by Jill Shalvis
Uh-oh. Thinking about resisting him and everything he made her feel was one thing when he wasn’t actually in front of her, but Ben in the flesh was something else entirely. Her heart clutched, her stomach quivered. Her palms went damp. The entire visceral reaction was more than a little disturbing.
Had she forgotten that this man, and this man alone, had once destroyed her? Had she forgotten he already had one foot out the door, and that when he left it would likely be another thirteen years before she saw him again?
He stood up and came toward her, wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt beneath an open, long-sleeved, blue chambray shirt. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself.”
He took her hand and guided her to the table. She eyed her best china, the three daisies in a small vase in the center of the table, the utter care that had gone into the setting and then realized he was studying her. “What?”
“You look beautiful,” he said so simply she wanted to believe him. Wanted a lot of things, actually.
“Ben…about earlier. I’m sorry about getting mad over the McDonald’s bribe. It’s just that I’m used to handling her all by myself, and—”
“You handle everything by yourself.”
“I didn’t—” She let out a breath and blinked at him. “What?”
“You handle everything by yourself—your injuries, your house, your hopes and dreams and fears. Your daughter.”
“She’s your daughter, too.”
“I know that, I’m just not always sure you know it.”
Whoa. This didn’t sound like a truce to her. “Ben—”
“Look, all I want to say is, don’t apologize for something you’re not really sorry for.”
“I…okay.” She blew out a careful breath. “You’re right.”
“And be honest. You like routine, you like to get your way and when I wasn’t here, you had both whenever you wanted it.”
“Yes,” she agreed tightly. “And when you’re gone, things will go back to normal. They’ll have to. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spoil Emily while you were here.”
He let out a little laugh. “You act like I’m already half gone.”
“Aren’t you?”
Still standing, they stared at each other, at the same old impasse. The thirteen years might not have happened at all, Rachel thought bitterly, and wondered how she’d ever let herself dream things might be different this time, even if those dreams had only been in the deep, dark of the night. “You could try to deny it,” she whispered, horrified at what she was revealing by even saying it, but unwilling to hold back.
He stared at her for a beat, then grimaced. Shoving his hands through his hair, he turned in a slow circle, then faced her again. “Rachel.” Just that, just her name, in a voice as tortured as her insides felt.
“Forget it,” she said, inhaling deeply. “Just forget it.”
“You know I had to leave back then. I had the offer of a lifetime. You know that. But I never meant to do it without you, it never occurred to me that I’d have to. That you’d send me away.”
She knew her eyes were shining with unshed tears. Knowing that her heart was in her voice, she said, “And it never occurred to you that I had to stay, every bit as much as you had to go.”
“Rach,” he whispered again and stepped closer. He slid his fingers along her jaw, beneath the straw hat she wore over her extremely short hair. His thumb gently glided along her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hurt you.”
“Me, too,” she said softly, and meant it. So sorry.
He let out a slow breath. “So.”
“So,” she repeated, and had to let out a little smile.
His returning smile stole her breath. He hitched his head toward the table. “Think we can manage?”
“We can try.”
“Good.” He slipped his arm around her bad side, gently pulling her snug against him so that as they turned toward the table and started walking, he was her cane.
“What’s cooking?” she asked, trying not to think about how hard he felt from shoulder to thigh, how warm. How positively solid. She concentrated on something else instead—the itching beneath the cast, the residual heat of the day.
“Well, now.” He tipped his head down to hers, his mouth curving into a smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
He sat her down, scooted her chair in for her then moved to his side of the table. Shrugging out of his long-sleeved shirt, he set it over the back of his chair and sat as well. “Hungry?” Before she could answer, he pulled the lid off the steaming platter. Mac and cheese.
Not that Rachel wasn’t grateful for any meal that she didn’t have to cook, but she knew Ben’s culinary skills and had to admit to surprise over the simplistic menu.
“Looks great,” he said, and smiled one of his killer smiles.
In spite of herself, she laughed. “Didn’t it look great before?”
“Before?”
“When you cooked it, Ben.”
His smile froze a little. “But I didn’t cook it.”
“But…I didn’t either.”
“Sure you did. I got your note.” He pulled it out of the pocket of the shirt on the back of his chair. The piece of paper looked suspiciously like hers.
She stared at it in disbelief, then pulled out hers and handed it to him.
After reading it, he tossed his head back and laughed.
Rachel, who didn’t think this was funny in the least, sat back. Her daughter had struck again.
Ben just laughed some more. “You have to admit, she got us.”
“Oh, she got us. And I’m going to get her.”
“How can you not find this funny?”
That was simple. Everything in her life was out of her control, including this, and she deeply resented that. With a shiver, she imagined what could have happened tonight if the truth hadn’t been discovered, if she’d continued to believe Ben had set this all up himself. She shivered again, and with a frown Ben stood up and grabbed his shirt from the back of his chair. “Here,” he said, and draped it over her shoulders.
Encompassed in his warmth, she closed her eyes when his hands lingered over her shoulders, gently squeezing and massaging the tightness of her muscles there.
