Rescue Me: A Novel

by Christy Reece

  He knew—there was no doubt about that. When he'd opened the door, his face had been full of disdain, his eyes brimming with revulsion.

  Alise. Her mother would have put the worst possible spin on the situation. Devon took in a shaky breath. Well, she was here now and Alise wasn't. She would make him see, make him understand.

  “Sit before you fall down.”

  Devon winced at the white-hot fury in his tone. Yes, he may be a calm, controlled man, but he felt betrayed. What proud man wouldn't be angry and want to lash out?

  “I said, sit.”

  Devon collapsed onto the sofa and held her hands toward the fire to warm them. She should speak. Needed to begin her explanations. For the life of her, she couldn't seem to think of a thing to say.

  “Well, Devon? Did you come to just sit by my fire or was there perhaps another reason for your visit? Did you come here to get fucked again?”

  As his voice lashed out at her, she jerked, then bit back a whimper as agony ripped through her shoulder. Of all times to be in so much pain, she could barely think straight. Jordan stood within feet of her, waiting for the reason for her deception, and the only thing she could think to say was “Do you think I could have some water and aspirin?”

  Furious brown eyes glared at her for interminable seconds before he whipped around and stalked out of the room. When the door slammed shut, Devon leaned back against the sofa and let pain wash over her.

  He hated her. And why shouldn't he? In his mind, her behavior was pure deception and betrayal. Nothing more.

  How could she convince a man who now despised her that she had given herself to him because she loved him? He would laugh at her, of course. Reject her love … spurn her feelings. And he would deny any feelings himself. Why hadn't she thought about what she would say when she'd planned this? Even though she'd never intended for things to go as far as they had, she still should have come up with something. She had just assumed he would feel the same things she did. God, she was so stupid.

  The door opened and Jordan returned, carrying a glass of water and an aspirin bottle. He slammed the glass onto the table in front of her, water sloshing over the sides, then thrust the bottle of aspirin at her. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Devon tugged at the childproof cap.

  With a vile curse, Jordan took the bottle from her, opened it, and slapped two aspirin in her palm.

  “Thank you.”

  Devon took the aspirin and drank the water, hoping the cool liquid would loosen her tongue.

  “I'm waiting.”

  She took a deep breath and looked up into the scornful eyes of the man she'd loved more than half her life. “I'm sorry.”

  “That's it? You're sorry? You purposely led me to believe you were someone else. Let me screw you silly. When all the while, if I had known it was you, I would have vomited before I touched you?”

  Oh God. Please. Don't let him have said that. Please. Please.

  “Are you going to tell me you did it because you love me? Is that the excuse you're going to use for having lied?”

  “Jordan. Please … I …”

  “You. Little. Slut. That's exactly what you were going to do, wasn't it?”

  Shaking her head in denial, Devon stood without conscious thought. He had to stop saying these things. He didn't mean them. Jordan was heroic and funny, brilliant and astute. Kind. He had to see that what they'd shared was more than sex. It had been beautiful and magical.

  She drew in a deep, controlled breath. She had to tell him before he completely destroyed the most wonderful experience of her life. “I know you're angry with me and you have every right to be. But I knew if you knew who I was, you would never have seen me as a woman.”

  “That's why you let me fuck you?”

  “Stop it. Just stop saying that. It wasn't like that. I … never planned to …” Desperation turned to bubbling panic. “I never planned for it to go that far. I wanted you to see me as a woman and then realize what we had together. It was—”

  “It was sex,” he said flatly. “And not even good sex.”

  She flinched but shook her head. “No, it was more than sex. You know it was. We shared more than our bodies.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “We almost did. That's the only smart thing I did last night.” His accusing eyes seared her. “Tell me, if I hadn't used a condom, would I have found out in a few weeks that you're pregnant? Is that what you planned all along?”

  Pain stabbed through her. “No! I would never—”

  “Yeah, like I'm going to believe a lunatic.”

