Freedom's Price

by Suzanne Brockmann

  Maybe Liam had a lover, a lady friend who wouldn’t approve of or appreciate Marisala’s temporary stay, even if it were only in his spare bedroom.

  She glanced up at him to see if that was the reason behind his reluctance to share his home with her, and the flare of sudden heat in his eyes caught her off guard.

  “Dominant and submissive,” he repeated. “You mean, something more like master and slave?” His voice was soft but intense, and the look in his eyes was pure male. It was not a look she had ever seen before—at least not in his eyes. “Don’t push too hard, cara,” he murmured, “or you might get more than you bargained for. I may be your guardian, but I’m only human.”

  This time she was the one with the pink tinge of a blush decorating her cheeks. She tried to hide her sudden confusion with a joke. “Perhaps we should call you my ‘wrangler.’ You know, kind of like the men who are in charge of making the wild animals behave on a movie set?”

  Liam laughed at that, but the intensity lingered in his eyes. “Come on, wild thing, let’s get out of here. I’ve got a meeting in less than an hour. I have just enough time to drop you off at home.”

  Marisala thanked the woman behind the counter before following Liam back out to his car.

  The sunlight was hazy, the late afternoon was thick with humidity, and Liam’s words seemed to hang in the air around her. Don’t push too hard, cara, or you might get more than you bargained for.

  Marisala got into the car, hardly daring to glance at the man sitting beside her.

  Mother of God, was it possible that Liam Bartlett was actually attracted to her too?

  He started the engine with a roar. She watched his long fingers gently maneuver the stickshift into first gear, and for the first time in years she allowed herself to imagine him touching her with those elegant hands. Kissing her. She’d imagined him kissing her so many times before.

  He would be so gentle. His lips would be so soft as his mouth brushed against hers. He’d pause, pulling back to gaze at her, the ocean blueness of his eyes so warm as he smiled. And then he’d kiss her again, gently and so sweetly, almost worshipfully parting her lips with his tongue.

  Marisala knew it by heart. It was a fantasy that had sustained her through the darkness of night on more than one occasion. Yet now, for the first time in years, she was actually daring to believe it could come true.

  Because maybe, just maybe, Liam found her attractive too.

  Marisala gazed out at the unfamiliar city streets, remembering that unmistakable heat she’d seen in his eyes. It had frightened and even shocked her a little bit. And it had excited her too. He was human, he’d said. Don’t push him. She realized that during all those years she’d daydreamed of him, she’d dreamed about someone perfect, someone not quite human.

  In her dreams he’d undressed her slowly, carefully, his eyes not hot with desire but warm with love. He’d touched her, kissed her, he’d taken his slow, sweet, gentle time to love her completely.

  But maybe her dreams had been wrong. Maybe if she kissed him, that hot fire she’d seen burning in his eyes would take control. Maybe his passion would explode, sending her to a place she’d never been before.

  She would surrender herself to him, giving him what she’d given no man—a glimpse of her heart and soul.

  But just a small glimpse, because she was no longer a wide-eyed innocent schoolgirl. She was old enough now to know quite well the difference between love and lust. And her dreams no longer ended with promises of forever.

  She no longer wanted them to end that way.

  A moment of shared passion was all she desired now. A temporary joining of bodies, accompanied by a brief touching of souls, with a borrowed feeling of completeness.

  She could give him no more than that.

  But that was all right, because he wouldn’t want anything more.

  If he’d wanted more, he would have come back to San Salustiano. He would have found her again, years ago.

  “I’m not going to have time to do more than unlock the door and let you in. You can put your stuff in any of the extra bedrooms.” Liam’s voice broke into her thoughts. He glanced up from the road to smile at her. “You’ll have no problem figuring out which room is which. Mine’s the one that’s a mess.”

  “Ah,” she said, working hard to keep her own voice light. “I guess some things never change.”

  “If you’re hungry, help yourself to whatever you can find in the kitchen. It’s all up for grabs. My meeting shouldn’t go more than a half an hour. I’ll pick up a pizza and a paper on the way home. We can check the classified ads and see about finding you an apartment.”

  “Where’s your meeting?” she asked as he turned onto a street that was lined with well-kept and charming old town houses and apartment buildings.

  “Over at the Globe. That’s the newspaper office,” he explained.

  Marisala gave him a disgusted look. “I know what the Globe is. I read your column all the time, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. Hey, look at this—a spot right in front of my building. You must be some kind of good-luck charm.” A car parked along the street was pulling out, and Liam waited, signaling for the parking spot.

  “Santiago has a copy of the Boston Globe sent to his office every week,” Marisala told him, looking up at the building that Liam called home. It was six stories high and made of beautiful stone. “He always passed it on to me.”

  The parking space seemed only a few inches larger than Liam’s car, yet he zipped into it quickly and efficiently as he focused most of his attention on her. “Really? Every week?”

  “Every week for the past two years. It’s the first thing I look at when I open the paper.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You wrote some very powerful articles. Although lately—”

  “Hey, did you get a chance to see the CNN report? You know, that piece I did on—”

  “San Salustiano,” she finished for him. “Of course. You know, if you’d written it for the New York Times, you might have won a Pulitzer.”