“Rach…” His mouth was by her ear so that she could feel his warm breath against her sensitive skin. If she hadn’t learned the truth, she’d probably have melted back against him, let herself get lost in what he was so silently offering, lost in a way she hadn’t allowed herself since…him.
Damn it. Straightening away, she grabbed her fork.
“All right.” He pulled away with a low chuckle. “I can take a hint.”
“If I’d been hinting, I’d have picked up the knife.”
He smiled and served them both. Lifting the crystal water glass, he toasted her. “To our ingenious daughter.”
“Should we really toast her antics?”
His eyes were warm and laughing, and yet behind that was something else, something that took her breath with its heat and intensity. “Oh, yeah,” he murmured. “And here’s to something else, Rach. Here’s to us.”
“While you’re here.”
“While I’m here,” he agreed.
She ignored the hitch in her heart and nodded lightly. “Okay. Then here’s to us not killing each other for the duration.”
He grinned.
Suddenly starving, she leaned into the table to eat. In the breast pocket of Ben’s shirt a paper crinkled, poking her through the material. Thinking her daughter had been meddling even further, she pulled out the folded paper, opened it and read what was on it. “Dear Ben, Do you think you’ve paid? Don’t stop watching, waiting…I surely won’t.”
Ben came out of his chair the moment he saw what Rachel had, but it was too late.
She lifted her head and pierced him with horror-filled eyes. “What is this?”
Cursing himself would do no good, lying to her even less, though Ben co
nsidered both. Would have done either if he could have gotten away with it, but Rachel would have seen right through him.
Still, he might have tried if it wasn’t for one thing.
He owed her the truth, probably should have given it to her long ago. Carefully he took Asada’s letter back, folded it again and put it in the pocket of his jeans.
“Ben.” Her voice shook. “Are you in trouble?”
He scratched his jaw and considered that. “Aren’t I usually?”
“Ben.”
“Yeah. I’m, uh, thinking about how to start.”
“From the beginning,” she suggested, her voice a little thin. “Who wrote that letter? My God, is someone stalking you? Are you in danger? Could you be hurt?”
He stared at her, stunned by the realizations that she was shaking, pale, terrified…for him. She thought he was in danger…
Planting her cane, she went to rise out of her chair, but he stopped her, and went to his knees before her so that their faces were level. “I’m sorry you found out like this.”
“Just tell me,” she begged. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Yeah, okay.” He put his hand on her casted arm, imagined himself being struck by the car that had hit her. Imagined the pain, the fear, the subsequent nightmare of the long hospital stay. Imagined all she’d been through since, and tried to figure out how to tell her that the true hell could be just beginning. Oh, and that it was his fault.
“About six months ago,” he started. “I was looking for a new story.”
When she nodded, silently urging him on, clearly still worried about him, he felt sick. “I found an American retreat based in Brazil, where the so-called minister raised money there for what he called his missions of hope. He solicited unsuspecting, generous patrons from all around the world, raising millions.”
“I read that piece,” she said. “Instead of building and feeding villages with all that money, he pocketed everything, right?”
She’d read it. She’d followed his work. Probably not the smartest time for him to be both blown away and flattered by that.
“You exposed the international scam,” she continued. “And the guy went to prison.”
“Manuel Asada, and yes, once in prison, he lost everything. His people, his empire, everything. He…” Ben drew a deep breath. “He vowed revenge on me for destroying his world.”
Her eyes were huge on his. “And…?”
“And during his extradition to the States, where he would have stood trial for bilking a bunch of rich Americans out of their spending cash, he escaped.”
“And…?”
He smiled grimly. Emily hadn’t been just randomly blessed with brains, she’d gotten them from this woman sitting before him, her eyes sharp on his. “And now he’s vanished.”
“And wanting your head on a platter.”
“Not mine exactly…just those I care about.”
She went utterly still. “My God, Ben…” She stared at him for another breath, then pushed to her feet with her cane. When he tried to help her, she shoved his hands away, stared at him some more, then paced away from him the best she could. Thinking. Putting it all together.
When she whipped back, he thought he was ready.
“So you didn’t come here to South Village for me, for this….” She gestured to her casts and cane. “You came out of some misguided notion you had to protect Emily.”
“And you.”
“But why would Asada think you cared about me?”
“Because I do,” he said tightly.
Again she froze. Stared at him with numbed horror. “The accident.”
“Yeah. Only I don’t think it was much of an accident at all. God, Rach…” How to convey the guilt, the sorrow, the regret? The murderous rage swimming inside him without an outlet? He went to her, took her shoulders in his hands, felt her trembling. “I didn’t mean for this to happen, I’m so sorry.” She let out a sort of choked sob that stabbed at him. “If it could have been me instead,” he said in a hoarse voice. “I’d do it in a heartbeat. Anything, anything, to have kept you safe.”
