by Meg Tilly
There was another flash from the younger policeman’s camera. The sudden harsh flare of intense light caused a slight panicky feeling in Zelia’s chest.
There had been blood splatters on the floor beside the desk where the rug hadn’t been, a couple more on the baseboard along the wall that needed to be documented. How could I have missed blood splatters? The taste of fear in her mouth was making it hard to breathe.
They need to know Mary was in hiding. It might be relevant to the case. She clasped her hands to stop their shaking. I’ve been paying her under the table. If she’s done something bad and is running from the law, that might make me an accomplice. Will they arrest me?
Zelia cleared her throat, braced herself. “I need to tell you something.” The older cop’s faded blue eyes locked on hers. Her mouth was void of moisture, but somehow she managed to move her lips and get the words out. “I think Mary was in trouble. That she was on the run. She was scared and was very wary of law enforcement. She didn’t have a social security number. I’m not sure if Mary Browning is her real name.” Zelia puffed up her cheeks and exhaled. “I was paying her under the table. I know that it’s illegal, but she needed help and I didn’t know what else to do.”
The cop nodded. Didn’t seem too perturbed. Didn’t haul out his handcuffs and slap them on her. Picked up his pad and scribbled a few notes. “Okay. Notice anything else that might pertain to this case?”
“Her office rug is missing.”
Zelia’s gaze jerked up to Gabe, who was now lounging in the doorway. “Mary didn’t,” she enunciated, glaring at him. “Take. It.”
“It’s relevant,” he said softly. “It vanished when she did.”
“Can you describe the missing rug, please, ma’am?” the older cop said, his ink-stained thumb flipping to a fresh page.
She didn’t answer.
The cop waited.
“She didn’t steal it,” she finally said.
“Duly noted. Can you give us a description?”
Zelia shut her eyes. She felt so torn.
“If we find the rug, we might find her.” The cop’s voice was matter-of-fact, but she thought she could hear compassion underneath the words.
“It was an eight-by-ten”—the words were slow to travel past her lips—“terra cotta and gold.”
“Make?”
She sighed heavily. “It was an antique Serapi rug, but I would put money on the fact that she didn’t . . . Wait a minute!” She whirled to face Gabe. “Nicolò! That morning when I walked past his shop, he asked me what rug cleaning service I used. I didn’t know what the heck he was talking about. Thought it was a language thing. Oh my God. I knew she didn’t steal it.” She turned to the policemen. “Nicolò said to me, ‘What rug cleaning service do you use?’ Not, ‘I saw Mary loading your rug into a van.’”
“Nicolò?” the older cop said, looking from Gabe to Zelia.
“He has the pasta shop across the square,” she replied. “Do you want me to ask him to come over?”
“We’ll swing by his shop when we finish here.”
Forty-nine
“HOW COULD I have forgotten Nicolò saying that about the carpet cleaning service?” Zelia scraped the minced shallots and garlic into the butter that was sizzling in a large pot. “What is wrong with my brain?”
“Could I venture a guess?” Gabe raised an eyebrow as he handed her a cold glass of pinot grigio. “You might have had a trifle on your mind, what with your friend being murdered, flying across the country, breaking into her office, starting a torrid affair, your assistant going—”
“We aren’t having a torrid affair.” She was stirring the garlic and shallots with more intensity than they deserved, her jaw set.
“Right,” Gabe said carefully. “I stand corrected. Not a torrid affair. We are, however . . .” He paused, trying to figure out what the correct word would be. Fucking? No. Bonking our brains out? Seriously? Okay, fine. Copulating? Are you kidding me? “Copulating” sounds like we’re a couple of chimpanzees on a National Geographic show. “Having intimate relations on a frequent basis.” He stifled a groan. Christ. He sounded like he belonged in a bloody historical novel. “Intimate relations.” Who the hell says that? Move on, Mr. Wordsmith. “Anyway . . .” He clinked his wineglass against hers in an attempt to regain his footing. “Here’s to whatever it is we are involved in, which hopefully will result in a beautiful, healthy baby.”
