One True Thing

by Marilyn Pappano

  She looked beautiful.

  She was staring back at him, and he wondered if he looked as fierce as he felt. Fiercely turned on. Fiercely in need. Fiercely possessive and protective and all those other things he’d sworn he would never again feel for anybody. In that moment he wanted more than anything to be the solution to all her troubles—to make her less lonely, less vulnerable, less afraid. To keep her safe. To be her home. To give her security and trust and the certain knowledge that he would always be there, would always protect her, would always love her.

  Love her.

  It was the heat of the moment, he told himself as he closed his eyes and bent to kiss her again. The throes of passion. Men equated sexual feelings with emotional ones, at least until the act was over and they were ready to do it again. That was all it was—a mistake.

  As he slowly started moving inside her, the little devil inside him grinned cynically. Who was lying now?

  She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were trying frantically to drag in great, heaving gulps of air, but the best she could manage was a faint gasp here and there. Her entire body was shuddering, stunned by the intensity of her release, relieved after three years of abstinence, shocked back to life.

  Had it always been so good? Had she always felt as if she very well might collapse into unconsciousness? How in the world had she gone so long without?

  Because she’d been waiting for Jace.

  Her lashes fluttered a few times before she got her eyes open. He lay on his side next to her, one arm flung up to pillow his head, the other resting across her middle. His leg was across her, too, a heavy weight low on her abdomen. He was watching her, a much too serious look on his face that lightened when he saw that she was alert again. He traced one long finger across her breast, first circling her nipple, then flicking the nail across it. A shudder rippled through her and her breath caught in her chest.

  When the sensation faded to a bearable level, she smiled drowsily. “You look pleased with yourself.”

  “So do you.”

  She pictured her smile, foolish and lazy and oh, so satisfied—just as she was. “Mmm,” was all she said, but it meant a lot. She was most definitely pleased with him. Her entire body hummed with pleasure, so incredible at its peak that now she felt drained of all stress, empty of tension, lethargic and relaxed and good. Oh, yes, she felt good…though she knew it wouldn’t last. In a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, she would regret this. It would break her heart when she had to say goodbye—and she always had to say goodbye.

  But for right now, she felt better, happier, more peaceful, than she had in years. She felt…touched. Special. Damn near treasured. She felt alive, after being dead for so very long.

  Alive…peaceful…satisfied…exhausted….

  The sun was low over the horizon when Jace woke up, hot, thick-headed from his unaccustomed nap, his skin sticky where it pressed against Cassidy’s. At some point in the afternoon they’d made a halfhearted effort to straighten the rumpled sheets over the mattress—then had turned around and rumpled them again, he remembered with a grin.

  He turned to check the time on the clock, but the nightstand was empty. Oh, yeah. She’d been running away. Again.

  It didn’t matter what time it was. He had nowhere to go, and as long as he had a say in it, neither did she. Probably the only way he would continue to have a say in it was to keep her locked up and naked—an idea that was entirely too appealing for a man who wasn’t looking to get involved.

  He sat up, careful not to disturb her, then turned to watch her. She slept on her stomach, her head cushioned on one arm, her face turned away. This close he could see the dark roots starting to show in her hair. If he hadn’t already known she wasn’t a natural blonde, he would have figured it out around the time those lacy little panties had hit the floor.

  Her shoulders were slim, her spine long and delicately curved. Shapely hips flared out from her narrow waist, and her legs were long and lean, lacking the muscular definition his had, but strong all the same. She’d taught yoga, she’d once told him, which would explain the difference in musculature.

  It also explained the agility she’d shown this afternoon.

  She slept motionlessly, her breathing steady and slow, as if she were utterly relaxed. Just looking at her, watching that faint in-and-out of her lungs, made him start to harden again. He turned away, grimacing, pulled on his cutoffs and went into the kitchen to find something to drink.

