by Dori Lavelle
Holding Reese to me, I take cautious steps to the bed, pick up the remote. “Please go.” One press of a button and one of the night nurses would be alerted and at my door in a heartbeat.
Damien rises, his hands up. “I didn’t come here to hurt you. I’m not the same man I used to be, I can promise you that.” His brows draw together in a frown. “Ivy, you don’t think . . . I hope you don’t think I had something to do with Judson showing up that day. I swear, I had no idea. I really wanted to let you go.”
As much as I want to believe he’s not here, that he’s dead and buried, my hand had come into brief contact with his when I took Reese from him. He’s not a ghost, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous. My instincts assure me he’s harmless, and his words sound genuine. But how can I ignore the fact that he sneaked into my room and took Reese from her crib without my knowledge, that he’s the same man who had kidnapped me.
“How did you know about the baby?” I hold the remote tighter, still not pressing the button even though panic is forming at the base of my skull. “Have you been following me?”
His face crumbles. “I’m sorry. I meant no harm. I wanted to see how you were doing. I wasn’t sure you’d want me close.” He hangs his head. “So I watched you from a distance. I loved seeing you pregnant. But after the baby was born, I couldn’t stay away. I needed to hold her. It was not my intention to frighten you.”
“I don’t know what to say.” I sink onto the bed.
“Rosebud, I’m ashamed to ask this of you but . . .” He takes a step toward me but I flinch. He nods and takes two steps back. “Give us a chance. Give me a chance to repair what I broke.”
“I can’t.” I swallow a sob. “I’m glad you’re okay, Damien, but I’ll never be able to look at you without seeing Judson.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “I can’t change the way I look. I’ll always resemble him, but I’m different. I’ll never hurt you again. We can have a real life this time, a real marriage, a family. We already have a child together.”
I lift my chin. “There’s no paternity test to prove it.”
“You think it could be his?” His voice cracks.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t know,” I lie. Judson wore a condom when he had sex with me. I’m well aware that condoms tear, but every piece of me believes Reese is Damien’s child. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t give him a reason to want to stay.
He removes a black cap from his pocket and pulls it low on his forehead. Given the attention my story got, the press would go nuts if someone recognizes him. The twins’ names—and mine—are still on the tip of people’s tongues.
He puts on his shades at the door and turns to me. “You don’t have to worry about seeing me again. I’ll leave town. There will be an envelope waiting for you at the front desk with samples you may need should you want to do a paternity test.” He reaches for the door handle. “I’ll always love you.” Before I can say anything, he’s gone, leaving behind traces of his cologne and an ache in my heart.
After an hour of crying which leaves my temples throbbing, I’m about to lower Reese back in her crib when I notice a small, black leather box at the foot of the crib.
I tuck Reese in and return to my bed to open it. What I find inside makes my breath hitch. Glinting back at me is an oval cut diamond ring with my name engraved in the white gold metal.
Chapter Twenty
I’m stuck in a nightmare, surrounded by darkness so thick its velvet cloak brushes my skin. It fills my lungs as I breathe it in. I’m naked but with the cover of darkness, I feel less so.
Confused as to why I’m naked, I turn in a half circle, trying to navigate my surroundings. Being in an unknown place, surrounded by unknown dangers hidden in the shadows. But my heart rate is even, calm.
I cover my body as best I can with my arms and hands. Then I wait, for what I don’t know. Soon a light cuts through the darkness, faint at first but strengthening to chase off the shadows.
I turn in a full circle, taking in the entire room. The rectangular, carpeted room has no doors or windows. I’m standing on one end of it and Damien on the other. I count his steps as he walks toward me, all thirty of them. His posture is confident, but the sadness in his eyes is palpable. Unlike me he’s not naked but dressed in jeans and a shirt so white it gives off a glow. In contrast to his well-groomed hair, his beard looks as though it has not been shaved or trimmed for weeks, giving him both a scruffy and put together appearance.
He steps closer. I don’t step away. Maybe I should fear him but I don’t. Soon he’s so close the heat of his body radiates through the space between us, caressing my naked body.
With a final step, he closes the distance between us. Now his breath is on my face. The flyaway hairs around my face sway each time he exhales.
With his body touching mine, my heart abandons its calm. My heartbeat throbs hard inside my ears.
He takes hold of my hands and lowers them to my sides, leaving me completely exposed. No words are exchanged between us. I don’t pull away when he cradles my chin with his manly hand. He lowers his lips onto mine. They’re velvet soft and taste of chocolate and wine.
My pulse shoots up the moment one of his hands meets the small of my back and we sway, dancing to a song only we can hear. He leads and I follow.
When he picks me up and lowers me to the floor, shivers race along my spine as my back sinks into the white carpet. His entire body merges with mine, his hands supporting his weight so he doesn’t crush me beneath him.
He kisses me again, harder this time, hungry for my kiss, for my soul. I return his kisses with the same hunger. Pushing down his pants, his lips stay on mine. He enters me with a force that drives a gasp from deep within my throat.
