by Brenda Novak
“Which might mean nothing more than an enjoyable night of craps.”
She adjusted her purse. The gun inside made it unusually heavy. “What about my kidnap victims? Surely you’re not so consumed with revenge that you don’t care what happens to them.”
He scowled. “That isn’t it at all.”
“Then what is?”
“I don’t see how bringing you along will help save them.”
His arrogance irritated her. “Oh, really? Who backed you up in Ione, even though you had no business doing what you did?”
The barest hint of a smile curved his lips. “I wish I could’ve caught that on tape.”
Jane stiffened. “What?”
“You, trying not to get your shoes muddy while hurrying toward me with that gun.”
She hadn’t realized he’d paid enough attention to notice. “Little good it did me,” she grumbled. “My shoes are ruined.”
He sobered. “Could’ve been worse.”
“I think that was my argument.” Besides, it was easy for him to say. He was obviously used to having money. No one she knew rented a Lexus. At least, no one she knew these days. “Point is, I could’ve stayed warm and dry in the car,” she said. “So will you cooperate with me or not?”
Wearing a scowl, he stared off into the distance.
“Sebastian?”
His gaze moved her way, and he studied her as if seeing her for the first time. She might’ve been flattered, except there was a calculating air to the appraisal that told her he wasn’t necessarily admiring her figure. “Maybe there’d be some benefit to having you involved.”
“Meaning…”
“Maybe you could provide a woman’s perspective.”
“Considering I am a woman, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” she said dryly.
Another flash of his pearly whites told her he understood why she was a little piqued. “Good. Mary works until four. Then she does homework with her kids and takes them to various sports practices. Most nights she doesn’t get on the computer until eight. I need to stick with the same pattern as much as possible, so I’ll sign on with her screen name about that time. If you want to be part of this, come to my motel room at seven-thirty.”
Kate would be home then, but Jane knew she could take her daughter to her in-laws’ for the night. Kate would be excited about staying with Grandma and Grandpa. When Oliver was in jail, she stayed there often, but now Jane rarely allowed it on a school night. “Where’s your motel?”
“The Raleigh Pete, off Cal Expo. Room 213.”
That wasn’t far from her Howe Avenue condo. “I’ll be there.” She started to shut the door, but he spoke again.
“If I gave you fifty dollars, is there any chance you’d bring dinner?”
Jane wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “What?”
“I hardly ever get a home-cooked meal,” he admitted, as if that was reason enough to make her agree.
Austin, an intern from Del Campo High School who was working at TLS in order to get credit for a sociology class, had just parked in the lot. Jane said hello and waited for him to go inside before responding. Then she said, “You want me to make you dinner?”
“I’ll pay for it, like I said. Is some pot roast or meat loaf too much to ask?”
“How do you know I can cook?”
“You’ve got a kitchen, don’t you?” He pulled out his wallet and handed her a fifty-dollar bill. “I’ve been on the road since forever. Anything’s got to be better than what I’ve been eating.”
As Jane accepted the money, she couldn’t help feeling some measure of sympathy. Maybe Sebastian wasn’t the humblest person she’d ever met. But he’d been traveling a long time and no one knew the impact of violence like she did. “I’ve got to cook for Kate, anyway,” she said.
“Kate?”
“My daughter.”
“I didn’t realize you had a child. How old is she?”
“Twelve.”
“What will you do with her?”
“She’ll go to her grandparents’ for the night.”
His gaze fell to the tattoo on her hand. “What happened to you, Jane?”
Survivor. That word had reminded her of who she was during the difficult months when she’d fought to recover from being attacked by her own husband. Skye had been with her when she’d visited Express Yourself Ink. They’d both gotten the same tattoo. Skye’s was on her shoulder blade, which she usually kept covered, but Jane had needed hers in plain sight.
“Maybe we’ll talk about it later,” she said and closed the door.
The room smelled like clean male. So many of Jane’s memories of Oliver were negative that she’d forgotten this more appealing aspect of the opposite sex. Afraid she’d never experience that scent again, at least not in such an intimate setting, she paused to appreciate it before the aroma of the food she carried in her picnic basket could overpower it.
“Come on in.” Sebastian was standing at the door, wearing faded jeans and a burnt orange long-sleeved thermal shirt.
A second later, that male scent was gone, replaced by the sausage in her homemade lasagna and the garlic butter on the bread.
“That smells good,” he said, taking the basket from her as she passed him.
She smiled—she’d just been thinking the same thing but about a completely different scent.
Moving into the room, she purposely turned her attention to the furnishings, which were beige and green and fairly standard, so she wouldn’t be tempted to stare. If she’d thought Sebastian was handsome before, he looked even better without his coat. That shirt fit his upper body like a second skin, revealing the contour of every muscle—and there were plenty of muscles to admire.
Even at his best, Oliver had never been built like that. Jane had been attracted by his sweetness, his harmlessness, his earnestness, his intelligence. And the fact that she’d felt safe with him….
