He undid his seatbelt, got out, pocketed the keys, and rushed around to her side of the SUV. When he opened the door, she sat there unmoving. He reached in, unhooked her belt, and very gently reached down and peeled back the clenched fingers of her right hand. She had clutched her hand so tightly that her short, neat nails had dug into her flesh so deeply that her palm was bleeding. He repeated the process with her left hand and found it to be in the same condition.
“Ah, Maleah, sweetheart . . .” He pulled a white monogrammed handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket, wiped the bright red droplets of blood from each palm and wrapped the handkerchief around her right hand. “Come on, let’s get you out of here and into the hotel.”
When he grasped her shoulders and turned her sideways, she opened her eyes and stared at him. After slipping his arm around her waist, he lifted her up, pulled her out of the SUV and straight into his arms. Then he eased her down onto her feet.
She looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Keeping his right arm around her waist, he caressed her cheek with a gentle backward swipe of his left hand. “You’re welcome. Come on. You need to lie down and rest for a while.”
She nodded and then followed him into the hotel and down the corridor to the elevator. He kept his arm around her, supporting her, sensing that without him, she would spiral down to the floor and curl up in a ball. He didn’t bother asking her for the key to her room; instead he walked her straight to his room. He unlocked the door and led her over to his freshly made bed. She didn’t protest when he eased her down onto the edge of the bed. But when he moved away from her, intending to take off her shoes before getting a washcloth to clean her hands, she reached out and grabbed him. The bloody handkerchief wrapped loosely around her right hand slipped off just as she gripped his shoulders.
“Don’t leave me, Derek. Stay, please. I—I . . .”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he told her. “I just want to take off your shoes so you can lie back and relax. Then I’m going to get a warm washcloth and wash your hands. Okay?”
“I won the game,” she said. “Browning told me everything he knows.”
Derek lifted a stray tendril of glossy blond hair that had escaped from the soft bun atop her head and wrapped it behind her ear. “I never doubted for a minute that you would beat him at his own game.” But at what price to you, Maleah?
“I need to tell you what he said, everything about—”
Derek tapped his index finger over her lips, effectively silencing her. She gazed up at him with questioning eyes.
“You can tell me everything. Just not right now. You need to rest for a few minutes. You need to let me take care of you. Just this one time. All right?”
She nodded. “All right. Just this one time.”
He smiled. “That’s my girl.” And in that moment, Derek Lawrence admitted an undeniable truth—he thought of Maleah as his. His girl. His woman. His to care for and protect.
Heaven help us both!
Derek knelt in front of her, removed her sensible pumps, set them under the bed, and then lifted her feet and legs. He turned back the covers at the head of the bed, stacked one pillow on top of the other and gently eased Maleah down until her head rested on the double pillows.
“I’ll be right back,” he told her.
A few minutes later, he returned with a warm, damp washcloth and his shaving kit. He sat on the edge of the bed and tenderly washed her hands. And then he took out a tube of salve from his kit and rubbed the soothing cream into the shallow nicks her nails had made in her palms.
She lifted her hands, one at a time, inspected them and said, “Thank you. I didn’t realize what I was doing. I was just trying so damn hard not to fall apart.”
He leaned down, kissed her forehead and said, “I know, Blondie. I know.”
“I’m all right. Really. I’m just a little shell-shocked.”
He set his shaving kit on the floor, dumped the washcloth on top of it, and then turned his attention back to Maleah. “Tell me what you want right now. Tell me what you need.”
“What I want and what I need aren’t the same,” she told him. “I want to forget everything Browning said to me, every question he asked, every innuendo, all the memories he made me dredge up from my childhood. I want to pretend that I didn’t let all those horrible memories make me feel the way I did when I was a child and a teenager. Helpless. Frustrated. Frightened.” She grabbed Derek’s hands and curled her fingers around them. “What I need is to exorcise whatever remains of those old demons. I thought I’d done that in my twenties during a few years of therapy sessions, but apparently, the roots of those memories were buried a little deeper than I realized.”
“Then talk to me. Let’s dig up those roots and burn them to ashes.”
“If anyone had ever told me that I’d be asking you, of all people, to be my father confessor, I never would have believed it,” she said, the corners of her mouth lifting in an almost smile.
He eased his hands from her death grip, tapped her playfully on the nose, and then sat down beside her. He focused on her eyes. “Anything you say will stay between the two of us for as long as we live. You already know my ugly secrets. You know that I despise my own mother, my money-grubbing, social climbing mother who drove my weak, spineless father to drink and eventually to suicide. And she’s never felt guilty about it a day in her life. And you know that when I was young and stupid, I did some pretty awful things. You know that I’ve killed people.”
He took her hands in his and held them so loosely that she could easily pull away. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel trapped by his superior male strength.
“Nothing you ever did could be half as bad as what I did.” He lifted her right hand, kissed it, then lifted the left and kissed it.
She pulled her hands out of his and eased up into a sitting position, her back against the headboard. “When my father was alive, we were all so happy. Mama and Daddy and Jackson and me. Then my father died when I was just a little girl. And my mother, my weak, lonely, needy mother, married a monster.”
