by Julie Miller
He retreated to the row of windows at the far side of his apartment. It was only twenty or thirty feet away, yet the distance between them felt like miles. He opened a window and breathed in deeply. His shoulders rose, then sank in weary resignation.
"I don't remember what anything good or positive feels like. I know injustice and heart-stopping fear that wakes me in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. I knew that same fear tonight when I saw you in Roylott's arms. I was jealous as hell, and scared to death I couldn't get you out of there, that he would use you, hurt you."
The barren apartment echoed with the ensuing silence. He had admitted more than he'd wanted to already. Maybe he'd even surprised himself as much as he surprised her.
The idea of someone caring, the idea of someone wanting to protect her—not just physically, but emotionally—was an aphrodisiac she could succumb to all too easily. But she couldn't afford to be weak. Not with Kerry, Jonathan, and the LadyTech empire depending on her.
She hadn't survived an adolescence full of terror because she had no strength. She hadn't stayed at her mother's side and offered her support because she lacked courage. She didn't endure losing the man she loved by giving up.
"You don't know how tempted I am to argue with you." She chose her words carefully, walking a fine line between compassion and emotional survival. "You talk tough. But there's a depth of caring in you that I think you underestimate. I've seen it in the way you treat Kerry, and I've seen it with me a dozen times.
"But it's not your job to take care of me that way." The weariness of her spirit weighed her down and anchored her to the floor. "It's not your place."
"I know." He turned, and she felt the glowing intensity of his catlike gaze reaching out across all those miles of lies and regret. His wistful smile touched a sad chord in her heart. "Your husband is the luckiest man in the world. I hope he knows what you're going through for him."
"I know there's someone for you, Drew. Someone waiting to…" Her voice trailed off as she heard the words the way he must. Who might be waiting for him? I have no family now, he'd told her. She'd assumed he'd gone through a divorce, or had lost his loved ones in some tragedy.
Earlier, she'd been too caught up in her temper and suspicions to notice the subtle details of the place he called home. The spacious layout had all the necessary amenities: furniture, appliances, workout equipment. But now she realized what was missing.
Photographs. Souvenirs. Handmade items.
All the gifts and mementos a person collected over the years. She had Kerry's hand prints from her first day at preschool hanging in her bedroom. Family photographs with Jonathan. Diplomas from college and graduate school. Even the afghans her mother had crocheted.
Those objects gave her a tangible reminder every day of her life of all that was important to her, all that she had accomplished, all that life could be.
He had no such faith to sustain him, no remembered promises to give him hope.
Drew had nothing.
Nothing but his misplaced feelings for her.
"You really don't have a past." Her stunned acceptance of his crazy story carried across the room.
"I could be that man Roylott knew." He offered up the possibility like a bargaining chip, an offer on the table that she could either accept or reject.
His unspoken request stirred her heart. It tugged at her conscience and tapped into her rational mind. She made herself think of the unspeakable relief she'd felt when he'd rescued her from Roylott, of the tender care she'd witnessed when he held her sleeping child in his arms, of the way he made her senses come alive with just the simplest touch or the most passionate kiss. That was the man she knew.
Believing in those facts instead of a known criminal's assertion, she rejected the idea that he could be so self-serving and cruel. She took a step toward him. "I know evil, Drew. I grew up with a man whose illness killed his conscience. I saw and heard all the ways a man could terrorize those who were weaker and at his mercy."
"In my forgotten life, I might be like that."
"You are nothing like my father." That was one truth she believed with all her heart. "You have a conscience. Or else we wouldn't be having this discussion. You would never hurt Kerry or me."
"No, I wouldn't." That concession to the man he was now seemed to give him some measure of absolution. He, too, risked taking a step. He covered two feet of floor space, and miles and miles of the suspicion and regret yawning between them. "Do you still want me to help find your husband? To protect you and Kerry? I'll understand if you don't." He rattled off options with detached speed. "I can give you names of some good private detectives. I'll turn over everything I've found so far. Or you could check with Maxwell. He'll hire someone you can trust. Your friend Maxwell would probably like that."
She considered his offer for a moment, but quickly discarded the idea. "I don't know what kind of man you used to be, Drew. But I know what kind of man you are now. I still think you're the only one who can bring Jonathan home. Nothing's changed there."
And yet everything had changed between them.
* * *
Drew pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The guest room in Emma's house had a more homey feel than his own apartment—queen-sized bed, plush appointments, his own private bath. The duffel bag packed with his things looked small and lost inside the walk-in closet. Two hours of poring over reports from the D.A.'s office should have put him to sleep by now. But he sat there on the bed, dressed in his beat-up black jeans and a T-shirt, pillows propped against the headboard, wide awake.
What had possessed him to say those things to Emma? Fear? Desperation? He'd really lost it, talking about things he hadn't thought through yet. It had been hard enough to talk about his amnesia—even harder to concede the notion that Clayton Roylott really might know him. But love? Where had that come from? He shouldn't have those kinds of feelings for her. Couldn't.
A good, healthy lust for the woman was one thing. Feeling compassion for her plight made him human, and he desperately wanted to believe he still had some humanity left in him. He could even rationalize the fear he felt for her safety. She was a client, after all. If he didn't keep her safe, he wasn't doing his job.
