Don't Tell

by Karen Rose

  “And for that alone I want to kill the bastard that laid his hands on you. Does that change the way you think about me?”

  Caroline blinked. “I guess I never thought about it that way.”

  “Then do. This thing will change us both. I swear …” He dropped her wrist and looked away for a moment. She watched his throat work as he stared into the fire. “I swear, Caroline,” he whispered now, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to listen then go on the way you have all this time. All day long I just wanted to …”

  “Howl at the moon?” Caroline suggested, feeling her own eyes sting.

  He looked back, his eyes tortured, but his mouth smiling. “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Then do. Nobody’s going to hear you for miles and miles way out here in the country.”

  His smile dimmed. “And I’ve also wondered if you weren’t a little afraid of me. I’m a big man and I live in a very isolated—”

  Caroline reached up to cover his mouth, to stop the sentence before he finished it. “No. The answer to that is no. Once when you startled me I was afraid, but it was remembering that it was you and not him anymore that made it okay. I’ve never been afraid of you, Max. Never.”

  He closed his eyes as his shoulders sagged in relief. “I’ve been so afraid to hear that answer.”

  “Do you have any more questions before I get started?”

  He opened his eyes and rubbed his thumb against her lower lip. “Yes. Last night, when we made love …”

  “It was the first time for me, Max,” she whispered. “All my life I heard people talk about how wonderful sex was. I never understood until I made love with you.”

  This time his smile made it to his eyes. “That’s what I needed to know.”

  Caroline drew a breath and settled back into the sofa and gave him a shaky smile. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

  “How about at the beginning?” Max lifted his arm, offering her a place to lay her head.

  Caroline nestled against him. “That’s what Dana always says. Okay.” She paused and hoped for wisdom from above. None came, so she started at the beginning. “Once upon a time I was born to parents who didn’t love each other and they didn’t love me. My father was an angry man with big fists who routinely beat my mother and me. I learned early that if he came home drunk the best hiding place was under the front porch.” She shivered, remembering. “It was dark and had snakes, but it still was better than what waited above.” His hand reached out to touch her cheek. She covered his fingers with her hand, holding his hand in place. It helped. Knowing he was there helped her tell the story she hoped she’d never have to remember again.

  “When I was fifteen, I met one of the high-school football players who took me to dinner. I didn’t know anything about sex then. I didn’t know what he’d try after telling me I was pretty and investing a full dollar-fifty in my hamburger and fries. I didn’t even know I was pregnant with Tom until about four months later. My father, of course, was livid. He insisted Rob marry me. In those days, that’s what you did. So I became a mamma myself at sixteen. And a high-school dropout. And a wife.” She sighed. “And a punching bag.”

  She felt Max’s body stiffen. She pressed a kiss into his palm that still cradled her cheek, then released his hand and rubbed his thigh. “His name was Rob and he hit when he drank. Or sometimes when the house wasn’t clean enough, or dinner tasted bad. I found a women’s clinic across the state line and visited whenever he did damage I couldn’t fix.”

  Max’s gulp was audible. “Such as?”

  “Oh, well, let’s see,” she answered, too lightly. She couldn’t help the glibness. It was the only way she knew to cope. “A few radial fractures—from twisting my arm. Broken arms”—she closed her eyes and counted—“five, maybe six times. A broken leg or two. Maybe three. Once he broke my jaw and I had to have my teeth wired. That was an interesting one to explain away. Lots of broken ribs and bruises.” And burns and cuts, she thought, but those injuries were a lot harder to recount. “I tried to run away.”

  “You did?”

