“We stay quiet about this,” Harris said.
“Uh, yeah.” Damon scoffed as he tucked his gun into the holster under his jacket. “About that . . . no fucking way.”
“Listen to me.” Harris kept his arm anchored around her shoulders. “This has been dragging on for fourteen months. Now, for some reason, the person who did this or hurt Tabitha or wants to hurt Gabby or did all of it—whatever this person’s crimes are—is running scared. He’s getting sloppy. Making moves that don’t make sense.”
“True,” Damon said. “It could just be a waiting game now.”
“Do you want me to be the target?” The words caught in her throat but she managed to force them out. It might be the right move, and she would do it if necessary, but she wasn’t a martyr.
The thought of being the latest Wright-family tragedy, of leaving this world without finding out who killed her sister, made all the muscles in Gabby’s lower half turn to jelly. There were times that the unfairness hit her harder than any body slam could. She grabbed on tighter to Harris.
“Of course not.” Harris frowned at her as his hand smoothed over her hair. “And you’re not going to be alone again.”
She knew he meant on the island. Her brain could ferret out the true meaning behind his words. But the thought of staying with him, of taking whatever they’d started here and trying to continue it somewhere else, had hope soaring in her chest. Knowing these were the kind of thoughts that could pummel her until she fell to a heap on the ground, she tried to tamp it down. No matter how hard she tried, that flicker of promise seeped through her defenses.
Damon swore under his breath. Stared at the ground and shifted his weight around as the rain started to come down heavier. Then he looked at Harris again. “So, what’s the plan?”
“We go at them one by one. Catch the right one off guard.”
The rain fell in sheets now. The sound of rushing water echoed around them. It drenched their clothes. Before they could say anything else, they ran around to the front of the guesthouse and stood under the small overhang.
“Which one?” Damon asked.
“The chokehold.” She lifted her head and looked from Harris to Damon.
She hated that the thought moved into her head. She’d been blamed so much and so often that she hated to push that burden onto someone else. But the move had been familiar.
Harris frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”
“The attacker put me in a chokehold.” She tried to ignore the anger vibrating through Harris and mirrored in the clench of his jaw.
Damon shook his head. “But he’s an old man.”
She wondered if Damon had been watching at all. “He’s fit and filled with fury.”
“I’m going to fucking kill him.” Harris pushed her hands away, tried to separate their bodies.
She didn’t let go for fear he’d go up to the main house, find Stephen and start punching . . . and maybe not stop. “Harris, no.”
“Listen to her.” Damon grabbed Harris’s arm. “That could be a coincidence. We follow your plan. You two rest and I’ll try to figure out where we start.”
“We can help.” She had to do something. Had to get control back.
Damon’s gaze moved over her body. The gaze wasn’t sexual. It was assessing. “No offense, but you’re a mess.”
She glanced down to the soggy clothes and the mud that once caked her bare knees but was starting to streak down her legs. Her hair hung around her face and strands kept blowing into her mouth. The pouring rain made it worse every second.
“How could she be offended by that?” Rage still made Harris’s voice rough around the edges, but some of the stiffness in his body eased.
“I’ll check everything we’ve collected in the morning.” Damon looked at Harris. “Do you have a weapon with you?”
Harris nodded. “Of course.”
Of course. At this point, lie or not, she was happy he wasn’t an art appraiser.
“I need a shower.” She sighed as she picked a leaf out of her hair.
Harris squeezed her arm. “I’ll help with that.”
“What if the attacker comes back?” she asked, unable to fight off the shiver that ran through her at the thought.
“He wanted you alone or you snuck up on him by accident.” Harris’s gaze didn’t waver as he stared at her. “Either way, he’s not making another move tonight.”
“Unless he wants to be shot,” Damon added.
Their conviction diffused the new wave of panic before it could take hold inside her. “The guy touches me again and I’ll pound him with a shovel.”
Harris winked at her. “I do like your style, Gabby Wright.”
Chapter 21
She stood there, drenched and uncharacteristically shy as she curled her bare toes into the bath mat. Cold, wet, shaken but not broken. Never that.
Harris shut off the water faucet for the bath. He wasn’t really a soak-in-the-tub guy. He showered. Did his business and got in and out. It was a practical exercise. But Gabby needed something else tonight and he was going to give it to her.
“You need help taking your clothes off?” God, he hoped she’d say yes.
She didn’t need sex right now and he wasn’t a fucking animal, but he did want to hold her. Feel her skin against his.
The short PJs set stuck to her skin. His sweater had been soaked and now stretched to twice its size. Pretty soon she’d be able to wear it as a dress. Her hair was plastered to the side of her head and the longer she stood there the more she shook.
He needed her in the warm water, but he had to get her attention first. He lowered his head to try to get her to look at him. “Gabby?”
She finally looked up with a glassy-eyed stare. “What?”
Yeah, not good.
“Baby, get in the water.” The endearment came out of nowhere. He pretended it didn’t happen.
