Guarding Laura

by Susan Vaughan

  Oh, God, what had she done? Her callous brush-off had hurt him more deeply than she’d anticipated. And in a way she hadn’t foreseen.

  But should have.

  She couldn’t allow him to believe the worst about himself. His inner doubt wasn’t rational. Self-doubt is blind, a shroud of darkness over a glowing beacon. Cole had risked the light, but her clumsy rebuff had snuffed out the flame.

  Tears tracked down her cheeks. She clutched the chain at her neck. If only she could transform herself into the cold, unfeeling ore of Midas’s daughter, she wouldn’t feel this aching emptiness, this knot of pain constricting her breathing, crushing her bruised and tortured heart.

  She had only one choice. She’d hoped for a reprieve, but time was her enemy. She owed him the rest of the truth, the secret she’d harbored in her soul.

  And the truth would drive a wedge between them.

  Not a wedge but a vast rift that would end any dreams he had of a future together.

  When Cole opened the bathroom door, he clamped down his emotions and stepped back mentally to consider with the cool control that had saved him and his people from enemy fire. A different kind of danger, but as hazardous as a battle-field.

  Laura sat at the kitchen table, shoulders slumped and head bent over a mug of coffee. She looked drained, like trying to send him away was hurting her as much as him.

  She was wrong. He hadn’t lost his new belief in his worth. She’d urged him to get over himself, and with her by his side, he’d fought his way to that point. But her dismissal took him by surprise. Anger had honed his tongue and he’d lashed out, too.

  So if not because of their past or his bad-boy rep, why was she rejecting him?

  Last night he could’ve died with her in the explosion. Was she protecting him? She would risk endangering herself to save him, to send him out of harm’s way.

  He was consumed by the need to protect her, to erase the smudges of worry beneath her huge golden-brown eyes, to heal the cut marring that high, perfect cheekbone. Deep within him, she’d kindled sparks where only cold and darkness had lurked.

  Ever since Laura had left him, he’d trusted no one. He never let anyone close to him, not his team, certainly not a woman. But life meant more than just surviving. She was the missing part of him.

  If there was a chance for them, he wouldn’t give up without a fight.

  No. Hell, no.

  The stresses of being a murder target and the sorrows of the past were getting to her. That was the reason. After the tragedy ten years ago, depression and denial had set her course. He understood her burying herself in her work and charity tennis lessons. But that was an unfulfilled life for such a classy, brave and beautiful woman.

  She should have children—their children—to love instead of surrogates.

  Because for him, she was still Midas’s golden daughter with creamy-soft skin and maple-syrup eyes. She was gentle and kind and so sharp she kept him on his toes like a damn ballerina. She was the sun coming out after a storm. He thought up stupid jokes just to see her smile.

  And her tears made his soul weep. He wanted this damn trap sprung and the bad guys wrapped up like rodeo calves, so he could think without this massive vice binding his chest. So he could get on with making sure Laura never again had cause to shed anything but happy tears.

  When he entered, she looked up with haunted eyes. She gripped her coffee mug with both hands, like a drowning victim clutching a life ring.

  Before he could think of what to say, she held up a hand. “You were wrong, Cole. My reason for ending our affair has nothing to do with your past or our history.”

  “Then why? You can’t tell me you don’t care for me. I know better.”

  She nodded, her head moving mechanically, as if blocking emotion. One hand flexed against her flat belly. “Because I do…care for you, I have to tell you the rest of the truth.”

  Apprehension tripped his heartbeat. What secret was she still keeping? “The truth? Truth about…our son?”

  “Not exactly.” Her chin came up, but her eyes were dark and opaque as a moonless night, with no maple-gold sparks to warm them. She set down the mug and pushed to her feet. “There’s more about the accident that took our son. I couldn’t bring myself to go into it before. Perhaps it’s guilt for having let myself become pregnant in the first place. I don’t know. I’m ashamed to admit that trying to spare myself only hurt you more.”

