by Jordan Dane
It was one thing to free a man needing his help, but was it his fight? Even if Fiona confirmed Charboneau to be his father, how much would he risk to uncover the truth about his past?
"It's hard enough to talk to Fiona these days . . . in that place. Now this." He shook his head and pulled Raven to his chest, filling his senses with her warmth.
"Nicholas Charboneau. Just when I thought I'd seen the worst."
Christian's gaze fogged with the image of a face he knew well. Next stop, a long-awaited confrontation with his mother, Fiona. And this time she'd have to tell him the truth.
CHAPTER 4
Day four
Fiona had no need to fear the never-ending damnation of hell. She lived it, each and every day, cut off from the wealth and privilege—and freedom—she left behind.
Christian could only imagine what it must be like for her to live in a minimum security prison located in downtown Chicago. Beyond the metal bars, the world spun along without her—the charity events, gala openings, and life in general. But her world had stopped dead still, marred forever. For her, nothing would ever be the same again.
As he walked through the door marked for visitors and took a seat, bland gray walls closed in on him. The room smelled of sweat and an indefinable musty odor, masked by industrial pine cleaner. Walls had been stripped bare, functional in their simplicity. Rules of conduct were posted and screwed into painted cinder block, printed in blue, the only real color in the room. Dull mediocrity and guilt weighed oppressive in this place.
God, you deserve better, Fie! If I could switch places—
He knew Fiona hated it, her home for the next five years with good behavior. The judge had been lenient in exchange for her voluntary confession to the arranged murder of her husband, Charles Dunhill, over twenty-five years ago. No evidence would have convicted her. She came forward, unwilling to deny her guilt any longer. Perhaps the judge aligned his sympathies on the side of Fiona, given the fact she killed her husband to save her illegitimate ten-year-old son from the man's murderous wrath.
All things considered, his life had been built on a foundation of murder and lies. He had grown weary of the burden. But he couldn't fathom the depths of her regret.
He sat in a metal chair, staring through Plexiglas at the empty seat that would soon hold his mother. A myriad of fingerprints dotted the dingy surface, a quiet reminder of the desperation and longing within these walls. His thoughts turned to Fiona.
He yearned to see her . . . and dreaded it at the same time.
An annoying buzzer, followed by a slamming door, preceded footsteps echoing down the hall within the bowels of the prison. He stood in anticipation, almost unaware he had moved at all. His gaze shifted to the door beyond the barrier. Swallowing hard, he had to remind himself to breathe. Through the small plate glass in the door, covered with wire mesh, he saw the grim face of a security guard. The door swung open with a creak and Fiona walked into the room.
His heart lurched in his chest.
Dressed in an oversized orange jumpsuit, she looked so frail in her misery, so consumed by it. Gray walls drained her skin of color, blanching it to a doughy sheen. Her normally piercing gaze had lost its defiance. Eyes the color of deep jade had faded and now brimmed with tears glistening under fluorescent lighting.
Profound defeat robbed her of dignity. Fiona would never be the same again. This image of his mother would forever stick in his memory. She stared, a tear draining down her cheek. Christian fought the lump building in his throat. He gestured for her to sit, unable to take his eyes off her.
Keep it together, Delacorte—for her sake.
"How are you? You've lost weight." His words sounded trite.
She nodded and wiped fingers across her cheek. "I'm fine. You look . . . Are you getting enough sleep?" Her voice muffled through the speaker in the Plexiglas.
No doubt, the dark circles under his eyes gave him away. Of all people, Fiona knew how he slept, understood his relentless demons. As a child, she comforted him on many nights after one of his recurring nightmares, holding him until he fell asleep again. As a man, the dreams came less frequently, but remained a constant reminder of his past.
So the rift between them left a gaping hole in his heart, stealing the one person he'd known his entire life .. . his confessor. And worse, he could do nothing to ease her suffering.
