by Nora Roberts
He shrugged and went back to his wine.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”
“Because you’d rather be pissed.”
“Of course I’d rather be pissed. I’m human. I have feelings. I loved him. Haven’t you ever loved anyone?”
“Not that way.”
“Nina Abbott?”
“Jesus, no.”
There was just enough shocked derision in his tone to carry the truth. “It didn’t seem that far-out a question.”
“Look, she’s gorgeous, talented, sexy, smart.”
“Bitch.”
Pleased, he let out a short laugh. “You asked. I liked her, except when she was batshit crazy—which, looking back, was pretty damn regular. It was steam and smoke, then it was just drama. She liked the drama. No, she fucking loved the drama. I didn’t. That’s it.”
“I guess I assumed there was more than—”
“There wasn’t. And it’s not about me anyway.”
“So you just expect me to be logical and objective about Greg, about Perry, about this. I should be analytical when—”
“Be whatever the hell you want, but if you don’t think, if you don’t step outside and look at the whole, you can shoot that gun as much as you like and it’s not going to help. For fuck’s sake, Fiona, are you going to pack it twenty-four/seven? Are you going to strap it on while you’re running your classes, or driving to the village for a quart of milk? Is that how you’re going to live?”
“If I have to. You’re mad,” she realized. “It’s hard to tell with you because you don’t always show it. You’ve been mad since you got here, but you’ve only let it sneak out a couple times.”
“We’re both better off that way.”
“Yeah, because otherwise you’re Simon Kick-Ass. You come here every night. There’s probably some mad in that, too.”
Considering, she picked up her wine again, walked to the post to lean back, study him as she drank. “You’ve got to stop what you’re doing, toss some things in a bag, drive over here. You don’t leave anything, except what you forget. Because you’re messy. It’s another thing you have to do every day.”
She’d managed to turn it around so it was about him after all, he realized. The woman had skills. “I don’t have to do anything.”
“That’s true.” She nodded, drank again. “Yeah, that’s true. You get a meal and sex out of it, but that’s not why you do it. Not altogether anyway. It has to irritate you, to some extent. I haven’t given you enough credit for that.”
“I don’t do it for credit either.”
“No, you don’t work on the point system. You don’t care about things like that. You do what you want, and if an obligation sneaks in—a dog, a woman—you figure out how to handle it and continue to do what you want. Problems are meant to be solved. Measure, cut, fit the pieces together until it works the way you want it to work.”
She lifted her glass, sipped again. “How’s that for looking at motivation?”
“Not bad, if this was about me.”
“Part of it is, for me. See, it was okay when this was an affair. This you and me. I never had one before, not really, so it was all new and shiny, sexy and easy. Really attractive guy who gives me the tingles. Enough in common and enough not to make it interesting. I like the way he is, and maybe partly because he’s so different from my usual. I think it’s the same with him about me. But that changes without me realizing it—or at least without me admitting it. Affair becomes relationship.”
She sipped again, let out a little sigh. “That’s what we have here, Simon. We’re in a relationship whether either of us wanted it or were ready for it. And as stupid as it is, as useless and wrong as it is, part of me feels disloyal to Greg. So I’d rather be pissed. I’d rather not admit I’m not having an affair with you, a no-problem, casual little fling I can walk away from anytime.”
She watched the dogs scramble off the porch like runners at the starting gun, then bound around the side of the house.
“I guess you’re going to have to remeasure and refit. That’s dinner. We should eat inside. It’s cooling off.”
She walked into the house, leaving him wondering how the hell the conversation had flipped on him.
IN THE KITCHEN, Fiona gave the pasta a quick buzz in the microwave. By the time Simon came in, she’d dumped the spaghetti in a bowl, set the garlic bread on a small plate and brought the wine to the table.
When she turned with dinner plates in her hands, he took her by the shoulders. “I’ve got some say in what this is.”
“Okay. What is it?”
“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”
She waited. Waited another moment. “Are you figuring it out now?”
“No.”
“Then we should eat before I have to heat it up again.”
“I’m not competing with a ghost.”
“No. No, believe me, Simon, I know it’s not fair. He was my first, in every way.” She set the plates down, crossed over to get the flatware, napkins. “And the way I lost him left scars. There hasn’t been anyone since who was important enough to make me take a good look at those scars. I didn’t know that’s what I’d have to do when I started falling for you. I think I’m in love with you. It’s not like it was with Greg, so it’s confusing, but I think that’s what it is, going on with me. And that’s a dilemma for both of us.”
She topped off both glasses of wine. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when you figure it out on your end.”
“That’s it?” he demanded. “Oops, we’re in a relationship, and by the way, I think I’m in love with you. Let me know what you think?”
She sat, tipped her face up to look at him. “That pretty much sums it up. Love’s always been a positive in my life.” She scooped some spaghetti onto his plate. “It adds and enhances and opens all sorts of possibilities. But I’m not stupid, and I know that if you can’t or don’t feel it for me, it’ll be painful. That’s a dilemma. I also know you can’t force love, or demand it. And I’ve already dealt with the worst. If you can’t or don’t love me, it’ll hurt. But I’ll get through it. Besides, maybe I’m wrong.”
