The bridal shower. Of course. And she hadn’t even bought a gift yet. Because of her travel schedule she’d already needed to postpone the shower three times. With only two weeks remaining until the wedding, there was no way to postpone it again. Lauren grimaced.
“I’d understand if you decide not to hold it,” she said. “Take all the time you need to recover. Did anyone talk to you about trauma counseling? Anyway, call me when you can.” There was a click and a soft whir as the machine reset.
Counseling? Lauren thought. What good would that do? She was healthy, she was alive. And all the problems she’d had before the crash were still there. All except Nick. But he wasn’t really a problem, there hadn’t been time for him to become one. He’d been a distraction. A restless, alpha male who had sent her pulse racing with nothing more than the touch of his knee against her thigh.
Rising stiffly, Lauren wandered toward the window. The rain that had started at dawn pattered listlessly against the glass, casting a pall over the room. Maybe she did need to talk to a professional. It definitely wasn’t like her to become fixated on a stranger. Yet he’d become much more than a stranger, hadn’t he? She’d saved his life. He had become her responsibility—
And now he was dead. They still hadn’t found his body, but it was only a matter of time. She had to accept it. After all, his death had been documented and broadcast into millions of homes this morning.
Lauren turned her back on the window and walked over to the closet by the front door. She hesitated, then lifted her hand and touched Nick’s jacket. The leather still wasn’t completely dry, and it probably would have a few new cracks in it, but judging by the weathered, scraped condition, it had been through worse.
What kind of life had he lived? She knew so little about him. Who had the authorities finally notified? Who was his next of kin? Was there a Mrs. Strada? No, that much Gord had already told her.
Knowing it was verging on maudlin, Lauren carried the jacket back to the couch and sat down with it across her lap. She looked at the pocket that was in the left front lining, hesitated only briefly, then opened the zipper that had held it securely closed until now. Trying to convince herself that her curiosity wasn’t abnormal, she slid her fingers inside.
Her nose wrinkled as dampness surrounded her hand. She touched something hard and pulled out a set of keys. Her lips curved in a sad smile. It figured. She’d lost the keys to her apartment, but it looked as if she’d found Nick’s.
She reached into the pocket again and retrieved a soggy chocolate bar. Her smile broadened. That figured, too. A man with Nick’s energy would enjoy sweet high-calorie snacks.
There was still something left in the bottom of the pocket. She felt around until she grasped several small, flat squares. When she saw what she had found, she gasped and dropped the packets on her lap.
Condoms. Five of them.
“Five,” she muttered, shaking her head. Evidently his energy extended to all kinds of activities—
She stood up abruptly, scattering keys and condoms on the floor. This was sick. Really sick. The man was dead. If she didn’t find something else to focus on, she might need to call the hospital about counseling, after all.
One hour later, Lauren locked her car and hurried through the rain to the modest brick apartment building. A quick check of the number showed that it matched the address she’d copied down from the phone book. She still didn’t know what had made her come here. After she’d showered and dressed and done her hair, she’d had every intention of going down to the station to talk to Gord, then hitting the stores for a gift for Angela’s bridal shower. Life went on. At least for some people.
Firming her jaw, she shoved her keys into her purse and pulled out the set she’d found in Nick’s jacket. All right, her behavior was skirting the edge of normal, but there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation for her refusal to let go of Nick Strada. Maybe she needed closure. He was still too alive for her. Chances were his body wouldn’t be recovered for days, so she had to find some way to put her brief contact with him to rest.
Before she could delve too deeply into her reasons for being here, Lauren moved toward the front entrance. She paused to study the names on the mailboxes. An odd feeling whispered through her stomach when she found Nick’s and saw the stack of envelopes that showed through the slot. She glanced at the keys in her hand, knowing one of them would unlock the mailbox. Someone would eventually have to clear up all these loose ends, tie up the threads of his life that he’d left dangling.
But it wouldn’t be her. She did best as an observer, not a participant. Sorting through the keys, she found the one that opened the lobby door and stepped inside.
Nick’s apartment was on the third floor. After she climbed the stairs, her hands started to shake again before she could fit the key into the lock. Taking a deep breath, Lauren finally managed to unlock the door. With the tentative caution of someone trespassing in a tomb, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind her.
Had this been a good idea? Probably not. Instead of allowing her to put his memory away, being here was only serving to strengthen her impression of him. She knew it could only be her imagination, but his presence seemed to vibrate in the air around her.
She moved forward, struck by how well the apartment reflected its tenant... no, its former tenant. There was nothing fashionable about the big, sloppy furniture, but a man like Nick wouldn’t have cared about appearances. The chocolate brown corduroy sofa looked deep and comfortable, perfectly suited to a large man. So was the maroon leather recliner. An inexplicable lump came to her throat when she noticed how the coffee table was buried beneath layers of empty pizza boxes and newspapers. Evidence of hurried meals eaten alone.
There was a large television across from the couch, along with a sound system and a stack of CDs. Lauren moved nearer, not really surprised when she saw that the majority of the music was country. There had probably been a bit of cowboy in him, after all.