  “I chose CNN because my goal was for more everyday, average people to be aware of the problem—not to win awards.” The U.S. government had been sending weapons and financial aid to the so-called democracy that used terror and military force to rule San Salustiano. Liam’s series of news reports on the Cable News Network had brought forth a public outcry, and U.S. aid had stopped. Without that assistance, the people of the small island nation had quickly taken control of their government, democracy had been restored, and the war ended. A fair election had been held, and true leaders of the people—including Marisala’s uncle—had been voted into office.

  The island still had many problems, but at least fear of death or torture at the hands of the secret police wasn’t among them.

  “Besides,” Liam added, smiling at her as he pulled up the parking brake and turned off the engine, “I did win an Emmy.”

  “And I know you’d much rather have an Emmy than a Pulitzer.” Marisala smiled, amusement dancing in her eyes.

  Liam couldn’t keep from smiling back at her, but still, this was far too serious a topic for him to make jokes. “I wanted for the war to end, cara,” he said quietly. “I wanted only to know that you were safe.”

  Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly as she gazed at him, and he realized how intimate his words must have sounded. Cara. Liam had never called Marisala that before. But somehow today the term of endearment was slipping out whenever he turned around.

  “I wanted to know that you and your uncle were safe,” he quickly amended. “You and Diego and Juan and Garcia and Carmelita and everyone else who fought to keep their families together.”

  She glanced away from him then, her long eyelashes thick and dark against her cheeks.

  Liam got out of the car, afraid if he sat there much longer, he’d do something utterly foolish like reach out and touch her hair. Or pull her into his arms and kiss her.

  God, what
a mess that would make. Even if he reached for her and she went willingly into his arms, instead of throwing him over her shoulder and down onto the ground in some kind of hand-to-hand combat move, he couldn’t ignore the fact that he’d made a promise to her uncle.

  Despite the fact that she didn’t need one, he was Marisala’s guardian. He was supposed to take care of her, not take her to bed.

  “Nice neighborhood,” she said as she climbed out of his car. She stretched as she looked around, lifting both arms over her head and reaching for the sky.

  She was wearing a plain white T-shirt, softened and shrunken from too many washings. It clung to her narrow shoulders yet gave only the merest suggestion of the slight feminine curves of her breasts.

  She may have been seven years older, but she was still built like a fifteen-year-old, with smoothly tanned arms that were thin but strong.

  She wore a pair of army fatigues that were a bit too big for her slender frame. They slid down on her hips, creating a gap between the waistband of her pants and the edge of her T-shirt, exposing a fraction of an inch of the soft smoothness of her stomach and revealing enticing glimpses of her belly button.

  “I bought a condo here after my book made the Times list.” Liam tried not to look at her, tried to focus on taking her suitcase out of the back of his car. But as he straightened up and shut the car door, she took it from him, her hand slipping underneath his on the handle. She seemed thoroughly unaware that she’d touched him, unaware that her touch had sent a jolt of electricity screaming through him.

  “That’s right. I’d almost forgotten. I’m in the company of a celebrity.” She smiled at him. “A famous author with a book still on the best-seller list.”

  “It’s not still on the list,” he corrected her. “The paperback’s just come out, and now it’s on that list.”

  He was fascinated by the sight of her collarbone, exposed by the time-relaxed crewneck of her T-shirt. Those delicate bones seemed so fragile and feminine and out of place with the tough-as-nails image she exuded.

  God help him, he was in trouble here. He was completely and thoroughly tuned in to this girl. He was aware of her every move, her every breath. He was in serious danger of being hypnotized simply from looking into her eyes. Still, he couldn’t look away.

  “So here’s a question you probably get all the time,” she continued, smiling up at him. “When’s the next book coming out?”

  Now Liam could look away. He had to. Because he couldn’t look her in the eye and lie. If he did, she’d see right through him. He pretended to search through his keys as he led the way up to the front door of his building.

  At one time he would have told her the truth. Back in San Salustiano, he’d been honest with her about everything—except for his inappropriate attraction to her. But it had been so long since he’d allowed himself that kind of openness, he gave her the same stock answer about his next book that he gave everyone who asked. “I’m working on it.”

  The truth was, he wasn’t working on it. He was dodging his New York editor’s weekly phone calls. He was doing everything and anything besides sitting down and writing that damned book.

  He pointedly changed the subject. “There’s a doorman who comes on duty at night,” he said as he held the door open for her. “I’ll introduce you to him later.”

  “Santiago told me this next book is a personal account of your experiences in San Salustiano.” Marisala was watching him closely, her eyes searching his face. Several wild tendrils of dark hair had escaped from her ponytail, and the bright afternoon sun gave them golden highlights.

  “Yeah.” He reached for her suitcase as he opened the door that led to the stairs. “Let me take your suitcase. I’m up in the penthouse—the sixth floor.”

  “Doesn’t the elevator work?”

  “Yeah, but I’d rather take the stairs. I…I could use the exercise.” Another lie.

  Marisala was quiet as they started up the stairs.

