The Butterfly Collector

by Beth Yarnall

  The Butterfly Collector

  Beth Yarnall

  Contents

  Untitled

  BOOKS BY BETH YARNALL

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  THE BUTTERFLY COLLECTOR

  BETH YARNALL

  THE BUTTERFLY COLLECTOR

  Copyright © 2017 by Beth Yarnall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-940811-73-4

  Cover designer: Paper and Sage Book Cover Designs

  Editor: Kelli Collins

  Created with Vellum

  THE BUTTERFLY COLLECTOR

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  BOOKS BY BETH YARNALL

  Maggie Mae Misadventures

  Wake Up, Maggie

  You’re Mine, Maggie

  Find Me, Maggie

  Pleasure at Home

  Rush

  Lush

  Recovered Innocence

  Vindicate

  Atone

  Reclaim

  Gods of Redemption

  Far From Honest

  Azalea March Mysteries

  Dyed and Gone

  Stand Alone Titles

  A Deep and Dark December

  The Butterfly Collector

  Crafting Unputdownable Fiction

  Making Description Work Hard ForYou

  Going Deep Into Deep Point of View

  Some Like It Hot: Writing Sex and Romance

  For Sylvie Fox who is often my sanity in this insane world.

  And, as always, for my husband, Mr. Y, for buying into and supporting every single one of my crazy Lucy and Ethel ideas, including the one where I thought I could write a book.

  1

  * * *

  I bolted awake, jackknifing upright.

  I’d had this dream before. It always ended with him finding me. No matter where I ran or how well I hid, he always tracked me down. Sometimes the chase would go on and on and sometimes it was over almost before it started. Knowing I had no chance of escape, I still ran. I ran and ran and ran until I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart beating out a marathon runner’s pace.

  This time was no different.

  Heart pounding in my ears, I blinked hard, rubbing my eyes and trying to bring the room into focus. My vision sharpened, but the outline of the man didn’t fade. No. It couldn’t be.

  “Good morning, Glory.”

  That voice. My nightmare come to life.

  Fear slammed into me a second time. Digging my heels into the mattress, I pushed myself as far back in the bed as I could.

  “Where are you going?” He laughed, his voice unexpectedly rough and accusing. “I told you I’d be back.” He made no move, yet his tone made my body freeze up.

  I heard the strike a split second before the match lit his face, then extinguished. The room filled with the scent of fine tobacco. His scent. I swallowed the bile rising at the back of my throat.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t find you? I admit you gave me a chase. Changing your name, your looks. I liked that you made it difficult. A man appreciates a good hunt.” He rose from the chair, but made no move toward me. Instead he walked to the dresser and picked up a framed photo.

  “Who is he?” he asked with a calmness that made the hair at the nape of my neck prickle. I could feel his stare on me through the dimly lit room, an undeniable force. “Glory.” His volume and tenor were unchanged yet I started at the sound of his pet name for me.

  “A friend,” I answered in measured tones.

  “A friend.” He dropped the photo, shattering the glass against the hardwood floor. “Am I not your friend, Glory?” His voice took on a new calmness that frightened me even more.

  Pressed up hard against the headboard, I cautiously told him what I thought he wanted to hear. “Yes.”

  “Hmm.” He seemed to consider my answer as he sucked hard on his cigarette, making it glow hot in the early-morning darkness. He strolled to the other side of the room and picked up the black dress I’d discarded earlier in the evening. He rubbed it between his fingers then pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. “The smell of you, that is unchanged.” He turned toward me slowly. “I can smell you from here, Glory.” The suggestiveness in his voice scattered goose bumps over my body.

  I watched him with all the wariness of a fly trapped in a spider’s web.

  He threw the dress at me. “Put it on.”

  “What?”

  “Really, Glory. You’re caught. Do you not realize this?” He relaxed back into the chair he’d occupied earlier, propping his ankle on his knee. “Put. It. On.” He took a hard drag then ground his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe.

  I debated going against him, but old memories had me quickly wriggling out of my nightgown and into the evening dress under the cover of the darkened room. Never taking my eyes off his shadowy shape, I adjusted the dress as best I could.

  “Stand.”

  I did as I was told, scrambling off the far side of the bed.

  “Turn the light on.”

  I panicked, taking a step back.

  “Glory, my patience has an end,” he warned.

  Taking a breath, I clicked on the bedside lamp, illuminating my face then my body as I straightened to face him.

  “Madre de Dios,” he hissed, bolting out of his chair. He surged forward, forcing me against the window. The cold from the windowpane seeped through the curtains to my skin. He gripped my arm, shaking me. “What have you done?”

  A new boldness brought my chin up, and for the first time I let all the anger and helplessness he’d burdened me with for most of my adult life seep out as defiance. “What does it look like?”

  He struck my face hard, knocking me to the floor. His kick sent me into the wall. I’d been dealt these blows before… and more.

