Trouble

by Ann Christopher

  More silence. Longer silence. Endless silence.

  At last, when his emotions were solidly under control again and Mike couldn’t take it any more, he asked Sean the only thing that mattered: “Can we get past this, man?”

  Sean’s gaze, still stormy, met his. “I don’t know. I wish you didn’t make it so hard for me to want to kick your face in.”

  “I want the best for you, Sean. No matter how you feel about me, I want you to be happy.”

  Sean flashed him a bleak half smile. “Well, all right, then. This has been one of the worst weeks of my life, but your good wishes make everything better. Appreciate it.”

  Mike snorted. At least Sean’s sense of humor was still intact. “I do what I can.”

  Sean stared at him. “You know what you need to be happy. Guess it’s time for me to figure out what I need.”

  “You can do it,” Mike told him.

  Sean, once again looking like that lost little boy who liked to hide in Mike’s room when the nights got too scary, shook his head. “That’s the problem, Mike. You believe in me. You see potential.” Wry smile. “I don’t.”

  “You should,” Mike said fervently.

  “I’m going to work on it.”

  With that, Sean shoved his hands in his pockets and, head down, slowly walked back to the kitchen.

  17

  Two days later, Dara trotted down the snow-dusted steps outside her apartment building, pulling on her leather gloves and hanging on to her yoga mat as she went. The weak early morning light matched her gloomy mood, which was one of the reasons she was going to exercise. She needed something to lift her spirits and keep them off Mike and the fact that she wouldn’t see him again anytime soon—if ever.

  It was time to think about packing to go home to Chicago for Christmas, she thought as she crossed the parking lot to her car. It’d be good to see her parents and other relatives, but she just didn’t feel like—oh, who was that?

  A tall man moved in front of the driver’s side door of her car, startling her out of her thoughts and causing her knees to lock in place.

  Mike. Oh, God. It was Mike.

  As powerful and unmoving as a mountain, he wore a black wool topcoat over a dark suit, with black leather gloves and a black and red plaid scarf crossed at his neck.

  He looked amazing.

  Seeing him stirred up all the emotions she’d been trying to repress. Despair. Anger. A black hole of yearning that sucked all her lighter feelings into it and kept them there.

  It was one thing to see him at his mother’s party, where she’d had time to brace herself, but this was different. This was way out of bounds.

  Worst of all, his sudden appearance kicked up a surge of hope for things she kept telling herself could never be.

  Stepping closer, he watched her with all the usual overwhelming intensity. Her instinct was to drop the yoga mat and sprint back to the apartment, where he couldn’t follow her, but she couldn’t move. As if he sensed her surging flight instinct, he stopped at arm’s length.

  At this distance, she could see the lines of strain on his unsmiling face and the hollows under his eyes. His glittering amber eyes were very dark with turbulence, almost black.

  She waited, watching him warily.

  “Hi,” he said.

  His husky voice generated white puffs of steam and prickling nerve endings on her nape.

  “Hi.”

  He took a deep breath. “There were some things I should have told you the other night, but it wasn’t the time. So I took a chance.”

  She said nothing.

  “I thought maybe you couldn’t sleep either. And maybe you’d be up early to go somewhere and keep busy so you wouldn’t think about us. Just like I’ve been doing.”

  The sight of such questioning vulnerability in his eyes was unbearable. A white-hot razor slice through her chest. Dropping her gaze, she studied the frosty grass in front of her car.

  “Last night I worked until two thirty, then fell asleep on the sofa in my office because I couldn’t stand the thought of going home without you. I went home a little while ago for a shower.” He shrugged one shoulder, his lips working at a self-deprecating smile that never took hold. “I’m wrecked, Dara.”

  His face blurred behind the sudden hot tears welling in her eyes. She pressed her lips together, determined not to cry or to think about where this all might be leading.

  “I can’t go on like this,” he continued softly. “These have been the worst three weeks of my life.”

  It turned out that no amount of willpower would stop her tears for this man. No amount of previous heartbreaks over him would stop new cracks and fissures from opening up.

  He wasn’t the only one who was wrecked, she thought bitterly, swiping her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

  “I want you back,” he said, edging closer. “I was stupid to let you get away in the first place. I don’t deserve a woman like you, but I’m going to try, anyway.”

  His gaze didn’t waver, not even when it overflowed with steely determination.

  And suddenly she felt absolute terror, which was what hope did for you. When you hoped for things, you had so much more to lose, so much more pain to endure.

  Blinking, she turned her face away, no longer bothering to wipe those embarrassing tears. There was no point. If she wiped one, a million more appeared to take its place.

  “Can you look at me, Dara? Please?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” Sighing harshly, he shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets. “Okay.”

  She waited.

  “I have something to tell you. I know you don’t want to hear it right now, but ...I do love you. I need you in my life. I need your smile.”

  Moving slowly, he touched her face with his gloved hand. She stiffened and closed her eyes, but couldn’t bring herself to move away.

  “I need to know how you are, sweetheart. I need to know how your Thanksgiving was and what you had for breakfast. I need to know what you want for Christmas. There’s a new Indian restaurant downtown, and I want to take you there because I know you’ll love it.” His velvety voice dropped, sparking a helpless curl of desire low in her belly. “I need to make love to you.”

