Heart of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you planning on joining the classes for the rest of the quarter? We have a waiting list for the psychology class.”

  With the man who wanted to hurt Sebastian still on the loose and her motor skills not quite up to snuff, she didn’t see how getting away for classes was possible. She rubbed her aching temple. Then why the wave of disappointment? “Not at this time.”

  Liv made arrangements to receive a refund for a portion of the tuition she’d already paid. Then she sat at the table, rolling over the conversation in her mind as she massaged the pulsing points of pain the way Cecilia had taught her.

  Sebastian was wrong. Olivia had not waited. And she hadn’t left him. She’d gone away to find an entry into his world. Criminal Justice. Psychology. It made sense. She wanted to understand him. She wanted to share his world. At least she could understand that much of Olivia. His job seemed the only way to Sebastian’s heart.

  Liv got up abruptly and started to pace. When the room began to spin, she grabbed the counter and stared through the window at the mountain. As she counted out the three pills she’d forgotten to take earlier, she thought about her situation. She was an artist who could no longer remember how to paint. She was a wife who could no longer remember her love for her husband. She was a woman who could no longer remember her hopes and dreams. The blank slate of her mind frightened her as much as the silent expectation in Sebastian’s eyes.

  If she forced him to see her as she was, as someone other than the Olivia he remembered, then things could be different. Then she could discover who she was, what she was good at, what she wanted. How she fit.

  And as Olivia had discovered, the only way to reach him was through his job.

  She raced down the stone steps to the office in the basement. She plowed through the door and skewered Kingsley’s gaze. “Show me how to file.”

  Kingsley hesitated, tweaking a few dials to buy himself time. “Are you sure you want to?”

  He wasn’t referring to her desire, but to the consequences of her actions. Sebastian wouldn’t be pleased. He’d made that clear enough. She couldn’t understand why he wanted to separate the two halves of his life that way. But how else could she show him that she wasn’t simply a part of the background, that she could be of use? She nodded.

  Kingsley smiled. His dimples gave him the look of a mischievous boy. He showed her how to log the information scattered on pieces of paper all over his desk. He showed her how to put together a case file. He showed her how to draw a timeline. In a childish handwriting, she wrote copious reminders into a notebook, made checklists for each task and surprised herself by catching on quickly. The computer translated her handwriting to neat copy and her checklists to near works of art. And Kingsley’s sense of humor, and Cecilia’s encouragement during her afternoon visit, made the whole awkward task pleasant.

  “You’re a sweet man,” she said as she worked the label maker for a new file. A fresh confidence thrummed through her from the tips of her fingers to the pulse point at her ankles.

  “Yeah, that’s me. Everybody’s brother.”

  She cocked her head at his frown. “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Yeah, that’s always the way.” He chuckled. At her puzzled expression, he continued. “The trouble with sweet is that women don’t take you seriously. They tell you their problems. They tell you their deep, dark secrets. But when they want romance…” He shrugged. “Well, they go for guys like Hollywood or Cowboy or—”

  “Sebastian.” Hadn’t she felt that fine net of attraction toward her husband? Because of his looks, as Kingsley suggested? Because of his size? She shifted her position on top of the spare desk where she sat and glanced at the eight piles of papers. It was more than looks, more than breadth, she decided. Something about Sebastian made her feel secure.

  “You know what the worst part is?” Kingsley said. “Guys like Sebastian don’t even notice when they’re being hit on.”

  Her head popped up from its task. The nail of her index finger toyed with the edge of the file balanced on her knees. “Women hit on Sebastian?”

  “All the time. You tell me what’s so attractive about a guy who frowns so much.”

  Liv thought of the steely competence that seemed to wrap around her like a bulletproof vest when Sebastian was around, of the strength yet gentleness of his touch, of the way he made her feel as if he would face an army of barbarians to protect her. “A woman feels safe around him.”

  “But not me?”