She took a portion of pasta. “I was wrong about being in love with Josh Clatterson.”
“Who the hell is Josh Clatterson?”
“Sprinter.” She wound pasta around her fork. “I pined for him for nearly two years—tenth and eleventh grade, and the summer between. But it turned out it wasn’t love. I just liked the way he looked when he ran the twenty-yard dash. So maybe I just like the way you look, Simon, and how you smell of sawdust half the time.”
“You haven’t seen me run the twenty-yard dash.”
“True. I might be sunk if I ever do.” When he finally sat down, she smiled. “I’m going to try to be logical and objective.”
“It seems to me you’re doing a damn good job at it already.”
“About you and me? I guess it’s a defense mechanism.”
He frowned, ate. “It doesn’t work as a defense once you tell me it’s a defense.”
“That’s a good point. Well, too late. I meant logical and so forth about Perry and what’s going on now. You were right about that, about the importance of understanding motivation. He didn’t try to kill me just because. I represented something, just like the others had. And failing with me, he needed to inflict punishment? Do you think punishment?”
“It’s a good enough word for it.”
“It had to be more severe than the others. Death ends—though I imagine if he hadn’t been caught he’d have come for me again. Because he’d have needed to end it—to tie off that thread. How am I doing?”
“Keep going.”
“He understood it’s hard to live when you know, when you understand someone you love is dead because you lived. He knew that, understood that, and used that to make me suffer for . . . breaking his streak, spoiling his record. What then?” she asked when Simon shook his head.
She sat back. “For leaving him,” she repeated. “I got away. I ran away. I didn’t stay where he put me, or . . . accept the gift. The scarf. All right, say that’s true, what does it tell me?”
“He’s never forgotten you. You left him, and even though he managed to scar you, he was the one who was punished. He can’t get to you, can’t close that circle, tie off the thread. Not with his own hands. He needs someone to do it for him. A stand-in. A proxy. How does he find one?”
“Someone he knows, another inmate.”
“Why would he use someone who’s already failed?”
Her heart knocked at the base of her throat. “He wouldn’t. He waits. He’s good at waiting. So he’d wait, wouldn’t he, until he found someone he believed smart enough, good enough. The women he’s killed—this proxy—it’s a kind of building-up. I understand that. They’re a horrible kind of practice.”
“And they’re bragging. ‘You locked me up, but you didn’t stop me.’ ”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” For an instant those tawny eyes went fierce. “Be scared, and think. What motivates the proxy?”
“How can I know?”
“Jesus, Fee, you’re smarter than that. Why does anyone follow someone else’s path?”
“Admiration.”
“Yeah. And you train someone to do what you want, how you want, when you want?”
“Praise and reward. That means contact, but they’ve searched Perry’s cell, they’re monitoring his visitors—and his sister’s the only one who goes to see him.”
“And nobody ever smuggles anything into prison? Or out? Did Perry ever send a scarf before he abducted a woman?”
“No.”
“So this guy’s deviated. Sometimes you follow another person’s path because you want to impress them, or outdo them. It has to be someone he met, more than once. Someone he was able to evaluate, and trust, and speak to privately. A lawyer, a shrink, a counselor, a guard. Somebody in maintenance or prison administration. Somebody Perry looked at, listened to, watched, studied and saw something in. Someone that reminded him of himself.”
“Okay. Someone young enough to be maneuvered and trained, mature enough to be trusted. Smart enough not to simply follow instructions, but to adjust to each particular situation. He’d have to be able to travel with nobody questioning him about where he’d been, what he’d done. So, single, someone who lives alone. Like Perry did. The FBI must already have a profile.”
“He’d have to have some physical stamina, some strength,” Simon continued. “His own car—probably something nondescript. He’d need enough money to carry him along. Food, gas, hotels.”
“And some knowledge of the areas where he abducts them, and where he takes them. Maps, time to scope it all out. But under it, doesn’t there have to be more? The reason why. Admiring Perry? Nobody could unless they were like him. What made this person like that?”
“It’ll be a woman, or women. He’s not killing Perry’s mother. My guess would be she’s his proxy.”
IT MADE SENSE, though she didn’t know what good it did her. Maybe the fact that it made sense was enough. She had a theory about what she was facing—or who.
She supposed it helped that Simon pushed her to think. No promises that nothing would happen to her, to protect her from all harm. She wouldn’t have believed those claims, she thought as she tried to soak out the tension with a hot bath. Maybe she’d have been comforted by them, but she wouldn’t have believed them.
He didn’t make promises—not Simon. In fact, he was very careful not to, she decided. All those casual see you laters rather than just saying he’d be back. Then again, a man who didn’t make promises didn’t break them.
Greg had made promises, and kept them when he could. It occurred to her now that she’d never worried about Greg or wondered or doubted. He’d been her sweetheart before the abduction, and he’d been her rock after.
