The Rogue

by J. R. Ward

  Spike felt the blood drain out of his head. He’d known this, damn it. He’d known all of this. He should never have—

  Doc John glanced up and offered a smile. “I don’t mean to personalize this, but you might ask her to take a test if you two are worried.”

  “She was really sure it was okay.” God, he sounded lame.

  Yeah, but as he thought about the situation, there was something even worse. He realized he would love to have made her pregnant. And how appallingly desperate did that make him?

  Doc John shrugged. “You mentioned she’s an athlete with low body fat? Then that increases the likelihood that she isn’t ovulating, especially if she’s not getting a period. But nature can find a way. Go buy a test at the supermarket. Put your mind at ease.”

  This was said as if he and Mad were a couple. Who lived close to or maybe even with each other. Who were there to support one another.

  He felt like throwing up he missed her so badly.

  Except then Doc John poked at his wrist and he just plain felt like throwing up.

  When Spike left a half hour later, his forearm hurt so badly he could barely see straight. The physical stuff, though, was a minor inconvenience compared to the tortures his head was going through. He drove home in a daze, knowing that he’d be no good to anyone in the kitchen at White Caps and not just because he couldn’t lift a sauté pan to save his life.

  The apartment he’d been living in since he’d come to Saranac Lake was on the top floor of yet another one of the town’s Victorians. He had two bedrooms and a kitchen and a living room and he liked the place. There were windows in every room and the floors were hardwood and it was a quiet building.

  As he drove up to the house, he saw that lights were on at the top and he was glad. His nomadic sister, Jaynie, had been staying with him for the last couple weeks, and tonight, he’d just as soon not be alone.

  He parked around back, parallel to the picket fence, but then just sat there in the truck. A compulsion he’d been trying to fight since Memorial Day got too hard to battle any longer. He shifted his hips and dug his cell phone out of his jeans pocket.

  After he was finished talking to Sean, Spike hung up and did some more staring.

  The night after he’d left the Maguire mansion, he’d called Sean, wanting to know why the guy hadn’t thought to mention the stuff about Mad’s mom. But Sean had been out of the country in Japan still, and by the time the man had returned only days ago, it seemed unnecessary to rehash all the ins and outs of the disaster.

  No, tonight, Spike had wanted to know only one thing and Sean had told him.

  His buddy hadn’t seemed too surprised by the question, either.

  Eventually, Spike got out of the truck and used the rear stairs. When he opened the back door and walked into the kitchen, he heard the sound of typing. Immediately, it was cut off.

  “Spike—”

  “It’s just me—”

  He and his sister spoke at exactly the same time. She never had gotten comfortable with being alone and he was always careful to shout out as he came into any place he knew she was in. Especially if she was by herself.

  “You’re home early,” she called out from the front of the apartment.

  “Yeah.” He shut the door and went to the fridge. Orange juice would be good right now. Cold. Sweet.

  As he poured himself a glass, his sister came into the kitchen. “What—Oh…are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He glanced over his shoulder.

  Jaynie was standing in the archway, a slight woman in her very early thirties, wearing shorts and a T-shirt that were at least two sizes too big for her. She also had a sweatshirt across her shoulders, even though they had no air-conditioning and it was hot. With her dark hair pulled back and her wire-rimmed glasses, she reminded him of a sparrow, quick and brown, hypervigilant.

  “Spike, what happened to you?”

  “Nothing a few days off won’t cure.” He swallowed the orange juice under his sister’s stare. “Jaynie, I’m okay. It’s just a little burn. How’s the work going?”

  She held his eyes for a moment. Then seemed to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to talk about what he’d done to himself.

  “Well…I’m slow at it. Medical transcription is like holding water in your hands. Words keep slipping through no matter how fast you go. But it’s better than some of the things I’ve done and the pay is okay.” She pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. “You know, I wish you’d let me give you something for the rent.”

