Mercy

by Jean Brashear

Lucas longed to shield her, to guard her, to chase away what he feared was not dream but memory, but he was afraid that any move he made could be the one that brought it all back.

  “The name made me not scared.” Her clear blue gaze lifted to his. “Michael—that was the name.”

  His middle name. Lucas Michael Walker. Once, Juliette had told him in front of Paris and Tansy that it stood for a warrior angel, an archangel wielding a sword. Paris had teased him, calling him St. Michael for days, but Tansy had told him it suited him. From that day, she’d dubbed him Michael.

  Was she remembering? A cold black hole opened inside him. There was not one word he could think to speak, not one breath that would emerge. Suspended over a crevasse, he could only wait, frozen. Dear God, don’t let her remember.

  She spoke again as though nothing had happened. “I woke up and I crawled in the corner. I said that name to myself, over and over. Then Paris told me to go to the window, to look out at the park. I was scared and I wished to keep hiding, but Paris wouldn’t let me. He said he’d leave me forever if I didn’t get up.” Slender fingers twisted and turned. Wove. Gripped. Unfurled, then clasped again.

  “I didn’t want to, but I can’t lose Paris. If I lose him, I’ll die. We can’t live alone, either of us. We were born together and that’s how we’ll die.”

  Oh, Christ. If her memory returned…what would happen?

  Then Tansy smiled, and it was the sun breaking out after endless days of gray, after a long dark night you think you won’t survive.

  “And there you were,” she said. “My prince, ready to save me.” She took one step toward him, and he couldn’t move. One more brought her to him, and she slid her arms around his waist and snuggled against him.

  “I’m going to call you Michael. I feel safe as long as you’re here.” She sighed and settled her head against his chest in complete trust. “Please promise me you won’t leave.”

  What a sick irony that she would use his own name, the one only she had preferred. How long a step from that before other memories stirred?

  He was no savior. Instead, he feared to his marrow that he would be her doom.

  No one knew what he did but Tansy and Carlton Sanford, and any information she possessed was locked deep inside. She was vulnerable; she could not guard herself from the dangers of the past unless she remembered—but that very recollection could kill her.

  If I lose him, I’ll die.

  If Lucas left, she was vulnerable. If he stayed, she might recall everything. And if she did, he feared for her life.

  Lucas needed an ally, someone who cared deeply about Tansy’s welfare—

  But the only two he’d had were dead almost twenty years. Everyone left who cared about her would prefer to see him dead.

  He had to have time to think. “Tansy, you have to go back now.”

  Innocent, trusting eyes opened wide. “Why?”

  “Because—” I’m dangerous. Instead, he settled for something she was more likely to accept. “Because it’s late, and I have to work tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” Her long lashes fluttered. “I’m sorry. I should have thought—will you be all right?”

  He grasped her delicate hands and brought them to his lips, searching for suitable words. He was never all right—except when he was with her.

  But he was also her biggest threat.

  Lucas settled her hands at her sides and framed her face with his fingers. With all the gentleness he could muster, he leaned down and placed a soft butterfly kiss at the corner of her left eye.

  And tried not to wish for more.

  “I’ll be fine, sweet Tansy. Don’t worry about me. Just go upstairs and sleep in peace.” With effort, he backed away.

  Pale fingers rose to touch the spot where his lips had pressed, her eyes huge and dark and innocent. “Will you return? Please promise me you will. I need you.”

  “You shouldn’t.” He shook his head sadly.

  The stubborn tilt of her chin was a sight he’d almost forgotten. Then she smiled. “You’ll come back, Michael. You will.”

  With a wave, she departed, leaving him alone to hear, over and over, the haunting sound of her voice saying his name.

  All the while unaware of who he really was.

  Fuchsia fog swirled through inky darkness, tracers of laser green slicing staccato bursts. The floor shot deep thumping vibrations up through Mona’s chest. She glanced around and wondered what she was doing in this club where she was at least ten years older than anyone she could see.

  Rebellion. It had a funny metallic taste on her tongue. She took a long sip of her drink to rinse it away.

