by Nora Roberts
“The gist. All right. He was displeased and angry as I told him to leave—and warned him and his assistant that if the assistant drew his weapon on Bert, I would release Bert, who would disarm the assistant handily. And reminded them I was also armed.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was—clearly. It seemed best to point out the obvious. Mr. Blake reiterated he’d come to apologize, and added he’d come to offer compensation. In the amount of ten thousand dollars if I accepted it and agreed that what had happened was a misunderstanding. It annoyed me.”
“How many times did you ask them to leave?”
“Three. I didn’t bother to ask again, simply said good-bye and closed the door. He did bang on the door for nearly two minutes after that. He’s very rude. Then his assistant convinced him to get back in the car.”
Brooks pushed back from the counter, paced the kitchen. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“There wasn’t any need. It was relatively simple to deal with. Irritating, but simple. I—”
She broke off because when he turned to her, the controlled rage on his face snapped her throat closed.
“Listen to me. Two men you don’t know come to your door, one of them’s armed. They refuse to leave when you tell them to, multiple times. What’s the logical thing to do?”
“Close the door. I did.”
“No, Abigail. The logical thing to do is close the door, then call the police.”
“I don’t agree. I’m sorry if that makes you angry, but I don’t. They left.” She decided to avoid more anger by not mentioning she’d intended to go back out, weapon drawn, at the two-minute mark.
Later, she’d wonder if the avoidance equaled one of those interpersonal relationship tangles.
“I was armed, Brooks, and Bert was on alert. I wasn’t in any danger. In fact, Blake became so agitated, I would have called both you and medical assistance if he hadn’t left when he did.”
“Do you want to press charges?”
“No. You’re angry with me. I don’t want you to be angry with me. I did exactly as I felt best at that time, under those circumstances. If your ego’s threatened because I didn’t call for help—”
“Maybe some. Yeah, I’ll own that. And I’m not going to say it’s not a relief to me knowing I’m with a woman who can handle herself. But I know Blake. He tried to bully and intimidate you.”
“Yes, he tried. He failed.”
“Trying’s enough. And he attempted to bribe you.”
“I told him his attempt to bribe a witness in a criminal matter was illegal.”
“I bet you did.” Brooks shoved a hand through his hair, sat again. “You don’t know him. You don’t know the kind of enemy you made today, and believe me, you made one.”
“I think I do know,” she said quietly. “I think I know very well. But making him an enemy isn’t my fault, or yours.”
“Maybe not. But it’s what it is.”
“You’re going to confront him over it.”
“You’re damn right I am.”
“Won’t that just increase the level of animosity?”
“Maybe. But if I don’t deal with it, he’ll see it as a weak spot. He could come back, try again, figuring you didn’t mention it, are just angling for a bigger payoff.”
“I made my position very clear.”
“If you understand the kind of person you’re dealing with, you’ll realize that it doesn’t matter a damn.”
Twelve years of running, she thought. Yes, she understood. “You’re right, but it mattered to me on a very personal level that I made my position clear.”
“Okay, that’s done. Now I’m telling you, if he comes back, don’t open the door to him. Call me.”
“Subjugate my ego to yours?”
“No. Maybe. Shit, I don’t know about that part, and don’t much care.”
She smiled a little. “That would be another discussion.”
The way he took a breath told her he was trying to cool his temper.
“I’m telling you because he’ll only be more intimidating and bullying if he comes back. I’m telling you because I want him to understand action will be taken if he tries to harass you, or anyone else. I asked the same of Russ, his wife, his parents, told my deputies to tell their families.”
She nodded, felt less annoyed. “I see.”
“He’s in a rage, Abigail. His money and his position, as he sees it, aren’t making this one go away. His son’s behind bars, and very likely to be behind them for a very long time.”
“He loves his son.”
“I don’t know about that, either, honest to God. But I know his ego’s bound up in it. Nobody’s going to put his boy in jail. Nobody’s going to sully the Blake name. He’s going to put everything he’s got into fighting this, and if that means pushing at you, he’ll push.”
