BRAVE, Episode Three - the Color of Danger

by Melissa Shaw

“Bless you, Mr. Farrow,” she exulted. “You are a man in a million. And jammies, too; pretty blue ones, with flowers. Another item not on my list. You really do notice a lot, don’t you?”

  “I try,” he said modestly.

  “Okay—” She delved into the bags once more. “Jeans, tops, shoes. Perfect. This is—”

  She rooted around in the bottom of the bag and hauled out a rainbow-colored pile of lingerie: sheer bits of lace and ribbon whose hot pink, black, steamy turquoise, even leopard print, each matched a tee he’d added to the collection. She picked up a pair of panties and the matching bra and dangled it from her hand. The embellishment of tiny satin bows and a rhinestone glimmered under his gaze and she sent him a speculative glance.

  “What, no serviceable plain old white cotton?”

  “Boooor-ring. And you don’t strike me as the plain old white cotton sort of girl, anyway. Besides, browsin’ through that aisle of women’s undies was the best part of my shoppin’ trip, even if I did get some strange looks.”

  “I can read tags as well as anyone. You didn’t buy these at a discount store,” she rebuked him.

  “Well, no. Found some kinda fancy uptown place. And y’know, I coulda bought you some thongs.”

  Chloe sniffed. “Those silly things. I wouldn’t wear them on a bet.”

  “No? I must say, this was sure a new experience. So you gotta give me some leeway somewhere.”

  “I have,” she said in a small voice. “I allowed you to spend your own money on outfitting this worthless body of mine.”

  He lifted the half-eaten apple in tribute. “It was an honor, my lady. One I figure to get back with interest at some point in time.” And his green eyes glinted then darkened. “You call your body worthless again and I’m going to get upset.”

  A rosy flush mounted into Chloe’s cheeks. Not for the first time did she silently berate the quirk which allowed emotion to show through. A successful poker player she would never be.

  “Well, anyway,” she finished up lamely, “thank you, Logan. Now that I have something to wear, I’ll be happy when I can shower and get dressed again.”

  “About that shower—how about later tonight? I wanta get that tape taken off, to give you some relief. Then, when you’re ready for bed, I’ll use some athletic wrap this time.”

  “Oh, Logan, more thanks. A shower and shampoo will feel soooo wonderful.”

  “Yep. Figured. You’re still takin’ the ibuprofen, right? ’Cause you need the anti-inflammatory, to heal. And still breathin’ deep, so you don’t get pneumonia? And gettin’ plenty of rest?”

  She held up her right hand as if she were testifying in court. “Yes, yes, and yes. I’ve been nothing but a sloth all day, Doctor Farrow. Truly.”

  “Good to hear. That’s the best thing for you. So whaddya say to some supper; maybe Steak Diane, salad with vinaigrette dressing, and some raspberry chocolate cheesecake?”

  “It sounds marvelous, Logan. And I’m starving. Do you mean to say you’re going to whip up those delicacies in your kitchen?”

  Eyes closed, afghan heaped up under his head like a pillow, he was sprawled on the couch, with one leg stretched out onto the floor and the other taking up the whole space of three cushions. He murmured around a yawn, “I could. If I were so inclined. And if I had the ingredients.” He yawned again. “I am a Sous Chef, after all.”

  She regarded him with amusement. “I believe I’ve heard that before. How about some tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich, instead?”

  “Yeah, I could go for that.” He opened one eye, considering. “You plannin’ to cook?”

  “Well, you’ve been working all day, and then you ran all over creation, buying what I needed. Yes, I think I can scrape together some supper.”

  Much later, in his bedroom, he knelt before her to snip away the tape wrapped so snugly about her middle. She glanced down at his bent head. “How long do you think this will take to heal, Logan?”

  “Dunno exactly. If you’ve got ribs that are actually cracked or broken, it might be a month before you’re back to normal. But if this is only a bad bruise, then not so much. Okay, hang on, it’s gonna hurt gettin’ this stuff off.”

  He hadn’t lied. She hugged the pajama top to her bosom and sucked in a tremulous breath: “Ouch. Ouch. Oh, ouch,” as he worked to remove what he’d constructed twenty-four hours before.

