A Year and a Day (Harlequin Super Romance)

by Cooper, Inglath

  Audrey hesitated, her mind racing for an answer that would defuse the situation. But there was no answer. It wouldn’t matter what she said. She tried for a note of reason. “He came outside for a couple of minutes. He introduced himself and told me he would be working with you. That’s all.”

  Jonathan moved closer, his eyes narrowed. “I’m aware of how long you were out there.”

  She met the hard look in his eyes, defiance flaring inside her. How? The view from Laura’s room? She pressed her lips together to keep from asking the questions.

  “Why would you think he’d look at you, anyway?” His eyes scanned the length of her body. “I was embarrassed to be seen with you. There wasn’t a woman there who didn’t look better than you tonight. My wife. When are you ever going to develop any taste? You’re not in that backwoods family of yours anymore.”

  She started to remind him he had picked out her dress, but he grabbed her arm and jerked her to him. Her shoulder wrenched at the socket. She bit back a gasp of pain. “Jonathan, stop!”

  “It stops when I say it stops.” With the back of his hand, he slapped her across the neck. Pain shot through her left side. Excruciating. Reverberating. She moaned. But before she could right herself, he grabbed her and flung her backward across the couch. She hit the hardwood floor on the other side, her shoulder taking the brunt of her weight. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.

  Sammy. Think about Sammy. He was upstairs. Please don’t come down. Please.

  Jonathan was in front of her then, pulling her up and flinging her against the wall behind him. She hit it with the same shoulder. But this time, she couldn’t hold back the half-scream of anguish. She slumped to the floor where she put her head between her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, praying for oblivion.

  “This wouldn’t have to happen if you would just listen to me. How many times have I told you that? And Samuel. He’s just like you. Neither of you ever listen to anything I say.”

  Much to her shame, she was crying now. She’d vowed she wouldn’t cry anymore. Crying was weak. Gave him what he wanted.

  He kicked her then, a hard fierce punt to her left thigh. She kept her arms wrapped around her knees, her head between her legs, praying for the end of it. I can live through this. One more time. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please make him stop. Please don’t make me leave my son alone.

  Pleeeassse.

  The word echoed once through her throbbing head, and then nothing.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE CONFETTI had barely settled to the floor when Nicholas thanked the Websters for their hospitality and then ducked out.

  He waited while the valet got his car, then pulled out of the driveway a little too fast in an attempt to accelerate past his preoccupation with Audrey Colby.

  Two miles down West Paces Ferry, he let up on the gas, one elbow on the windowsill. What was it about her that had him so rattled? Her desire to be left alone could not have been more clear. And yet out on that terrace, he hadn’t been able to make himself walk away. He still felt as if everything inside him had been altered by the few words of conversation they’d had, shaken up to the point that all the pieces of who he had been didn’t fit back in their old places.

  It was the look in her eyes. A look he’d seen too many times in the eyes of people who had lost a loved one to a senseless crime. A glimpse into the soul of someone who’s been broken.

  But Audrey Colby? He didn’t think so.

  He ran a hand over his face. Told himself to leave it alone.

  As of tonight, by his own proclamation, he had started over with a career he could accept. No more crusades. No more families looking to him for justice. No more trying to fix in himself what could never be fixed.

  Audrey Colby was married to one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. Probably had a life most women would sign up for in a heartbeat.

  His problem? He needed to quit imagining that the whole world needed his help.

  He turned into his driveway and hit the remote for the garage door.

  Something darted out in front of him, seeking cover under the hedge of boxwoods separating his driveway from his neighbor’s.

  A light above the garage illuminated the center of the driveway, but the bushes were shadowed, making it difficult to see anything.

  He rolled down his window, then cut the engine. A soft whimper drifted from under the boxwoods.

  Nicholas got out, walked over to the hedge and dropped to his knees. Two unblinking eyes stared back at him.

  Black as the night sky, the dog wasn’t wearing a collar. It inched backward, making another whimpering sound.

  Nicholas sighed. He just wanted to go to bed. Sleep for at least a dozen hours. He lifted the lower branches of the bush. “Hey,” he said. “Are you hurt? Come on out. Let me take a look.”

  But the dog wasn’t budging.

  Food. He needed a lure. The only thing he had in the car was chewing gum. He grabbed his keys from the ignition and let himself into the house, heading for the kitchen. It looked like a mini shrine to pizza takeout. Four empty boxes sat on the table. One sink was stacked high with coffee cups.

  On Mondays, a cleaning service came in and got rid of the boxes, washed all the cups. It was a little like living in a hotel. A place to eat and sleep. Temporary.

  He found a loaf of bread in the pantry and removed a couple of slices from the bag. He went back outside, dropped to his knees again, moisture seeping through his tuxedo pants. He held the bread out, tried some coaxing words. The dog sniffed, but didn’t move. Nicholas waved the bread around. No interest. He sat for a minute or so, tried again. Still not budging.

  Finally, he stood. What else could he do? Drag the dog out from under the bush? He’d tried. He could go with a clear conscience. “Okay. I give up. I’m going in.”

