While She Was Sleeping

by Diane Pershing

  “Hey, you don’t know that for sure. Come on, sit down.”

  “No,” she said with surprising force, wrenching herself from his grip. “I’m too upset.” Her gaze darted restlessly around the kitchen, settling on the phone. Snatching it up, she punched in a series of numbers, waited, then said, “Richard, where are you? Call me back.” She repeated Nick’s phone number then hung up. “He’d better come up with some pretty good answers.”

  Raking her fingers through her hair, she paced the length of the counter and back, her head lowered in deep thought.

  Nick leaned back against the refrigerator door and watched her, eager for her to keep talking, while he kept on the lookout for signs of incipient shock. But he didn’t think that was likely, not this time. He’d seen this intense kind of behavior in some crime victims—it was focused blessedly outward. She was angry at Richard, which, to Nick’s way of thinking, was a lot better than feeling like a victim.

  “Why can’t I remember?” Carly muttered. As she walked back and forth, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “If what Richard wanted me to do actually...happened, then I must have been raped. But if I was, I can’t remember it.” She glanced at Nick briefly. “Shouldn’t I remember it if I was raped?”

  “I don’t think you were,” he said evenly.

  “How would you know?”

  “There would be signs. You would be bruised if anyone had been rough with you. I’ve been around a lot of rape cases.”

  She stopped pacing. For a moment, a look of hope flashed across her face, but it evaporated just as quickly. “That doesn’t mean nothing happened, only that I didn’t fight it.”

  “You were given drugs, remember? So you would be more pliable. You’re not responsible for any of this.”

  “You mean, slip a little something into the lady’s drink so you can get her to do whatever you’d like? Do you know how horrible that thought is?” She held out her hands. “To be so powerless, to be at someone’s mercy and have no say about anything?”

  Clenching her fists, she brought them to her thighs. Her small, slim body shook with emotion. “Can you even possibly imagine the thought of being...intimate with someone, without being willing?”

  Could he imagine that? Nick asked himself. He’d never thought about it For a moment, he tried to put himself in her place, but he couldn’t do it. As a man, he had no idea how it would feel to be used that way. No idea at all.

  Then the full impact of what she’d just said hit him. Being intimate with someone without being willing. He felt his body stiffen. Was Carly talking only about what had happened before they’d met? When she’d been with him, had she been unwilling?

  Had he used her, even unknowingly? The question had been in the back of his mind all day; he’d been wrestling with it, he realized, without being aware of it. Now he was fully aware.

  Muttering a curse, he sank into one of the kitchen chairs.

  Carly had been so caught up in her own distress, she’d hardly noticed Nick’s reaction. Until now. His abrupt movement indicated something was wrong. “Nick?”

  “Yeah?” He didn’t look up at her.

  “What is it?” She walked over to the table and sat down across from him. “Did I say something—”

  “I don’t know, it’s probably stupid, but—” He sat up taller in the chair, as if he wasn’t about to be caught slumping. The muscles around his jawline tensed defensively. “Did you mean me? When you said that about being intimate without being willing? Did you mean what happened with us?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, God, no. Did you think I meant you? I didn’t. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  He scowled. “Don’t take care of me, dammit. I’m fine.”

  He was embarrassed, she realized. He was uncomfortable with letting her see him being human. Exposed. Without thinking, she reached across the table and stroked his cheek. He had evening bristles, and the feel of them on her palm was rough...and extremely sensual. It reminded her of how his skin had felt on hers last night.

  “I think—” She stopped, determined not to equivocate. “No, I know I was willing with you. Whatever drug I had in my system was wearing off by then. Please, I didn’t mean you. I’m sorry.”

  He gripped her hand tightly to stop its movement on his cheek. “Stop apologizing, dammit,” he snarled. “You’re the one all this happened to, not me. Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?”

  With a sudden move, he dropped her hand and got up from the table. He walked over to the doorway into the living room and stood there, his back to her, his posture rigid with silent tension.

