Too drained to argue, Erin mutely followed him inside.
A thorough search of the house turned up little of interest. She rechecked Johnson’s bedroom, where Gabriel had looked earlier. Photos of family members lined the dresser. “I know you’ve left a clue for me,” she murmured. She opened drawers, peered under the bed. She didn’t see it until she walked into the bathroom.
The frame hanging on the wall was unremarkable. But the print inside frayed her already-taut nerves.
It was a picture of the cabin in San Cabes. Nathan’s cabin.
Shaken, she returned to the living room. Gabriel sat hunched over on the couch with the familiar notebook balanced on one corded thigh while he scrawled illegible notes across the page.
“I’m ready to go.”
“Gimme a second. I’m nearly done.”
Impatient, uneasy, Erin tried to get a look at the tablet. “What are you writing?”
“Copy for our lead,” he replied absently. “I need to run a first draft past my editor tonight. With any luck, it will be in our online edition tomorrow.” He glanced up at her. “Where did you learn about language?”
Erin stiffened. “Why do you want to know?”
“Keep up.” He pointed to the album. “I told you, I’ve got to get a rough copy done.” Mind whirring, he said, “I’ll need to bump Riggall’s piece on photojournalism, but that’s an evergreen. I’ll have to ask Kelly about how many SAUs we’re holding.”
“Evergreen?” Distracted, Erin puzzled over the foreign jargon. “SA who?”
Tapping his jaw absently, he explained, “An evergreen. A piece that isn’t time-sensitive. SAUs are spaces we hold for advertisers’ copy that hasn’t come in yet.” He focused abruptly on their conversation. “But none of this applies to our story. We’re running this front-page, above the fold. I’ll need some quotes. We’ll have Michael Riggall take photos of you here, and—”
“No pictures.”
The firm rejection stopped him mid-sentence. He shrugged, willing to make concessions on the eve of victory. “All right. No photos. But out of your suit of armor, you’re incredibly photogenic. With the sexy bone structure and that gorgeous hair, Michael could do wonders.”
Erin refused to be swayed by the offhand compliment or the skitter of her pulse. She repeated, “No pictures.”
Gabriel exhaled sharply, trying not to be annoyed. Had they circled back to suspicion already? To stop himself from exploding, he set the pad and pencil on the low table at his knees. He reclined on the sofa, draping his arm along the curved back. He wouldn’t push, he promised himself. Lightly cajole, maybe, but he wouldn’t make her run.
In a conciliatory tone, he agreed, “No pictures. Gotcha. But there is a story here, Erin. I plan to write it.”
“I understand that. I agreed to help you, but I don’t want my name mentioned.” Erin gestured to the album lying open on the table. “We have the obituaries and the note. I’ve drawn a preliminary profile of the killer. That should be enough without bringing me into it.”
Gabriel sprang to his feet. “You are the story, Erin. The killer wrote to you. The language connection was invisible to everyone but you.”
Survival demanded that she remain invisible. “That’s my condition, Gabriel. Mention me, and the story’s through.”
The threat grated. He was tired of having the same fight with her with one hand tied behind his back. She could keep her damned secrets, but she wouldn’t ruin the story of his career. He approached her. Towering over her, he taunted, “Freedom of the press, darling. You can’t stop me.”
“I’ll deny it.”
“Then Sylvie will corroborate. Face it, Erin. You don’t have a choice.” Frustration curled his fingers as he tried to moderate his tone. “Stop whining. This has to be done.”
Erin saw his fist clench, felt anger transform into panic. In a blind flash, all Erin saw was Nathan. All she heard was cold, male anger and disappointment. All she knew was that she had to get away. Now. Clumsily, she edged out of range. “You can’t force me,” she accused haltingly.
The transformation startled him. Her pupils had dilated, the brown swimming with fear. Her skin held a thin sheen that alarmed him. Gabriel took a concerned step toward her.