  There was a pitcher of tea in the refrigerator, but the only glass around was one she had apparently intended to take with her. It sat on the counter next to her car keys, with a couple of smudged lip prints on the rim and a puddle of condensation around it. The ice had melted, diluting the tea to a weak gold-ish brown.

  He looked in the nearest box and found a mix of items from every room in the house, but no glasses. The second was the same. She must have packed in a panic, throwing things wherever there was room. Why? What had made her decide in one moment that she had to be hell and gone from the lake—from him in the next? Was it because he’d badgered her about calling her parents? Because the last words she’d said to him had been intentionally nasty?

  He grimaced at his own ego. “Maybe it had nothing to do with you, idiot,” he murmured as he sorted through a third box. Maybe this was just Cassidy’s way. Bizarre, yes. Impossible for him to understand, sure. But he could say that about other aspects of her life, as well.

  The third box didn’t turn up any drinking glasses, either, but he caught sight of a large insulated mug in the one next to it, barely showing underneath the laptop case. He picked up the computer, caught off guard by its weight. Though the laptop looked very much like his own, together with its case, it weighed about double what his did. Of course, she could have reference books or research material stuffed inside the pockets.

  As he laid the bag on its side on the table, Cassidy’s driver’s license fell out of the open flap of the front pocket. He picked it up, glanced at the picture—the standard death-warmed-over look—and started to slide it back inside. Abruptly, he stopped.

  Except for a few differences in color—the hair was brown, the eyes listed as blue—the picture was definitely Cassidy, but the license identified her as Stacy Beauchamp of Desert Vista Lane, Tucson, Arizona.

  That explained the Arizona tags on the Honda…but not much else. Why was she calling herself Cassidy McRae? She could be hiding from an abusive husband or boyfriend…though his instincts didn’t agree. He’d dealt with plenty of abused women, and she didn’t fit the mold. She was too strong, too independent.

  She could be running from the cops.

  She could have escaped from a mental institution.

  Or she could just be a very private person who’d wanted to keep that privacy intact. Maybe Stacy Beauchamp was wealthy or famous. He’d never heard the name before, but he didn’t pay much attention to anything besides sports on TV and didn’t pay any attention to the lifestyles—or names—of America’s rich and famous. She could be heir to a $10 billion shipping fortune, and the name still wouldn’t mean squat to him.

  So he would ask her. When she woke up, he would say, While I was looking for a drinking glass, this driver’s license fell out of your computer case. Tell me about it. Simple enough.

  He leaned forward to return the license to the pocket, but when he lifted the flap, another license slid out. For a long time he stared at it before picking it up. It was from Georgia. Elizabeth Hampton, residing on Magnolia Drive in Atlanta.

  Swallowing hard, he reached inside the pocket and withdrew all the contents, laying them out on the table. There was a license from Mississippi in the name of Rachel Montgomery. Anna Wallis was from Wisconsin, Katherine McKinley from Utah and Jessica Taylor from Washington.

  There were eleven in all, each from a different state, each bearing a different name and each showing Cassidy’s faintly smiling face. He assumed she had one in the name she was using now, probably in her purse, which made
it an even dozen. Jeez.

  And there was more. He knew what the triangular-shaped padded nylon pouch was before he opened it—had one just like it sitting on the top shelf of his closet across the inlet. His held a .45 Heckler & Koch. Cassidy’s held a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter.

  She was a single woman who traveled a lot, who was living, for the time being, in a remote cabin with no telephone. He knew a lot of women who carried guns for their own safety. There had been times when his own mother had tucked one into her purse. It was illegal most places, unless the owner had a carry permit, but not unusual, and he’d never known a cop to arrest for it as long as she was honest about it up front. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d stopped a woman on a traffic offense when he was in uniform and she’d immediately said, I have a pistol in my purse, or briefcase or glove compartment, and he’d let it slide. It was no big deal.

  Except that this pistol belonging to Cassidy/Elizabeth/Rachel/Diane/Linda appeared to be missing its serial number.

  Damn, damn, goddamn.