“My mother was married three times, but both of my stepfathers were decent guys. I sort of felt sorry for them. If anyone was a monster in those marriages, it was my mother.”
“Nolan Reeves was a sadist.” Maleah clutched the sheet on either side of her hips. “He abused my mother every way a man can abuse a woman—physically, sexually, emotionally, mentally. And he beat Jack unmercifully for years, until Jack got big enough to stand up for himself. I think by the time Jack left home and joined the army, Nolan was halfway afraid of him. He wasn’t as mean to Mama for a couple of years before Jack left. But then, later, when Jack was gone . . .”
Derek circled her wrists, moved his hands downward and opened her clenched fists. He held her hands. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
“When I was thirteen, I saw them,” Maleah said. “I saw my mother running from Nolan. She was naked, her body and face were bloody and bruised and . . .” She gulped several times. “He caught her and threw her on the floor and . . . and . . .”
Derek squeezed her hands tenderly.
“I didn’t do anything. I just stood there in my bedroom door, frozen to the spot and scared out of my mind,” Maleah told him. “I closed the door, got back in bed and covered my head with a pillow so I couldn’t hear her crying while he raped her.”
Tears trickled down Maleah’s cheeks.
“You were a child, even at thirteen. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“I know that. As an adult, I know. But on an emotional level, that thirteen-year-old girl blames herself for not trying to stop him.” Her gaze locked with Derek’s. “He . . . he told me that if I ever interfered in what was a private matter between my mother and him or if I ever told anyone our family’s private business, he would kill Mama and me.”
Derek pulled her gently into his arms and held her. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. And
while she cried, he tenderly stroked her back and whispered reassurances.
“That’s it, honey. Let it all out. I’m here. I’ll take care of you. No one can hurt you.” More than anything, he wanted to take away her pain. If he could, he would suffer it for her.
During their flight from Knoxville to London on the Powell jet, Meredith had, thus far, kept to herself as much as possible. Her escort, Saxon Chappelle, had not pressed her to carry on a conversation, not even when they had eaten a meal together. She greatly appreciated how considerate he was. From the moment he had shaken her hand and said, “Please, call me Saxon,” she had sensed that he was a good man. She instinctively trusted him and felt at ease around him, neither of which was true when it came to a great many people.
She suspected that he had been told enough about her so that he knew when she touched him she would be able to “read him” to a certain extent. And that’s why he had immediately shaken hands with her, to reassure her, to let her know he was a decent human being.
Even when she couldn’t see Saxon and wasn’t touching him, she occasionally could pick up on his fleeting thoughts, flashes of memory, and even his feelings. And the same held true for the pilot and co-pilot. Saxon loved his mother and worried about her. A young girl named Poppy kept slipping in and out of his thoughts. She was his niece and he worried about her, too.
Meredith wasn’t sure if it was the pilot or the co-pilot who kept thinking about women. Their breasts. Their legs. Their hips. Kissing them. Fondling them. She had deliberately shut out those sensual thoughts. They were far too personal and absolutely none of her business. It wasn’t that she wanted to invade other people’s privacy. She didn’t. But she couldn’t help it. For as long as she could remember, she’d had “the gift.” Her Granny Sinclair had had the “second sight,” too, and people in their small Louisiana town had called her a witch. Some people even accused her of practicing Voodoo. It had been Granny who had learned about Dr. Meng and made plans to send Meredith to the woman who was now her mentor. She’d been seventeen when Granny died and old lawyer Dupree had read Granny’s will.
“She wants you to go to London,” Mr. Dupree had told her. “To a doctor over there, some woman named Yvette Meng. She managed to set aside money for your plane ticket and enough for you to live on for at least a year, if you live frugally.”
In the six years since she had become one of Dr. Yvette Meng’s protégés, Meredith had progressed from a frightened, awkward, hostile and misunderstood girl to a cautious, curious, often outspoken woman who was still, on occasion, quite awkward, especially around the opposite sex. Men were not attracted to her. She wasn’t pretty. She was short, plump, and plain. And covered in freckles. Her hair was carrot red, wild and curly and untamable. The best she could do with it was pull it back into a ponytail. And even if a man could get past her lack of beauty, he would certainly be put off by her ability to read his mind.
But she couldn’t actually read minds.
She sensed thoughts.
And when she touched someone, she could feel what they were feeling.
Yvette had told her that she had never known anyone whose “gifts” were as varied or as strong as Meredith’s were.
“You are very special,” Yvette had told her. “Once you learn to harness and control your abilities, there is so much good you can do.”
And that was why she was on the Powell jet, heading to London, straight into the arms of a man she feared. From the moment she had met Luke Sentell, she had known he was a killer.
As hard as she had tried not to think about Luke during the flight, he kept creeping into her mind. She had read for a while, watched a movie, taken a nap, and meditated. Without those quiet, still, soul-refreshing moments of meditation, she didn’t believe she could survive.
