by Peggy Jaeger
“You’ll have to excuse me for staring, Miss Brightwell. I’ve never met a walking miracle before.”
His gravely voice added to his charm.
“Hardly a miracle,” I said, smiling.
“We can differ on that. The last time I saw you, you were in an unresponsive state and hooked up to more tubes than I could count. And here you are today, standing in front of me, as if you’d never been that way.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say to that.
“Come in. Please.”
He dropped my hand and led me into his apartment.
“I took a chance that you’d be in,” I said as I glanced around the spot he called home. “I wasn’t able to find a phone number for you, so I’m sorry for the ambush.”
He shook his head and indicated a couch and chairs. “How, exactly, did you find me? When I retired from the force I got a new cell number. Not many people have it. I like it that way.”
“I called commissioner Carmichael.”
His brows rose almost to his hairline.
“He really didn’t have a chance to say no to me when I asked him for your contact info, since his wife is my godmother.”
He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “It’s always about who you know, isn’t it? Please, sit. Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
“No, I’m fine, but thank you.” I settled down in an extremely comfortable cushioned chair the color of palm fronds. “I know you’re wondering why I’ve shown up at your door, out of the blue, and again, forgive the ambush.”
“Well, to be truthful, I’m not as surprised as you might think.”
I shook my head. “Why not?”
“For some reason I always thought you’d find your way to me, some day, once I’d heard you woke up. I figured you’d have…questions.”
“A lot of them. And I think you’re the best person to answer them.”
From his position across from me on the couch, he regarded me with silence. Again, I couldn’t read a thing on his face about what he was thinking.
Finally, he nodded.
“Your case was one of my failures because I could never solve it. I couldn’t give you, or your parents, any kind of justice. I have to tell you when I found out you came out of the coma, I wanted to come see you. Talk to you. Find out if you remembered anything that happened the night of your party.”
“I didn’t. I still don’t. Everything about that day is blank.”
He nodded again. “All the doctors I spoke with agreed that would likely be the case. They said if you ever woke up you’d probably have severe memory deficits of the time leading up to your being drugged. If not more severe mental and cognitive issues.”
“You spoke to my doctors?”
He dragged a hand through the side of his thick hair, threading his fingers into it. “I spoke to everyone and anyone who could give me some insight into what was going on with you and what to expect. I was told more times than I can remember the chances of you waking up, of remembering anything, of being even remotely functional again, were almost nil. In all truth, I believed them, especially when you showed no signs of waking up, year after year.”
I shrugged. “For what it’s worth, my parents were told the same thing.”
“And yet, here you are. A walking, talking, functional and beautiful young woman. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is. You proved everyone wrong. In every way.”
I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees and folded my hands together. “Detective Ramon—”
“I’m retired, Miss Brightwell. It’s just plain Nick now.”
Nodding, I said, “And I go by A.J.”
His lips twitched and a bit of mischief floated into his eyes.
“No more Russet Rory?”
“I always hated that name. It made me sound like a potato.”
His laugh was quick and deep rooted, and his shoulders shook with natural glee. The corners of his eyes crinkled with mirth and I found myself returning his open grin.
Oh, Maeve. You gave this charming man up for me?
“Anyway. Nick. Tell me, why didn’t you come see me when you found out I was awake?”
“I had my reasons, the most important one being I didn’t want to put any undue strain on you. I figured you were still coming to grips with all that had happened and were getting acclimated to life again. I’d been told by experts when people wake from a prolonged comatose state, they need to relearn how to do everything again, just like when they were babies. I also didn’t want to cause you any distress if you were, you know, mentally struggling.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it and while it’s true that most people have severe deficits, I was lucky. My body was weak, yes, and I needed to retrain it to be strong again. It is now. But from the moment I woke up, my mind was clear.”
“Again,” he said. “Miracle.”
I wasn’t about to argue with him, mostly because I agreed.
“In the beginning I was so concentrated on getting well, I didn’t even want to know what put me in the coma. But after, when my life started normalizing, I wanted answers. No one would give them to me. My father had died, and my mother, well, she puts herself in a cone of silence whenever I ask her anything about that time. She doesn’t want to discuss it. I think it’s too painful for her to remember and she’d just like me to move on, be happy I’m alive and go live my life.”
“I can’t say I blame her. And I’m sorry about your dad. I read in the paper that he’d died. He was a good man. And he loved you. So much.”
“Thank you for that. I…miss him. And I can’t blame my mother either, for feeling as she does, but that doesn’t eliminate my wanting to know certain things.”
“Such as?”
“Why? Why did someone drug me? Did I do something to them? Harm them in some way I have no knowledge of? The not knowing is hard. Really hard, because I don’t think I ever went out of my way to hurt anyone before this happened.”
He nodded again.