  Without touching the weapon, he zipped the gun rug and set it aside, then picked up the last object. It was rectangular, black-and-white stripes, a makeup bag…but it wasn’t holding makeup. He thumbed through the bills inside—hundred-dollar bills. He quit counting around fifty, and hadn’t reached the middle yet. He zipped it, set it down and took a half dozen steps back.

  A dozen bogus driver’s licenses, a pistol with its serial number blasted off and at least ten grand in cash. Hadn’t he once thought Cassidy was trouble?

  He hadn’t known the half of it.

  So what did he do now? Part of him wanted to confront her, to force her to give him a reasonable, rational explanation for all of it. Part of him knew he should call Reese. The mere possession of those licenses was a felony, to say nothing of the gun. And part of him…part of him wanted to forget what he’d seen, take off his clothes, climb back into bed with her and make love with her one more time.

  One last time?

  Finally he put the money and the gun back into the computer case. He scooped up the licenses and started toward the door, then detoured back to the kitchen and carefully picked up the glass she’d been drinking from earlier. Hoping she wouldn’t wake up until he was back and able to act somewhat normally, he went to his cabin, emptied the glass and set it on the dresser in his bedroom, then sat at the table to copy the information on the driver’s licenses. He could get on the Internet and search for the names and addresses to see if any of them actually matched, but that would take time and would most likely be fruitless. No doubt there really were women out there named Stacy Beauchamp, Elizabeth Hampton, Rachel Montgomery, Linda Valdez and the others.

  No doubt not one of them was the woman he’d just made love to.

  What now? Forget it, the devil in him said. She’s a beautiful woman, and she’s not gonna be around long, and besides, it’s not your problem anyway. You’re out of the protecting-and-serving biz.

  But he couldn’t forget it, any more than he could forget her. He’d never been able to look the other way, and leaving the department hadn’t changed that. There was something seriously wrong here, and he had to find out what it was. If she was running for her life, he could protect her. If she was running from the law, he could help her.

  Help her…help bring a criminal to justice. He’d done it thousands of time before and had derived great satisfaction from it. Seeing Cassidy locked up awaiting trial and prison wasn’t going to bring satisfaction.

  If she was running from the law. If she’d done anything wrong besides obtaining bogus licenses. If she was guilty of anything more than a few lies.

  Innocent or guilty, criminal or victim, he needed to know. Needed to know her name. Needed to know exactly who he was falling in love with.

  Grimly he went into the bedroom and retrieved the cell phone from its charger, turning it on, dialing a number he knew by heart. As he waited for Reese to come on the line, he stared at the water glass on the dresser, stared so long and hard that he was startled when his cousin spoke.

  “Hey, Jace, what’s up?”

  “I’ve got a favor to ask of you, bubba. I’m gonna take Cassidy into Tulsa for dinner this evening. While we’re gone…” He squeezed his eyes shut, hating what he was about to ask, sure that it qualified as betrayal but feeling he had no choice but to ask. “Can you come out to the cabin, pick up the drinking glass that’s on the dresser and run it for fingerprints? You’ll find mine around the base of it.”

  “Who else’s am I looking for?”

  “Damned if I know. I’m gonna leave a list of names next to the glass. They’re from driver’s licenses. Can you run them, too, and let me know if any of them are legit?”

  Reese was silent a long time before he exhaled heavily. “I take it Cassidy’s keeping a few secrets.”

  “Just a few,” Jace agreed bitterly. Like her name. What she does. Where she’s from. Why she needs a gun. Where she got more than ten grand in cash. Why she’s running.

  “You think she’s got a warrant out for her?”

  “Possibly.” Probably. “Or maybe she’s just crazy as a mud hen and chooses a new name and personality for every place she goes.”

  “Crazy people don’t generally get bogus IDs to back up their delusions.” Reese paused, then muttered a curse. “I’m sorry. I liked her.”

  “Yeah. Me, too. I was thinking…” That she might be the one. That God or Fate or whatever had arranged for Amanda to dump him so he would be free when Cassidy came around. That he might love her.

