Freedom's Price

by Suzanne Brockmann

  No pets. Of course, Liam was probably right about the puppy. She had to belong to someone. They’d stopped at the copy shop and posted some flyers in the local stores before embarking on today’s great apartment hunt. There was probably a message from the puppy’s owner on Liam’s answering machine right now.

  The landlord stopped at a door in the side of the building and searched for the key. Unlocking the door, he opened it, gesturing for Liam to go in first. “There’s a light switch at the bottom of the stairs.”

  But Liam stopped short, and Marisala nearly smashed her nose against his wide and very solid back.

  “It’s a basement apartment,” he said.

  “That’s what makes it affordable.” Marisala moved past him, going down into the darkness. The landlord had told her over the phone this morning that even though not much light came in through the narrow ceiling-high windows, the rooms were dry. They were cool in the summer and warm in the winter.

  She found the light and switched it on.

  It certainly was gloomy, a fact that could be helped by painting over the drab and dingy yellowish-beige walls with bright whites and festive colors. The floor was covered with impossibly ugly beige vinyl tiles and the ceilings were low. Liam would have to duck to keep from bumping his head when he came into the room.

  “Marisala.” Liam was still standing outside the door. “You can’t live in a basement apartment.”

  The place was small, but certainly in much better shape than the last few apartments they’d looked at. She could definitely live here, basement or not.

  “It’s not bad,” she called up to him.

  “Mara…”

  “Kitchen’s in the back, bathroom’s off that.” The landlord pushed past Liam to come down the stairs. He opened a door. “Here’s your closet. The other door provides access to the oil burner. If there’s ever a problem, repairmen would need to get in there, so I’d have to ask you not to put any furniture in front of that doorway.”

  Furniture. God, she was going to have to get furniture—at least a bed, and a table to use for studying and eating her meals.

  Marisala wandered back into the kitchen.

  “Mara,” Liam’s voice called after her. “Dammit!”

  There was a window in the kitchen, too, but again, little light came through the glass. She looked at it closely, wondering if a good washing might help.

  The landlord came in behind her and switched on the overhead light. Liam was right behind him. “Mara, let’s go. There’s no way you can live here. It’s too…small.”

  It was small. The kitchen could barely hold the three of them.

  “Hey, look. It’s got a microwave.” Marisala turned toward the landlord. “Does this come with the place?”

  “Yeah, see, there’s no regular oven.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Just make sure the door’s latched, turn the dial to the time, and press start.”

  Marisala pressed start, and the appliance hummed.

  “Mara.” There was something, an added intensity or urgency in Liam’s voice that made her look over her shoulder as she went into the tiny bathroom and turned on the light. “It’s too small. Let’s go.”

  The muscles were working in Liam’s jaw as he clenched his teeth. He was stony-faced and unsmiling, his cheekbones standing out in sharp relief. There were actually beads of sweat above his upper lip. That was odd. It wasn’t all that hot in here.

  “Liam, are you all—”

  The lights went out. With the sudden pop of a blown fuse, they were plunged into gloomy darkness.

  The landlord cursed. “The microwave’s on the same current as the bathroom fan and the load’s too much for it. I’ve got to get that fixed. The box is up in my apartment. I’ll be right back.”

  “Mara, I can’t stand it. We have to get out of here,” Liam said hoarsely. He was little more than a shadowy shape in the gloom. “Right now.”

  She understood then. In a flash, it was absolutely clear. He’d spent close to eighteen months of his life in a cell, certainly underground, and probably in the dark. “Go,” she said. “Quickly.”

  His voice was tight. “I can’t leave you here.”

  “I’m right behind you,” she said, moving toward him.

  She heard him bolt for the door, heard him stumble as he went up the stairs, heard the door slam open as he pushed his way outside.

  Marisala followed as quickly as she could and found him leaning against his car, both hands braced on the hood, head down. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” His eyes were closed and he was still breathing hard. He was shaking, but when she reached for him, he pulled away. “Don’t. Just give me a minute, will you?”