“I’m not afraid of him. It also matters to me I’m not afraid of him.”
“I can see that. I don’t want you to be afraid, but I want you to call me if he comes here again, if he tries to talk to you on the street, if he or anybody associated with him contacts you in any way. You’re a witness, and you’re damn well under my protection.”
“Don’t say that.” Her heart literally skipped. “I don’t want to be under anyone’s protection.”
“It is what it is.”
“No. No, no.” Now panic spurted, fast and hot. “I’ll contact you if he comes here again, because it’s unethical for him to try to influence me to lie and it’s illegal for him to bribe me to lie. But I don’t want or need protection.”
“Calm down, now.”
“I’m responsible for myself. I can’t be with you if you don’t understand and agree I’m responsible for myself.”
She’d taken several steps back, and the dog had ranged himself in front of her.
“Abigail, you may be—you are, as far as I can tell—capable of handling most anything that comes at you. But I’m duty bound to protect everybody within my jurisdiction. That includes you. And I don’t like you using my feeling for you as a weapon to get your own way.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“You damn well are.”
“I’m not—” She broke off, searched for calm, for sense. “It’s not what I meant to do. I apologize.”
“Screw apologize. Don’t ever use what I feel as a hammer.”
“You’re so angry with me. I didn’t mean to use your feelings. I didn’t. I’m clumsy in this kind of situation. I’ve never been in this kind of situation. I don’t know what to do, what to say or how to say it. I just don’t want you to feel particular responsibility for me. I don’t know how to explain how uneasy it would make me if you did.”
“Why don’t you try?”
“You’re angry and tired, and your dinner’s gone cold.” It appalled her to feel tears running down her cheeks. “I never meant for any of this to happen. I never thought you’d be so upset about Blake. I’m not doing the right thing, but I don’t know what is. I don’t mean to cry. I know tears are another weapon, and I don’t mean them as one.”
“I know you don’t.”
“I’ll—warm up the food.”
“It’s fine.” He rose, got a fork from the drawer, then sat again. “Fine,” he repeated after he’d scooped some up, sampled.
“You should use the chopsticks.”
“Never got the hang of them.”
“I could teach you.”
“I’ll take you up on that some other time. Sit down and eat.”
“I— You’re still angry. You’re pushing it down because I cried. So the tears are a weapon.”
“Yeah, I’m angry, and pushing it down some because you’re crying and obviously torn up about things you won’t tell me, or feel you can’t. I’m pushing it down some because I’m in love with you.”
The tears she’d nearly had under control flooded back, hot and fast as the panic. On a sob she stumbled to the door, fought the locks open, rushed out.
“Abigail.”
“Don’t. Don’t. I don’t know what to do. I need to think, to find some composure. You should go until I can speak rationally.”
“Do you think I’d leave you alone when you’re twisted up like this? I tell you I love you, and it feels like I broke your heart.”
She turned, her hand fisted over her heart, her eyes drenched with tears and emotion. “No one ever said that to me. In my life, no one’s ever said those words to me.”
“I’m making you a promise right here that you’ll hear them from me every day.”
“No—no, don’t promise. Don’t. I don’t know what I’m feeling. How do I know it’s not just hearing those words? It’s overwhelming to hear them, to look at you, and to see you mean them. Or it seems you do. How do I know?”
“You can’t know everything. Sometimes you have to trust. Sometimes you have to just feel.”
“I want it.” She kept her hand clutched over her heart, as if opening her fingers would allow it all to fly away. “I want it more than I can stand.”
“Then take it. It’s right here.”
“It’s not right. It’s not fair to you. You don’t understand; you can’t.”
“Abigail.”
“That’s not even my name!”
She slapped a hand over her mouth, sobbed against it. He only stepped to her, brushed tears from her cheek.
“I know.”
Every ounce of color draining, she stumbled back, gripped the porch rail. “How could you know?”
