by Nina Bruhns
Again Fox scrutinized Grace, then him, with a penetrating stare. "The question is, what do you want?" His gaze flicked to the rumpled bed around them, then back to Grace. "'Cause, I don't know who the hell you are, but one thing's for damn certain. You are not Muse Summerville."
After a stunned moment Creole muttered another curse. So much for their little charade. How had the creep guessed so quickly?
"What's the matter, cop? Your plan backfire?" He had a fleeting thought for the two FBI agents stationed below in the courtyard. How had Fox managed to slip past them?
As if reading his mind, Fox sneered. "Don't hold your breath waiting for those two clowns to come to the rescue. That coffee I delivered should keep 'em out for hours."
Grace had probably been shocked speechless by the revelations up to this point, but suddenly she scooted around him and blurted, "What we want is my sister. What have you done with Muse?"
"Your sister, eh?"
Creole tensed his muscles to jump the guy while he was distracted. Too late. Fox sensed his move and trained the gun on Grace's temple.
"I wouldn't."
"Easy." Creole lifted his hands, palms out.
"Enough of this crap. Just hand it over, and I'm outta here."
A whip of alarm bolted through him. "Hand over what?"
"Don't play games with me. I know you got it out of the safety deposit box today. Just give me the damned tape. Now."
Blind panic paralyzed him. He couldn't lose the video! It was his only evidence against Davies. Without it his brother's murderer would walk. Over his dead body would that happen.
"We don't know what you're talking about," Grace chimed in with far more conviction than he could have summoned at the moment.
But Fox wasn't buying. Keeping the automatic leveled at them, he glanced around the bedroom. A sinister smile slithered onto his lips when he spotted the cassette sitting in full sight on top of the TV. He reached for it.
"Non!" Creole lunged.
In slow motion, he saw Fox raise his weapon and sweep it toward him as he sailed through the air, determined to bring the bastard down. Grace screamed.
It was the last thing he heard before the world exploded and everything went black.
Chapter 14
"Creole!"
On her hands and knees, Grace dipped a cloth in a bowl of ice water and applied it to her lover's bleeding forehead. "Please, baby, wake up."
She weighed the consequences of slapping his cheeks, and decided a light smack was worth the risk, if it revived him.
"Come on, honey. Auri? Open your eyes," she urged his inert form as she gave him a few gentle slaps. He had a nasty gash on his temple, and had been out for almost a full minute. She was getting desperate.
Relief flooded through her when he cracked open his eyelids and peered groggily at her. "Where am I?"
"On the bedroom floor. I didn't dare move you after Fox whacked you over the head with his gun. Are you all right?"
His miserable groan spoke volumes. "He got away?"
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice wavering with contrition. "You were hurt, and I didn't know what to do. I've never shot a gun—"
"Hush. It's my fault. Not yours." Creole's eyes squeezed shut, and a look of such anguish swept over his face her heart twisted. "All my fault."
"But how could you have known?"
"I'm a cop! It's my job to know!" he barked out, and jerked upright to a sitting position. He immediately grabbed his head. "Damn, that hurts!"
"I have some ice here," she said soothingly, and handed him a bag with cubes in it. Already, his angry, bleeding wound had grown a bump the size of an egg. "It'll help bring down the swelling."
"I don' want any damn ice! I'm goin' after Fox and getting that tape back!" He stumbled to his feet and promptly collapsed into her arms.
"You're not going anywhere right now. Sit down," she firmly ordered, leading him to the bed. "Better yet, lie down while I call a doctor."
"Grace—" He grabbed the sleeve of the robe she'd thrown on. "No doctor. Please. I'm fine." He put the improvised ice pack to his temple, as if to show her he'd behave. "See?"
She blew out a breath. He was a big boy. Old enough not to need a mommy. "Okay. No doctor. But I'm going on record that I don't like it."
He may not need mothering, but as she helped him onto the bed, she barely resisted the urge to smother him with kisses. Somehow she didn't think he'd appreciate the gesture at the moment. His scowling face was positively fierce. The intimate mood they'd created together last night was but a distant, shattered memory.
