by Carol Caiton
"We'll work it out, Jess," he told her quietly.
She nodded, but the words were a hollow promise even to his own ears. Then the elevator arrived and his time ran out. He watched her step inside, his chest clogged with one big ache, but she wouldn't even meet his eyes. Then the doors closed and she was gone.
He stood there for a full minute, staring at the steel doors. Then he walked out into the night.
It was one o'clock in the morning when he turned onto Michael's street, pulled into the driveway, and shut off the engine. He didn't know what the hell he was doing here. Except for the outside lights, the house was dark and it wasn't as though he'd go ring the doorbell at this time of night.
But he sat there, wrists draped over the top of the steering wheel, and stared at the garage door. He didn't know what the answers were. Didn't know if any answers existed. Then a tap on the passenger window brought his head around and there was Michael, looking like he'd just climbed out of bed, the T-shirt he'd been wearing earlier now facing inside out.
Kyle released the locks. But the first words out of Michael's mouth made him wonder if he shouldn't have pulled right back out of the driveway and taken off.
"Fuck, Kyle, can't you even hold onto her for twelve hours without screwing up?" He climbed into the jeep, pulled the door closed, and crossed one bare ankle over the opposite knee. "So what'd you do to piss her off?"
"What makes you think it's my fault?"
Michael grinned. "'Cause it is."
"Fuck you, Vassek."
"Yep, that's what I thought. So I gotta figure—with you coming here in the middle of the night like this—you must be ready for some of that good advice I keep telling you about."
Kyle harrumphed.
"I swear it—if you do what I tell you, it'll all work out."
"Just spit it the fuck out, will you?"
Michael laughed outright. Then he said one word. "Crawl."
"What?"
"Crawl. Whatever the hell it is you did, go back and swear you were wrong."
"What if I wasn't?"
"You were."
Kyle scowled. "What if there is no right or wrong—just a difference of opinion?"
"You were still wrong."
"How the fuck can you say that?"
"Because you wouldn't be parked in my driveway at one o'clock in the morning if it was only a difference of opinion."
"Christ! Can't she be the one who's wrong?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"'Cause she's got more sense in her little finger than two of you."
"She's nineteen frigging years old, Michael."
"Yep. And I'll bet those nineteen years are looking toward the future and thinking about the next nineteen while you're stuck screwing around with yesterday."
Kyle stared. "How the hell do you know this shit?"
Just like that, Michael put aside the humor. "Because I almost lost Rachel for the same reason. And if that's the point you're at, Ky, then you're gonna spend your life without that little prom queen unless you face up to your shit and work around it or let it go. Then you offer her the world and make things right with her. Whatever it is."
Kyle gripped the steering wheel with both hands. "You don't know what you're asking."
"Yeah, I do. 'Cause underneath all the shit, the bottom line is always the same—you're either gonna spend your life with this woman who's got you all tangled up inside, or you're gonna spend your life without her. That's the choice."
Kyle stared at his knuckles, tight and white in the glow of security lights above the garage doors. Michael's bottom line sucked.
"She wants kids."
No answer came back this time and he realized Michael wouldn't understand what he meant. Rachel was pregnant, the baby's room was already furnished, and Michael was one happy sonofabitch.
"I lost too much that day, Michael. Joey, my mom . . . you. And then a thirteen-year-old boy I loved." He lifted his eyes from the steering wheel. "I don't want to lose like that again. Not ever."
Michael turned to look out at the garage doors. "Yeah, I know that fear, Ky. It's like a fucking claw diggin' gouges into you."
Kyle shut his eyes. Michael had lost everything he had and more. Christ, so much more. How the hell had he survived? How the hell had he dug his way out to become the person he was now?
Facing him, looking at all he'd become, at that moment Kyle knew there wasn't a man on earth he admired more than the one sitting next to him in his jeep.
"Rachel got pregnant the first time I made love to her," Michael said into the silence. "Scared the everlovin' shit outta me. How the hell could I watch over both of them and make sure nothing happened? I couldn't be two places at once."
"So what did you do? How the hell do you live with the fear?"
"You take extra precautions to make sure you don't lose again. Burglar alarms. Sophisticated surveillance. You guard and protect the best way you can. And when you can't be there, you depend on someone you trust to take over. You surround yourself with people who'll have your back—and hers. Otherwise," he concluded, reaching for the door handle, "you spend your life wanting but never having. Ya know?"
Kyle eased his grip on the steering wheel and leaned back against the headrest. "Yeah." He sighed. "I know."
"Good." Michael opened the door. "Then I can get back to doing some of that guarding and protecting myself."
"Too late." Kyle smiled into the semi-darkness. "She's standing on the porch doing her own guarding and protecting."
Michael turned his head toward the porch and smiled. "So she is."
Kyle looked across the moonlit lawn at Rachel, at the long golden braid that reached down the front of her robe to her pregnant belly.
"How do you keep her from feeling smothered?" he asked.
"You find creative ways of being together, and you find creative ways of being invisible." He climbed out of the jeep. "You need a bed for the night?"
