He nodded.
“Can that be safely done?”
“There’s a price.”
“What’s that?”
“Isolation. You make it through each day on your own, and when the days begin to pile up one on top of another, that can be tough. Some guys can’t take it. They give in.”
Sabrina knew that he wasn’t talking about physical isolation, but emotional. “It must be difficult.”
“It’s what I choose. I keep to myself. I do my time. I get out. That’s it.”
She thought of stories she’d read of celebrated inmates who had turned around and devoted themselves to improving the lot of the others. “I’d have thought you’d be in demand. You’re intelligent, well-educated, literate. I’m surprised they haven’t got you teaching a course or something.”
“I wouldn’t have done that even if they’d asked.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” he murmured angrily, “I’m not a do-gooder. The way I see it, I shouldn’t be in prison at all. I’m here against my will. I’m being robbed of good, constructive time, months and months of my life lost forever, and for that my grudge is against the system of justice. But the correctional department, with its deliberate knee-buckling, is nearly as bad, and I’ll be damned if I’ll give it one iota of my expertise. In the first place, it would do no good. What in the hell could I teach the guys here that they’d be able to use on the outside? And in the second place,” he said, losing a little of his fire, “it’d only set me up for abuse from those who think I’m lording something over them. The lowest possible profile is the only one I want.”
Sabrina understood both what he was saying and the bitterness behind it. In an attempt to lighten his mood, she picked up his hand, turned it this way and that. “What do they have you doing?” His fingers were long, lean and blunt-tipped. They were masculine without being worn. “No dirt. No calluses. What’s your work detail?”
“Laundry.”
She was appalled. Okay, she could understand why he didn’t teach, but she’d have thought they’d put him in an office doing typing or filing, something vaguely intelligent. But laundry? Her lip curled up at the thought of his handling the dirty laundry of the men she’d seen. They couldn’t have given him a more humbling work assignment. Then again, maybe they could have. What did she know of the options?
Derek read her silence with ease. “I get clean clothes out of the deal.”
“How many hours a day do you work?”
“Four.”
“That leaves a few,” she said, reluctantly returning his hand to him. “What else do you do?”
He flexed his jaw. “Mark time.”
“Besides that.”
“Count the holes on the wall in my cell.”
She ignored his tone, and pressed on. “What’s it like, your cell?”
He shot her an annoyed look. “It’s like a cell. Come on, Sabrina, what do you want me to do—tell you that the rug is Persian, the drapes are Roman and the bed is an authentic reproduction of something Henry the Eighth ordered for his sixth mistress? We’re talking a cot, a shelf, a locker, a desk and a toilet. If there were labels on any of them, they’ve long since been scraped off.”
“Put up with me, Derek. I’m just curious.”
His brows lowered harshly over eyes that were sharp. “I don’t ask you about your bedroom.”
Tell him, Sabrina. Tell him …
“You could ask. It’s not very exciting. I’m not much of a decorator myself, so it was done professionally. There are labels on everything. I wish I could get someone to scrape them off.”
Derek wished he hadn’t mentioned her bedroom. The thought of her there with her husband was doing nothing good for his mood, which had plummeted when she’d touched him. No, that was wrong. He hadn’t minded it when she’d touched him, just when she’d let him go. And that was only a preview. Pretty soon she’d be leaving, going back through the gates, out the door to her car, down the road, onto the highway. He wouldn’t see her for the next … however many weeks until she chose to come again. For all his macho talk about liking isolation, he could feel desolation waiting in the wings.
“Why are you so goddamned curious about me?” he snapped.
“Because you’re interesting.”
He snorted. “That’s a good one. At this point in my life, I am probably one of the least interesting people you could have the misfortune to run across.”
She ignored him. “I want to be able to picture where you are and what you’re doing.”
“But why? What is it with you, Sabrina? You have a husband and a child and a luxurious apartment back in New York. You don’t need this.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said with such quiet force that Derek did a double take. He was sure he’d caught a flare of desperation in her eyes.
“What do you mean?” he asked more calmly.
Sabrina couldn’t think of a thing to say. She couldn’t tell him that seeing his torment lessened her own, because it sounded cruel. She couldn’t tell him that she trusted him with her deepest darkest secrets because it didn’t make sense even to her. She couldn’t tell him that she needed his shoulder to cry on, because then she’d have to explain why his was the only shoulder she had. She couldn’t tell him that he excited her, that the thought of him was as much of a pick-me-up as any new sweater she’d bought, that she felt like a different person when she was with him. And somehow she couldn’t get herself to tell him about Nick.
“It’s the book, isn’t it?” Derek asked. “You’re still thinking about writing that book.”
She could have kissed him for coming to her rescue. She could have kissed him anyway. “You, uh, said you’d think about it.”
“Why is it so important to you? If you’re looking for good subject matter, I can think of any number of others that’d be more intriguing.”
“This one hits me right,” she said, making a concerted effort not to stare at his mouth. That lower lip was sensual, even when it was drawn straight, as it was now. “With the nurse I’ve hired, I thought I might put aside four or five hours a day to work.”
“Then you’ve decided against residential placement?”