Probably just as well. After they'd made love, she'd deluded herself into thinking what they had could be more than was really possible. That she might be able keep him. Make him happy. But in the bright light of morning, she knew better. Creole didn't want that kind of relationship. Best not to kid herself.
"I should check on the men downstairs. And call Morris," she added, tucking a pillow behind Creole's head.
He grunted in response, then groped for her hand. "Grace … thanks."
She smiled sadly at his closed eyes. It was obvious he was torturing himself over the loss of the tape. Blaming himself, where there was no guilt. "You're welcome," she murmured, and rose, tightening the belt on her robe.
On her way through the kitchen, the phone rang.
"Maybe that's Morris," she said, lifting the receiver. "Hello?"
"Miz Summerville?"
Her thoughts scrambled. "Frank?"
"Yeah, I'm—"
"Listen, Frank, this isn't really a good time. Can I phone you later—"
"No, Miz Summerville. I won't be here. I've called to say goodbye."
"What?" She sat down abruptly on a kitchen chair, her brain spinning. "Goodbye? What's going on?"
"I, um…"
She could hear his breathing on the other end, heavy and nervous. "Tell me," she urged.
"I gotta get outta town," he finally clipped out. His tone had become cold and belligerent, much more like the tough guy she'd dealt with three years ago than the sensitive boy she'd slowly been able to excavate from that mass of adolescent cockiness.
"What happened?" She prayed he hadn't done something really stupid. Something that would land him in jail.
"Nikki's pregnant," he said in a rush, "and no way am I gettin' stuck with the kid. Not my thing. She's better off without me, anyway. Not dad material. Don't want to be tied down. Ya know?"
Shock and dismay had her rooted to the spot. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Yeah, she knew. Better than anyone, she knew. Knew what it was like to have a dad who felt that very same way. Knew what it was like to live every day of your life without a father's love. Without even a postcard at Christmas.
"Yes, I know," she replied, anger surging through her veins." And I think it stinks. I think everything about it stinks. I think you stink. But if that's how you feel, nothing I can say will make any difference."
"Miz Summerville, please, you gotta understand," he pleaded, his macho front temporarily crumbling. "I can't do this. I don't know nothin' about being a father. I can't. I just can't."
"There are other options."
"Nikki won't even talk about 'em. Her mind's made up, she's keeping this baby. And I'm leaving town."
"You're a coward, Francis Vincent Morina! You're always saying how you don't want to be like your father. So prove it to me. Prove it to yourself! Do the right thing."
"And what would that be? Marry her? Have a wife and a kid when I haven't even graduated from high school? What kind of a life would that be for me? For any of us? What do you think I should do, Miz Fancy Counselor, with your fancy degrees and fancy cash in the bank and no problems in your fancy life?"
Grace couldn't even begin to react to the unjust accusations being hurled at her by the boy. She choked back the tears that clogged her throat from his verbal betrayal and replied, "I don't know, Frank. But I do know that running away isn't it."
"Sorry, no can do. See ya 'round, Miz Summerville."
There was a sharp click, and she knew she'd lost him.
She carefully put down the phone and covered her mouth with trembling fingers. The collective sound of a hundred colleagues' I-told-you-so's echoed through her mind.
Grace Summerville's failed again. Chalk up one more kid to the dark side. Don't know why you even try, Grace. These boys never change.
Never change. Never.
"Who was that?" Creole's voice echoed from the bedroom.
It was you, her mind answered before she could stop the thought.
Oh, God. A single tear squeezed past her defenses and slowly trickled down her cheek. It was so horribly, pathetically true.
"It was Frank," she replied mechanically.
Men like Frank and Creole didn't change.
"What'd he want?"
Want? They took what they wanted and moved on. As her father had. As Frank was doing. As Creole would surely do if confronted by the same situation. She'd be a fool to think otherwise.
"He wanted to say goodbye."