  The hurt consuming and overwhelming, she put her hand out in protest. “Jordan, please … please stop saying these things.”

  “Do you deny you've been seeing a psychiatrist?”

  Devon couldn't control the shocked gasp. “How did you …?” She closed her eyes. “Mother, of course.”

  “Well, what about it, Dev? You've obviously got some mental problems.”

  Her mouth was frozen, no words would come. What could she say anyway? Nothing she said would make it right.

  This was so much worse than what she ever could have believed. Alise had poisoned his mind and there was no way to convince him otherwise. The fact that she'd been seeing Dr. Reynolds for several years added a final nail to her already tightly covered coffin. Explaining why she saw a psychiatrist wouldn't help her case, even if he believed her.

  She turned toward the door, the defeated, shuffling sound of her feet distant and vague under the roaring in her head.

  “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

  Unable to take the hatred in his expression any longer, Devon avoided looking at him as she trudged to the door. Digging deep, she found a small spurt of courage, and muttered, “You're not willing to listen to any explanation I have, and quite frankly, I'm tired of being called a slut and a lunatic. Maybe after you have some time to think about things, you'll—”

  A sharp burst of laughter erupted from him. “What? You think last night was so damn special, I'm going to wake up one morning and realize how wonderful you are? You really do live in a fantasy world, don't you?”

  Tears seeped out before she could stop them. With a soft sob, Devon ran from the room.

  “Shit! Devon, wait.”

  Grabbing her duffel, she dashed to the door. As she jerked it open, the door flew back, slammed against the wall.

  “Devon, wait … don't—”

  She whirled around to face him, tears blurring her vision. “Believe what you want. I gave my body to you because I love you. I have for years. What ever my mother told you isn't the truth, but I'll leave that up to you to figure out.”

  She looked out at the drizzling rain and then back at the man she would always love but never have again. “You've always been my hero, Jordan. I'm just sorry I couldn't be yours.”

  Devon ran down the steps, her hot tears mingling with the cold rain. She didn't look to see if Jordan followed. Why would he? He hated her.

  Frozen inside and out, she dragged the duffel bag behind her and forced her leaden legs toward the bus stop. She would find a cheap hotel and regroup. All was not lost. She refused to believe that anything so precious to her could be lost.

  She was so deep into her mental pep talk, the men were on her before she knew it. She yelped as a large hand grabbed her injured shoulder. Hands pulled at her bag, ripping it away.

  Devon whirled around, instinct and years of training kicking in. Her foot flew out and caught the thief in the groin. He let go of the bag and dropped to the ground, gagging.

  “Bitch!”

  Fear surging, Devon took a running step. Another man wrenched her around. A fist slammed into her temple. Her last thought before she lost consciousness was the hatred in Jordan's eyes. That was something she would never forget.

  three

  Seven Years Later

  Paris, France

  Darkness was her friend. Born into pain, she remembered n
othing of what she was, what had been. Pain was her only knowledge, her only companion. Consuming. Overwhelming. Total. Until he came. He whispered to her, infuriated her, made her fight, gave her comfort. She knew him, yet she didn't. Father, brother, confessor, and creator. He gave her life, purpose … a reason to exist.

  With lightning speed, pain attacked, immense in heat, its overwhelming entirety. In furious silence, she fought as it tried to weaken her, tried to destroy what they had built. She battled against it even as it suffocated her. A whirling vortex of despair coated her lungs, drowning, choking, obliterating all hope.

  A gasping cry penetrated the smothering blackness, waking her. She jackknifed and flew out of bed, landing on her feet with a soft, soundless thump. She crouched low, tiny, frantic pants of air escaping as her wild-eyed gaze surveyed the dimly lit room. The threat—imminent, dark, and forbidding—held the stench of defeat as it clung, then dug deep, piercing the sanity for which she'd fought so hard. Her mind and soul clawed toward consciousness and reason.