  “Damn you, Farrow, why do you always have to be so damned honest!” she muttered when the last inch had finally been peeled away.

  He rose to face her with an anguished expression, bundling the used tape into a ball. “Chloe, I hope you know I would never deliberately hurt you. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. But I felt you needed the extra support, at least for the first night.”

  “Oh, Logan.” Chloe curved her palm against his warm, bearded cheek. “I know. By now I’ve come to realize that you have only my best interests at heart. It’s over, it’s done with.”

  “Good. And pretty soon we’ll snap a couple more shots of the bruises, and then I’ll get you settled for the night with some athletic wrap. Not too tight—just to help hold things together.”

  She paused, put one hand on her pajama’d hip, and gave him a mock pout. “Logan Farrow, I’m beginning to question your pure motives. All you want is the chance to catch a flash of my assets.”

  “Oh, yeah?” The immediate spark of grin, ingenuous as a teen-aged boy. “And who could blame me? From the little I’ve seen so far, I’d be one lucky dude to get the full monty, wouldn’t I?”

  “In your dreams,” she said scathingly. “Now I’m going to go take that shower.”

  “You do that. And remember to breathe deep.”

  Chloe limped away to the bathroom and took the liberty of flipping him off. His guffaws followed her into the shower.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The week of grace passed by all too quickly. Each day the bruises faded from purplish-blue to yellowish-green, the black eye lightened, and the pain of the injured ribs eased. She was strong enough to shower and dress, but Logan continued limiting her physical activity. She cooked a little, cleaned a little, stuffed an occasional load of laundry into the washing machine and that was about it. How boring.

  Logan’s companionship, in the early mornings and in the evenings, made the whole situation bearable. Hell, he made it pleasant.

  This sharing, this sense of intimacy, was such a novel experience: the simple joy of pleasant conversation between a man and a woman (“Hey, wanta another cup of coffee?” “Thanks, I’d love some.” or “I found this 10,000 piece puzzle tucked away in the closet; wouldja like to work on it with me?” “Sure. Couldn’t you have found one any bigger?”); the give-and-take of an amiable squabble; the teasing and banter and easy laughter. It was a breath of fresh air.

  It was a journey of discovery that’d begun with a rescue and continued with friendship. The more she learned about him, the more she liked him. It was tough to keep her hands off.

  One day, Logan went off to work as usual, and she screwed up her courage, threw on a pair of jeans and a tee and slipped out into the big wide, Halterman infested world. God help her. Even climbing into a cab gave her the jitters. David might’ve located her by now; he might have someone watching the building, ready to send in an assault team.

  Quaking inside, she made it to her bank, and her goal: the safety deposit box she’d maintained during her two New York years.

  Paranoid!

  A quick survey of the bank lobby: clear; a careful scan of the wide marble steps descending to storage: clear; a deliberate perusal of every corner of the vault room: clear.

  The tentacles of David’s power reached far and wide, and his information was about every facet of her life thus far. That’s why she fully expected to find the box empty and her entire future puddled away.

  It wasn’t.

  She drew in a great gasping breath. Not of relief, not here, not vulnerable and unprotected. The relief would come o
nce she had safely returned to the temporary haven of Logan’s apartment.

  Hurry,hurry; don’t linger, don’t inspect; fill the tote and go!

  She unlocked the box with the small facilities key she kept on a chain around her wrist. Then she took it all, practically turning the box inside out: CD’s, new passport and driver’s license forms, divorce decree, checkbook, credit cards, and other legal documents.

  Then Chloe returned upstairs to the main floor, still shaking with apprehension, though she kept as straight a face as possible. She approached the window and studied the middle-aged teller carefully. She handed over a signed request to withdraw most of what remained in her checking and savings accounts.

  “Oh, that’s quite a large sum, dear,” expostulated Mrs. Radcliffe – name on the desk said so. “Are you leaving us for another institution?”

  “In a way,” Chloe conjured up a weak smile. “I’m moving soon, and I’ll need my funds available.”

  “Moving? We’re sorry to hear that; you’ve been an excellent customer. Where will you be settling down?”

