“Like what?” he burst out, exasperated. “One of those?” He pointed at the yacht marina. “You want to become one of the people you just complained about?”
“Yes. No.” She paced along the pier, limping with her splintered foot. “I don’t want to be spoiled and treat others like crap. But I want to have my own business, a really successful one. I want to go to charity balls and write big checks that will help kids. I want beautiful clothes and a car I choose, not the cheapest one on the lot.”
“None of that stuff is important, Zoe.”
He was right. She just didn’t know how to explain. To most people, those were superficial trappings that had little to do with relationships and personal satisfaction and all that. To her, they represented so much more. A life that she created, that was hers from top to bottom. That had never been touched in any way by her past. By Pat’s power trip and Freddie’s crazy idea of motherhood, her mother’s fears and her father’s desperate rules that trapped more than they protected.
But she didn’t hear that from him. What she heard, that he probably didn’t intend, was “your dreams aren’t important.”
And that was it, the moment it had broken forever.
Chapter Six
Zoe realized the bedspread under her had grown damp with her tears and that she really, really needed a tissue. She shoved herself up and off the bed to find one. The light on the desk hurt her eyes, and when she blinked, her eyelids were so swollen they didn’t seem to fit together right. She had no idea how long she’d lain there, crying, immersed in the past.
She’d still been in therapy when Grant proposed, the second of a series of sessions with empowered and empowering people who’d helped her get past the residual effects of the abduction. One of those effects had been her need for control. When she first got home after her escape, that need manifested in screaming fits about what her mother tried to feed her at mealtimes. Once she adapted to a “normal” daily life and came to terms with her parents’ limitations, the things she tried to control grew more complicated and important. Deciding what classes to take, working at the lake, being with Grant, choosing a college—and planning the rest of her life. The therapist had encouraged the planning, as long as she recognized her need for control and worked to balance it against the needs of others.
That last part had been harder, and her relationship with Grant had been the first casualty.
He hadn’t understood. He had a typical poor-kid view of the rich and hadn’t wanted anything to do with that world. Zoe’s opinions weren’t all that different, but her goals had nothing to do with fitting in with “people like that.” He couldn’t see it. All he could see was that she was greedy and selfish, and now, from a ten-year vantage point, she knew she had been. Not necessarily about what she wanted, but how she treated his plans and dreams. They’d argued for hours, Grant intent on convincing her that he could do anything, go anywhere, that he just wanted to be with her, and Zoe just as intent on not believing him. She hadn’t simply wanted him to want his own things without making her the center of his existence. She wanted her new life so much she couldn’t understand why he’d be willing to give up his own. She was afraid that if he made sacrifices, it would force her to do the same.
And maybe it would have. Even in retrospect, she couldn’t see any easy path for them. They’d have been at different schools, so far apart. They’d have grown in different directions, made new friends, met hot new guys and girls. How many normal long-distance relationships survived? Once she was able to get real distance from the past, Grant would have been the only tie remaining. How strong would have been the need to cut that tie? Eventually, hurting him—hurting each other—would have become inevitable.
She threw her soggy tissues in the wicker trash can and looked around for an ice bucket. She needed some water. She spotted the ugly yellow plastic bucket on a table by the window and stood to get it, making sure she had her key card before she went out to find the ice machine.
The problem was, even though they’d ended things that day, it hadn’t been over. She had gone back to the bunkhouse and cried herself to sleep, because after her initial reaction to the way Grant had proposed came her reaction to the fact of the proposal.
She found the vending nook and grimaced at the puddle under the ice machine. This must be the source of the leak to the lobby. When she lifted the cover to the bin, she found small cubes swimming in a pool of water. There was no scoop, and she couldn’t bring herself to dip the bucket into that mess. She bought a bottle of Coke instead and headed back to her room.
Grant had loved her so much he wanted to commit to her, to make her commit to him, believing that would keep them together through anything that happened. And she’d loved him that much, too. The realization that they weren’t going to be part of each other’s lives anymore had felt like glass shattering, slicing every part of her that could feel pain.
She’d moved on, the only thing she could do. They saw each other one more time, at church during the holidays, when Zoe’s town held a vigil for missing children. Her mother had started the event and made it kind of in Zoe’s honor, or in recognition of the rarity of her escape, or something like that. And even though Grant’s family lived a few towns away, they always came for the vigil. After all, they’d lost a son to the same people who’d had Zoe, even though he’d been an adult and involved with them by his own choice.
That night, while everyone stood praying and singing with their candles, Zoe and Grant had snuck away and made desperate, powerful love in the graveyard behind the church. Neither one of them had really said anything to the other. Grant had looked at her with promises in his eyes, and Zoe figured he saw nothing but regret in hers. But she was already looking forward.
