by Jami Alden
Did he still have the knife? She couldn’t tell.
Bucking like a crazed bull underneath him, somehow she managed to twist onto her back and brace a foot against his chest. Using every ounce of strength in her body, she nailed him in the chest with her heel, toppling him over on his butt as he gasped for air.
“Help me!” she screamed as she ran for the kitchen, Max blocking the front door. “Help me,” she yelled again, grasping the first weapon she found: her sturdy cast-iron frying pan.
Gabe ran down the block, his pace picking up as he became more and more convinced that something had happened to Reggie.
Fuck it. Even if nothing had happened to Reggie, he was pretty sure he didn’t give a shit whether she’d faked the whole stalker thing or not.
He loved her that much. What that said about his professional character, he didn’t care to think.
Not letting up his pace, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed in his voice mail code to listen to Reggie’s message. A cold fist of fear squeezed his spine at the sound of her voice.
Gabe? It’s me I—there’s someone here—then the sound of a scuffle, the static-filled thump scrape of the phone being dropped, followed by Reggie’s sharp, high scream.
He hung up, dialed 911, and broke into a sprint.
Ohchristohchristohchrist. Please let me get to her in time.
He hauled ass down Lombard, ignoring the curses of drunken partiers staggering out of bars and the blaring horn of the cab that nearly took him out.
Guilt and self-loathing choked him, but he forced it down. Later, he would beat himself up. Now, he had to get to Reggie.
Max recovered quickly and within seconds cornered Reggie in the kitchen. “Put it down, Reggie.” He motioned the knife at the frying pan. “If you go quietly, I’ll make it easier on you. I promise.”
Rage, white hot and blinding, surged through her, consuming, for the moment, her near-paralyzing fear. How dare he? How dare this man take her trust, her friendship, and twist it to the point where he thought he had the right to do this to her.
With a cry like a banshee, she lunged straight at him, barely feeling the sharp blade as it sliced across her ribs. Gripping the heavy cast-iron handle with both hands, she did her best imitation of Barry Bonds on steroids and imagined knocking Max’s head over the wall and into the bay.
Max slumped to the floor with an unnaturally loud thud. It was only when she heard the frantic male voice calling her name that she realized the thud was the sound of her door being kicked open.
“Reggie.” Gabe skidded into the kitchen, quickly realized she wasn’t the one out cold on the floor, and grabbed her in his arms.
Her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. The cast-iron pan slid from her grasp, its sharp clang muffled as though under water.
Gabe was cradling her face in his hands, muttering something, kissing her face, looking like he was about to cry. She wanted to lean into his chest and go to sleep, but something reminded her that she needed to be mad at him.
Her arm hurt. Bad. And her side felt like someone had scraped her with a red-hot iron.
“I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry. You’re going to be okay now, I promise I’ll never leave you alone again.” He was hugging her tight, burying his head in her hair as his body shook against her.
Now she remembered.
She pushed back, vaguely surprised to see tears streaking down his face. “You didn’t answer your phone.”
As sirens echoed outside her window, she slid into a dead faint.
Chapter Nineteen
The next several hours passed in a blur. The police arrived, quickly followed by an ambulance.
Reggie quickly regained consciousness, but she was so dazed from shock it was up to Gabe to fill them in on what happened as the paramedics examined the wounds on her arm and side.
Jesus Christ. Max.
The one guy they’d all dismissed out of hand.
Now Max was being loaded up on a stretcher, too, groggily indignant to find himself handcuffed and muttering something about a lawyer.
Gabe did his best to block him out, a hairsbreadth away from leaping across the room and choking him to death in full view of the cops.
“Are you all right, sir?” one of the paramedics asked. Looking down, he saw that streaks of blood marred the otherwise pristine white of his shirt.
Reggie’s blood.
He barely made it to the bathroom before puking up the watery remains of his scotch.
The police needed to ask him more questions, so by the time he got to the hospital, Reggie was already in surgery to repair a damaged tendon in her left forearm.
Natalie and Tyler were in the waiting room, slumped against each other exhausted, until Gabe walked in the room.
Natalie sprang to her feet and ran at him swinging, connecting her small fist into his jaw with surprising force.
“You asshole,” she cried, hitting him again, this time in the stomach.
He didn’t even bother to block her blows.
Thankfully, Tyler managed to grab her before she did any lasting damage. Not that he didn’t deserve a broken nose or worse.
“You thought she was lying, and it almost got her killed,” Natalie raged, but allowed Tyler to pull her into his arms.
“I’m sorry” was all Gabe said, knowing it was useless to defend himself.
The doctor came out and summoned Natalie into the treatment room.
You didn’t answer your phone. Reggie’s soft accusation echoed in his head, flaying him from the inside out. She’d called him for help, and he’d had himself so convinced of her perfidy that he’d ignored her.
When Natalie emerged and coldly informed him that Reggie wanted to talk to him, Gabe was shocked.
Tears burned his eyes and nose when he saw her, looking so helpless, her left arm wrapped up in thick, bulky layers of gauze and an IV protruding from her right.
Her face was ashen against the dark mass of hair against the pillow. Even her bright pink lips were leeched of color, and dark circles framed her tired eyes.
