by Adrianne Lee
“Have to? For Josh?”
She adored how his first thought was always for the boy. He gazed at her with something like awe. “You’d do this for my son? Maybe prove that your fiancé murdered his own stepsister?”
“Half sister.”
“Stepsister,” he corrected. “Reese was not Phillip’s natural son. You didn’t know that? Man, it’s what really drove the knife into Wendy’s heart. That her father would choose his adopted son over his natural daughter. She had something to prove.”
“So do we.” She caught hold of the hourglass. “Not just for Josh—but for us.”
“For us?” He looked unnerved. “Lady, there is no us. What happened the other day…that kiss…it was a mistake.” His gaze landed on her lips like another kiss. His chest heaved, and he jolted to his feet, plunked the mugs and the plate of pastries onto the tray and strode to the kitchen.
Livia chased after him, pushing through the swinging door. She caught up with him at the sink and grasped his upper arm, pulling him around. “You’re wrong. We have a connection… You’ve sensed it.”
He gazed at her hand, then into her eyes. That connection and a shuddering awareness—an awakening arousal—swept through her. The hourglass vibrated against her thundering heart. The air seemed filled with rapid breathing, charged with restrained need.
A muted bang sounded from somewhere outside, like a car backfiring, then glass exploded at their backs. Mark reacted with blinding speed, grabbing Livia and dragging her to the floor in a huddled crouch. “What the hell was that? Are you all right?”
She did a quick assessment. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken. “I think so. You?”
“Yeah.” He motioned for her to stay down, even as he raised up on his haunches and peered over the kitchen counter.
Livia knew she should heed his warning, but she had to see. Had to know if what she suspected was true. She eased up and spied a small round hole in the window above the sink. Her mouth dried, her palms went damp.
Mark shook his head, then, keeping below window level, he glanced at the wall opposite the sink as if trying to find something. “Looks like a damn bullet hole.”
She shuddered and sank to the cold, tile floor, hugging her knees to her chest. “Oh, God, I was afraid of that.”
She lifted her gaze to meet his, finding his eyes hot, fierce. He scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Chapter Nine
MAKE MINE I SCREAM
One Scoop Fear
One Shot Fudge
Don’t Forget the Nuts
“Where’s your phone?” Livia’s gaze careened around the kitchen, searching as she scrambled to her knees.
“Stay low!” Mark’s hand landed on her shoulder, pressing her down so that she didn’t raise above the level of the counter. He seemed less concerned about himself, cautiously scanning the backyard and beyond. “Damn.”
“What?” Panic filled her stomach. “What is it?”
“Our shooter is getting away.”
She leaped to her feet, but all she saw was a flash of taillights as Mark yanked open the door and tore outside into the rain. Livia heard a swerving fishtail squeal of tires on wet pavement, then Mark cursing. He stormed back inside and locked the door.
She was gripping the counter. “Did you recognize the car?”
He shook his head, water shedding from his hair. “Didn’t see enough of it. Might have been black, or navy, or any dark color.”
“Then we don’t know who.” Growling in frustration, she started toward the other room. “I’m calling the police.”
“No.” Mark caught her by the upper arm. “No police.”
“But we have to, Mark,” she insisted. “Someone just shot at us and it wasn’t with some BB gun.”
His expression darkened, his voice hardening. “No police.”
“But…”
“Let me tell you about the police.” He leaned into her, his face inches from hers. She could smell the rain, feel it steaming off him. He said, “They’ll come out here, look around, file a report and strongly suggest I stay away from undraped windows. There’s nothing they can do. There’s nothing they want to do. As far as they’re concerned I’m a cold-blooded wife-killer who weasled through a loophole in the law. Their only regret will be that the bullet missed me.”
She sucked in a breath, catching a whiff of vanilla tinged with cynicism and truth. She supposed if she’d experienced even a quarter of what he’d been through she’d feel the same distrust of the very agency that was supposed to protect the average citizen.
He said, “What have you done that led the killer to discover my identity?”
“What have I—?” Indignation flamed into Livia’s cheeks. “What makes you think I—”
He leaned into her, his face inches from hers. She could smell the rain, feel it steaming off him.
She sputtered, “W—well, I admit I have been trying to gather information on Mark Everett. But honestly, it was only a clumsy attempt on the Internet and I didn’t find out anything more than anyone else could.”
“Then how…?”
“How should I know?” She schooled herself to calm down. “Maybe someone recognized your voice. Maybe Sookie.”
He glanced at the bullet holes in the window and wall. “I never imagined she was capable of firing anything more lethal than an insult, but I guess I shouldn’t dismiss her out of hand just because she appears to have the intellectual depth of her nail polish.”
Livia shivered. She’d known there would be a bullet to contend with this month, but she hadn’t expected more than one, or that she’d need be concerned about being shot this soon. “Do you think he—or she—might come back?”
“I don’t think he’ll risk it. He’s lost the element of surprise.” His voice softened as his gaze steadied on her face, those golden eyes bringing to mind the bright light she’d seen leading into Heaven, but this light seemed the entrance into a heaven here on earth.