  “And I wish you’d try and stay here for more than a month or two. Hell, move in permanently. I told you, I really like the company.”

  He also really liked knowing she had a roof over her head and a place where she could sleep safely at night. Well…not that she slept much at all. He’d heard her walking around a lot after hours.

  “So how about not being a guest anymore,” he said. “How about becoming my roommate?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Which meant no. But at least she was here now.

  He stared down into his glass. “Listen, Jaynie, I need to take a little trip tomorrow. Just an overnight. Will you be okay here on your own? Nate and Frankie are a minute and a half away. In fact, you could stay with them—”

  “I’ll be fine. This is a safe building.”

  “I won’t be gone long.”

  “Is this about Madeline?”

  Spike’s head whipped up. “How did you—”

  “You say her name. In your sleep.” Jaynie flushed. “I’m not eavesdropping. It’s just, when I’m up, I hear it. You sound like you miss her.”

  He exhaled. “I, ah…yeah, this is about her.”

  His sister’s soft smile transformed her face, making her utterly beautiful. “Good. It’s about time you cared about someone enough to miss them.”

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Mad stood on the deck of a seventy-five-foot sailing yacht and watched the land on the horizon grow larger. Newport, Rhode Island, was nothing but a smudge on the top of the sea right now, just a strip of dirt that looked like you could wipe it off with a paper towel. Soon, though, it would be three dimensional and overwhelming, trading places with the ocean for supremacy.

  She’d spent the past month and a half putting the rehabbed America’s Cup boat through its paces and doing over-nighters on other yachts down in the Bahamas. Then she and two of the crew had hopped on this boat and made the Newport run with a pair of sailing hopefuls who wanted a shot at the big-time. The trip had been successful. Both newbies had proven they had good sea legs and fast reflexes. Plus they could handle themselves with Bonz and Jaws, two of the toughest sailors around.

  “Mad Dog, what is up with you?” Bonz sidled over to her, all blond hair and tanned muscles. His real name was Garrison Fitzhugh Bonnycastle IV, but he was Bonz to everyone in the sailing world. “You’ve been so damned quiet.”

  “Nothing doing.” As he rolled his eyes, she said, “Hey, do you know when Hoss’s boat is going out for the Caymans?”

  “Tomorrow morning first light. Me and Jaws were going to crew but we need some downtime.”

  “Wonder if there’s still a berth available.”

  “For you? Hell, Hoss would pitch his own mother over the gunwale to get you on one of his boats.”

  “You say the sweetest things.”

  “Truth, not charm.”

  For a little while, they were silent, both focused on the sea. Then Bonz’s hand landed on her shoulder.

  “Time for a caring and sharing moment here, Mad Dog.”

  “Oh, no—”

  “So listen up and I’ll get through it quick. Jaws is worried about you, too. And if you don’t tell me what’s wrong, I’m going to be forced to let all the boys know you’re upset about something.”

  “There’s nothing—”

  “Think about it. All twelve of us. All over you. Until you tell us why you’ve been so quiet since Mem Day.”


  She smiled and glared at him at the same time. “You are bullying me.”

  “Without hesitation or remorse.”

  She had to chuckle. “Well, I appreciate your concern…I think. But it’s nothing.”

  “Come on, Mad Dog. What’s under your skin? Spill it.”

  “Fine. You win.” She grabbed the front of her shirt and swooned, throwing one hand over her forehead. “I’ve got a broken heart.”

  Bonz barked a laugh. “Yeah, right. Over a man? I’ll believe it when I see it. You’d be more likely to get upset over a bad day in the wind. Why can’t you be honest? I mean, I figure you’d be psyched on life right now. Crew’s in good shape. Boat’s fine. Our buoy times have been great.”

  “And so am I. Great, just great.”

  He stared at her and rubbed his jaw. “I’m getting nowhere here, am I?”

  “Nope.” Even though she’d actually given him the truth. Spike was a curse, a man who had betrayed her who she couldn’t get out of her mind. Her heart was utterly broken. “I’m just fine.”

