by Kylie Brant
“No, chérie, it’s not.”
The denial, spoken gently, squeezed her lungs even harder. “I just like it open. I sleep better that way.”
“There’s a difference, isn’t there, between wanting it open and needing it open?”
She drew in a shuddering breath and he approached her. He didn’t touch her, a fact she was grateful for. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“Tell me.”
The words were an invitation, not a command. It wasn’t an invitation she expected to accept. Only her mother had ever heard all the details, and she just hadn’t given a damn.
But Nick settled his shoulders against the wall next to Sara and didn’t look away. It was that quiet air of acceptance that finally penetrated her silence.
“My mother…she liked a good time, and booze and men were always a part of that equation.” The rain was still falling outside, but it had quieted to a soothing rhythm that calmed Sara’s racing pulse. “I never knew my father. Janie, my mother, had a short attention span. She didn’t stick with guys for long. She must have had a dozen living with us over the years. I got used to being careful and I got used to never being alone with any of them.”
She wiped away a drop of moisture on the sill with her index finger, and let the memories come and the inner darkness take over. “The last one lived with us the longest—almost two years. I never saw my mom as wild for a guy as she was for him. You can probably guess the rest.”
Her shoulder jerked in a poor excuse for a shrug. Sara didn’t look at Nick; she couldn’t. She didn’t want to see pity on his face and she couldn’t bear to see revulsion. Her voice became steadier, the recitation more matter-of-fact. “He was slimy…always trying to touch me or rub against me when he could. He used to tell me…”
Come and get it, little girl. Uncle Jesse’s the best there is. I’ll treat ya good. Real good.
She plowed through the memory and continued. “He convinced her she’d be better off taking the extra money to work third shift at the diner. That left him home alone with me.” Sara had used every reason she could come up with not to go home at night. When she couldn’t stay with a friend, she would always stay late at the library. “I just needed to get inside and to my room. He left me alone until he got enough beer in him. Then he’d come upstairs.”
Open the door, ya ’lil bitch. Y’know ya want it.
“I put locks on my door three different times. He’d take them off while I was out. So I always left the window in my room open. Took the screen off it so I could crawl out onto the garage roof when I needed to. He was afraid of heights.” She’d spent more than one night perched on the roof, she remembered—when he’d slam the window shut and lock it in a fit of rage. She’d never minded. Once outside she’d always known she was safe. But she had to be able to get outside.
“One night I walked in and he didn’t say a word. I went to my room and heard him on the stairs. I ran to the window as he came up behind me…and he’d nailed it shut.”
A deep weariness filled her, one that came not from the physical but the mental. “I didn’t make it easy for him, but he was big, over six foot, and he had a lot of pent-up hostility from all the times I’d gotten away before.”
She still remembered the hope she’d harbored. The tiny piece of faith as she experienced that drunken attack, the long hours until morning. “I met my mother at the door when she came home.” Sara pressed her lips together, remembering the look on the woman’s face when she’d seen her, bruised and bloody. “I tried to tell her what had happened. She took one of her high heels and beat me with it.” One hand went to her scalp, fingering the scar that could still throb like a fresh wound. “She said I was a no-good whore, and told me to get out. She wasn’t going to put up with me teasing and tempting her man.”
“What’s his name?”
Disoriented, Sara looked at Nick. He’d been silent so long she’d lost herself in the litany and hadn’t sensed the change in him. But she noticed it now. Menace was emanating from him in waves. “It doesn’t matter….”
“His name.”
She took a deep breath, let it out. “Jesse Carson. He’s dead. I kept up with the local news by the Internet. He was knifed outside a bar less than a year later.”
“He’s lucky.”
Blinking at Nick, Sara watched him visibly search for control. Wonderingly, she stepped forward, put her hand on his chest, felt the deep shudders as he donned the awesome mantle of restraint.