“You’re running or hiding from something, or someone. Maybe some of both. You’re too damn smart to run and hide under your real name. I like Abigail, but I’ve known it’s not who you are right along. The name’s not the issue. Your trusting me enough to tell me is. And it looks like we’re getting there.”
“Does anyone else know?”
“Scares the hell out of you. I don’t like that. I don’t see why anyone else would know, or care. Have you let anyone else get as close as you’ve let me?”
“No. Never.”
“Look at me now.” He spoke quietly as he moved to her. “Listen to me.”
“I am.”
“I’m going to tell you I won’t let you down. You’re going to come to believe that, and we’ll go from there. Let’s try this part again. I’m in love with you.” He eased her into a kiss, kept it soft until she’d stopped trembling. “There, that wasn’t so hard. You’re in love with me. I can see it, and I can feel it. Why don’t you try the words?”
“I don’t know. I want to know.”
“Just try them out, see how it feels. I won’t hold you to it.”
“I … I’m in love with you. Oh, God.” She closed her eyes. “It feels real.”
“Say it again, and kiss me.”
“I’m in love with you.” She didn’t ease in, but flung herself. Starving for that knowledge, the gift, the light of it. Love. Being loved, giving it.
She hadn’t believed in love. She hadn’t believed in miracles.
Yet here was love. Here was her miracle.
“I don’t know what to do now.”
“We’re doing fine.”
She breathed in, out. Even that felt different. Freer. Fuller. “I want to heat up the food. I want to teach you how to use chopsticks, and have dinner with you. Can we do that? Can we just be for a while?”
“Sure, we can.” If she needed a little time, he could give it. “But I’m not promising anything on the chopsticks.”
“You changed everything.”
“Good or bad?”
She held on another minute. “I don’t know. But you changed it.”
21
DEALING WITH THE MEAL SETTLED HER DOWN—THE SIMplicity and routine. He didn’t pressure her for more. That, she understood, was his skill and his weapon. He knew how to wait. And he knew how to change the tone, to give her room, to help her relax so her thoughts weren’t tied up in knots of tension.
His clumsiness with the chopsticks, though she suspected at least some of it was deliberate, made her laugh.
She’d laughed more since he’d come into her life than she had in the whole of it before him.
That alone might be worth the risk.
She could refuse it, ask for more time. He would give it to her, and she could use it to research another location, another identity, make plans to run again.
And if she ran again, she’d never know what might have been. She’d never feel what she felt now, with him. She’d never again allow herself to try.
She could—would—find contentment, security. She had before. But she’d never know love.
Her choice was to take the rational route—leave, stay safe. Or to risk it all, that safety, her freedom, even her life, for love.
“Can we walk?” she asked him.
“Sure.”
“I know you’re tired,” she began, as they stepped outside. “We should wait to talk about … everything.”
“Tomorrow’s as good as today.”
“I don’t know if I’ll have the courage tomorrow.”
“Then tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“So many things. But now, most of all? That if I tell you everything, you won’t feel the same about me—and for me.”
Brooks reached down, picked up a stick, threw it. Bert looked at Abigail, got her signal and chased after it. “Love doesn’t turn on and off like a light switch.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love. I’m afraid to lose it, and you. And this. All of this. You have a duty, but more, you have a code. I knew a man like you, more like you than I realized at first. He died protecting me.”
“From whom?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Okay. Did he love you?”
“Not the way I think you mean. It wasn’t romantic or sexual. It was duty. But he cared about me, beyond that. He was the first person who cared for me.” She pressed a hand to her heart. “Not for what I represented or what I accomplished, or what I was expected to be. But who I was.”
“You said you don’t know who your father was, so not your father. A cop? Duty. Were you in witness protection, Abigail?”
Her hand trembled. Did he see it or just sense it? she wondered. But he took it in his, warmed and stilled it.
“I was being protected. I would have been given a new identity, a new life, but … it all went very wrong.”
“How long ago?”
“I was sixteen.”
“Sixteen?”
“I turned seventeen on the day …” John’s blood on her hands. “I’m not telling you the way I should. I never even imagined