by Jaycee Clark
Even now, if he hadn’t spoken so clearly, there was no way Brayden would have known who it was.
“That’s downright creepy,” he told Ian.
A gravelly chuckle answered him. “I told you I was meeting you sometime today.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of the hotel, the Rialto, Piazza San Marco.”
It was incredible. Brayden reached out and touched a weathered hand.
“How . . . why . . . what did . . .”
“Still so articulate, too.” Ian shook his head. “Don’t. It’s not important, but it is necessary. That’s all you need to know.”
Brayden sighed and sat back, still looking at this brother of his he could have passed ten times on the street and not even known it. Passed? Hell, he could have shaken his disguised old hand and not known he was touching related flesh.
“If you keep staring someone could notice.” Though the smile softened the features, the words were hardly misted with amusement.
“Sorry,” Brayden muttered and looked back to the little door Christian had gone into.
“How is she doing?” Ian asked quietly.
“Better.” He clasped his hands between his knees, leaning forward. “Better.”
Ian also leaned forward so the pew in front of them shielded them somewhat.
“What have you found out?” Ian asked him.
“Not much more than what I’ve already emailed you.”
Ian gave some incoherent guttural reply. “Nothing else?”
“I think something . . .” He looked back to the confessional and lowered his voice. “She’s been looking up stuff on the computer for the last week. Usually when I’m in the shower or after I’ve gone to bed.”
“Very inconspicuous, isn’t she?”
“Anyway, I wanted to know what was so important,” he admitted.
“For shame, brother dear,” Ian retorted.
“There’s a bunch of Justice Department websites. One in Louisiana and the other in Oregon.”
“Oregon?” Ian asked, his eyes lost behind makeup and fake lenses.
Even after he’d taken the hat off and gray hair stood up on an age-spotted bald head, Brayden still couldn’t discern the color of Ian’s eyes. Realizing he was staring, he glanced away.
“Yeah, Oregon.” He raked a hand over his hair. “It was a statute of limitations website.”
“What all was on it?”
“Sexual assault and murder. For the most part.”
Ian scratched his deceptively wrinkled throat and wiped the makeup from his nails off with his thumb. “That was the Oregon site?” Ian whispered.
“Yes.”
“What about Louisiana?”
“I have no idea, that one is all over the place.”
“What else has she been browsing?”
Brayden rolled his neck and bit down, the constant taste of anger filling his mouth. “Rape and sexual assault websites. Women help groups.”
Ian grunted. “I hope they help.”
They both looked to the confessional.
“Hire her a personal trainer to teach her some self-defense moves,” Ian advised.
Brayden immediately thought it was the best idea he’d heard in a while and could all but hear the silence that would greet him if he told her.
Chapter 12
Ian watched his brother, the black of Brayden’s hair glinting in the dim lights of the chapel.
“How are you?” he ventured.
Brayden smiled, rather self-deprecatingly, and only raised a brow. “Great, just great. You?”
Ian stared into those dark blue eyes. He asked again, “How are you?”
Brayden looked away, stared at the large crucifix above the altar. Ian thought he might have cursed, but wasn’t sure.
Himself? Well, God would be sending him to Purgatory for more than just a slip of the tongue on holy ground.
“I can’t get it out of my mind, Ian.”
Ian sighed and thought about his words. “No one’s asked you to.”
“When I close my eyes . . . I can’t help but think . . . I just wish I could do something, anything! I feel useless and not worth a damn.” Brayden’s chest rose and fell and Ian caught the telltale glistening in the corner of his brother’s eye even though Brayden still stared straight ahead.
Ian didn’t say anything, just sat still and quiet. Brayden had always been one to hide his feelings. In that they were very much alike.
Brayden’s voice pulled him back from his comparison of genetics. “I didn’t protect her. First Tori, and now Christian.” Finally, Brayden turned to look at him and Ian’s breath caught at the raw emotion on his brother’s face. “What kind of father am I that I let my daughter get hurt? What kind of husband am I that I let Christian . . .” He stopped and quickly looked away.
Ian hid his smile. Husband, was it? “Is there an elopement I don’t know about?”
Silence greeted him and he saw Brayden’s hand swipe viciously under his chin before Brayden turned back to him.
“I was stupid enough to let her walk away from me before. She offered everything and I was . . .” Brayden sighed. “Never again. I won’t ever make the same mistake again. Christian is mine. I don’t care what this bas—monster thinks of her.”
Ian did smile at his brother’s thought to their location.
“Christian is mine.”
Ian wasn’t about to let on what he already knew. Well, not for certain. He suspected his brother didn’t know Miss Bills as well as Brayden thought, not facts. Most of the information Ian was finding out through Aiden, that the family knew, was useless or false.
He’d run checks on missing persons files and had a few still left to sort through. There were several possibilities. No, Ian knew Brayden only needed to know facts that were solid, not what-ifs. And with his brother’s current frame of mind, it was probably safer. Christian didn’t need her husband/fiancé/whatever locked in jail for going after someone that might have had something to do with it.
