by Jaycee Clark
Ri . . .? What was that?
. . . always have. I always will . . .
. . . just like before . . .
His pulse leapt.
“What were you going to say?” he asked her softly, even as she settled against his shoulder.
She shook her head. “Nothing, nothing. He’s just always right there. Right there,” she mumbled.
Brayden digested that and didn’t believe it. Right—long i sound. She’d started to say something else. Something with a short i. A name maybe?
Tightening his hold on her, he said, “Don’t keep anything from me, Christian. Not even sleeping on the floor. I’m right here. You don’t have to do this alone.”
For a long time she was silent, so still and quiet he thought she was asleep.
“Sometimes I have to,” she whispered.
“No, you choose to. There’s a difference.”
He felt her swallow, heard her ragged breathing and felt a tear drop as it fell on his hand.
“The—last . . . He was angry. So angry. Banging on the door. Grabbed my throat and ripped the stupid locket off. Hate the locket. Hate it. Know what he said?” she asked shakily.
Grinding his teeth at the pictures her jumbled words evoked, he answered softly, “No.”
“He—he said—he said.” She was crying. More tears fell on his hand holding hers.
“Shh,” he told her.
Her head shook on his shoulder. “Can’t tell anyone. No one. Not a word or the Kinncaids will die.”
What? He tried to push back, but she latched on to him like a lifeline. Her fingers clawed at his hand and chest as she burrowed against him. “First—first would be you and T-Tori.” Tremors shook her.
Smart bastard. Very smart.
Pulling back, he turned so that he could cup her face.
“Look at me.”
When her eyes rose to his, he said, “This I’ll defend. Do you think I wouldn’t defend you and Tori? I’ll admit I’ve done a shitty job so far, but never again, Christian. Do you hear me? Never again. You’re mine. Not his. I protect what’s mine. You’re a Kinncaid.”
She nodded, then leaned her head against his chest. “I know, that’s why I can’t tell.”
Brayden held her, thinking about what she might know and simply be too scared to say. Too scared? No, the bastard had her so utterly terrified she even covered up slips of the tongue in a drugged state. That might explain it.
But explanation or no, no one used his family in any way.
“Relax,” he whispered. “I’ll hold you. You won’t have any more nightmares tonight.”
He’d make certain of it.
• • •
He paced as the rage roared through him. Where the hell was she? They—those Kinncaids—had his angel somewhere.
The question was location. He had to find her. After all this time, he could not bear to lose her again. Not again. Never, never again.
Josephine was his.
On a muttered curse, he stalked to the desk and sat down. His leather chair sighed as he leaned back, tapping a letter opener on the edge of his desk.
Where? Where? Where?
He threw the letter opener across the room. It embedded into the wall, the hilt vibrating.
He took a deep breath through his nose, ran his hands through his hair. He had to think, calm down and think. Anger and rage only clouded reasoning. Grabbing up the remote to the stereo, he clicked it on. Mozart’s requiem drifted softly from the speakers. The somber mood fit his present frame of mind.
God, Josephine was still so incredible, so beautiful, so . . . so . . . succulent. Her body, her pliant luscious body.
Closing his eyes, he smiled and let the music fill him, allowed the memories of her beneath him to heat through his blood.
Her soft skin like ivory velvet teased his senses, the taste of her haunted along his tongue.
He opened his eyes and sat up. Lovingly, he picked up the photos atop his desk.
They didn’t show her at her best, but were arousing all the same.
Richard ran his fingers over the glossy surface, remembering how her naked skin had caught and held the dim lights, how it was warm through his gloves. As if caressing her, he rubbed his thumb over her stomach.
One day he wouldn’t have to tie her down. He’d broken her before and he would again.
First, he had to remove her safety net, her comfort zone. For a moment, he played with the idea of taking out the Kinncaids. All of them. It wouldn’t be impossible—difficult, but not impossible. But the media fallout . . .
The politician in him shuddered.
No, something else. Something more subtle.
Sighing, he flipped through the harsh pictures. He needed the perfect one. The perfect one. There. That one. A smile tilted the edge of his mouth up. This would make a lovely Christmas gift. The question was, to whom did he send it?
The knight, or the damsel?
He heard the click of heels down the hallway. Quickly, he stacked the photos and put them in his briefcase. The lid snapped shut just as his wife opened the door. As always, and befitting her station, she was perfectly groomed in her tailored suit, pearls and coifed hair.
“Richard, Senator Lend’s wife just phoned me. Have we found a place to live yet?” She crossed the Persian rugs, her heels muffled in the plushness. “I really think it would be unseemly for us to stay in a hotel come January. Don’t you? And what about Christmas and New Year’s? Mrs. Lend invited us to their party, you know.”
Like a light, she shone the way. Poor misguided woman. He gave her a benign smile and pecked her cheek with an air kiss.
“Yes, dear. I’ve been looking into some places. You know I like my privacy. I don’t want right in the middle of town. There are several places I’m checking on. Maybe we’ll fly out next week and look at them. How is that?”
With enough money, he could find what he wanted.
So subtle no one would realize it, no one but her.
