the jewels and the stares of every envious woman and lust-filled man in the place. If he played his cards right – and tonight he had – her excitement spilled over into their bed. She was still young and adventurous with a body made for sin, when she was in the mood.
And when Lisa took to her bed with a headache? There was always Fletcher to scratch his itch. They’d always been good in bed, he and Fletcher. And while Fletch didn’t like Lisa, his chemist was smart enough to never cross the line and demand anything more from their mutually beneficial, yet clandestine, relationship. He and Fletcher could have their cake and eat it, too.
They could have a hell of a lot of cake, in fact. Fletcher’s improved formula was about to make Fletcher rich and Robinette even richer.
And with money like that, Robinette didn’t worry about the state of his marriage. If he grew tired of Lisa, he’d just get another wife who was prettier, more socially acceptable, and importantly, more biddable.
He paused mid-way up the stairs, the thought having come as a surprise. He hadn’t realized he was growing bored with Lisa until that moment. He wondered how to make a divorce work.
His first two wives had died, after all. A third wife’s death would renew public scrutiny, arousing suspicions, something he’d avoid at all costs. But he had time to worry about that later. Lisa was in his bed, warm and willing. Fletcher was in the lab, working, making him money.
And Stevie Mazzetti would soon be dying. All in all, a good night.
Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Sunday, March 16, 3.40 A.M.
It was a small sound. A shuffling sound. Clay lifted his head from the pillow, instantly alert and a half-second later on his feet, gun in his hand. Everyone was in one of the bedrooms, except his father who was standing guard downstairs.
Quietly Clay slipped through the bedroom door and let out a silent sigh.
Cordelia sat in the hall on the floor outside his room, her back against the wall. She’d drawn her knees to her body and had her face buried in her nightgown. Her shoulders shook with sobs.
Looked like he’d be comforting another weeping Mazzetti female. He was glad this one was Cordelia. She, he could help. Seeing Stevie cry simply tore him up inside.
Beside her, a canine head lifted watchfully. Columbo, his father’s Chesapeake Bay Retriever, had slept in her room, at the foot of the bed she’d shared with her mother. Stevie hadn’t argued the presence of the dog after Cordelia told her the dog always slept there.
‘We’re sleeping in his bed, Mom,’ she’d said plaintively.
Technically, they were sleeping in Clay’s bed, but he hadn’t told them that. It was the most comfortable of all the beds in the house and he wanted Stevie to get a decent night’s sleep.
Looked like Cordelia had wanted the same thing. Her head lifted when he sat down next to her, her little finger pressed to her lips. ‘Sshh. My mom’s asleep,’ she whispered through her tears. Then she lowered her face to her knees again.
‘We won’t wake her,’ Clay promised. He stretched his legs out, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke Cordelia’s hair. She shuddered and leaned into him, so he put his arm around her shoulders, kissed the top of her head. ‘Bad dream, honey?’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry I woke you up,’ she whispered, stretching out her legs as he had. Her feet, which only reached his knees, were small compared with the boots he wore. ‘But I hoped you’d be the one to come out. Aunt Emma’s nice, but . . . you understand.’
Warmth unfurled in his chest. ‘You want to tell me what the dream was about?’
She rested her head against him, closing her eyes with a tiny sigh. ‘Mr Silas.’
‘In the kitchen at your house?’
Again, a nod. ‘I hate that kitchen,’ she confessed.
Clay saw his father peeking around the head of the stairs, brows raised in question. With a tilt of his head, Clay gestured for his dad to go back down. ‘We’re okay,’ he mouthed.
His father’s graying head disappeared, his steps on the stairs nearly silent.
‘I’d hate that kitchen, too, if I were you,’ Clay murmured.
‘That’s where…’ Cordelia stopped to breathe, her chest hitching. ‘It’s where he put the gun against my side. Mr Silas, I mean.’
‘I know.’ Clay kept his voice calm. Inside, fury churned.
She twisted to look up at him, curiosity in her eyes. ‘How do you know?’
‘Paige was there, remember? She told me later.’ Somehow they’d managed to keep Cordelia’s involvement from the newspapers, so she’d never had to worry about who else knew. ‘Did you think of flowers or puppies coming out of the gun after the dream?’
‘Yes.’ She settled against him again. ‘It didn’t work. I’m still scared.’ But she yawned.
‘Which did you think of? Puppies or flowers?’
‘Both.’ She yawned again. ‘Maybe next time I’ll try Skittles. Or M&Ms.’
‘M&Ms should work really well. They were my mom’s favorite.’
‘You didn’t get to put the yellow flowers on your mama’s grave. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ He ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘I think my mom would have understood.’
‘We don’t put flowers on my dad’s grave.’ She paused. ‘Or my brother’s. I think my mom visits, but she never takes me with her.’
‘She probably thinks it would upset you.’
‘Because it upsets her?’
I still love my husband, she’d said. You’d be second best. Clay had to swallow hard. ‘Maybe. She doesn’t like for you to see her cry.’
‘I would make her feel better. I can do that.’ Her little fist clenched. ‘I have to do that.’
She’d said it so determinedly. ‘Why? Why do you have to do that?’
‘Because I’m all she has left,’ Cordelia whispered.
‘Sweetheart . . . You’re not. Your mother has a big family. Your grandparents, Aunt Izzy, Uncle Sorin. She has lots of friends who love her. You’re not all she has left.’
Cordelia’s eyes were wise and sad. ‘But it’s not the same. Sometimes she goes into my brother’s room and she cries. She doesn’t know that I know. But later, I make her feel better.’
Clay sighed. Tried again. ‘You’re not responsible for your mom’s happiness. She’s a grownup. She’s res
ponsible for you.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m all she has left,’ she insisted.
He’d been wrong. He would rather have comforted Stevie, even though it tore him up inside. This child carried a burden that broke his heart. Because this, too, he understood.
‘I thought that way, too, a long time ago,’ he said softly. ‘My mom was a single mother, just like yours. Except that my dad didn’t die. He just didn’t care and he left.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right, really. It turned out even better, because she met Tanner St James. She didn’t think she’d ever meet a man who wanted a woman with a little kid already, but he did. And he . . . he is the best dad I could ever have. But before Tanner, I used to feel like you do. Like I had to take care of my mom. Like I had to keep her happy.’ He hesitated. ‘I sometimes even wondered if she really wanted me. If her life would be easier if I weren’t there.’
Cordelia looked up at him suddenly, wide-eyed. Then her gaze skittered away, telling him all he needed to know. ‘It wasn’t true for my mom,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s not true for yours either. She loves you with all her heart, Cordelia.’
She nodded, pressing her face against his side. ‘I know.’ Then, so softly he almost didn’t hear her, she added, ‘Because I’m all she has left.’
Oh, Lord. His eyes stung and he had no idea of how to respond. So he just sat there, eyes closed as he held her to his side, listening to her breathe. Within minutes her breathing evened out, her little body finally relaxing into sleep.
The creak of a floorboard had his eyes flying open. His heart sank. Stevie stood in the open doorway of her bedroom, pale. Stricken.
He glanced down at Cordelia, making sure she slept and wasn’t faking it again. She seemed to be truly sleeping this time. ‘How much did you hear?’ he asked quietly.
Stevie crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly. ‘All of it. Except for that last thing. What did she say to you?’
Clay sighed again. ‘Let’s get her back to bed and we’ll go downstairs to talk.’