With him moving inside me, I feel strangely whole again, as though a part of me I didn’t know was missing has fallen back into place. With a loud groan into my shoulder, Damien rolls us over to bring me on top of him, putting me in control to follow my sexual desires.
I try to rock hard against him, aching to race toward the climax that’s building inside the pit of my stomach, but his hands keep me moving at a slow pace.
Frustrated, I bite my lower lip. I need all of him and fast, but I also want to enjoy every second. After what seems like an hour, his own impatience gets the best of him and he allows me to ride him faster, his hands tight on my hips as he guides me up and down his shaft. Then he takes back the control, flipping me onto my back, my legs over his shoulders. He’s so deep inside me, I’ve never felt fuller in my life. His deep strokes are almost unbearable.
I want him to stop and I want to tell him to never ever stop; to tell him that I want to stay glued to his skin forever, to keep him buried inside me for an eternity. My body does the talking, my inner muscles clenching tight around him, needing to keep him inside a little longer each time he plunges into me. Our sounds of passion weave into each other as we increase the speed of our lovemaking.
When my climax explodes inside me I swear I see broken stars falling from the ceiling and sprinkling our bodies, millions of sparks heating us up until we burst into flames. When his turn comes to let go, his hands tighten on my thighs, the rhythm of his breathing breaks, and his body vibrates against mine.
“Fuck, Ivy, fuck,” he growls, his sweat dripping onto my body. He doesn’t stop moving but wraps my legs around him. His lips meet mine in a warm kiss. I dig my fingers into his sweat-dampened hair.
For no reason, tears spill from my eyes.
“Hush, baby.” Our mouths part and he kisses my tears away, still moving inside me.
When the tears cease, he stops moving and lifts himself up, hands planted on both sides of my body. His gaze meets mine and I reach into the depth of his eyes, I see them change from warm, to cool, to hard cold ice.
Fear grabs hold of me and claws up my spine. The man I made love to is not Damien but Judson.
“You were fantastic, ma chérie,” he whispers and evil laughter pours
out of him.
I try to get away but he presses me into the floor, keeping his head raised, his eyes on me. Trembling beneath him, I watch in horror as his face changes into various expressions and blood trickles from his eyes, nose and mouth, dripping onto my face.
As I watch in horror, his face transforms into a mess of flesh, blood and smashed bone. I turn my head in an attempt to look away but his hands clamp around my head.
A satisfied grin appears on his face. “Take a good look at what you’ve done.”
A raw scream explodes inside my throat and spills out of my mouth.
My cheeks are still damp from tears when I sit up in bed, a few minutes to 11:00 p.m.
My heart is beating so hard it takes a moment for me to hear Reese crying. I swing my legs out of bed and grip the side of the bed hard, pulling myself together for the sake of my little girl. For her, I’ll push through my weakness to be a better, stronger person.
On my feet I feel as though I’m walking on a cloud, woozy from the traces of shock left in my veins.
On my way down the short corridor to Reese’s room, I switch on all the lights and press my body against the wall for support.
The moment my six-month-old baby sees me, her tears stop. Her gummy, innocent smiles erase the nightmares and toxic memories, cocooning my heart with warmth.
The nightmares have become a constant part of my life, tormenting me almost every night. Sometimes I dream of Damien and sometimes of Judson. Some nights, like this, they both appear in my dreams. My mood is always left fragile for the rest of the day. If it weren’t for Reese reminding me of the good things in my life, I’d be a complete mess, firmly stuck in the past.
People tell me Reese is a miniature version of me, having inherited both my hazel eyes and my red hair. No one but my mother and Chelsea ask about Reese’s father. They know it’s Damien, but what they don’t know, is that the man they think is dead is alive. I want it to stay my secret. The only fear that eats me up is knowing one day Reese will be old enough to ask me questions I don’t want to answer.
Most of the time I do my best not to think of the future and instead focus on the now. But it’s proving difficult to live in the moment when the past haunts me every chance it gets.
“This has to stop,” I whisper while changing Reese’s diaper. I have to find a way to end it.
Lying in bed an hour later, on the pillow that’s still damp from my tears, I debate whether I should take up Marcus Jenkins’s offer, to put my emotions into words and pour them into the pages of a book instead of keeping them hidden inside my heart. But the fear of going back there again, reliving every dreadful moment, to look point blank into Judson Devereux’s bloody, disfigured face, scares the hell out of me. Though, what if that’s the only way for me to let go?
At 1:00 a.m., unable to get any sleep, I suck in a deep breath and switch the light back on. I remove the black and gold business card from my bedside drawer and pick up the phone. It’s late, but I doubt Jenkins will care. He’s been waiting for this call for months. The phone rings five times and I’m about to hang up and change my mind about the whole crazy idea, when his rusty voice fills my ear.
“I’m sorry for calling you this late.” I chew a corner of my nail.
“It’s never too late if you’ve got good news for me.” His voice is thick with excitement.
Getting me to write this book, telling my high-profile story, means lots of cash for him. At this point I couldn’t care less. He gets the money, I get my freedom. Win, win.
“I do.” I blow out a stream of air. “I’ll write the book.
Chapter Twenty-One
I rise from the makeup seat and join my mother at the backstage juice bar.
