Eternity

by Tmonique Stephens

  She couldn’t remember how she left the place weeks ago. Neatness and her . . . well . . . they weren’t exactly a matching pair. Roman opened the door wide and stale decaying air wafted out. She glanced up, trying to catch a look of disgust or—god forbid—pity. A glimpse of either and he would be on the wrong side of her locked door.

  But his face was a study in neutrality when he entered her three-room palace. Not so for the EMT techs accompanying them.

  “Did something die in here?” one said, not caring to whisper as he wheeled her into the stifling room. Crusty breakfast dishes sat on her battered wooden footlocker that doubled as a coffee table. Clothes covered most of her futon and books cluttered the small writing desk and chair she had in a corner.

  Roman’s head snapped around and the look he landed on them made her flinch.

  “S-sorry about that. This room is an oven in the summer. I planned on buying an air conditioner but . . . I haven’t been home in awhile.” She forced herself to stop rambling. Roman swept all of her clothes onto one section of the futon. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.” Before she could stand, he gathered her up.

  The hospital sheets they’d stolen instead of waiting for the social worker to find her clothing, slid from her shoulder revealing the green-checkered hospital gown. She pulled the sheet closed before he deposited her onto the futon next to her laundry. Finally, she could get out of the ugly, threadbare gown and wear her own clothes. He signed the clipboard, snatched the bag of medicine from the EMT’s hand, and slammed the door at their retreating backs.

  In the ambulance, his face held the same mask of hostility. It frightened her, but now she was grateful. Restlessly, his gaze shifted, from the dingy walls, to the worn furniture and frayed curtains, never staying on any one thing longer than a few seconds.

  She’d never had a man in her space, didn’t want one smothering her with their presence and needs. Now, Roman was here.

  First, he opened all three of her ancient windows. The pre-World War Two building needed serious renovations. The curtains fluttered in a warm cleansing breeze. Then he entered the kitchen. Out of sight, she listened to him open her refrigerator and slam it shut. Next, her cabinets and drawers were treated the same. He returned to the living room with his phone to his ear.

  “I don’t know.” His broad shoulders rose and fell a foot each way. “Whatever you deem necessary. Yes, ASAP.” His phone slid closed.

  “You don’t like it here, you can leave.” Propped on the futon, surrounded by clean clothes and dirty dishes, Stella hiked her chin up a notch and glared at him.

  “I’m hungry and there’s nothing edible in this house.”

  She knew there were a few packs of ramen noodles in the cabinet. Stella opened her mouth, but the thought of ramen noodles satisfying the appetite of a man Roman’s size was ridiculous.

  She swung her legs off the cushions and braced herself to stand. “There’s a supermarket two blocks away—”

  “Sit down,” he ordered.

  She obeyed with a plop back onto her rear.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  “Then you go—”

  “I’m not going anywhere either,” he snapped.

  “Well, you said you were hungry. I’m trying to be a good hostess and accommodate you,” she snapped back.

  His eyes narrowed and he grimaced. Was he about to say something or trying not to laugh? She wouldn’t be able to stand it if he laughed at her.

  “Thank you for the consideration.”

  His slow speech made her feel like a child.

  “But you’re in no condition to stroll the aisles of a grocery store, and have you already forgotten the severed heads of your former caretakers? I can’t leave you—” Abruptly he stopped and his jaw snapped shut.

  A word is missing. I’m gonna wait for it because any second he’s gonna add that missing word. He swallowed and she watched his Adam’s apple bob before he turned away from her.

  “I can’t leave you alone because The Strangler’s out there. That’s why I called my butler. He’ll bring us supplies.”

  Butler? Of course he had a butler. “I don’t need your food. I can buy my own.”

  “No one said you couldn’t.” His voice deepened and she heard the unspoken apology for any hurt he caused.

  “I’m sure there’s something in the pantry I can eat,” she said.

  “Yeah, a single package of ramen noodles. Enjoy.”