Erin nearly fell as she tried to put distance between herself and certain retribution. The wall pressed against her spine, a barrier to escape. Braced for the blow, she turned her head. Lost in nightmare, she declared in a flat tone with none of its usual smoky depth, “Don’t!”
“What the devil is going on here?” Stunned by the pallor sweeping her skin, Gabriel gripped the icy hands. Delicate bones shifted beneath the fine skin. He felt her shudder and lifted her head so her eyes met his. The stricken look in their brown depths rocked him. “Erin, honey, what’s wrong? You’re petrified.”
She swallowed, trapped in a past where rebellion could be punished by a fist, or words that struck as cruelly. “Please,” she whimpered.
“All right, honey.” He chafed her skin to warm it. Using his softest voice, he pledged, “I won’t write about you, Erin. Not until you’re ready. Okay?”
Her voice was thin, plaintive. “I don’t want to help you.”
“You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Needing to hold her, Gabriel folded her into his arms. “Erin. It’s fine, honey. You don’t have to help me.”
As the reassuring strength of his hold surrounded her, reality flooded in in a rush. Mortified, Erin twisted against him, desperate to escape. Still, the wall at her back and the large man in front of her had her trapped. Sinewy arms held her tight to his body and the melodious baritone crooned in her ear. Warm breath whispered over suddenly fevered skin, and Erin succumbed, too exhausted to fight herself and comfort. She lifted her arms to wrap them around his waist.
When he felt her capitulate, Gabriel sighed in bemused triumph. He tenderly kissed her temple, then her forehead. As she calmed, he pressed his lips to the crown of silky black hair. “I think we’ve done enough for today. Why don’t you let me take you home?”
Mutely, she nodded, unwilling to break their embrace.
Still holding her, Gabriel gathered her jacket and his notes and led them out to his Jeep. He drove to her apartment, wisely not asking for an explanation. But after he helped her alight, he blocked her exit. “Hold everything inside, Erin, and one day it will simply explode, ready or not.”
“Gabriel, I—”
What she started to say got lost beneath the kiss that glided over her mouth. He was careful to taste but not take. Erin leaned into the kiss, lulled by its charm. There was no urgency to sink inside, no frantic mating to tie her stomach into knots. But how could she have expected that a first kiss could settle nerves and arouse desires at the same time? Wonder blossomed and she parted her lips to invite more.
Gabriel refused the invitation to sink deep, to explore the countless flavors he sampled with the gentle glide of mouth to mouth. Desire had replaced the earlier horror, but until he understood its source, he wouldn’t rush. But he would tempt. For now, he concentrated on learning the dip and curve of her lips, the soft velvet of their surface. For now, he restrained the excitement that beat in his veins, determined to memorize their pliancy without plundering.
When her scent rose and wound itself inside him as though she would always be there, when a low moan escaped and he couldn’t tell from who, when desire and care and destiny seemed inseparable, he ended the kiss. And before she could respond or question, he ushered her inside her apartment and disappeared.
CHAPTER 11
Revenge. Obsession. Domination. Control.
Erin read over the words glowing on her computer screen. She had been up since dawn, unable to sleep with thoughts twisting themselves in her mind. Her final class of the semester began at nine, which gave her another hour before she left for the university. Time enough, she thought, to examine the mind of a killer.
Already she’d printed out profile
s of the victims. A fastidious architect who believed in order and discipline, as well as beauty. A fiercely loyal banker. The calypso dancer who danced for men at night and played for her church on Sundays. Mr. Johnson, the docent who had been beloved by all who met him. Maggie, the kind soul willing to help anyone, friend or not.
She typed in another set of words: Discipline. Loyalty. Duality. Popularity. Selflessness.
Leaning over the keyboard, she studied the list on the screen. Her eyes widened when her mind made the link. Nathan. It all came back to him.
The killer had selected victims who shared more than the eerie reminders she’d found. A decade ago, Erin would have used mostly the same adjectives to describe Nathan Rhodes. Until the day he’d shown her how twisted words and their meanings could become.
