The musty aroma of years past choked her as she opened the door wider and scanned the shelves. Hatboxes. Valises. Hangers with belts and sashes and hosiery. This was the place. It had to be. Where else would you hide your darkest secret, except behind the disguises you wore every single day?
She pawed through piles of silk and chiffon. She pushed suitcases and cosmetic cases and a cracked mirror out of the way. A box of fans fell to the floor. She coughed and had to lean back to take a breath. Finally, at the very bottom, she spied the shallow drawer she remembered. But headlights swept across the room. Shit. She’d taken too long.
“No. Please, no. Give me five more minutes.” With shaking hands, she pulled three file folders from the drawer and threw them onto Francesca’s desk. Now what? She couldn’t set them on fire like she’d wanted to, not with Steele walking back inside in a matter of minutes. She lifted out sheet after sheet of paper. Where was the one she needed?
A door opened downstairs, and she froze. Her throat closed as she rifled through the second folder. A sheaf of papers fell to the floor and scattered everywhere. “Shit!” She still couldn’t find it. On her hands and knees, she searched the faded documents, holding each one up to the weak light that fell through the window, looking for the one with the date that damned her. Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and her heart climbed into her throat.
In another second he would find her, and it would all be over.
3:00 a.m.
“There you are.” Kira appeared from nowhere, out of the shadows of the second floor. Her face was still as a statue, and she’d changed her clothes. A thin gray T-shirt barely covered her flat stomach, and the words So What? stretched across braless breasts.
“Here I am.”
“Did Simon get your grandmother to the doctor?”
She looked down at her left hand. In it dangled her phone. “Yes. He texted me a few minutes ago.”
“Did they get there without anyone following them?”
“I think so.” She wouldn’t look straight at him. She seemed different somehow, as if in the half hour that had passed since he’d left, she’d shrunk into a smaller, younger version of herself.
“Do you want me to take you down there? You want to be with her?”
She shook her head and put her hand on the railing, as if blocking him from going any farther. “Not yet.”
“Okay.” Steele ran his hand along her collarbone. She didn’t move. Only the corners of her mouth softened the tiniest bit. “Do you want—” He didn’t know what he meant to ask her.
“How about some coffee?” she said.
He blinked. “Sure, I guess.” Coffee wasn’t what he’d expected. Neither was the flat affect in her voice. But she stared past him, almost through him, with a strange set to her jaw, and he knew she was somewhere else again, buried in memories. So he didn’t push.
“Francesca always used to keep some cold in the fridge. Since we can’t brew any, iced is better than nothing.”
“That sounds good.” He never drank iced coffee, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to turn down any offer from Kira Morelli, not at three in the morning and not when he stood inches from a mouth he wanted desperately to devour.
Sidling close enough that the heat from her body roused him yet again, she wound her fingers through his. “Can you go look for some? She used to keep it on the second shelf in the main fridge, in a blue carafe. I’ll be right down.”
“Sure.” It was only when he found himself pushing aside decanters of wine a few minutes later did he wonder if she’d sent him on another wild goose chase while she remained upstairs without him.
Ten minutes passed. He finished his first cup of coffee and started another. Kira’s glass sat on the table across from him, untouched. Beads of condensation dribbled down its side. She’s playing with me. Or lying to me. He desperately wanted to go upstairs and see what she was doing. But she’d never trust him if he invaded her privacy now. He had to wait, either for her to tell him what was going on, or for her to fall asleep so he could find out himself. Cornering her in her grandmother’s bedroom wouldn’t play out well in either scenario. So he waited.
Clouds had covered the moon again, so he could barely make out the photos of Edoardo that hung on the wall. Didn’t matter. He’d already scanned them for clues. There wasn’t anything more he could decipher. He felt around the cushioned bench that ran along the breakfast nook. Banquette seating, he’d thought originally. Now he wondered.
The top lifted easily on silent hinges. For a minute, he thought he’d find only extra linens inside. But then, near the bottom, his hand closed on something solid and square. Red with a gilt border, the photo album was smaller than the rest he’d seen around the house. He sank to a seat, opened the cover, and stared at a black-and-white image of a young girl in a ballerina’s costume. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. He guessed the girl was Kira, though he couldn’t tell for certain, and he couldn’t make out the writing underneath it.
Steele closed the album and went searching. His phone only cast so much light. A kitchen as big as this one had to have a few candles somewhere. He found them in under a minute, fat white ones in a drawer near the stove, complete with a box of matches. He lit three of them, stuck them in silver holders, and carried them to the table.
Then he bent over the album again. Now he could read the label of the first picture: Isabella, age 3, Dance Recital at Madame Borges’ Studio. She stared into the camera without smiling, those huge eyes taking up so much of the picture. Her fingers gripped a full, frilly skirt and held it out in both directions, though she looked like she’d really like to flip off the photographer instead of pose for him. Steele chuckled. She’d been beautiful and precocious even then. He flipped the pages and watched her grow.