She wraps her arms around me and gives me a good squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”
Pressing my cheek to hers, careful not to ruin my camera-ready makeup, I breathe in her comforting perfume. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
She pulls back and holds me by both shoulders. “I think you can. You’ve gone through the worst already by writing that book, facing all the emotions.”
I sigh. “I wish this talk show wasn’t part of the deal.” Writing my most private thoughts in a book is one thing. Willingly putting myself out there, in front of cameras and a live audience, makes me feel uncomfortable. As a former model, I should be used to cameras, to sometimes being asked uncomfortable questions, but the appearance on Thirty Minutes with Lori Raine will completely expose the ugly side of me for all the world to see.
But this is the first and last public appearance I promised my publishers. After tonight, I can finally step back after seven months of hard work. I do have to admit that even though I had been resistant to the idea of writing the book, I like to believe the experience healed me in many ways, by helping me shift through suppressed emotions, bringing them to the surface so I can confront them, to accept that even if I turn my back on the past, some of the pain will never really go away. It will lurk below the surface and at times fate will fool me into thinking it’s gone, only for the wounds to reopen when I least expect it. My best bet is to look in the eye of the storm and live my life anyway.
“It means a lot that you’re here.” I brush a piece of fluff from my white blouse and smile at my Mom.
“I’ll always be here to support you.” She dabs her eyes with a Kleenex. “I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for not being there in the past. I can’t believe I gave birth to such a remarkable young woman. I think it’s great that you’re giving most of the proceeds to abused women charities. You’re making your own mark in the world.”
“Your daughter also looks breathtaking.” Chelsea has ended her call to Neil, her fiancé, and comes over. She surveys me from head to toe, taking in the loose silk blouse over skinny jeans.
I shake out my fingers. “Let’s hope I still look good after the interview.”
The stylists have pulled my hair into a sleek and carefree ponytail that gives me the appearance of a young, innocent college student. I’m pretty sure it was done on purpose. Perhaps the producers want to portray a picture of the girl I was back then, before Damien took me away.
Our conversation is cut short when a man with headphones and a notepad peeps through the door. “You’re on in thirty seconds, Ivy.” He winks and closes the steel gray door.
I blow Mom and Chelsea a kiss and allow myself to be ushered out by a woman wearing a cream shirt and black skirt. “Good luck,” she says and opens the door.
Time to get out from behind the words and face the world. I put on a smile and step through the door and into the bright lights. My name is called out, someone introducing me. The room explodes with applause.
The audience is bigger than I’d expected. I thought only about twenty or so people would show up, but the room is packed. There has to be at least fifty.
Watching the expectant faces, I feel hot. My hands are slick with sweat and my cheeks feel as though they are being ignited from within.
As I climb onto the lit up stage, my eyes on Lori Raine, my left toe hits the edge of a step. I start to stumble forward but right myself in time and give a nervous smile. My eye is trained on Lori. If I’m going to get through this, I’m going to have to pretend it’s just me and her in the room, having a chat as if over a coffee. No cameras, no audience, just the two of us.
“Ivy Hollifield, everybody.” Lori Raine, a middle-age woman with a deep voice and big hair beams up at me. “Ivy, I’m so thrilled you agreed to an interview. Welcome to Thirty Minutes. It’s a great honor to meet you in person.” She waves at a red leather vintage armchair.
“Glad to be here.” I sink into my seat. “Thank you for inviting me to the show.”
Lori crosses her legs. Given how tight her knee-length, charcoal pencil skirt is, I expect the movement to be a struggle but she’s a professional. With her pixie haircut and dark blue cat eyes, she’s even more striking in person. I’ve watched her on TV for years, interviewing A-
class celebrities. When my publishers begged me to be on her show, they said I should be flattered that she’s desperate to interview me. I’m not. She’s known to be ruthless at questioning her guests and exposing their weaknesses for all the world to see. As far as I’m concerned, I’m inside a slaughter house.
She gives me an easy smile, making me feel comfortable enough to think she will be easy on me. “Ivy, congratulations. It’s been a month since the release of your book, Midnight Storm. How hard was it to write such a tragic story?” She waves a hand at a hardback copy of my book on the white chrome table, between two crystal glasses of water.
I pick up my glass and take a cool sip while glancing at the glossy cover. The image used is of a woman alone on a beach with her back to the camera, a troubled sea stretching out before her. The cover artist had shown me several cover options but this image was the first one I saw and the one that resonated with me most. The picture leaves one wondering what the model is thinking, the state of her emotions, what she’s trying to hide from the world. I couldn’t have chosen a better image if I tried.
“Well, it wasn’t easy, I can tell you that much.” I force a nervous smile.
Lori glances at the silent audience then back at me. “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say we’re glad you wrote the book. We were all curious to know the truth of what really happened in Mexico.” She taps her thigh with coral red manicured nails. “What made you agree to write your story?”
“It’s not for money, as most like to believe. I wrote it for me. Putting my emotions on the page helped me face the emotional pain of trauma I carried around.” I clasp my hands in my lap. “Half the proceeds from the sales of my books are also being donated to various charities.”