Dream of Me

by Delilah Devlin

  She unlocked the front door and stepped over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her and stepping over the pile of mail the mailman had dropped through the slot the past weeks. She supposed she should go through it in case a bill needed paying, but the thought slipped through her mind and faded in an instant as she passed the living room and headed straight to the kitchen.

  Cheap scotch sat on the counter. Yesterday’s tumbler beside it. She swished it clean with tap water, then poured a drink and headed back to the porch, to an overstuffed chair pulled close to the railing. She settled into the chair and set her feet on the rail, her drink resting on her belly as she stared between the branches of the old oak in the courtyard at the huge silver moon.

  A breeze feathered her hair against her cheek. Almost like the light stroke of fingertips, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine Marc’s fingers on her skin.

  But only for a moment, because in the next, a deep painful twinge tightened her chest. She took a sip of her drink, let the liquor burn its path down her throat, and then breathed deeply. Why couldn’t it have been me? I could have blocked the shot with my body if I hadn’t dived over the clerk on the floor.

  If only I could go back and change it. I’d give anything. Please, God. Please.

  A tear slipped down her cheek, and she sniffed then grimaced and wiped it away with the backs of her fingers. She’d cried enough. Doing so didn’t change a thing. Only left her with a headache and grogginess. And she’d had enough of both.

  Ash set her drink on the porch rail, dropped her feet, and stood, swaying a little. She’d thought she’d have to finish the rest of the bottle before sleep consumed her. Maybe not. She reentered the house and made to step over the mountain of mail.

  Her body swayed again, and she knew she’d better get to a chair fast. Her foot kicked an envelope the size of an invitation with a beautiful island-themed stamp and sent it sliding over the old, weathered oak floor.

  Nearer the kitchen now, she saw her name written in thick, terse pen strokes. A man’s handwriting. Unfussy, bold. Rather like Marc’s had been, although his scrawl had been nearly illegible.

  Curious, she eased down beside the letter and picked it up. She carried the letter into the living room, to the leather couch she’d used as a bed since she’d come home alone that first night. She pulled an afghan around her shoulders and turned on the lamp on the table beside her to take a closer look. She slid a fingernail under the flap and opened it.

  Aislin…

  No “Dear Aislin”, no “Dear Occupant”…

  It was scam, right? One of those things where they made you think they knew you well, or knew your cousin or best friend at college, and they just hated to contact you, but they were stranded in Paris. Would you please send money? And if you were dumb enough to do it, you got hit with a huge credit card bill when some Ukrainian charged a Mercedes. Well good luck with that. Her credit card was nearly maxed out.

  Or maybe the letter was one of those time-share things where she had to sit through a sales pitch…

  She ought to toss it. But the trash can was all the way in the kitchen. And now, she was just a little bit curious.

  The next line sat like a stone in her belly.

  I’m a friend of Marc’s. We have to talk.

  Below that was a phone number with a note to call day or night.

  Was this from another friend who’d just found out he’d been killed? Ash wasn’t sure she could bear having that conversation even one more time. But she thought of Marc, and the fact he’d had a huge pool of friends, not only on the force, but from his time in the Navy SEALs. Blinking at the sudden burn in her eyes, she could almost hear him saying, “Don’t wuss out now, Dupree.”

  So she rose, slid her phone from her back pocket, and quickly dialed the number before she did just that. Maybe she’d get an answering machine and could just hang up. Tomorrow, she’d forget about the urge that had her waiting as the phone rang.

  She moved the phone away and raised her thumb to end her call, when she heard, “Ash, don’t hang up,” in a smooth deep voice.

  Ash drew a swift breath but remained silent. How did he know the call was from her? And that voice—she’d felt a quiver ripple over her skin. His voice was a call to temptation, but she wasn’t interested. “I’m sorry. I dialed the wrong number.”

  “Wait. Ash.”

  That was the second time he’d used her name. Her fingers tightened on her phone. “How do you know it’s me calling?”

  “Please, don’t be afraid,” came that deep voice. “Marc gave me your number, but I thought the note might be easier than another call from a stranger.”

  The stranger’s voice was smoother yet again. “Marc’s dead,” she said, her voice more strident than she intended.

  “Something I discovered a few days ago when I called the work number he’d given me. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  The very words she didn’t want to hear. Her throat tightened. “Well, thanks for that sentiment,” she said in a rush, ready to end the call as quickly and politely as she could.

  “Forgive me, but this may come as a shock. Marc made arrangements for a trip to a Caribbean island, reserved a cottage, and bought plane tickets. He wanted to spring the getaway on you. Said something about tricking you into thinking you were vacationing on Grand Isle. He didn’t want you to know a thing until he drove up to the hangar where the plane would be waiting.”

  “Grand Isle…” Her hand tightened on her phone. “But he’s gone, now,” she said, tears welling. He’d planned a sexy getaway. Something special. Marc wasn’t a romantic man, but he’d planned this?

  “I’m glad you called. And I know it hasn’t been all that long, but the trip is already paid for. Yours, whenever you have the time to get away. You’ll have complete privacy, a house on the beach.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice scratchy as she fought tears. She angled her head upward and stared at the ceiling. “I have work,” she lied.