  Frozen in place, she watched the dancers writhe and felt invisible and oddly…safe. She began to relax as the seductive warmth of the alcohol smoothed jangled nerves. No one here would care about her, no one expected anything of her, and there was freedom in that.

  She should go home, return to the life she knew. She had work to do, must be her sharpest, her most aggressive to keep climbing to the top.

  But right now she wanted to be just where she was. Relishing the delicious escape from all that bound her.

  “Hey, baby.” A baritone voice slid over her shoulder and down her throat. “You sure you in the right place?”

  Mona tightened for a second, glancing down at her trim suit. Touched the one pearl stud in her ear. “No.” She tried for cool dignity. “I’m not.”

  “You lookin’ for someone?” He moved in front of her, just her height, a leather vest with a deep scoop baring a chest ornamented with a jewel-toned dragon, one nipple forming the eye and the other circled by the tip of the dragon’s tail. He invaded her space. “You want some help, baby?”

  Mona fought twin urges. To step back. To dance near the flames. Reason won. “No, thank you. I was just leaving.”

  “Such a lady.” He tilted his head, long dark hair brushing his shoulders, and studied her with chocolate-brown eyes. A wide, mobile mouth almost too pretty to belong to a man split in a grin. “Scared, are you?”

  “No, of course not. I simply—” The sly grin made her furious. Kat would be laughing at her if she were watching.

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded slowly. “You plenty scared. But I could take care of you, show you the ropes.”

  “How old are you?” she snapped. God. Kat would die.

  He cocked one dark eyebrow. Lifted a finger and traced the line of her sleeve. “Old enough.”

  She felt it through the fabric but resisted the urge to shrug it off. She didn’t sense danger from him; his eyes weren’t wild with drugs, his stance didn’t menace.

  What would Kat do?

  Mona smiled faintly. For all she knew, this was Kat’s boy toy who was hung like—

  He laughed, and she realized that her glance had dropped. “Yeah, baby. Old enough for that, for sure. You want some? That why you here?”

  She sniffed. “I’m married. I don’t need that.”

  “Oh, I think maybe you do, but we don’t have to worry about that yet.” He grabbed her hand. “Come on.”

  She resisted. “Come where? I told you I’m leaving—”

  “You too chicken for one dance? Maybe you ain’t sure what you after, but least I can do is send you home with something you didn’t have before.” His grin was engaging. “Hey, baby. It’s just a dance.”

  “I—” She should probably pull away, but Kat’s face rose before her, shaking her head in pity. And what did she have to go home to, anyway?

  What the hell. “All right. One dance. But no funny stuff.” God. She might as well move to Westchester, talking that way. When had she gotten old and fuddy-duddy?

  He laughed, something sparkling in his dark eyes. “I won’t if you won’t.”

  She laughed, too, and gulped the rest of her drink, then set it on an empty table as he slipped through the jam of bodies, drawing her with him. They were quickly swallowed up in a crowd, and she completely lost sight of the way out. She wasn’t sure she knew how to dance
anymore, it had been so long. But if there was a style she should copy, she didn’t see it. The music, so strange at first, slid under her defenses. The bass vibrated through the floor, and the air around her sizzled.

  Time slowed. Thought stopped. Heat pressed in, scented with sweat and the perfume of hundreds of bodies. Mona peeled off her jacket. Lacking another choice, she tied it around her waist, the midnight-blue camisole beneath soon sticking to her.

  Her skin bloomed with a sheen of moisture, and Mona removed the pins from her hair, letting it fall heavily to her shoulders. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the ceiling, hair swaying across her back with the rhythm of her movements. She glided into a groove, melting into the music, emptying her mind of everything but this moment.

  His hands clasped her hips, and Mona started to open her eyes but decided against it. Soon, his thighs brushed hers, weaving in and out between them. He leaned nearer, and she felt the warmth of his chest against her nipples through the thin silk.

  His breath ruffled the hair against her neck as he spoke. “You are choice, baby. Don’t never think you too old. You are hot, honey girl. Hot and sweet.” His lips grazed her throat, and Mona wanted to drown in the sensation.

