The Woman He Knows

by Margaret Watson

  Moments later, her clothes were in a pile on the floor. He traced her breasts, slid his hands down to her belly, down her legs, back up again. “You’re so beautiful. More beautiful than I imagined.”

  She held out her hand. “Come to me,” she said.

  He kissed her again. Gently, as if he had all the time in the world. He touched her breasts, traced circles around her nipples. Roamed lower, tangled his hand in the curls between her legs. Brushed over her center.

  By the time he reached her feet, she was panting. Aching for him. “Patrick. Please.”

  He took one nipple in his mouth, slid his hands between her thighs. Touched her once, and she climaxed against his hand.

  Convulsing around him, she reached for him. As he slid inside her, tension built again.

  They moved in unison, their arms wrapped around each other, their mouths fused together. As she tumbled over the edge again, he groaned into her mouth, joining her.

  * * *

  AFTER THEIR BREATHING slowed and their bodies cooled, he eased away then pulled her close again. She wrapped her arms around him and tangled her legs with his, nuzzling his neck. Inhaling his scent.

  “Darcy.” He brushed her hair away from her face. Kissed her again. “That was...”

  “Amazing,” she said, sinking into the kiss. Desire stirred again, and she wriggled against him.

  She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in him again, to make love with him for the rest of the night. But as she breathed him in and listened to the steady beat of his heart, a tiny worm of shame squirmed inside her.

  “Do you think I was using you?” she asked in a small voice.

  His pause was a fraction of a second too long. “Of course not.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Patrick.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Okay. Maybe I thought I was your bridge guy. The one after a breakup. The one who gets you over the last guy so you can move on.”

  Of course he’d think that. She’d practically told him so. “No.” She leaned back and looked him in the eye. He deserved the truth. “You’re not. You think other guys haven’t been interested in the last three years? Nice, normal guys? Good-looking guys that women drool over?”

  He frowned, but his eyes twinkled. “Are you trying to make me jealous?”

  “Of course not. I don’t play those games. I’m just trying to tell you that I’ve had other...opportunities to get over my ex. I’ve never been interested.

  “Until you walked in that day of Frankie’s engagement party. I was working. I wasn’t looking. But I saw you.”

  “You looked like you wanted to run the other way.”

  “I did.” She couldn’t tell him the whole reason—that he was an FBI agent. She was a felon. “I wasn’t ready to get involved with anyone.”

  “But you succumbed to my devastating charm, right?”

  “I succumbed to something.” She let herself get lost in his arms, not quite ready to face him while she said the rest of what she needed to say. “You’re honest, Patrick. To a fault. You’re kind. You care about your family, enough to leave your job behind for months.” Everything I need right now.

  “You make me sound boring. Dull.”

  She slipped her leg between his. “You’re not. You’re sexy. Exciting. And you make me very hot.”

  His fingers tightened on her hip. “Tell me more.”

  “Isn’t that enough?” she teased. “I’m at your mercy now.”

  He rose up onto one elbow, slid his hand down her leg. “Yeah? That opens up lots of possibilities.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “But it’s not enough, Darcy.”

  He wanted to know about her past. About Tim. And she couldn’t tell him everything. She could tell him some things, though. And she wanted to.

  Just not face-to-face.

  She slipped away from him, stood up and wrapped her robe tightly around her. Stared out the window at the night. A plastic grocery bag tumbled over itself down the street, catching momentarily on the bumper of a car parked across from her house. Breaking free and blowing away.

  “You were right,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’m just like Theresa. My husband knocked me around. Hurt me. So I finally left. I went to a shelter, got a divorce, came to Chicago and started a new life.”

  “Who was he?”

  “I won’t tell you that. I know you, Patrick. You’d go after him.” That would be dangerous for both her and Patrick. Tim had gotten out of prison a few months ago. He was probably looking for her and the information she had. If Patrick got in his way, Tim wouldn’t care that he was an FBI agent.

  “I’ve been living in the shadows for the past three years. Watching Theresa walk into that shelter tonight showed me I needed to get some courage. To get past what happened to me. I need to be normal—the person I want to be. Because if I’m not, I’ll always be T— His victim. Then he wins.”

  “I want to know more about you, Darcy.” He paused. “Is that even your real name?”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. She wanted to give him more. But she couldn’t. “That’s all I can give you. I hope it’s enough.”

  “Tell me who you really are.”

  “I’m trying to protect you.”

  “I don’t need you to stand in front of me.” The sheets rustled, then he was behind her. He stroked her hair, as if she was a wild animal he had to reassure. “You’re not protecting me. You’re protecting yourself.”

  “I’m doing what I need to do.” She couldn’t bear it if Patrick was hurt because of her.

  He continued to caress her hair. “You running tomorrow morning?”

  She struggled to drag her thoughts out of the deep hole of fear and dread. “Maybe. Later than usual, probably.”

  He kissed her head. “I kept you up past your bedtime.”

  “I’m glad you did.”

  “Me, too.” His hands fell away, and she heard the clink of his belt as he pulled on his pants. The brush of fabric against skin as he buttoned his shirt.

  When she turned, he was tucking his gun against the small of his back and stepping into his shoes. “Call me if you decide to run.”