  “You stupid, bitch.” He yanked me up by the front of my dress, his face inches from mine, and in the lamplight I saw something I’d never seen before. Fear. Real fear. He shook me again, rattling my head like a rag doll.

  “Careful, Carlos. You wouldn’t want to hurt the baby.”

  He released me, staring at the twist in the front of my dress just above my gently rounded belly, horror turning his face pale. This close, I could smell the stench of panicked sweat, mingling with his fine Mexican tobacco. I hadn’t expected his reaction. If I had, I would have handled his return much differently.

  He stepped back slowly, edging his way around the bed toward the door, watching me all the while. I stayed where I was, sensing my new vulnerability was the impetus for his escape.

  I took my first real gulp of air as he disappeared through the doorway.

  I broke into tears at the click of the front door closing behind him.

  2

  “Gia, I’m sorry. Baby, pick up the phone.” I stared at the answering machine, waiting for his next words, which were always the same. “I had to work. David needed me to meet with the new investors. I tried to call, but you didn’t answer. It was supposed to be a short meeting, but as usual, David… Ah Jesus, Gia. I’m sorry.”

  Gia was close enough to Gina and far enough from Glory as I could possibly get and still r
emember it was my name now. I rubbed my belly, caressing the subtle roundness. Truett Nash was an insufferable ass who’d stood me up last night, but he was also the father of my child. What could I do? I picked up the phone.

  “Roses. Deep red. And dark chocolate.”

  “Gia. Baby, I’m so sorry.”

  “You always are.”

  “I know you’re mad. I screwed up bad this time. I’m really sorry.” He was sincere. I’d give him that. “I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” And he always did, which was how I’d come to be pregnant by him. “I’ll take you for Thai food. Bring you those roses and chocolate. I missed you last night, baby.”

  I would have said I missed him too, but that would have been a lie. I was already lying to him about so many other things. My name. My background. Our relationship. I wondered when I would be free to tell the truth. To feel again. I stroked the soft curve of my belly, trying hard to imagine what an expectant mother was supposed to feel. I pressed my brain for memories of my own mother, but all I could come up with were vague impressions of a woman with brown eyes and soft skin.

  “Gia?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you tonight. Seven o’clock. I won’t be late. I promise.”

  “All right, Tru.”

  I hung up the phone before he could make more promises he might not keep. I couldn’t be mad. He hadn’t known it was my birthday. I’d never told him. I only told him what he needed to know, which was as little as possible.

  I glanced around at the apartment I’d rented because it had come furnished and was close to Tru’s office. I had nothing here that was truly mine. I’d worked hard to make the shabby furnishings look like a home, to make it appear as if someone really lived here. There were framed photos of people I’d printed off the Internet. An older couple, Gianfranco, my “father” who’d I’d been named for and Maria, my “mother”, both supposedly dead now. A knitted afghan my “grandmother” had made for me, but had actually been purchased at a garage sale, was draped over an arm of the couch. Other odds and ends were scattered about for show, a souvenir mug, an art class painting a “friend” had given me, a lamp, an antique clock, and a hand-blown glass vase.

  My thigh ached where Carlos had kicked me. I raised the hem of my nightgown to examine the deep purple mark. Truett would ask how I got it.

  Scanning the room, my gaze came to rest on the small wooden desk in the corner. I measured the height of the desk corner against the bruise on my leg. It would be plausible enough. Plausibility was always a problem for me. I could be easily tripped up by plausibility.

  My encounter last night with Carlos had proven that. He would be back, of that I was sure. I would have to be prepared.

  I dressed quickly, not giving much thought to what I wore. What did it matter? This was how Gia dressed, not me. I pulled my darkened hair back into a tight ponytail that trailed down to the middle of my back. I preferred short-cropped hair, but Gia wore her hair long the way Tru liked it. Carlos had thought I’d changed my look to hide from him, to extend the chase. How like him to think that.

  Checking the time, I realized I only had twenty minutes. I grabbed my bag and hit the door, calculating the best route to take. I couldn’t be late.

  As I rounded the corner, I saw my contact fold his newspaper and walk away, leaving the bench empty except for the paper. I strolled up casually, keeping to my role as an early-morning park visitor. Laying my bag on top of the newspaper, I unwrapped my bagel from its wax paper and bit into it. Central Park was relatively empty except for a lone male jogger, a mother of twins and myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the jogger pause at a fitness station then begin the exercise, his long legs easily making light work of the deep knee bends.

  I pretended to watch the mother and her toddlers enjoying the bright autumn day, while keeping track of the jogger until he jogged off down the path. He didn’t reappear.

  Finishing my bagel, I packed up my things, surreptitiously tucking the newspaper into my tote bag. Keeping an eye out for anyone who seemed out of place, I headed off to run errands.