“It was a long time ago,” she whispered. It had been an unspeakable trauma, had shaped who she became. But the man’s attack hadn’t been as traumatic as her mother’s betrayal. It would have been easier to forgive had she been drunk, but Janie had just gotten off work. She’d been sober and she’d been enraged.
Because Nick seemed to need it, Sara rested her head against his chest. Her fingers stroked his side, skirting the bandage he still wore there.
“Wasn’t there someone you could have gone to? At school? The police?” he choked out.
“I didn’t think I’d have a lot of credibility. I was kind of a problem kid. I’d been in trouble before…had run away twice, and the police had hauled me back. But I didn’t figure my mother would be reporting me missing this time, that no one would care where I’d gone.” And she’d been right—no one had.
The memories were tugging her too close to the brink of emptiness, which she’d lived with for too long. It had been Sean who’d helped keep the abyss from swallowing her whole. Sean who had healed something inside her that she’d thought was broken forever. She would always regret failing to do the same for him. He’d never talked about what had sent him to the streets, but she’d sensed that whatever it had been had damaged him in some deep, irreparable way. His kindness to her, his relationship with her, had caused his death. And there was no regret in this world that could weigh heavier than that.
She didn’t know how long Nick held her that night. Long enough for the memory-induced tension to fade and exhaustion to take its place. Long enough for the rain outside to slow to the occasional audible drop against the window.
Long enough, she thought, to chase away a ghost or two from her past.
Chapter 11
Nick gripped the windowsill and breathed as deeply of the fresh night air as he’d watched Sara do hours before. She’d fallen asleep, finally, but slumber hadn’t been so kind to him. The story she’d relayed haunted him, left him wound too tightly to relax.
A helpless kind of rage circled in his gut. For a man unused to feeling at all, it was an unsettling emotion. Sara had been able to stir all kinds of unfamiliar feelings in him, even long before he’d met her.
She’d been raped.
Ugly words for an unspeakably ugly act. She’d been little more than a child and had been violated in the cruelest kind of way.
There was a deeply primitive part of him that wished Carson was still alive. Wished he’d have the opportunity to track the man down and make him pay, one torturous second at a time, with his worthless life. The fact that the satisfaction would be denied to him was only partly to blame for the level of frustration Nick felt right now.
The clouds parted then, drifting across the sky and allowing a sliver of moonlight through. He couldn’t remember the number of times he’d wondered about Sara when he’d been tracking her. Couldn’t recall when his task of finding her had become more like the obsession Luc had called it. He’d been a step behind her for months before he’d finally traced her to New Orleans. The irony of discovering her in his hometown hadn’t been lost on him. She’d been someone different in every town she’d left. In Biloxi she’d been a gum-cracking airhead with a weakness for flashy rings. In Atlanta she’d become a studious wall-flower who’d constantly had her nose in a book. And in New Orleans she’d been a waitress with nervous mannerisms at odds with the cool, measuring look in her eyes—a waitress who collected statues of cats.
The rain had cooled the night air, but he welco
med its chill. He felt like he was burning from the inside out. He’d known that the odd sort of kinship he’d started to feel was the most dangerous kind of distraction. But he hadn’t been able to will it away. He’d chosen to live in life’s sewers, dealing with human garbage, but circumstances hadn’t given her a choice.
Every week he’d spent on her trail, his fascination had grown. The similarities between them had been impossible to ignore. So Nick found himself wondering if she even knew anymore which of the identities she donned was most familiar. Whether she felt like she’d lost a little piece of herself with every disguise.
A tiny sound came from the bed and he turned his head sharply. Sara stirred, but didn’t waken. He studied her in the darkness, wishing he could undo things that were impossible to undo, halt events that had already been set in motion.
He hadn’t needed the words earlier to know that it hadn’t been the violence Carson had done to her that had wounded her most powerfully, but her mother’s reaction to it. Sara had been betrayed by the one who should have protected her, and betrayed in a different way by Mannen.