Kyle straightened. "No. But thanks. For everything."
"No problem, man. Get back to me about the wedding plans."
"I will."
Michael shut the door and Kyle watched him walk toward his wife. When he reached the porch, he folded her close in a one-arm embrace and, as always, Rachel rested her head against his chest. Without a backward glance, he raised his free hand in a wave, then he took his wife into their house.
To guard and protect.
Kyle looked out over Michael's land, at the palm fronds silhouetted against the moon, and wondered if he had it in him to do what Michael had done. He looked up at the security lights, knew there was a camera somewhere nearby, and thought about the monitor in Michael's office. There would probably be a fence around the yard when his kid was old enough to start playing outside, maybe another camera or two and another monitor.
He wondered how many kids Jessica would want before she felt settled. How the hell many would he have to guard and protect? And where, in today's world, was a good place to raise them?
Turning on the ignition, he backed out of Michael's driveway, put the jeep in gear, then stared at the For Sale sign perched on a thickly wooded lot across the street.
You surround yourself with people who'll have your back—and hers.
Maybe, just maybe, some of the answers he'd written off weren't so unattainable after all.
CHAPTER 22
Once again, Jessica felt the pain of overwhelming grief and had no one to turn to for comfort. She had no father—not for some time now. Her mother was so caught up in her own pursuits she forgot she had children. She had a sister she was afraid to lean on because their friendship was still so young. And she had no husband. Perhaps not even the promise of a husband after last night. She and Kyle had parted after angry, hurtful words. Their needs were directly opposed and there might be no middle ground, no possibility of compromise.
So she turned to RUSH.
Simon had fired her, but she was still a member with membership privi
leges. She may not have anyone to offer the quiet of understanding and a warm embrace, but she could give herself that embrace—figuratively.
Saturday at RUSH would be crowded and she had no appointment. But if she arrived as the Moon Orchid Spa opened, perhaps she'd be fortunate and happen upon a cancellation. If not, there were two salons inside the shopping mall. She'd have to pay quite a bit, but she'd relax in a whirlpool tub of swirling water, have her nails manicured and pedicured, and she'd pay however much they asked for a thirty-minute massage. She might even have someone wash and trim her hair.
Rolling onto her side, she stared out at the predawn sky from her bed. There were a couple of girls at Urns & Leaves she wanted to say goodbye to. And there were some personal matters to look into.
She was showered, dressed in a pair of jeans, and fastening the buttons of a pale blue blouse with cap sleeves by seven o'clock. Half an hour later she paced the small apartment, caught herself, then decided she was finished with waiting. She could sit near the fountain at the food court and drink a cup of tea until the spa opened.
As it happened, there were no cancellations, so that left the mall. But the salon nearest the front entrance had three openings and she booked all of them. A few hours later, she knew she'd made the right decision. Refreshed, relaxed, nails painted a lovely pink, she strolled back outside and walked over to Magnolias to order a light lunch.
It was there, seated at an outside table and enjoying the warm sun, that she spotted the man with the British accent—Malcolm—the one Hannah had identified as the CEO of RUSH. It surprised her to see him fitted out in an expertly tailored business suit on a Saturday. The trousers hugged a pair of powerful thighs, the jacket emphasized broad shoulders, and the whole of it gave the impression of a commanding disposition.
Realizing she'd just given him what Hannah called a once-over, she felt herself blush, hoping he hadn't noticed. But a satisfied, all too knowing smile curved his mouth. And as he drew near, she saw that his eyes held a very wicked glint. Clearly, he hadn't missed anything.
Perhaps he'd turn toward one of the restaurants. She wished he'd turn toward one of the restaurants.
But he was staring directly at her, approaching her table as though he intended to speak with her specifically and had known just where to find her.
"It's quite rewarding," he said, coming to a stop beside the opposite chair, "when a man my age draws the eye of a young woman your age."
"I apologize—"
"Not necessary." He smiled. "I should be thanking you." His hand closed around the top of the chair. "May I?"
He didn't pull it out and seat himself, but waited for her permission.
"Please do," she invited, wondering why he'd sought her out. It was obvious he was here to speak with her about something.
He lowered himself onto the chair, but his easy smile was gone when he met her eyes again. "Do you speak Farsi?" he asked.
She blinked once then placed her fork down onto her plate. "What can I do for you?"
The momentary warming of his eyes told her he appreciated her readiness to assist.
"We have a delicate situation. A young lady who speaks very little English."
"You need an interpreter."
"Yes. We believe someone, perhaps a family member, is considerably opposed to her membership at RUSH."
Considerably opposed.
A chill settled over her. She stared into the Englishman's eyes and knew all too well what fate had befallen the young woman. Pushing back her chair, she dropped her napkin onto the table and stood. "Has she been cared for by someone at your medical center?"
Malcolm stood as well, waiting while she reached for her purse. "We've tried, but she refuses to be examined."
He settled a guiding hand at the small of her back and steered her around the tables toward the direction from which she'd come when she'd left the mall.