  Icy-cold remnants of fear still pounding in her blood, she straightened like a pointed arrow as realization hit. Her eyes absorbed the cool, sea-green walls, the flutter of light camel-colored drapes at the open window, the soft, plush carpet under her bare feet. The quiet, peaceful normalcy of her bedroom surrounded her.

  With bitter disdain, she beat back the bubbling panic. The dream again. It always came around this time of year. She should have expected it. Been ready for it. But this time, the dream had been more real—as if what ever threatened loomed closer than ever.

  She didn't believe in visions or psychic abilities—mumbo jumbo, elusive vague bullshit. She believed in cold, hard facts. A dream, nothing more. The fact that it felt more realistic than at any other time didn't mean squat.

  Pure hot fury clenched into her system … cleansing and cauterizing, replacing any hint of vulnerability. She didn't have time for this crap. She was on assignment. The meeting tomorrow would require her total concentration.

  Deep, even breaths expanded her lungs, forced out all thoughts but her mission. She locked any remaining fears into the tiny tight compartment only she was aware of—one only she had the key to. That door stayed locked. Always.

  Refusing to allow the dream any more credence, she pulled on shorts, sports bra, and running shoes, tied her long hair out of the way, and marched into the second bedroom, which she'd converted into a gym. At the door, she stopped and took a deep breath of renewal. Focus. Forget.

  The dream disappeared into oblivion as she pummeled, kicked, punched, and tumbled it into submission. Sweat poured from her in rivulets, and she relished the deep cleansing. Whirling from her boxing bag, she set the treadmill to a breakneck speed. Feet pounding in rhythmic pace with her heart, she raced away from any remaining demons.

  Self-punishment, Noah would have called it. “When you're angry, perceive any kind of vulnerability in yourself, you beat yourself to a pulp.”

  As she'd told him more than once, “Noah, you don't know shit.” He'd just give her that calm smile of superiority he'd perfected over the years, pissing her off even more.

  Her feet pounded faster. Noah was wrong. She had no vulnerabilities or weaknesses. Not when it came to emotions. Nothing fazed her. She liked it that way. She took care of problems, removed obstacles. But it was all done with cold, controlled, emotionless emptiness.

  Noah McCall had taught her that.

  Life had taught her that.

  A stomach rumble forced her to stop. The need for sustenance vied for supremacy and won over the rush of adrenaline pumping through her body. Wiping her face and body down with a fresh towel, she headed for her utilitarian kitchen.

  Within minutes, she'd prepared and demolished scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. Easy and digestible were her only requirements. Food was fuel—nothing more. She neither enjoyed nor craved it, but she couldn't survive without it and if she'd learned anything, she'd learned how to survive.

  After the food came her favorite part. She entered her bathroom and allowed herself for the first time since rising to slow down and almost enjoy the ritual. Stripping, she stood under the pulsing water, allowing the hot, cleansing spray to obliterate and drown any concerns. As wet hands glided over her soapy body, she closed her eyes in almost sensual enjoyment.

  Stepping out of the shower, she towel-dried her strawberry blond hair, barely noticing it wasn't her natural color. Changing her hair and eye color was as normal as changing shoes. She blow-dried the mass of hair and allowed it to flow down her back. When she completed her assignment, she'd go back to her white-blond mane, which she preferred.

  Research had revealed that her mark favored this color in his women. And since she definitely wanted to please him, it was a necessity.

  The porcelain flawlessness of her face, carved into perfection by a top plastic surgeon's masterful hands, took little time to enhance … light foundation, a soft glow of blush to emphasize high, exotic cheekbones, and a tinge of mascara to lengthen long, lush lashes. She outlined her full lips with a soft, subtle pink and in an odd flash of whimsy, touched her tongue to the corner of her mouth, thinking of the cotton candy she'd enjoyed as a child. Her lips twisted as the bitter flavor hit her taste buds. How appropriate.