"Yes. I'm fine," he lied, hating the strain between them. "I miss you. I wish—"
Before he finished, she raised a hand to stop him, pain etched deeply on her face. "Not a day goes by that I don't wish things were different between us . . . that I had made different decisions. But I can't change what happened. I only hope one day you can forgive me."
"I'm trying ..." He lowered his eyes and took a breath. "So much has happened. I just need . . . time."
Awkward silence. No matter how much he longed to reconnect with her, a part of him knew the link had been severed for good. He would have to get beyond her betrayal, and she would have to survive the guilt. None of it would be easy.
Furrowing her brow, Fiona nodded her head in acknowledgment, yet kept her eyes on him. "You look like you have something on your mind. Please . . . say it."
He could never hide anything from her. Today would be no different.
"On more than one occasion, I've asked you about my father . . . my biological one." He took a deep breath, giving her time to prepare. "This time, I need an answer."
"Please . . . don't ask me again. Believe me, it's for your own good." Her words were engulfed by an underlying fear. He read it in her eyes.
"Why?"
"I made a mistake when I was a very young woman. If I tell you now, then you might convince yourself he is a man worth knowing. I can't let you do that." She diverted her gaze, wringing her thin hands. When she looked up, tears filled her eyes, her lips quivered. "Even if you don't think of me as your mother, I love you more than my own life. Keeping this secret is the last thing I can do for you . . . from in here. Don't make me answer that question. Please."
An uncomfortable stillness filled the space between them. Locked in her gaze, he felt the stalemate, unsure how to proceed. Only one way remained. Her way. Just say it. . .
"Nicholas Charboneau has been kidnapped in Brazil." Christian raised his chin, his jaw rigid.
He witnessed her pain, unable to console her. Fiona's eyes widened in shock and the defeat returned, forcing her to stare at her trembling fingers. Without the ability to touch her, he ached with her emptiness.
"His bodyguard, Jasmine Lee, has asked for help to free him. She needs a million dollars wired in seven days and use of the Dunhill jet."
Christian reached into his windbreaker to pull out an envelope containing the wire instructions. He held the unfolded paper against the barrier for her to see, then slid it back into the envelope. A guard would have to approve the exchange before he gave it to her.
"Don't wire the funds until you hear from . . ." Christian hesitated, catching himself. ". . . until you hear from Jasmine Lee. She'll have your contact information."
"You trust this woman?"
"Yes, I do," he lied.
Of course, he'd be the one to make the call on the payout, but he didn't have the heart to tell her he'd be in Brazil to do it. And if the funds got paid early, Charboneau's life would have no more value to the kidnappers. Timing would be everything.
"You still love him, don't you?" Christian knew the answer even before she looked up.
"I would sooner command my heart to stop beating than to deny my love for him."
"Is he my father, Fie?" The question had been unnecessary, but he wanted to hear her say it. Needed to hear it. "He's the one you built that shrine to, the one in the attic at the estate. All those memories locked away."
She chewed her lower lip, no doubt contemplating her options. Time stopped as he waited for her answer. Then resignation stooped her shoulders and she finally replied, "Yes. Nicky is your father."
Final
ly, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place.
Christian lowered his head and shut his eyes for an instant, letting everything sink in. When he looked up, he spoke softly. "If it means anything, Jasmine is convinced he still loves you."
Haunted laughter echoed in the small room, Fiona's amusement tainted by the agony of her expression. "Yes, I know . . . but he has a most peculiar way of expressing his feelings, my love. I suppose he always did."
With a renewed urgency, she placed her hand on the glass, leaving her print smudges, mingling her desperation with the many coming before. Her voice cracked under the weight of emotion.
"Please, Christian, I beg of you. I'll arrange for the money and the aircraft for his bodyguard's use, but please don't get involved with him. He's a dangerous man."
"So I hear."
