Hideaway

by Alers, Rochelle

  Her head came up quickly and she stared up at his wide grin. She couldn’t laugh aloud, but her shoulders shook uncontrollably as she laughed until tears streaked her cheeks.

  Dusk had fallen by the time they began their stroll around the track surrounding the health center. There were a half-dozen couples also circling the track, some casually and a few jogging at a moderate pace.

  Martin held Parris’s hand, pulling her close to his side. He tightened his grip on her slender fingers and she glanced up at him. They shared a secret smile. A smile lovers usually reserved for each other.

  They logged a half mile around the track, then walked along the wide avenue back to the house.

  He knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to talk to Parris about Owen Lawson.

  Parris was surprised when Martin knocked on her bedroom door and walked in, carrying the laptop. The slight arching of his sweeping eyebrows should have warned her that what he wanted to “talk” to her about was serious. She had learned to gauge his facial expressions and body language to monitor his moods.

  “I’d like to talk to you about something,” he began, sitting on the chair beside her bed.

  Parris nodded, smoothing the sheet out over her knees. Since living in Martin’s house, she had taken to wearing a nightshirt to bed. Normally she slept in the nude. She took the laptop from him, switching it on.

  She felt him studying her profile as she stared at the small screen. Tilting her chin, she glanced up at him from under her lashes.

  “I want to know why your ex-husband tried to kill you.”

  Her eyes widened until he could see fear in their depths. Her lips formed a silent “no.”

  Moving quickly, he sat down on the bed, pulling her to his chest. “You have to tell me, Parris. How else can I protect you from him.”

  Parris stared out across the bedroom. She catalogued each item in the room as if she had never seen them before.

  The furnishings in the bedroom were an eclectic mix of Scandinavian and French provincial. She lay on a queen size sleigh bed in a gleaming mahogany. A double dresser and chest-on-chest were constructed with straight lines reminiscent of the popular Scandinavian styles.

  “Parris.”

  Martin calling her name pulled her from her reverie.

  You don’t have to protect me.

  “Yes I do,” he argued.

  No you don’t because you don’t have to get involved.

  “It’s too late for that, Parris. I became involved the moment I hit Owen Lawson to keep him from drowning you. I became involved the second I carried you over the threshold of my home. I am involved because I asked a doctor to compromise his professional ethics and risk losing his license when he put your face back together on a countertop in my kitchen instead of on an operating table at a hospital.”

  I am involved because I want you in my life, he said to himself. He was involved because he thought perhaps he was falling in love with her.

  He was angry with me, she typed, countering his tirade.

  “Why?”

  Because I left him.

  “Why?”

  I can’t tell you that.

  Martin’s jaw hardened. He took a deep breath. “How long were you married?”

  Parris felt a surge of anger and resentment. He was interrogating her as if she had committed a crime. It was Owen who tried to kill her not the reverse.

  Not long.

  “How long is not long?”

  We lived together for a month.

  “Did he ever hit you while you lived together?”

  Parris shook her head. We argued a lot, but he never attempted to hit me.

  Martin wanted to hold her close, reassure her that her ex-husband would not hurt her again but he curbed the urge to comfort her. She had to learn to trust him; trust him enough to know that he would use everything at his disposal to protect her.

  “When were you divorced?” he asked, knowing the answer to the question before asking it.

  The marriage was annulled last December, she typed.

  “How old were you when you married him?” Another question he knew the answer to.

  Twenty.

  “You married him while you were still in college?”

  She shook her head. I had graduated, she typed. I was in an accelerated program in high school so I entered college at sixteen.

  “What about your parents? Did they approve of you marrying him?”

  My mother said he was too old for me, but I reminded her that my father was fifteen years older than she was when they married. It didn’t matter whether she approved or not because I married Owen three weeks after she died in a traffic accident.

  “What about your father, Parris?”

  I don’t remember my father. He died when I was three.

  Martin stared at the words crowding the small screen, focusing on the blinking cursor. He wondered if Parris had married because she felt the need to rebel against her mother’s authority or if she had married Owen because of grief and she didn’t want to be alone or…

  He couldn’t form the words. He wanted to know if she had ever loved Owen, and if she had could she learn to love again. He had thought about her hostility at the table in the restaurant. Had she seen him as her husband? Had she built a wall around her to keep all men at arm’s length?

  Martin felt vulnerable for the first time. He had to ask one more question. “Do you love him, Parris?” She shook her head. “Did you ever love him?”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them back. She would not shed a single tear for Owen. He wasn’t worth it. He had stopped being the man she loved the moment she discovered he was a substance abuser who refused to go into a treatment program. She had only uncovered his clandestine activities after she saw him inhaling a white substance in their bathroom when he thought she was asleep. That single act ended their marriage and changed her forever.

  The amber words filled the screen. I loved him at one time.

  He took the laptop from her lap, shutting it off and placing it on a bedside table. Then he pulled her into his embrace, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

  “You’ll never have to worry about him hurting you again, baby.” She trembled and he tightened his hold on her body.