  She patted his thigh. His tone was one of cautious optimism—as if he’d wanted to ask if she’d tried to get away but had been afraid to do so. “I did. I found out when Tom was about four and a half that I was pregnant again. Rob was overjoyed. I was horrified. I didn’t want to bring another person under Rob’s control. More selfishly, I didn’t want any more responsibility that would keep me from running away. I knew I had to get away before the new baby was born or I’d be trapped until the baby was old enough to walk fast or know how to be quiet if I needed to escape. I waited and waited for the right opportunity, but it never came. My due date kept getting closer so I finally just decided to do it. To run away. When I was about six months along, I scraped up as much money as I could and put Tom in the backseat and drove to my mother’s house—my father had died by that point. I hoped she could spare a little money—just enough to feed Tom until I found help. That was a strategic error.”

  “What happened?”

  Caroline shook her head, the memory still so crystal clear. “She lectured me. Told me a wife’s place was by her husband. That I should concentrate on being a better wife so Rob wouldn’t be so mad at me all the time. And then …” She shook her head again, still unable to believe what happened next after all these years. “And then she called Rob.”

  “What?”

  She looked up at his stunned expression and shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it either. I was in shock. Then I grabbed Tom and we ran. I’d made it almost to the state line, so close to a secret shelter where Rob couldn’t have found me.” She sighed. “Anyway, I was this close”—she held up her fingers, measuring—“when I looked in my rearview mirror and saw the flashing lights. He’d found me.”

  Max frowned. “He called the police on you?”

  Caroline started to frown back and then understood the source of his confusion. “No, Max. Rob was the police. He was a cop.”

  He closed his eyes, his expression now haggard. “God.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So there wasn’t anyone to help you.”

  She took one of his big hands between hers and focused on tracing the lines defining his palm. “No. Not really. He pulled me over that night and pulled Tom from the back seat. He said I could go … but I had to leave my son behind.” Her throat swelled, remembering. “I’ll never forget the look on my baby’s face. He was so terrified. So I went back.” She looked up to find his gaze fixed on her and she met his eyes, willing him to understand. “He had my baby.”

  Max brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek with a hand that trembled. “You did what you had to do to protect your child. You couldn’t have left him alone.”

  She shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. He …” She cleared her throat. “Rob pushed me down the stairs that night.”

  He swallowed, his throat visibly working. “And you broke your back.”

  “No, not that time. That would have been the second time—after I finally got up the nerve to take out a restraining order. This was the first time I tumbled down the stairs.” She didn’t miss the way his face tightened, but he didn’t say a word. “This was the time I …” Caroline felt her lips tremble, her eyes fill. She dreaded the memory of what came next. It was a memory she’d always managed to stuff back down, but tonight it simply wouldn’t. “I … I lost my baby that night.” She blinked and felt the warmth of her own tears on her face. Max brushed them away. “I felt so guilty,” she whispered, the emotions all coming back. “I hadn’t wanted that baby and—”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” he interrupted harshly. “You didn’t make yourself lose that child.”

  She leaned her forehead against his chest, shuddering when his hand brushed up her spine to cup the back of her neck. The tears came then, hot and fast. “I never told anyone that part, Max. Not even Dana. I was so ashamed.” She gritted her teeth, trying to stop the sobs that shook
her body, stole her breath. “I had a little girl. She lived a few hours and she had all her fingers and toes and blond hair and—”

  He pulled her to him, cradling her in his lap, rocking her against his chest. “Dammit, Caroline,” he said, his voice breaking as well. “That was not your fault. It was the bastard you married. He was responsible. Not you.” He buried his face in her hair. “Not you. Please don’t cry. Don’t cry like this anymore. Please.”

  Caroline drew a deep breath and held it in, battling for control. Failing miserably. “I got to hold her once before she died. She was so incredibly tiny.” She gulped back the sob and turned her face into the strength of his chest. Her arms wound around his neck and he held her, rocking her, one hand threaded up through the hair at her nape, holding her head against him, the other rubbing the length of her back, up and down, his touch desperate.