  The security Sebastian offered came at a price, she realized. For him there was no yielding, no show of weakness, maybe not even any sharing. The things he gave and the things he took fell on separate sides of a line he’d drawn—a line she didn’t quite understand. Kingsley offered an easy companionship that could disarm and not threaten. She laughed as she labeled another file. “You’re a different kind of safe.”

  He laughed with her. “Like I said, everybody’s brother.”

  “There’s someone out there who’ll appreciate that kind of honesty.”

  He adjusted his glasses and bent toward the computer screen. “Not with these hours.”

  The office that this morning had looked as if it had been flattened by a tornado now looked neat and orderly. The order pleased Liv. She’d done something, and she’d done it well in spite of the holes in her memory or her uncooperative fingers.

  The door suddenly arched open, and Sebastian stood like a slab of granite, hard and cross.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked.

  “It’s called organization,” Kingsley answered. “And it’s about time we got some around here. Now we know where everything is.”

  Sebastian’s gaze met hers. “I’ll see you upstairs in a minute.”

  “I’m not done.” Heart beating fast, she pointed at the three remaining piles of papers on the desk.

  His fists curled at his sides. “Olivia—”

  “Liv. Call me Liv.”

  “Liv,” he said, swallowing hard as if her name was bitter. “I’ll talk to you upstairs.”

  She did not want to surrender. She did not want to feel the helplessness of having someone else making all her decisions. Sliding from the desktop, she stood to face him. “No, I can do this.”

  “She’s done a great job,” Kingsley said. But Liv noticed he was suddenly much busier with the keyboard.

  “It’s not a matter of can,” Sebastian said, slowly as if she were a dull child. “It’s a matter of—”

  “She wasn’t leaving you.”

  SEBASTIAN GLANCED AT KINGSLEY who tactfully got up from his control chair. “Anyone for coffee?”

  No one answered him. He grabbed his mug and swung close to Sebastian as he was leaving.

  “She needs to hear you tell her she’s done a good job,” Kingsley said in a low whisper.

  “This is none of your business.”

  “I know, but it seems to me that when someone tries so hard to—”

  “Kingsley.”

  “Right. None of my business. She just wants to feel needed.” Kingsley closed the door softly behind him.

  Sebastian’s gaze continued to study Liv’s face. In the familiar curve of cheekbones, in the fullness of lips, in the flaring blue of her eyes, he saw a new determination that put up his guard. He didn’t need this streak of stubborn independence. Not when he had so many loose ends to tie to wrap up this case. “Give me a day, and we’ll sit down and talk.”

  “She wasn’t leaving you,” Liv said again. “She was going to find a way to you.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.” But then this new Olivia often spoke in riddles. He scrubbed a hand over his face as if it could wash off the fatigue seeping into his bones.

  “Of course not. Because you’re so busy trying to prove you don’t need anyone.” Sentences broke over each other in jagged waves as if her mind worked faster than her ability to translate thought into words. “You don’t want to need them. You didn’t want to nee
d her. You don’t need me because I’m not her.”

  “That’s not—”

  “I wish I could climb into the shower and scrub away the dead feel of this skin.” She plucked at the shoulders of the red sweater she wore and he could feel the magma rising in her, hot and angry.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, a shield against the coming assault, against the inappropriate arousal her fire caused. He wasn’t concentrating on the right things and that was dangerous.

  “I wish I could wipe away the mist on the mirror and say, ‘Ah, there you are,’ and smile at the reflection I see.” Her hands strangled the air around close to her face. “But wish as I might, the face looking back at me is that of a stranger.”

  “Recovery takes time.”

  She pulled at her short hair and gave a growl of frustration. He had to curl his fingers against his ribs to keep himself from patting down the little horns of hair she’d lifted. “This isn’t something to get over. It’s a different atmosphere. I need to learn to breathe in it. If you shut me out, like you shut her out, if you cut off my oxygen, then how am I supposed to learn how to live here?”