Her eyes filled and she covered her mouth. “It could have been Emily. Our baby—”
Unable to hold back in the face of that, he slid his arms around her, holding her close. For a moment, she clung to him, and he lost himself in the familiar feel of her, her scent and shape beneath his hands feeling so overwhelmingly like…home.
Then with shocking strength she once again shoved free. “I thought you were home because…that you…” She let out an embarrassed sound and covered her face. “I want you to go,” she said from behind her fingers.
“I can’t.”
“Won’t, you mean.”
“Damn right. I’m not budging until Asada is found.”
She dropped her hand from her face and stared at him with those big, expressive, hurting eyes, making him hate himself all over again as he watched emotion after emotion chase across her face. “I knew there had to be something tying you here,” she said quietly. “Something more than us.”
He hadn’t imagined he could hurt more than he did, but her words twisted the knife. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words pathetically inadequate.
She turned away. “So am I. Just promise me something.”
“Anything,” he said rashly.
“The minute it’s safe, you’re gone.”
He stared at her slim spine and all the courage and strength shimmering around her like a beacon, and closed his eyes. Then he gave her the words that would seal their fate, words he’d wanted to utter more than anything, so he had no idea why they stuck in his throat. “I promise. Soon as it’s safe, I’m gone.”
IN BRAZIL, night came suddenly, viciously, without warning. One moment the birds were singing, the bees humming, then the next—utter and complete black silence.
Manuel had always loved that, but now he dreaded the shifting of the clock, hated when the sun fell out of the sky, because it left him hiding out like a mole until morning’s light.
There was so little left for him here. Only a few people hustling around to do his bidding, securing the compound. Just a few minions who had nowhere else to go otherwise he was quite certain he’d be completely alone.
Reduced to this, hiding out, depending on others for everything, was slowly driving him mad. Night or day, he had nothing to do but think and torture himself with what-ifs.
What if he’d killed Ben Asher before his story had hit?
What if he hadn’t been caught unaware and jailed before he could stash away his assets? What if he hadn’t had to spend so much to bribe his way back through the jungle to his compound?
What if, what if…
The need for revenge was a burning hunger that drove him to live each day. He would rebuild. He’d once again have people eating out of the palm of his hand and paying for the privilege. And he would have his empire back. He’d be even bigger this time, and no one would get the best of him ever again.
No one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BEN STOOD on the balcony watching the night go by. He’d figured that this would be preferable to being in bed where all he’d been able to do was stare at the ceiling.
But being out here turned out to be no different because watching the people winding their way through the streets, all he could really see was Rachel’s face as the truth had sunk in about why he’d come back.
He wondered if, when he’d been in the Brazilian jungle taking pictures of Asada’s compound, had he known what havoc his article would wreak, would he still have done it? Would he still have snapped those pictures and written down all the facts for the world to see?
Rachel’s silent and strong grief tonight had nearly brought him to his knees. Watching her piece together the puzzle, seeing her understand what danger he’d put her and Emily in had been nothing short of torture.
Grimacing, he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, but nothing changed. He was still s
cum. He’d still brought an element of his world to his daughter and the woman who’d once brought him more joy than anyone else ever had.
Pulled by a sudden overpowering need to see them, touch them, assure himself they were safe, he moved inside. He died a thousand deaths when he opened Rachel’s bedroom door and found her bed empty. She wasn’t in the bathroom, wasn’t in her studio, though Mel was, fast asleep on the couch against the far wall.
Palms damp, heart cold, he ran to Emily’s room. At what he found in her bed made him sag against the wall in weak-kneed relief, though he didn’t deserve that relief.
Her daughter was there, sideways, covers tossed to the floor, arms and legs sprawled wide.
Safe.
Next to her, in the smallest corner of the bed, turned on her good side, facing Emily, was Rachel.
Also safe.
How was it possible just looking at them made him want to smile and cry and run like hell all at the same time?
It took a long moment for his heart to settle. He tugged the covers back over her and, unable to resist, bent close to press his lips to her temple. In her sleep, she snuffled, mumbled something inarticulate, then sighed back into a deep slumber.
God, she was sweet. And his. He moved to Rachel’s side, covering her as well, yet he didn’t dare touch her. She was sweet, too. So sweet. But not his. She never would be; his own actions had guaranteed that.
He didn’t leave the room for a long time, wanting to watch over these two pieces that made up his heart. Nothing, nothing, would hurt them. He’d willingly die seeing to it.
RACHEL HAD DEALT with a lot of blows in her life. In fact, dealing was a particular forte of hers. So with little fanfare, she handled the new nightmares since her little “date” with Ben two nights ago. She handled the shock and horror of the accident all over again, knowing now it hadn’t been an accident at all, but the insane revenge of a madman.
And she’d handled the real reasons Ben was here, despite the fact that for a little while she’d actually thought Ben had wanted to be with her.
In any case, certain things made better sense now. She consoled herself with that. The police drive-bys, for example, which the FBI had arranged since in all likelihood she and Emily were being stalked by an international criminal on the run. The way Ben personally locked up the doors and windows every night, making sure he was the last one to bed.