by Meg Tilly
“If you’d like to wander through the town, have a coffee and a delicious slice of pie at the Intrepid Café, or browse through the shops, I can hold the painting for pickup later in the day.”
“In the rain?” He arched an eyebrow. “Oh no, my dear, you should know better than that. I am not a waterfowl. Nor am I the sort of person who walks around town carrying parcels. No. I would like you to deliver my painting within the hour.” He stepped past her into the office and pulled a Mont Blanc fountain pen from his pocket. “Some paper, please,” he said, looking at her expectantly. “I’m staying at the marina, which is remarkably dreary with all this rain. Ah well. Needs must. I will write the boat slip number and the yacht’s name down for you so you’ll know where to bring it.”
“Fine,” she said, shoulders set as she stepped into the office. There was no way in hell she was going to deliver that painting. “We have a wonderful local delivery service, very reliable.” She rounded the desk, bent down, and pulled open the drawer. “I’ll call and have Scott send someone over.” She reached for a sheet of paper.
“Oh no,” she heard him say, his voice languid, almost dreamlike. “Tati, that will never do. We have much to discuss.”
There was something about his tone that jerked her gaze upward to lock with his—the glittery intensity she saw in his eyes froze and trapped her. Move. Run. Take flight! Her internal voice screamed at her, but it was too late. As she lunged for the door, a flash of gold arced downward, the golden knob smashing into the back of her head. Pain. Blinding pain. She managed to stagger one more step before she was swallowed by the darkness, the sound of his soft laugh echoing around her.
Thirty-one
GABE PULLED TO a stop in front of Zelia’s darkened cottage and shifted into park. “Thanks for the ride,” Zelia said, and then winced. Hopefully he knows I’m talking about the ride from the airport and not the ride where he’d been buried deep inside me, she thought as she hastily exited the SUV.
Damn. He’d gotten out as well. Don’t want him to think you’re inviting him in for another round of baby-making pleasure.
She could see him in her peripheral vision rounding the vehicle as she yanked open the rear passenger door and grabbed her bag.
Too late. He was beside her now.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Gabe asked.
“Nothing.”
He huffed out a laugh. Did not look amused.
“Nothing. Is. Going on,” she said, feeling grouchy at him, which wasn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault that she hadn’t thought things through.
“Bullshit. You’ve barely spoken two words to me the whole trip back. If you’re pissed off that I left this morning, I already explained to you—”
“I’m not pissed off,” Zelia cut in. “I’m grateful your brother’s running the fingerprints and stuff. Thank you for doing that.” She could feel a wet trickle of rain making its way down the nape of her neck, her bag heavy in her hand. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long trip.” She forced herself to look him in the eyes.
“So, I take it you don’t want me to come in?”
“No.” She recoiled backward a step. If she let Gabe into her house there was no way she’d allow him to leave the premises before he fucked her brains out. “God no.” She regretted the harshness of her tone, her choice of words the instant they left her lips. Had to close her eyes briefly to shut out the flicker of hurt she saw flash across his face.
When she reopened her eyes, the vulnerability was gone. His face looked as if it had been carved from a block of granite.
“Got it,” he said. Steel shutters had dropped over his eyes as he stepped away.
“Gabe,” she said softly, reaching out for him, wanting to soothe, make things better. But she was talking to air, because he’d already rounded the SUV and was getting inside.
She made herself turn and walk up her front steps, could hear him start the engine, the gravel spitting as his vehicle peeled out. She inserted her key in the lock on her front door, thinking of Gabe and how he’d refitted his godmother’s house. Couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder as she turned the key to watch the red taillights of his vehicle turn out of her drive and disappear into the night.
Thirty-two
HE PACED BESIDE her inert body, his hands fluttering anxiously. Once his two burly crew members had deposited his “new carpet purchase” on the floor of the master bedroom, they’d departed. He’d hastily scampered to the door and locked it behind them. Pulled down the blinds in case another boat was passing and the occupants happened to gaze in. Then he quickly unrolled his present. He didn’t want her to suffocate. Didn’t want her fragile lungs to have to breathe musty carpet air a second longer than necessary. It might aggravate her asthma.