Slowly, he raised his hand to meet hers, pressing it to the barrier. There was nothing more to say. Christian stood, giving the metal chair a shove across the floor. He should have told her the truth. His lie by omission shamed him. But if Fiona knew he planned to accompany Jasmine to Brazil, she might pull her support in order to protect him. He couldn't allow that.
"Thank you, Fie. I'll let you know how things turn out."
He headed for the door, avoiding her scrutiny. Just walk out . . . only four steps. Before he made his escape, she stopped him with her words.
"You're going with her... to free him. Aren't you?" Her voice choked with insight. She knew him well.
Christian couldn't turn around. If he looked in her eyes, he might never do what must be done. Clinching his fists, he stood still for a moment, the muscles in his back rigid with regret. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms. But that was not possible. And he knew no words would console her. So he chose silence as his only reply. He walked out the door, leaving his mother in a prison far worse than the law would ever impose. He had no choice.
"Strength . . . and quiet endurance, Mother," he whispered, his prayer for her as he walked down the hallway. "One day at a time . . ."
Now, time to face Raven.
Their meal was over ... maybe even before it had begun. In denial, Raven's eyes focused on a stain smack dab in the middle of her good lace tablecloth, a faded spot of red wine. She'd been so preoccupied, she hadn't noticed it when she set the table earlier. Staring at it now, she couldn't remember when or how it had happened. Her thoughts turned to spot removal, anything but the trouble at hand.
Across from her, Christian sat in stone cold silence—a million miles away. Brazil, to be exact. She looked up and caught her own reflection in an antique mirror on the wall of her formal dining room. And she didn't like what she saw. Avoidance. Totally not like her. Only a damned ostrich would stick its head in the sand this deep.
Meet it head on, woman! Face it. . . deal with it.
She shifted focus to the remnants of their dinner, congealed on her mother's best china. She had hoped for a quiet dinner at her bungalow in the 'burbs, a chance to reason with him. Instead, neither of them had eaten much. Her pasta Alfredo sat cold on the plate, with salads nearly untouched. Ivory candlesticks had melted down, their flicker casting shadows on his handsome face.
Christian had been overly polite, awkward around her. She thought she'd seen the last of that behavior . . . so long ago. Now it returned with gusto. Something lay in ambush within his brain. She saw it coming—like a train wreck.
"You've been quiet. And you haven't said much about the visit you had with Fiona today. Want to talk about it?"
He shook his head, staring into his wineglass, rolling the crystal stem between his fingers. Candlelight speared through swirling chardonnay, its golden haze dancing over lace. "I don't know how you can love somebody so much . . . and hurt them like that."
"Being a member of law enforcement, I can't condone what she did . . . but Fiona acted out of love."
"I'm not talking about what she did to hurt me. I'm the bastard who dished it out today." Darkness shrouded his face. He avoided her eyes. "I used her . . . to get what I wanted."
"To help your father, Christian. There's a big difference."
Struggling for words, he looked at her, his jaw torqued in anger. "It doesn't feel so different, Raven."
"Look. This is not a good situation. None of it. Will you let me inside long enough to help? Can we talk about this?"
She pleaded her case, laying it all out as plain as the red stain on lace.
His gaze drifted to her, a somber, unreadable change. The stillness of the room wedged between them. Only the soft ticking from a wall clock tempered the silence. Time slipping away. Too much time. She knew by his reticence she had lost him.
"Nothing to talk about. I gotta go. Thanks for dinner." He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and tossed it on the table by his plate. When he stood and started to help her clear off the table, she stopped him.
"Please don't. Leave 'em. I want to talk."
Christian hesitated only for a moment, set his plate down and said, "Sorry. I can't stay. I've got a lot to ... think about." He headed for her front door, looking eager to be free of her accusing stare.
"Oh, no. I'd say the thinking has been done. You've made up your mind, haven't you?"
Voice raised, she kept pace with him, maneuvering through her small living room. By his actions, he had drawn a line in the sand. A line he didn't want her to cross.
You should know better, Christian!