  He thought again how he wanted the old Olivia back. Not because he wanted her unflinching obedience, but because he was hurting, and he was tired, and she’d been the one steady thing in his life. He wanted to walk into the house and see her looking up at him as if he’d created the sun and the stars. He wanted the comfort he’d always found in her smile and in her arms. Seeing her in his office, with his work in her hands, with poise and pluck giving her eyes brightness and her cheeks color, made his footing unsure. “Liv—”

  “I got a call this morning. She had registered to take a course in criminology—”

  “Criminology?” A spike of pain hit him square in the gut. “Olivia?”

  “Don’t you get it? She wanted to understand what you do.”

  He got it all right. He suddenly understood the past year with a crystal quality that was blinding. Why hadn’t he seen it before? The baby. They’d given up on conceiving eighteen months ago. Without that unified effort, their lives had started to drift. Guilt had made him bury himself even deeper in his work.

  And she’d feared that slow deviation. He could see it now in all the little ways she’d tried to redirect the straying flow of their lives. The dancing lessons that were forgotten after he’d missed too many because he’d been called away unexpectedly time and again. The tour of bed-and-breakfast inns that was canceled halfway through when he’d had to leave. The collection of true crime books she’d read, then tried to engage him in discussion.

  And each time he’d let her down, she’d grown a little more quiet, a little more reserved.

  “I made a promise to your father when I married you. My work would never touch you.” The promise had come easily. As a man, he’d believed he could do what he’d failed to do as a thirteen-year-old boy when he’d found his parents knifed to death in their own kitchen.

  He’d been wrong.

  “You always keep your promises.”

  Not a question, but faith. His jaw flinched. She stood close, close enough for him to smell the hint of rosemary and peppermint in her shampoo. It was the wrong scent, he thought. Too fragile for the strong woman she was becoming. “I try.”

  “You promised to love her in sickness and health.” She cocked her head and the brown curls snaked across her cheek. He started to reach for one and wrap the silky ribbon around a finger, then jammed his hand into his pocket.

  He nodded. Where was she going with this?

  She touched his cheek tentatively and shook her head. “So love her and let her go. It takes more strength to let go than to hang on.”

  But if he did, where would that leave Liv? Where would that leave him?

  KILLING BERNIE HAD BEEN a tactical error. But Bernie’d asked for it. Bernie could make him madder than a starved pit bull with just a look. The stupe had the nerve to laugh at him. Laugh! Then he’d asked him to run errands as if he was just another chump. Before he knew it, he’d pulled the trigger and Bernie was gone.

  If Nadine wasn’t always so busy bailing Bernie’s ass out of trouble, then he could have had all he wanted and gotten out of the hellhole his life had become. But he was trapped here because of Bernie. It was always Bernie, Bernie, Bernie—as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

  Now she’d gone and messed this up, too. Bitch. All her fault. If Bernie hadn’t brought her up, if Bernie hadn’t laughed, then everything would still be on track. Now he’d have to think this through.

  Everything was so perfect before. Two more steps and he’d have been there. Bernie and Okie would’ve taken the fall, and he could have ridden off into the sunset to the life he deserved.

  From his perch, he could see the blues and browns of law enforcement milling through the scene like cockroaches. A pair of blues stuffed the white body bag holding Bernie’s body into the meat wagon. Good riddance!

  He’d covered his tracks. All the pigs would find was what Bernie had left behind and their own man’s gun. Dead end. He laughed, patting the second pistol tucked at the small of his back.

  Now he had to let them believe the danger was over because they still owed him that life. And he was going to take it.

  Chapter Nine

  Over the years, Sebastian had grown used to certain things done certain ways. Olivia kept this private world of theirs running smoothly. Mornings meant coffee in a quiet kitchen in the winter, and out on the deck in summer. There was an unspoken understanding that conversation came only after he’d downed his first cup of coffee and caffeine flowed freely through his veins.