  But no sooner had he stepped away than the food won out. The dog crawled forward far enough to reach the bread, and gobbled it up in a single bite.

  Medium-sized, it appeared no more than three inches wide at its thickest point. In the light, he could see white markings on its legs and chest. The dog’s coat was matted in places, dull by malnutrition or maybe parasites. It looked up at him, instantly shrinking to a crouching position. Nicholas’s stomach turned. He dropped to his knees again. “It’s not like that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  The dog scooted away from him, then jumped up and trotted off toward the street.

  Headlights flashed from the intersection at the corner. The dog sent an anxious glance over its shoulder. The car was almost in front of them now. Nicholas sprinted after the dog and lunged. The dog dropped flat, looking as if it wanted to melt into the driveway.

  “Hey, it’s okay. I just didn’t want you to get on the road.” He reached out to rub the dog’s head. The animal quivered.

  A clinic a few miles away stayed open all night. He could drop the dog off there, and they could figure out what to do with it.

  He picked the animal up, carried it to the car, placed it in the passenger seat and eased the door closed.

  He reached the clinic within five minutes, grateful to see lights on when he pulled into a parking space. He got out and jogged to the front door. A small plaque gave instructions to ring the bell. Someone would be right with him.

  Thirty seconds later, a young woman appeared. “May I help you?”

  “Yeah. I have a dog outside. It’s hurt,” he said.

  “Do you need help bringing it in?”

  “No. I’ll be right back.” He walked to the car and carefully opened the door. In the front seat, the dog had tucked itself nose to tail. He rubbed its back once, then picked it up as gently as possible. It whimpered again. “Sorry,” he said.

  The young woman held the door for him and then led him to a waiting area and through a set of double doors into a large examining room. “I’m Dr. Filmore, the vet on call tonight.”

  “Nicholas Wakefield.”

  The walls were li
ned with large cages in which a few dogs were sleeping. A dark-brown cocker spaniel raised its head and whined.

  “It’s all right, Bo,” Dr. Filmore said. “You can go back to sleep. On the table here,” she directed to Nicholas.

  He placed the dog on the stainless tabletop as gently as he could. “I found it outside my house.”

  The vet dipped her head, then looked back up. “She.”

  “What?”

  “The dog is a she.”

  “Oh,” Nicholas said, nodding.

  “She’s starving for one thing.” The vet was young, but she spoke to the dog in a soft, reassuring voice and ran her hands over her in a way that suggested she knew what she was doing. “I think her left hind leg is broken. It feels like she has a couple of busted ribs, as well. We’ll have to get some radiographs.”

  “Could she have been hit by a car?”

  “Maybe. More likely kicked from the way she’s acting,” the doctor said, her voice flat as a Kansas plain.

  A sick feeling settled in Nicholas’s stomach. “You see this often?”

  “Too often.”

  He didn’t know what to say. What kind of person would kick a helpless dog? “Doesn’t it get to you?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Yeah. It does. But the only alternative is to quit.”

  He’d once said the same thing about his own profession. He admired her dedication. Wished for a moment that the fire of his convictions hadn’t burned out.

  “So you’ll fix her up?”

  She nodded. “The best I can. You could wait, or go home, and I’ll call you when I know something.”

  “She’s not my dog.”

  The doctor frowned. “Are you saying you don’t want to treat her?”

  “No. I mean, yes, treat her. But I can’t take her home with me.”

  The young woman dropped her gaze, then looked back up, her jaw a hard line. “Would you like to treat her first and then call Animal Control?”

  He heard the disapproval in her voice, and yet he balked at the implication that he was somehow responsible just because he’d happened across the dog. “I can’t have a pet,” he said. “I work long hours. I’m not set up for—”

  “Leave your information with the receptionist out front,” she interrupted, then turned her back to him in dismissal.

  Nicholas glanced at the dog. She was stretched out with her head on her paws, eyes closed as if she could shut out everything around her. He swung back through the double doors, filled out the forms at the front desk in handwriting that was barely legible. He couldn’t get to his car fast enough.

  But once he was there, he stared at the building.

  Animal Control.

  He slapped a hand against the leather steering wheel, got out and rang the after-hours bell again. The receptionist let him in this time and pointed at the doors leading to the examining room. “Go right on through.”

  The vet was still busy working on the dog. She didn’t look up when Nicholas came in. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield?”

  “Call me when she’s ready to go.”

  The young doctor glanced up, her smile instantly removing him from her loser’s list. “Did you leave your number?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Have a good night then.”

  IT WAS AFTER 3:00 a.m. when Ross Webster pulled on his robe and headed downstairs where he poured himself a stiff shot of scotch. He tossed half of it back, coughed a couple of times, then collapsed onto the closest chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

  He was tired. The kind of tired that didn’t go away after a night’s sleep.

  His life was making him tired.

  Ross was old enough to recognize he’d taken some of the wrong forks in the road. The choices he’d made were the kind that turned things around permanently. Once, he had been a different man. Or at least he liked to think so.