  Bonz leaned in close. “You’re lying.”

  As he walked off, she thought that was certainly correct. The six weeks away had done nothing to make her feel better and the idea of being trapped on land for even a day made her want to scream.

  Alone on deck, she watched Newport get bigger with dread.

  Two hours later, at around six in the evening, they were docked and unloading gear at the New England Yacht Club. The N.E.Y.C. was a superexclusive enclave of ocean-faring folks and it looked the part, all pristine white buildings, perfectly maintained boat berths and landscaped lawns. There were at least fifteen world class sailboats anchored off its quarter mile of shoreline and there were more yachts tied within its maze of docks.

  Hoss’s eighty-five footer, her escape hatch, was just four boats over from her. Pausing, she assessed the La Belle Femme with approval. The trip to the Caymans would be a long one. A good one. And Hoss probably would boot off anyone he had just to get her on board as navigator.

  But before she went to find him, she had to finish her work here.

  While storm clouds gathered, she humped gear and unused supplies off the boat with the men. She figured when they were done she’d find Hoss, then go into town, check into a hotel and collapse. She was utterly exhausted from sailing for forty-five days straight and she figured she was tired enough to actually pass out. Which was just fine with her. Maybe she wouldn’t have to deal with the nightmares she’d been suffering through lately.

  As she lifted a pair of five-gallon water jugs out of the hold and up on deck, she was very aware that her force of will was keeping her going, not her muscles. Yet when Bonz took the dead weight onto the dock, she just went back for more.

  In the distance, she heard a dim thunder and wondered whether the storm was gearing up already. When the sound rolled to an end, she didn’t think any more of it, just kept reaching for the next bag and the next box and the next jug. Until she realized there wasn’t anything left.

  Mad glanced around the hold. With everything out, the cleaning crew could come in next and scrub down.

  “That’s it,” she called up to the deck. Thank God.

  “You want to meet us in the bar?” Bonz yelled down to her.

  “Yeah, in a minute.”

  “Good. And listen, stop by the front desk. When I went to register us, they said they had a package for you.”

  As the men took off, their low voices faded and she closed her eyes for a moment. Then she went fore to the six berths that were stacked one on top of the other in pairs. She and the men had slept in rotating shifts. Bonz snored. Jaws talked in his sleep. The other two had been dead quiet either because they were totally pooped or unable to sleep at all.

  Her duffel was sitting on her bunk and she fished around in it until she found her new cell phone. With slow fingers she dialed in to the separate number she’d given folks to call when she was at sea and found that there were nine messages.

  Which was a surprise even though she hadn’t checked the thing for at least a week.

  Two messages were from Sean and they were the kind friends left when they were worried, but didn’t want to press. One was from Alex Moorehouse asking her about her schedule. Then there were five from Richard, none of which she listened to. The final one was from Mick Rhodes, who’d tried to reach her on the cell and failed. Fortunately, it was good news.

  As she hit #2 over and over again to clean the mailbox out, she thought of everything Mick had done for her. He was the reason she’d gotten the cell phone and the only one who had the number. Over the past month and a half, he’d called her down in the Bahamas a number of times, updating her on the situation with her trust.

  Right after Memorial Day weekend, Richard had brought an action in court to block his being unseated as executor of her trust. And Mick had taken care of her half brother swiftly and decisively. She didn’t know exactly what had transpired, but clearly it had been hardball. Within no time Richard had retracted the lawsuit and she was free of him.

  She supposed she should have felt triumphant. Instead, she was resolved.

  Mad zipped up the duffel and slung it over her shoulder. As she headed out, she figured finding Hoss wouldn’t be tough. He’d either be sitting in the club’s bar watching the storm come in with the boys or he’d be at his house on Millionaire’s Row. If she didn’t catch him here at the club, she’d walk down Bellevue Avenue to his place after dinner—

  She stopped at the foot of the little stairwell to the deck.