She’d been breathing normally, which was a relief. There had been none of the discoloration around the nose and mouth that sometimes occurred during her bad asthma bouts. However, she’d appeared to be sleeping. Maybe her brain had to shut down to accommodate the shock of seeing me after all these years, he’d thought. Let her rest. We can talk later.
But here it was several hours later, and still she wouldn’t wake up.
“I’d only meant to disable you briefly,” he said as he knelt beside her. The purloined carpet under his knees was a jarring note of color that clashed with the serene decor in the master suite of his yacht. “If only you had agreed to deliver the painting, I wouldn’t have had to take such drastic measures,” he explained softly as he gently placed two fingers against her carotid artery.
Her pulse was still steady and strong. He smoothed her hair back from her face. It was Tati. He knew it. She might have been hiding, but he had seen past her disguise. Had clocked the tilt of her nose the second he’d caught sight of her standing in the gallery like a long-lost dream. And then, when she’d approached him, looking cautious and wary—and rightfully so, because she didn’t know the whole story—when she approached, he could see the familiar cornflower-blue eyes of their ancestors hiding behind the dark frames of her glasses. Once she was standing before him, he could see with his keen artist’s eye that the mousy brown color that covered the bulk of her hair was due to cheap hair dye. The beginning roots of natural blond were just starting to show. That was when he knew for sure. No woman would voluntarily cover glorious Scandinavian blond for mousy brown unless she was on the run.
He squeezed his eyes shut, overcome with emotion. She didn’t die in the fire. Thank God. He felt like the weight he’d been carrying for the last fifteen years had been lifted, but another sorrow had quickly taken its place. A pain had lodged itself in his chest with the knowledge that his beloved sister, Tati, had been running from him for all these years. Only one explanation for that: she must think him a monster. Hadn’t heard his side of the story. Didn’t know how their mother had mocked and belittled him when she’d discovered the portrait of her he’d spent months refining. She’d flipped into crazy mode. “Ugly!” “Disgusting!” Screaming like a banshee. “You’re a no-talent hack!” Slashing the canvas of his precious painting into ribbons with a butcher knife while he’d wept. Then the bitch had gathered the tattered remains and marched down the wide circular staircase, past the library where his father was ensconced, reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping his martini. Father hadn’t even looked up as they had flown past, his son trying to explain that his art wasn’t supposed to be realistically rendered, that its very ugliness made it beautiful.
But there was no talking with her. Never had been. Mother had made a bonfire out of his painstaking work in the hand-carved marble fireplace.
In hindsight, that’s where she had made her fatal miscalculation. She should have listened. Discussed the portrait like a reasonable human being. But no, to her he was a helpless child to be tortured and tormented by whatever whim took her fancy.
No more. At sixteen years old, he might have been “a
scrawny underdeveloped runt,” but under the skin he was a man full grown. Mother had been stupid to drop the knife on the hearth while she knelt to light the fire, stupider still to leave it there while she cavorted around the flames like a fucking witch. Laughing hard. Her mouth opened wide as if she were an anaconda hoping to swallow him whole, derogatory laughter spewing out like toxic waste, wounding deeper than any beating ever had. And then he noticed through blurred eyes—almost as if hypnotized—that past the gold fillings in her molars, past her bobbing uvula, the perfect target was waiting. Right there at the back of her throat.
How surprised she had been.
He smiled. Who’s laughing now? The shock in Mother’s eyes, and dare he say it, respect, too, in that final moment before she breathed her last.
He’d manned up. Done what needed to be done. Didn’t have a choice. If one finds a cockroach in one’s kitchen, it needs to be squashed. Father had been an unfortunate casualty. Perhaps he’d deserved what he got, for never choosing his children’s emotional health and physical well-being over placating his bitch of a wife.