"Where are we going?"
"Security Central. Above Checkpoint 1."
His hand fell away as they left the food court and she found herself taking nearly two steps to his one as they maneuvered through people on the main path.
"I should tell you that Simon fired me last night."
He looked down at her. "Last night?"
"Yes."
"Then consider yourself rehired—as RUSH's interpreter."
"If you don't mind, I'd rather keep my job as a server."
"I'm afraid I can't accommodate you." He glanced at her again. "I have to trust Simon that had a good reason for firing you from that position. Would you mind telling me what it was?"
She sighed. "He thought I was going to be married soon."
"And are you? Going to be married soon?"
"I . . . don't know."
"I see." He was silent for a minute then said, "Why would you choose to be a server over the position I just offered?"
She knew it would come to this one day, that someone would ask such a question. She was only surprised he hadn't asked her that first day they met.
Bracing herself, she answered truthfully. "I'd rather not use my language skills in a professional capacity," she told him. "It would attract attention."
"Attract attention."
"Yes."
"Are you in trouble, Jessica?"
"No. Not in the sense you mean." Again, she sighed. "I'm not in trouble. But there are people who may be keeping watch over my business activities."
"Indeed. And who would these people be?"
She took a few more steps before answering. "Interpol."
He reached for her elbow and pulled her to a stop. "Jessica, I need to know if you've done something we should be aware of here at RUSH."
"I've done nothing. I told you."
He studied her eyes, then started them walking again. "Then why is Interpol interested in you?"
"They're hoping I will lead them to information regarding a certain businessman."
"And is this businessman dead or alive?" He guided her through the checkpoint doors and toward an elevator.
She looked up, startled. "Why would you ask such a question?"
"Call it a wild guess."
Jessica remained silent. Then she remembered that Michael Vassek, who had the magical ability to gather enough information to create a small novel, was this man's business partner. The Englishman need only ask for a background report, and the profile she hoped Michael had destroyed last night could be easily reproduced.
"The businessman is dead as it happens. I had nothing to do with his death, and I've already answered many questions. But his family . . . and business associates . . . may not have believed my answers."
The elevator opened and he ushered her inside. Forgotten was Qasim Zafir as her reason for being here was brought to mind. They stepped into a wide corridor and she placed a halting hand on Malcolm's arm.
"Tell me her name please."
"Nimah. Her name is Nimah."
He led her toward a wide steel door and keyed in a security code that released the lock. He held it open for her to pass through and she found herself inside a large, brightly lit room that reminded her of a movie scene representation of NASA's Mission Control. Banks of monitors lined the walls displaying images, both interior and exterior, of various locations throughout RUSH.
But there was little time to take in what she saw because Malcolm's hand settled on the small of her back again and he steered her toward a conference room occupied by six men, Malcolm making it seven, along with the young woman named Nimah who stared down at her lap in silence.
Jessica stopped abruptly and stared. She recognized RUSH's chief of security, Jeremiah Case, and the uniforms of two others identified them as local policemen. She didn't like RUSH's chief of security, but her reasons for that were personal. Professionally, she had reason to know he was very good at his job and she gave him that respect now.
"Is there anyone inside this room who doesn't need to be here at this time?" she asked, yielding to his authority by directin
g the question to him.
It took only a glance at the towering male occupants for him to understand. He dismissed the only security guard in attendance, then relinquished authority to another male, unknown to her.
"Mason?"
The man named Mason, who was not dressed in a business suit or any other uniform, cleared two others from the room, one being one of the policemen, while the other remained. Then Malcolm touched her arm and she glanced over her shoulder.
"I'll be just outside," he told her. Though he was the only person she would have preferred to stay, he obviously understood her request as well and had determined his presence wasn't needed.
Jessica faced the one called Mason and his wry smile made him quite handsome.
"Mason Ingersol," he introduced himself. "I handle legal affairs for RUSH."
An attorney.
She walked forward and held out her hand. "Jessica Breckenridge." Then she introduced herself to the police officer as well.
The attorney and the police officer sat down at the conference table directly across from Nimah and Jeremiah Case took a place farther away at the end.
Nimah's posture hadn't changed. Head downcast, hands at rest on her lap, she sat as though defeated and with no expectation of anything else. She was dressed in American blue jeans, and the blouse she wore had long sleeves, its collar fashioned to stand high around her neck. It was much too warm outside for such attire and Jessica's heart wrenched at the knowledge of what was probably hidden beneath the fabric.
Sliding out the chair beside the other girl, she quietly lowered herself onto it. Then she greeted Nimah in her own language.
Nimah raised her head at last, and Jessica had a very close look at the damage done by an angry fist to this lovely girl's face. The entire left side was swollen, the dark, almond-shaped eye that would have matched the one now tearing up, was puffy and nearly closed.
"Jessica?" the attorney said from across the table. "Please tell Nimah we're going to record everything that's said here."
Jessica nodded and explained.
When Nimah nodded, Jeremiah Case lifted a remote from the table and pressed a button.