With a silent chuckle, he already calculated how much this investment would cost him.
It didn’t matter. In the end, he always obtained what he wanted.
• • •
The Venetians called it La Serenissima—the most serene—and Christian supposed they did so wisely.
The city echoed with sounds, not normal metropolitan sounds, but simple noises. Voices carried on the briny wind mixing with the lap of water against centuries-old buildings. There were no blaring horns or the rumble of engines. The city seemed stolen from a time almost forgotten.
The morning was chilly and she sat wrapped in a sweater, out on one of the balconies. Christian studied the scene in silence, almost calm in the early morning light. Gondolas slid seamlessly through the waters, sleek as black snakes.
It would be nice to ride in one. She loved gondola rides.
For the last few days Brayden had been badgering her to get out of the palazzo and see the city with him. She knew she ought to, knew the fear was unreasonable. But it was easier to hide inside.
She heard the scrape of his shoes on the stones as he crossed to the little table, speaking in rapid Italian to the maid. He was probably ordering breakfast. Italian was one of those languages she just couldn’t seem to grasp for some reason. The cup of coffee warmed her palms. She looked away from the scene below to Brayden.
His studying gaze was not new to her; behind his shades, she couldn’t see it, but she could feel it.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning.”
Moments stretched to minutes and the silence remained. She didn’t know what to say to him. How to talk to him. Unlike the days before, Brayden seemed quiet today, as though his mood followed hers. It made her twitchy, and she was already off enough between her emotions, lack of sleep, the nightmares, the pain meds and stress in general.
Finally, she asked, “What?”
The wind off the canal was cold and she pulled her sweater tighter against her.
“Hmm?” he asked, his gaze studying the scene below.
“You seem quiet this morning,” she ventured.
He shrugged and leaned back. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
She watched as he ran his tongue around his teeth. Without looking at her, he only said, “It’ll keep.”
All she could do was stare at him. It’ll keep? What did that mean?
“Fine,” she said, standing.
“In a minute.” He patted the seat beside him. “Sit back down, I want to ask you something.”
“What?” Dread tightened the muscles in her neck and nerves twisted her stomach, but she sat. The seconds stretched.
Brayden cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to bring it up because of how upset you got with Morris, but I have to ask . . .” He raked a hand through his hair, then turned to face her fully. “Why didn’t you tell me about the photos? The calls? The gifts?”
His voice had never been a humorous one, and had been known to cut a person with a scathing word, herself included. But now, now his voice was different. She caught the underlying edge of angered steel, laced with disappointment, and the hurt rang clear through her.
What did she tell him?
“I always thought we could talk to each other about anything. We always did before. Did I hurt you so badly you couldn’t even talk to me about this? I knew I was stupid that morning in the hotel, knew it as soon as the door slammed, but I don’t . . . I can’t . . . Ah, hell,” he finished on a frustrated sigh. “But I can’t understand why you never said anything.”
Brayden stood and stepped to the railing, gripping it as if it supported him. “Maybe I should coddle you. Not that I’ve ever been the coddling type of guy. Don’t even know if I know how, and I’m afraid if I do, I could lose you, that you’ll just fade into—into this quiet unseen person.” He continued. “I know if I push too hard, you’ll just shut down on me. Or, God forbid, something breaks in you that I can’t fix,” he whispered, “and I’ll lose you either way.” He turned to her. “I don’t want to lose you.”
That’s what he thought? She sighed, and knew she couldn’t argue with him. She didn’t know anything herself, how could she tell him what to do, or not do.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked.
“You need to get out of the palazzo.”
“I am out of the palazzo. I’m on the balcony,” she told him.
Brayden walked to her and squatted beside her. “Outside these walls. I want to show you Venice. I know you love it.”
And she did.
“Today is market day,” he tried. “Fresh fruits and vegetables. The Basilica. The Bridge of Sighs.”
She smiled, and it felt good. “Maybe. You know, you’re not doing a bad job.”
“At what?”
“Coddling.”
“Am I? I wonder.”
He sat back down beside her, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck. “Even now,” he continued, “you’re tense at the thought of talking to me. I wish you weren’t.”
“Brayden.” She tried to pull away from his hold, but he only moved closer. For a moment her heart skipped, but this was Brayden. Only Brayden. She sighed.
“Don’t shut me out. I’m sorry, Christian. I am every kind of fool and stupid coward you called me that morning and I don’t plan on being one again. I want to know, to understand why you kept this from me.”
Brayden was a man who analyzed everything and was, she knew, blaming himself.
She licked her lips and looked down, his hand gently massaging the cords of her nape.
“I don’t know. I do, but I don’t. At first I just ignored it all, or tried to. Then I thought, well, I wanted to move out and get my own life and here was something and my first thought was to run back home and tell you. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I should have, but things were messed up between us. Not just because of you, but me as well, and I couldn’t . . . I didn’t . . . I know that makes no sense,” she admitted. God, she wished she could tell someone. Quiet stretched between them as if he waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. What could she say?
