And then he looked deeper.
He could feel her already connecting the main pieces of the puzzle together…and giving him the benefit of the doubt, trusting that he’d fill in the rest when he could. The strength of her faith humbled him, as did her inner, truer beauty. He knew right then there was no escape.
God help him, the author of that anonymous note was correct. His heart was already snared.
She held out the replacement master key to the apartments, embarrassment washing through her as he took the key and slipped it into the pocket of his jeans. She kept his jacket, clutching it tightly as she apologized. “I’m sorry. I had no right to come here, much less open that door.”
“Why did you?”
She turned to accompany him back down the deserted hall to the elevator. “The police sent another detective.”
Despite her trust, he felt the chill.
“He told you about the murder, didn’t he?”
She shook her head as they rounded the first corner. “Not really. Just enough to scare the bejesus out of me. But I’m beginning to think that was his plan all along. He was just out for information.”
“About Van Heusen?”
She folded his jacket over her left arm and locked her right arm over it as they turned the final corner and reached the elevators. “About you.”
It made sense. Not a lot, but enough. At the very least, it fit with that anonymous note. With what he’d been able to glean from his father this morning. He, Abby and Stuart Van Heusen were all connected. How, he didn’t yet know. But he would find out. Dare punched the elevator button, waiting for her to precede him inside as the doors opened.
“What did the detective want to know?”
She captured his stare. “Mostly what you were doing with four apartments you didn’t use.”
The elevator doors closed.
Neither of them pushed any buttons.
“By the way, you were wrong. I do know who Mrs. Chang’s husband is. He’s a patron of the arts, ironically enough. Though the season before I left for Europe he rarely brought his wife to the symphony. We were told she’d taken ill, but anyone with a pair of eyes knew what was going on. She never looked like she does now, but there were times when her makeup didn’t quite cover the bruises. Eventually Chang started bringing his girl of the moment in her place. He had a number of moments, too. But I suspect that’s par for Chang and his Chinese mafia pals.” She dragged her breath in. “So how long have you and Charlotte been running your private underground, or rather high-rise, railroad for abused women?”
For far too long.
He sighed. “Since her sister died.”
Her soft hazel gaze didn’t waver. “Died…or was murdered?”
Despite his attempts to keep his voice steady, it came out in a whisper. “Murdered.”
She nodded slowly. Carefully. “Can I ask what happened?”
“Yes.” He reached around her shoulder and pushed the elevator pause button as the past crowded in.
The memories.
Janet Randall’s innocent face. Battered. Bloodied.
Lifeless.
He stepped back from Abby and deliberately sealed his shoulders to the rear wall of the elevator, not so much for physical support, but so he wouldn’t reach out for her. For the added emotional strength he’d not only discovered that touching Abby gave him, but that he now craved. “It started at Riker’s. Janet Randall—Charlotte’s younger sister—was married to my cell mate. You already know why I was there. Duane Randall was there to cool off.”
“Cool off?”
Dare nodded. “Randall used to beat Janet regularly. The police had come out that Friday on yet another domestic dispute.” He spat the term. An obscenely mild phrasing he’d detested for years. One that could never capture the utter violence it was used to represent. “As usual, Janet refused to press charges. She’d been beaten pretty badly that last time, however, suffered a broken arm and a concussion. The responding officer was new, eager to make a difference. He brought Randall in anyway and tossed him in a cell with me for the weekend. By the time we were released, I was convinced Randall was headed home to finish the job. I was so certain, in fact, I called the officer who’d arrested me.” He paused as the memory of the cop’s aura snapped in. The man’s initial jaded attempt at patience—and then the outright disbelief.
“The officer who arrested you? Pike’s mentor?”
Dare nodded. “Yes.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
It was a lie. Detective Moore had done something. He’d asked him if Randall had actually confessed his intentions. When he’d said no, Moore had dismissed him. Rudely. Unfortunately, spending the weekend in a cell with a man of Duane Randall’s intense rage had formed a similar connection to the one he’d shared with Brian last night, enhanced by Randall’s desire to use him as a replacement punching bag, among other things.