  Then he leaned into her, full-length, and she felt how hard he was. His tongue slicked down and fastened on her breast through the silk, and Mona’s knees went weak.

  And Fitz’s face blossomed in her mind, his mouth on her breast, his sandy hair beneath her fingers—

  Mona jerked away. Crossed her hands over her chest, her breathing ragged. “I’m sorry. I can’t—” Dizzy, she stumbled as she whirled to flee, but he grabbed her arm and turned her back.

  She raked her nails across his face and snarled. “Get your hands off me.”

  He recoiled from the blow, lifting his hand to touch his cheek, seeing blood on his fingers. “You bitch. Run to your white-bread house and white-bread life where you belong.” He took one menacing step forward.

  Mona ran. Shoving through the crowd, shouts following her;, fumbling with the knot at her hips, desperate to cover herself. She couldn’t find the door. Panic sent her tumbling to the floor. With a ragged sob, she pushed to her feet and glanced back, watching for him to come after her.

  But he didn’t. She wasn’t that important. Just another white bread woman, seeking a thrill.

  Mona scrubbed at the wet spot over her nipple, trying to erase the feel of his mouth. Even as she shoved her arms through the sleeves of her jacket, she kept scrubbing, but finally she settled for covering it up. She wanted a shower badly, but what if Fitz was home? She couldn’t show up looking this way.

  She needed some means to gather up the scattered strands of what used to be her perfect life with Fitz, so right not that long ago. The first step was to put her appearance back together before she went home. But where could she go?

  Tansy would invite her in, would never ask a question. But Daddy would be there, too, and that would never do.

  Kat had a black belt in rebellion. Mona could barely stand the thought of explaining anything to her, but Kat was her sister, after all. Mona had gotten Kat out of more scrapes than she could count. Humiliating or not, it was Kat’s turn now.

  She retrieved her cellphone and punched in Kat’s number. No answer but voicemail. All the better. Mona had a key to Kat’s apartment; she would shower and do her repairs and never have to explain a word.

  Kat slid into wakefulness by inches, her body soft with inner sunshine, freed from the restlessness that normally plagued her. She touched the spot beside her and found it cool. Sprawled on her side, she felt the kiss of frigid air and reached for her duvet…instead she found a very old quilt, silken with age.

  The unfamiliarity of the bed registered. Memories flooded her brain. She shifted to her back, pulling the quilt beneath her chin as she peered through the pool of golden light to make out a shape in the darkness.

  He slept on the floor beside the mattress, naked, one edge of the quilt thrown haphazardly over his torso. Around him like abandoned petals were pages from his sketchpad, each covered with bold strokes she couldn’t make out from here.

  Curious, Kat rose carefully and gave him wide berth. But she knew before she snatched the closest sketch.

  She lay on the page, exposed in sensual bliss, every line of her body shouting that she’d been well and truly fucked. She clasped the sketch and crept across the floor to find more.

  Gamble muttered in his sleep, and she stilled, her heart beating against her chest like a trapped bird.

  Freezing on the cold floor, still Kat explored, crawling like a crab to pick up first one, then another, feeling more naked by the second. She’d never been a prude, was proud of her body. But this—

  They were scattered pieces of her soul. Kat ranged over the scarred floor, gathering the sketches. Fear tottered in shaky steps up her spine. No one had ever exposed her this way. Only Gamble Smith.

  She couldn’t bear it.

  Hardly breathing, she dressed quickly, then tiptoed away, rolling the sketches in a cylinder with as much stealth as she could manage.

  But one of them crackled, and Gamble stirred. Opened his eyes as she neared the door.

  He cast his gaze around, searching for the pages. “What are you doing?” he thundered.

  She jutted her chin, fear a snake writhing in her belly. “Taking what’s mine.”

  “Those are mine. Give them back.”

  “No. Gamble, this isn’t right. You’ve—you can’t have this part of me.”

  “Why are you so afraid? It’s the best work I’ve ever done.” He muted his voice, getting to his feet. “I’ll make you famous. You’ll be bigger than Wyeth’s Christina.” At ease with being naked, he moved across the floor, his the stride of a powerful lord, secure in the allure of what he offered.