  All concern one moment, fractious the next. Ohh! If I could just knock that smug smirk from his face.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you for whatever Hector brings.”

  If she stayed in the room one more second she’d explode. She stood and the room swayed.

  His hands steadied her, pulling her against his hard frame. She leaned into him. The length of her body touching his, grateful for his solid presence. She looked up to thank him.

  “I told you not to move.” The coldness of his voice matched the icy daggers shooting from his frosty eyes.

  She jerked out of his arms and slapped his hands away when he tried to steady her again.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded as she walked around the coffee table.

  Stella stopped, lips constricted into a tight angry slit. She cocked her head to the side. “Hmm, since I have so many choices, let me think. Kitchen or bathroom?” Left hand on her hip while her right index finger thoughtfully tapped her temple. “I have to pee, use your higher reasoning and figure it out.”

  Lord it felt good to slam the bathroom door in his slack-jawed face. That is until goosebumps pebbled her backside and she realized her witty words hadn’t stunned him into silence, but the flash of her ass mooning him in her open hospital gown.

  She buried her red face in the cool water of a much needed shower. Water hit her body and soaked her hair. She moaned and turned the showerhead to pulse. The knots in her shoulder and back released, leaving her limbs loose and relaxed. She squeezed the last handful of her lotus shampoo and washed her hair. Her soapy hands threaded through her scalp, skimmed the scar on her face, then, as the suds ran down her body, she followed them and stumbled across a jagged scar on her abdomen. She closed her eyes against the tears that rushed forth and found herself back in her lobby, glass biting into her back and two hundred pounds pressed into her chest.

  Though her heart banged in fear, terror wasn’t new to her. It had become her silent companion and no longer inspired the urge to scream. Her soul was now imbrued with satisfying numbness.

  She spent two hours in the bathroom doing all the girly things she hadn’t done in weeks, killing time. That man waited in the living room. Her cheeks turned hot again thinking about the view he got. Her legs quivered and nearly gave out as she slipped into her ratty robe. If she could remain in the bathroom for the rest of her life, she would. But she needed to rest, not hide.

  About to open the door, she paused. From the other side she heard voices, Roman’s and another man. Head wrapped in a towel, body completely covered, she stiffened her spine and eased opened the door. It creaked.

  So much for eavesdropping.

  Heads turned and two sets of eyes scanned her. She glanced at Roman and then studied the man next to him. Older, his hair was more salt than pepper, shorter and slightly stooped, but dignified in an old world manner. Dressed in an impeccable tailored suit he stepped forward.

  “Miss Walker, I’m Hector.” He gave her a half-bow. “Anything you need, anything at all, please call me.” He handed her a card.

  Hector—no last name— and a phone number, in black embossed letters on white vellum paper.

  “Now, I must leave.” He turned, but then stopped. “I almost forgot.” From his pocket, he retrieved a black cylindrical object. “Mace. For close encounters. It may be a bit old fashioned, but it still works.” He handed it to her. “Don’t be afraid to douse Roman. Won’t hurt him at all and may do him some good.” He didn’t whisper.

  The scowl on her bod
yguard’s face made her smile. “Thank you, but I’d prefer a gun.”

  “I understand.” He patted her hand. “But you never know when it may be handy. Remember, call me for anything.”

  After the door creaked closed behind him, she eyed Roman. “Your butler?”

  “The last in a long line.”

  In the time she’d spent in the bathroom, the living room had undergone a miraculous change. Her clothes were folded and the dirty dishes were gone. Her stomach cramped at the subtle aroma of food. Roman took her arm and led her back to the futon. She placed the mace on the coffee table.

  “Would you like real food or broth?”

  “Real food.” For days they fed her clear liquids. She couldn’t stomach another bowl of soup. As he went into the kitchen, she un-wrapped the towel from her head and spread her damp hair on her shoulders.

  “Do you need any help,” she asked, listening to him bang around her kitchen.