Isabella, age 6, Red Carpet for “Sea of Trouble”
Isabella, age 12, First Time Flying to Europe
He smiled at the aviator glasses she wore in that one, too big for her face but framing a smile a mile wide.
Isabella, 15, with Eddie on set
Isabella, 16, with Eddie at Morgan-Stanley Awards
Too soon, he reached the end of the album. The last picture, labeled Isabella at Belle’s Ball Premiere, took his breath away. The eighteen-year-old stood alone on the red carpet, her hair long and loose, glowing blue-black in the sunlight. With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, she glanced over her shoulder, one hand on a hip. Vaguely, he remembered seeing that pose on the cover of a half-dozen magazines in town the morning after she won the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress.
Two weeks later, Isabella Morelli was gone.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up, startled. He hadn’t even heard her walk in. Kira stood by the butcher block, her eyes wide. “Where did you find that?”
He pointed at the bench, its top still open. “I shouldn’t have looked. I know. But—” My God, you were beautiful. Why are these hidden? Why did you leave? What happened to you, all those years ago? He wanted to ask her everything all at once. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her she didn’t have to run. He wanted to confess that he knew what trying to please a parent, or a grandparent, could be like.
She stared at him for a long minute. Deep circles hung below her eyes, and she looked as though ten glasses of iced coffee wouldn’t wake her from her stupor.
“You okay?”
She came to stand beside him. Looking down, she ran her fingers over the final picture in the album. “I hated that dress.” She traced the picture over and over again.
“Why?” He closed his hand over hers, stilling it on the page.
“Too short. Too tight. Wasn’t my choice.” She leaned against him, and it was all he could do not to pull her onto his lap and press his mouth to the smooth skin of her neck.
She sighed. “It wasn’t ever my choice, any of it.”
He ran a hand along her spine. “Is that why you left?” His fingers brushed the short hair a
t the back of her neck. He wanted to ask her again why she’d cut it, and if she’d ever grow it again. He wondered if she’d look as breathtaking today, with it falling down her back. Then he wondered why he even needed to ask himself the question. She looked breathtaking exactly as she was.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
She laid one hand on his arm, fingers splayed. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about who I am.”
“So tell me.”
“I can’t. You’ll never believe it. And if you do, you’ll never want anything to do with me.”
“I doubt that.” He wound her fingers through his. “I don’t think anything you tell me right now is going to send me running for the hills.”
She smiled, but the look held pain. “Ah, you have no idea.” They stood there a moment longer in silence. Then she sank onto his lap and pressed her cheek against his.
That was all Steele needed. With one hand, he turned her face to his. Her eyes widened, and when he kissed her this time, he waited for her breath to catch in the back of her throat before he closed his own eyes and gave himself up to her.
4:00 a.m.
Kira fought against the desire. She couldn’t do this again. Earlier in the parlor had been a one-time thing. She’d let down her guard and loved every minute of it. But she couldn’t keep leading him on. She couldn’t let Steele believe she was someone else, someone untainted. Yet she couldn’t stop herself either, because she wanted him more than she could remember wanting any man. Her lips opened to his tongue, searching and aching and asking a question she could answer in only one way. She turned in the chair and straddled him, and when he moaned, she wound her fingers through his hair and pulled him closer. He gripped her hips and steadied her against him, deepening the kiss until she lost her breath.
“You feel amazing,” he said.
She couldn’t speak. She didn’t want to. She took his hands in hers and ran them along her sides, wanting him to feel every last inch of her. She tugged at his zipper but didn’t pull it down. Yet. He smiled, and she felt wicked and wonderful. For a moment she wondered if the emotions of the day had thrown her into such turmoil that she’d been lifted out of her body, and if the woman who sat here burning with want was someone she’d abandoned long ago. Or someone she’d never allowed herself to know at all.
“Kira.” He whispered the name into the hollow of her throat, and she felt him shift beneath her yet again.
She groaned and shared his agony. Too far gone. Whatever I’ve done now, I can’t go back and undo it. Nor did she want to. There was some kind of sweet relief in not running or hiding or lying any longer. She bent her head and nipped his bottom lip. His lips moved against her pendant, and he looked up at her, eyes dark.
“What is this?” He touched the silver charm nestled close to her heart. A warning sounded in her head, and she ran her mouth along the ridge of his ear to distract him.
“What’s what?”
“This. Does it mean something?” His fingers moved from the necklace to her chin.
“It means know thyself.” She caught his hand and held it in hers. “It’s an old Greek symbol.” And don’t ask me any more of the story.
“You ever take it off?”
“You ever stop talking when you’re with a woman?”
“I was just curious. So sue me.”
She ran her fingers along his cheekbone “You’ve got a black eye.”
“I’ll bet I do. Does it make me look tough?”
She smiled. “Very.” He got that black eye for me. Maybe not on purpose, but he hadn’t backed down from a fight. And he hadn’t backed down when she’d asked him to lead the vultures out front on a wild goose chase. Steele had stood up for her twice, and that counted for more than he realized. She twined her fingers in his hair and pulled his lips to hers. “Come upstairs with me.”
He made a ragged sound in the stillness. “I don’t think I’ll make it that far.”