Zelia flinched, as if a glug of ice-cold water had aggravated a new filling. “Um . . .” she said, and then poured her wine into the pot. Steam rose upward, infusing the air with the mingled smell of garlic, shallots, butter, and wine.
Right. He exhaled. Alcohol and babies don’t mix. What the hell were you thinking, handing her a glass of wine?
Zelia still hadn’t looked directly at him. She strode to the fridge and removed the bag of mussels they’d purchased on the way home. She returned to the stove, cut the bag open, dumped the mussels into the pot, and brought the lid down with a clang.
Even in profile, it was clear the joy that had infused Zelia’s face every time they’d talked about a baby was missing.
“You’re having second thoughts?”
She nodded.
“Ah . . .” He should be feeling relief. He hadn’t planned on having children until after he was married. Had gotten swept up in the moment. In hindsight, he realized the conversation he’d overheard between his mom and his godmother might have influenced his decision-making process. He could also blame his rash offer on the alcohol that had been consumed that night. But if he were being truthful, it was the sheer pleasure of being in Zelia’s company, combined with the sorrow he could see in her eyes, that had caused the words to drop out of his mouth.
Even more surprising was that he hadn’t backed down. Hadn’t wanted to.
He, who was famous for mapping everything out, for thoughtful contemplation of all sides of a situation before moving forward, had offered to impregnate a woman he barely knew. Not only that, but with no strings attached.
If anyone who knew him had overheard that evening’s conversation with Zelia they would have been dumbfounded. He’d been rather shocked himself when his brain had managed to compute what he had just said.
And yet he’d moved forward, made love with her several times. For that’s what it had been. Making love. Not fucking, or clinically depositing sperm into a woman who needed it. He had been making love. Deep, true, and committed to the core. He hadn’t realized the depth of his feelings, had miscalculated how powerfully those feelings had been reawakened after a decade of lying dormant. Hadn’t counted on the desire that gradually, over the last week, had wrapped its silken strands around him, drawing him ever and ever closer. He hadn’t realized that in spite of the linear, mathematical exterior he had fortified to dazzle the world with, underneath beat the heart of a romantic fool who believed in love at first sight and happily-ever-after. Jesus.
He tipped his head back and drained his wineglass.
“You okay?” he heard her ask.
He couldn’t look at her yet. Too much would show in his eyes. “Yeah, sure,” he said, busying himself with refilling his glass, disappointment weakening his knees.
He’d convinced himself he was doing her a random act of kindness. But once he’d had her up against the wall, his cock buried deep inside her, the realization had struck him like a bolt of lightning. There was nothing evolved or enlightened about what he was doing. All his years of university, intellectual pursuits, and cerebral conversations with like-minded people were nothing but a front. A cheaply made suit that would tear at the slightest provocation and reveal the primitive roots of his cavemen ancestors lurking beneath. She was his mate. The other half he had been searching for. If she wanted a baby, he wanted to be the man to impregnate her. But more than that, he wanted to be at her side, to watch her belly swell with their
offspring. He wanted to help feed and take care of them, to love them and watch them grow.
“Don’t get me wrong.” She placed her hand on his forearm.
He knew he had it bad when even an innocuous contact like that—especially given that she was blowing him off—sent heat straight to his groin.
“I think it was very generous of you to offer to . . . assist me.”
“I did more than offer,” he growled.
“Yes, well.” She flushed a deep rose and waved her hand in front of herself as if shooing away a wasp. “I . . .” She cleared her throat as she donned potholders and gave the covered pot a shake. “I appreciate your efforts.”
“My efforts?” he repeated, feeling quite grim. Good God. Was that why she was slamming the door in his face? He sucked in bed? Jesus. He’d always thought of himself as a good lover. Never had any complaints. Clearly, he’d been delusional. The two nights they had spent together had been mind-blowing experiences for him. He’d assumed that they had been for her as well.