She nodded. Without talking, she stripped off the sweater. It landed with a weird splunk sound when it hit the tile. A wiggle of her hips and she shimmied the wet shorts and underwear down until they pooled at her feet. She stood there in that wet shirt. It clung to every curve. Her nipples pushed against it. He was about to reach for her, to do something, when she lifted that last piece up and over her head.
In just a few seconds, the clothes lay discarded all around her. Big clumps of soggy material. She didn’t do anything to hide from him, either because she was dazed or because she felt comfortable. He hoped the latter explained it. He loved the idea of her being calm and naked in front of him.
She leaned over and dipped her hand in the water. Her arm shot back. “Too hot.”
He could see the goosebumps on her arms and the way she rubbed her legs together as if trying to get warm. She might think it was too hot, but she needed it. “We’re going in.”
Her eyes focused. “Both of us?”
“Is that a problem?” He wouldn’t go near her if she preferred to be alone. He’d fucking hate it, but he would give her whatever she needed. For a guy who never gave a shit how other people felt, all he cared about was making her happy right now.
She bit her bottom lip as her gaze traveled all over him. “In that?”
It was his turn to look down. His jeans encased his legs and his gray T-shirt fit him like a second skin. “Is it okay if I take my clothes off?”
“I’ve seen you naked.” Some of the color came back to her cheeks. A flicker of amusement showed in her eyes.
He took those as good signs, but he still wanted to be sure she understood he planned to touch her. “I don’t want to traumatize you.”
She shook her head. “There is nothing scary about the way you look.”
If there was a record for getting clothes off, he broke it. The jeans weighed about a thousand pounds and twisted and stuck to him as he tried to peel them off. But before she could say a word he dragged them all down, kicking off the last pants leg, and stood next to her naked.
He tested
the water one more time then gestured for her to go first. “Get in.”
The sharp inhale of her breath bounced around the room as she submerged one foot then the other. “Are you trying to boil me?”
Women. “Yes, Gabby. I’m into that.”
“We’re going to soak the bathroom.”
“As if I didn’t plan for that.” He was impressed with how confident he sounded because he wasn’t actually sure of the physics of this. He hadn’t filled the tub and he kept the jets off, but when they sank down together the water level rose to near-spillage proportions.
As soon as he sat down with her back leaning against his chest he didn’t care if they flooded the whole island. An “ah” escaped him as the hot water seeped into his bones. He’d been worried about her and wanting to give her comfort. He hadn’t realized how much he needed it, too.
There with her, body against body, his brain finally turned off. He’d spent days mentally running through scenarios to explain Tabitha’s death. He’d searched for ways to tell Gabby about where he was that night but couldn’t come up with one that didn’t end with her slapping him and leaving.
He’d assessed the suspects and analyzed their moves. He’d seen bank statements and emails—whole lives spilled out in front of him. All of those calculations vanished when he saw her sprawled on the grass in the dark tonight, calling out his name.
He closed his head and shifted until his head hit the small pillow connected to the back of the tub. From this angle, her hair tickled his neck and rubbed against his chin. Looking down the long perfect line of her body he watched her knee peek out of the water then disappear again. The next time her foot broke through the surface, she rested it against the faucet. Her pink-painted toes fascinated him. So feminine. He almost wanted to watch her paint them, to see the concentration on her face as she got them just right.
Her head fell to the side, right next to his bicep. For a second he wondered if she’d dozed off. That worked for him. He’d lift her out and dry her off when their skin started to prune.
“I keep wondering if Tabitha’s last moments were like what happened today,” she said in a soft, almost distant voice.
Where the hell had that come from? His stomach dropped. He skimmed his fingertips up her arm, hoping to lull her back into a relaxed state. “Don’t think about that now.”
The water splashed as she dropped her foot into the water. “She had to be terrified. I knew you were nearby and screamed for you, but she didn’t have anyone with her. Kramer and I were down by the dock, so far away.”
“God, Gabby. I’m sorry.” He had so much to apologize for. He didn’t even know where to start, but he knew she’d tie this one to how long it took for him to get to her. Too late. She’d rescued herself before he got down the hill.
Her fingers curled around his wrist. “No, that’s the thing. I knew you’d rush in if you heard me. That’s who you are.”
He was a liar. That was who he was. A man who said one thing and did another. The fact that she believed in him or saw him as some sort of hero meant everything but it wasn’t real.
“This sense of hopelessness washed over me. When my knees hit the ground, this huge surge of energy rushed through me. Suddenly, I was desperate to fight, but it’s like I was paralyzed at the same time.” Her muscles tensed as she talked. “I fought and kicked but it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get enough momentum . . . didn’t have enough strength.”
One of his arms wrapped around her waist and he dropped his head until his cheek touched hers. Holding her close was as much for him as it was for her.
“She made these questionable choices. Lived her life so privately, so insular.” Gabby sighed as she relaxed against him again. “My parents messed up but she . . . I wish so much had been different.”