  “No, I’ve used my higher reasoning to figure how to find a plate and fork.” He returned bringing food and a bottle of water.

  “We have roasted chicken, baby carrots, garlic mashed potatoes, and if you can’t handle it there’s broth.”

  He draped a linen napkin that wasn’t hers across her thighs and set the plate on her lap. Her first real meal in weeks, her fingers trembled reaching for the fork.

  “Let me help you.” Roman took her plate and sat opposite her. He cut a bite-sized piece of poultry and speared a carrot. She leaned forward and parted her lips.

  “It may be too hot,” he murmured, before carefully placing the food in her mouth.

  It wasn’t hot. It was warm and good enough to gobble. Ravenous, she took the fork from him and ate with as much decorum as hunger allowed. After ten minutes, the effort to chew and swallow exhausted her. She leaned back and settled into the cushions.

  “More?” He questioned, leaning closer to study her with concern etched across his face.

  She nodded and opened her mouth when he picked up her fork. His hand trembled as he brought food to her. She glanced up and met his concentrated stare.

  How hard could it be to feed one woman?

  She touched his wrist and guided him to her. Six mouthfuls later, her tired eyes closed.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled and drifted away content.

  Roman watched her. His predatory side wanted to kiss away the tiny bit of mashed potatoes clinging to the corner of her mouth, then swirl his tongue in her warm darkness. He picked up a napkin and dabbed her lips. His finger traced across her soft cheek and delicate collarbone. The image of her perfect ass peek-a-booing through the partially open back of her hospital gown flickered in his brain. A surge of lust rushed to his throbbing dick.

  He stood quickly and walked to the window. Every instinct ordered him to kiss her, snatch off her robe and slide her body beneath his. Protect her, but not to love her, never love her. Take what he wanted, use her to satisfy this burning need. Give her his body. Never his heart. Even if it cost him everything.

  But could he take everything from her and give her nothing, but his body? Logic said yes, but his heart instantly called him a liar. He ignored both and opened his phone. Time for an update.

  CHAPTER 9

  Detective Lever tried to cling to objectivity and failed. This wasn’t her first bloody crime scene, but it was the worst. Too much blood and body parts no human—other than a doctor—should see.

  Arterial blood spray covered two walls of Pamela Buckley’s bedroom. She was alive when he cut her throat. The contents of her abdominal cavity lay outside her body. He killed Pamela exactly like he killed Nancy Dissent. He decapitated her then gutted her like a deer.

  “God. What terror they’d gone through,” she murmured walking through the house.

  She skirted CSI techs and the ME’s as they processed the scene. The coppery scent of blood filled her sinuses and the neatness of the room against the disarray of the body roiled her stomach into an acid stew. She turned away from the remains and stared out of the windows onto the front lawn. News crews swarmed like baited sharks. She wanted to go somewhere and let her lunch come out both ends.

  “I shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

  She couldn’t do this job. Right now she’d give anything to be on a stage smiling painfully at the judges trying to win Miss Cabbage Head of Clay County Florida. Her mother, Miss Florida 1970, would love her failing at this. Failing would confirm her opinion of feminist’s. Her three military brothers and her father—retired Major General Martin Lever—would never let her live this down.

  She walked into the victim’s backyard. The Long Island police and Lead Detective McCabe, she couldn’t let them see her shaking. She tried to swallow the dry heaves through gritted teeth, but couldn’t. Twisting spasms doubled her over and wouldn’t let go. She rounded one of the trees at the back of the yard and lost her breakfast. Bitter, buttery, sausage flavored coffee with bits of egg, surged out of her mouth and onto the recently cut grass. Knees buckling, she braced her shoulder against the tree. The rough bark dug into her flesh through the thin fabric of her cheap suit. After her stomach emptied, she pressed her sweaty forehead into the tree and fought the pull of unconsciousness. Fainting at a crime scene would completely tank her career.