  “Okay.” God, she wanted him to stay.

  But she couldn’t ask. If he stayed, she’d end up saying things she’d regret.

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll call, Patrick.”

  “Good.”

  She followed him out of the bedroom. Cat was curled on the sofa in the dark living room, sound asleep. Miffed, probably, that his spot in her bed had been usurped.

  Patrick stood at the back door, his fingers hovering over the locks. Instead of turning them, he glanced over his shoulder. “Tonight was great, Darcy. Let me know if you want to do it again.”

  He opened the door, waited for her to lock it behind him, then ran down the stairs. Feeling desolate and more alone than she ever had, even in the darkest days of her marriage, Darcy hurried into the living room.

  She was just in time to see Patrick trot to his SUV. As he slid behind the wheel, he glanced up and saw her. Nodded. Started the engine.

  She pressed her palm to the window and watched as he drove away.

  Their lovemaking had been beautiful. Earth-shattering.

  So why did she feel so empty?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  PATRICK SLAMMED his fist into the steering wheel, jerked the gearshift into Drive, and pulled away from the curb. Sap that he was, he couldn’t stop himself from looking up at her place.

  She was standing in the window, watching him leave.

  Wishing she’d asked him to stay?

  Or glad that he was gone?

  The wind pushed at his vehicle as he navigated the deserted streets to Nathan’s house. The porch li
ght was on, the house dark inside. Nathan wasn’t waiting up for him.

  Thank God. He didn’t want to confront his brother right now. He’d rip him apart if he did.

  Nathan was hiding too much from him.

  Just like Darcy.

  Both of them keeping secrets. Shutting him out.

  Yanking the front door open, Patrick pushed inside. Stopped at the door to the den and watched Nathan, asleep in the hospital bed. As always when Nathan slept, the casts were all Patrick saw. They looked awkward. Uncomfortable.

  A burden.

  Patrick didn’t care. Tomorrow, he and his brother would have it out. Nathan would tell him what was going on. Patrick had a pretty good idea, but he needed to hear it from Nathan. For his own protection.

  Tonight, Patrick had stolen O’Fallon’s wife and jailed his bully boy. The guy would put two and two together, and he would be out for blood.

  Nathan’s blood.

  Patrick wouldn’t let that happen. Nathan would accept his help, whether he wanted to or not.

  He might be on the outside of the family circle, but it didn’t matter. He was going to fix things. And he wasn’t going back to Detroit until he did.

  He made his way through the dark house, anger still boiling. He wanted to throw something. To hear something break. He yanked open the cabinet above the stove and reached for the Jameson’s.

  No. He didn’t want a drink. He wanted to hit someone. Preferably Nathan.

  His gym bag sat at the back door where he’d dropped it last time he’d gone to work out.

  Perfect.

  Slamming the cabinet closed, he grabbed the bag and headed to the all-night gym.

  Two hours later, Patrick had put in ten miles on the treadmill, climbed about fifty stories on the stair-stepper and was beating on the small bag with a steady, punishing rhythm. Even through the bulky boxing gloves, his knuckles ached every time they connected.

  This morning, Patrick would deal with Nathan. They’d have their come-to-Jesus talk. And Darcy?

  The bag sang as Patrick pounded on it. Darcy was keeping him on the outside, too. He’d thought that asking him to make love with her meant she trusted him. Completely. But she’d only trusted him with her body.

  Even the woman he...liked didn’t let him inside her fences.

  They’d had sex last night. Earth-shaking, twelve-on-a-scale-of-ten sex, but it didn’t mean she had to share her deepest, darkest secrets with him.

  She’d said she wanted to make love with him. Apparently, she’d meant sex. Not lovemaking.

  He’d thought sex was all he wanted, too. Now? It felt empty. Unsatisfying. The guy who wasn’t going to get serious about a woman, who wasn’t interested in a long-distance relationship, suddenly wanted more.

  How the hell had that happened?

  Bang. Bang. Bang. He put all his weight behind the punches, and the bag flew into the spring holding it in place.

  What was she doing now? Had she crawled back into bed and fallen asleep?

  Or was she awake, too?

  Feeling as hollow and lonely as he did?

  His left hand flew past the bag, missing it completely. Before he could react, the bag slammed into him.

  He staggered back hard as pain exploded on the left side of his face. The bag slowed and gradually stopped. Patrick ripped off the gloves and tossed them to the floor. Touched his face. No blood, thank goodness. But the eye was already swelling.

  He walked unsteadily to the ice machine, grabbed a handful of cubes and wrapped them in a towel. Holding it to his throbbing eye, he dropped onto a weight bench. Perfect way to end this damn night.

  * * *

  THE SUN HADN’T RISEN yet when Patrick walked into the house an hour later. Nathan was up already, sitting at the kitchen table, staring into a cup of coffee. When he lifted his head, there were lines of weariness on his face, and his eyes were shadowed.

  He tried to smile, though. “Looks like that hurts. You’re losing your touch, bro,” he said.

  Patrick touched the swelling around his left eye. “Yeah. Don’t box in the middle of the night.” Or when you’re thinking about a woman.