But love?
He closed the folder in his lap and shook his head at the new level of craziness that was consuming him. Yeah, maybe he hadn't been thinking as clearly as he should have. He had no way to disprove Roylott's claim that they'd worked together in Florida. But Emma's suspicions had blindsided him. She'd always questioned which side of the law he belonged to. But he'd been caught in the lie of his identity. Caught red-handed with the deceptive motive of using her to find his past. He had no way to earn back Emma's trust, except by completing the job for her. But even that might not be enough.
She wasn't his to lose, and yet he mourned the loss all the same. She needed him. For now. But he would be out of his mind if he thought she'd ever accept those feelings from him.
"Looks like you're stuck with work, Gallagher," he chided himself. He was back to square one as far as discovering his past was concerned. Emma didn't know him. His job might be a lonely companion, but right now it was the only thing that gave him a reason to keep going.
He set aside the file and pulled out his notepad to review what he knew so far. Moriarty was buying up LadyTech stock under front men with names from Sherlock Holmes mysteries. Did the man think of himself as the reincarnation of that fictitious villain? If so, who did he see as his archrival, Holmes? Was it Emma? Drew himself felt like the detective going head-to-head on this case.
Moriarty had tried on at least three separate occasions to contact Emma directly. He influenced crime families across the country. He'd written a journal whose beginning matched the dates and places of Jonathan Ramsey's disappearance. Were there clues coded into that journal that Drew hadn't recognized before?
And why did his gut insist on connecting Jonathan himself to James Moriarty?
His notepad a
nd glasses joined the folder beside him on the bed. He pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, fighting to ease the tension that refused to subside.
He'd sent the four sets of prints he'd taken from the office at Lucky's to his contact on the D.A.’s staff. Forty-eight hours seemed like an interminable wait for answers. In the meantime, gambling on the nickname Scotty, Drew had traced an arrest record for a man named Clayton Scott. Not that it had told him much. The con-man-slash-bully had dabbled in several questionable business ventures. He'd only been convicted on minor charges—all his major crimes had been pleaded down or dismissed.
Roylott might talk big, but he was just a middle man. Like Stan Begosian and Wyatt Carlisle, Roylott was simply a means to an end. But what exactly was the end? What was James Moriarty up to?
"D-Drew?" The sleepy little yawn of Kerry's voice startled him.
He knocked the papers onto the floor, scrambling to swing his legs over the side of the bed and get to his feet. He never made it.
"Drew!" Dragging her doll behind her, Kerry woke as if it was Christmas Day and sailed across the room. She launched herself into his arms, knocking him back on his seat. Chubby fingers cinched around his neck. "You c-came back."
Glancing around the room as if a hidden list of instructions on how to handle this situation might suddenly present itself, Drew caught her up in one arm and patted her head with the other.
"Hey, punkin," he greeted her at last. "What are you doing up in the middle of the night?"
"I had a b-bad dream." She loosened her grip only to settle more comfortably in his lap.
He knew the feeling. "Let me get your mom, okay?"
"Sh-she's not in her room. I checked." She sat back to look at him. Her eyes rounded. "D-don't you want to s-see us?"
"Of course, I do."
"Good." She released a child-pitched sigh and snuggled against him. She laid the doll on his chest, too, and squirmed impatiently until at last Drew understood and closed his arms around both tiny treasures.
Such a little bundle of opinion and energy. Drew smiled to himself at the incredible trust Kerry gave him. Without understanding why, her willingness to relax, and the simple idea that a hug could make things better for her, fortified his spirit as little else could.
He gave her a squeeze and elicited a soft giggle. He had no earthly idea what to do next. Call Emma? Put Kerry back to bed? Just hold her until she got up and left on her own?
As if the inanimate objects of the room understood his dilemma, the light beside his bed dimmed, casting the room into slumberous shadow. He attributed the brown-out to the time of night, the lingering winter, and the drain on the city's power supply.
He heard a frustrated sigh that was not his own. Kerry's shoulders hadn't moved, except with her even breathing. Emma wasn't standing at the doorway, so Drew wondered if he had imagined the sound.
Kerry stirred and lifted her head, gazing out at a distant point in the darkness. "I don't want to talk about it," she said. Though drowsy, she articulated the words with the clarity of a soft bell. "Okay. If you say so."
"Whoa there, champ." The difference in her speech didn't register until she'd spoken a second time Drew's big hands dwarfed her tiny shoulders as he pushed her away to look into her face. "Who are you talking to?"
"Faith." She blinked big, blue, innocent eyes. "Sh-she says I have to t-tell you 'bout my dream."
Drew looked from her to the unseen Faith, and back again. He felt confusion furrow a tense line across his forehead. "How come you didn't stutter?"
As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn't. She was just a kid. A tiny one, at that. She probably was extremely self-conscious about her speech impediment. Pointing it out like the curious detective he was might shoot holes in her self-esteem.
But Kerry was not only vocal, she was resilient. She answered his question with the same efficient tone her mother used when conducting business. "F-Faith's my f-friend. She never leaves me, 'cept when I'm s-sleeping."