  What greeted him this morning was a face-off.

  Liv was trying to bake something. Paula was attempting to do it for her. Cari was hiding behind the pages of an Iris Johansen hardcover, ignoring the whole scene while she stuffed forkfuls of French toast into her mouth. He almost turned back to head down to his office, but the picture Olivia—Liv—made had him staring at her like a pervert at a peep show.

  Unruly curls framed her face, giving her sass. The kitchen’s heat—or maybe the anger she was trying so hard to contain—gave her cheeks sinful color. The bright blue sweater she wore hugged her well-remembered curves as intimately as he itched to. She looked good. She looked great. And God help him, he wanted to peel that sweater off her body and put his hands all over her.

  Totally inappropriate to feel this way.

  “Let me do it.” Liv elbowed her sister’s helping hand away. Flour dribbled out of the cup and onto the green tiles of the floor.

  “Your hand’s shaking.”

  “I’m fine.” Pebbles of frustration made her voice rocky, but she didn’t back down from her sister. Sebastian silently cheered her on. He’d never liked the way Paula tried to keep Olivia dependent.

  “I’m just trying to help.” Paula’s fingers knitted and reknitted so fast that if she’d had yarn in her hands, she’d have a scarf by now.

  “This isn’t rocket science, Paula. The recipe doesn’t even call for a bowl.” The orange juice container shook as she brought it up to measure out a cup.

  Paula’s hands reached out, then snapped back to her body. “You’re spilling.”

  “Cecilia says I need to practice.”

  Paula gasped as Liv overstirred the batter in the pan, causing gobs of chocolate goo to plop onto the counter.

  Liv was a valiant fighter. Had she always been like that? Hints of her determination peppered his thoughts—the baby, the trips, the books. Subtlety had underscored all her efforts, hiding her strength. Maybe in all those years she hadn’t needed him as much as he’d needed her.

  Time for a distraction.

  “Good morning, ladies.” Sebastian stepped into the kitchen and headed for the coffeepot on the counter. Paula beat him to it and poured a cup into his least favorite mug. The brown ceramic sported the face of a troll. He didn’t know where it came from, but looking into those big, round eyes as he drank made him
think of the Three Billy Goats Gruff of children’s book fame. He’d never liked that story, and Cari had dragged that book with her on visits at the Aerie for years.

  “It’s safe now,” he said as he helped himself to a grapefruit half on the cutting board. “You can go back home.”

  As he’d hoped, Paula switched her attention from Liv to him. She retrieved a platter of French toast warming in the oven and plunked three on a plate in front of him. “I’m glad to hear you took care of the problem you created. But that still doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

  “Why not?” He stabbed the grapefruit too hard and juice spurted into his eye.

  “Someone has to keep her safe from you.”

  “Liv is safe.” He would see to that.

  Paula glared at him, one hand on her hip, the other waving a spatula. “And I intend to make sure someone is watching out for her interests until her memory returns.”

  Paula had a way of disregarding evidence that didn’t please her. She’d never accepted that her husband had appropriated her share of her parents’ inheritance to shore up his failing business—even when she was shown her zeroed-out account. She’d never accepted that Roger had resorted to imaginative accounting to hide his failings—even when he was indicted. She’d never accepted that he’d committed suicide—even when she found his body in the bathtub, wrapped in a shower curtain for easy clean up. Pointing out that Olivia would most likely never return to her old self was useless. “I’m sure Cari’s dying to get back to her friends.”

  “Actually, I’m fine. This is giving me time to think, you know. Decide what I’m going to do with my future and all.”

  “Olivia’s offer to pay for college still stands.”

  “See, that’s what I mean,” Paula said. “You’re awfully free with her money.”

  “If I said I’d pay for college, I will.”

  Why was Paula pushing away family money? “I don’t have access to her funds,” he reminded his sister-in-law. “Olivia would still have to make the withdrawal herself.”