And now they were over the Atlantic, on their way to a city that held so many good memories for Meredith, memories that included her first meeting with Yvette and her introduction to other gifted people. When Yvette had moved her academy / sanctuary from London and resettled all of them in the U.S., at Griffin’s Rest, Meredith had hated leaving London. But eventually she had become accustomed to her new home in the U.S. and oddly enough now dreaded returning to London. When they landed at Heathrow, Luke Sentell would be waiting for them. No doubt he would whisk her away, via a limousine, to some fancy London hotel where he would keep her a virtual prisoner while he watched her, pushed her to the brink of exhaustion, and guarded her from the outside world. She would force herself to delve into the unknown mystical realm of her mind and use her psychic gifts because Yvette had asked her to help Griffin Powell. And if she failed to give Luke the results he wanted, he would move her to another city, to another country, to wherever he thought she might “pick up the scent” of their prey. He treated her as if she were nothing more than a hunting dog.
She had been sent to London on a mission and Saxon Chappelle would hand her over to Luke, a man she neither liked nor trusted, so that she could help him find a man named Malcolm York.
Chapter 29
Maleah awoke disoriented and confused. She was lying in bed, fully clothed, and cuddled against Derek Lawrence. The last thing she remembered was weeping in his arms. Apparently, she had cried herself to sleep. When she looked directly at him, he looked back at her and smiled. Her mind told her to disengage her body from his, to lift her head from where it lay nestled on his shoulder and to move her arm from around his waist. But she didn’t change her position by more than a fraction as she leaned back her head and tilted her chin so that they wouldn’t be practically nose-to-nose.
“How long have I been asleep?” she asked.
“Not long. A little over an hour.”
“Have you been awake the entire time?”
He nodded.
“Why didn’t you—?”
“I enjoyed watching you sleep,” he told her. “And you were exhausted. You needed some rest.”
She eyed him speculatively. “You enjoyed watching me sleep?”
His grin widened. “Yeah. Did you know you make funny little noises in your sleep? You fell asleep in my arms, the two of us sitting up, so I just eased us down onto the bed and when I did that, you whimpered and cuddled up against me.”
She lifted her head from his arm and scooted away from him, putting a couple of feet between them. “I need to tell you about my interview with Browning.”
“Your final interview,” he told her.
“Yes, my final interview.” She sat up and leaned back against the headboard, determined to return her relationship with Derek to business only. “Browning and the copycat killer made a bargain. We already figured out that the copycat agreed to provide Jerome with a new lawyer, a female visitor, and a new victim, one he couldn’t actually kill, only emotionally torment.”
“And you were that victim.” Derek grumbled unintelligibly, no doubt a few choice curse words. “I’d like to have five minutes alone with Browning.”
Maleah laid her hand on Derek’s shoulder. His gaze connected instantly with hers.
“I’ll condense things for you,” Maleah said. “It seems Browning and the copycat formed a rather unique relationship, one killer to another, during their phone calls, letters, and visits. The copycat never told Jerome his real name, but when Jerome asked if he was a professional, he didn’t deny it.”
“Which was as good as an admission, right?” Derek sat up beside her.
“Right.”
She noticed that several buttons in the center of Derek’s shirt were open, leaving the material gapping. Had she done that—unbuttoned his shirt in her sleep?
Concentrate on what you need to say and not on Derek.
Keeping strictly to the facts and not elaborating, Maleah told him about her conversation with Browning and the information he had given her.
“Browning said that the copycat is an international contractor, his word—contractor. And his current employer is a billionaire who owns a private island retreat, where h
e enjoys the perks of his business.”
“And his business is human trafficking.” Derek frowned. “The description sounds familiar, doesn’t it, too familiar.”
“Are you saying Browning was lying?”
“No, I’m saying that maybe the copycat was lying to Browning, knowing he would pass along false information.”
“If you’re right about that, then Browning actually gave me nothing. I paid for more useless information.”
“I didn’t say that. For all we know, everything Browning told you is the truth.”
“But you said—”
“I said maybe the copycat was lying to Browning. Maybe he wasn’t. But any way you look at it, you came away with one very important piece of information.”
“Okay, maybe I’m slightly addled from my miniemotional meltdown and mid-day nap, but you’re going to have to enlighten me. My brain isn’t—”
“The copycat, whoever he is, knows something about Malcolm York, either the original York or the pseudo York rumored to be in Europe somewhere at present.”
“You’re right,” Maleah said, suddenly feeling more like her old self by the minute. “And this info adds more weight to Griff’s theory that the copycat murders are connected to his past and to both Malcolm Yorks.”
“I think we can safely assume that Griff’s theory is correct. I have little doubt now that the copycat is, as we suspected, a hired assassin.”
“An assassin hired by the fake York, right?” Maleah got up, brushed off her wrinkled slacks and searched for her shoes. “We should contact Griff right away and let him know.” She found her shoes halfway under the bed, dragged them out, and slipped into them.
“First of all, yes, logically, we can assume that the man who calls himself Malcolm York hired the copycat, but we need more proof before we can be certain.” Derek buttoned his shirt and got out of bed. “Secondly, there’s no need to call Griff because we’ll see him this evening. I got a call from Sanders while you were in with Browning this morning. It was bad news.”
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