“Was it planned? Was the outcome to incapacitate me, make me look rip-roaring wasted at my own bash? Or to embarrass me? The press was all over my party, like they were all over everything in my life back then. Was I drugged to be a scandalous headline? Or did whoever do this plan on killing me with that horrible drug cocktail? Did they want me dead? And if yes, again, why?”
“Valid questions and ones I asked over and over again in those months after you were admitted to the hospital.”
“What answers did you find?”
“None, just more questions. I interviewed everyone at your party, two, three times. All the servers, everyone connected to the club. The fancy party planner and everyone on his staff. I found nothing and no one who would say a bad word against you. You were universally liked. Hell, even the press covering you were distraught about what happened. Which, I have to tell you, made me even more suspicious of them.”
He shook his head and crossed one leg over the opposite knee.
“Aside from using you to their own ends in selling tabloids, I couldn’t find any one of them who had a grudge against you.”
“Are you able to tell me anything about your investigation? Who you talked to about that night? If anyone said anything”—I flapped my hand in the air—“suspicious, or that didn’t make sense?”
Maeve said he had a way about him that made you trust him, want to confide in and talk to him. Here was the proof. He listened, his head tilted to one side, his gaze zeroed in on me, without interrupting. I got the impression he was listening to me with everything he could muster.
“In all honesty, it’s been fifteen years and I had a lot of cases after yours. Yours took up a great deal of time and effort, but it went nowhere and after a year I had to put it on the backburner because other things come up that needed my full attention. I’d need to go over my notes, read through them again to familiarize myself before I discuss anything with you. Maybe—”
“What?
Maybe what?”
He dragged in a breath heavy with emotion. “Maybe you should do like your mother wants and just be happy you’re alive. Move on with your life. Live it and forget what happened. Put the past, as it is, to rest.”
“Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“Have you moved on? Forgotten about everything? Every…one?”
Maeve?
For a brief moment I was able to read his face perfectly and what I saw, mixed in with surprise, was a great deal of pain. In a heartbeat he regained his composure and went blank again.
But I’d seen that pain, and recognized it for what it was: regret. He knew exactly what I was asking.
My gaze ran around the room, noting the bookshelf filled with hardback editions, the flat screen taking up one wall, a small cabinet underneath it. The rest of the walls were bare, the furniture tops, as well. Not even a speckle of dust.
“Have you lived here long?”
If he was confused at the subject change he didn’t show it. “Most of my adult life. Almost thirty years.”
“You’ve never married, have you?”
“What makes you think that?”
I flicked a hand in the air. “Bare walls, empty tabletops. No wedding pictures or wedding band on your finger. No photos of kids. Grandkids. No indication that anyone else lives here but you. This place is tidy and neat. Lived in but not…lived in, if you know what I mean.”
His attention stayed on me, focused and intense.
“I’m not wrong, am I?”
He sat back and folded his hands across his midsection, hands resting over his abdomen.
“No. You’re not. I’ve never been married. Don’t have any kids. And I live here alone.”
It was my turn to nod.
“So, will you help me find some answers?” I asked.
“It’s been a long time, Aurora. There may not be any.”
“I understand. But I need to…try. I need to find some kind of closure for this, and even if nothing new comes to light, at least I know I tried.”
Another long silence drifted between us, then, finally, he nodded and rose from the chair.
I did the same.
“I have to search through some boxes,” he said as he walked me to the door. “Give me a day or two to find my notes and everything else I have pertinent to your case, okay?”
“Let me give you my number.”
He tugged a cell phone from his back pocket, tapped the keypad a few times and then handed me the phone.
When I was finished I gave it back to him.
“I appreciate this,” I said, turning back to him at the doorway.
Another nod while he held the door open for me. “I don’t know how much help it will be, but…” He shrugged.
We shook hands. Before he closed the door I turned one more time from the first staircase riser and said, “Maeve never married, either.”
His face gave away nothing.
“I look forward to hearing from you, Nick. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
Chapter Seven
“Sorry I’m late,” I said when I met Cade at The Smith on Friday evening. “Traffic was ridiculous. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“I offered to pick you up,” Cade said, rising from his seat. He took one of my hands in his and bussed my cheek. “But you insisted we meet here.”
“It just made sense from a travel standpoint.” The waiter held my chair for me to sit; a server immediately filled a water glass.
“I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of wine,” Cade took his own seat across from me. “I hope you don’t mind.”
I flittered my hand at him. “Not at all. A glass of wine sounds great about now.”
While the sommelier appeared instantly at his side, I took stock of Cade.
Or more accurately, Cade in a tuxedo.
A well fitted, expensive-as-sin, double breasted, midnight black tuxedo, complete with a bow tie I knew without a doubt wasn’t a clip on.
The man had been a walking advertisement for yummy in the suit he wore to the auction. But a tuxedo increased his hot and sexy quotient to a level I don’t think I’d ever graded a man on before.
He wore it as if he’d been born to it.