  Carly felt helpless, at a loss for words. In one part of her brain, she understood. He’d lashed out because he was feeling ill at ease, raw. Most men didn’t like to be caught at those moments.

  But what should she do about it? What did normal people do with angry men, how did they respond? When, as a child, she’d made any attempt to stand up to her father, she’d been laughed at or yelled at, both of which usually reduced her to tears. Then he would sneer at her for crying. It was what they called a lose-lose situation. Eventually she stopped trying to get through.

  She was up against it now, she thought, just the way it used to be. The brick wall, masculine version. No matter what you said or did, no matter how much you tried to explain yourself, to be listened to, you just kept hitting that wall till you hurt yourself.

  All right, she thought, she didn’t know how to respond to anger. But that didn’t mean she had to stay put for any more of it. She pushed herself up from the table and faced the food they’d bought, spread out on the kitchen counter. Onions, fresh garlic, olive oil. A few spices. Potatoes, two steaks. A round loaf of sourdough bread, a tub of butter.

  She would concentrate on these things, on anything but the angry man in the room. Smoothing her hands down her clothing, she said, “Why don’t you go back to watching TV for a while, Nick? I have a dinner to prepare. Did I tell you I’m a good cook?”

  “Yes, you told me. And I’m not leaving.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and saw him watching her. His face was unsmiling in the kitchen doorway. His right elbow leaned against the door frame, his left hand was at his hip. Portrait of one hard, tough cop, she thought, then shrugged. “It’s your place.”

  She turned on the oven, then opened and shut several cupboard doors before she found a large iron skillet, which she set on the stove. A little olive oil, she told herself. Peel the potatoes. Chop the onions, mince the garlic. Keep your back to Nick and focus on the task in front of you.

  But another part of her mind was racing off in a different direction. Richard had drugged her so she would have sex with someone he owed money to. Somehow, he’d gotten her to California, redid her hair and clothes...

  No, someone else had done that; Richard wouldn’t have recognized a hair roller if one had hit him in the face. A second person, then, must have been involved, somewhere along the way. She’d been brought to Demeter’s yacht. Was Demeter the second man? Was he the one Richard owed money to?

  What had happened once she was on board the yacht? Had she actually had sex with Demeter? Once, twice? More? Again, she shuddered at the thought, but pushed ahead with what had to be faced.

  Had she killed him?

  Closing her eyes, she tried fiercely to remember anything that had happened before the picture of Demeter saying “Amanda,” before the picture of Demeter getting his head blown away. Anything at all.

  “Has something else come back to you?’

  Startled by the sound of Nick’s voice, Carly dropped the knife she’d been using on the onions. It clattered to the floor. She stared at it, then bent over to retrieve it. But Nick was there before she was. He picked up the utensil and set it back on the counter. He remained there, unnervingly close, instead of returning to his lookout post in the doorway.

  “Did you hear me?” Nick said, a slight edge to his vo
ice. “You just remembered something. Care to share it with me?”

  She didn’t answer him. Instead she tried to ignore his proximity, tried to tamp down her pounding heart.

  She wanted to tell him. Wanted to pour it all out. Yes, she wanted to say, I remember a man. A dead man. And I might have killed him. But I don’t know, because I still can’t remember that part.

  “Carly?” he said again.

  Sure, she thought. Confess right now. Nick would have no choice but to whisk her off to jail in the flick of an eyelash. And why shouldn’t he? She was nothing to him, just a one-night stand who’d become something more—a puzzle for him to solve. He would turn her in. They would lock her up. Behind bars. With no way out.

  Just the way it used to be, she and Nina, in their pink dresses....

  No. That was history. It was over.

  She bit her lip to make herself stop thinking about the past and searched for some way to reply to Nick’s question. Finally, she shook her head and went back to making dinner.

  Frowning, Nick studied her as she moved around his kitchen. Had she remembered something else or was her withdrawal just a way of reacting to his little display of temper? Man, did he feel stupid. He’d blown it, but good. Why had he lashed out at her like that?