However, Tati? He shook his head. For years he’d had no one to blame but himself for Tati’s passing. But now he had discovered that by some miracle Tati had escaped the fire and was alive and well, and he was inordinately grateful.
There was a light rap on the door, startling him slightly. “Sir.” Fredrick’s discreet voice came through the African cherry door with the amboyna burl accent panels. “Chef informed me that whenever you are ready, dinner would be served.”
He pressed his hands together, the sides of his forefingers against his lips, his mind spinning. What to do? He couldn’t leave Tati lying on the floor, curled on her side in that loose fetal position. She was too heavy for him to manage alone. If only she had woken up.
Another rap. A little louder this time. “Sir?”
His butler had been with the family as far back as he could remember. A constant ballast in an ever-changing world. After the house fire, many members of the staff had chosen to take employment in other households. Frightened perhaps by the unsubstantiated rumors. But not Fredrick. He had stayed, loyal and true.
“Fredrick?”
“Yes, sir.” Fredrick’s mournful baritone reminded him of a distant foghorn at sea. Comforting.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
He unlocked the door and opened it a crack. There was no one visible over Fredrick’s dark-suit-clad shoulder. “I need your help,” he whispered. “And a vow of absolute secrecy.”
“Sir.” There was an odd hitch to Fredrick’s voice, as if he were wounded. “Have I ever shown you less-than-unwavering fidelity?”
“Right.” He took another quick glance down the hall, then opened the door a hair more and stepped aside so Fredrick could enter. “Come in,” he said. Once Fredrick was inside, he reshut the door and locked it. When he turned back to the room, he could see Fredrick standing stock-still, the color draining from his face as he stared down at Tati’s inert body, the gash on her head, scarlet against her mousy brown hair and pale skin.
“What have you done?” Fredrick’s voice sounded lower than normal, as if roughened by sorrow. Fredrick dragged his hound-dog eyes away from Tati to look into his. Only for a second and then Fredrick’s gaze lowered, his eyelids drooping to half-mast, his hands clasping before him as if he were a monk ready to participate in a walking meditation.
“It’s Tatiana,” he said, even though an explanation was redundant. Clearly anyone who had known Tati would know that this was her, all grown-up.
“Are you sure, sir?” Fredrick asked gently, his voice neutral.
“Of course I’m sure,” he replied impatiently. “You can’t see her eyes because they are closed, but they are the exact same color.”
“Blue is not an uncommon color—”
“Look here.” He dropped to his knees and pushed her hair back from her forehead. “What do you see?”
“An unconscious woman who needs help.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” he said, batting Fredrick’s reply aside. “Yes, I know she’s unconscious. That’s why you’re here. I’m unable to move her to the bed on my own.”
Fredrick took a step back. “Sir,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but I—”
“Not for that.” He had to laugh. Even with the grimness of the situation, the horrified expression on Fredrick’s face was quite comical. “God, Fredrick. What kind of animal do you think I am? She’s my sister, for Christ’s sake. I’m not planning on ravishing her. I need you to help me lift her to the bed so she’ll be more comfortable,” he explained, the epitome of patience. He gestured for Fredrick to come closer. “But look here. See her hair? See these blond roots coming in? Why would she do that? Who else do we know who had hair this color?”
Fredrick sighed heavily. “Miss Tatiana?”
“Yes, my good man!” He clapped Fredrick on the shoulder. “Miss Tatiana! Now, help me, will you? You take her shoulders and I’ll take her feet. Ready? One . . . two . . . three . . . lift!”
With the two of them it was an easy thing to get her situated on the bed. She looked much more relaxed lying there.
“And this wound on her head, sir?” he heard Fredrick ask as the good man dabbed a wet washcloth on Tati’s pale brow, attempting to remove dried trickles of blood. “How did that happen?”