She drank her soda while she got ready for bed, changing and brushing her teeth by autopilot, still rolling through her past. She’d transferred from Amherst to Suffolk University once she decided on her career in graphic design and computer science. Then came internships, summer jobs in the city, every choice made to forward her goals. Every man she dated qualified as a rebound guy. Eventually, she’d managed to stifle all her feelings for Grant and start having real relationships, though all failed miserably before Kell. She’d met him a few months after she got a loan, quit her job at a major web company, and launched her business. He’d embodied everything she wanted and more. Despite the reputation of his profession, he was a core-deep good man, someone who made her feel as safe emotionally as physically, without being tethered by his dreams and expectations.
She missed him.
But now here she was, back with Grant. And things were far more complicated than she’d expected them to be.
Their mothers had kept contact. Zoe always thought that was weird, even when her therapist explained they had a connection beyond Zoe’s relationship with Grant. They’d both been through hell and “survived,” even if that word was as fragile as Zoe’s mother. They updated each other on their kids’ progress, and in turn told Zoe and Grant. That was how she knew about his stint in Special Forces before he took an honorable discharge and went private sector—the polite way to say mercenary—and that he hadn’t ever married. The Grant she’d put together from these updates and stories seemed so different from the man she’d loved, she’d hoped seeing him wouldn’t dredge up the past she’d put to rest. He was different, she was different, and there’d be no connection anymore.
She was so wrong.
Every movement he made was pure Grant, exactly how she remembered him, but now with the power and masculinity that had only been potential ten years ago. He smelled the same, smiled the same, and when she looked into his eyes—which she’d tried to avoid the entire time she was there, a mistake given the impact when she finally did it right before she left—whatever had made them perfect for each other as teenagers was still there.
She turned off the light and climbed into bed with a soul-deep sigh. She wished their connection was just because they’d shared
something horrific, but it wasn’t. They knew each other in a way most people never did, a way she now understood she had never allowed with Kell.
All of that was bad enough on its own. Then it had to be compounded by attraction. Zoe had been attracted to other men. A faint buzz, a little mmm, delicious and mutual, silent acknowledgment of possibilities. That was all easily dismissed, even when the man was a client or colleague and she had to be around him more than in passing. This was different. Uncontrollable, raw, and if given any toehold, possibly her ruination. If she was smart, she’d send Grant a “thank you, but never mind” note and leave. But if she left, she might never get her life back.
So much for control.
* * *
Zoe had been drifting into sleep for only moments when her phone rang. She shot upright with a sharp gasp and whipped to look at the clock. Music and voices drifted in from outside her window. She snatched the phone off the nightstand and squinted at the display, heart still racing. The number on the screen didn’t match any of the ones in her contacts list. That meant it wasn’t someone from back home or Boston, so everyone was okay. She calmed enough to recognize the area code as Florida, which meant it was probably Grant.
And dammit, she’d forgotten to call him. Hadn’t even thought about the number inked on her hand when she washed up.
She stabbed the button to accept the call. “Hello?”
“So you’re okay.” His voice was as stony as his expression could be.
“Yeah. I’m sorry.” She took a deep breath, a little shaky from the adrenaline rush. “I totally forgot to call you.”
“I hoped that was it.”
Zoe realized she could hear music in the background on the other end of the line. The same music she heard outside her window.
“Where are you?”
A few beats went by before he answered. “Outside the hotel.”
“Why? Why didn’t you call me first?”
He didn’t answer, and Zoe had a feeling the reason was a lot like the reason she’d forgotten. He, too, felt what was between them and didn’t want to acknowledge it. So he’d avoided talking to her.
“The bike place said you’d returned the bike, but the hotel clerk wouldn’t confirm you’d checked in, so… Sorry I bothered you.”
“It’s no bother, Grant.” The words came out husky and gentle, and she cursed herself. That was the last signal she wanted to send. She tried to sound more businesslike when she continued, “I’m sorry I made you worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, right?”
“Right.”
“Night.”
“Night.”
The line stayed open for several seconds, the music playing in stereo, before Zoe finally ended the call.
* * *
The next two days weren’t exactly the torture she’d dreaded. She spent most of the next day in the café, nursing lattes and blowing too much of her cash reserves on the Internet, trying to find information about the totems as well as Pat and Freddie. She’d never realized how much her perspective was still that of a twelve-year-old. Her therapy had always focused on herself, healing, building a safe future. Now she could review that time as an adult and see them as human, with goals and motivations that made sense, twisted as it was. Freddie thought Pat had given Zoe to her as a present, a “baby” to mother. But it was clear now that he’d used Zoe to distract his wife, to keep her satisfied and happy while he strove to achieve the kind of power that didn’t really exist.
Thank God for Henricksen. His access to the old records, including interviews with Pat’s associates, and his preliminary research when all this first started had saved her a lot of time. There was no easy place to begin looking if she didn’t have the links he’d provided as a jumping-off point.
She and Grant talked on the phone a few times. He was using his contacts to track their nemeses and try to pinpoint where the totems had gone after she threw them on the train, using copies of the schedules from the FBI file—again, thanks to Henricksen. She remembered little about it, but the location of the rail yard and track number, plus the time of year and time of day, had helped Grant determine the likely chain of cars.