  “Don’t.”

  Jerking free, hating him in that moment but hating her weak body’s response to him even more, she wanted to snarl like a lioness. “It’s not that easy. You hurt me. You were cruel to me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care,” she lied.

  Nodding, he screwed up his face, closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger just as she glimpsed the shimmer of tears.

  Oh, God. She hesitated, arrested, her anger leaching away.

  Was he—?

  Was Mike crying?

  He dropped his hand. Opened his wet eyes. Let her see his emotions, raw as they were.

  “I don’t expect you to forgive me right now. But I’ll love you whether you do or not.”

  He reached for his throat, fishing around for something. Then he hooked his gloved thumb through a gold necklace and held it up for her to see the strange pendant dangling at the end. It looked like a—

  Doing a double-take, Dara gasped.

  It was a ring.

  A glorious oval diamond engagement ring set in white gold.

  “Oh, my God,” she cried, clapping her hand over her mouth.

  “I’m going to wear this. For now. I know it’s the closest to you I’m going to get. I know you need to think about whether you want to take another chance with me.”

  She stared at the ring, hypnotized by his words and by the dazzling rainbow shimmer of sunlight on the diamond.

  “But this is your ring, Dara.”

  “Mike—”

  “And I intend to do whatever it takes to put it on your finger.” There was a flash of that determination again, startling her with its ferocity. “Fair warning: I want your love back. I want your trust. I
’m going to get them. I don’t care how long it takes.”

  Holding her gaze, he lifted the ring and kissed it before tucking it back inside his collar.

  “Anyway,” he concluded. “I thought you should know.”

  With that, he turned and walked off across the parking lot, his feet crunching on the snow, leaving Dara to stare helplessly after him.

  Back from yoga, Dara strode down the hallway to her apartment, distracted by a local news story she’d heard on the radio on the way home. Mark Johnson, whom she hadn’t thought about in ages, had rested his defense at trial without testifying. Experts predicted a conviction with a stiff sentence—oh, what was that?

  Her foot bumped a smallish cardboard box wrapped with green tissue on the floor outside her door. She hadn’t even noticed it.

  Flowers, she realized, dazed, as she picked the box up, let herself in and set it on the counter. They were flowers.

  Not Mike, she thought, dread and hope battling for supremacy inside her. Not again.

  Well, she couldn’t let him keep doing this to her—toying with her emotions and scrambling her thoughts. If she had any sense whatsoever, she’d throw the flowers away before they could infect her brain the way Mike’s visit this morning had.

  Too bad she’d never had any sense where Mike was concerned.

  With trembling hands, she turned the tissue back and lifted out the lush gardenia plant. Oh. She’d forgotten how creamy and white the petals were, how deeply green and waxy the leaves were, how intoxicating the fragrance was. She lifted it to her nose and breathed deeply. This was obviously what it smelled like in heaven.

  Mike. He knew how much she loved gardenias, the bastard.

  How could he throw her into this kind of confusion when things had seemed so clear?

  Oh, and there was a card tucked into the tissue paper.

  Tapping her fingers on the counter, she eyeballed it, running through her options.

  She’d been weak and opened the box, true, but she could be strong now and throw the card away. Better yet, she could throw both the card and the flowers away and start packing for Chicago. Yes. That was exactly what she should do—

  She grabbed the card and ripped the envelope open.

  Mike’s blue-inked scrawl filled the plain card: Forgive me.

  For one breathless second, her heart melted. For one pathetic, misguided second, she thought she should call and ask him to come back. For one blink of an eye, she thought she could forgive him and they could start over again.

  But then the pain surged back with a vengeance.

  Did he think it was this easy? That all he had to do was cry a few tears, buy a ring and send her one lousy plant, and she’d forgive him for breaking her heart for the second time?

  Well, she wouldn’t.

  Part of her wanted to, though. A big part. Maybe most of her.

  To add insult to injury, part of her foolishly hoped he really did want to marry her.

  And she was woman enough to recognize her weakness where he was concerned. That was why this whole thing was so scary. She knew very well that once Mike set his mind to something, he didn’t stop until he got it. Of course he wanted her right now. The sex had been good and he’d missed her for a couple of weeks. Big freaking deal. All that proved was that he was a typical man and she needed to protect herself from the typical melting female response.

  Which meant she needed to nip this whole thing in the bud, because she was too weak—much, much too weak—to withstand a full frontal assault. Just the sight of him destroyed her resolve and turned her body to Jell-O. She’d barely stopped herself from falling into his arms this morning. Maybe next time he’d catch her in a weaker moment, and then who could say what would happen?

  No, this had to stop. Right now. She’d never give him another chance to break her heart. He’d said he didn’t love her and he couldn’t have suddenly changed his mind. That being the case, he needed to stop toying with her emotions.

  Tonight after work, she’d march down to his office and tell him so.

  Just then, someone pounded on her door. Startled, she dropped the card and hurried to peek out the peephole. Not Mike again— She recoiled, stifling a gasp.