Ian shifted, the padding under the gabardine pants scratching his waist. Disguises often were very uncomfortable.
“If I find out who . . .” He let the sentence hang.
When he finally locked eyes with his brother, Brayden said, “I want him.”
Ian wondered if Brayden knew exactly what he wanted or if it was just emotions talking. He would take nothing away from his brother, not if he was certain.
Time would tell.
“Well, that can be arranged,” Ian said, and noticed not so much as a flicker in Brayden’s eyes.
After a moment, Ian asked his brother other questions, moving to other topics.
Ian glanced at his watch and noticed he’d been here for almost an hour. If Christian took that long asking for forgiveness he’d be in one of those little boxes for several years. On that thought, the deep red velvet confessional curtain ripped back and Christian tore down the side aisle.
As she passed them, Ian saw the tears trailing down her face, her complexion pale in the dim church.
The priest came right behind her but she was already hurrying away. The black-robed man, older than Ian’s disguise was to seem, shook his head and genuflected, but Ian saw the tears in the old man’s eyes.
Muttering, the priest said, “L’oh, Dio. Che un bambino dovrebbe soffrire cosi . . .” Then he started in on a prayer to some saint.
L’oh, Dio. Oh, God, that child should suffer so . . .
• • •
Christian ran blindly out the doors and tripped going down the steps. She sat, not caring who saw her, the ancient stones cold through her pants. Sickness rolled through her, the truth, black and greasy. She leaned over and retched up the coffee she’d drunk that morning.
She’d thought she could do it, just tell it and get it over with. But she couldn’t. She’d gotten through most of it, all the hard, degrading details—the murder, the molestation, the beatings and rapes, the choking silence—all of it. All of it. But fo
r some reason when she started in on how Susan’s father had helped her escape, she’d just choked up. Just started crying and couldn’t seem to stop.
The confessional had been warm and stuffy and she needed air, needed to breathe.
The priest . . .
He’d never given her absolution, but then maybe she didn’t deserve it.
“Here.” Brayden stood on the step above her.
Christian wiped her mouth and looked up through the cold, foggy morning to him as he squatted, holding out a handkerchief that he’d wet from his bottled water.
She took them, wiped her face and rinsed the bitter taste of sickness from her mouth.
When she handed the bottle back to him, her hand trembled. His covered hers on the bottle and he helped her stand up and face him.
She stared at the wide expanse of his chest, covered in a cream pullover.
It would be so nice just to lean, just to be held, to know someone was there for her, no matter what. She took one deep trembling breath, then another, and wrapped her arms around his waist.
“Hold me, please, Brayden. Just hold me,” she whispered.
His arms came up around her, tight and strong—protective.
“Always.”
Here she was safe, here nothing could harm her. Here, Richard couldn’t touch her.
Brayden’s cologne, sandalwood and spice, held her as surely as his arms did. His lips pressed against the top of her head and his arms tightened even more.
“It’s okay, Christian. Whatever it is, you’re okay.” The words were warm against her head.
She finally leaned back and brushed absently at the makeup stain now marring his shirt. A sigh huffed out before she looked up at him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
The corners of his eyes narrowed. “For?”
She shrugged. “Everything.”
It was hard to tell if the sound he made was a growl or a grunt. “Why is it you can piss me off as easily as flipping a switch?” he softly asked.
“I’m—”
He put his finger to her mouth. “Don’t apologize again.”
Christian studied him, really, really studied him. For the first time, she noticed he looked tired, worried, confused. And just shimmering beneath those was anger. How it must be for him, not to be able to do anything.
Her boots creaked as she leaned up on her toes and cupped his cheek. “I—Thank you. Thank you for being here, for always being here.”
He tucked his chin down and pulled back a bit.
“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” she said, watching his brows rise. Her teeth clicked as she ran them together. “I love you. If nothing else, please know I love you.”
The muscles in his jaw moved and bunched even as his chest rose on his inhalation. His arms tightened and pulled her to him again. “God, I’ve been so . . . I didn’t think . . . I’d wondered if I’d ever hear you say that to me again.” His chest fell as his breath huffed warm against her hair.
“I love you, too.” He pulled back, cupped her face in both his hands and bent his knees so that they were looking at each other at eye level. “I love you, don’t forget that. I’m here. Right here.”
She was being so unfair to him by not telling him what she knew. She looked away. “I know you’re disappointed in me,” she whispered.
“Why do you think that?”
“I don’t think it, I know it. You want me to be honest with you, and . . . I want to tell you,” she said. Then she shook her head. “No, that’s not right, I don’t want to tell anybody. I don’t want anyone to know.” Her words caught on the knot in her throat as more tears spilled down her cheeks.
His thumbs brushed them away. “Want and need are often two different things.”
He was right.
“I know. I will, I’ll tell you.” She would. One day. “Just not now, not today.”
“You will?” His ebony brows arched.
Could she? Look what happened with the priest, who was an unseen stranger.