  What was she thinking? She couldn’t go on that damn trip with Hoss. She had to be in Manhattan for the Value Shop Supermarkets board meeting the day after tomorrow.

  Good heavens…how bizarre to have something on her radar screen other than sailing.

  Mad emerged out on deck and took a last, long look at the ocean. The storm was churning, coming on fast, darkening the sky. The clouds were so heavy with rain, they were purple as plums.

  When she turned around, Spike was standing on the dock.

  Her first and only thought was that it was cruel of him to look so good. Black leathers and biker boots. Jacket hanging from one of his hands. Black hair standing up straight off his head. Golden eyes like the sun.

  It was as it had been the night he had arrived in Greenwich: a total shock. A lightning flash of attraction. An instant quickening in the air.

  The time away from him had changed nothing. He was still captivating. But then she remembered other things about him.

  Anger lit off in her chest.

  * * *

  Spike was prepared for the worst, and as he waited for Mad to step back with fear or contempt or disgust in her eyes, he absorbed the sight of her, sucking in every nuance. She was tanned and looked healthy, except for the bags under her eyes. And good Lord, she was lovely. Her hair was French braided but the wind had freed some strands and blown them across her cheeks. He wanted to put both his hands on her face, sweep the dark pieces back and…kiss her hello.

  Which was so not going to happen.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked in a tight voice.

  “I came to see you.”

  There was a long pause. “How did you get into the club?”

  Her utter lack of reaction chilled him to the bone. “I used to work the grill here in the summer. Everyone knows me.”

  “Naturally.” She leaped off the boat in a graceful move and walked right by him. “If you’ll excuse me, I was just leaving.”

  “Are you pregnant?” It wasn’t at all what he’d wanted to lead with. But she was taking off fast, and if nothing else, he had to know.

  She froze, then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes were narrow. “No, I’m not.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I do.”

  “Did you take a test?” God, this was not going well. He’d wanted to try and reach her, try to expla
in…something, anything. Instead, they were locked into this clinical conversation that was making him sick to his stomach and clearly pissing her off.

  “I’ll call you if there’s a problem, okay?”

  “A child with you wouldn’t be a problem for me,” he whispered.

  As her eyes popped wide, he realized he’d spoken the thought out loud.

  “Well, it would be for me,” she snapped.

  Spike had to look down at the dock. He’d been slapped a number of times in his life. Punched much more frequently. Stabbed twice, too. But nothing in his memory could touch the pain that was barreling through his body right now.

  “Yes, I could imagine it would be,” he replied quietly.

  There was a long silence. When he finally looked up, she was staring at him with an odd expression.

  “At least you seem to regret what happened in Greenwich,” she said.

  “Of course I do.” He would rather have told her about the past himself. Maybe her reaction would have been different.

  But then he thought about the way her mother had died. Ah, hell. Probably not.

  “I have to go,” she said.

  He wanted to make her stay. Didn’t have any right to. “I’m so…very sorry.”

  Her eyes went to the sea and he was willing to bet she wished she had stayed out there. “Me, too.”

  “Will you let me know if—”

  “Yes, I will.” Against the darkening skies, her profile was a stark, pale contrast, like a cameo pin. “But I’m not pregnant.”

  “You don’t know how to find me. Let me give you my number—”

  “Sean will have it, right? So I’ll talk to him if I need to reach you.”

  With that, she turned away.

  Spike watched her walk off, her duffel bag brushing against her hip and her braid swinging from side to side. Her strides were even, her footsteps sure. She did not look back.

  For some strange reason, his vision was suddenly eclipsed by memories of the moment when his whole life had changed over a decade ago. He remembered pounding up the stairs to a grungy apartment, saw himself throwing open the door, and then…the horror of his sister on the floor, curled into a ball, arms protecting her head. Above her, a six-foot-two man with a baseball bat lifted high.