“For a little while.” She couldn’t explain that one, either. She’d been so sure that institutionalizing Nicky was the only way for her to survive. Then Nick had left, and suddenly she wanted to wait. She wasn’t ready to give up her baby. She needed to know that she could hold him and touch him whenever she wanted. In so many respects she was alone; the thought of an empty crib was too much. “I’m going to try handling Nicky with extra help. It might work.”
“Why the change of heart? Are you still getting guff about placing him in a residential center?”
Was she getting guff? “Oh, yes.”
“From whom?”
“You name it. My mother thinks Nicky would do best if he were with me, which is pretty consistent with the way we were raised. Aside from the time we spent with Dad, she prided herself on being there for us. Of course, her definition of ‘being there’ was a purely physical thing. To this day, Mom’s mind is more often than not somewhere else.”
“What does your dad say about Nicky?”
“He thinks we fuss too much. He thinks Nicky would do best if we’d all just leave him alone.” Her mouth twitched at the corner. “It’s the old keep-the-hay-in-the-barn-and-the-doggie-will-find-his-own-way-home approach.”
The subtle amusement in her voice had its way. Derek could feel himself relaxing. “And your brother?”
“Oh, J. B. has a super theory. Are you ready?” she asked. When he nodded, she briefly outlined J. B.’s plot.
“Interesting,” Derek said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Taken over by a spirit from the earth’s core. Not bad.”
“Mmmm. It’s more than the doctors have come up with.”
“And this spirit would want you to keep Nicky at home?”
“I’m not sure. It seemed to me the
spirit could do its thing just about anywhere. But J. B. votes for home.” She didn’t repeat what J. B. had said about head bangers and droolers. It still hurt.
“Is anyone besides you in favor of institutionalization?”
“You,” she said with a lopsided smile, then took a quick breath. “And Maura.”
“Who’s Maura?”
“Agent and friend. She wants me to write.”
“How about other friends?”
“I’ve only discussed it with a few. They think I’m awful to even consider it. They say they don’t see a problem, which is very loyal of them … and very dishonest. Then again, Nicky still does look wonderfully normal on occasion. But they don’t live with him. They don’t have the responsibility for his daily care. They don’t have to look to the future as I do.”
Derek mulled that over, then plunged in and asked the question that had been pulling at his tongue. “What does your husband say about it?”
Tell him, Sabrina. It’s a perfect opening. Tell him now. “He’s leaving the decision up to me,” she said, averting her eyes.
“Sabrina?”
“Mmmm?”
“Look at me.”
He’d spoken quietly, but there was command in his voice. She raised her eyes. Derek had shifted to face her, and his gaze probed.
“Does Nick know you’re here?”
“No,” she said softly.
“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing.”
She agreed with that, though her reasons had nothing to do with Nick. Sitting here with Derek, looking at him, being looked at by him, she could no longer deny the attraction. Every one of the other reasons she’d given for coming to see him were valid, but there was another.
Derek turned her on. He lit a spark in her body. He made her feel feminine, desired and desiring.
“Do you love your husband?” he asked.
“Nick and I have been married for eight years,” she said, but her voice was shaky.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“We have a son. I suppose it’s a natural bond.”
“Do you love him?”
“Nicky? I love him—”
“Nick. The father. Your husband. Do you love him?”
“I don’t understand why you’re asking—”
“Come on, Sabrina,” he ground out. “I feel it. You feel it. There’s something between us that has no business being there if you’re in love with Nicholas Stone.”
“I’ve never been unfaithful to Nick.”
“There’s unfaithful, and there’s unfaithful. You may never have made it with another guy since you married Nick, but you may have wanted to; and if that’s the case, something’s missing. He’s not giving you what you need.”
Tell him, Sabrina. He’s all but inviting you to. Tell him!
She needed space. Pushing herself from the bench, she began to walk along the edge of the visiting area.
Derek was quickly by her side. For an instant he’d feared she was leaving then and there, and his heart had sunk to his toes. Now it was back in his chest but still not beating quite right. “The book, Sabrina. Why is it so important to you?”
“I need to do something. I need to prove myself.”
“To whom?”
She kicked at the grass as she walked. “Me. My family. The world.”
“Isn’t taking care of Nicky enough?”
“No. At the end of a day or a week or a month, I have nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing.”
“Why does there have to be something? Why can’t there be the simple satisfaction of knowing what you’ve done for Nicky?”
She gave wide berth to a picnic table that was occupied by two very large, very mean looking men, and waited until they were well behind before speaking. “Because I’m getting nowhere with him. I’m marking time, just like you. You can look forward to freedom, revenge, justice or whatever. I need something to look forward to, too. I need to achieve something.”
“Why a book?”
“Because it’s what I know. It’s what I was raised on. It’s what I do best.”
“Is your family pressuring you to write?”
“No.”
“Do they think less of you because you aren’t writing now?”
“No!”
“If you’re trying to prove something—”
Her head came up. The eyes that caught his glittered with anger, but she kept on walking. “Yes, I’m trying to prove something. Everyone in the world is trying to prove something. In my case it happens that I need to prove my basic worth. Writing is my best shot at that. God only knows I haven’t been able to do it any other way!”