Brayden cleared his throat. “There was a picture in several of the packets, an older picture of you with longer and lighter color hair.”
Oh, God. She’d forgotten about that one, her high school picture. Her hands shook in her lap and she fisted them.
“We never pushed you on where you came from or what you ran away from,” he said quietly. “Or maybe who?”
Too close, he was getting too close. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t talk about this, not here, not now.
“Things he said on the phone, things you’ve said, make me wonder . . .” He trailed off.
Wonder he would. Brayden gave tenacious a new meaning, and observant was an understatement when describing him.
What had she said? When would she have said it? That first night? She couldn’t remember too much of it; there were glazed pieces but nothing solid to hold on to other than feelings. On the plane? Some other time?
“Did you—did you come into my room last night?” She couldn’t remember that either, or she could, but it was mixed up and fogged.
His huff of breath brushed warm against her face. “Yes. You had a nightmare, don’t you remember?”
“The Percocet, it makes things fuzzy. I can’t remember what’s real and what’s not.” Nightmares meshed last night. She remembered her father with a gunshot wound smiling at her, Danny yelling at her, Susan crying, and Richard. Always Richard. She rubbed her arms, goose bumps prickling the skin.
“What do you mean?” he asked her.
“My dreams run into reality. I kept thinking I was awake and something would happen to make me realize that I wasn’t. I couldn’t get away and then I saw your face but it kept shifting into Rich—” She ground to a halt, closing her eyes. Stupid. So damn stupid. She could only shake her head.
“Rich? Now I wonder, is that a name?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft.
Think, think. “Uh-uh. No. No. I just thought how crazy it would sound if I finished, so I didn’t.”
“Please do.”
She wasn’t fooled by the quiet, calm words or even the gentle touch on her neck. He’d paused for just a second.
Looking out over the water, she said, “I told you I see strange things. Your face kept shifting from you to this rich blue fabric that changed into . . .” Into what? Hell.
“Into?”
“Oh, forget it,” she said quickly and stood. “Just forget it. I sound certifiable enough as it is. I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. It didn’t hurt, but she could tell he wasn’t about to let go.
“We are going to talk about this. Not right now. I’ll count my ground gained, but I’m telling you, I will get to the bottom of this.”
Her hand trembled in his. That’s what she was afraid of.
Chapter 11
They sat in a little room with a fireplace, overlooking the lighted canal below. She could see the Grand Canal and the lighted St. Mark’s speared up in the night.
Fire crackled in the hearth. It was a cozy dinner setting, but as tense as the day between them had been. Every day between them was tense. The atmosphere was still heavy with unanswered questions.
I could kill you now and no one would know who or even why . . . Richard’s voice echoed through her thoughts.
She shoved her plate away, intending to leave, but Brayden’s voice stopped her.
“I don’t understand you,” he whispered.
Perched on the edge of her chair, she waited.
“Can’t you see I only want to help?”
Yes, she could see that.
“Why won’t you let me?” He slammed his fist down, rattling the dishes on the table.
As if her bones were too weary, she sighed and leaned back in her chair. “You can’t take on all my battles for me, Brayden.”
His eyes
rounded. “All? Hell, woman, you won’t even let me take on one!”
Not this one, no. But she didn’t say that. Didn’t even shake her head.
“What is it? What is it about all of this that keeps you so locked into yourself that you won’t let anyone too close?” he asked, leaning forward.
“It’s not just the attack,” he remarked, jabbing a finger at the tabletop. “You were quiet before then. Thought, for some absurd reason, you had to keep quiet about the photos and the gifts and the calls. The more I think of it, the more I go over everything in my mind, the madder I get.”
“At me?” she asked. He’d get mad at her sooner or later.
“At me, at you, at this nameless, faceless monster who has you believing you’re protecting Tori and me. Hell, you think you’re protecting the whole damn family with your silence!”
She stood abruptly, turning to the door. But he’d stood too, and now blocked her path.
His hands settled on her shoulders, squeezing once, twice before settling. Gently, he said, “You’re helping no one but him, Christian. No one but him by keeping quiet.” Cobalt eyes bore into her, his expression fierce. “Don’t you see that?”
She opened her mouth. How did he know that? Did she tell him? What else did he know that he wasn’t mentioning? Oh, God.
His eyes pierced through to her soul. Such beautiful eyes . . .
“Talk to me,” he coaxed softly.
All she saw were his eyes. It would be so easy to lean . . .
“Baby, talk to me,” his whispered.
“He—he—” Flashes of memories pierced her.
“Seems your little knight—what was his name, Danny—had a slight accident, Josephine.” Richard tsked. “I told you what would happen if you told anyone what was between us. No one will believe you anyway. What did you do to him? Sell your body for his support?”
He’d leaned forward and grabbed her chin. “I don’t like to repeat myself . . .”
. . . Local Policeman and Family Dead in Gas Explosion—Susan . . .
Brayden watched the emotions play across her face. He could almost see the walls weakening, watched as she opened her mouth and shut it, then opened it again as if searching for words. But then something shifted in her eyes, and he saw terror and fear in their depths before she slammed her defenses back up.