  My day had been like any other day except for the feeling that had grown stronger and stronger since I’d entered the park that morning—I was being watched. Even now, back in my apartment, the feeling persisted, pressing in on me.

  I pulled a notebook and pen from my bag and began an arbitrary list. Twisting the top of the pen, I activated the wireless signal detector inside. This was not the first time I’d taken this step to protect myself. I’d been trained to perform this task whenever I returned to the apartment.

  Wandering around casually, tapping the pen against my chin as if thinking, the detector did not locate a signal in the living area. I moved to the bedroom and bath, repeating the process. I didn’t get so much as a blip, but the feeling of eyes on me never eased, staying with me the rest of the day.

  Truett arrived in a rush, as he always did, twenty minutes late, spouting apologies. “I’m really sorry. I know you…” He cut off, taking in my appearance from head to toe then back again.

  I stood in the doorway, barring his entrance, wearing a low-cut, soft cotton dress in an amber shade that brought out the golden tones of my deeply tanned skin. I’d taken the time to curl my hair, letting it tumble around my shoulders and down my back. Tru’s face would go from stunned to immensely pleased whenever he saw me, as if I were a present he’d just opened. I liked that look. I liked a lot of things about him.

  “Here.” He thrust a small bouquet of deep red, nearly black roses at me. “And here.” He produced a bar of dark chocolate from his pocket, offering it with a shy, abashed smile.

  I accepted his gifts, taking a moment to touch the soft petals and enjoy their scent.

  “Am I forgiven?” he asked with all the glint-eyed repentance of a schoolboy caught tugging the pigtails of the girl in front of him.

  In answer to his question, I stepped back, allowing his admittance.

  He closed the door, then turned me, backing me up against it. “Gia,” he whispered softly, his hands sliding up my arms to cup my face. “I missed you.”

  Then his lips were on mine. The kiss began slowly, as his kisses always do, building and building until we were both a little out of breath. He pulled back gradually, his focus connecting with mine in a frisson of awareness that had me melting into the door and him sagging further against me.

  If I had to choose only one man to kiss for the rest of my life, that man would be Truett Nash. But my life was not filled with choices.

  He placed his hand gently on my abdomen and asked, “How are you?”

  This intimacy was difficult for me. I’d given my body to him in just about every way, but these emotions, the ones that dug deep, I held back.

  Pasting on a teasing smile, I wriggled out of his grasp and reached for my bag. “Hungry,” I answered.

  If he noticed my avoidance, he didn’t let it show. Instead, he flashed me a bashful grin, the one that had attracted me to him from the start, and while his smile still drew me, it now came with an accompanying pang of guilt.

  “I’m sorry. You must be starving.” He helped me into my sweater, leaning in to place a kiss on the curve of my neck. “Still want Thai food?”

  I’d been craving the contrasting flavors of spicy Pad Thai and the creamy sweetness of Thai iced tea almost since the moment I’d conceived. “Mmm. I can’t wait. Give me a moment to put these in water.”

  I pulled the vase I’d bought that afternoon at a thrift store, in anticipation of his flowers, out of the cabinet. I filled it with water and arranged the roses. I ran my fingertips across the velvety bouquet, treasuring it. I’d received few gifts in my life, certainly none I could keep.

  “If I’d known how you’d react, I’d have bought a larger bunch.”

  I looked up to find Tru watching me, a puzzled line between his brows. I schooled my expression, fearing I’d divulged something to him I shouldn’t have. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen
such a deep red before. They’re really beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like them.” His face broke into an easy, open smile, the kind I’d never been allowed. His expressions often revealed what he was thinking or feeling. It was like peering into the looking glass of his soul; he hid nothing, sharing everything. I liked that about him, too.

  “Thank you.” I moved into his arms easily, smoothing a lock of dark auburn hair from his forehead and kissing him lightly. “Shall we go?”

  He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips before tugging me out the door.

  House of Palm was a tiny family-style Thai restaurant just three blocks from my apartment and next door to the coffee house where I’d “met” Tru. Multicolored paper lanterns swayed gently under the breeze created by palm-frond-bladed ceiling fans. Large palm leaves created a canopy over our booth upholstered in sparkly gold-flecked vinyl tufted with large gold buttons.

  I already knew what I wanted to eat so I took a moment to observe Tru.

  He had a boyishness about him that fascinated me. His hair was always a little too long and often hung in his eyes, tangling with his eyelashes. With his left hand swiped at it frequently, an unconscious gesture that I found endearing. I wondered briefly if our baby would look like him. I hoped so. I’d played so many roles for so long I wasn’t entirely sure what I looked like anymore.

  He caught me staring and grinned, his green eyes creasing a little at the corners. He was a good-looking man. I remembered being relieved about that when I’d received his dossier.

  I returned his smile, letting some of what I’d been thinking about him leak out into it.

  He laid down his menu and reached for my hand. “I like it when you look at me like that. It gives me all kinds of ideas.”