“Wh-oa,” Derek said, grabbing her arm and pulling her to a halt. “You think you’re a failure?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! My Lord, woman, you had a full-length book published before you were twenty-three. Plus articles—how many were there—twenty? Twenty-one? And we’re not talking fly-by-night magazines here. We’re talking The Atlantic, Esquire, Rolling Stone.”
She eyed him warily. “I didn’t tell you about those.”
“Yeah, because you’re modest. I had to ferret out all the juicy little facts after I left you that day in New York. I went out, bought your book and read it cover to cover. Same with most of the articles.”
Her heart skipped a beat, then sped. “But why? There was no need after I’d refused to be interviewed.”
“I had a need,” he bit out with the anger she’d abandoned. “I had to know because you intrigued me. You pricked my conscience. You made me think about things I hadn’t thought about in years—like weighing and balancing the overall good of a story with its effects on its subjects. More personally, you made me ask myself where I was going in life and what I wanted.”
“Did you find any answers?”
“I was thinking about it real hard when I got a call from a guy who said he had some vital information for me, and the next thing I knew the guy was dead and the cops were taking a smoking gun from my hand. No, I didn’t find any answers, and now the issues are more clouded than ever. You want to write a book about me? How can you know me when I don’t know myself?”
“Maybe we can both learn something from the writing. It’s been known to happen. I ask questions a certain way, you look at something differently than you have … it could work.”
“No.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“Damn right.”
She started walking again, this time in the general direction of the gate. “Then I guess there isn’t any point in my coming again.”
“And that,” Derek said angrily, “is even dumber than what you said before.” Grabbing her wrist, he had her behind a nearby tree before she could anticipate the move. He backed her to the wide trunk, pinning her hands to the bark at her shoulders. His lower body pressed hotly. “You want to see me. I want to see you.”
“Derek, I—”
“Shhh.” He shifted against her, seeking to enhance the feeling of her curves against him. His voice was gritty and low. “We fit, Sabrina. I don’t know how or why, but we fit. It shouldn’t be. The whole thing’s wrong. We’re night and day, good and bad, but we fit.”
Her eyes were large, begging his for release. “Please—”
“Think about it before you come again.”
“I can’t—”
“You’ll come again. You will.” He lowered his head until he was nuzzling her cheek. “I want to touch you, touch and kiss you.” He moved again. She felt the shift in her breasts, felt the tingle that the intimate brush of his chest had caused, and lower, felt the curling heat brought by the press of his hips. And she felt afraid.
“Derek, I can’t think,” she gasped.
“You have to. You have to decide—”
“Hey, McGill!” came a shout from the side.
Ignoring it, Derek leaned in even closer. His mouth was l
ess than an inch from hers. “Work it out, Sabrina. Work it out in your mind, because when you come back here, I’m going to kiss you.” He released her hands, which remained against the bark as though they’d been nailed, and slid his own upward from her waist. “There are ways to make love that can be done right here, right here in the yard. I’m hungry, Sabrina. You’ve stirred it up. I don’t give a damn about your husband or anyone else who says it’s wrong. It’s not wrong. Maybe crazy, maybe hopeless, but not wrong.”
“That’s it, McGill,” called the guard who was closing in on them. He wasn’t fat like Frank, but he was big and burly and every bit as unfriendly.
“Hold on,” Derek snarled, then lowered his voice again. “Do you hear me, Sabrina?”
She hurried the words out on a shaky breath. “You shouldn’t be saying these things, Derek, shouldn’t be thinking them.”
“Why not, if it’s what I feel?”
“Because I don’t know if I—”
“Okay, McGill,” the guard said. He was practically on top of them. “Time to get back.”
Derek raised his head a bit and, without taking his eyes from Sabrina, told the guard, “I’m saying good-bye.”
“From the looks of it, you’ve already said good-bye. Sorry, miss, but it’s time to leave.”
She couldn’t move. Derek wasn’t budging. “Derek, please,” she whispered.
“Think about it, Sabrina. Think about all of it.”
“McGill, you’re asking for trouble.”
“I’ve committed murder, Sabrina. I’m perfectly capable of making love to another man’s wife.”
She darted glances at the guard as she pushed urgently at Derek’s chest. “Go, Derek,” she pleaded, “please?”
With his hands flat on the tree at either side of her head, he levered himself several inches back. “Next Thursday. Same time, same place.”
“I don’t know…”
“Be here,” he commanded, then gave a rough shrug to dislodge the hand that the guard had clamped on his arm. Holding his shoulders straight, he deliberately stepped back, then watched as Sabrina turned and half walked, half ran to the gate.
Chapter 7
TWO DAYS LATER, Derek met with his lawyer. David Cottrell was in his mid-forties, with a wife, two children, an office in Manhattan, a house in Westchester and a reputation for being a quiet-spoken advocate with a firm grasp of the law, a keen courtroom instinct and a way with jurors. The two men had met when Derek had sought out a criminal-law expert for one of his early Outside Insight stories, and they’d quickly become friends.
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