As though his look could cause the very earth to move, the hourglass quaked against her chest. She gathered a wobbly breath. “Surprise. Yes. It was rather surprising, wasn’t it? Unexpected, even. What rocks have you overturned in your effort to prove your innocence, Mark?”
“Nothing.” He straightened, stepping back from her. “Yet. I haven’t had access to any place where I might find evidence.”
“Then why the attack today?”
He shrugged. “You’re the one who suggested someone knows Ethan Marshall is out of jail and calling himself Mark Everett.”
“True, but—think about it, Mark—what threat are you to anyone at this point?”
He frowned and considered. “You’ve got me. The only thing I know for certain about Wendy’s murder is that she was killed with my favorite carving knife in order to frame me.”
Livia shoved the gruesome mental picture this formed from her mind and considered her own question for a long moment. “Are you sure you don’t know something you don’t know you know?”
He blinked, humor flickering in his eyes. “The surprising thing is, I actually understood that question, but the answer is no.”
She found nothing in this situation the least humorous. Someone was trying to kill them and they didn’t even know why. The hopelessness of their situation left her suddenly chilled, bloodless.
As though he, too, felt the chill, Mark nodded toward the swinging door. “Let’s go back to the fire.”
Moving into the other room was like stepping into another dimension. Here, the windows were draped. The privacy, the semi-darkness, the soft crackle of the fire wrapped around Livia, and she felt a much needed sense of security returning. False or otherwise, she embraced it, but she wasn’t as steady as she’d been when Mark was holding her, wasn’t as steady as she’d thought.
Hell, what had she thought? That it was possible to mentally prepare for confronting the person who’d shot her, who’d killed her, who meant to do it all again? How did anyone prepare for t
hat?
Mark caught her as her knees began to buckle, his arm wrapped her waist, and he pulled her against his side. “Hey, hey.”
“Oh, God, Mark, this is so awful. Worse than I even imagined.”
“It’s just shock, you’ll be all right once it wears off.”
This wasn’t going to wear off. She had to tell him. Now.
Words, however, failed her as he helped her to the love seat, sat beside her, speaking in low, soothing tones, touching her hair, his fingertips feathering her temple. His gentleness moved her more than if he’d been bolder, rousing the need for him that she could barely contain.
She gazed up at him. He was staring at her lips with such a longing in his eyes that her blood began to heat. His face was centimeters from hers, his sweet breath as heady as an aged liqueur. As though he’d been privy to her thoughts, had read her mind, her heart, he said, “Lady, you are more dangerous to me than any bullet.”
Oh, no, that was so wrong. “No, I—”
But he cut her off, his mouth taking possession of hers with a need so contagious she caught the fever on contact. Whatever weakness had befallen her knees moments before now swept her entire body. She dissolved against him, into him, her arms slipping around his neck, her tongue into his mouth. Damn, he tasted as good as he smelled, and kissing him was like nothing she’d ever known, as though someone had thrown her “on” switch, sending electrical current to all of her circuits.
Had she ever been more alive, more buzzed with energy, with untapped want? Every sensation seemed pronounced, vivid, every dancing twine of their tongues intoxicating. Her mind whirled, and her blood sang a melody sweet and pure and true. Her fingers slipped into his dense hair, played in its silken depths, and she realized she was memorizing the moment, searing it into her brain, storing it where she may need one day to go and pull it out.
To remember.
To relive.
To mourn.
Her fear of losing this man spread with a furious speed the fever to possess him. She was liquefying right here on his love seat, her bones gone to mush, her blood to scalding water, her will from steel to honey.
His hand found its way under her skirt, up her thigh, to the leg band of her panties, and she sighed his name, “Mark. Oh, Mark, please, make love to me.”
If she’d dumped a bucket of ice on him, he couldn’t have acted more startled. He jerked and pulled away from her, his hand sliding from beneath her skirt. He seemed to choke on his breath, his voice a raspy groan. “No. No. I can’t do this.”
He couldn’t do this? Livia glanced at his fly, eyeing the huge bulge that contradicted his words. Whatever his problem, it was not physical. He was as aroused as she. “You want this as much as I do.”
“No. I mean, yes, but no.” His expression softened. “See, you don’t really want this. You’re in shock. Confused. Scared. Reaching out for solace. It’s not every day you find yourself on the business end of a bullet.”
How dare he tell her what she was feeling? What she wanted and didn’t want? As though she were recalling the minutes before her death, Livia felt a burning in her chest, his words tearing through the soft tissue like so much shrapnel, ripping into her heart, her pride, her self-esteem—leaving her bleeding, humiliated and just plain furious. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
He stood with an effort and crossed to the fireplace, put his arm on the mantel and stared into the flames. “You know, I actually thought I’d like nothing better than to bed Reese Rayburn’s fiancée. I wanted to mess with his mind, to pay him back for all the crap he gave me while I was married to Wendy, for the hell he put me through when she was killed, to stick it to him for taking my child, then ignoring the boy. In theory that revenge greatly appealed to me. In theory.”
He blew out a noisy breath. “Damn it to hell, I didn’t reckon on you. On caring about you. For you. I can’t act on our…whatever the hell it is. I won’t take advantage of you for the sake of vengeance against Reese.”
