Seeing Love: Saints Protection & Investigations

by Maryann Jordan

*

  The ladies sat in the sun room, enjoying the beautiful December day. The blue, cloudless sky heated the room to a perfect temperature. Miriam and Faith shared a cushioned glider while Bethany and Sabrina sat opposite them in comfortable lounge chairs.

  The quiet was not forced, but allowed each woman to retreat to their own thoughts. Finally, Faith spoke, “I suppose you all think my story was crazy, don’t you?”

  The three shook their heads, but it was Miriam who spoke first. “When I was kidnapped in Mexico, each night I would dream of a rescuer. His face was dark and I was unable to see any detail, but he was large. I would sometimes awaken, looking around as though my avenging angel would actually be there. Of course, he never was. Until one day, Cam showed up in the camp and whispered the name of my brother. That one word let me know he was there to rescue me. And while I cannot say I ever saw his face in my dreams, if I could have drawn my dream rescuer…it would have been Cam.”

  “That must have been horrifying!” Faith exclaimed, shocked at Miriam’s story.

  Miriam reached over and took Faith’s hand in her own, giving it a squeeze. “When I got home, my mama told me that she had prayed for my rescue every day and every night. And she once had a dream that a large, dark man swooped in to save me. She had no idea what the dream meant until she met Cam and said her prayers had been answered.” Holding Faith’s gaze, she continued, “There are things we cannot explain or understand. That does not make them less real. I believe you are a true seer.”

  Faith smiled, the emotion of acceptance overwhelming. “Thank you,” she choked out. As she gazed at the smiling faces of the three women, she realized how long it had been since she had someone to talk with. Sucking in a deep breath, she smiled. Perhaps, I have just found some friends.

  “So…” Sabrina said, with a wink, “Tell me about being in love with my cousin!”

  Furiously blushing, Faith stammered, “Oh, I…um…we’re not…I mean…”

  Sabrina laughed, saying, “Oh, I hope you don’t break his heart because I definitely think he’s met his match in you! He’s been playing the field too long and I, for one, want to see him knocked on his ass by love!”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but Bart is not falling for me,” Faith said, trying not to show her disappointment. “I don’t even know why he would be interested. From what I can tell, he’s had pretty much any woman he’s ever wanted. And honestly, that bothers me.”

  Miriam patted her arm and said, “I know exactly what you mean. Cam and I met under extreme circumstances and fell in love. It was much later when I heard about his reputation. I don’t want to imagine how many women he had been with…before he was even eighteen years old!”

  “How do you deal with that?” Faith asked. “All I can think of when I see him is that I’m not like the typical booty call he has.”

  “That’s true,” Bethany agreed. “You’ve got brains!”

  At that, the women fell into giggles once more. Bethany, once sobered, explained, “I don’t know about you, but I wasn’t a virgin when I met Jack. Granted, he’s had more partners than I have, but we agreed early on that our relationship began the moment we committed to each other. I don’t ask about the decisions he made before me and he doesn’t ask either.”

  Sabrina nodded, “Totally agree.” Looking at Faith, she added, “Bart always acted like the easy-going, laid back guy, just out for a good time. But I always knew deep down he wanted what grandma and granddad had—a real, true love. And when he fell, he’d fall for life.”

  The easy conversation drifted to different topics, but Faith’s mind stayed firmly on Bart. Is he ready, like his cousin thinks, to find something more than a one-night stand? And with me? The corners of her lips turned up in a small smile at the thought of sharing another kiss with him. And possibly more.

  Chapter 17

  Bart was uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to his house. Faith stole glances over to him, but his stone face gave her no clues as to what he was thinking.

  She and the other women had made their way back into the living room about the same time the Saints came up from their conference rooms. The conversation was polite, but stilted, once the men arrived, so she had been relieved when Bart said they needed to get home. Quick goodbyes were given and they were soon in his truck.

  Arriving at his house, Bart escorted Faith back inside, making sure to lock and set the alarm. She rushed to the laundry room, opening the door to find Smee curled up on a towel on top of the washing machine. “Oh my, you look just like you’re at home,” she cooed.

  Apollo bounded into the room, causing Smee to arch his back and hiss before jumping to the top of the cabinets over the dryer. Looking up, she sighed.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll make friends soon enough,” Bart said, standing right behind her.

  She jumped at his voice, her hand flying to her throat. “You scared me. Wow, for someone so big, you certainly can be sneaky.”

  He chuckled and led her back to the living room. “I ordered Chinese. Is that okay? I kind of figured neither of us felt like cooking tonight.”

  She eyed him carefully. “Are you all right? You were so quiet on the ride here.”

  He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in to kiss the top of her head. “I’m sorry, princess.” She startled, leaning back to look at him, her expression unreadable. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She looked away, her eyes blinking rapidly. He lifted her chin with his fingers, peering deeply into her eyes.

  “It’s…the name you called me,” she admitted, battling tears.

  “Princess? I promise I’ve never called another woman that in my life,” he vowed, assuming that was the reason for her discomfort.

  “No, it’s not that.” She searched his face before admitting, “But that’s nice to know. Something that’s just mine.”

  “So what is it?”

  “Printcessa. It was Babushka’s nickname for me. She called me the Russian name for princess.”

  Sighing, he maneuvered her toward the living room sofa and settled them. “I won’t call you that if it upsets yo—”

  “No, no,” she assured. Blinking away the tears, she smiled over at him. “I like it. It…feels right.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, holding her face in his hands. “We need to talk. I’ve got your safety on my mind.”

  “Hmm, that sounds ominous.”

  “I want to fill you in on what the Saints talked about. Do you understand you’re our new mission? Now, we hope to hell that finding who has been watching and threatening you will lead us to Erik, but you are my number one priority.”

  She nodded slowly, biting the corner of her lip in thought. He brushed her hair back away from her face and noticed the dark circles underneath her eyes.

  “It’s been a rough week. You’re tired and stressed but, I promise you can rest here. You’re completely safe.” He watched as she lifted her eyes to his as her mouth curved into a sweet smile. “Come on, I’ll show you where the bathroom is and you can take a hot bath.”

  Her eyes widened at the suggestion. “A bath? I only have a shower in my apartment so a bath would be amazing. Thank you so much!”

  They stood together as he once more realized how hard life had been for her. “It’s little enough, princess,” he said, leading her up the stairs, with her suitcase in tow, to the guest bathroom down the hall. Making sure she had her toiletries and the fluffiest towel he could find, he moved back downstairs, leaving her to luxuriate. Once he was out of earshot, he made a quick call.

  Faith ran the large, garden tub as full as she dared with warm water. She snooped just to see if he had any women’s bath oil or shampoo in his cabinets and was pleased to find he did not. The generic body wash he had offered smelled wonderful and she gratefully sank into the depths, leaning her head back and, for the first time in several days, cleared her mind.

  Downstairs, Bart picked up her laptop case and art pad from where she had plac
ed them near the front door and set them on the coffee table. Throwing himself down on the sofa, he flipped on the TV. Finding a British comedy, he settled in trying to keep his mind off of the beautiful, naked woman in his guest bathroom.

  Apollo bounded into the room, eagerly jumping on his master’s legs. Leaning down to ruffle the dog’s thick coat, he said, “What do you think, boy? Can you put up with the cat so that the beauty can stay here…as long as she wants?”

  Apollo, enjoying the rub, moved away to grab his rubber ball in his mouth, bringing it back to Bart. Tossing the ball gently down the hall, Apollo ran to retrieve it before rushing back into the living room. His bushy tail swept the coffee table, sending the art pad flying into the floor.

  At a quick command, Apollo sat obediently as Bart picked up the pad, his eyes immediately moving to the opened picture. He was amazed at the meticulous drawing. This is so much more than what the typical police artist draws! Knowing he should ask before looking, he continued to turn the pages, each picture exquisite in its detail with a documenting note and date at the bottom. Some were of individual people, others of scenes from a park or playground. She had even drawn the two feuding neighbors; the angle appeared to be from her window overlooking the alley. She has talent! Their faces were true to life as though he were looking at a photograph instead of a drawing.

  He came to the image of Miguel, seeing the cruel visage staring back at him. It was not just a portrait of a staid figure, but rather he could feel the danger rising from the man on the page. The next one was Gavrill. This time, his picture was accompanied by details of the men who sat next to him and, then, those around the room. Bart stared, mesmerized at the precision with which she captured the cold-blooded men.

  Next came pictures from the Maldoni home. How different these pictures looked—more like a family gathering instead of an interview with a crime lord. She had even captured the children playing. Bart’s gaze landed on Luciano’s youngest son sitting to the side. Faith had meticulously drawn the evasive expression on the man’s face.

  Flipping the pages once more, he startled at the sight of Sergio’s deep-set, dark eyes glaring forward. Bart had to admit that rage, anger, and cruel violence poured forth from the page.

  His mind raced with the possible implications, trying to discern if there was anything to gain from her insight. Leaning back, he tried to combine her intuition with his own observations. It seemed as though the two of them gathered the same conclusions about the players, but no obvious evidence was forthcoming.

  Running his hand over his face, Bart continued his perusal of her pad, no longer feeling guilty about his curiosity. His heart skipped a beat as he turned to a drawing of himself. It was easy to see he was angry in the image, his facial angles were hard and lips tight in a grimace. Jesus, is that how I looked to her? His mind rolled back to the first days they were together and he remembered how much of an ass he had been. Running his hand through his hair, he heaved a sigh. No wonder she drew me like this—I was such a prick to her!

  Flipping the page, he saw another drawing of himself, this one much easier on the eyes. She had drawn him smiling, with a flirty wink. While happier with this image, he could not help but remember her accusation of him being a notorious flirt. Staring at the picture, he wondered if this was the practiced expression he had perfected over the years, used liberally on women everywhere. Great—she sees me as an angry dick or a flirt.

  One more flip of the page and, this time, he was surprised when another drawing of himself stared back. This time, his face was relaxed, eyes twinkled, and his hair was tousled. Smiling, he felt the air rush out in relief, knowing he was now showing his real side to her—and she understood. His heart much lighter, he wondered if she had any more drawings of him.

  Continuing to flip through the pages, he stilled as his eyes landed on the drawing of a boy’s face. Erik Krustas. Looking at the date at the bottom of the page, Bart noted it was drawn the night of Erik’s kidnapping. How did she know? Flipping the pages, he found two more detailed drawings of the same boy, each one with seemingly more detail. In the last one, he was sitting cross-legged on a bed, the comforter scrunched around his body as a light came from the side, illuminating the book he was reading. Anger slowly crept in with the realization she had been having visions and not sharing them with him.

  *

  When her body had finally pruned, Faith stepped out of the bathtub and toweled herself off with the fluffy towel Bart left for her. Her towels at home resembled the course ones found in bargain hotels, but this one was soft and large enough to wrap around her body twice. Stepping to the mirror, she wiped the steam from the glass and saw the escaped, wet tendrils of dark hair framing her pink cheeks.

  Friends…he said we were friends. She smoothed her hair back from her face. What does he see when he looks at me? He seems to be attracted, but…

  Her thoughts trailed to the handsome man waiting for her downstairs. Quickly moisturizing and then dressing in her pajamas, she was glad to have brought a robe. Slipping her feet into her warm, fuzzy socks, she headed down the stairs.

  Rounding the bottom, she said, “I can’t thank you enough for the bath! It was amazi—”

  She halted seeing his angry face before glancing down at what he was holding in his hand. My art pad! The thoughts of the pictures she had drawn of him rushed through her mind, embarrassment flooding her face.

  “You want to tell me what the hell these are?” Bart bellowed.

  “You shouldn’t snoop at things that don’t belong to you,” she retorted, reaching forward to snatch the pad from his hands.

  He held it away, his expression still hard. “You didn’t tell me you’ve been drawing these,” he accused.

  “You may not be part of the case, but I told you that I draw whatever comes into my mind. We’ve spent a lot of time together in the past couple of days, so naturally I’ve drawn you,” she said, her voice rising in frustration.

  He blinked, rearing back, a look of surprise crossing his face. “I’m not talking about the pictures of me,” he said. “I’m talking about these!” With that, he turned the art pad around, showing the latest drawing of a boy, sitting on a bed.

  She looked at the image and then back to Bart’s face, her expression questioning. “What on earth are you yelling about? Those are images I’ve had in my head but have no idea if they have any bearing on Erik.”

  “You could have told me! You could have shown these to me!” he retorted.

  “Why? So you would berate me again for my images, which you don’t believe in anyway? Why the hell would I want to put myself through that again?”

  Tossing the pad on the dining room table, he dragged his hand through his hair in frustration. “You don’t have to throw that in my face. I know I was a prick at the beginning, but I thought we were over that! We’re supposed to work together and I had no idea that you were drawing pictures of Erik.”

  “I don’t even know if it is Erik! I can’t see anything clearly,” she huffed.

  Standing almost toe to toe, he continued to rant. “I would have taken them to Krustas to see if there was anything to gain.”

  “I gave copies to the FBI,” she said, righteous indignation coursing through her blood. Along with the desire to kick him in the shins.

  Bart reared back at her proclamation. “Who’d you give them to?”

  “Mitch,” she replied. “I called him and gave them to him earlier. He said he’d take care of everything.”

  The jolt of jealousy Bart felt when he saw Faith with Mitch before now slammed into him. “Why would you give them to him instead of me?”

  Lifting her hands to her head, she rubbed her temples, the raging headache now returning after the calming bath had it abated. Sighing, she forced her words to soften. “Bart, you made it clear from the beginning you had no belief in my ability to see anything.” Seeing him about to retort once more, she raised her hand in defiance. “No, listen to me. I get it, Bart. I really do.
I’ve had to face people’s disbelief and scorn my whole life. But Ivan asked me to see if there was anything I could do to help and it’s been a huge disappointment to me that I haven’t. I have had some images of a boy, in a room, but I have no idea if it’s Erik. I don’t feel fear with these pictures. These images don’t scare me and, quite frankly, with the men we have been interviewing lately, I’m surprised.”

  Her shoulders lifted and fell with another deep breath. “I kept them from you at first because you didn’t believe and I wasn’t about to give you another reason to discredit me. I continued to keep them from you because they don’t tell us anything. A boy sitting on a bed reading a book is hardly newsworthy. I have no details of the room or the boy, so they don’t offer any clues.” She stepped forward, leaning her head back and added, “Bart, I know you apologized for your harshness when we first met and I forgave you. But that doesn’t mean that you believe me now. I just thought Mitch might be more open to seeing if they had any value in the case.”

  The air in the room became less chilly as Bart stepped back and hung his head for a moment. He felt her small hand on his arm and peered into her face, seeing nothing but honesty.

  “I gave them to Mitch on the very off-chance that perhaps Ivan might identify the boy as Erik, but I hated to do even that. After all, how cruel is it to taunt him with the idea Erik could be alive when we don’t know if he is.”

  Her gentle voice of reason broke through Bart’s irritation and, once more, he was embarrassed at his inability to say the right thing to her. She’s trying to do the right thing, he conceded. Placing his hand over hers, still resting on his arm, he said, “You’re right, Faith. I’m sorry.”

  Her delectable mouth curved in a small smile as she threw her hand over her heart. “Why, as I live and breathe, Mr. Taggart. You can be a gentleman!”

  Rolling his eyes at her gentle sarcasm, he glanced over at the Chinese takeout boxes on the counter. “I’m also sorry because I’m afraid our dinner is cold now.” He felt bad, knowing she must be tired and hungry and he had just made her stress worse. As she moved away from him, he immediately missed her hand in his.