He watched her remove two bowls from the cupboard and place them by the stovetop. It took him a moment to recenter himself after that body blow. He tried to think through the problem rationally. Was he willing to walk away from Zelia without trying to change her mind?
No.
She lifted the lid of the pot and peeked inside, fragrant steam wafting out. “It’s ready.” She removed the potholders and ladled the steaming-hot mussels into the bowls, then sprinkled some fresh parsley over the top.
Well, then, you need to fix this. The tips of his ears and the back of his neck felt hot. “Perhaps with shared conversation and experimentation, where you let me know your preferences, what feels good, what doesn’t, what kind of pressure you like, I can improve my . . . ‘efforts.’”
“No, no, no.” Now both of her hands were flying about as if the wasp had morphed into a swarm, tiny bits of parsley scattering. Her face couldn’t get any redder. “It’s not that! Good grief, man. You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had. Seriously. No disrespect to Ned, because I loved him. But . . .” She trailed off, bit her lip, then plucked the two bowls off the counter and carried them to the table.
Okay, so maybe it was fucking for her, but at least her reticence isn’t because I sucked in the sack. He felt the knot in his chest loosen slightly. He removed two forks from the silverware drawer, tucked the fresh baguette under his arm, and then sat down opposite her. She avoided his gaze as she slid the bowl of mussels over. “Thanks,” he said, his mind turning over various reasons why she might have decided on a change of plan.
“I just . . .” She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. “As I got to know you better, I realized it might be impossible for you to walk away from responsibility. Even though I’d given you carte blanche to do so.” Her gray-blue eyes had darkened like the sea when a storm was overhead. “If I had a baby . . .” She looked so sad. “It would be a child of your blood. The baby might have your smile, your wavy dark hair, your methodical way of going about things, your mother’s stubborn sweetness, and your father’s twinkling eyes. And your parents, how do you think they’d feel to know there was a grandchild of theirs out in the world and they weren’t involved in its life?”
It would devastate them. But he couldn’t say that. Not if it would mean walking away from Zelia. “This isn’t about them. It’s our decision.”
“Gabe.” Her eyes were shiny with emotion. “Be honest. Even taking your parents out of the equation, would you really be able to impregnate me, walk away, and not look back?”
He jabbed his fork into a mussel, stuck it in his mouth, and chewed.
* * *
* * *
HE WASN’T TALKING. Neither was she. The room was quiet, as if it were holding its breath waiting for someone to break the silence. There was the sound of their forks scraping against shells, food being chewed, and the ticktock of her mother’s clock sitting on the mantel.
Zelia poked at her food, feeling slightly ill.
When his bowl had been emptied, he pushed it to the side before shifting forward, resting his elbows on the table, his hands loosely clasped, tapping against his lips. “How would you feel . . . ?” His voice was casual. Nonchalant. His gaze was shuttered, eyelids at half-mast, a lock of hair tumbling forward onto his brow. She clenched her hands into fists to stop them from reaching out to smooth it.
He tipped his head slightly, as if by listening to her breathe he would know her answer to the question he hadn’t finished forming yet. “About changing the initial plan?” He paused as if searching for a better word. “Refining it?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, her heart pounding as if she were blindfolded and perched at the edge of a precipice.
Fifty
MARY WOKE TO someone stroking her head. She opened her eyes and there he was, lying on the bed next to her. The room was dark, but she could see him, propped up on his elbow, backlit by soft light spilling through the cracked-open bathroom door.
“You’re awake,” he said, smiling that little-boy smile at her again.
She shut her eyes, relief filling her. She wasn’t dead. Hadn’t been poisoned. She almost laughed at the extent of her paranoia. Yes. She was being held hostage. Why? She didn’t know, but at least the food was elegantly prepared and apparently unlaced with poison.