  “Nothing matters now,” he crooned.

  He wanted to say that what did matter was that Owen Lawson was a highly decorated police officer with the West Palm Beach police department. It mattered that the man had just been promoted to the rank of lieutenant. And it mattered that he had tried to kill his ex-wife and would probably try again if given the opportunity.

  What did matter was that Lawson had the protection of a police department and that of a federal judge. He was the son of Lowell Lawson, Florida’s first black federal judge who was rumored to have his sights set on a Supreme Court appointment.

  “I’ll take care of you,” Martin promised. He whispered his promise over and over to himself, for if he said it enough he would believe it. And at that moment he did.

  Chapter 5

  A week later Parris waited for Martin to come home. She found it difficult to contain her excitement. She could talk. Not clearly, but enough to make herself understood.

  She was tired of “talking” to Martin on the laptop. It seemed as if her thoughts always raced faster than her fingers. The front door opened and she rose from the black and white striped sofa, smiling.

  Martin placed his leather case and suit jacket on a table near the door, his gaze fixed on Parris’s smiling face. She was waiting for him as she had been doing for a week. And it had been a week since they discussed her ex-husband, the highly decorated police officer who now was on a medical leave.

  He walked over to her and she did not disappoint him when she put her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his cheek.

  Closing his eyes, Martin held her close, inhaling the distinctive Chanel No. 5 clinging to her skin. At first he thought she was too young for the sophistic
ated fragrance but the scent was her. At twenty-two Parris Simmons claimed a sensuality many women twice her age had not acquired, and coupled with the sensuality was an innocence he couldn’t see but he could feel.

  There were times when he felt the seven-year difference in their ages was twice that amount. But he had to remind himself that she had been married; married to a man who could be her father. Parris was twenty-two while Owen Lawson was thirty-nine.

  Pulling back, Martin stared down at her upturned face. He didn’t think he would ever get used to her natural beauty. Her satiny golden-brown skin, her luminous eyes and her lush passionate mouth. A mouth he yearned to devour.

  “How are you?”

  Martin’s soft voice sent chills racing up and down Parris’s spine. The green lights in her eyes darkened as her hands moved to cradle his smooth lean cheeks, her thumbs tracing the curve of his high cheekbones.

  “I’m fine, thank you.” The four words were low, coming haltingly from her unused vocal chords.

  He blinked at her in disbelief. It had been so long—too long since he had heard her low breathless voice that he thought he was imagining it.

  “Does it…does it hurt when you move your jaw?” His fingers traced the outline of her cheek.

  “It’s a little stiff,” she admitted. “And I feel a little tingling behind my ear. But at least I can talk.”

  Lowering his head, Martin pressed his mouth to her earlobe, his lips feathering over her neck and jaw. He was too caught up in the silky feel of her skin and the haunting fragrance of her body to note her trembling.

  Parris felt a rush of heat singe her body followed by a vibrating liquid between her legs. Emotions she had only glimpsed in the past were back. Stronger than ever.

  Abandoning herself to the whirl of sensations, she moaned as Martin’s mouth covered hers. The kiss was soft, gentle, as if he feared hurting her. She felt the tightening muscles in his upper arms under the crisp fabric of his laundered shirt, heard the rush of breath from his delicate nostrils and she registered his maleness hardening and throbbing against her thighs.

  It ended as quickly as it had begun and Parris felt weak, lightheaded. She clung to the front of his shirt, breathing heavily.

  Holding her tightly, Martin buried his face in her hair. He had been ready to swing her up in his arms and take her to his bed. He wanted her with a hunger that had exceeded any he had ever experienced.

  She’s mine, he claimed silently and possessively. No one would ever take her from him.

  “I think this calls for a very special celebration,” he whispered in her ear. She nodded, her nose pressed against his chest. “Do you want to go out for dinner?”

  Her body went rigid. In the three weeks she had lived with Martin she hadn’t thought about the world outside of the private community. It was as if she was resigned to live behind the walls where she felt safe and totally protected for the first time since she left Owen.

  “Not yet,” she rasped breathlessly.

  Pulling back slightly, Martin stared down at her face, seeing fear and uncertainty in her eyes. “Everything will be all right. You’ll be safe with me.”

  I hope you’re right, Martin, she mused. Swallowing back her fear, she said, “Where are we going?” She prayed it wasn’t to a place that she had frequented with Owen and his friends.

  “A seafood place in Lauderdale. Have you ever been to Boston?” She nodded. “Have you eaten New England clam chowder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. The chef can out-chowder the best New England chowder ever created.”

  Parris gave him a skeptical look. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Believe me, baby,” he said, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Believe me.”

  What Parris couldn’t believe was how happy she felt sitting next to Martin as he drove southward to Fort Lauderdale. She lost count of the number of pleasure crafts she saw bobbing on the water along Florida’s gold coast.

  The calendar said Fall, but the weather still said summer. The warm tropical air filtering through the Jaguar’s open windows caressed her face and ruffled her hair before it settled back to the lines of the professional cut.