“Is something funny?” Sebastian asked.
Sobering, she shook her head. “No, I was just…remembering.”
He’d been about to dive into the hamper, but at this he paused. “Remembering what?”
“What it was like,” she said.
“To…”
“Be innocent.”
He gave her an odd look. “In what way?”
She shrugged. “In every way, I guess.” She could never go back, never be the person she’d been before. That made her sad. But trusting the one man who was supposed to love her above all else had nearly gotten her killed. Wasn’t it better to be wise than innocent?
Her eyes swept over the bed. Experience, at least the kind of experience she’d endured, changed everything, even the simplest of life’s pleasures….
The stillness in the room told her Sebastian wasn’t digging into the food as she’d expected. She turned to find him watching her, his expression tinged with surprise and curiosity.
“Is there a Mr. Burke?” he asked.
The tone of his voice told her he knew she’d been thinking about sex, knew she was hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food. But, regardless of the promise inherent in such a perfect body, there was nothing he could do to satisfy her. She wouldn’t let him, or anyone else. She couldn’t. She was incapable of lowering her guard to the degree making love would require, especially with a stranger.
“I’m a widow,” she said. “But I might as well be married.”
“You’re seeing someone, then?”
“No.” She didn’t bother to explain.
He put the picnic basket on the dresser next to a flat-screen TV and waved toward a bottle of white zinfandel on his nightstand. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.”
Undaunted, he uncorked the bottle and poured himself a glass. “I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s death.” He took a sip. “How long ago was it?”
She regretted turning down the wine. Maybe it would help settle her nerves, take the edge off. “It’s been nearl
y five years.”
“And…you’re still in love with him?”
She chuckled without mirth. “God, no.”
His eyebrows knotted as he walked toward her with his wine. “What happened?”
When she didn’t answer, he set his glass down and took her hand, rubbing his thumb lightly over her survivor tattoo. “Did he have anything to do with this?”
Like an old heater with a pilot light that’d gone out years ago, she didn’t think she’d ever get warm again. But his touch sent a spark through her that somehow made her shaky.
Surprised, she jerked her hand away and stepped back, but in just half a foot she came up against the bed.
“Whoa, I didn’t mean to scare you.” She was still within his reach, but he didn’t attempt to touch her again. He held out his hands, palms up, as if to show her he had no intention of hurting her.
The last time Oliver had made love to her had been a cruel experience, one of the worst in her life. In some ways, it had hurt her more than the violence that’d followed because it involved hate disguised as love. But Jane knew it was her past—and nothing Sebastian was doing—that had her so rattled.
Overriding her panic, which seemed to come out of nowhere, she forced herself to stand where she was, instead of edging farther away. “I’m not scared.”
He seemed unconvinced but didn’t argue. “Did he do this to you?” He pointed to his own neck, but she understood that he was talking about her scar.
“Yes.”
He lowered his voice. “How’d he die?”
From the deference in his tone, she knew he was guessing she’d killed Oliver in self-defense. She’d often wondered if that would’ve made her recovery easier—or more difficult. “After he left me for dead, lying beside his murdered brother, he attacked a woman he’d attacked once before, a woman by the name of Skye Kellerman.”
“The woman who started The Last Stand.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“I pulled up the Web site.”
“Skye knew he’d be coming for her eventually.” She shrugged. “She was ready for him when he did.”
“She killed him.”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t say that on the Web site.”
“No. She doesn’t talk about it, either. But she was prepared to do what had to be done. She had the benefit of knowing what he really was. I didn’t.”
Sebastian shoved his hands in his pockets. “What was he exactly?”
“A serial rapist and murderer, masquerading as a dentist, a husband, a father.” Her voice dropped involuntarily. “My lover.”
He whistled. “How did you survive such a brutal injury?”
“His knife missed my jugular by a fraction of an inch. Skye brought the authorities to my house before I could bleed out.”
“This Skye sounds like an impressive woman.”
“She is. That’s partly why I work for her.” Jane motioned to the picnic basket. “You’d better eat. The food’s getting cold.”
He spoke over his shoulder while reclaiming the basket. “You’re not planning to eat with me?”
She had been. She’d fed Kate, then loaded her daughter and the food in the car and raced to her in-laws’ place, thinking she’d have dinner at the motel. But she felt too jittery for food right now. She wasn’t sure why Sebastian’s touch had affected her so deeply. She’d been alone with men plenty of times since Oliver’s death—at work, at home, in the car. She’d been fine.
But she’d never been this attracted to any of them. That had to be the difference—that and the fact that they were standing next to a bed.
“I’ve already had dinner,” she lied and tilted the screen of his computer so she could avoid the glare of the lamp. “Wesley Boss isn’t WhosYourDaddy, is he?”
Sebastian decided to make Malcolm wait. He didn’t want to come across as too eager, didn’t want it to seem as if Mary was always online, hoping to hear from him. The role he was playing would be more believable if Malcolm had to work for the attention he craved. Earlier, Sebastian had sent an e-mail from Mary, thanking him for the flowers. That would suffice until after dinner.