Framed portraits of her family witnessed their argument. Her father posed in police uniform, the photo taken a month before he was killed in the line of duty. The face of a mother she never knew, smiling. They had been the foundation of her life, but Christian . . . She hoped he'd be her future.
You're my family now, Delacorte . . . like it or not.
In her experience, life never played fair. After her family had been taken from her by tragedy, she developed a pretty tough hide over the years. Yet with Christian, she'd let her guard down, not wanting any barriers to stand between them. Hell, love made you downright defenseless. And he was the one man who could hurt her . . . deeply. But in her heart, she trusted him not to.
"You're shutting me out. Why?" she demanded. "If you're so hell-bent on doing this, then I'm going with you."
Her words stopped him dead in his tracks, something logic and common sense couldn't do. Christian turned to face her.
"Yeah? Well, what if I don't want you to go? Do I have any say in the matter of my life?" he argued, gesturing to make his point. "I'd just be worrying about you . . . maybe make mistakes that could cost both of us. I couldn't live with that."
He grimaced as if he were in pain, raked a hand through his dark hair. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be . . . please." His gaze softened for only an instant. "I love you. That hasn't changed."
"But not enough to stay here . . . with me." She blurted out those words, without thinking how needy she sounded. In her brain, the clock ticked louder, harsh and abrasive. The sound mocked her. It reminded her that those precious days with him might have been numbered all along.
"Don't make me choose between the life of my father ... and you." In the dim light, his green eyes muted to dark gray.
Raven crossed her arms, clutching them to her chest. She paced the floor and blocked his escape.
"I don't trust Jasmine, Christian. She'll have a million dollars and the Dunhill jet at her disposal ... and you. She could parlay the money, up the ante on her next victim." Raven raised her voice, heaping any argument before him. Desperation hammered her sense of reason. "If Fiona would pay a million bucks for her precious Nicky, what would she pay for you? And what if Jasmine is behind your father's kidnapping? I don't like it."
"And I can't walk away." Christian matched her tone, squaring off in front of her. "I'm not gonna start a new life here and wonder whatever happened to my . . . He's the last piece to this puzzle of my life. I have to do this. Why can't you understand?"
"I do understand, Christian. I just wish yo
u'd let me help. Let me go with you," she pleaded. But when she stepped closer, he raised a hand to stop her.
"Out of the question." He shook his head and stepped around her to grab the door, but stopped when she spoke.
"When it comes to your family . . . and the hurt you've got festering inside, you shut me out, Christian." She let her words hang in the air, waiting for him to face her.
With head down in profile, he sighed as he stood in the open doorway, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. A gust of cool night air drifted by him and soothed her cheek with its caress, making her ache for his touch.
With barely a glance back, he said softly, "I'll call you when we get there. That is, if you're still speaking to me."
He would leave her behind. Gritting her teeth, she responded in kind, letting anger get the better of her. "Try calling collect. If I don't accept the charges, then you'll know."
He narrowed his eyes and raised his chin in defiance, but didn't say another word. He shut the door behind him, leaving her feeling empty.
Damn! Everything had gone to hell, right before her eyes. And she'd been powerless to stop it. She fought the lump in her throat and a blur of tears, listening as he drove away.
"God, Christian. You'd better come back to me." She knew him well enough to believe if he didn't return from Brazil, there would only be one reason. And that reality made her heart ache with regret. "Damn it."
He'd taken a shot to the gut, the wind knocked out of him. Seeing the hurt in her eyes felt every bit as painful.
You, bastard!
Christian gripped the steering wheel, glaring out his windshield with only the drone of his SUV's engine and his self-recriminations to keep him company. Center lane stripes zipped by his wheels, illuminated by his headlights. He set a course for downtown with the anonymity of darkness closing in—the faces of Fiona and Raven haunting his conscience.
Today, he'd hurt the two people he loved most. And Raven's voice replayed in his head, over and over again. Picking a fight with her had been deliberate on his part.