  How could he love her when he didn’t even know who she was?

  “What time are you planning on leaving?”

  Jace glanced at the clock. “We’ll be out of here by six-thirty.”

  “I’ll be out soon after.”

  “Thanks, bubba.”

  “Yeah. Be careful.”

  Good advice, Jace thought as he hung up. Too bad it was about four hours too late.

  Cassidy was waking up in her favorite way—slowly, feeling rested and easy all the way down to her toes—when she realized that someone was watching her. Panic flared, then disappeared instantly. She hadn’t been found and wasn’t in danger—at least, not physically. Emotionally was another thing.

  He cradled her delicate, slender body against the blazing power of his own body, overwhelming her with his strength, his size, his protection, making her want to stay there forever. If he would say the words, she would stay. Blunt words—“I need you.” Pretty words—“You’re the light of my life. I won’t live without you.” Simple words—“I love you.” She wasn’t picky. Any of them would make her forget her plans to leave. Any of them would convince her to stay.

  It was her sweetest wish, her dearest dream—the two of them together forever. Living in their little house. Raising babies. Loving. Laughing. Never knowing fear. All sunshine, no shadows. All joy, no sorrow. Sweet, joyful, satisfying, peaceful, safe and perfect.

  Perfect.

  Perfection didn’t exist, Cassidy thought with more regret than she wanted to feel. Not in her world. Neither did peace nor safety nor forever.

  To escape the melancholy path of her thoughts, she opened one eye and peered through a fringe of hair to see Jace crouching at the side of the bed, studying her. She smiled sleepily, even though she was a bit disappointed that he was no longer naked. “Hey.”

  “Hey. Get up, get dressed and let’s go to Tulsa. I’m hungry.”

  “How about we stay here and I’ll cook?”

  He made a derisive sound. “Your kitchen is divided up among a dozen boxes in the living room, the dining room and the car trunk. Come on. There’s a great Mexican place on 71st. I guarantee, you’ll like it.”

  “You don’t even know if I like Mexican.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good.” He surged to his feet with energy to spare. He continued to look at her, but this time his gaze didn’t make it anywhere near her fac
e. Instead it was settled a few feet lower on her backside.

  “Hey!” she exclaimed, realizing that she was completely exposed. She whipped a corner of the sheet around her, then struggled to her feet and wrapped it around her toga-style. “I need a shower.”

  “Okay, but make it fast.”

  She padded into the bathroom and took his advice to heart. Of course, considering that she’d showered, shampooed and shaved her legs just a few hours earlier, there wasn’t much to repeat.

  She finished in record time and returned to the bedroom in time to catch him hanging an armload of clothes in the closet. He didn’t comment on her plan to run away. He just handed her a dress, said, “Wear this,” then went back for the rest of the clothes.

  The dress he’d chosen was a simple sheath in emerald green. She sorted through the clothes until she found the summer-weight cardigan that went with it, then located clean underwear and returned to the bathroom to dress. By the time she was finished, he had put away all her clothing, as well as most of her books and a good part of the kitchen stuff.

  Did he think unpacking meant she would stay? she wondered as she retrieved her keys from the kitchen. He was wrong. Making love to her…that was enough to make her stay. At least, for a while. Until some of the emptiness inside her had been filled, until the chill had been banished.

  Until it was an absolute certainty that leaving would break her heart.

  She was about to say she was ready when her gaze fell on the computer. Every other time they’d gone out, she had left it sitting on the table, but those times the outside pocket had been empty. She couldn’t just go off and leave her only protection—gun, ID and money—out like that. If someone broke into this shabby cabin, the laptop would surely be the first thing he took. There was nothing else of any value.

  But she couldn’t exactly say, Oh, wait, Jace, I need to hide my gun and my cash—oh, and my fake driver’s licenses, too. Once a cop, always a cop. He would turn her over to Cousin Reese in a heartbeat.