by Sharon Sala
And that was the way Dawson and Ramsey saw her, blood-smeared and tensed, with her gun aimed waist high at the first person to come into her sights.
“Police! Police!” they both shouted at once.
Dawson rushed to her side as Ramsey yelled, gun still drawn.
“Frankie, are there any more of them inside the house?”
She pointed at Duke Needham’s unconscious body on the floor near the opposite wall.
“Only him.” Then she started to shake.
Ramsey spun, took one look at Duke Needham’s wounds and eyed Frankie with newfound respect.
“Whoa…you got him where it counted, didn’t you?”
She laid the gun on the floor and took Clay’s head in her lap. Her clothes were smeared, her hands covered in blood—his blood.
“Help him. He’s been shot.”
Dawson waved to Ramsey. “Tell EMS the location is secure.” He glanced at Needham. “And if another ambulance hasn’t already been dispatched, get one rolling.”
Ramsey bolted for the front door as Dawson searched for a pulse in Clay’s neck.
“He’s still with us.” He gave Frankie’s arm a quick squeeze. “You did good, but you have to hang in there a little while longer. With a woman like you to live for, you can bet your last dollar this man will pull through.”
Then he moved to Needham, checking his condition and retrieving the gun that he’d dropped when he fell. Seconds later, paramedics came through the door and Frankie was moved aside. Dawson took her by the elbow and helped her to a nearby chair.
“Is there someone we can call?”
Her teeth were chattering, and she couldn’t stop shaking.
“Clay’s parents. They need to know.” Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God. If anything happens to Clay because of me…”
Dawson made her face him.
“Whatever happens to your husband is Pharaoh Carn’s fault, not yours. We are not responsible for the actions of others, only our own.”
She shuddered, then reached for the phone, frowning as she held it to her ear. The lack of a dial tone puzzled her, until she remembered.
“I left the phone off the hook in my bedroom.”
“Just sit,” he ordered. “I’ll hang it up.”
Before he got back, they were already loading Clay onto a stretcher and readying him for transport to a trauma center. Frankie stood, and moved to Clay’s side, touching his cheek, then his hair.
“Don’t you die, Clay LeGrand. It took me two years to get home, so don’t you dare die.”
Dawson moved her aside as the paramedics rolled him from the room.
“Your phone is working now,” he said gently. “Why don’t you call Clay’s parents? After that, maybe you’d like to clean up a bit before I take you to the hospital?”
Frankie looked down at her clothes and at the blood drying on her hands. She stared at him in disbelief.
“It’s over…isn’t it, Detective?”
He started to nod, and then something made him hug her instead.
She hesitated at first, and as his arms enfolded her, she began to go limp. If he hadn’t been holding her, she would have gone to her knees. She laid her cheek against the wool of his coat.
“Help me.”
Empathy twisted a knot in Dawson’s belly. “I won’t leave you alone. I promise. I won’t leave you alone.”
Ramsey came running back into the house.
“The other ambulance is on its way.” He sniffed the air. “Hey, do I smell something burning?”
Frankie shrugged away from the detective’s grasp.
“Our supper. I think I’ve just burned our supper.”
Epilogue
Spring had been a long time coming to Denver. The winter had been a test of Frankie’s endurance. The week Clay had spent in the hospital, hovering between life and death, and then the ensuing month of his recovery, had been the longest of her life. Only the fact that she was carrying new life had kept her sane and focused on taking care of herself, trusting the doctors to take care of Clay.
Christmas came and went before Clay was released, and on the day he came home from the hospital, it had been all she could do to walk back into their house. Old memories—bad memories—hung heavy in the air, like the scent of a sickly-sweet perfume. Clay had seen it almost immediately.
As the days passed, Frankie’s mood didn’t ease. She moved through each day like a robot, jumping at sudden noises, waking in the middle of the night screaming out Clay’s name.
He held her and loved her and reassured her all that he could. But the fact still remained that one man had died on the steps of their house and Clay’s blood wouldn’t come out of the rug on their floor.