Jane sat at the desk, sipping the glass of wine she’d finally accepted when he was halfway through his meal. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being eat so much in one sitting,” she mused as he polished off a second gigantic piece of lasagna and yet another slice of garlic bread.
“I was lucky. I grew up in a home where my mother cooked. I miss that.”
She swiveled in the office chair, back and forth. The nervous energy in that motion told him she wasn’t quite as comfortable as she was hoping to seem. “Where’s your mother now?”
“Upstate New York.”
“Is she still with your father?”
Full at last, he put his plate aside. When he’d asked her for dinner, he’d assumed she could cook, and he’d been right. “No, he passed away a decade ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a blessing in the end,” he said, remembering those difficult days.
“What happened?” He doubted she would’ve asked had he not been so direct with her.
“After being perfectly healthy his whole life, he woke up one morning and started convulsing. Then he went into a coma. My mother got him to the hospital right away, but when he came to—” he shook his head “—when he came to, it became obvious that he’d suffered quite a bit of brain damage.”
Concern softened the hint of suspicion with which she seemed to view him. “What caused the convulsions?”
“A rare infection that’d gone straight to his brain. There was no warning, nothing we could’ve done to stop it.”
“How terrible!”
It had been terrible. Although Sebastian was grateful for the time they’d had at the end, he and his mother had spent three long years looking after Angelo, knowing he’d never recover, knowing how much he’d hate being so helpless. It was during that dark time that Emily had married Malcolm. Sebastian had been far too preoccupied with his job, his father and taking his turn as a custodial parent to pay attention to the kind of man she was dating. He wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to spot trouble even if he had paid attention. Malcolm was a cop, and cops were supposed to be safe. “As I said, it was a blessing in the end. I think he wanted to go.”
“Your mother hasn’t remarried?”
He pictured his trim, attractive mother. She looked twenty years younger than her age, but she didn’t seem interested in the men who asked her out. “No.”
Jane crossed her legs. “What does she think about you chasing after Malcolm?”
“I think she’d prefer it if I gave up and came home.”
“But you can’t.”
After what he’d learned about Jane, he was sure she understood why. “No.”
“So you have to hire strangers to cook for you and then you eat a meal for ten all at once.”
He refilled her wineglass. “When you leave, the food goes with you, right?”
“I’d let you keep it, but it doesn’t look as if there’s a fridge in this room.”
“There’s not.” He poured himself more wine. “You see my dilemma.”
Apparently pleased that he liked the food, she smiled as she sipped from her glass. It was a pretty smile, one that contrasted with the caution in her eyes.
He didn’t know exactly what had changed, but her coming to his room had somehow altered the chemistry between them. He’d realized she was attractive when they’d first met. He couldn’t miss that. But the two of them sitting here alone made him far too aware of her on a physical level, far too aware of the possibilities.
As if to avoid the awkwardness that sprang up with any silence, she turned to his computer. “Looks like Malcolm’s getting impatient.”
“What’s he saying?”
“‘Hey, where are you?’” she read.
“Tell him you had to get the kids to bed.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He couldn’t imagine why she’d think so. “No.”
“That’ll only remind him that Mary’s an exhausted mother. What’s sexy about that?”
“It might not be sexy, but it’s believable. It’s something the real Mary might say.”
“He won’t care if what we say is believable. People who have online relationships are usually trying to fulfill a fantasy.”
Again, the bed seemed to take up all the space behind them. “Are you talking from experience?”
“No. I can’t afford to have fantasies.”
“Everyone has fantasies, Jane.”
“Okay, then I could never afford to fulfill mine, especially with someone I couldn’t see. There are a lot of perverts on the Internet. There’s no way I’d expose my daughter to another man who could be like her father.”
This brought up a subject Sebastian had been curious about. “Did your husband ever hurt Kate?”
“That depends on what you mean by hurt,” she said. “He didn’t physically molest her, but he killed her uncle and hurt those she loved most. Living with that knowledge isn’t easy. And there’s always the genetic factor, you know? The question you’d ask yourself late at night—am I even remotely like him? Kate sees this scar on my neck every day, and she knows who put it there.”
He pulled the cushioned chair from the corner and placed it beside her so he could see the screen. “Is she in counseling?”
“She was. We both were for a while.”
“Did it make a difference for you?”
“It did. But doing what I do at The Last Stand has made a bigger difference.”
“Fighting back.”
She nodded. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you getting any counseling?”
“No.”
“You should. It might help.”
“Seeing Malcolm go to prison for the rest of his life will help more.” He motioned toward the computer monitor. “So Mary can’t talk about her kids. What do you suggest she say?”
She typed: Thinking about you. Then she raised her eyebrows, asking his permission to send it.
“Go ahead.” He’d tried a similar approach last night and it hadn’t gotten him anywhere, but it was a start.