  He was ashamed. She saw the tinge of pink across his cheeks. She could almost feel his mortification.

  He sat down, right there on the curb, trying hard to slow his breathing.

  Marisala sat down next to him, careful not to touch him. “Why didn’t you just wait outside?”

  He turned to look at her then, anger and shame still glistening in his eyes. “Because I didn’t want you alone in there with that guy. He gave me the creeps.”

  He’d gone in there for her. He’d known what going down those stairs would do to him, and yet he’d done it anyway. For her. He’d done it because she was too stupid to figure out why exactly he was so adamant that she not rent a basement apartment.

  How could she have been so insensitive? It didn’t take much to realize he’d spent nearly a year and a half underground. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Liam shook his head. “It’s no big deal. So I can’t handle basements. So what?”

  They sat for a moment in silence.

  “You never told me,” Marisala said finally, “about all those months you spent in the prison. You told your brother about it, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “You did talk to someone?…”

  Liam shook his head. “I didn’t want to talk about it. I still don’t. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “Mother of God, Liam, you just can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  “No,” she said, purposely taking him literally. “I don’t want to bet. I want you to find someone to talk to about this. If it’s still affecting you this way after all these years—”

  He pushed himself to his feet. “Look, all I have to do is stay out of basements.”

  “And elevators?” she guessed.

  He shrugged, but the movement served only to emphasize the tension in his shoulders. “It’s no big deal.”

  “And how about the nightmares?” she asked quietly. She knew from the look on his face that she’d guessed correctly. He slept badly—when he slept at all. “Or maybe you just figure it’s natural to sleep only two or three out of every seven nights.”

  He turned away from her. “It’s not that bad. I sleep. Some of the time.”

  Marisala stood up too. “What if it does get that bad? What then? Will you try to ignore that too?”

  He dragged his hand through his hair. “Look, why don’t you wait until after you take freshman psychology before you start playing shrink?”

  Her temper flared. “I was there in San Salustiano too,” she told him tightly. “Remember? I may not have been in the prison, but I know what it’s like to be afraid of it. I spent years wondering what would happen if I were taken prisoner—whether I’d be strong enough to survive.”

  He backed down instantly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you should be. I’m only trying to be your friend. And I’m going to keep trying. Unless you’ve decided that you don’t want to be friends with a child anymore.”

  He looked at her then and smiled, but she knew it was just part of his disguise. Inside, he was not smiling. It was possible that he hadn’t really smiled in years. “Don’t get cute.”

  “That’s my problem, remember? I don’t know how to be cute. T
hat’s one of the things you’re going to have to teach me.”

  Liam laughed, and for one heart-stopping moment, Marisala was certain he was going to pull her into his arms. But instead, he turned away. “Let’s go try to find you a real apartment.”

  Liam woke up to the jarringly festive sound of salsa music.

  He sat straight up, eyes instantly open but brain still befuddled. Where the hell was he? And what the hell was that music?

  It didn’t take more than a few bleary blinks of his eyes for him to recognize his bedroom. And as for the music…

  Marisala must’ve been in his room. She must’ve come in and changed the station on his clock radio and…

  There was a long, dark strand of hair on one of his pillows. Liam had a sudden flash of memory of Marisala in his bed, minus her clothing, her lithe body smooth as silk beneath his eager fingers, her body arching upward as his mouth claimed one perfect, pebbled nipple.

  Holy God, had she come into his room last night and climbed into his bed and?…

  No. No, it had only been in his dreams that he and Marisala had made incredible, decadently erotic love.

  He sank back against his pillows, closing his eyes, willing away the images that had made him instantly aroused. He didn’t know which was worse, dreaming about the prison, or dreaming about Marisala. Either way, he was destined to wake up gasping for air.

  On the radio, the deejay announced that it was going to be another hot one.