“You will?” he asked again.
She nodded.
The corner of his mouth pulled, but not really into a grin. “That’s all I ask. I’ll try not to push you. I know I’m impatient, and with something like this . . .” He trailed off. “When you’re ready, baby. When you’re ready.”
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.
As he pulled back, she grabbed his face and held it still. Looking into his eyes, she leaned forward and chastely placed a kiss on his cheek.
This time, he did grin.
Her spirits lifted at the sight of it.
“Can we go to the spa?” she asked him, clearly catching him by surprise.
“The spa?” he asked.
“Yes, the spa.” She hated this hair color. It wasn’t a bad color, but it was a mark Richard had put on her and she wanted it off.
“The spa?” He sighed. Shaking his head, he held the expression every male must when a woman says any of those mysterious words like salon, spa, manicure, or makeup. Why it was such an anomaly to them, she would never know.
His head shook again, catching the light in the dark strands. “I can hardly wait.”
“I just . . .” Christian took a deep breath. Her eyes locked with his. “I want my hair back.” Her voice caught. “I want his mark off me.”
Whatever humor had been on his face was immediately slain by rage, but even then as his hand came up and ran through her discolored strands, it was a gentle touch.
“I think that’s a great idea,” he told her.
She caught the look he threw over his shoulder to an elderly gentleman at the top of the steps.
Hand in hand, they walked down to the dock and waited for the vaporatto. She looked back to tell Brayden something and noticed the same old man stood a bit behind them.
“What?” Brayden asked her, blocking her view of the man in the weathered fedora.
“Nothing.” She looked back at the water gently lapping at the edge of the dock. Brayden stood directly behind her.
“You know, I think you should go straight red, more red than Mom’s,” Brayden said, his voice low and deep.
She tilted her head back and around to look up at him. “Why is that?”
His grin flashed at her, charming as always, yet she saw it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I always wanted to date a redhead.”
“Again, why?” This time she turned fully to face him.
His tongue poked in his cheek before he said, “Well, you know what they say about redheads.”
Was he flirting? “No, I seem to have forgotten, what exactly do they say?”
“They’re great in bed.”
Great in bed.
“Your memory must have slipped,” she told him, turning back around, crossing her arms over her chest.
He leaned over, his breath warm on her ear. “What makes you say that?”
She turned and their noses almost touched. “I don’t recall you complaining before.”
His eyes darkened as they ran over her face and dropped to her lips. “Why do you think I said you should dye it straight red?”
She couldn’t help it, she laughed, and realized it felt good. No, it felt wonderful.
“God, I’ve missed that sound,” he told her, grabbing her chin between his thumb and forefinger. This time he lowered his head to hers, his lips lingering softly, undemanding. Christian started to stiffen, but closed her eyes, Brayden’s scent surrounding her.
Straight red?
She grinned against his mouth as something in her slowly loosened and unfurled.
• • •
Richard shook his head at the moving technician. “No, no. Not there, the desk needs to be in front of the wide windows.”
What were these people thinking? Idiots every last one of them.
“Darling?” his wife’s voice rose from out in the foyer.
“Yes?”
“I think they might have lost our living
room furniture.”
Richard closed his eyes and counted to ten, thinking of being anywhere else than here. “If they did, they can buy us more!”
The movers set his desk down with a hard thud. Sunlight slanted through the windows behind them.
“Is that centered?” he asked them. “Fix it. It needs to go down about a foot.”
He turned around and unpacked the box in his hands, setting the framed pictures in the chair. He paused at the picture of Josephine. If the imbeciles could ever get his desk in the right place, he’d set the photo on its corner.
His gut tightened as it always did when he looked at it. Anger raced through his blood. Four damn weeks. She’d been gone for almost four weeks.
The corner of the frame bit into his palm until he felt the skin break.
Where the hell was she? He could find nothing out. Not a damn thing, and he’d tried. The Kinncaids were loyal to a fault. And he knew they knew where she was.
That shop owner was gone too and had been the entire time Christian was absent.
Richard was not a stupid man. No. He knew Mr. Brayden Kinncaid was with her. With his Josephine somewhere.
He wondered how he could bring them out, bring them back. Or maybe he should wait for them to come home and then strike.
That would work.
Carefully, he took a deep breath through his nose.
“Is this the exact spot ya wanit in?” asked one of the movers.
Richard shot a glare in the man’s direction. How dare he interrupt. With an absent wave toward the door, he barked, “It’s fine. Leave.”
When the door closed behind them, he carried the photos to the desk and set them up.
An inch from the corner of his blotter and a finger length from the family picture.
There. He smiled at the smoky eyes staring back at him.
She would come home. She had to, and when she did, she would be his.
His angel, his Josephine would never, never, be anyone else’s.
Chapter 13
Christian looked at Brayden as they walked back into the palazzo.
The symphony he’d taken her to was spectacular, and the dinner wonderful. She might have consumed a bit too much champagne, but that was okay, too. She hadn’t been on any medication for several days now.