  “God help me,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Please help me. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t fake it. I’m not smart enough or fast enough. Delaney can outrun me and he’s 300 pounds of fat. That test was a fluke. I wish I never passed the damn exam. I can’t even quit. My father is so proud. Finally, he tells his cronies about me, his daughter the detective. Please God, either help me or send me some help because I can’t do this alone.” Tears ran down her face and she muffled her sobs in her arm.

  Her phone rang as if it was in some distant land. She dragged in a ragged breath and wiped her nose in her jacket sleeve. Just before voice mail kicked in she accepted the call and heard Roman Nicolis’ voice demanding a report, as if she answered to him.

  “Are you all right, Detective?”

  Like he gave a damn about her. “It’s none of your fucking business if I’m all right.”

  He didn’t reply. Not one word.

  The wind gone from her sails, she summed up the crime scene. When she was done, she cried again. Needing a friendly ear to bend, she broke every rule in the book, though she didn’t feel as guilty as she should. Stella Walker was in some deep shit if this manic was truly after her. Any help she could give her bodyguard, she would.

  “Lever!” McCabe barked her name. “Where the fuck are you?” he called.

  She closed her phone and scrubbed her face dry with her jacket sleeves before returning to the reality happening around her.

  “All this rage was directed at Stella Walker. He couldn’t get to her, so he got to them,” McCabe said kneeling next to the Coroner over the body of Pamela Buckley. “Where were you Lever?” he asked, without looking her way.

  She’d hoped to return unnoticed. No such luck with McCabe. “I was in the backyard checking the area.” Balanced on his thick neck, his head swiveled and his gaze lasered into her. He reminded her of her father with his barrel chest, meaty hands and a military high and tight. Did her sunglasses hide her swollen eyes?

  “Did you find anything?” Hostile and angry was his approach to everything, especially her.

  “No, sir.” She couldn’t stop from shaking her head like a child.

  His eyes narrowed. He lurched to his feet and went through the sliding door and onto the small patio. Lever followed. Hot and humid, sweat slid down the side of her face. McCabe skirted the furniture and the screened in Jacuzzi. Like a beacon, he went straight to the tree and her humiliation.

  The fetid aroma of vomit greeted them. He crouched over the spot, swatting the flies away. “Your contribution, Lever?”

  She looked at her colorful mess in the grass and remembered the delicious western omelet and sausage she ate before the call came in. “Ah
, sir . . . yes.”

  “Did you happen to notice the size thirteen shoeprint you barfed in?”

  She rushed to his side, but he ordered her back. Ignoring him, Lever carefully crept closer. There it was. Mixed in with her vomit and her size eight Neutralizers’ was a size thirteen or better shoeprint.

  “CRAP!”

  Asleep in the chair, feet propped up on the desk, Roman had closed his eyes for a few minutes when he woke to Stella’s screams. He jumped up, his hand automatically sought the gun at his side. Then he saw her twisting in the sheets, fighting an imaginary foe. Her cries, those were the same sounds of death he remembered from the battlefield, gut wrenching sounds of torture and pain.

  “Stella.” He touched her shoulder. Eyes tightly closed, head thrashing about, she knocked his hand away. “Stella.” He grabbed both her arms and gently shook her. Her eyes popped opened. She inhaled sharply, ready to scream again, but then she focused on his face. He didn’t move as she scanned his features, first with her eyes. Then her fingertips stroked his face igniting a current, which continued down to his groin long after her fingers trailed away.

  “Roman?” Barely above a whisper, her voice pleaded it be him.

  “Yes, it’s me.” He mimicked her hushed tones.

  All the tension ebbed from her body and she flopped back onto the pillows. Tears glistened, caught in her long lashes.

  “Bad dream?”

  She sucked in a ragged breath and brushed the tears from the corners of her eyes. “I was running. I couldn’t get away. The harder I ran the shorter the distance between us. Then I was on the floor and he was stabbing me again . . . and laughing. I will never forget that laugh. It rumbled in his chest like a cold. Uggh!” She covered her face with her arm and wept.