He continued to stare into the fire, unable or unwilling to see the effect his confession had on her. He’d likely be surprised to discover that it had lessened the sting of his rejection, even endeared him to her. She studied the tense way he held himself and spoke softly. “I’m not going to marry Reese.”
He jerked around, his gaze searching her face, zeroing in on her hand. “You’re still wearing his ring.”
“And I’m going to go on wearing it and go on acting as though I’ll marry him on the twenty-eighth as scheduled, but it won’t happen.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.” She went to stand beside Mark, reached up and touched his jaw. She wanted to tell him that he was the reason she couldn’t marry Reese, wanted to run her hands greedily over him, wanted to start again what they hadn’t finished. He didn’t pull back, but he tensed as though ready to do just that—not, she understood now, because he wanted to, but because, despite every rotten card life had dealt him, he’d retained his basic principles.
She fisted her hands at her sides and forced herself to set aside the desire racing in her veins. He deserved the same consideration he’d offered her, deserved to know that the person who’d shot at him today meant to kill him this month, deserved a chance to fight for survival.
Just as Josh deserved his daddy.
“Mark, about that long story…what I’ve been feeling isn’t a reaction to shock. It’s not going to wear off or go away.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, moving back from her as though he didn’t trust himself not to grab her again, to kiss her again. He stood behind the love seat, bracing himself against the frame. “But whatever your long story is, I hope it doesn’t include me. I don’t have anything to give to anyone at the moment. Not even my own son. I have no future until I’ve found Wendy’s killer and proven my innocence.”
She clutched her hands over her pounding heart. “Neither of us has a future unless that happens, and soon.”
“Even when it does happen, don’t expect any commitments from me. There’s only enough room in my heart for my son.”
“You don’t believe in romantic love?”
“Been there, done that, have the T-shirt.”
Great. She’d fallen for a man who’d sworn off love, who would soon be dead. Every emotion he denied feeling seemed to weigh her down, and Livia’s chest ached. For him. For herself. “Mark, about my long story…I’m afraid it does include you.”
His eyebrows lowered and he grew silent, still, his gaze pinning her. “Oh, yeah. And how is that?”
The heat of the fireplace stroked the back of her calves, making her too warm in her leather boots. She returned to the love seat and sat down.
“You aren’t going to like it.” A derisive laugh tripped from her. “Ha, what am I saying? You aren’t even going to believe it.”
“Not much surprises me these days. Try me.”
Lord, how did she put this into words? She gathered a deep breath, licked her kiss-tender lips, and blurted, “One of us is living on borrowed time.”
“One of us?” He straightened and flipped his hand at his chest, then at her. “Us, as in me and you?”
She nodded, watching his reaction, trying to decide how to tell him, what words would convince him.
“Lady, everybody’s living by the grace of God. It’s all borrowed time.” He shook his head. “So, exactly what the hell are you talking about?”
The last thread of hope that this could be told with ease frayed away. Her hand found the hourglass beneath her sweater and she touched it for reassurance. “Please, let me just say this, then you can rant and rave and call me a fruitcake or nuts or whatever else you feel like, but please hear me out.”
He crossed his arms on his chest. “I’m listening.”
“Please, sit down.”
He seemed disinclined, then relented and sat across from her, arms folded against his chest again as though to distance himself from her emotionally.
; She gathered a bracing breath, exhaled slowly and began. “We are connected, Mark, but it’s not in any way you could ever have imagined, nothing you’ve experienced in this world.”
“Well, since I’ve never been to any other world—”
“But I have been.” Livia swallowed over the knot in her throat. “Nine days ago, I died from a gunshot wound.”
“What?” Mark gaped like a man just discovering he’d been captured by an escapee from a loony bin.
She pointed a finger at him. “You said you’d listen…”
“Okay.” He seemed to be rethinking that promise, seemed to be mentally scrambling to find a way out of this, any way away from her. “Go on.”
She was surprised by how dry her mouth was. “After I was shot and I…died, I went through total darkness until I came into a bright—”
“White light,” he finished, sarcasm dripping off both words.
“Yes.” She glowered and persevered. “That’s where I encountered the Processor.”
“The what?”
“The Processor. He processes souls into Heaven via his special computer.”
Mark’s mouth twitched as though he were biting the insides of his cheeks not to laugh. “And he didn’t process you through because…”
“Because I’m not scheduled to die for sixty years yet.”
“Well, that had to be a relief.” The laugh he’d seemed to be fighting burst from him, followed by another and another. “I’ve never heard anything so funny.”
“It’s not funny.” She fumed. “The Processor informed me that I had taken a bullet meant for…for someone else.”
Still chuckling, he asked, “Did this Processor tell you who the hapless soul was?”
She resisted the urge to tell Mark that the Processor had called him the “hapless chef.”
“In fact, he did,” she said. “Right after he granted me the chance to relive this month in order to change the outcome.”
“To change the outcome.” He began sobering and considered this a moment. “You mean, to make sure that you don’t get shot again and the hapless soul who is supposed to die does?”