Then, one morning, he woke with a plan. Frankie’s morning sickness had thankfully passed, and she was in the kitchen preparing breakfast when Clay entered.
“Good morning, sweetheart.” He slipped a kiss behind Frankie’s right ear near the ankh tattoo.
She paused, then turned. “Good morning,” she said, and returned the kiss on his lips.
After trading a groan and a sigh, Clay tore himself free, grinning at the blush on her cheeks.
“You better be careful,” he warned, patting the flat of her tummy. “That kind of greeting will get you in trouble.”
Frankie caught her hand and pressed it tighter against her belly. “I’m already in trouble,” she said. “It just doesn’t show.”
He laughed. “But it will, and soon.”
She sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then absently rubbed at the spot that he’d kissed.
“Does this bother you?” she asked.
Clay was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He turned, the pot in one hand, his cup in the other. “Does what bother me, Frankie?”
“The tattoo.”
He frowned. How could he help her let go of bad memories when she was constantly reminded of her ordeal?
“Hell no,” he muttered. “Why should it?”
She shrugged, then looked away. “I don’t know. I just thought that maybe…I mean, sometimes you might feel…”
“You know, Francesca, over the months, I’ve come to consider it sort of sexy.”
It was the last thing she would have expected him to say.
“But—”
“No, hear me out,” he said, setting down the coffee and his cup. He lifted her hair, twirling it around his fingers until the small ankh was bared to his sight. “There it is, hiding beneath all this thick hair, tucked in behind this pretty little ear, just waiting for me to taste it. Sometimes, when I’m at work, I think about that little tattoo and smile, knowing that it marks a spot I particularly love to kiss.”
Frankie’s mouth dropped. “Why, Clay, I never knew you were such a poet!”
He wiggled his eyebrows in mock dismay. “Francesca, my love, there are many things you don’t know about me, not the least of which are the hidden talents I possess.”
She snorted beneath her breath. “What hidden talents?”
He wiggled a finger beneath her nose, then leered. “I’ll teach you to make fun of me. You just wait until tonight, pretty lady. I’ll show you hidden.”
Frankie’s morose mood lifted, as Clay had known that it would. And even after he was on his way to work, he kept thinking about what he’d said. It was true. That tattoo no longer represented a mark another man had put on his wife. Like the baby growing inside her, it was just something added to a woman he already loved. But it wasn’t until the men were on their first break that he had time to act upon his idea. He glanced at his watch, calculating the time it would take to act on his plan against how much of the day was left. Before he could change his mind, he put the foreman in charge and headed to a little place he knew on the far side of the city.
It was just after six in the evening when he pulled into the driveway and parked. A small package lay on the seat beside him, along with a dozen red roses and a six-pack of Co
ke. Since the onset of her pregnancy, anything alcoholic was strictly forbidden, but a toast tonight would be in order.
He slid out of the seat, wincing slightly as he gathered up the flowers, package and Coke. He hurried toward the front of the house with a smile on his face. It widened considerably when Frankie met him at the door.
“Welcome home. I missed you,” she said.
Clay handed her the flowers.
“For me? What’s the occasion?”
“You’ll see,” he growled, then leaned down for the kiss she offered.
“Mmm…what do I taste?”
“Me,” she said.
“Yeah, you and something orange.”
She grinned. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
She eyed the package he was holding. “What’s that?”
He returned the grin. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”
She laughed and waved the roses under his nose. “I’m going to put these in water. When you’re through playing games, come to dinner. It’s done.”
He handed her the six-pack of Coke. “I’ll be right there. Just give me a couple of minutes to wash up and change.”
She was putting out the last of the food when he came to the table. He set the package on her plate, then took the bowl she was carrying and set it on the table for her.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“With the dishes,” she quipped.
He groaned, but both of them knew he would do them, just as he did every night after they ate.
Clay pulled her chair out from the table, then waited for her to sit down.
“My, but we’re being awfully formal tonight,” Frankie said, smiling as he scooted her, chair and all, toward the table.