"Eh?"
"I should, too." She mercilessly pulled back a lock of hair, still disheveled from their night of passion. How long would it take for Creole to say goodbye? To decide he'd had his fill and needed to move on?
At the first sign of trouble, she'd guess.
"I should've known," she murmured. "I should have kept myself from caring. But I'm just not like that. I should resign myself to the inevitable. But I can't do it from here. I have to leave."
"Chère?" Creole's battered form filled the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame for support, ice held to his temple. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"
She looked up, aghast. Had she been speaking aloud? "I—"
She gave herself a mental shake and quickly swiped the tear from her cheek. "I have to go. That was Frank. He's in a terrible jam."
Even if it did no good, she couldn't give up on the boy. She had to talk to him face-to-face before he bailed out. Try to knock some sense into the frightened kid she knew had, deep down, been asking for help. And if that didn't work, at least she could offer Nikki her support.
As an added bonus, her own problem with Creole would be solved by default.
"Go?" Creole was staring at her, disbelief filling his dark-smudged eyes, making them swirl black as midnight. "As in leave? Town? For good?"
Her bottom lip quivered. "Yes. Frank needs me."
"And what if I need you?"
She blinked. Their situation came rushing back, filling her with even more guilt. Fox. The tape. Creole's possible concussion. Sweet mercy, she couldn't desert him, either! "I—"
A scowl swept over his features. "You said you would stay with me. Change your mind so soon?"
What? In the heat of lovemaking, he'd asked her to stay with him, but that was— Her cheeks flamed. "Oh! I thought— That is, I thought you meant… " Could it be he'd really intended—
Suddenly he turned his back, retreated into the bedroom. "Of course I did. By all means, don' stay on my account."
"But the case. I promised to help."
"Don' worry about it." He walked toward the bathroom. "Our charade worked for a while, but ended up bein' a disaster. I'm better off on my own."
As he swiped his T-shirt from the floor and yanked it over his head, she couldn't help thinking he wasn't talking about Fox or the case. But he seemed calm enough. Obviously, her leaving didn't unduly upset him.
"Creole, I—"
He spun, eyes pinioning her where she stood. "So it's back to Creole, eh?" He grabbed his holster and strode over to pluck his pants from the floor. "Suits me."
"No! I mean— Please, Auri, we had a wonderful night together, but we both knew it wouldn't last."
"Yeah. I knew you'd leave."
He didn't tack on me to that statement, but she had the most inconceivable feeling that he'd wanted to. Which, of course, was ridiculous. He couldn't possibly want her to stay. Not forever. He wasn't that kind of man. He must have meant for a few days or a week. Just until he got bored.
Men like Creole didn't change.
She approached and tried to put her arms around him, but his body stiffened and he eased out of her reach. He turned away, cinching himself into his shoulder harness. She wanted to weep over the loss of closeness, the complete reversal of all the good they'd found together last night.
"I'll check on the two men in the courtyard," he said, all cool, strictly business. "Can you track down Morris and get him here?"
"Of course. But you should be resting."
"Lock up behind me."
Before she could stop him, he was out the door and gone. She gave a deep, cheerless sigh. Yes, for her own sake she must go. Get herself away from a man who would only hurt her, who was already breaking her heart. But she hadn't wanted to leave like this. Not anything like this.
He might at least have kept up the pretense for a few hours longer. Instead, he'd shown her how little the night had meant to him. How little she meant to him. Slam-bam, thank you, ma'am. Leaving? Okay, have a good life. Bonne nuit, chérie.
Pain sliced through her like broken glass. She had made the right decision. If she stayed, even for one more day—or worse, one more night—she didn't know if she'd survive the anguish of leaving him. His cold indifference would surely kill her.
With leaden hands she picked up the phone once more and dialed the number for Agent Morris.
* * *
When Creole reached the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed the wall in agony and leaned against it for several minutes, unable to move. He didn't think a body could bear such pain and live. And it wasn't his head that felt crushed by the killing blow. It was his heart.