They agreed to meet the third morning to compare notes and try to come up with a plan of action. Zoe rented a bike again and rode down to Grant’s shack, a bag of food from the restaurant next to the hotel tied above the back wheel.
Their phone conversations hadn’t been awkward or tense, but Grant stood on the deck waiting for her, his posture a study in wariness. Zoe wheeled up the crushed-shell walkway and hopped off, propping the bike against the wall. He wore a ball cap today, his blond hair sticking out the sides and back, but even though it shadowed his eyes, she could still feel his laser stare.
“I brought lunch,” she offered, raising the bag in the air.
“Good.” Grant turned and went into the shack. When Zoe rounded the corner and stepped up onto the deck, she saw he’d left the door open for her.
“Thoughtful,” she muttered. Maybe all her worries the other night had been for naught. One-sided attraction was much easier to handle than the mutual kind. On the other hand, maybe she’d pissed him off about something. When she stepped inside, he was standing next to the paper-strewn table. His arms were folded, his stance wide, and the beach bum was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t sure it was a good trade. He seemed like he’d be scary when he was pissed off.
“Do you want to eat, or should I put it in the fridge?” She waved the bag at the papers on the table.
“Put it on the counter. We’ll eat in a minute.”
She complied, then hung her sling bag over the back of one of the chairs. She scanned the papers, half recognizing some as charts or maps, but couldn’t see enough of any of the rest to tell what they were.
“Is there a problem?” she finally asked when the silence dragged on.
Grant seemed to do battle with himself, but finally dropped his arms and the tension he was holding onto like a security blanket.
Zoe’s optimism popped. He’d gone mercenary on her as a self-protective barrier, and there was only one reason he’d do that. Her hope that things would be easier, that the attraction was all on her side, dried up.
Focus on business. She struggled to think of a good opener, but all the information she’d gathered swam in her head, and she didn’t know how to make the shift.
But Grant took over. “I didn’t know you’d bring lunch. These are laid out in a kind of order, so let’s eat on the deck.”
“Okay.” She grabbed the bag and two beers and followed him out. He dragged a beat-up plastic table over from the far corner of the deck, set two plates, forks, and napkins on it, then went inside for another chair. When he came back out, Zoe had balanced the plates side by side and was laying out the sandwiches she’d gotten.
“I hope you still like turkey and smoked cheddar.”
He didn’t smile, but she thought he wanted to. “Yeah. Zinger’s has good stuff. Thanks for picking it up.”
“No problem.” She pried the top off a tub of three-bean salad and forked some onto each plate. “I ate there last night and thought it was the least I could do—” A thought struck her and she jerked her head up. “Um…I didn’t ask before. About your fees.”
He smirked. “If I cared about fees, I’d have brought that up first thing.” He picked up his plate and sat in the deck chair. Zoe got up from her crouch by the table and settled on the hard-back chair, crossing her feet up under her so she could cradle the plate in her lap.
He eyed her position. “Sorry. Not the most comfortable arrangement.”
“No, it’s fine.” She bit into her ham-and-cheese pretzel sandwich and watched the small waves rolling in, far away at low tide. “I think I’ll go for a swim later.” She’d worn her bathing suit out of a craving for normality and escape. If she was going to be in such a gorgeous place, she might as well take a few minutes to enjoy it. Who knew when, or if, she could again? The beach down here was far less crowded
than the other end of the island.
When Grant didn’t say anything, she started to turn to look at him. “Is that okay? Do you want to join—me?”
He was staring at her as if trying to see her bikini through her t-shirt. A wave of heat loosened her body, and she fought not to smile. Dammit. She wasn’t supposed to be pleased at his appreciation. He wasn’t some construction worker whistling at her as she walked down the street. She took another bite of her sandwich and chewed, watching the endless ocean.
“No, thanks,” he said long enough later that it took her a second to remember what he was responding to.
“Okay.”
They finished eating in silence, Grant well before Zoe. He stood as soon as she forked up the last bean, and took their plates to the sink. She dragged the chair back inside and sat.
“Did you find anything about the totems?” he asked immediately. “Their origin?”
“Boy, did I.” She grinned. “Henricksen’s stuff was a fraction of what’s out there. There’s a buttload of information, considering these things are far from famous or anything.”
Grant raised his eyebrows. Zoe paused in reaching for the notes in her bag. “What?”
“Buttload?”
She shrugged. “I guess I’m regressing a little.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Is plethora better?”
He just rolled his eyes.
“Anyway.” She pulled the folder out and set it on the table, dropping her bag to the floor. “There really isn’t much historical value. They’re not ancient. Antique, I guess. What’s the age limit? A hundred years?”
“That’s your world’s thing, not mine.”
The words could have stung if he hadn’t said them so matter-of-factly and if they weren’t so basically true. “I haven’t exactly gotten into that part of ‘my world.’ Anyway, they were made by a metallurgist-slash-artist in the late eighteen hundreds. They’re not solid gold or even an alloy, but gold molded over iron.”
“Cuts the monetary value, then.”
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