  She wiggled her bare toes in a pair of neutral-colored espadrille sandals with fabric ties circling her ankles. The footwear was appropriate for the sleeveless cotton dress in a black, orange and tan jungle print with two wide straps crisscrossing her bare back to the waist.

  Martin maneuvered into one of the last spaces at a restaurant whose backyard was a pier where diners moored their boats while they ate.

  He held Parris’s hand possessively as he helped her from the car and led her to the restaurant’s entrance. Shielding her body from the crush of patrons crowding the waiting area, he smiled at the hostess. Two minutes later the owner gestured to him.

  She couldn’t ignore the hostile glares from the other people who were resigned to wait up to half an hour before they were seated while Martin tightened his hold on her waist as he smiled and nodded like a politician as the crowd parted for him. They were seated in a booth in a corner which afforded them maximum privacy, and given menus.

  She scanned the menu quickly. “Do they serve baby food?”

  The small candle on the middle of the table highlighted the gold undertones in Martin’s brown skin as he smiled at her, and once again Parris found it hard to believe his masculine beauty.

  His black hair was pulled off his high intelligent forehead and secured at the nape of his neck. He had exchanged his business attire for a collarless linen shirt in a small-checkered tan and white print and tobacco-brown linen slacks and brown loafers. She hadn’t decided whether she liked him better in a business suit or in his casual attire.

  Reaching across the table, he held her hands firmly. “Don’t worry, Parris. I’ll make certain you won’t have to chew anything.”

  Parris spent the next two hours thoroughly enjoying Martin’s charming company and the most delicious New England clam chowder she had ever tasted, mashed potatoes with just a hint of grated romano cheese and a creamy lemon sorbet that was so tart it tingled her palate with each spoonful. Martin had given the waitress explicit instructions that everything they prepared for her would have to be strained and pureed until it was smooth and free of lumps.

  He enjoyed his own lobster bisque, grilled salmon and sweet cole slaw while watching Parris as she tentatively spooned small amounts of food into her mouth.

  Seeing her under the glow of the candlelight he noted things about her face he had missed before. Her hair wasn’t black, but a dark brown with reddish highlights, the corners of her eyes tilted slightly upward and her earrings were tiny balls of gold in her pierced lobes. So fragile, so beautiful and so sensual, he mused, leaning back on his seat.

  His dark eyes widened in astonishment as she reached for his wineglass, took a, sip, then handed it back to him with a smile.

  “Would you like a glass?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She didn’t know what made her agree to share a glass of wine with him. She hadn’t lied when she told Martin that she didn’t drink very much. She had seen too many of her friends in college drink until they passed out. Their hangovers were always worse. The nauseating smell of undigested food and souring alcohol in the dormitory bathrooms turned her off alcohol where she could count the occasions when she would accept a drink.

  She drank the single glass of white wine and felt its effects immediately. Her body was loose and relaxed, reminiscent of what she had felt earlier when Martin kissed her. She wanted him to kiss her now; she wanted him to do more than kiss her.

  She wanted him to make love to her!

  Closing her eyes, she pressed back against the leather seat. She wanted the man who had given her back her life. The man who had permitted her a second chance to live out her life the way it had been deemed from a higher power.

  She wanted the man who made her feel safe and protected.

  She
wanted the man sitting across from her, and she wanted the man she knew she had come to love in the three weeks she had lived in his house.

  She wanted Martin Diaz Cole.

  Martin watched Parris’s lids lower until her lashes swept the curve of her cheekbones. It was apparent she wasn’t much of a drinker. He signaled for the check and left a generous tip for the waitress and guided Parris out of the restaurant to the parking lot.

  “I don’t drink much,” Parris slurred as he settled her onto her seat and adjusted the seat belt over her chest.

  “I know, darling.” He pressed a kiss to her temple.

  He was smiling as he took his own seat and started up the car. Her confession that she didn’t drink revealed a lot about Parris Simmons. She was a talented interior decorator who travelled all over the country. Business was usually discussed over dinner yet she probably did not drink during these business meetings. She was an enigma. A mysterious woman who had come out of the night and into his life.

  Parris woke the next morning on her bed and fully clothed except for her shoes. Peering down at her dress, she remembered what had happened. She had fallen asleep during the ride back from Fort Lauderdale.

  Turning her head, she stared at the clock on the bedside table. It was eight-thirty. She had missed Martin!

  Her movements were slow as she pushed her body off the bed and headed for the bathroom, deciding to take a bath instead of her usual shower.

  An hour later, dressed in a pair of shorts and one of Martin’s T-shirts, she walked down the staircase to the living room. Glancing around the large space, she looked for Ruby Johnson. She usually found her in the living room watching the early morning talk shows.

  Her bare feet were silent as she made her way across large blocks of white glazed tiles. Martin had confessed that he hadn’t decided how he wanted his house decorated so the living and dining area only contained a black and white cotton striped sofa and matching love seat, an entertainment grouping with a television, VCR and stereo electronic components and a formal dining-room table with seating for eight, a glass-front china cabinet and a buffet server.