  Two long strides took him to her side. “What then?” He started to reach out to her, but she backed away.

  “The crash damaged me, too.” Her mouth trembled, and her voice caught on a suppressed sob. “Beyond repair. Michael was the only baby I can ever have.”

  Her words exploded in his face. They swirled in his brain in a language he couldn’t fathom. His legs felt as weak as an invalid’s, and he sank into another chair beside her. Finally he made some sense of her new bomb. “You can’t have children.”

  Shaking her head, she slid to the door. “The doctors had to perform a hysterectomy. I’m barren. I can’t give you babies. Cole, I can’t give you the family we used to talk about, the family you’ve always longed for.”

  He sat quietly for a moment, then said, “I saw the scar. I figured it was from the accident.” All the revelations of the past week poured over him in a flood of confusion and pain. He wanted to rub his eyes to clear the blur. “And you kept this from me until now.”

  His bruised brain tried to comprehend. There must be alternatives. But what? The impact of what she’d said evaporated his synapses and numbed his senses.

  “I planned to tell you once this crazy…trap ended, but I couldn’t go on allowing you to think you were that hoodlum you believed you had to be to survive. Toughness got you through hard times. You had nothing to be ashamed of then, and you have so much more to be proud of now.”

  She slipped her ash-smeared visor on her head, and jammed on her sunglasses. They concealed the melancholy in her eyes, but not the pain leaching all the color from her cheeks and lips. “I have to go. The sailing class.”

  He had to stop her. He strode closer to face her. “But—”

  “No, there’s no way around it. You may think now that we could make it, just the two of us, but one day you’d hate me for robbing you of your dream. That would kill me. And wound you far more. Ending it now is the only way.”

  “No, Laura. You love me. What we have together is too precious for us to walk away because you’re afraid to take a chance. And it’s not just sex. I want to be with you, to sit at the table and share morning coffee or a meal with you, to argue with you and make up afterward. In the past days, I thought I’d regained your trust, your soft smiles, your quiet moments and your passion. And I want them for the next fifty or so years. Marry me.”

  “Please don’t ask me that. I can’t marry you. I won’t. It would never work. It’s not you—it’s me. You deserve the family a whole woman can give you, not a hollow shell of one.” She slumped against the door and hugged herself.

  He lifted her chin so she had to look at him. “Sweetheart, you were the one who helped me to grow, to overcome my insecurities. You badgered me to change. You showed me that I had changed. Now it’s your turn. Let me help you change things for you. For us.”

  A frown knit her brow. Tears clogged her voice. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re right that I’ve always wanted a family, a loving family with a bunch of children. But it’s love, not blood that makes a family. We can’t get our son back, but we can make a home for lost children who need parents. We can adopt kids.”

  “Adopt?” She pronounced the word carefully, precisely, like a strange word in Pashtu. Shaking her head, she said, “It wouldn’t work. One day you’d long for a child with your eyes or my mouth. You wouldn’t mean to, but you’d resent me because I denied you that heritage. Eventually you’d detest me.”

  Cole clenched his fists so his nails bit into his palms. His heart pounded against his ribs like a frantic
prisoner. But she was the one escaping.

  “Laura, you’re wrong. If you run away because you’re afraid to take a chance on me—on yourself, on us—you’re not the woman of courage I thought you were.”

  Tears streaming down her face, she said, “No. I’m not. I’m a coward. I love you, but I can’t face seeing your love turn to hatred.”

  A sob escaped her. She ran outside and down the path before he could stop her.

  Enveloped in a pall of silence, Laura and Cole walked into the theater that night. During the day, a front had moved in, bringing with it opaque fog and pewter drizzle heavy enough to sink Laura’s spirits to the bottom of Passabec Lake. The wind was the only thing picking up.

  Stan didn’t cancel the performance of Diner since so many people had bought tickets ahead. Instead, before the curtain rose, they would have a moment of silence for Burt Elwell.