The time was long past when Nick could have fooled himself into believing he had this situation under control. A blade of terror edged along his heart at the acknowledgment. In the last five years he’d never given himself reason to doubt the outcome of an assignment. With sixty-six deaths on his conscience, he vowed to never let feeling enter a mission again. But he was dangerously close to that precipice here, battling emotions far better left unidentified.
He could only hope, for both Sara’s and his sake, that he won the skirmish.
Sara clung tightly to Nick’s tux-clad arm and tried to will the nerves away. “You’re getting a lot of mileage out of that tuxedo.”
A five-piece band played music from the forties as he guided her through the throngs of people and scanned the crowded room for their host. “We men don’t have the same need as women to not be seen in the same thing twice.” He glanced at her, his smile teasing. “That’s why it doesn’t bother us to wear identical monkey suits to every event that comes along.”
She didn’t point out that such events had never filled up her calendar until she’d met him. “I’m not the type to need a lot of clothes. You arranged for the wardrobe, remember.”
His gaze was openly admiring. “And a fine job I did, too.”
The dress was an ice-blue waterfall of silk that brushed the tops of her sandal-clad feet. She was draped in diamonds again, solitaire studs, with a necklace fashioned like a shimmering collar. When she’d put them on she’d felt like a little girl playing dress-up. The feeling had intensified when Kim had helped her with her hair, sweeping it up in a style that Sara would have sworn it was too short for. But then, she didn’t have a lot of experience with readying herself for fancy events. If her stomach hadn’t been alive with nerves, maybe she would have tried to enjoy the situation just a little.
She spotted Mannen across the room, surrounded by a group of people. Her chest tightened. “It appears you were right. His notoriety hasn’t seemed to deter his guests.”
“Just the opposite, probably.”
When she sent Nick an inquiring glance, he shrugged. “Human nature being what it is, a lot of these people probably enjoy rubbing shoulders with someone who is tainted by scandal like Mannen. It gives them something to gossip about and makes them feel daring when they go back to their own lives.”
She surprised them both by laughing. “You’re a cynic. Why am I not surprised?”
“I’m a realist,” he corrected, but he was smiling crookedly down at her. “Or perhaps a fatalist. At any rate, there’s enough of a crowd here to make you feel comfortable, isn’t there?”
Comfort was a relative term, she thought, as they slowly made their way around the large room. Her heart was knocking so hard at the wall of her chest that she could stand in as the band’s percussionist. But she felt slightly more secure that she wouldn’t be recognized by Mannen. Clothes had a way of framing a person, setting impressions in others’ minds. That’s why she’d always given her wardrobe careful consideration each time she’d chosen a new identity. She couldn’t believe anyone would ever recognize her dressed as she was right now.
That thought should have smoothed jagged nerves, but only succeeded in holding them in check. When Nick handed her a wineglass, she sipped too eagerly, and choked a little. She knew from his raised brows that he suspected she’d gone for some liquid courage, and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. It wasn’t every day she was forced to look her would-be killer in the face and make nice.
“Don’t drink so much that you forget your cover.” Nick whispered the words in an undertone as he nuzzled her ear. If she could have prevented the all too visible shudder his action sent skating down her spine, she would have.
“Michel,” she drawled, “yoah such a tease.” Giving him an arch look, she flicked an imaginary bit of lint from his lapel. “If yoah going to lecture, maybe Ah’ll find a more accommodating escort.”
The smile on Nick’s mouth was slight, but there was a glint of pure amusement in his eyes. “I’d be a fool to take a chance like that, Raeanne, darling.”
As they slowly moved through the room, halting to exchange introductions or chatter with other guests, Sara noted the way Nick’s gaze continually scanned the area. He was used to sizing a place up, she thought, as well as everyone in it. She appreciated the quality, because she shared it herself.
“Shall we dance?”
Not if she could help it. “Maybe later.” She held up her glass, which was still half-full, a handy excuse.