  Because she’d touched some sort of nerve, that was why. Somewhere deep inside, he must have been worried that their incredible night together had been drug-induced. That she would have been that way with any man, not just him. That it hadn’t been...personal.

  So? he asked himself silently. Even if that had been the case, so what? Was his ego bruised, his pride in himself as a hotshot lover at stake? No, he was past having to prove himself in bed. The truth was that Carly had, in that instant, wounded him, and the sudden realization that he was vulnerable—God, he hated that word!—to her, surprised him. And disturbed him.

  Carly could hurt him.

  He’d thought he’d learned his lesson about letting a woman get too close, but this one had taken him by surprise. She really had gotten under his skin, hadn’t she? She was more important to him than he wanted her to be. Much more important. The recognition of this truth stunned him, even now as he watched her fuss over the dinner, watched her keeping a wall between them so thick he could practically touch it. He barely knew her, for God’s sake! But that didn’t seem to matter.

  She’d said something that had hit a nerve and he’d struck back. Should he apologize? For what? Blowing up at her? Or caring too much?

  At a loss for an answer, he remained silent, watching her make their meal. Her actions were competent, experienced. She did terrific things with salad, chopped and shredded all kinds of vegetables he never usually thought to eat. She was a whiz with his carving-knife set, which he’d bought a couple of years ago and mostly used to cut up lemons.

  He decided to make himself useful by setting the table. He took out plates, silverware, napkins. They worked in uneasy silence for a while, then Nick said, “I have a suggestion.”

  When she didn’t answer, he went on, wanting to offer some kind of olive branch to her. “I know this guy, Neil Mishkin. He’s an M.D. who’s also a hypnotherapist. The department’s used him a few times in the past and he was a real help. How about I give Neil a call in the morning, see if he can jiggle your memory? Why put yourself through this? If you know for sure what actually did happen to you during the blackout, you’ll at least know what you’re dealing with. What do you think?”

  “Maybe,” she said with a shrug of her thin shoulders.

  “I could call him now, but it’s Sunday night and I only have his office number. Should I try to get his home number?”

  She shook her head. “No, it can wait till morning.”

  It was something, he told himself. A thinning of the wall. A small weight lifted from his chest.

  The shrill ringing of the phone made both him and Carly jump. If it was her ex, Nick thought, he wasn’t letting the bastard near Carly, not until he’d finished with him. He snatched up the phone. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, don’t kill me, I’m just calling to see if your head is as fuzzy as mine is.”

  “Dom.” He chuckled, relieved to hear from his friend. “Sorry. I’m not in the best of moods. Hold on.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “How long till dinner?” he asked Carly.

  “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Hey, Dom, what’s up?” He took the phone into the living room and collapsed into the easy chair.

  “Who were you talking to?” Dom asked.

  “A friend.”

  “Female-type friend?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I could say she’s a female type or she’s a friend?”

  “Both, butthole, now why’d you call?”

  “You mean you still got that kind of energy, after what we soaked up this afternoon? Oh, sorry, I forgot who I was talking to.”

  Nick chuckled. “Just don’t forget again. And remind me not to do that anymore. I’m too old to do that many brews.”

  “Yeah. So, what’d you think of Miguel?”

  “Okay. Quiet.”

  “Not always. He clammed up around you.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “Oh, I’ve told him a couple of stories—about the time you took on three gangbangers and brought them all in without a shot being fired. And the stakeout on that drug deal last year, when your knee got shot up and you crawled to the car and called in the license-plate number before you passed out. You know, supercop crap like that.”

  Embarrassed, Nick rubbed a thumb along the seam of the chair’s fabric. “So where’s my supersuit when I need it?”

  Dom laughed. “Anyhow, look, the kid’s determined to join the force. Will you help him out? Show him the ropes, tell him about the test, like that? If you got time, of course. I figure you got lots of it now. You’re practically retired, and it’s my job to make sure you don’t get bored.”

  Nick felt a quiver of discomfort in his belly. “Who said I was going to retire?”