  This was the longest day of her life. Laura was relieved to be in the theater, busy and surrounded by people. To avoid Cole between sailing and tennis classes, she’d manufactured mindless chores to do in the boat house and around the inn.

  Avoiding him was impossible.

  A taciturn and grim-faced Cole trailed along with her everywhere. He brooded in grim silence interrupted by an occasional phone call. Little communication passed between them other than the perfunctory kind.

  The second weekend of performances opened to a packed house. After the flurry of costuming, makeup and props, the director and most of the stage crew milled around behind the orchestra seats and watched the performance. In the dark, Laura could barely distinguish who was there, but she thought ATSA officers mingled with Bea and Rudy and the others.

  The dark scowl on his battered face keeping everyone at a distance, Cole leaned against the tech booth alone.

  Forbidding or not, Laura ached for him. Her hands itched to ease the tension in his broad shoulders. She longed to crush herself against his chest and absorb his musky essence and his strength. Her feminine core pulsed for his possession.

  She forced herself not to approach him, not to make an effort to soften the blow. She stayed where she was behind the right orchestra seats, a barrier of stage crew between them.

  Separation and distance were for the best. She’d known that from the start, but her heart had overruled her brain for a while.

  Separation and distance.

  She repeated it to herself like a mantra, but mere repetition didn’t ease the anguish stabbing her heart and scalding her throat.

  When the third act was halfway through, Laura felt a sharp jab in her side.

  “Come with me quietly or I’ll turn this gun on your boyfriend.”

  The whisper in her ear branded her brain. The coppery taste of terror froze her. “Who—”

  “Shut up.” The gun dug painfully in her ribs. A steel hand clamped her elbow and forced her to turn toward the door. “Move. Now. But nice and slow. Act normal.”

  Laura glanced at Cole, but he appeared absorbed in the play. He wasn’t even looking her way. How could she signal him? Her heart spasmed with fear and indecision.

  “Don’t. You warn him, and he’s a dead man.”

  Her pulse tripping over itself, Laura managed to put one foot in front of the other as her captor herded her through the rear doors and into the lobby.

  No one glanced her way. No one noticed their departure.

  Cole fisted his hands in his trouser pockets. Only his training kept him from jumping out of his skin. All day he’d spent trying to understand Laura.

  Missions had gouged a few battle scars in him. Last night’s explosion had probably added one or two. The knife attack on Laura had left gruesome tracks on her neck. But all of those together didn’t match the internal scars.

  Guilt and the compounded tragedies of the car accident had governed her life ever since, had plunged her into work and charity because she saw the removal of her womb as the end of love, as the end of a full life. He was straining to understand how she’d thought, how she still felt.

  She was so terrified of his possible rejection of her that she had to cut him off first. Yes, her inability to bear children—his children—had shocked him. He could make snap analyses and decisions in a tight spot with terrorists. Had his impulsive suggestion of adoption misfired? Or had it added to the past week’s emotional minefield? Any misstep would blow up in his face.

  So for the rest of the day, he’d guarded her from the distance she wanted and avoided the minefield altogether.

  He allowed himself a glimpse of her, standing there with Bea and Rudy. She was an exotic bird, an elegant bird in a borrowed yellow shirt that showed off her honey-gold tan and jeans that were tighter than usual—just right in his judgment—to display her womanly curves.

  Her bright facade might fool her friends, but he knew that renewed grief and pain faded the gold flecks from her eyes and smudged shadows beneath them. She might fool herself into believing their parting would be for the best.

  Letting her go would be the worst thing he could do.

  That much he knew. Happiness was beginning to trickle into the hollow places inside him. He was working at trust, at cracking the long-standing barriers he’d built to protect his heart and soul. Only one person, only Laura had ever seen through those barriers.

  With her, life had real meaning.

  Because danger still stalked her, Cole couldn’t take the necessary steps to heal their relationship—or lack of one. Making amends and making plans were impossible.

  Healing the pain, the breach, would take work. But healing had to happen. He would ensure it. She needed him. And the more he was with her, the more he needed her. He felt bereft if he wasn’t touching her silken skin, holding her softness against him, sinking inside her.