“Yes,” she said, attempting to smile. She needed to gain his trust, to be allowed a modicum of freedom if she was to have a chance at making an escape. “I’m awake.” He wasn’t his usual impeccable self. There was a dab of paint on his cheek and he smelled of turpentine. Turpentine, paint, and something else she couldn’t identify.
“How do you feel?”
She did a quick internal scan. “All right. All things considered.”
“I wanted to show you something,” he said, almost shyly. “You okay to walk?” He swung his legs off the bed, stood up, and held out his hand. There were paint splatters and smears on his hand as well.
She froze. Didn’t want to touch him. He made her skin crawl. A sister would accept assistance from her brother. Take his hand. Take it, you idiot!
“I think so,” she replied, her eyes cast down to hide her revulsion as she took his proffered hand and let him draw her to her feet.
Fifty-one
“MARRIAGE?” ZELIA STARED at him, clearly in shock. “Gabe,” she finally said, carefully placing her fork on the table. “You aren’t thinking rationally. You barely know me, for crying out loud.” She kept her hand pressing into the handle as if the fork and the table beneath it were tethering her to the earth. “You have years to find the right person and fall in love. It would be crazy to commit to something like this.” She shook her head, then compressed her lips as if steeling herself for a difficult task. “No. I can’t let you do it. Guys don’t have a ticking biological clock. Can have babies in their frikkin’ eighties, for crying out loud. It’s not fair.”
“Interestingly,” Gabe said, “there’s a clock ticking for me as well. I just wasn’t aware that it was.” She shot him a skeptical look. “Seriously. I don’t want to be an old father. I want to have the energy to run around with my kids, to teach them how to throw a baseball, shoot hoops, ice hockey, whatever.”
“Hate to break it to you, Mr. Macho Man, but when you do decide to have a baby, the odds are fifty percent on having a girl.”
“And?” He looked at her and arched an eyebrow. “My sisters played sports with relish. Went head-to-head with Rick and me.” The image of a miniature Zelia flashed through his mind, with her tumbling, spun-amber curls, the hidden dimples that peeked out only when her smile had reached full force, her strong nose, her intelligent gaze. “I’d love to have a daughter, and hopefully she’d look like you.”
“Like me?”
“Don’t make that face. Any girl would be blessed to take after you. You see, Zelia.” He leaned across the table,
took her hands in his, and it felt so right. “Once we embarked on your madcap scheme, I realized that I wanted to start a family, too. Not just with anyone. I think you’d be a marvelous mother. Now, I know you’ve made it clear you weren’t looking for a partner. That your heart is still tied up with Ned, but”—he pressed his fist to his chest to ease the ache that had arrived with the words—“I was thinking that since he’s no longer an option . . .” His voice trailed off at the stricken look on her face.
“Gabe . . . I just—” She was shaking her head. Looked sad, weary.
“It’s okay,” he said. Jumping in before she felt the need to name the million ways in which Ned had been everything Gabe wasn’t. “I understand. But I want you to know that I’d like to make this a real relationship. Both feet in.”
She pulled her hands away, crossed her arms, her jaw set as if steeling herself for bad news. “This is not the type of decision you can make with a snap of the fingers. It would have long-reaching implications that require careful consideration.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” he said, and the rightness of that statement calmed the turmoil in him. It was strange how his universe had shifted on its axis. He’d been moving through life, almost as if he were a hovercraft, never quite making contact with the ground. He wanted more now. He craved connection. “This isn’t just about a baby anymore. I’m crazy for you, Zee. We’re good together. You want to get married? Okay. No marriage? That’s fine, too. Whatever form this”—he circled his hand between the two of them—“takes on. I’m telling you, I’d be there one hundred percent, solidly committed to you, and as a father to our child.”
“Whatever may come?” she said, looking at him skeptically. “Poop, vomit, sleepless nights, hormonal swings, the terrible twos? Being called into the principal’s office when you’re in the middle of writing? Teenagers sneaking off to a drunken beach party?”