Candlelight cast shadows onto the wall as he ran his hands over her breasts. Her nipples tightened in response, and when he pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it onto the floor, she was the one who brought his hungry mouth to them.
He lifted his head. Eyes dark with passion seared her heart. “Are you sure?”
Yes, she wanted to say, regardless of the question. Yes, I will sleep with you. Yes, I will give you a quote for your paper. Yes, I will let you open me up, see my tattoos and scars, take my picture again.
How he’d done this to her, she had no idea. She’d never let any man in. She’d done all she could to wall herself up against any kind of desire. His thumbs smoothed the sensitive skin beneath both breasts, and she closed her eyes as a spinning sensation swept over her. She hadn’t come home for this. She’d pushed down every want over the last seven years because she knew what unbridled passion did. It destroyed people. It made fools of them. It brought the wrong people together and left them with mistakes that lasted a lifetime.
She stiffened in his arms. Was she doing exactly the same thing they’d done, all those years ago? No. Not quite. She knew who she was holding, who she was pressing herself against. She didn’t have the excuses they’d had.
He ran both hands down her arms and pinned her wrists against his thighs. “I’m going to make love to you,” he whispered. “First here.” He smiled and glanced at the table behind them. “Then upstairs.” His tongue danced along her collarbone and down to one tiny pink bud, standing erect. “Then—”
Something vibrated against Kira’s knee. “Steele.”
“I’m not answering it.”
“It might be about my father. Or Francesca.” She tugged her wrists free and reached into his pocket.
He gave her a wicked grin. “Sure that’s my cell phone you’re after?”
“Right now, yes.” Her heart beat too fast in her chest.
It was a series of text messages, not a phone call after all, and after he read them, he set the phone down on the table. He didn’t look at her. But his face had turned gray.
“What is it? Who was it?”
“Kira, I’m so sorry. They think they may have found your father’s body.”
SHE CRUMPLED IN HIS arms, just fell into him like her soul had flown from her body. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed into his chest.
“Kira?” He tapped her lightly on one cheek. “Kira!” Perspiration broke out across his forehead, and he was glad for the discretion that had kept him from telling her the truth. They hadn’t found Edoardo’s body. They’d found a decapitated head in a gully some ten miles from where they suspected the kidnappers to be. They hadn’t yet identified it, because it had been so disfigured by torture. But dental records were on the way, and the entire office at The Chronicle seemed to believe the worst was probably true. Fear flooded his mouth, and he choked it back.
She moaned against his throat, a vibration of sorrow that sounded clear down to his toes. Her eyes fluttered open a couple of times, and her brow creased with pain. She hadn’t passed out completely. But she was definitely in some kind of shock. “Kira?”
Finally she lifted her head. Her eyes had turned to deep pools, and the sorrow that filled them broke his heart.
I will never take a picture. Not of this. He knew his father would want it. He knew some of the most brilliant shots happened in the seconds after a great tragedy, as a survivor’s realization grew in small degrees. First it appeared as disbelief. Then wonder. Then true grief overtook all else, and it darkened the eyes and worked its way down the face until the mouth collapsed under the effort of trying to breathe and even the body folded in on itself. Devastating loss drew forth no purer moment of emotion. His mentor had lived for those moments.
But when they happen to you, Steele realized, or to someone whose heart you’re trying to save, things change.
She clung to him, gasping great breaths that wracked her small frame. “It’s not true. Tell me i
t’s not. Tell me it’s a mistake.” She was shivering, and he helped her pull her T-shirt over her head again.
“They don’t know for sure,” he said. “Not yet. We won’t believe it until they confirm it.” He pulled her head back to his chest and pressed his lips to her temple. He’d never had the earth shake in so many different directions as it had these last twelve hours; he’d never felt so helpless. “I’m sorry,” he said over and over again. The words meant little, but he hoped maybe the sound of his voice would calm her.
For a few minutes, she seemed to relax. She leaned into him, and he thought she’d be all right. Then she began to hyperventilate. She stiffened in his arms, sat up and looked straight at him. Her eyes rolled back into her head, and this time she fainted dead away.
He shook her a little. “Hey. Stay with me.” No response. “Kira?” He laid her head back and ran his fingers over her lips and nose. He tried to open an eyelid and saw nothing but white beneath. She was totally out.
Fuck. Who should he call? 911? Dr. Meadham? He grabbed his phone and almost dropped it, his fingers were so slick with sweat. He decided on Simon. He hoped the security guard was still up. Hell, he hoped the security guard had returned to the house after delivering Francesca into the darkness. As gently as he could, Steele struggled to his feet. Carrying Kira, he hurried from the candlelit kitchen into the foyer. Hints of dawn peeked through the curtains. He laid her on the sofa in the parlor.
She hadn’t made a sound, and a rush of something unfamiliar welled up inside him. Pity? Concern? The beginnings of love? Anxiety pricked the back of his neck. Not love. Couldn’t be. He’d walked away from more sleeping women in his lifetime than he could number. What made this one so different?
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