  This distance between them hurt both, but gave him the space he needed to be more alert to danger. He glanced at Laura again. Safe enough with this harmless bunch. Isaacs was stationed nearby, but if Cole couldn’t spot him, neither would Janus. Or Markos, if he dared show his face.

  If only they could have this business with Markos behind them.

  If only Janus would make his damned next move.

  Cole wanted the trap sprung, so he and Laura could get on with building a life together. No matter what she thought, they could have a family. He would convince her that she was wrong about how her little bomb affected him. Sure, the thought of her belly never swelling with his child saddened him, but he could get past that loss.

  If he had her.

  Decision made, he turned his gaze to the stage.

  Cliff Trigger, played by a fresh-faced new guy with script in hand, helped his new-found love Debbie and her father, the police lieutenant, close the trap on the killer. Using a deception carried off by the obnoxious dowager, portrayed to the snooty hilt by Doris Van Tassel, Cliff tricked the murderer into incriminating herself.

  No, himself.

  Wait a damned minute. Cole realized that he’d never read the script nor seen the final act, so he didn’t know who committed the murders. He watched the climax in stunned silence, oblivious to the laughter and clapping around him.

  As the denouement proceeded, Bea Van Tassel rushed over to him. She whispered, “Isn’t that a marvelous ending, Cole? The audience is fooled every time. No one suspects Cookie is a man. Stan Hart is perfect in the role. And the wig! If only he had that much hair, poor man.”

  Cole nodded. In the unisex outfit of baggy pants, flowered shirt and white apron, Stan sure as hell looked like a motherly, middle-aged woman. Cole had just figured they didn’t have a woman to play the part. Duped him along with everybody else. And he’d watched a rehearsal or two.

  Amazing. Cookie turned out to be the supposedly dead owner of a bankrupt ski resort, a man who for years plotted revenge against all the people who he’d imagined responsible for his ruin. He knew them, but they didn’t know each other.

  Devious, Cole thought, as he watched Cookie, minus his wig and chef’s hat, be handcuffed and
led away.

  A dual role, he mused.

  A successful hit man might have to play a dual role. One respectable for the public. One underground, clandestine.

  In frustration, Cole scraped a hand through his hair. More ways to examine the damned puzzle only gave him more headaches. No answers.

  The performance would end in a few minutes. After the curtain calls, Cole and Laura were slated to help clean up. He turned toward where she’d stood earlier.

  No Laura.

  Damn! “Where is she?”

  Bea clapped her hands together. “I have to see my sister when the play ends. Wasn’t her fake death scene terrific?”

  “Bea,” he repeated, gritting the words through his teeth. “Where. Is. Laura?”

  For his harsh tone, he received a schoolmarmish frown and a haughty sniff. “I saw her go to the lobby.”

  “Alone?”

  “Someone was with her. I didn’t see who. What—?”

  Cole slammed through the double doors at the back of the theater.

  Chapter 17

  The lobby was deserted. Cole raced to the outer door. His sweeping glance assessed the area.

  Where the hell did she go?

  Dread and the writhing serpents in his gut turned him toward the door to the stairs, 9mm in his hand. He took the stairs to the lower floor two at a time.

  With everybody onstage or behind the orchestra seats, the corridor of storerooms and dressing rooms stretched ahead lit only by dim emergency lights. Silence reigned except for echoes above of voices and creaking boards.

  Was she down here? Or had she gone outside after all?

  Who the hell had her?

  He flattened against the wall. He adjusted the tiny wandlike microphone in his collar and pressed the button on the mini-communicator linked to Laura.

  No answer.

  He pressed it again.

  Nothing.

  Why the hell wasn’t she responding? Suspicion crawled up his spine.

  Byrne and Snow were stationed outside. Isaacs ought to be in the theater, and Ward was backstage. He clicked on the button to connect to them all. “Two and Three, come in.” No response.