"Is Faith the one who told you I was your daddy?"
She nodded.
"You know I don't look anything like him, don't you? He has dark hair. Darker than yours." He pulled at a strand of his own hair. "Mine's blonde."
"I know." Kerry reached up and touched it, too. "Y-yours is longer, too. But Faith s-says you're the same."
"Do you believe everything she tells you?"
She nodded with absolute loyalty. "Angels always t-tell the t-truth."
"And you talk to this… angel… without any problem?"
"I g-guess."
For the first time, Drew tried to see Emma's situation from Kerry's point-of-view. She'd been abandoned as a little girl by a father she could barely remember. The girl's mother wore her sadness like a shield, and carried her fading hope like a badge of honor.
Even though Kerry came first in Emma's life, he saw a similarity in each of the lives of the Ramsey women. Although Emma might not have been the focus of her father's rage, she couldn't help but be affected by it. And though Kerry had nothing to do with Emma's sad loneliness, she, too, couldn't help but be influenced by the demands Emma made on herself.
An imaginary friend who stayed by her as a steady guide made sense.
Taking a small leap of trust himself, Drew decided to accept Kerry's friend. For Kerry's sake.
He changed his grip to a comforting hug around the girl's shoulders and let her snuggle against him once more. "So what does Faith want you to tell me about your dream?" he asked.
Kerry sniffed and turned her nose into his chest. He didn't mind. "There's a m-man who c-comes to my house."
"Me?" Drew went rigid, wondering if he had unintentionally worked his way into her dreams and frightened her.
"No. He's bigger th-than you." Drew slowly exhaled and let himself relax, off the hook, but still concerned. "He t-takes Mommy away f-from me."
An angry resentment made him frown. Even in dreams, he didn't like the idea of anyone or anything frightening this little girl. He gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You know your mom loves you more than anything, punkin. You two are a team. She wouldn't let anybody take her away from you."
"He's n-not nice." She huddled closer, and Drew hugged her tight.
"I won't let anyone take her away from you, either." He made the promise without thinking, only feeling. He told her what she needed to hear, and heard the words himself with a sense of absolute rightness.
The bedside lamp brightened to its full strength. He narrowed his eyes against the sudden glare, and questioned its timing. But before he could make anything of the unusual coincidence, strands of yarn tapped against his chin.
He pulled back and squinted at the embroidered doll's face staring at him. Kerry yawned. "Angelica's tired," she said.
Drew bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the droopy-eyed, seven-year-old mother figure in his lap. "Then we'd better put her to bed."
He scooped up both girl and doll and tossed them onto his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he stood. Kerry giggled in his ear, breathless and surprised by the brief sensation of safe flight. "Daddy!"
Drew shushed her and carried her into the hall, bending his knees and dipping her up and down, prolonging the late-night carnival ride to her room. "You'd better call me Drew, punkin. So your mom doesn't worry."
“'Kay.”
"Promise?" The heady sensation of this girl's adoration had to take a back seat to common sense and his concern for Emma.
"It'll be our s-secret."
With a dramatic flourish, he swept her off his shoulder and laid her on her bed, almost tempted to chuckle right along with her as he tucked the covers up under her chin. "Good night, punkin."
"You c-can give me a g'night kiss if you want, Drew." Honored by the invitation, Drew smiled. He bent low over the bed and brushed a gentle kiss across her forehead. When he started to pull away, she caught him by the neck and whispered in his ear. "Daddy."
She release
d him with a flurry of hushed giggles and turned away, curling up into a ball around her soft stuffed doll. Drew straightened, a slow grin spreading across his mouth at their shared secret. Emma would probably cringe to hear Kerry call him that, but he liked it. He felt necessary, special, and—for a few short moments in the middle of the night—loved.
Before that rare good feeling could overwhelm him into thinking it meant anything more than temporary gratitude or infatuation, Drew left the room. He'd better find Emma to see why she, too, refused to stay in bed and sleep.
The idea that he could carry her to bed and give her a kiss to calm her fears created a wry twist of laughter in his throat. She'd slap his face. Fire him. Worse, he'd feel as guilty as hell.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
The word echoed in his head, a judge pronouncing sentence on him for feeling things he shouldn't—about another man's wife and another man's child. He descended the stairs with a light, noiseless tread. By the time he reached the downstairs hallway, his buoyed spirits had sunk again.
He coveted another man's life. He wanted Emma and Kerry for his own. Even if he remembered his life from before, he'd want this one instead. The Ramsey women had cracked a chink in his solitary armor and wended their way straight into his heart.
* * *
"She had a nightmare?" Emma took the stairs two at a time. Drew followed more slowly behind her. She caught her breath as she entered her daughter's room, not wanting the sound of her panic to startle and waken Kerry.
As she neared the bed, she could see she'd overreacted. Kerry slept soundly, spread-eagled in contented slumber. Emma smoothed the hair from Kerry's forehead and gave her a kiss. She straightened the covers and stepped away. "You keep an eye on her, okay?" she whispered to the wide-eyed doll tucked snugly beside her.