Her gaze slid to the photograph that had been placed on top of one of the speakers. It was of Nick, a smiling, carefree Nick surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women. Lauren looked more closely. Women? Two of them didn’t look much older than fifteen, their dark hair pulled back into identical ponytails. Were they friends? Family? Whoever they were, would they miss him?
Of course they would miss him. Nick was—no, had been—the kind of man who would make an impact on anyone he knew.
Telling herself she would leave in another minute, she walked through the archway to the kitchen. An open box of breakfast cereal, the sugar-frosted kind, shared space on the counter with an empty carton of orange juice. There was a pile of dishes in the sink and more on top of the fridge. Shaking her head, she turned around, stepping carefully over a pair of basketball shoes and a scuffed cowboy boot....
She blinked. Cowboy boot? Frowning, she glanced at it over her shoulder, then backed up to study it more thoroughly.
Yes, it was Nick’s boot, all right. It was certainly large and beat-up enough. And it appeared to be almost the same as the one he’d stuffed that lethal-looking knife into last night. As a matter of fact, the pattern of the scuffed leather looked practically identical.
The hair at the back of her neck started to prickle. No. It couldn’t be the same one. It was probably her imagination again, a reaction to recent trauma, her mind skirting too close to the edge. She knew that Nick and everything he wore was on the bottom of the lake. She and a few million other people had watched him slip under.
She really shouldn’t have fed her obsession with him by coming here.
She should leave.
Still, Lauren bent down to take a closer look at the boot. At the first touch of her fingers, she knew it wasn’t only her imagination. This leather was still wet.
“Nick?” She grasped the wall to steady herself and slowly straightened up. “Oh, my God! Nick, you’re al—”
Before she could say the word aloud, a large hand clampe
d over her mouth. She was spun around, her back pressed against the wall.
The first thing she saw was a chest. A bare chest, with whorls of black hair spreading across taut skin that was darkened with purple bruises. She looked higher and saw broad shoulders, then a strong neck and a stubborn chin covered with bristling black stubble. Then a firmly compressed mouth. And lines at the edge of his lips that would probably deepen into dimples if he ever indulged in a genuine smile....
Feeling as if reality were slowly tilting, she raised her gaze.
And she found herself staring straight into an emphatically alive and extremely familiar pair of steel blue eyes.
Chapter 4
Nick clenched his jaw against the pounding in his head and blinked to clear his Vision. How long had he been out? It had been well after midnight by the time he’d climbed the fire escape and pried open the bedroom window. He’d meant to stay only long enough to get dry clothes and his spare gun. He’d meant to be out of here by dawn.
The last thing he remembered, he’d been reaching for a bottle of aspirin. The next thing he’d known, it was daylight, and there was someone moving around in the apartment.
Someone? It was her. Lauren. The ice princess from the plane. The woman who had saved his life. The journalist who kept her cool while...
The journalist.
Between the throbbing reminders of his injuries and the feel of Lauren’s body so close to his, his brain was frustratingly slow to function. Only one thought kept overriding the rest.
She could ruin everything.
Her breath warmed his palm as she attempted to speak. Her words were muffled, but it was clear what she was trying to say. Without loosening the arm he held across the front of her shoulders, he lifted his hand from her mouth.
“Nick!” Her lips trembled into a smile. “Nick, you’re alive.”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Her smile dimmed. “I could ask you the same thing. I thought you had drowned. Thank God you’re all right.”
A wave of dizziness made him sway. He flattened his palm against the wall beside her head and leaned closer.
“Where have you been?” she went on. “How did you get home? I looked all over for you last night.”
“You shouldn’t have come here, Lauren.”
“I couldn’t stay away. Nick, everyone believes you’re dead. When Gord showed me that tape—”
“What tape?”
“The one he shot from the helicopter. It showed you going under. I saw it. Everyone saw it.”
“What do you mean, everyone?”
“It was broadcast this morning.” Her chin trembled. “You have to—”
Her next words were smothered by his palm as he moved his hand back to her mouth.
He had to think. The plan had been a long shot, conceived in a crazy instant, but it had worked. He’d done it. He was officially dead. And if the drowning he had staged for that news camera had been broadcast this morning...
Morning?
“Damn,” he muttered. “What time is it?”
She grasped his wrist and jerked his hand away from her mouth. “What’s the matter with you? I’m not about to start screaming. Let me go.”
Let her go? How could he do that, when one word from her would make the hell he’d gone through last night worthless? Frustrated, he dropped the arm that had been pinning her in place.
She didn’t move away. Instead, she continued to look at him, almost as if she really cared.
But he couldn’t afford to think that way. Too much depended on him pulling this off. “How did you get in, Lauren?”
“I found your—” Sudden color tinged her porcelain cheeks. She looked away. “I found your keys in the pocket of your jacket.”
“Why did you come here?”
“I wanted... to see where you lived.”