The elevator walls closed in.
“Dare?”
He wrenched himself from the past, that cell, the vile beast who had inhabited it with him, and focused on the gentle beauty in front of him. She stepped closer. Even as he watched Abby shift his jacket and reach out with her free hand, he knew he should stop her. Touching would only strengthen the connection. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He needed it too much. He needed her. Dare stared at the gentle hand on his forearm, those soft, slender fingers, as he drew his air in slowly, deliberately, drawing her in with it.
Her scent. Her essence. Her balm.
The ugliness faded.
He sighed. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to frighten you. It’s just…not a memory I enjoy reliving.” He forced a smile in an attempt to reassure her. Unfortunately, it fell short.
She sucked in her breath. Sharply. “Please tell me you weren’t—”
“No. I wasn’t raped.” Not physically. “But there are many ways to assault a person’s soul.”
“I don’t understand.”
For that he was eternally grateful. “Let’s just say that after spending three days in the same cell as Duane Randall, I knew what he was really like and what his plans were upon his release. I didn’t need to hear them. I knew.”
As if on cue, the elevator lights dimmed.
Unlike that note he’d received, it wasn’t some new psychic confirmation. Someone had simply requested a lift. He needed to hurry if they were going to finish this here.
Abby seemed to know it, too, because she drew her breath in again, this time slowly. “So when the cops wouldn’t take you seriously, you tracked the man down yourself. You went to his house.”
“Yes.”
His breath bled out as she reached up and pressed her finger to his cheek, a millimeter from the start of his constant physical reminder of that day.
One of them.
Her soft brown gaze filled with tears as she drew her finger down, slowly tracing the scar’s length. “The legend is wrong, isn’t it? The one they printed in that magazine. The great Triple Dare didn’t get this scar on his first climb, did he? He got it the night he tried to save Charlotte’s sister. He got it from Duane Randall.” Her finger reached the end of the scar at the base of his jaw.
There her tears slipped free.
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
He swallowed hard. It didn’t help. The memories continued to assault his brain. His body. His heart.
And her tears continued to flow.
“I dared to interfere with the disciplining of Randall’s wife. We fought. I managed to knock him off me, but the knife was still in his hand. He fell on it. I called the police again.” For all the good it had done. “Within minutes, he was dead. But so was Janet. I was…too late.”
Abby nodded.
When she didn’t pull her hand away to wipe her tears, he did it for her, reaching up to smooth them from her jaw, the corner of her quivering lips, up her cheeks. The errant one still clinging to her lashes. “I—I don’t
understand. You said no one believed you. But you were out of Riker’s. That meant your father was home by then. Why didn’t you go to him?”
“I did.”
“Your father didn’t believe you, either.”
It was a statement, not a question. One he didn’t bother denying. There was no point. They both knew it was true.
“There’s more, isn’t there? I can—” She broke off, flushed, drew her breath in deep before starting again. “I know this sounds really crazy, but—” She covered his right hand with hers and pulled it to her chest. The blood began roaring through his veins as she splayed it out above her left breast. He could feel her heart beating solidly beneath his palm, pulsing with the truth, even before she confessed it. “I swear I can feel it. You.”
No! It was too soon, dammit. No matter how strong the connection.
But it wasn’t and he knew it. Before long, she would know it. All of it. Whether he told her or not.
And then what?
Would she deny the truth for decades as his father had? Or would she bolt like his mother?
Or would she believe it? Accept it?
Accept him.
Much as he was beginning to pray for the latter, he couldn’t risk it. Not now. He had more important worries on his mind than his heart.
Her life.
He was afraid of her.
No, not of her, exactly. More for her. Abby closed her eyes, tried to focus. But it was gone. She opened her eyes, suddenly feeling as foolish as she must have looked breaking in to that apartment. But she wasn’t nearly as stunned.