  He’d started out in the public defender’s office, hard as that was to believe now. Like his new partner, Wakefield, he’d had his own ideals. Villains to conquer.

  Wakefield still had that light in his eyes. Oh, he was convinced it was gone. Had left the prosecutor’s office with his tail tucked between his legs because he’d lost one too many cases to the bad guys.

  But what Ross had finally figured out—what Wakefield obviously hadn’t—was that being one of the good guys didn’t get you anywhere. It had started out innocently enough. A little gray bleeding into the black and white.

  And then Jonathan Colby had walked into his office. Showed him how he could have the kind of life he’d always wanted. He’d signed on. Just like that. Too late, he’d realized he’d shackled himself to the devil. If he wanted to go anywhere, he had to take Jonathan with him.

  And that meant closing his eyes to things that weren’t any of his business. Like Colby’s treatment of his wife.

  How a man could have such a woman and not treat her like fine crystal was beyond his imagination. Things had gotten bad enough to bring the police into the matter a couple of times. With the help of a detective saving for early retirement, Ross had cleaned those up for Jonathan, and he had not been able to look Audrey in the eyes since.

  He took another swig of scotch.

  Laura appeared in the doorway, tucked inside a fluffy white robe. Without makeup and her high-end clothes, she looked enough like the little girl she had been not so long ago that he felt an actual pain in his chest for his inability to turn back the clock.

  “What are you doing up, Daddy?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. Still wired from the party, I guess. You?”

  She leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms across her chest, looking as if she had something on her mind.

  “What is it, honey?”

  She tipped her head, didn’t answer for a moment, and then said, “Do you think Jonathan and Audrey are happy?”

  The question took him by surprise. “As happy as anyone, I guess. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t look happy.”

  “That’s their business then, don’t you think?”

  She shrugged. “I just wonder why people stay together if they’re not happy being with each other.”

  “Human nature, I guess,” he said. “Hard to get off the train once it’s headed down the tracks.” He thought of his own marriage, his clear understanding of why Sylvia had stayed with him all these years. Nice enough meal ticket for a girl from rural Georgia. If he’d once thought it had to do with anything other than that, he’d been permanently cured of his disillusion.

  “That’s a pretty dismal outlook. I don’t think people should stay together if it’s not working.”

  “Probably not,” he conceded, too weary to argue.

  “So why do you?”

  He met her gaze, started to pretend he didn’t know what she meant, then surprised himself by saying, “Your mom and I have been together a long time.”

  “So that’s a reason?”

  “One.”

  “How about another?”

  “Something about age, I think. Things you couldn’t have imagined yourself doing, standing for, when you were younger just don’t really seem worth the battle.”

  “Now there’s a life goal. Settling. You know, Daddy, I’m not subscribing.”

  Ross heard the disapproval in his daughter’s voice. On the day she’d been born, his biggest hope was that she would grow up to be proud of him. There was something infinitely deflating in the realization that your child did not respect you. “Maybe your life will be completely different.”

  A smile touched her mouth. “If I have any say in it.”

  Her certainty was hard to refute. And he hoped she would be right.

  “I’m headed to the kitchen,” she said, her tone lighter, as if she had decided to give him a reprieve. “Want something warm to drink?”

  “Sure, honey,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Be right back.”

  He watched her leave the room. Even her
walk was marked with confidence. In Laura’s eyes, the world was hers for the taking. He had spoiled his daughter. That, Ross could not deny. But he loved her.

  He wondered if Audrey Colby had a father who felt the same about her.

  He could only imagine what he would do if Laura ever got involved with a man who mistreated her. Something in his gut tightened, needle-sharp. Laura might be spoiled, but she was the one good thing he’d done in his life. He’d die before she’d end up like Audrey.

  He was sorry for her. Really, he was. But he wasn’t a white-hat guy.

  He couldn’t save her.

  Hell, he’d be lucky if he saved himself.

  AUDREY AWOKE to a pain so intense it took her a moment to figure out what it was. Maybe she’d died. Maybe this was what death felt like when you’d failed to live your life to expectation.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. The room was nearly dark, the only light shining through from the kitchen. She tried to sit up. Something sharp stabbed her palm. Wincing, she yanked her hand away, blood trickling down her wrist. Shards of glass, the remains of a broken table lamp, lay around her, the shade resting on its side like an old hat someone had thrown away.

  Moaning, she straightened and leaned back against the wall, fighting the wave of nausea threatening to overcome her. She touched her hand to her throbbing shoulder, then tried to move it. White-hot pain shot through her arm. She dropped her head back and wondered how many days she would have to hide from the world to cover this one up. Thank God it was winter. Thank God for turtlenecks and gloves.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, wiping at the tears sliding down one cheek with the back of her hand. She despised herself for the tears. Tears were useless, would get her nowhere. They were weak and powerless and self-pitying. The last person she felt sorry for was herself.

  She’d long since ceased to think of the poor excuse of a woman that she had become as someone she knew. The woman who now sat huddled on her living-room floor was a stranger. Someone she did not know, resembling in no way the woman Audrey had once thought she would become. This woman was a victim. Weak. Despicable.