Analise sat on the window seat in her new room, jeanclad knees hugged beneath her chin. A glossy brass latch held the panes closed, and the metal gleamed in the sunlight. She loved the old-fashioned seat and the view it displayed, which was still so unexpected, though she’d been looking at it all morning. Beyond the glass, blue sky met mysterious gray mountains, far off in the distance. From her dorm room, the best view she’d ever enjoyed had been of the student parking lot. But not anymore.
Graduation had passed a week ago, and today was her second day as Nathan’s guest. At his gentle urging, she had agreed to move in with him while in graduate school. He’d been right, she decided. She was only seventeen and not quite ready to be on her own.
The other students snickered behind her back about her relationship with him, she knew, and she had seen the disapproving looks from the faculty. She knew what they thought, but they were wrong. Nathan didn’t think of her that way. He was her mentor.
Nathan—or Dr. Rhodes, as she still thought of him, despite his many admonitions to call him by his first name—had become everything to her. Parent, teacher, and friend.
He’d guided her through her minor in linguistics, allowing her to secretly co-author articles with him. Sure, she would have preferred to see her name in the journals, but she understood Nathan’s fear that to do so would undermine the credibility of their work. Most journals would refuse to publish them if they thought a college student had written the articles. It was an honor to be the ghost writer for the great Dr. Rhodes. When he accepted the DiSantis Prize for contributions to the field, she’d thrilled with the knowledge that they’d both won. That night, he’d sent her yellow roses in celebration.
With his help, she’d been able to finish her degree in psychology with honors. Maybe she’d been given preferential treatment when they allowed her to take the extra courses to finish on time, but she’d put in the hours and gotten the work done. Besides, she had nothing else to distract her. It had been months since there had been any word from Sebastian. She had all the time in the world, and Nathan thought it was best if she put it toward her studies. Discipline and determination were the keys to success, he told her time and again. Didn’t he spend twelve hours a day on his publications rather than gallivanting around campus like a child? Brilliance demanded sacrifice and did not allow for distractions. Study now, friendship later.
She refused to dwell on the lack of invitations to graduation parties or the tepid applause when she’d crossed the stage. It didn’t matter. In the fall, she would start her doctoral studies in psychology. In a few years, she’d be a renowned criminal psychologist and linguist. Nathan had promised to let her continue to work with him, and possibly publish with him, once she was more seasoned.
The question was how she would spend her summer vacation, or at least this first day. She twisted on the bench to look at the pale pink bedroom that was now hers. She’d told Nathan that she didn’t like pink, but he had been too busy to notice the color selected by the decorator. It wouldn’t do to complain, she decided, when he’d been so unfailingly kind to her. Even his harsher words were all for her benefit. He wanted to make her special. He wanted to make her room special. If she hated pink, it would be immature to grouse about it.
So she’d repaint it herself.
Hours later, Analise wiped away splatters of the iceblue paint that had reminded her of Nathan’s eyes. A fresh breeze blew through the open windows to circulate the air. She propped her arms on the roller handle and surveyed her creation. The ivory linens and the antique furniture were a lovely contrast with the new paint. Nathan would be impressed. The sound of the door closing had her rushing to clean up. Plus, she had yet to start dinner, which she’d promised that morning. She hurried into the bathroom.
Downstairs, Nathan cursed beneath his breath as he stalked into his office. He slammed his briefcase on the surface, and the letter from the Yale Journal of Linguistic Studies fell to the floor. He bent to pick it up and studied the offer for a permanent section in its hallowed pages. Crumpling it in his fist, he threw it across the room.
Rather than celebrating his coup, he’d spent the better part of the afternoon being chastised by the dean about his houseguest. The rumors and the chiding were all Analise’s fault, he realized. If she didn’t look like such a damned ingénue, no one would care. But instead of lauding his latest triumph, the dean had accused him of corrupting an impressionable minor.
The arrogant old prick refused to understand that Nathan didn’t need the awkward Analise for physical pleasure. He only wanted the fecund mind, ripe with innovative ideas and eager to please him. Now that he had a quarterly column to produce, having her close by would be invaluable. As long as she remained quiescent, dependent on him for everything but her next breath. And perhaps even that.