Horrified, yes. But that had nothing to do with Dare.
She tightened her grip on his hand when he tried to move it, kept it sealed to her heart—and told him what was in it. “You’re an amazing man, Darian Sabura.”
He flushed. “Nonsense.”
This time she didn’t fight him when he tugged his hand away. She let it go. Him, too.
For now.
She held on to his coat as she turned, taking his place against the elevator wall as Dare stepped around her to restart the elevator. “So that night when you climbed in my window? You’d been on the job, so to speak.”
He faced her as the lift lurched into motion.
Her stomach should have lurched with it, given there was nothing in it but ibuprofen and cognac fumes, but it didn’t.
And he hadn’t answered.
“Well?”
His dark brows arched.
“Don’t give me that look. You know what I’m asking. Contrary to Detective Pike, you do have a job. I can’t imagine creating new identities for desperate, battered women is easy. Or cheap. You’re the money man, aren’t you? The guy who looks great in a tux at all the right parties. Charlotte’s the front. Though I suppose Jerry has a finger in things, too, at least when someone needs to stay here. What better place to hide a woman who doesn’t want to be found?” All they had to do was wait until the dead of night, and none of the other residents would be the wiser. Especially since Dare owned the entire floor. “I’m guessing you round out your extra security with some of those unsavory associates Pike mentioned. Tell me, is that where you were this morning? Arranging a bit of invisible security for me? Possibly for my brother, too?”
She now knew it would be just like Dare to do that. She also knew he hadn’t been home. Seconds after Hook had dropped his bombshell, Dare’s cell phone had rung. Numbed, she’d actually answered it. The caller? Marlena. It seemed Abby had forgotten to sever the connection after Marlena had called the night before. Half an hour of busy signals had eaten at her friend. Hoping Dare had used his cell phone to call them after the stabbing the night before, Marlena had taken a chance and used her caller ID to phone Dare—and got her. Thankfully, Brian was okay. Physically.
But his memory was still missing.
It had been difficult, but Abby had forced herself to pretend she was still in Europe when she spoke to him. By the time she’d hung up and returned from the kitchen, Hook had left. But in reaching for Dare’s jacket to return his phone, she’d remembered the key was still there. At first she’d tried to return his jacket. But when Dare hadn’t answered the penthouse door, her burning curiosity—and, yes, the doubts—had driven her up to the nineteenth floor. The floor between theirs. The first two apartments had been furnished, but vacant. Sterile.
The third had not.
She held Dare’s stare as the elevator stopped. “Well?”
He finally nodded. “Yes. I set up security. Yours should be arriving shortly. Brian’s is already at the house. Don’t worry, he’ll never know. But you should probably tell Marlena and her husband. It may help them sleep easier. I hope I haven’t presumed too much.”
“You haven’t.” How could he? Hell, even Pike had been more interested in using her to take Dare down than protecting her from him. She nodded as they stepped out of the elevator and headed down the hall to her apartment. “I will tell Marlena, though. Thank you—from me and for Brian. And you are amazing. No matter how hard you work to conceal it.”
Again, he didn’t respond.
It didn’t matter. She was right.
How many women and children had he and Charlotte helped over the years? Hundreds? A thousand?
Yet he’d never once taken credit.
Instead, he’d let the rumors and speculation about his playboy adrenaline-charged recreations make it into print, never once even hinting there was more. Certainly never defending himself to men like Pike. Because if he did, he’d endanger others. Greta Laurens was right. So was Abby’s first impression that night in her apartment. There was a lot more to Darian Sabura than met the eye. Abby dropped her gaze to Dare’s sinewy biceps as they reached her door. The parts of the man that met the eye were pretty damned good, too.
Including those scars. Especially those scars.