And he was gone. It was time, maybe long past time, to fully accept that.
Wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the bedroom as Simon came in from the hall.
“The dogs wanted out,” he told her. He crossed over, flicked his fingers over the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “That’s a new look for you.”
“I didn’t want it to get wet.” She reached up to pull out pins, but he brushed her hand aside.
“I’ll do it. Did you finish your brood?”
She smiled a little. “It was only a partial brood.”
“You had a rough day.” He pulled a pin out.
“It’s done now.”
“Not quite.” He drew out another pin. “Scent’s the thing, right? How you find someone. I’ve got yours inside me. I could find you whether I wanted to or not. Whether you wanted me to or not.”
“I’m not lost.”
“I still found you.” He took out another pin, and her hair tumbled after it. “What is it about the way a woman’s hair falls?” He speared his hands through it, locked his eyes on hers. “What is it about you?”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, but softly, testing and easy. She eased into him as she had the bath, with every muscle sighing its pleasure.
For a moment, just a moment, he simply held her, with his hand stroking down her hair, her back. It undid her, the offer of comfort she hadn’t asked for, the gift of affection she hadn’t expected.
He slipped the towel off, let it fall, and even then just held her.
“What is it about you?” he repeated. “How does touching you calm me down and excite me at the same time? What is it you want from me? You never ask. Sometimes I wonder, is this a trick?” His eyes on hers, he backed her slowly toward the bed. “Just a way to pull me in? But it’s not. You’re not built that way.”
“Why would I want anything I had to trick out of you?”
“You don’t.” He lifted her, held, then laid her on the bed. “So you pull me in. And I end up being the one who’s lost.”
She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll find you.”
He wasn’t used to tenderness, to feeling it spread inside him. Or this need to give her what she never asked of him. It was easier to let the storm come, let it ride over both of them. But for tonight, he’d embrace the calm and try to soothe the fears he understood hid behind those lake-blue eyes.
Relax. Let go. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she sank into the kiss that offered quiet and warmth. Slow and easy, his mouth tasted hers, changing angles, gently deepening in a seduction that shimmered sweet.
She’d been wrong, she realized. She was lost. Floating, untethered, in an unfamiliar space where sensation layered gauzily over sensation to blur the mind and enchant the body.
She surrendered to it, to him, yielding absolutely as his lips gently conquered hers, as his hands trailed over her—tender touches soothing a troubled soul.
The softly lit bedroom transformed. A magic glade steeped in green shadows silvered at the edges with moonlight, with the air thick and still and sweet. She didn’t know her way, and was content to wander, to linger, to be guided.
His mouth grazed down her throat, over her shoulders until her skin tingled from the quiet onslaught. He tasted her breasts, patiently sampling until on a groan she arched and offered.
He feasted, but delicately.
Hands and mouth skimmed down in whispering trails, inciting sighs and shivers that rolled into a slow rise, a gilded peak, a breathy fall.
He was with her in the magic, steeped in her, in the rich glow of the moment, in the slow glide of movements. Seduced as he seduced, enraptured by the sound of his name murmured from her lips, the slide of her hands, the taste of her skin.
She welcomed him, warm and wet, took him in—into her body, into her arms. The need stayed slow and sweet, tender as an open heart even as it climbed.
And when he fell, he fell into her eyes.
SIXTEEN
In the shabby excuse f
or a rented cabin squatting in the magnificence of the Cascade Mountains, Francis Eckle read Perry’s letter. They had, many months before, determined the route, the timing, the towns, colleges, burial sites.
Or Perry had, he thought.
The preplanning made it a simple matter to obtain a mail drop for the letters Perry smuggled out of prison. The answers returned by a similar method—mailed to Perry’s minister, who believed in his repentance.
In the beginning, he’d been thrilled by the correspondence, the exchange of details and ideas. Perry’s understanding, guidance and approval meant so much.
Someone, finally someone who saw him.
Someone who didn’t require the mask, the pretense, but instead recognized the chains required to keep them in place. Someone, at last someone who helped him gather the courage to break those chains and release what he was.
A man, a friend, a partner who offered to share the power that came from throwing off the shackles of rules and behavior and embracing the predator.
The teacher had become a willing student, eager to learn, to explore all the knowledge and experiences he’d so long denied himself. But now he believed the time had come for commencement.
Time to move beyond the boundaries and the tenets he’d been so meticulously taught.
They were rules, after all, and rules no longer applied.
He studied the two fingers of whiskey in his glass. Perry had decreed there could be no drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco during the journey. The body and mind remained pure.
But Perry was in prison, he thought, and sipped with the pleasure of rebellion. The journey no longer belonged to him.
It was time to make his own mark—or the next mark, as he’d detoured from the plan already by sending the Bristow bitch a little present.
He wished he could have seen her face when she opened the mailer. He wished he could have smelled her fear.
But that would come, soon enough.
He’d detoured as well by renting the cabin—an expense dearer than a dingy motel room, but he felt it earned the cost with its privacy.