“For your story? Checking out the dead cop’s apartment? Hoping to find some little tidbit to add to your newscast?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Right.”
“I thought you were dead, that you hadn’t made it. I thought you were on the bottom of the lake. Why did you leave like that?”
“I decided to come home.”
She looked at his forehead. “You shouldn’t have left. You should have gone to the hospital. That cut—”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” She raised her hand to his head, her fingers cool against his skin. “You need help. This should be disinfected.”
“I cleaned it up already.”
“It needs stitches. Let me take you to a doctor.”
“No.” He pushed away from the wall and moved across the living room, aiming for the hallway that led to his bedroom. He only made it as far as the nearest chair, grabbing onto the back to steady himself while he took several deep breaths.
“Your knee’s worse, isn’t it?” Lauren asked, coming to his side. She maneuvered her shoulder under his arm, lending him her strength the same way she had done the night before. “You should get it X-rayed. It could be broken.”
That thought had already occurred to him and had been dismissed. The joint was merely sprained, or he wouldn’t have had the mobility that he did. Besides, it was his head that was hurting more than his knee. “I walked on it fine last night. I’ve had sprains before. It’ll get better in a few days.”
“Nick, you’re in worse shape now than you were then. I’m calling an ambulance.”
He straightened his spine, pulling away from her support. “No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No doctor. No ambulance. Isn’t that clear enough?”
“But you need—”
“I need you to forget you came here. Forget you saw me.”
“What?”
“I’m dead.”
“Nick, you’re not making sense.”
“Thanks to your friend in the helicopter, the world thinks I’m dead. I intend to stay that way.”
“The blow to your head must have made you disoriented. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“I’m not crazy, Lauren, despite rumors to the contrary.”
“No, of course not, but—”
“It’s not your concern.”
“Yes, it is,” she insisted. She moved in front of him, placing her hand on his chest. “You saved my life, and I saved yours. I can’t simply walk away and leave you like this. You need help.”
The touch of her palm on his skin scattered his thoughts once more. He glanced down, wanting her to keep touching him, knowing he shouldn’t want her anywhere near him. “No.”
“But you...” Her words trailed off as she spread her fingers over his heart. She was silent for a moment before she slowly lifted her gaze to his. Whatever emotion he’d thought he’d glimpsed in her eyes had given way to cool logic. She withdrew her hand. “Nick, what’s going on?”
“It’s not your concern,” he repeated.
“I think it is.”
“Go home, Lauren.”
“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” Her voice firmed. “Why would you say that you intend to stay dead?”
He swore under his breath as he caught sight of the glowing numbers on the VCR clock. “I don’t have time to play twenty questions with the press.”
“Why, Nick?”
Stepping out of her reach, he lurched as far as the bedroom. With one hand on the wall to steady himself, he managed to walk to the closet and pull out the box with his spare gun. He shoved the revolver into the waistband of his jeans, then grabbed a clean shirt and shrugged it on.
Lauren paused in the bedroom doorway while she watched him. “On the flight, you were so anxious to reach Chicago that you looked ready to jump out of the plane. Why, Nick? Has it got something to do with why you don’t want anyone to know you’re still alive?”
Tightening his jaw, he looked around the floor for his boots.
“And if you almost drowned, how did you manag
e to get out of the lake by yourself?” she persisted. “The place was crawling with rescue crews. They should have spotted you.”
He saw his left boot beside the bed and leaned down to pick it up, but another wave of dizziness made him sit down heavily on the edge of the mattress.
Lauren crossed the room and picked up the boot. “They would have spotted you, Nick, wouldn’t they? Unless...” She paused. “Unless you were trying not to be found.”
“Leave it alone, Lauren. This isn’t part of your story.”
“You deliberately faked it, didn’t you,” she said in awed disbelief. “My God. You played to the camera all along. You knew they were filming, that they’d get your presumed drowning on tape.”
Scowling, he raked his hair off his forehead. “Interesting speculation, Ms. Abbot, but you don’t have any proof.”
“I’m talking to the proof right now. What kind of trouble are you in, Nick?”
“What makes you think I’m in trouble?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence.”
He made a motion to reach for the boot she held. When she extended her arm toward him, he grasped her wrist instead. “You can’t tell anyone. Not yet.”
“Gord is busy making his career on the story of your heroic death. It would be completely unethical for me to let him continue with this farce now that I know you’re alive.”
“No one can know.” He pulled her closer. “Lauren, no one can know,” he repeated. “The safety of my family depends on it.”
She hesitated. “Your family?”
There was really no choice, no other option open to him. He had to trust her. At least with this. “The suspect in the case I’m working on has put out a contract on me. Threats to me I can handle, but he’s also after my mother and sisters unless I quit the investigation. I intend to stay dead until I nail this guy.”
“And you’d never consider simply giving up, would you.”
It had been a statement, not a question, so he didn’t bother to answer. “If you reveal the truth, if you broadcast the fact that I’m alive, you’ll be endangering the lives of my family.”
On The Way To A Wedding Page 5
