Lover At Last

by J. R. Ward

Chapter Seventy-six

  "Hello?"

  As Sola waited for her grandmother to answer from upstairs, she put one foot on the lower step and leaned into the bannister. "Are you up? I'm finally home. "

  She glanced at her watch. Ten p. m.

  What a week. She had accepted a PI job for one of Manhattan's big divorce attorneys - who suspected his own wife was cheating on him. Turned out the woman was, with two different people as a matter fact.

  It had taken her nights and nights of work, and when she'd finally gotten the ins and outs settled - natch - she'd been gone for six days.

  The time away had been good. And her grandmother, with whom she'd spoken every day, had reported no more visitors.

  "You asleep?" she called up, even though that was stupid. The woman would have answered her if she were awake.

  As she backed off and went into the kitchen, her eyes shot immediately to the window over the table. Assail had been on her mind nonstop - and she knew on some level that her little project in the Big Apple had been more about putting some distance between them than any pressing need to make money or further her side career as a gumshoe.

  After so many years of her taking care of herself and her grandmother, the out-of-control she felt when she was around him was not her friend: She had nothing but herself to go on in this world. She hadn't gone to college; she had no parents; unless she worked she had no money. And she was responsible for an eighty-year-old with medical bills and declining mobility.

  When you were young and you came from a regular family, you could afford to lose your head in some fucked-up romance, because you had a safety net.

  In her case, Sola was the safety net.

  And she was just praying that after a week of no contact -

  The blow came from behind, clipping her on the back of the head, the impact going right to her knees and taking them out. As she hit the lineoleum, she got a good look at the shoes of the guy who'd struck her: loafers, but not fancy.

  "Pick her up," a man said in a hushed voice.

  "First I gotta search her. "

  Sola closed her eyes and stayed still as rough hands rolled her over and felt around, her parka rustling softly, the waistband of her pants jerking against her hips. Her gun was taken from her, along with her iPhone and her knife -

  "Sola?"

  The men working on her froze, and she fought her instinct to take advantage of the distraction and try to assume control of the situation. The issue was her grandmother. The best case was getting these men out of the house before they hurt the older woman. Sola could deal with them wherever they took her. If her vovo got involved?

  Someone she cared about could die.

  "Let's get her out of here," the one on the left whispered.

  As they picked her up, she stayed limp, but cracked one lid. Both were wearing ski masks that had eye and mouth holes.

  "Sola! What are you doing?"

  Come on, assholes, she thought as they struggled with her arms and her legs. Move it. . . .

  They bumped her into the wall. Nearly knocked over a lamp. Cursed loud enough to carry as they humped her deadweight through the living room.

  Just as she was about to come to life and help them the hell out, they made it to the front door.

  "Sola? I coming down - "

  Prayers formed in her head and rolled out, the old, familiar words ones she'd known her whole life. The difference with these recitations was that in this case they weren't rote - she desperately needed her grandmother to be slow on the dime for once. To not make it down those stairs before they were out of the house.

  Please, God. . .

  The bitterly cold air that hit her was good news. So was the sudden speed the men gained as they carried her over to a car. So was the fact that as they put her in the trunk, they failed to tie her hands or feet. They just tossed her in and took off, the tires spinning on the ice until traction was acquired and forward momentum accomplished.

  She could see nothing, but she felt the turns that were made. Left. Right. As she rolled around, she used her hands to search out anything she could use as a weapon.

  No luck.

  And it was cold. Which would limit her physical reactions and strength if this was a long trip. Thank the good Lord she hadn't taken her parka off yet.

  Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself that she had been in worse situations.

  Really.

  Shit.

  "I promise I'm not going to wreck it. "

  As Layla stood in the mansion's kitchen and waited for Fritz to argue, she finished pulling on the wool coat that Qhuinn had gotten her earlier in the month. "And I won't be gone long. "

  "I shall take you then, ma'am. " The old doggen perked up, his bushy white eyebrows rising in optimism. "I shall drive you wherever you wish - "

  "Thank you, Fritz, but I'm just going to sightsee. I have no destination. "

  In truth, she was stir-crazy from being holed up in the house, and after the further good news from Doc Jane's most recent blood test, she'd decided she needed to get out. Dematerializing wasn't an option, but Qhuinn had taught her to drive - and the idea of sitting in a toasty car, going nowhere in particular. . . being free and by herself. . . sounded like absolute heaven.