She was leaving. Leaving him.
Betrayed again. Just like with all the others. Empty words. Sweet promises. Then comes the morning and with it, bitter reality. After last night he'd truly thought Grace was different. That she cared about him. Really cared.
Obviously, he'd been wrong. Some kid she had no personal relationship with was more important to her than he was, more important than her words and promises.
As usual.
At least he'd found out before it was too late. Before he'd made a complete idiot of himself and proposed, or something equally insane. Dieu, she'd probably have laughed in his face.
Slowly he felt the comforting numbness descend upon his body, enveloping him in its solace of blessed indifference. A lifetime of bitter disillusion had taught him what to expect. And this was what came of losing sight of the path he'd long ago carved for himself. For a brief, shining moment he'd actually thought he could break out of his destined fate and be happy.
Hope had been the culprit. Hope—that cruelest of all conditions, far worse than physical abuse. But this time he'd learned his lesson well. Never again would he make the mistake of hoping.
Pushing himself off the wall, he lurched through the front door, suddenly strangely unable to focus. The courtyard swam before him in a pond of green foliage and red brick. He almost stumbled over the first FBI agent, sprawled across the cobbles of the entryway as if struggling in the last moments of consciousness to reach the door.
Creole blinked away his visual affliction and forced himself to concentrate. Enough of this maudlin feeling sorry for himself. He had to get back to what was important. He had a job to do. A brother to avenge. And a man to kill.
* * *
An hour later Morris had come and gone, along with an ambulance summoned to cart off the two drugged agents. The EMTs had insisted on checking out Creole, as well, and he'd endured their poking and prodding, light shining and bandaging with surprising equanimity. It still bothered him when they'd put their hands on him, but he'd been able to grit his teeth and get through it.
He and Morris had had a brief argument over leaving Grace unguarded. Morris felt that since the tape was gone and Fox had left her unharmed, her life was no longer in danger. Creole disagr
eed, but he'd been outranked and outvoted. Morris had assumed he'd still be there to watch over her until she departed for the airport later today. He hadn't had the guts to set the man straight, so it looked as though he'd be stuck doing just that.
But he'd be damned if he'd do it from the same apartment where she'd been hiding out avoiding him for the past hour and packing her bags to leave. He'd take up his old spot on the balcony, or better yet, watch her from bed. His head had started some serious pounding. The two pills the EMTs had given him hadn't even made a dent.
Dragging himself up to his apartment, he opened his curtains wide, poured a glass of ice water, and fell onto the bed he hadn't slept in for two nights. Two nights he was not going to think about.
As he lay there, he rubbed the icy glass back and forth across his forehead, trying to tame the throbbing that hammered through his skull. He glanced over to Grace's apartment. He could see her where the curtains were drawn and fluttering in a light breeze from the French doors. She was in the bedroom getting dressed, facing away from the windows. The thin strap of a bra bisected her bare, graceful back; a long, slim skirt clung unzipped to the lush curve of her hips. He groaned, banging his eyelids shut against the sight. An all-too-familiar sight. The sight that had started this whole damned, miserable affair a few short days ago. Back when the last vestiges of a heart and a soul still resided inside him, where now just a hollow shell remained. The only thing he couldn't figure out was how an empty husk could hurt so damned much.
He made another pass with the chilly glass across his sweat-damp forehead. Unable to resist, he followed her every move as she finished dressing. Apparently, she'd decided wrinkles didn't matter, because the outfit she'd chosen to wear for the journey home was obviously not one of Muse's slinky ensembles. Her elegant brown skirt reached to midcalf, and the white blouse she'd paired it with had a round, high collar and short, puffy sleeves. Back to the prim and proper Grace, to whom the sensual woman he'd come to know bore little resemblance.
Unbidden thoughts crept through his mind. Could he love this Grace? The real Grace? Or had he simply fooled himself into thinking she was someone bolder, more daring, passionate and accepting than she really was? A vacation persona, someone she would never, ever consider being in everyday life?