  Liam felt the need to fill in the silence. “Maybe after dinner we can go out and I’ll show you around the university campus. We can look at your schedule and find where you’ll be having your classes.”

  She spoke then. “Liam, I don’t need a baby-sitter. I know you’ve got things you need to do—”

  “Yeah, I’ve got things to do, but getting you settled is on the top of the list.” Liam slowed his pace as they climbed upward, aware that Marisala was lagging slightly behind. No doubt she was tired from her long plane flight. And, unlike him, she wasn’t used to jogging up and down six flights of stairs three or four times a day.

  “What exactly did Santiago ask of you?”

  “I told you. Dinner a couple times a week.”

  “Aha. A couple times. First it was once a week. Now the truth comes out. What else?”

  “Like I said, we talk on the phone. No biggie.”

  “Uh-huh. What else?”

  God, he’d forgotten how like a pit bull Marisala could be. Once she grabbed onto something, she wouldn’t let go.

  She was going to have a cow when she found out that her uncle had asked Liam to teach her to behave like a “civilized” young woman. He knew he was going to have to tell her sooner or later, but right now he chose later.

  “He asked me to show you around Boston, around the university. He asked me to help you find your classes and your nonexistent dorm,” Liam listed on his fingers. “Let’s see, he asked me to help you find a doctor. He asked me to be available, particularly during these first few weeks, in case you need me.”

  Marisala was scowling. “He thinks I’m a child.” Her eyes were blazing as she glowered up at Liam. “I’m not a child.”

  “Hey, I’m not the bad guy here.”

  Marisala snorted. “No, you’re merely his accomplice.”

  “Mara, if you stop to think about it, you’ll realize that Santiago’s only crime is loving you too much.”

  “Too much of anything can kill you.”

  Liam shook his head. “Not too much love. There’s no such thing as too much love.” They’d reached the top floor, and stood now, outside of his condo door.

  Marisala gazed up at him, her dark eyes so serious. But then she smiled, her face softening. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She sighed. “But sometimes it can be pretty damn stifling.”

  Liam unlocked his door. “Maybe.” But sometimes it could be lifesaving. He stepped back to let her go inside. “Make yourself at home, all right? I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  She paused just inside the door. “Liam, why does Santiago want you to help me find a doctor? I’m not sick.”

  He chose his words carefully, trying not to offend her. “He thought that while you were in Boston you should see a plastic surgeon, you know, to see if there was anything that could be done to make the scar on your face less noticeable.”

  But he should have known better. She wasn’t offended. In fact, she laughed. “I like my scar,” she countered, lifting her chin proudly. “It’s part of who I am. It lets the world know where I’ve been and what I’ve done.”

  “I think Santiago’s just trying to help.”

  “If he truly wants to help, he would let me live my own life.”

  “It’s hard for him to—”

  “It’s hard for me! Do you know what he did—” She caught herself. “I’m sorry. You have to go.”

  Liam nodded. “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  Marisala nodded too. Her smile was rueful. “We’ll talk later. And later. And later again. We’re going to talk until we’re blue in the face—the way we used to do, staying up long past midnight. And you are so going to regret getting involved with Santiago and me again.”

  Liam shook his head. “No, I won’t.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you will. Just wait.”

  TWO

  “I DON’T GET it.” Lauren Stuart, Liam’s editor at the Boston Globe, leaned back behind her desk and gave him a long appraising look. “I thought you were excit
ed about writing that piece about the statewide sex-offender registry that’s gone into effect.”

  “I was.” He resisted the urge to stand and pace back and forth across the room. He knew exactly why he couldn’t sit still, why he’d turned into a pressure cooker about to explode. It had nothing to do with impending work deadlines and everything to do with the fact that right now, right this very moment, Marisala Bolivar was in his condo, waiting for him to come home.

  He couldn’t wait to get back there for another dose of the roller-coaster effect he felt from looking into her midnight-brown eyes.

  Yet at the same time he dreaded going home. He knew damn well he wasn’t going to sleep at all tonight. He was going to lie in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, while every single cell in his body hummed with the knowledge that he and Marisala were alone in his apartment.

  “I was,” he repeated, trying to bring himself back to here and now. It was going to be tough enough to live through tonight. There was no need to experience that torture an extra time in anticipation. “But there’s no way I’m going to get it finished by the deadline. Something’s come up—a personal obligation that I’ve got to take care of.”

  “I see.” Lauren nodded her perfectly coiffed blonde head. “All right. We’ll reprint something you wrote a few years ago.”

  Liam looked over at her in surprise. “That’s it? Just all right? No questions? No third degree? No Spanish Inquisition?”

  “Would it put that article on my desk in time?” she asked, then answered her own question. “No. Would it help? No, not unless my goal was to get you wound even tighter than the high-pitched violin string you resemble.” She reached forward and toppled the brass nameplate on her desk, revealing another sign that read THE EDITOR IS OUT. “Off the record, Lee, friend to friend, I wish you would—”

  “I’ll have something for you next week. I promise.”

  “Something,” she repeated, lifting one elegant eyebrow.

  He had to look away. “Yeah. I don’t know if I’ll have enough time to do the research for—”