The words didn’t fit with most of what she’d said before. Gabby talked about her sister being sweet and dedicated. This was the first time Harris heard Gabby suggest any real frustration with her sister. Sisters fought. Sisters disagreed. To hear Gabby talk, Tabitha was a saint except for the map and the kidnapping, and Gabby even absolved her for that. Both with words and how she’d lived her life.
The slight change in direction filled him with relief. He’d worried Gabby was rewriting history to erase her sister’s flaws. A normal reaction, probably. Harris had seen it before, but holding the dead up as paragons actually robbed them of who they were. Worse, it made the living seem even more flawed.
“It’s okay to be angry with her, you know.” Harris continued to brush a hand up and down Gabby’s arm.
She froze. “What are you talking about?”
“I spent years being pissed off at my mom. She made decisions that put something before me, that took her away from me. She risked our family, ruined it, because she had this compulsion. I didn’t understand it and tried to figure it out.” That last part was hard to admit, but he did it.
Gabby looked up at him. “Your mom made a choice. Tabitha didn’t.”
“She decided to let you take the blame. She decided to separate herself. She decided to, in some ways, be the victim.”
Gabby turned the whole way around in the tub until her legs draped over his knee and she faced him head-on. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
“I don’t hate her.”
He believed her, but that wasn’t the point. The way her eye contact bounced in and out, and she fought back with strong words but no real emotion underneath made him think she knew that. This was a big stall. A way for her to gloss over the hard topic and double back to a place where she felt more comfortable.
“You can be ticked off and still love her, Gabby.” He fought the urge to touch her until they talked this through. “That’s human.”
“It’s sick.”
She’d spent so much time protecting her baby sister that she lost the ability to see Tabitha clearly. There, in the middle of the angst and pain, it was tough to kick to the top and see daylight.
“Tabitha made choices that hurt you.” This was the hard part but he pushed through. “And you let her.”
“Now it’s my fault?”
“I’m talking about how you hold everything. You’re so busy explaining her actions that you never talk about how she hurt you.”
Gabby stood up in the middle of the tub. Water ran down her legs and soapsuds clung to her stomach. “She was . . . my parents coddled her.”
“I’ve heard these arguments.” He slowly got up, giving her time to step away. “Say it, Gabby.”
“I don’t know—”
“Admit that she hurt you. You can’t deal with your emotions if you’re hiding them.” The words stunned him. Here he was giving the lecture when he should be listening to it.
She began to tremble. “You’re talking to me about emotions? You?”
It was a fair argument. He deserved it. He was the last person who should be giving this speech or pushing this talk, but he was the only one there. It fell to him, an imperfect messenger. “Lash out at me all you want.”
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. “What do you want from me?”
Everything. That thought hit him and he shoved it back. He had to concentrate on her now. On what she needed.
“It’s like poison.” He knew that from personal experience.
“What?”
He should reach for a towel and wrap her up in it, but he had to get this out first. “There’s a part of you that’s angry with her. A human part. A real, human, decent part. You loved her and miss her, but you can still be frustrated that she left you, and that when she did she left you in this position.”
She shook her head. No other part of her moved. “I can’t.”
“You protected her, but she never protected you.”
“She was a child.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
“Not at the end. Don’t let her off the hook.” She’d spent a lifetime doing just that, but he didn’t know how to make her see i
t. So, he kept talking, hoping the sound of his voice might break through.
She was shaking so hard that he ripped the towel from the bar and draped it around her.
Her hands came up and she held the edges together as she huddled under it. “Why are you doing this?”
The pain was right there in her voice. He knew he was pushing her to places she didn’t want to go, but he couldn’t stop. Deep inside he knew this mattered. He’d spent so much of his life dealing with a form of this. Of trying to justify someone else’s choices.
“Because in making her the innocent, lifelong, victimized party you’re casting yourself as the bad guy.” He knew the drill. He’d lived it.
“Maybe I was the bad guy.”
And there it was. Her undying belief that she deserved to be punished for something she’d said as a throwaway line at a teen party. He wanted to shake her parents for letting that happen. They had two children and they protected one. His mother hadn’t even done that. “She was a kid. But, hell, so were you.”
“She was my baby sister.”
That same argument. She kept throwing it out but each time it sounded less persuasive. “And she turned your life upside down.” When she didn’t argue with him, he kept going. “You didn’t kill her and you’d give everything to have her back with you. But you’re allowed to be angry about other things.”
He reached for another towel and wrapped it around his waist. It did nothing to fight off the chill, but the anger flowing through him on her behalf kept him warm enough.
“If I . . .” Gabby bit her lower lip. Her voice and that look in her eyes—she was pleading with him now. “She’s dead, Harris.”
“Gabby.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “She didn’t mean—”
“Gabby.”
She shook her head. “I don’t get to be angry.”
“You do. Here, in this room.” He put his hands on her upper arms. “Between us, you do.”
She moved and the water sloshed around her feet. “I don’t want to be angry.”
The Pretender Page 21