He wore it as if he’d been born in it.
The deep, inky color set-off the green in his eyes, deepening them to an unrefined, natural jade.
While he lifted his glass and sampled the wine, diamond cufflinks on his wrists winked in the dim, mood lighting around us.
This man oozed class and wealth from every pore.
He gave a quick nod of acceptance then waited while our glasses were seen to.
“Alone at last,” Cade said, the corners of his lips lifting. We clinked glasses, sipped.
“Oh that’s nice,” I said, the dry, slight citrus flavor dancing over my palette and making my taste buds hum. “Good choice.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He lowered his glass then leaned in closer across the small table and took my free hand. “You look lovely tonight.”
Something warm settled in me and I don’t think it was the wine. Flirty Rory showed herself as I cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Only tonight?”
His smile was quick and devastating. “More so tonight than usual.”
Our waiter returned and we ordered dinner, Cade letting the man know we didn’t want to linger because we were on a time crunch. The man replied he understood, since most of the diners present were also attending tonight’s performance.
“I read in the Times it’s a sell-out,” I said when we were alone again. “Your client was lucky to get tickets.”
“They’re season passes. He and his wife are big supporters of the arts.”
“And they didn’t want to go tonight?”
“They’re traveling in Italy right now. He didn’t want the tickets to go to waste, so…”
The table was small and our knees knocked several times, each little touch sending a charge of electricity through me.
“I haven’t been to the ballet in, oh, gosh. Years,” I said. “I think the last performance I saw was Swan Lake when I was in high school. We had season tickets for years.”
“Why did you stop attending?”
The truth had everything to do with my being in a coma, but I couldn’t say that. Not yet. And I don’t know why I couldn’t.
“Life gets busy,” I said instead, “and some things just go to the sidelines.”
He nodded and took a sip of wine. “Well, tonight will be my first time.”
“Not a fan of interpretive dance, are you?”
How was it possible to make a careless shrug seem so…elegant?
“I’ve just never had the opportunity before. I’ve always been more a hard rock and action flick-watching guy.”
That little insight was telling. And made my mouth water as I pictured him as the lead guitarist in a heavy rock band, complete with long hair, no shirt and tight leather pants that accentuated the long, hard length…
I blinked a few times as heat blew up my neck to my cheeks. The wine was rushing to my empty stomach. There was no other way to explain those lascivious thoughts.
Keep telling yourself that, Rory, old girl.
“Are you okay?” Cade reached out and took my hand again, gave it a squeeze, as concern flitted across his brow.
“Yes. Sorry.” I gave my head a little shake. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I should slow down and wait for our food before I drink any more. I don’t want to fall asleep before the first act ends.”
My explanation appeared to satisfy him.
“So,” I said after taking a sip of water. “Hard rock, eh?”
Over dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed, we talked about the types of music we liked and disliked, and the books that had stayed with us long after we’d finished them. I was impressed on several levels, not the least of which I noticed, as I had during our lunch, that he never once took out his cell phone to check h
is messages or on business.
His attention was focused entirely on me.
Talk about an ego boost.
The man was so easy to be with, before I knew it dinner was ending and we needed to make our way across the street for the performance.
The walk to Lincoln Center was a brisk one. Traffic, as usual, was heavy and we had to dodge and weave a few times even though we had the traffic light. Cade slipped his hand into mine to keep me close and I have to admit, thousands of little pleasure tingles shot through me.
“Whew,” I said once we were though the doors of the Koch Theater. “That was my exercise for the rest of the day.”
“We would have been late if we’d opted to drive over. My driver has the car parked two blocks over and just to get it to Broadway would have taken twenty minutes. Come on.”
With my hand in his again, we made our way through the throng.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I think I’ll wait until intermission,” I said. I was still slightly buzzed from the wine at dinner. One of the side effects of waking from a decade in a coma was my alcohol tolerance had dropped dramatically from what it had been when I was twenty. Back then I needed to drink an entire bottle of champagne before I felt its effects. Not so anymore.
We followed the line into the theater where we were ushered to our seats.
Once settled, Cade turned to me and asked, “Are you comfortable? Is your view okay?”
I slid my hand back into his and squeezed it.
“Relax,” I whispered as the lights began to flicker. “I’m fine.”
I was all set to take my hand back, but he held on to it, silently asking me to keep it where it was.
So I did. All through the prologue and the first act.
Even though the seats were a comfortable width and we weren’t packed into the theater like sardines in a tin can, I was acutely aware of how close our bodies were. Our shoulders touched, our thighs grazed and the natural heat from his body, combined with his delectable scent, all served to heighten my senses during the first part of the performance.
Cade had wrapped his free hand around mine, which he then held, resting against his thigh. It would take a minute amount of movement on my part to slide my fingers up a bit to press against his crotch. That I wanted to live dangerously and take the chance of doing so said a lot about how much I was drawn to this man.