  "Mayhap I shall just call - "

  She cut him off. "The keys. Thank you. "

  As she put out her hand, she leveled her eyes on the butler's and kept her stare in place, making the demand as graciously but as firmly as she could. Funny, there was a time, before the pregnancy, when she would have caved and given in to the doggen's discomfort. No longer. She was getting quite used to standing up for herself, her young, and her young's sire, thank you very much.

  Going through the hell of nearly losing that which she wanted so badly had redefined her in ways she was still getting in touch with.

  "The keys," she repeated.

  "Yes, of course. Right away. " Fritz scurried over to the built-in desk in the rear of the kitchen. "Here they are. "

  As he came back and presented them with a tense smile, she put her hand on his shoulder, even though no doubt that would fluster him more - and, in fact, did. "Worry not. I shan't go far. "

  "Have you your phone?"

  "Yes, indeed. " She took it out of the central pocket of her pullover fleece. "See?"

  After waving a good-bye, she went out into the dining room and nodded at the staff who were already setting up for Last Meal. Crossing through the foyer, she found herself walking faster as she approached the vestibule.

  And then she was free of the house entirely.

  Outside, standing on the front steps, her deep breath of frosty air was a benediction, and as she looked up at the starry night sky, she felt a burst of energy.

  Much as she wanted to leap off the front steps, however, she was cautious going down them, and also careful striding across the courtyard. As she rounded the fountain, she hit the button on the key fob, and the lights of that gigantic black car winked at her.

  Dearest Virgin Scribe, let her please not wreck the thing.

  Getting in behind the wheel, she had to move the seat back, because clearly the butler had been the last one to drive the vehicle. And then, as she put the key fob in the cup holder and hit the start button, she had a moment's pause.

  Especially as the engine flared and settled into a purr.

  Was she really doing this? What if. . .

  Stopping that spiral, she flicked the right-hand toggle upward and looked to the screen on the dashboard, making sure there was nothing close behind her.

  "This is going to be fine," she told herself.

  She eased off the brake, and the car smoothly moved back, which was good. Unfortunately, it went in the opposite direction than she wanted and she had to wrench the wheel over.

  "Shoot. "

  Some to'ing and fro'ing happened next, with her piloting the car i
nto a series of stop-and-gos that eventually had the circular hood ornament pointed at the road that went down the mountain.

  One last glance at the mansion and she was off at a snail's pace, descending the hill, keeping to the right as she'd been taught. All around, the landscape was blurry, thanks to the mhis, and she was ready to get rid of that. Visibility was something she was desperate for.

  When she got to the main road, she went left, coordinating the turn of the wheel and the acceleration so that she pulled out with some semblance of order. And then, surprise, surprise, it was smooth sailing: The Mercedes, she believed it was called, was so steady and sure that it was nearly like sitting in a chair, and watching a movie of the landscape going by.

  Of course, she was going only five miles an hour.

  The dial went up to one hundred and sixty.

  Silly humans and their speed. Then again, if that was the only way one could travel, she could see the value of haste.

  With every mile she went, she gathered confidence. Using the dashboard screen's map to orient herself, she stayed very far from downtown and the highways, and even the suburban parts of the city. Farmland was good - lots of room to pull over and not a lot of people, although from time to time a car would come out of the night, its headlights flaring and passing on her left.

  It was a while before she realized where she was going. And when she did, she told herself to turn around.

  She did not.

  In fact, she was surprised to discover that she knew where she was going at all: Her memory should have dimmed since the fall, the passage of the intervening days, but even more so, events, obscuring the location she was seeking. There was no such buffering. Even the awkwardness of being in a car and having to be restricted to roads didn't mitigate what she saw in her mind's eye. . . or where her recollections were taking her.

  She found the meadow she sought many miles away from the compound.

  Pulling over at the field's base, she stared up at the gradual ascent. The great maple was precisely where it had been, its stout main trunk and smaller arterial branches bare of the leaves that had once offered a colorful canopy.

  Between one blink and the next, she pictured the fallen soldier who had been stretched out on the ground at its roots, recalling everything about him, from his heavy limbs to his navy blue eyes to the way he had wanted to refuse her.

  Bending forward, she put her head on the steering wheel. Banged it once. Did that a second time.

  It was not simply unwise to find any gallantry in that denial, but downright dangerous.

  Besides, sympathizing with a traitor was a violation of every standard she'd ever had for herself.

  And yet. . . alone in the car, with naught but her inner thoughts to contend with, she found her heart was still with a male who by all rights and morals, she should have hated with a passion.

  It was a sad state of affairs, it truly was.