He arched an eyebrow but refrained from speech, waiting instead for her reaction to what he’d put on her plate.
“I take it I’m to open this before we eat?” Frankie said, tearing into the paper before he could answer.
Clay held his breath, watching her expressions changing from curiosity to recognition, then understanding. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes.
“Oh, Clay, does this mean what I think it means?”
“Look on page 154. It’s my favorite, although there are a couple of others that run a close second. Of course, the final decision is going to be yours. After all, once it’s built, I plan on living in that house for the rest of our lives.”
She set the book of house plans aside, got up from her seat and sat down in his lap.
“Aren’t you even going to look at it?” he asked. “There might be other floor plans you like better.”
“We’ll look later, together,” she said softly, and locked her fingers behind his neck. “But right now, I need to do this.”
She leaned forward, capturing his smile with her lips and taking pure delight when he groaned.
“You are the best husband a woman could ever have,” she said softly.
Clay cupped her face with his hands, tracing the shape of her lips with his thumbs.
“And you, Francesca, are one hell of a wife. You not only saved my life and yours, you saved the life of our child. This is a time of starting over for us, and I want it to be from the ground up. Barring any delays, we should be able to move into our new house by early summer. A new home for a new baby and a new life. What do you say?”
“That I love you?”
He pulled her close, nuzzling the curve of her neck and taking joy from the steady pulse he could feel beating there.
“That’ll do for starters.”
Frankie was lying in bed, reading the last pages of a book, when she heard Clay turn off the shower. Anxious to finish before they turned out the lights, she returned to the story, focusing intently on the mystery about to be revealed.
Just as she got to the next to the last page, Clay sauntered out of the bathroom stark naked. To say her attention wavered would not be a lie. But she bravely focused and turned the page, reading line after line as the last knots of the plot were tied.
He laid out a change of clothes for tomorrow, then sauntered back into the bathroom, again passing her line of vision.
Suddenly she gasped.
This time, regaining concentration was impossible. Half a page from the end, she tossed the book aside and bolted out of bed.
“Clay LeGrand! What have you done?”
He turned in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at the shock on her face. Innocence dripped as he spoke.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he asked.
She shoved him all the way inside the bathroom, where the light was brightest.
“Like hell you don’t,” she gasped, and turned his backside to the light.
There on his right side of his butt was a gold ankh tattoo, identical to the one behind her ear.
“What have you done?” she said, tracing it with the tip of her finger.
He winced. “Careful,” he muttered. “The damned thing’s still sore.” He moved toward the full-length mirror on the bathroom door, turning first one way and then another for a better view of his rear. “But it’s sort of sexy, don’t you think?”
Frankie dropped onto the side of the tub and stared up at him in disbelief.
“Why?”
He wrapped a towel around his waist, then sat down on the closed lid of the commode until they were facing each other.
“Because every time I see you touch your tattoo, I see pain on your face. So…I thought giving you a different connection to the damned thing might be a good idea. From now on, every time you see your tattoo, you’ll remember me…only me.”
Then he stood and turned, yanking off his towel to give her another clear view of his decorated behind.
“So, what do you think?”
For a moment, she couldn’t think what to say. Finally she looked up. The uncertainty on his face nearly broke her heart. She shook her head in dismay.
“I think that you’re crazy,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Hell, Frankie, you knew that when you married me. What do you think about my tattoo?”
He clenched and unclenched his butt muscles, making the tattoo move.
She arched an eyebrow. “You think you’re quite a stud, don’t you?”
His grin widened as he began to strut back and forth, giving her the benefit of the way it moved with his body.
“You tell me,” he said, and suddenly swooped, lifting her off the tub and into his arms.
“I’ll let you know in the morning,” she said softly as he laid her on the bed.
In the midst of their passion, her book fell to the floor. It would be another day before she learned how it ended, but she didn’t have to wait to know how her own story went.
With Clay, it would be happily ever after.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-2871-3
REMEMBER ME
Copyright © 1999 by Sharon Sala.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, MIRA Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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