He smiled when he heard her timid knock at his door. The smile turned to a scowl when he saw her disheveled appearance. Paint caked to her hair, streaked across her shirt. “What the hell have you been doing, Analise?”
She twisted her hands together. “I painted the bedroom. It was a horrible shade of pink, but I fixed it.”
Of course it was pink. The fact that she specifically mentioned hating the color was precisely why he’d instructed the decorator to choose that particular color. Analise would have to learn that only one person’s wishes were fulfilled. “You painted the room today,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes. I bought the paint this morning. I didn’t want to bother you.” Analise could sense the anger in him, but she was baffled by its source. “I paid for it myself, out of my accounts.”
“Your accounts.” Nathan reclined in his chair, his voice pitched low.
The width of the desk separated them, and, instinctively, Analise leaned closer to hear him. To explain. “I know we discussed whether I should talk to you first before I spent money, but the paint and supplies weren’t expensive at all. I only painted my room.”
When he leaned forward, she was unprepared. In a flash, he grabbed her by the collar of her shirt and dragged her across the desk. Her knees struck the sharp edge of wood; her belly scraped over the discarded briefcase. Stunned, she barely registered the crack of bone as she fell to the ground. She lay at his feet, dazed and whimpering. When he hauled her to her knees, her head lolled backward, and he shook her fiercely.
“Look at me!”
She pried open her eyes, afraid to see the face she loved twisted in anger. But it only smiled at her. “Nathan? What did I do?”
The answering blow to her cheek sent her flying into the credenza. Her lip split from the smash of his hand.
“You need to understand your place.” He came to stand over her, striking and kicking over and over until she curled into herself. “You’re mine, Analise. Mine.”
To hide from the pain, she thought of words, soothing, predictable words. The poetry of Greek. The steadfastness of Latin. For what seemed an eternity, his hands and feet battered her body, and she thought of Swahili and Mayan, of safety and protection.
When he was finished, Nathan lifted her nearly unconscious body and carried her up the stairs to the freshly painted room. The fumes had thinned but still hung in the air. After gently pl
acing her on the bed, he shut the windows and locked them tight, shoving the key into his pocket. It was time for her next lesson.
Carefully, he knelt beside her, pressing his lips to her ear. “This is my house, Analise. Mine. You have no room. You have no home. Nowhere else to go.”
She cringed away from the gentle whisper, the harsh truth. Despite the pain, she defied him. “I can move back on campus.”
Nathan shook his head. “Not if I tell them to say no. Not if I tell the judge that you are too unstable to have control of your own accounts. I’m a respected professor and you’re an oddity, Analise. You have no parents, no friends. No one in the world who loves you, except for me.”
She refused to believe that love could be responsible for the aches that pulsed along her body and throbbed in her head. “Why did you hurt me?”
He stroked her hair tenderly. “Because I love you. You need discipline, Analise. Structure. Only I understand you. If you obey me, I won’t have to hurt you again. I won’t have to protect you from yourself.”
Through the haze of pain, she knew he wasn’t making sense, but the waves of agony muddled her mind. The air grew thick with the smell of paint.
The next day, her mind was still foggy when he pressed a paper into her bruised hand, when she signed over to him power of attorney for her trust fund. Soon, she’d stopped thinking for herself, stopped making all but the simplest of decisions. Nathan had become her world. His thoughts were hers; his desires all that mattered. Soon, she believed that this was as it had always been.
Would always be.
CHAPTER 12
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
The intercom’s summons dragged her to the door. “Hello?”
“I’m here, Erin!” Genevieve’s lilting voice greeted her.
“Why?” she asked baldly. “Did we have an appointment?”
“No. I’m your ride for today, compliments of my brother.”
“Gabriel.” Erin ground out the name, torn between exasperation and gratitude. Genevieve thought she was being helpful. “I appreciate the offer, but I have a way to the university.”
Never Tell Page 11