  The question was an innocent one, inspired by pleasant conversation with a valued customer. But the alarming drumbeat started again: Hurry, hurry; don’t linger, don’t inspect; and her mouth went dry with renewed fear.

  “Uh—Phoenix,” was the first location that popped into her head. “I’ll be moving to Phoenix.”

  “Ah. Quite a distance. You didn’t want to use a wire transfer? Miss Sheldon, how would you like your funds—in 50 dollar bills? Or 100’s?”

  By the time she got to Logan’s apartment, she was a quivering, sweaty mass of ectoplasm. She slammed the door and bolted it like a crazy person out of hell.

  Logan paced from room to room, from window to window, sick at heart and haggard with worry. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded. “My God, I came home early and found you gone, no note, no information, not lettin’ anybody know if somethin’ happened!”

  “Logan, I’m so sorry.” She leaned flat against the double-bolted door, steadying her trembling legs. “I went to the bank, and it took longer than I expected. See, I went to the bank,” she said and opened the tote to show him, “all by myself.” At least she’d had make up on to cover the rest of the bruises.

  He pulled her tight into his arms and held her close, one hand spread firm across the middle of her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. “Chloe, Chloe,” he faltered. “You bein’ gone scared me to death!”

  “I was scared to death, too, Logan. But I had to do this. I had to.” She reveled in everything that was alluring about this man: the powerful thudding of his heart, the pulsing of blood in his veins, the brace of muscles from his collarbone to groin, and the sense of being wrapped up.

  She trembled all over, with the easy tears a blink away.

  “You did good, kid,” he assured her huskily. “You did good. I just wish you hadn’t gone rushin’ off on your own. I woulda gone with you.”

  She circled his body with her arms, hugging him as if she’d been gone for years instead of just hours. If he could wrap up and protect, she would try doing the same. In some aspects, men and women weren’t that different.

  “I know you would have, Logan. But I have to start doing things by myself, you see. It’s a terrifying world out there, with David in it. I find I’m peering around every corner, glancing through every window, watching everyone walking by or driving past. Just waiting for the minute when he swoops down and rips me away from here.”

  His skillful hand smoothed down the long loose hair in a caress. “You can’t hide out here forever,” he agreed gently. “But this was a big first step. I’m proud of you, Chloe. Everything will be okay, I promise you.”

  She looked up at him, wanting to trust, shrinking from trust. Nothing would be okay, ever again, as long as David existed out there.

  “Listen, swee—” Logan stopped, swallowing whatever he’d been about to say. Other than his casual “Bella Mia” of the other day, he had used no cute little pet names. Logan radiated a quiet, commanding self-confidence. Maybe he wasn’t the type.

  “Yeeeessss?”

  “Um—Listen, Chloe,” he began again, “I have to go back to Odessa for a little while. I’ve got some stuff to finish up. Wanta come along with me?”

  “Oh.” She instantly retreated, her spirit withdrawing somewhere into the distance. “No, I don’t think so. But thanks anyway for asking.”

  “Well, I’d sorta like you to see my kitchen from a different angle this time. I’d like your company. And I’d like to cook for you.”

  That tore it. Had he been one of the Wise Men, laying before her gold, or frankincense, or myrrh, he could have offered no greater gift than to give of himself and his talent. Chloe felt her throat clog up. Damn such useless sentiment.

  She’d locked it up and put it away for so long and now it bombarded the barrier she’d erected and demanded to be set free.

  “In that case, I’ll take a quick shower.” She looked up at him, at his bigness, his gentleness, his niceness, and she smiled, “And then I’d be honored to come along.”

  All the candles in heaven lit up behind his eyes. Logan-like, he simply smiled in return. “Swell.”

  The magnificence of Odessa lay on the other side of the moon by comparison to this neighborhood, only a twenty-minute drive by distance.

  Logan parked his truck in the same lot he’d used that fateful week or so ago and looked across at her in the dim light. “Ready?”

  As much as she wanted to be with him, to return what he’d done for her, the old cold chills chased up and down her spine again. This place was where David’s reappearance had shocked her into near-hysteria and flight.