Even though he knew he didn’t deserve to, he took the seat next to the bed and clasped her right hand, careful not to jostle the IV drip.
His heart exploded into a million tiny pieces when she feebly tried to tug her hand from his grip.
But he resisted, bringing her hand instead to his lips, closing his eyes and blocking out her look of hurt and betrayal. This was the last time he would ever touch her, and he wasn’t above taking advantage of her weakened, pain-medicated state to savor it.
He breathed in, pressing his lips to her skin, imagining he could detect the warm cinnamon and skin scent he loved so much through the sharp antiseptic smell of the hospital.
Swallowing hard, he opened his eyes and finally dropped her hand.
“Why did you come tonight?” she whispered. “Did you get my message and finally believe me?”
“I was on my way before I even listened. I realized I needed to trust how I felt about you. Deep down I knew you hadn’t made it all up.”
“Too bad you couldn’t have trusted yourself—and me—sooner.” She was silent for a moment, eyelids drooping tiredly. “I want you to go now, Gabe.”
His breath hitched on a sob as her eyes drifted closed. Bending down, he pressed his lips to her forehead, ignoring the way she stiffened. “I love you, Reggie Caldwell.”
“Has she called you back?” Malcolm asked after he’d finished giving Gabe the details about the biotech company in Palo Alto where Gabe would be performing a security evaluation over the next week.
“No,” Gabe replied shortly. He didn’t tell Malcolm that in the past week he’d called Reggie twice and sent four e-mails. “But I talked to her sister again, who surprisingly didn’t try to tear me a new asshole.”
When he’d asked Natalie how Reggie was, she’d informed him that Reggie was miserable, as would be expected of a woman who was accused of being a liar by the man she loved before bei
ng attacked by a business associate she’d trusted. All in a very civil manner. But maybe that was because Natalie had her own guilt to work through after realizing that, through her own carelessness and her quest to develop her own TV show, she had inadvertently fed Max all of the information he needed not only to follow Reggie around the country, but to bypass her alarm system and break into her computer.
“I still can’t believe we never caught on to this guy,” Malcolm said. Gabe couldn’t even take pleasure in the way Malcolm easily slipped back into “we” speak when he talked about work, now that Malcolm had hired him back as a full-time consultant. “He didn’t even cover his tracks all that well.”
Contrary to everyone’s assumptions, Max was not gay. Judging by the vast amounts of pornography found on his computer—all doctored so Reggie’s face replaced that of the models—he was heterosexual with a bondage S&M fetish. While following Reggie, he’d been able to easily cover his tracks with a series of business trips. He’d been smart about it too. He’d never flown into the exact city where Reggie was shooting; instead, he’d rented cars and sometimes drove several hours to get to her. Natalie, having had no reason to be suspicious of Max, had not only unwittingly fed him information about her schedule, but had freely used the security code for Reggie’s alarm, as well as the password on her computer, never suspecting that Max was carefully watching over her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, man,” Malcolm said, “if my bad intel permanently fucked this up for you.”
“I had a choice not to listen,” Gabe replied. That was the real crux of the matter. Evidence to the contrary or no, he should have listened to his instincts, which told him Reggie wasn’t a liar, rather than giving in to his own fears of being taken for a ride by another celebrity client. He’d made the choice to ignore his gut and make the “logical” conclusion. He couldn’t fault Reggie for never wanting to see him again.
But even though she’d made her wishes clear, he was determined to see her one last time. Not to offer excuses or explanations—he knew better than that. But to apologize to her face and tell her he loved her when her brain wasn’t fogged with pain and vicodin.
Reggie stretched and flexed the fingers of her left hand. After three weeks, the doctors were sure her arm would make a full recovery, but she still got a stiff, tingling feeling every once in a while.
“Do you need an ibuprofen?” Natalie asked.
Reggie shook her head, marveling at the mother hen that had seemingly invaded her sister’s body. Since the attack, Natalie had spent practically every waking hour with her, helping her get dressed and ready in the morning, making sure the kitchen was stocked.
After taking care of her sister for so many years, Reggie found the role reversal disconcerting. “I’m fine,” she grumbled, “just a little stiff.”
“Maybe you should take a break,” Natalie said for like the hundredth time. Reggie was going through the galleys and reviewing the artwork for her new book.
Reggie rolled her eyes. “It’s not like this is strenuous. Besides, what else am I going to do?”
As far as Reggie was concerned, that was the worst, most grating part of her current situation. What else was she going to do? Now that Max was in jail awaiting trial, Simply Delicious was on indefinite hiatus. There was even some question of scrapping the show altogether, for fear that it would be forever tainted.
As for Simply Delicious, USA, it was surrounded by its own scandal as details of Max’s activities were reiterated all over the news. And even without the black mark, the network wouldn’t commit to another season until they got the ratings for the first few episodes.
The irony of her situation was not lost on her. After doing everything in her power to make sure nothing threatened her career, now she was stuck in limbo, waiting for the network to call her with their decision.
Which left Reggie with something she hadn’t had in over a year and a half: a wide open expanse of idle time.
