Deadly Obsession

by Jaycee Clark

  She was hardly sleeping at all.

  Again the noise shifted from within. Another nightmare?

  He knocked, "Christian?"

  The door, unsurprisingly, was locked. She always locked it.

  "Christian?" He rattled the knob.

  A whimper from within, rose into a scream. