by Brenda Novak
He debated his response—and settled on the first lie he’d ever told her. Well, besides the one about his feelings for Sheridan. “She’s in another room,” he said. “You’ll have to try her cell.”
Fortunately, Skye didn’t question it. “Will do. ’Night.”
With a sigh, he punched the End button, tossed the phone aside and headed for the bathroom. He told himself to ignore Zoe, to stay focused on his destination. But he didn’t. He looked up as he passed her, and their eyes locked in the mirror.
“Why’d you just say I have my own room?” she asked.
Lying about being together made it far less innocuous than it’d seemed in the lobby. He understood that. But did she really want others to know?
He leaned one shoulder against the wall and let his eyes range over her. She lowered her lashes so he couldn’t read her reaction, but her lips parted and the rise and fall of her chest quickened. She was feeling the same excitement that sizzled through his veins.
To prove it, he stepped up behind her, rested one hand on the curve of her waist and lightly brushed his mouth against the side of her neck.
She didn’t turn and fall into his arms, but neither did she stop him.
“Feel that?” he murmured when she shivered.
Swallowing, she watched him with more desire than trust, but she nodded.
“That’s why,” he said. Then he forced himself to go into the bathroom and close the door.
* * *
“What will we do?” Tiffany asked. She’d been agitated all evening, ever since they’d heard that Rover had been flapping his big mouth. But now that the eleven o’clock news was over and they’d seen the whole segment, complete with shots of a now-comatose Rover in the hospital, surrounded by his concerned family, she was almost frantic. “Colin, I don’t want to go to prison like my brother!”
“You’re not going to prison, so shut up,” he said. “Rover’s in a freaking coma!”
“He could wake up.”
“He’s not going to wake up. You heard what the doctor said. He has brain damage, maybe a twenty percent chance of survival.” Stretching out his legs, Colin propped them on the coffee table. He had work to do, research for a litigation case he hadn’t been able to finish at the office, but he didn’t feel like tackling it.
“What if he tells the police what kind of car we drive? His school’s right down the street from your father’s place.”
“Get me a beer,” he said.
She didn’t move, but when he narrowed his eyes, she got up and hurried to the kitchen. He heard her open the fridge, then a cupboard. Seconds later, she was back with a cold one, which he accepted, but only after knocking her hand away when she tried to run her fingers through his hair. “Leave me alone.”
“I’m your wife,” she said. “You don’t want me to touch you?”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“So you are worried.”
Not really. If Rover did wake up, he probably wouldn’t be able to give a decent description or even remember his own name. Colin was more angry than frightened. He’d wanted to see Zoe tonight. He’d had it all planned out, everything he was going to tell her. He’d imagined them sharing another secret cigarette, a sympathetic hug, an innocent kiss, a less-than-innocent grope—
“Colin? We’re not going to do anything about it?”
“What can we do? This isn’t some TV show where we can sneak into his hospital room and smother him. Besides, there’s no need. He won’t come out of it. I hit him with a bat. His brain is mush.”
“You have to at least consider the possibility.”
“Why? What good will that do? Live for today, right? It’s all part of the risk, the price we pay for fun.”
“But I don’t want to go to prison,” she repeated.
Tiffany was getting on his nerves. He wasn’t interested in Rover anymore. Rover was old news. He had Samantha now. And that brought Zoe to her knees—metaphorically speaking, of course, but he longed for the day when that might actually happen.
“Colin?”
“What?” he snapped.
“Don’t you care if we get caught?”
“Will you drop it already? We won’t get caught, not that easily.”
“He knows our names. Our first names, anyway. Maybe we made him call us Master and Mistress, but I’m sure he overheard us talking to each other once in a while.”
“He was stoned most of the time we were with him. He can try to describe us, but you’ve seen as many cop shows as I have. They can’t find jackshit unless there’s an accident or coincidence that makes some piece of evidence too obvious to miss. They work their shift and go home. They don’t really care about the Rovers of the world. They only care about their next paycheck.”
“Not all cops are like that.”
“I’m telling you, they’re idiots. How often have we heard the narrator on A&E say that if it wasn’t for some piece of information—which happened to get overlooked but was in the file the whole damn time—such and such a killer would’ve gotten away?” He sucked the foam off his beer. “It’s a miracle they catch anybody, Tiff. Even if they know you’re guilty, they have to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, and there’s no proof to back up Rover’s story.” He scowled. “We wouldn’t have hurt him if he hadn’t refused to take off his pants. You know what happens to me when I get angry. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”
She sank down on the couch beside him. “He spent a lot of time with us. Who knows how much we revealed? We weren’t expecting him to get away.”
“But even if he says something to make the police focus on us, they’ll have to prove we’re guilty.”
“They could come here and search—and then they’d find Sam. I say we get rid of her.”
“We will. But there’s no hurry.”
“How will you know when we should do it?”
“Because I’ll be paying attention.”
She nibbled on her swollen lip. “I wonder if he can give them the make and model of our car.”
“Quit worrying.”
“Maybe we should trade it in.”
“And replace it how?” Their budget was too tight. He made a decent salary, but not nearly as much as the senior partners. And Tiffany earned a mere pittance. “Maybe if you had an education and were worth more than ten dollars an hour, that’d be an option, but you’re practically worthless.” He grabbed her chin so he could examine her injury. “Speaking of money, you’re going to work tomorrow.”
“But my lip hasn’t quite healed.”
“I don’t care. It doesn’t look so bad now, and you’re out of sick days.”
She didn’t say anything. He knew she hated changing bedpans, but why should he be the only one to slave away day after day?
“Are your friends coming over on Friday?” she asked.
“Of course.” The question annoyed him at first, but it also reminded him that there were better ways to spend an evening than sulking on the couch.
“Take this off,” he said, tugging on her blouse.
Obediently, she lifted it over her head, revealing one of the lacy bras he’d picked out at the mall the last time they went. He always bought her bras one size too small so they forced her breasts up and over the top.
“Nice.” He ran a finger along the swell of her cleavage, over the tattoos of his name. Maybe tonight didn’t have to be miserable after all. He could tie Tiffany to the bed—facedown—and pretend she was Zoe.
CHAPTER 15
Zoe was still shaking when she got into bed. What had just happened? One minute she’d been thinking about Franky Bates, which never failed to leave a heavy, unyielding lump in her stomach; the next, Franky couldn’t have been further from her mind. When Jonathan touched her so tenderly, she’d been consumed by a passion unlike anything she’d ever experienced before.
Was it simply the famous lure of “forbidden fruit”? What would she have done if he’d continued? If that hand that’d rested
so lightly on her hip had slipped up to curve around her breast?
Stifling a groan, she pulled the covers over her head. She would’ve shoved him away, of course. And if there was any chance she wouldn’t have done that, she didn’t want to know about it. She felt bad enough that she’d enjoyed the sample.
Stop it. Her reaction didn’t really mean anything. It was minor amidst a plethora of more critical concerns, like getting Sam home safely. Zoe wasn’t herself, would never be herself again, until her daughter was safe.
“Forget it,” she whispered, but try as she might, she couldn’t forget. She kept imagining the smooth muscle she’d felt when she touched his arm earlier, the warmth of his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at the nape of her neck, the tingling sensation that’d ripped through her when his lips moved across her skin—
Throwing back the covers, she sat up and grabbed her cell. She had to call Anton. She’d checked in with him periodically throughout the day, knew he would’ve called her if anything had changed, but she needed to talk to him again, if only to remind herself of their relationship. Since Sam’s disappearance, she didn’t feel connected to anyone. But that was no excuse. She had to say no to more regret, no to another breakup, no to another move.
Stability. That was the goal. What her father had never been able to provide. Anton was a decent man, a steady man. She’d made the decision when she moved in with him that this was forever. She needed to remain committed.
The call-waiting feature on her cell phone beeped. She knew without glancing at caller ID that it was Skye. But she didn’t switch over. She could call her in the morning. Right now, she needed to talk to Anton.
When her fiancé finally answered, he sounded as tired as she felt. “Sorry, I was on the other line with Detective Thomas,” he said of his delay.
“Do you want to call me back?”
“No, it’s okay. He’s gone.”
Zoe leaned against the headboard. “What’d he have to say?”
“Not much.” He sighed loudly. “He’s as baffled as we are. There’ve been a few leads trickling in, but none of them have panned out.”
Far colder than she’d been a moment before, she burrowed beneath the blankets. “I can’t go on like this,” she said.
“Unfortunately, you don’t have any choice, Zoe. No one ever asks for this kind of trouble. Sometimes it just…happens.”
He sounded like her father, not her lover. Couldn’t he be more intimate in his support? Couldn’t he tell her he was there for her? That he’d always be there for her? That they’d get through this together?
Suddenly wishing she hadn’t called, she hurried to get off the phone. “II’m exhausted. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Where are you right now?”
“L.A.” She winced at the lie but definitely didn’t want to mention San Diego.
“I know that,” he said. “Where are you staying?”
Afraid he’d somehow sense the guilt that’d made her contact him, she curled into a ball. “In a hotel.”
Since he hadn’t wanted her to go to Southern California with Jonathan in the first place, she expected his next question to be about their sleeping arrangements. But it wasn’t. “How are you paying for the room?” he asked.
She nearly laughed aloud. She was worried that she might wind up sleeping with Skye’s private investigator. And he was worried about a hundred and twenty-nine bucks.
“The Last Stand is taking care of it,” she said. At least, she thought the charity was paying the bill—although the credit card Jonathan had used looked like his own.
“That’s a relief. The longer this goes on, the more expensive it’ll be.”
“Are you angry I chose colored flyers?”
“I can see why you did it, but it wasn’t the best use of our resources, especially since the police investigator told me we should offer a reward.”
Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of that?
Probably because she didn’t have any money.
“How much?” She wished for the millionth time that she had the sort of background he did, that she could be the one with reserves in the bank and the ability to help herself.
“Ten thousand.”
That was nothing compared to what she’d give for her daughter. But she didn’t have it. And she knew how much ten thousand dollars would be to a saver like Anton. “What do you think?” she asked.
“We might have to do it.”
She clutched the blankets even tighter. He was going to offer a reward, and she was going to let him—even though less than ten minutes earlier she’d been craving another man. What kind of woman did that make her?
“Thank you, Anton.” She swallowed around the lump in her throat. If his money brought Sam home, she’d be anything he wanted her to be, for as long as he asked. “I—I won’t let you down.”
“What?”
The shower went off, and her heart pounded. “Nothing.”
“Get some sleep. You’re mumbling.”
“Good night.”
“I love you,” he said.
“I—”
She started to repeat the sentiment. Then the bathroom door opened and Jonathan walked out wearing only a towel—and the words wouldn’t come.
“’Night,” she said again and hung up.
* * *
Zoe was positive she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She was beyond exhausted, but like last night, the constant worry and agitation wouldn’t allow her to shut down.
Although he hadn’t spoken since getting out of the shower, she could tell from his movements that Jonathan was awake, too. He was in the opposite bed, wearing his jeans because he probably hadn’t brought an alternative.
She felt slightly guilty if wearing pants to bed meant he’d be less comfortable, but she still preferred not to be alone. The muffled sounds of the hotel, the darkness, the strange furniture and shadows would’ve made it impossible to get through the next few hours alone—and nothing, not even getting her own room, would change the fact that Skye’s P.I. held some allure for her. There’d been a spark the very first time she met him, when he’d pulled her into his arms rather than keep a polite distance as most strangers would’ve done. She’d just been too frantic to see that. But she would’ve noticed tomorrow, or the next day, if not tonight.
After rearranging the blankets, she yanked down her pajama top, which had crept up above her waist, and rolled over to face the wall. Anton was posting a reward for Sam. She needed to concentrate on how kind and generous that was instead of dwelling on the instinctive way Jonathan acted to fulfill her needs. Anton was the one who’d promised to marry her and adopt Sam, to be the kind of father she’d never had, the kind of father she wanted for her daughter.
She adjusted her pillows. Sam…Would she ever see her child again? Could Franky Bates somehow have learned of her existence?
The man who’d raped her seemed capable of anything, but—
Jon’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Should I go to the drugstore?”
Her mind immediately conjured up a box of condoms. Oh, God…“What for?” she asked tentatively.
“A sedative.”
She released the breath she’d been holding. It was okay. She was okay. Except she was so cold. By most people’s standards it wasn’t even chilly in the room, yet she couldn’t get warm no matter what she did. “For me? No, I won’t take one.” She rolled over again. “I have to be alert in case I’m needed.”
“You’ve got to sleep, Zoe. For a while.”
She didn’t respond. But after tossing and turning for a few more minutes, she finally admitted the truth. “Jon?”
“What?”
“I can’t sleep. I can’t even get warm.”
She heard him get up and assumed he was on his way to the drugstore. But he didn’t leave. He peeled back the covers and climbed into bed with her. She was about to protest, to tell him in no uncertain terms that she wouldn’t let him touch her. Now that she
knew she had to be on her guard, she wouldn’t be disloyal to Anton.
But Jonathan didn’t attempt any sexual advances. He simply wrapped his strong arms around her and gathered her close.
Pretty soon, his slow, even breathing began to sound like a metronome in her ear. For the first time since quitting her job on Monday, she felt somewhat secure. She was anchored to one spot; she wasn’t going anywhere and neither was he. As a matter of fact, he’d already dozed off.
Timing her breathing with his, she eventually grew warm enough to sleep.
* * *
When the alarm went off the following morning, Tiffany woke with a raging headache and aching breasts. Colin had kept her up most of the night. He’d taken Viagra and wanted to make love again and again—only he hadn’t been able to finish. Whenever she thought he was getting close, she moaned and writhed, did everything she could to help him. But it hadn’t worked. At last, he’d dropped exhausted on the bed beside her, leaving her tied to the bedposts in case he woke up and wanted to go at it again. But after sleeping an hour, he had to get ready for work.
“Colin?”
His head popped up amid the mess they’d made of their blankets. “What?”
“It’s time for work.”
“Shit!” Shoving to his feet, he stumbled to the bathroom without even looking at her.
“Aren’t you going to untie me?”
He used the toilet, flushed. “Why should I? You were a waste of effort last night.”
She told herself to ignore him. He was in a bad mood. She’d known he would be.
But he wanted a response. He came back to loom over her, his eyes bloodshot and his mouth twisted in a spiteful grimace. “Did you hear me?”
“It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “I let you use whatever you wanted.” The clamps on her breasts were proof. They were still on—he’d left them on for ninety minutes, so long she was growing nauseous from the pain.
“Whatever I wanted,” he muttered as if it wasn’t true. “Tomorrow night is when I’m going to do whatever I want.” He finally removed the clamps. She hoped he’d kiss her breasts or caress them to ease the pain he’d caused. But he simply tossed the clamps onto the nightstand and untied her wrists. “I think you should get another boob job,” he said.