  Finally, he twisted his fingers in her hair and gently tugged her head back, covering her lips with his, the desperation of his touch flowing into the possession of his mouth. He kissed her until she pulled away to catch her breath, then took her mouth again. He kissed her until the torrent of her grief gave way to something new, something … tender. It consumed her, filling her up until there was no room for the grief or the memories. Until there was only Max holding her, running his hands over her body. Until the tenderness bloomed into desire and she swung one leg over his lap to straddle him, fully participating in the kiss that continued to gather strength.

  Until Max pulled back, each breath he drew expanded his chest to the point of straining the buttons that ran up the front of his shirt. Caroline paused, her hands splayed against his chest, looking down into his face, her body poised over his. Every nerve sizzled. Every muscle vibrated. She was ready. God, she was ready.

  His eyes bored into hers, his face harsh in the flickering firelight. “Say it, Caroline.”

  There was only one response. “I love you,” she whispered. “I do.”

  “Then let me make love to you.” His hands ran down her back, cupping her bottom, stroking, claiming her. Inflaming her. “Let me make you fly.”

  Caroline slid from his lap and stood before him, amazed her legs actually held her upright. Bending over, she grabbed his cane from the carpet and held it out to him with one hand, her other extended open-palmed. He grasped her open hand, then pulled himself to his feet with his cane.

  And as they made their way up the stairs to his bed, stopping to kiss, to caress, to whisper words of longing, Caroline focused on Max alone, steadfastly ignoring the small voice that reminded her the rest of the story was far from complete.

  Raleigh, North Carolina

  Saturday, March 17

  9 P.M.

  “No, Helen.” Steven took another dead fish from the cooler and cleanly sliced off its head, making Helen grimace. “I am not interested in whatever her name is.” He threw the fish head into the bucket at his feet. Normally sitting in a faded lawn chair in his driveway cleaning the day’s catch marked the quiet end of a good day of fishing. Normally Helen never came near him when he was cleaning the fish, so he had anticipated a momentary respite from the constant matchmaking she’d subjected him to all afternoon. He’d been ready to throw her in the river along with Ol’ Granddad who, like Winters, remained stubbornly at large.

  “Her name is Amanda, and she’s a very nice woman. Look, I know your date with Suzanna didn’t go that well.”

  “My date with Suzanna was a complete and total disaster.” Understatement of the day. If Helen insisted on match-making, why couldn’t she turn up at least a few women who’d been standing in the brain line on Creation Day?

  “Still, that doesn’t mean you should give up on women entirely. Lordy, Steven, do you have to do that while I’m talking to you?”

  “Do you have to talk to me while I’m doing this?” he snapped impatiently and her shoulders sagged. His heart melted even though he knew Helen was a better con than most of the criminals he’d busted over the years. “I’m sorry, Helen. I don’t mean to be rude here, but you continue trying to set me up with every available female in Raleigh.”

  Helen’s nose crinkled as Steven gutted the hapless fish. Not as big as Ol’ Grandad, but with the others he and the boys had caught they’d have a nice fried fish dinner after church tomorrow.

  “Not every available female,” Helen insisted primly, her face going slightly green in the yellow glow of the spotlight over his garage door. “Just the ones who’d be good mothers.”

  “God.” Steven fought for patience. “I’m happy the way things are.” He scowled up at her, frustrated when his frown appeared to have no impact. He’d intimidated big huge men into confessing with that look. Helen just looked determined as ever. Dammit anyway. “But I will become decidedly unhappy if you continue to push women into my path against my will.”

  Helen crossed her arms over her chest, one gray brow elevated in challenge. “And then what will you do, Mr. I-think-I-know-everything? Remember I—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know the drill.” Steven blew out a weary breath. Now she was fighting dirty. “You changed my diapers—even the really dirty ones—and you tanned my hide with a switch when I was bad—even though you cried yourself. Helen, please.” He stood and looked down at her, going for his most desperate, pleading look. “I just want to be left alone.”

  Helen pursed her lips, clearly still unaffected. “Wait too much longer and you will be.”