  “I don’t want to be famous. And I want that painting, or I’ll ruin you.” Kat struggled into her other shoe.

  He snorted. “Don’t play power games you can’t win.” Then his voice went molasses-sweet and warm. “You’re scared, Kat, but there’s nothing to fear. You’re beautiful. Let me show the world just how much.”

  For a second, she relaxed under the caress of his tone.

  Then, lightning-fast, he grabbed for the sketches. Kat jerked open the door handle—

  And ran. Hearing him roar her name all the way down to the street.

  Mona turned off the blow dryer, thinking she heard a noise. The front door clicked shut. She gripped the edges of the sink and waited for the ax to fall, for Kat to crack wise about her being here instead of at home.

  “Mona?” Footsteps down the hall. “If you’re not Mona, then get ready for a world of hurt. I’m already pissed, and I’m going to beat your ass before I call 911.”

  Mona couldn’t stifle a faint grin. Life would never defeat Kat. She’d go down swinging. “Relax, Kat. It’s me.”

  Her sister appeared in the mirror behind her, frowning. “What the hell are you doing here this time of night?” Quickly she took in Mona’s still-damp hair and the towel wrapped around her body. “Uh-oh. This doesn’t look good.” Her expression went stricken. “Oh, God—you’re having an affair. Oh, Jesus, how can you cheat on Fitz?” Suddenly, she seemed six years old and as if someone had just told her about Santa Claus.

  Mona averted her face. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  Kat recovered her poise. “Bullshit.”

  “I told you nothing’s—” Mona’s chin dropped to her chest. Tears sprang to her eyes. She’d been on auto-pilot since she’d left the club, but now the night and the upheaval of her life crowded in. “It’s not—” Kat adored Fitz; she’d never understand.

  But she’d sold Kat short. “Oh, sweetie, what’s the matter?” They were both tall, but Kat was two inches taller. She wrapped one arm around Mona’s shoulders and pulled her close, making nonsense noises and soothing as though she were the older sister. The reliable one.

  Mona fell apart.

  She was bar
ely aware of Kat removing the towel and bundling her in a thick, fluffy robe. Of Kat drawing her into the living room and settling her on the couch. Sitting right beside her, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Awkward but there. Caring. It seemed a million years since she’d had anyone to lean on.

  Except Fitz. Fitz, who’d changed all the rules.

  Fresh tears spilled. Kat yanked a handful of tissues from a box and thrust them into her hands. “Go ahead and cry it out.” Her voice went sharp. “Men are such assholes.” She rose. “I’m going to make us some tea and then we’re going to indulge in some serious hen talk.”

  Hen talk. It had been Nana’s term for baring the soul, for the cathartic release that men didn’t understand and women needed like breathing. Memories washed over Mona, of bad dates and not making cheerleader, of having her first period without her mother there…but Nana always made it better. A little hen talk and the world righted itself again.

  And now her much-younger sister was trying to assume Nana’s place. Just that quickly, she’d taken Mona’s side without even knowing what was wrong.

  Mona laid her head back on the thick cushion and let out an exhausted sigh. She settled her feet on the trunk that served as a coffee table, one foot brushing a thick roll of sketch paper that was beginning to unfurl. Mona thought about examining it, but she was too tired to rise. She closed her eyes and drifted…and tried to think what Nana would do.

  “Screw tea. We’re going for the strong stuff.” Kat strode in with her usual panache, but when Mona opened her eyes and sat up, she realized that Kat was pale, that something was off-kilter.

  “What is it? Did something happen to you tonight?”

  Kat’s glance slid to the roll of papers, then darted away. “No. I’m great. And anyway, we’re discussing you.”

  Mona straightened. “Talk to me, Kat.”

  Her sister shrugged. “No big deal. Just a guy.” She handed Mona a goblet and filled her own. Holding it high, she met her sister’s gaze. “Here’s to women without men. Who needs ’em, anyway? Mud in your eye and all that rot.” She tossed back her wine as if it was a shot of whiskey.