  “Like I said, any time you can travel. Everyone needs to get away some time, Ash.”

  He paused.

  She was surprised she wished he’d say something else. Something about his voice was soothing, making her feel like she wasn’t the only person in the world hurting. “Where is this island?”

  “Western Caribbean. Just a hop from New Orleans. Let me know when you can come. I’ll make all the arrangements.”

  She thought about what Melanie had said about her getting away. Ash would prefer to take her vacation inside a bottle. But she couldn’t be rude to Marc’s friend. “How did you know him?”

  “We were on the same team in the SEALs.”

  She nodded although she knew he couldn’t see. Her gaze went to the couch with its natty afghans, and then swept the room where they’d spent evenings cuddling on the sofa while they watched Saints’ games or the latest Avengers movie.

  A chance to breathe air that wasn’t stale. To see a room that didn’t hold his imprint. To visit a place that they hadn’t been as a couple. “How many days’ reservation did he make?”

  “A week.”

  Maybe seven days would be long enough to figure something out. Or simply to sleep without Marc’s scent surrounding her. “I can come now.”

  Another pause.

  Had she surprised him? Did he need more time? She hoped not. Here was a chance to bolt from their home. And she’d had just enough to drink to sustain her courage to leave.

  “I’ll make arrangements for a car to pick you up in half an hour.”

  Her body stiffened, and she blinked. That soon? “O-okay.”

  “Bye, Aislin.”

  The call ended, and she lowered her phone to stare at the screen. Was she really doing this? Panic fluttered in her belly, and she hovered her thumb over the screen, tempted to redial the number. But again, she stared at the sofa.

  “I have to pack,” she whispered. She’d cram clothes into a duffel and water t
he dying plants. Maybe if she kept moving, she wouldn’t think, wouldn’t change her mind.

  And she needed to get away, to a place where the mirrors didn’t reflect the places Marc had been. Relief washed like a cool wave through her. The card, the call…both seemed like a divine hand had reached down to offer a second chance.

  As she climbed the stairs, she realized she’d never asked his name. She snorted. She wasn’t worried about walking into a trap laid to kidnap lonely women. At twenty-nine, she was too old to be interesting to sex traffickers. Too tired to give a shit.

  Take that back. Right about now, she’d love the hell out of a good fight.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Sam Blalock watched the slender woman who waited on the tarmac just outside the golden oval cast by a tall flood light. Her stiff posture and the way her gaze scanned the narrow airstrip gave away her uncertainty. Did she think she wouldn’t be met? That he’d leave her standing there without a clue of her destination?

  After stepping from the shadow of the hangar, he strode toward her, all the while sizing her up. He skimmed his gaze over her trim frame, the lithe muscles, the lovely fall of curly, dark hair that reached the center of her shoulders. She’d worn blue jeans and a torso-hugging tee. He guessed she hadn’t bother changing after they’d talked. Not like he’d given her time. He’d been afraid she’d change her mind. “Aislin,” he said as he came within reach.

  She turned slowly, her head tipping slightly upward to meet his glance. “You’re Marc’s friend?”

  Her voice sounded less breathy than it had been hours earlier. He held out his hand and waited as she raised hers. She hesitated as though reluctant to touch, but her grip was firm when he shook her hand.

  This close, she nearly stole his breath. She wasn’t the prettiest woman he’d ever met, but something about the way her doe eyes met his, something vulnerable and wary in their glossy depths, made him wish he could gather her in his arms and tell her everything would be okay. Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’m Sam Blalock.”

  “I thought a service would pick me up. Someone from the rental office…”

  He smiled. “The accommodation’s not a rental. Sorry if I mislead you; it’s my place. Or rather a cottage near my place. I’d offered it several times over the years. This occasion was the first time Marc took me up on it.” He noted that when he said his friend’s name she winced. Her sorrow was still fresh, despite the nearly four months since his death. “Is that all you packed?” he asked, glancing at the bag she held.

  “I…yes. I didn’t think I’d need anything special.”

  “You don’t. But if you do want to shop, you can visit the town farther down the road from my place. I can take you.”

  “You’ve already done enough.” Her smile was small and strained.

  Like making small talk was depleting her energy. He held out his hand, and she passed him her bag. “I’ll get you settled. The cottage has been cleaned, with the beds made, and the refrigerator and pantry stocked.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, it’s my pleasure. The least I can do.” And he meant it, but she likely wasn’t ready to hear that story. “Follow me.”

  He led the way though a gate in a chain link fence toward his SUV parked in a very small row of parking spaces. The hangar belonged to his employer, Charter Group. Several of their operatives lived on the quiet island. Plus, a safe house was located amid the bungalows stretched along a pristine strip of beach where they all lived. Charter Group planes flew in and out often enough the company required a separate airstrip and hangar to ensure their privacy and safety from militant groups and drug cartels—people who might have a bone to chew with Charter.

  Sam placed her bag behind her seat, and then held the door as she stepped up into the vehicle. Her gaze didn’t look left or right. She sat still, seeming to barely breathe.