  The man was speaking Spanish, and Liam understood nearly every word. It was funny how quickly it came back to him. Not that he wanted it to. He’d just as soon forget it all. The war, San Salustiano, his Spanish, everything.

  Even Marisala. Maybe especially Marisala.

  Liam reached for the clock radio and shut it off as he rolled out of bed. He showered quickly and pulled on a clean pair of shorts and a polo shirt. Today they were destined to find Marisala an apartment. They had to. Classes started in a matter of days.

  And it was only a matter of time before she realized that crap he’d told her about thinking of her as a child was just that—crap. Then she would come sneaking into his room at night, and he wouldn’t be able to resist her, and their entire friendship—as well as his friendship with her uncle—would be in jeopardy.

  The smell of fresh coffee brewing wafted through the air as he started down the stairs.

  Liam braced himself as he headed toward the kitchen. It was still early—he wouldn’t put it past Marisala to have come down to grab a quick cup of coffee while still in her nightclothes. She probably slept in an oversized T-shirt, her long, tanned legs bare, God help him.

  But as he went into the kitchen he saw that Marisala was dressed. She wore baggy knee-length, cutoff shorts slung low on her waist and a midriff-baring tank top that revealed a small tattoo high up on her left arm. It was a single flame—the symbol of the San Salustiano Freedom Fighters. He remembered the first time he’d seen it—after she’d broken him out of the government prison. With the tattoo and the fresh, jagged scar on her beautiful face, and the way she held an AK-47 as if it were an extension of her body, he’d wept for the loss of her youth and innocence.

  She was talking as he came in, leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug in one hand, part of the Sunday paper in her other, speaking in her native Spanish.

  It took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t talking to him, or even to the puppy, who was happily tearing at a clean rag with her sharp little teeth.

  Marisala was talking to the man and woman who were sitting at his kitchen table. They were both ragged and dirty, and the woman was heavily pregnant.

  Liam did a double take. Where the hell had they come from? But he knew the answer before Marisala even turned to greet him. She had gone out for another walk this morning and come home with two more strays.

  “Buenos dias,” Marisala said cheerfully. “You actually slept last night.”

  He had. He’d fallen asleep some time after two A.M., and he’d stayed asleep, dreaming those intensely erotic dreams about Marisala.

  Her hair was loose in a wild cloud of curls around her head, just the way she’d worn it in his dreams. He went toward the cabinet to get himself a mug, unable to meet her gaze for fear she’d be able to read his mind.

  “It looks like you’ve been busy,” he said levelly.

  “Your column in the paper,” she accused him, “it’s something you wrote months ago.”

  “Yeah.” He couldn’t even glance at her. “I didn’t have the time to write something new this week.”

  “Por favor, Señor Bartlett.” The extremely pregnant woman pushed back her chair and hauled herself clumsily to her feet. “Sit. Please. You will allow me to get your coffee and breakfast, no?”

  “No,” Liam said firmly. “Thank you. You look like you need to sit down more than I do.”

  “But—” The young woman looked from Liam to Marisala in alarm.

  Liam poured himself a cup of coffee as Marisala spoke to the couple in a low voice. He turned to face her. “So. I see you’ve hired me a cook.” It was all he could do not to laugh. Trust Marisala to find two needy, desperate people living on the street and offer them not only food and shelter, but a way for them to keep their pride.

  On closer examination, he saw that the man and the woman were both impossibly young. The man was in his early twenties at the most and the girl hardly more than a baby herself.

  “Liam, I’d like you to meet Inez and Hector Perez. They came from Puerto Rico, via New York. They are here in Boston looking to get away from…certain family troubles.”

  Liam glanced at Inez’s tautly rounded belly. Family troubles indeed.

  “And yes, you’re right. I told them you might be interested in hiring them. Inez tells me she’s quite a good cook,” Marisala continued.