  He hated that smug tone. “That’s fine with me.” Clenching his jaw, he sat down on his lawn chair and pulled another fish from the cooler.

  “Steven, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know why you have to make this so hard.”

  And if he had his way she never would, he thought, separating the fish from its head with one clean swipe of his knife. Nobody would.

  “Fine,” Helen said, wincing when the fish head sailed into the bucket. “Be miserable alone, Steven. See if I care.” She turned for the front door of the house. “See if anybody cares. You’re becoming a bitter man, Steven Thatcher,” she added, her voice trembling. And leaving Steven to the debatable comfort of dead fish, she went into the house.

  He was on his final fish when his cell phone jangled in his pocket. “Damn,” he muttered, reaching for an old towel and wiping most of the fish guts off his hands. No matter. His cell phone had been covered in worse things than fish guts over the years. “Thatcher,” he barked.

  “Agent Thatcher, this is Detective Rodriguez. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No.” Steven looked over his shoulder to see Helen sadly staring at him from the picture window in the dining room and again his heart tugged, even though he knew he was still being manipulated. “Yes, actually. My hands were covered in fish guts.”

  Rodriguez coughed. “I can think of several dozen ways I’d prefer to spend a Saturday night.”

  “Did you call me to criticize how I spend my recreational time, or did you have something specific to say, Rodriguez?” Steven asked, only mildly annoyed.

  Rodriguez chuckled. “I wanted to bring you up to speed on results of our search of Livermore’s computer.”

  “Good stuff?” Steven asked, resolutely turning from the picture window. Let Helen stand there all night if she wanted to. He still wasn’t going out with her Amanda or any other woman.

  “Yeah. Too bad we can’t use everything we found. The warrant was too damn specific. But we did find enough to nail Mr. Livermore for conspiring with Winters. He had indeed broken into the personnel files at Asheville General. We found a file he’d downloaded with the name of every nurse that worked there nine years ago.”

  Steven straightened in his lawn chair. “Excellent.”

  “We also found he’d tapped into the Illinois DMV and searched dozens of names.”

  “All female?”

  “Yes. But we found something else you need to know. Livermore sent a fax of a shorter list of names and addresses of the women to a Mailboxes USA store in Chicago. The names matched
the pictures we found this morning. I called the store and found that a man about the size of Winters signed for the fax yesterday afternoon. He had an ID, Mike Flanders. Everything had been in order so the store owner didn’t think anything about it.”

  Steven closed his eyes and saw the photo of the Mike Flanders persona flash behind his eyelids. Simple, but effective. Winters had the names and addresses. But not the pictures. That was something at least. Still, a detail nagged at his gut. “Why a shorter list of names?” he asked.

  “The women on the short list were all between five-two and five-five, no pun intended.”

  Mary Grace Winters was five-four. “Sonofabitch,” Steven muttered. “He’s hunting.”

  “With a better map than we thought,” Rodriguez said grimly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chicago

  Sunday, March 18

  8 A.M.

  “Good morning.”

  Caroline opened her eyes at the sound of Max’s voice. And sniffed. Food. It smelled wonderful. She blinked in the bright morning light and focused on him standing next to the bed, buck naked, positioning a breakfast tray on the nightstand. From her vantage point she got a view of broad shoulders and a tight rear end that made her mouth water more than the pancakes and syrup he’d piled high on two plates.

  It had been quite a night.

  He was quite a man.

  She pushed herself to sit up against the pillows, automatically pulling up the sheet to cover herself. She wasn’t as comfortable with her nudity in broad daylight as he obviously was. Her fingers toyed with her hair, surreptitiously pulling it down to cover the side of her neck.

  “You made me breakfast?”

  Max poured her a cup of coffee. “Don’t get your hopes up too high. It was a mix my ma found on sale. She must have had some coupons or something. I just added water.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and he bent over the tray, pouring his own coffee.

  Caroline reached down to the floor next to the bed and retrieved his shirt.