  When they were both strapped in, he pressed the ignition button, and they were away. He kept his gaze on the dark, narrow road that hugged the outer edge of the island. “You should have everything you need, but I’ll check on you tomorrow. Not too early,” he said with a small, one-sided smile as he glanced her way.

  She was staring out the passenger window. “You shouldn’t put yourself out. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Sam couldn’t read her expression, but her tone was flat. Not a hint of emotion. The way Marc had talked about her, Sam knew this wasn’t Aislin Dupree. He was staring at a shadow of the woman she’d once been. “It’s quiet. You’re coming straight from NOLA and might need a bit to acclimate.”

  “Fine. Drop by.”

  Her tone remained flat. But he noted the way her shoulders stiffened just a little. She wasn’t as uncaring as she would have him believe. She was annoyed. Which made him smile. He could deal with anger. Sorrow, not so much. He owed it to Marc to keep a watch over Aislin. Maybe coax her out of her brittle shell. “Marc called you Ash.”

  Her breath hitched, and she darted a narrowed glance his way. “My friends call me that.”

  Had it been his mention of Marc? Or was she warning him they would never be friends? Still, he liked getting a reaction. The frown between her brows was far better than the closed expression she’d worn when he’d introduced himself. “We can’t be friends?” he drawled.

  She blew out a breath between pursed lips and resumed staring out the window. Her already rather square jaw jutted forward.

  Now, he grinned. Yeah, she’d need prodding to rejoin the living. After discovering she’d been on a rather lengthy leave following the shooting, he’d been concerned. Had to mean she couldn’t get past the psych eval. He’d bet anything she’d be livid if she knew he’d placed a few calls on her behalf. Her shift sergeant was a former Marine, and Sam hadn’t done much to get him to spill about his concerns regarding her fitness to return to duty.

  Sergeant Patterson had sounded relieved someone was stepping in to help. Not that helping had been Sam’s intention, at first. He’d simply been repaying a debt. Offering his old buddy’s girlfriend a chance to recuperate.

  However, the call she’d placed last night had sparked his curiosity. Something about the tone of her voice, that hint of desperation and aching sorrow, had tugged at him. After making her travel arrangements, he’d settled into a lounge chair on his deck and started making calls. One to a friend inside Charter’s operations center who could help with running down information regarding Marc’s murder and his girlfriend’s current status. Another to the office manager of the practice where Melanie Oats worked. With little effort and a small bribe, he obtained copies of the psychologist’s notes, which he’d emailed straight to Charter’s own resident profiler. He’d wanted to know how to approach Ash. What she needed…

  A change of scenery, for sure. She’d been holed up in the apartment she’d shared with Marc, sleeping on the sofa because she couldn’t face lying on the mattress where they’d both slept. And a breezy island was far removed from sweltering, muggy New Orleans. She’d stand a chance of losing the anchor that kept her tied to her past.

  Solitude. For her to think, and long enough to make her feel restless. Because then, maybe, she’d be ready to again get out into the world.

  Physical activity. To improve the chemistry of her brain. Happiness was as much a matter of physiology as it was psychology, or so their profiler believed. He’d also suggested an intense affair, feeling that being sexually active might trigger the release of pent-up sorrow. Once she traveled past her grief, she would come to realize her life wasn’t over.

  Sam had taken care of the first and second things she needed. He’d prod her to join him for a swim or a walk to help with the third. The last…

  He’d cursed when Dane Renfrow mentioned it with his dry tone. “And how the hell am I supposed to make that happen?”

  But then, he hadn’t believed he’d be attracted. Her photo in her work file had shown a woman with dark hair and rather stern features. But a flat, two-dimensional pictur
e couldn’t convey her appeal.

  Her slim frame held a wiry strength. A watchful wariness in her dark eyes spoke of her hurt, but also of energy. She was depressed, grieving, yes, but she was also—angry. An emotion he understood. That anger and the intelligence burning in her eyes were oddly appealing. So maybe, if he could figure out how to prod her along, he could help with the final Rx for her recovery. What didn’t hurt was how her trim curves were as appealing as the haunted, edgy anger in her eyes.

  You are one sick jerk. Fuck Dane for putting that thought in his head. He pulled his attention back to the road. “You’re not from New Orleans…”

  “I’m from Jefferson Parrish, in bayou country.”

  “But you don’t have a Cajun accent.”

  She shrugged. “My mom was from up north. She insisted I speak like her. And after my dad’s death, she sent me to boarding school, until she got sick.” She angled her face toward him. “I tried to call you back. When the car showed up.”

  He noted the frown from the corner of his eye and didn’t even try to hide his one-sided smile. “I know. I didn’t answer. I figured you were calling to tell me you’d changed your mind. Marc said you were a hard case.”

  Her mouth pouted, and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’d rather not talk about him.”

  “I get that. So, we won’t. Not unless you want to.”

  She took a deep breath and looked out the side window again, effectively cutting him off.

  They were nearing the turnoff that led down the even-narrower lane connecting all the cottages dotting the gentle, inward curve of shoreline.