A really bad state, considering that the second her mind wasn’t occupied, it focused unerringly on Gabe. And mostly on that moment in the hospital when he kissed her hand and told her he loved her in a voice that sounded ripped from the bottom of his soul.
Most of the time she could convince herself it was all a drug-induced hallucination. Because if she let herself acknowledge the reality…She’d already cried enough in the last month to last four lifetimes.
So desperate was she for something to do, she’d asked Natalie to start booking private cooking lessons again.
Flipping another page, she made another note for her editor before the phone interrupted her.
“That might be Tyler,” Natalie said as she jumped up.
Reggie tried to stifle her sneer. God, she hated the nasty attitude she couldn’t seem to shake. The last two months had stripped her of her usual joy and optimism, leaving her uncharacteristically sullen and cynical. She should be happy for her sister.
It wasn’t Natalie’s fault she was wildly in love with a great guy, whereas Reggie’s heart still felt like it had gone through a meat grinder.
Natalie held the handset out to her. “It’s him.”
As she’d done the four other times he’d called this week, Reggie silently shook her head.
“Are you sure?”
The question took her aback. Was she sure? How could she be sure when she wanted with her whole being to be able to feel nothing for Gabe? When not answering his call literally felt like it might kill her?
Mercifully, the phone stopped ringing.
“Maybe you should talk to him,” Natalie said quietly, placing a glass of sparkling water next to Reggie’s elbow as she sat.
“Are you insane? You were as angry at him as I was when he accused us of making the whole thing up.”
Natalie held her hand up as though to staunch the tirade. “I know,” she acknowledged. “But,” she shook her head, “I know he’s sorry and he really loves you. Call me crazy, but maybe he deserves another chance.”
“How could I ever forgive him for what he did?”
“You forgave me.” Natalie’s voice cracked at that.
Reggie’s own eyes filled in response. No matter how Reggie tried to convince her that none of it was her fault, Natalie couldn’t stop blaming herself. “First of all, you didn’t mean for anything to happen. Second of all, you’re my sister and I love you, so even if it was somehow your fault—which it’s not—I have to forgive you.”
“If I deserve it, so does he,” Natalie said stubbornly, continuing when she saw Reggie about to interrupt, “I know it was unfair and unreasonable, but he had his own twisted logic for believing Malcolm’s conclusions.”
“I can’t believe you’re defending him.”
“I’m not saying he doesn’t have his issues, but avoiding him isn’t making you any happier.”
No, she definitely wasn’t any happier, Reggie thought two days later as she trudged up Vallejo Street. She noted sourly that the early February weather in San Francisco perfectly matched her mood—cold, damp, and utterly depressing.
Ducking her head against the cold breeze, she cursed her lack of gloves. The plastic handles of shopping bags dug into her icy fingers. She prayed feeling would come back by the time she started cooking, or she was liable to lose a finger on the cutting board.
She should have taken a cab, but for some stupid reason she’d thought the five-block walk from Whole Foods would be invigorating.
Instead, her left arm throbbed, her fingers threatened to permanently cramp into claws, and the ball of her right foot ached inside her high-heeled boot.
It was her own damn fault, she acknowledged as she checked the address and confirmed that the gorgeous Victorian was indeed her destination. She was the one who’d told Natalie to start booking her private clients. She was the one who wanted to keep busy.
Now she was stuck teaching some guy how to cook dinner for his girlfriend so he could give her a really special Valentine’s Day.
So ro
mantic it made her want to puke.
She pressed the buzzer and was quickly greeted by a static-muffled voice. “Come on up, it’s open.”
Nice. He didn’t even bother to open the door and help her with the groceries. Forget the romantic dinner. This guy needed a crash course in basic courtesy.
She pushed open the door and found herself at the foot of a steep staircase dimly lit by small alabaster sconces. Halfway up the stairs she realized something littered the cream runner that ran their length. Bending closer to see in the feeble light, she realized they were rose petals.
She paused, and an uneasy sensation creeped up her spine. God help me…No. Max was in jail. Natalie was on speed dial and knew exactly where to send the police if Reggie called.
Resentful of the lingering paranoia she feared would always be with her, Reggie charged the rest of the way up the stairs. No doubt the guy was using this as a practice session to set the scene for his big night.
Chapter Twenty
Gabe listened to Reggie’s footsteps approaching and wiped his sweaty palms against his slacks.
Jesus, he’d had terrorists pointing semiautomatic rifles at him and hadn’t been this nervous.
His eyes performed another quick scan of the room. In addition to the rose petals on the stairs, the living room boasted three bouquets of peonies, Reggie’s favorite flower, as Natalie informed him. And damn hard to get this time of year.
Thank God for his sister, both for obtaining the flowers and assuring him that the apartment was his for the rest of the week.
A bottle of 1992 Silver Oak Cabernet was decanting on the table. All he needed was the girl.
“Hello,” she called, and his gut twisted at the sound of her voice. “Should I just put these in the kitch—” The grocery bags slid from her fingers. An onion spilled out and rolled across the hardwood floor.
“What’s going on?” She took a small step back as he approached. “Natalie,” she whispered and whirled toward the stairs.