“No time like the present.” Nick whisked the glass out of her hand and set both it and his on a nearby table. Sara threw a look at the surprised people sitting there and tried not to drag her feet as he drew her into his arms.
“I can’t dance.”
He raised her hand up to his shoulder and caught the other one in his. “What did you say?”
Her teeth clenched. “I said I don’t know how to…” Her words were rendered meaningless when he swirled her around the floor with a few deft movements.
They were in the midst of swaying couples, and she had no idea how they’d gotten there. “You must be mistaken,” Nick said with a self-satisfied smile. “You are dancing. Waltzing, to be precise.”
She made the mistake of looking down, and immediately stumbled. His arm tightened around her, his hand pressing against her lower back. “Haven’t you ever heard the warning ‘don’t look down’?”
“I thought that referred to heights,” she said automatically.
“Goes for dancing, too. Look at me.” Her gaze raised to his. “There. Keep your eyes on me and you’ll do fine. All you have to do is feel the music and let me guide you to the rhythm. Do you feel it?”
What she felt was threatening to undo all the good that had been done with the deep breathing exercises she’d been practicing. Her nerves reared, began scampering again.
Nick was holding her close. Sending a surreptitious glance around at the other couples, she decided they were dancing nearer than most. But he might have had to take that avenue to avoid having his feet brutalized by hers. Sensation radiated from the spread of his fingers on her back. His shoulders looked a yard wide in the dark cloth, a perfect foil for his inky hair and eyes. And since she’d seen him in a tux so recently, the sight of him in one now shouldn’t do such strange things to her pulse.
Of course, she reflected, as his fingers brushed her bare back, perhaps she had a deeper appreciation of that well-honed body packed in black-and-white tailoring now that she had a vivid mental image of him out of it.
The provocative thought had her stumbling again, this time in embarrassment. He gathered her even closer, seeming unaware that her body had gone stiff against his.
The recollection, once summoned, couldn’t be banished. Of Nick’s shoulders, blocking out the moonlight; of his shirt half-off; of his hair mussed by her fingers and his chest damp from his
exertions. Of his hips pounding against hers in a rhythm she’d been helpless to deny.
“Chérie.” The word sounded at her ear. She closed her eyes and arched her neck, and his lips found the pulse there, beating wildly. He’d recognize her reaction, would probably even guess its cause. She couldn’t bring herself to care.
The music ended. Nick released her, but kept his arm around her waist as he guided her from the dance floor. He snagged a wineglass from a waiter going by and took a long swallow.
Sara looked at him uncertainly. His face looked as if it had been carved from stone. In that instant his eyes met hers. He took another drink, then offered the glass to her. “You go to my head far faster than any liquor could.”
The compliment had her eyes widening. “Maybe we should get some food in you.”
“Maybe we should. Because right now your mouth is looking like a particularly tasty morsel.”
Confused pleasure spread through her with a flush. She’d never learned the art of flirtation, the teasing give-and-take of lighthearted banter, with something else layered beneath. Tongue-tied, she merely stared at him. And watched him take a long deep breath.
“Let’s get some air.” His intent was clear, and her blood began to slow, to throb. Her body was all too familiar with the promise his embrace offered. And all too willing to experience it again.
But as they cut across the room toward the open terrace doors, their host left the clutch of people he was conversing with and approached them.
“Michel, good of you to come. And your lovely companion.” Mannen turned to her, smiled genially. And Sara’s blood abruptly cooled.
His tuxedo had a silver vest that was the same color as his hair. It was his eyes, though, that held her attention. They resembled a shark’s—flat, without feeling. “May I call you Raeanne?”
“Please do.” It was an effort to keep a smile on her lips, a drawl in her voice. He took her hand in his and an icy finger of fear licked down her spine. Dimly, she was aware of Nick’s arm tightening around her waist. She was grateful for it. Her knees had gone to jelly.