  “Good rule to live by,” Nathan said. He swiveled the wheelchair and followed Patrick into the kitchen. “Waited up for a while, but you didn’t come home last night.”

  Patrick tried to block out the memories of Darcy. “There was some excitement at Mama’s.”

  “Yeah? What was that?”

  Patrick poured himself a cup of coffee and took a bag of peas out of the freezer. Holding the bag over his throbbing eye, he sat at the kitchen table.

  “Your buddy Chuck ran into trouble.”

  Nathan’s knuckles tightened on his coffee cup. “What kind of trouble?”

  “He was carrying. Tried to draw down on a cop. Got himself arrested.”

  “What the hell?” Nathan paled. “How could you let that happen?”

  “How was I supposed to stop Kopecki from arresting him?”

  “Danny Kopecki?” Nathan’s gaze narrowed. “He’s a buddy of yours.”

  “Yeah. We had some classes together at Saint Pats, and he still lives in the neighborhood. He was having a drink at the bar.” Patrick tossed his coffee into the sink. What the hell did he feel guilty about? He was trying to help his brother.

  “Oh, God.” Nathan’s hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “I need to make a phone call.” He reached into the bag hanging from one of the handles of his chair and pulled out his cell.

  Patrick leaned forward before Nathan could punch in a number. “The woman who came with Chuck? Theresa? We took her to a women’s shelter.”

  Nathan dropped the phone on the table. “You did what?”

  Both fear and relief flashed across Nathan’s face, and Patrick eased back in his chair. “Yeah. She broke her arm last week.”

  Nathan clenched his teeth and stared out the window. “She didn’t break it. Her bastard of a husband did that for her. Darcy has been worried sick about her.”

  “How could you cut a deal with the guy, knowing he was a wife-beating asshole?” Patrick shifted the cold bag over his eye and took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice even. He needed to stay calm. It wouldn’t help anyone, especially Nathan, if Patrick tore a chunk out of him.

  His brother swallowed once, then again. He turned his head slowly to face Patrick. “How did you find out?”

  “Did you really think you could keep it hidden? There was money missing from a deposit after I brought the books home for you. You’re worried sick. I looked at the books and put two and two together.”

  Nathan’s hand curled around the control of his wheelchair, as if he was thinking about making a break for it. Patrick tensed, ready to block his way. They were going to have this out. Right now.

  But instead of putting his wheelchair in motion, Nathan slumped in the seat. “I didn’t know about Theresa before I made my deal with O’Fallon. I swear. By the time I did know, it was too late. The money was spent.”

  The square yellow clock that had been on the kitchen wall since they were children hummed, and the black hand moved stiffly to the next minute. The coffeemaker gurgled once, and a drop of water fell from the faucet into the stainless steel sink.

  “Tell me everything, Nate.”

  * * *

  THE WEAK LIGHT OF early morning poured into the tiny bedroom at the shelter as Darcy sat with Theresa, holding her hand.

  “Are you sure it was safe to come here?” the woman asked. Her voice sounded hoarse. Strained, as if she’d been crying.

  “I was careful. No one followed me.” She leaned closer. “Are you all right? You sound raspy.”

  Theresa touched her throat. “I...cried most of last night.”

  Darcy had c
ried, too, her first night in a shelter. She squeezed Theresa’s hand. “I know it’s terrifying. Your life is never going to be the same. But that’s a good thing, Theresa. You made the right decision.”

  “I know I did.” Theresa looked around the tiny room with its old, battered dresser and the small bookcase that held a mix of fiction and nonfiction. She ran a hand over the threadbare brown chair where she sat. “It was the first night in years that I didn’t wake up twenty times, afraid he was coming into my room. The first night I slept in peace.”

  “The first of many. You don’t have to make any decisions today. Or tomorrow, or next week. You have time to figure out what you want to do. Kelly has therapists coming here every day. You can talk to one, if you like. They’ll help you sort out your options.”

  “I’ve been thinking about escaping for a long time. I know what my options are. I know what I have to do.”

  “What’s that?” Darcy asked softly.

  “I have to disappear. I need to find someone who can get me a new identity and help me start a new life. Somewhere far away from Chicago.” She watched Darcy steadily. “It’s the only way I’ll be safe. My husband’s too powerful in this city.”

  Darcy’s stomach roiled and her chest ached. “We can help you document your abuse. You can have him arrested. Tried. He’ll go to jail.”

  Theresa snorted. “You’re naive if you think that will happen. If he gets arrested, he’ll be out of jail the same day. If he goes on trial, he’ll be acquitted. My only chance is to vanish.”

  “You don’t have to decide that right now.”

  “There’s no decision to be made. It’s my only chance.” She stared at Darcy. “That’s what you did, isn’t it?”

  “My circumstances were different than yours, Theresa.” Actually, they were eerily similar. Her husband had been a powerful man, too.

  “Do you know how I can get a new identity?”

  “That’s not the way to go, Theresa.”

  Please don’t ask me to do it for you. To make that choice. She’d just begun to explore the possibilities with Patrick. If she helped Theresa get a new identity, she’d be committing a crime. She’d destroy any chance she had of making something work with Patrick.