  “Hell, Nick, it’s just common sense,” Dom said reasonably. “How much more punishment can your body take?”

  “For your information, I plan to go back on active duty.”

  He heard Dom take in a breath then release it on a hiss. “You’re nuts.” His friend no longer sounded amused. “What is this, some kind of macho thing? Your knee is never going to be okay and there’s nothing that can be done about it. Didn’t you tell me that just today?”

  “I wish I hadn’t. Anyhow, I can handle it.”

  “Sure,” Dom said sardonically. “Except for when you’re chasing some lowlife and you fall on your ass and not only can’t you bag the bad guy, you can’t back up your partner, either. Sure, my friend, you can handle it.”

  “I don’t want to hear this, Dom.”

  But he wasn’t through. “You won’t ever get a medical release, and you know it. Who you trying to fool?”

  The arrow hit home, and Nick winced. He really didn’t want to hear this, really didn’t want to face the truth about the rest of his life. He liked being a cop—hell, he loved it, couldn’t imagine doing anything else.

  He slumped lower in the chair, tired of the conversation, and depressed as hell about it. Absently, he shuffled through the pile of mail on the table, fingering the envelope from El Camino College. It had arrived on Friday. He’d read it and left it there, refusing to think about it since.

  “Nick? You still there?”

  “Yeah. But look, let’s not talk about my knee, okay? Not now.”

  Dom lost his aggressive tone. “Why?” Nick could hear the sly smile in his friend’s voice as he went on. “Gotta get back to your woman?”

  At that moment, Carly appeared in the doorway and Nick looked up at her. She signaled that dinner was ready.

  His woman. Dom had, kiddingly, of course, called her his woman.

  Which was nuts. Nick had known her, hell, not even twenty-four hours. No one could be his woman in that short period
of time. No one.

  “Nick?” Dom said.

  “Gotta go.”

  “What about Miguel?”

  “Have him call me tomorrow.”

  “Hey, thanks.” A beat went by, then Dom said, “We okay, paisan?”

  “Yeah, even if you are a creep.” Dom chuckled, but Nick was already hanging up the phone. He rose from the chair, stretched and headed for the kitchen.

  Sounds of fat sizzling, the smells of fried onions and garlic and a couple of spices he couldn’t identify filled the room. Pans, potato peelings and utensils were spread all over the white counters. For the first time since he’d lived here, his kitchen felt warm and homey, downright domestic. It was a change, for sure.

  Noticing his place settings were no longer on the table, Nick looked at Carly with raised eyebrows. Her shrug was hesitant. “The evening is so beautiful,” she said, “I thought we’d eat outside.”

  “Works for me.”

  On the balcony, Nick breathed in deeply. The night was especially clear, with just a hint of a cool breeze. Stars were visible in the dark sky, surrounding a pale crescent moon. Below, on the marina, soft yellow lights shimmered, boats bobbed in.the harbor.

  Nick pulled Carly’s chair out for her and she smiled her thanks at him and sat. He eased himself into the chair across from her, wondering how she’d made a white wrought-iron table and chairs—all of which usually seemed barely large enough for a child’s party—look so elegant. A small votive candle flickered in the center. Where she’d found it he had no idea, then had a vague recollection of having bought several of them as part of earthquake preparedness. Next to the candle was the opened wine bottle and two wineglasses. Small plates heaped with salad were set on the larger dinner plates. A napkin-covered basket smelled of warm, crisp garlic bread.

  “Hey, this is terrific,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She seemed pleased, if a little stiff, carefully unfolding her paper napkin and placing it on her lap.

  Smiling at the precision of her manners, he did the same, then picked up the bottle. “Wine?”

  “Just a little.”

  He filled her glass halfway with the ruby-colored liquid. The light from the candle transformed it into a glistening dark pink. Pouring a small amount in his glass, he said, “I want to toast the chef.” He raised his glass and waited for her to raise hers. “To you. Thanks for the home-cooked meal. I appreciate it.”