The night she’d first spotted them, she assumed the marks were little more than a painful testimony to the man’s rugged lifestyle. She now knew they were more. He was more. And they were beautiful, because they were a direct reflection of the man within.
“Don’t.”
“Sorry. Too late.” She started to slide her key in the lock when the door pushed open. Great, she’d been so consumed with another key’s existence she’d forgotten to lock her own door. She dropped her keys on the foyer table, retaining Dare’s jacket as he closed the door behind them. She glanced up as he caught up with her at the breakfast counter. “As for the rest—namely, what you were trying so damned hard to keep hidden in that lift—you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
Silence.
Unlike the series of pauses that had locked in earlier that morning with Hook, this one wasn’t uncomfortable, not for her. But it was for him. “It’s okay. I’m patient. Stubborn, too. Just ask my violin teachers.” She laid his jacket over one of the high-back metal stools and entered the kitchen. Not a moment too soon, either.
Her stomach growled. Loudly.
She blushed.
But at least the noise served to lighten the mood.
He smiled. “Would you like me to make something while you shower? I’m not in the same league as Charlotte, but I can use a toaster and fry an egg.”
For the first time since he’d grabbed her outside that apartment upstairs, her stomach rolled. She swallowed a groan. “Lord, no. And please don’t even mention something that greasy again. But I am starving—obviously. So if you can handle the sight, I’d rather eat. It’s been twenty-four hours since my last meal and, like it or not, I’ve got another pre-concert cutoff coming up soon. A cutoff I’ve learned to respect over the years.” She tossed him a sheepish smile as she opened the cupboard to the right of his head and grabbed a can of soup. “Let’s just say food and public performances don’t mix, at least in me.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
She glanced at the can. “It’s chicken and rice soup.” Not overly filling and about as bland as you could get.
“I meant t
he concert.” He shook his head. “Abby, you witnessed a murder last night. You have an…old friend in the hospital. Surely no one expects you to perform tonight.”
She let the “old friend” euphemism go. But not the rest. “Sorry, but they do. He does.”
“He?”
She reached past him again to snag a bowl. “Calvin Hollings, the Philharmonic’s conductor. Otherwise known as ‘The Show Must Go On.’ I love the man to pieces, but—”
Dare closed his hand over hers, nudging the bowl down to the counter. “Abby, please. This isn’t a joke.” The sudden edge in his voice startled her because it was jagged. Raw.
He was truly afraid. For her.
Truth be told, so was she.
Unfortunately, she hadn’t been kidding. “Believe me, the laughter’s a front. However, I don’t have a choice. Not only is this the last performance of the summer series, I have another solo tonight.” Despite her best efforts, her voice quavered. “If Pike and that substitute for him they sent have their way, I might not be on stage next season.”
Especially once they started raking through her finances.
Abby yanked open her drawer of utensils, desperately trying to keep her eyes from watering as she sifted through the nest. She gave up all pretense of searching for the opener and stood there as that night came into view. Katherine’s haughty face. That damned cashier’s check. She wished to God she’d followed her first instinct and told Stuart’s mother where she could stick it. At the time she nearly had—until she’d realized how foolish rejecting it would be. Her dad might have been alive at the time, but he wasn’t rich, nor was he ever going to be. When Katherine reminded her that someday she might need the money to care for her brother, she’d swallowed her pride and taken it. Cashed it.
Two months ago she’d finally spent it, too. Half of it anyway. On this place.
If Marlena hadn’t stumbled across her bank statement after she’d returned from Europe and assumed she’d inherited a windfall from her father, the money would probably still be sitting in an account. Marlena was the one who’d approached Greta Laurens about the apartment when she’d learned the woman was moving to Florida. Evidently, Greta was a closet fan, even owned Abby’s debut solo CD. Greta had insisted on showing her the place, even though it had been far too expensive. The old woman insisted she was too old to care. Part of her estate was already earmarked for the arts. As far as Greta was concerned, the loss was a tax write-off for her, an investment for Abby.
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