“Ah. Well,” he said, avoiding Fredrick’s eyes, moving into his dressing room to change into a clean shirt. “I ran into Tati in town. What a reunion! She wanted to see the boat. Unfortunately, she tripped and fell while she was looking around. Hit her head on the corner of the bedframe.” He could see Fredrick’s reflection in the mirror, bent over Tati and looking quite distraught. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine. Her pulse is strong. Tati will wake up soon and tell you herself. She’s going to be so very pleased to see you, Fredrick. You wait and see.”
He exited the dressing room, straightening his cuffs. “By the way, I’ve decided I don’t want to be moored at the dock. I need a break from the hustle and bustle of the marina. The noise coming from the other boats might disturb Tati.” He walked to the bed where his sister was resting, placed a kiss on his fingertips, and then gently touched her forehead. “Tell the captain I’d like him to anchor in a nice quiet cove. Nearby, so the town of Comfort is easily accessible by tender.”
Thirty-three
ZELIA STARED OUT her kitchen window, mug of tea in one hand and the remains of her buttery cinnamon-sugar toast in the other. The rain had continued throughout Sunday and into the night, which had suited her mood. Zelia had used the foul weather to catch up on her housework. Did the laundry, ironing, unloaded the dishwasher, dusted, vacuumed, and mopped, all the while turning the Gabe conundrum over and over in her mind. Evening fell. Her cottage was spotless and still clarity had not arrived like a chorus of angels.
She had hoped the clouds would have blown out, but Monday morning had arrived and rain was still thundering down. She hadn’t slept well. The high winds and heavy rain had sent small broken branches and loosened pine cones plummeting onto her roof. The thumps, bumps, and howling wind kept her on edge, ensuring her sleep was fractured. With each thump came the worry that one of the larger branches might snap off the tall Douglas firs that stood like sentinels on either side of her cottage. It didn’t help matters that in the dark hours of the night her mind continued to veer back to the situation with Gabe, unable to settle on a solution. Yes, the desire for a child was still there, even with the complications Mary had mentioned. More troubling was that her body, having tasted him, was gluttonously hungry for more. Even getting into bed, the feel of her practical cotton sheets gliding against her body reminded Zelia of his touch. Making her legs restless, her body hot, needy, and wanting.
Zelia pushed her hip away from the counter, popped the last bite of toast in her mouth,
enjoying the crunch and the buttery, cinnamon goodness. She downed the last of her tea and placed her mug in the sink. If you were wise, she thought, you’d take the car, to give you some protection from the storm. But with her brain swirling around the baby-making issue, she felt the need to burn off some energy. She donned her long raincoat, rain boots, and hat and headed out the door. She gave Old Faithful her daily pat on the hood before heading down the driveway, all the while thinking about Gabe and how much she longed for his touch.
Nicolò was leaning against the doorway of his pasta shop, tucked under the dripping awning, taking a puff on his vape cigarette pen, his latest attempt to wean himself off the tar ones. “Ciao, Zelia,” Nicolò called as she sloshed past. “Sei pazzo. Why you walk in such dreary weather?”
“Exercise,” she replied.
“If it’s exercise you want, bella, I am free tonight. I could make you dinner, turn on some music, and dance?” he said, throwing in a few free-form dance steps as a way to entice.
“Thanks, Nicolò,” she said, his antics pulling forth a laugh. “But I already have plans.” Suddenly she had an image of Gabe’s naked, hard body poised over her as he thrust his cock inside her, stretching her, filling her . . . She felt her face flush and her body heat, despite the cold and rain.
“Oh! What’s on the agenda? My evenings are so boring, it makes me want to weep. Maybe you take pity, make room for one more?”
Eww . . . “No. I really don’t think that would work,” Zelia said hastily, putting her legs in motion. “Sorry, Nicolò. See you around.”
“Wait,” Nicolò called. “Before you leave, I wanted to ask what carpet cleaning service you use.”
Zelia paused midstep. “Pardon?”
“Carpet cleaning service,” he repeated, like he was making any sense at all.
“Ah. Yes,” Zelia said, nodding. Must be a language miscommunication. “Don’t have one,” she said politely, and continued on her way.