  A quick glance at her nails reassured her that the manicure she'd had yesterday was still intact. Cloaked with the all-important sensuality and femininity that made her one of the best undercover operatives in the business, she strolled to the bedroom and threw open the closet door. Though she would only be seeing Noah today to review some details of her latest assignment, she was on duty at all times, which meant performing her role.

  She slid her sleek, hard body into an understated but elegant green sleeveless dress, knowing it would emphasize her eye color choice of new spring grass. Slipping her feet into Manolo Blahniks, she surveyed the woman in the full-length mirror. Beautiful, poised perfection. Artists wept to paint her, photographers begged to capture her image, and men would die to sleep with her.

  A slight smile of satisfaction softened her face, altering her looks. Anyone who looked at her now would see something otherworldly and ethereal—almost angelic. But if they drew closer … close enough to gaze into the stormy depths of her eyes, they would see nothing … a soul stripped bare. A beautiful shell, unfathomable … cold, empty.

  All traces of vulnerability gone, Eden St. Claire stepped out of her apartment and quietly closed the door. Purpose and goal clear and resolute once more. Dreams became non ex is tent vapors of bad karma floating into empty air. Nothing and no one could touch her … or hurt her, ever again.

  Eden glided into the nondescript building that housed the Paris office of Last Chance Rescue Enterprises. Nestled between a small insurance company and a mediocre pastry shop, LCR looked to be an ill-kept, not very successful travel agency. It boasted two full-time employees, and any unfortunate person who walked through the shabby, paint-chipped doors looking for help with their travel destination left quickly, disappointed and usually annoyed. The employees appeared to be unmotivated, barely competent, and slightly belligerent. They were as deceptive as the building itself. On the tenth floor, behind a locked, hidden door, were some of the best-trained mercenaries in the world.

  The Paris LCR location was the home office. There were six branch offices throughout the world. Each employed between ten and twenty-five lethal and highly motivated people whose sole purpose was to rescue victims.

  LCR had few restrictions on rescue other than absolute secrecy, no police or government involvement, and no retaliation against the kidnapper unless warranted by the operative responsible for the mission. LCR was not in the revenge business. Rescue was their one and only priority, with few exceptions. But if the opportunity arose, they gladly put those people or organizations out of commission.

  Eden nodded toward the overtattooed young woman sitting at the desk, filing her nails and chewing a giant wad of gum. Pressing her hand against a panel that immediately r
ecognized her fingerprints, Eden barely noticed the normal routine of shades drawing closed and the click of the front door locking behind her. When an opening appeared in the wall, she slipped through and into the elevator, throwing over her shoulder, “See you later, Angela.”

  Seconds later, the door slid open and Eden stepped out. Thick, coffee cream carpet cushioned her footsteps as she approached Noah's office. No expense was spared for any LCR branch, though she thought this one was the nicest. With its arched windows, abundance of lush, green plants, and collection of Asian artwork, the décor was stylish but unpretentious.

  She knocked briefly before opening the office door.

  Noah sat in his usual slumped position in his chair, staring at three different monitors on his gargantuan cherry desk. Eden often joked that from here, he manipulated and ran the world to suit him. Sometimes she wasn't sure that wasn't the truth. The man often knew things well before they happened, making him either clairvoyant or having more control than any one person should have. She could only be grateful they fought on the same side. Having Noah on the opposite side was not something she cared to contemplate.

  “Darlin', you look like something the cats gnawed on all night long and spit out this morning.”

  She rolled her eyes as she perched on the leather chair in front of him. “Noah, using your good-old-boy southern drawl doesn't make your insults any less insulting.”

  A small smile played around his stern mouth and Eden once again marveled how she could look at this movie-star-handsome man and feel no attraction whatsoever. Another reinforcement that those kinds of feelings had been destroyed long ago.

  “When's the last time you had a full night's sleep?”

  Denying vulnerability came as natural to her as breathing. “I don't know what you're talking about.”