  She nodded, fighting down fear. “Ready.”

  They let themselves in through Odessa’s back door—the same used in her escape— and progressed through the kitchen and into the restaurant itself. Logan seated her with a flourish at the small corner table least favored by diners but most convenient to kitchen access.

  “Okay, first comes a glass of our most popular white wine,” he explained, beckoning to one of the servers. “Napkin, my lady. And silverware. Now, relax and prepare to be amazed.” With the customary, reassuring crinkle of his green eyes, he disappeared through the door an arm’s length away.

  Huddled in the welcome shadows, Chloe sipped what tasted like nectar of the gods from her glass and glanced apprehensively around.

  The place was jumping. It was a Saturday night, after all, and Odessa was one of the best restaurants around. No wonder Logan was so happy with his work here. Large warm wooden squares overlay the ceiling, spotlighting the array of decorative lights. Tables had been arranged for the privacy of diners and for the convenience of servers, each one a separate island out of the mainstream.

  An eye-catching landscape framed by burnished metal dominated one wall; the long wall opposite boasted a window covered by some sort of silvery mesh. To add to the ambiance, tall urns holding stems of lush purple and soft green had been placed in a display.

  Chloe expected David to stride purposefully through the front door at any minute, but she tried ignoring the fear. Better not to borrow trouble; better to concentrate on savoring tonight’s experience.

  And then Logan appeared in an unfamiliar double-breasted dress white tunic and impressive toque.

  “Your appetizer, my lady.” He swept forward carrying a plate brimming with the delicious aroma of spices and greens, only to inform her, “Pan-seared jumbo scallops. Along with oven tomatoes, baby artichokes, organic frisee, and saffron essence. Please enjoy.” A little bow and he disappeared once more.

  For just a split second Chloe sat unmoving, overcome by awe and abounding pride. The hunger pangs had replaced the jitters, she picked up her fork. Scrumptious. Utterly scrumptious.

  Next to appear was “The house salad, my lady.” A mere curl of Logan’s hand brought his server over to remove the used dishes. “Baby greens, kale, dandelion, grape tomatoe
s, radish, cucumber, and sourdough croutons. Please enjoy.” Another little bow, and he was off again.

  She giggled. This was starting to be fun. And she had had so little fun in her life! Her only disappointment, if it could even be called that, was that he was not sitting across the table from her, enjoying the adventure as much as she was. Salad fork, napkin, and a sip of the wine that had begun to do strange things—happy, uplifting, offbeat things—to her mood and mobility.

  “Breast of chicken, my lady.” Logan had reappeared while she was still daydreaming over her meal. “Pan roasted, with mushroom Marsala butter sauce, roasted red pepper, Jalapeno cheddar grits, and a drizzle of truffle oil. Paired with Hasselback potatoes baked in olive oil and Maldon sea salt. Please enjoy.”

  “Logan, I mean Chef.” Her interruption halted his slight bend from the waist, and he paused. “This is wonderful, truly divine, but can’t you join me? It’s lonely being here by myself.”

  No answering smile, only a lift of the square chin and a glint of the green eyes. “One more course, my lady.” Then a repeat of the formal bow and away he went.

  Chloe sighed. If this was some drama he’d prepared along with his menu of rich dishes, then she’d willingly go along to the finish. Just because it was Logan.

  Business proceeded around her, sights and sounds and scents emphasizing the real appeal of this place, with a clink of cutlery, a subdued thrum of conversation, a framework of classical music. She checked around her again —just in case— and tasted the sauce, then worked her way through the rest. Nirvana. She scooped up every morsel.

  Logan reappeared carrying a small white tray. Upon it sat a custard dish of dessert drizzled with a bit of glaze, powdered sugar, and fruit. The preparation. “Strawberry crème brulee, my lady.” The presentation. “Please enjoy.” The bow.

  “Logan!” she wailed her disappointment.

  He gave a hint of a grin, and a tiny salute. No explanation, just the disappearing act again.

  Chloe looked at what he’d served. Red. Favorite color—red. Why favorite? The color of passion. The color of intensity. The color of danger. No. No, she wouldn’t think of that now. She wouldn’t let David intrude.