  It was Sean. Just what she needed. Not.

  After hesitating for a beat or two, she swung open the door.

  “Hi,” she said warily, remembering his ugly mood the other night. “How are you?”

  It was like letting a cold front into her apartment. Ignoring what she’d just said, he strode to the living room and settled on the sofa, bringing with him an icy chill that originated in his eyes and seemed to permeate his skin.

  Bewildered, she shut the door and brought up the rear.

  “Mike told me,” he said.

  “Told you what?” she asked as casually as she could with a lump suddenly lodged in her throat.

  His lips thinned down to nothing. “That you’re together.”

  “We were,” she said faintly, sinking into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “It’s over now.”

  “That’s not the way it sounded to me,” he said flatly.

  Dara’s thoughts churned aimlessly. She couldn’t tell whether Sean was mostly angry or mostly hurt, but it probably didn’t matter much anyway.

  “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Did you ever stop to think,” he said, his voice low and harsh, “how I would feel about this? Did that ever cross your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  She forced herself not to look away from the misery in his eyes because she’d earned it. She and Mike deserved it. She felt every bit as bad as she’d thought she’d feel if Sean ever found out. Even so, she couldn’t find it in herself to apologize for loving Mike. That was something she couldn’t change and didn’t regret.

  “But you did it, anyway.”

  She raised her chin, determined not to be cowed. “I’m sorry we hurt you, Sean,” she said uselessly. “I’m really sorry. But my relationship with Mike has nothing to do with anyone other than me and Mike.”

  He let out a bitter bark of laughter, too angry—or too hurt—to speak.

  There was nothing else she could say, so she didn’t try.

  After a moment, he stood and walked to the door.

  She followed, relieved the conversation hadn’t been worse.

  But then he wheeled around on the threshold.

  “Why, Dara?” he asked. “You know how I felt about you! Why couldn’t it’ve been me?”

  “The question isn’t why it wasn’t you, Sean,” she said gently. “The question is why it only could have ever been Mike for me. And one day, when the right woman comes along, the question will be why it could only be Sean for her.”

  Sean stilled. “Wow,” he finally said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “That’s something to shoot for, eh?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I need to get my act together first. I need to be worthy.” He laughed, the sound bitter. “Right now I’m not ready for jack shit.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “I wish to God I knew,” he muttered.

  That night, Mark Johnson sat in his dark SUV waiting patiently. Some things were worth waiting for, and revenge was one of them. He’d been there an hour already, but he didn’t care. He’d stay all night if he needed to. His wife, Alicia—bitch—wasn’t waiting up for him at the crib. Who would have ever thought she’d have the balls to change the locks on the house? His house! The one he paid the mortgage on! That had been a kick in the teeth the day he’d gone home and discovered his key didn’t fit. He’d have kicked down the door if she hadn’t threatened to call the police. Another arrest was the last thing he needed. So he’d let Alicia’s insult pass, for now. He’d deal with her later, when he planned to have the last laugh financially.

  He’d deal with Baldwin now.

  The jury was out deliberating, but he knew they’d convict him. It was just a matter of time. The trial had been a joke from start to fi
nish, with the prosecutor trotting out all those punks who’d claimed they saw him threaten Dante before the shooting.

  To make matters worse, his replacement lawyer—the one he’d been forced to hire after Baldwin gave him the boot—had thrown a hissy fit and threatened to withdraw if he insisted on testifying in his own defense. The lawyer had spouted some nonsense about him not being a good witness and doing more harm to his case than good. So he hadn’t had the chance to tell the jury his side of the story. And they hated him. Any fool could see the way they glared at him and rolled their eyes whenever his stupid lawyer made an objection. And when they returned the verdict, they’d immediately revoke his bond and throw his ass in jail.

  So tonight could very well be his last night of freedom for a long, long time.

  And he wasn’t about to miss the chance to even the score with Baldwin.

  He reached for the gleaming pistol on the passenger’s seat and ran his fingers along the butt, smoothing a smudge. Old Faithful. They’d seen a lot of action together, the two of them. She’d never let him down. That was all a man could count on, really. Himself and his gun. He couldn’t count on anything else. Certainly not a woman. Or a business partner.

  Or a lawyer.

  He’d parked in the narrow alley behind Mike Baldwin’s building. He hated to try to pull off something like this downtown—the getaway would be that much harder—but what else could he do? He’d watched Baldwin’s house all week, but he was never home. The alley, actually, wasn’t that bad a spot. He had a clear view of the brownstone’s back door. There were also some trash cans lined up along the curb, but that was no problem. Baldwin had parked his own SUV out there, and when he was ready to leave the office, he’d probably go out that door. Then, bam! He’d pop him and it’d be all over for him.

  A quick shot to the head was better than Baldwin deserved. It still pissed him off when he thought about how Baldwin had dropped him. Just like that. Didn’t that punk know who he was? Didn’t he know he’d be a Hall of Famer as soon as he was eligible? That he was worth a cool seventy million? Hadn’t he heard that on the streets back in LA, his nickname had been Killa? Didn’t that entitle him to a certain amount of respect?