  Hector was gazing grimly down at the table, embarrassment tingeing his aristocratic cheekbones. Liam could relate. It was never easy to take charity. God knows he’d taken more than his share down in San Salustiano.

  “How about you, Mr. Perez,” he asked the young man directly. “What’s your trade?”

  “I am a landscaper.”

  Liam nodded. A landscaper. If Marisala had her way, he was about to become, no doubt, the very first in his condo association to have his own personal landscaper—without owning even a single handful of dirt to landscape.

  “When’s the baby due?”

  Marisala spoke up. “They’re not exactly sure. I’d guess it’s a matter of only a week or two.”

  Liam took a sip of his coffee, nodding again.

  She was watching him, a small smile playing about the corners of her mouth. She knew damn well that he wasn’t going to toss these people back onto the street a week or two before their baby was due to be born. “I thought…well, you have so many extra empty rooms here….”

  He gazed back at her over the top of his coffee mug. “And you’ve already shown the Perezes to theirs, I assume?”

  She laughed. But she had. He could see it in her eyes. “You’re right. I did. So, can they stay? Or are you going to make me beg?”

  Last night in his dreams he’d made her beg. Liam held her gaze much longer than he should have, giving himself a few short seconds to lose himself in the midnight swirl of her eyes. “No,” he said quietly. “I won’t make you beg.” He sat down at the table, across from Hector. “Mr. Perez, I’m afraid I don’t need a landscaper at this moment, but I do need a cook’s assistant. It seems my cook is going to have a baby within the next few weeks, and I’d like her to stay off her feet. So, tell me honestly, how’s your cooking?”

  FIVE

  “YOU DON’T HAVE to come with me,” Marisala said.

  Liam snorted. “Are you kidding? If I let you go by yourself, God only knows how many more people you’ll bring with you when you come home.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not kidding,” he said, but he was smiling.

  Marisala tried to k
eep her heart from flipping. Tried and failed. Liam Bartlett’s smile had always made her heart do somersaults.

  If she hadn’t known about his writing troubles, about his problems sleeping, and about his near-crippling claustrophobia, she never would have guessed he was dealing with such pressure.

  He looked incredible.

  He was wearing shorts and an expensive-looking muted pink polo shirt. His legs were tan and strong, and covered with crisp, gleaming blond hair. The scar he had near his left knee was noticeable, but well faded. It could well have been the result of a sports injury or a car accident—not the handiwork of an M60 submachine gun. With his tousled golden hair and the sunglasses he’d already put on, he looked utterly American—well rested, well fed, wealthy, and carefree.

  She alone knew of the deep scars that surely still marked his broad, muscular back, souvenirs of the beatings he’d endured at the hands of officials in San Salustiano’s so-called democratic government.

  As they reached the bottom of the stairs Liam held the door open for her. He was wearing a hint of a familiar tangy cologne. He smelled clean and deliciously fresh.

  In turn, Marisala held open the door that led to the sidewalk. It was humid and still outside, the heat from the hazy sun reflecting and magnified by the city streets. “I meant to tell you—a call came in for you while you were in the shower. Your machine picked up, and I couldn’t help but overhear. It was a woman. Someone named Lauren?”

  She tried to sound casual. Nonchalant. And certainly not as if she were digging for information.

  “Hi, Lee,” the woman had said as she’d left her message in a breathless, husky, much-too-sexy voice. “It’s me, Lauren. We need to talk. Call me at home tonight. Or better yet, stop by my place at around nine? See you then.”

  “Thanks,” Liam said, telling Marisala nothing.

  Marisala had to know. “Is she your girlfriend?”

  Liam glanced at her, his eyes hidden behind his dark glasses. “She’s a friend,” he said. “A lady friend.”

  “Are you sleeping with her?”

  “There,” he said, stopping her right in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ve just given me a perfect example of going too far. That was a question not to ask. Whether or not Lauren Stuart and I have a sexual relationship is none of your business.”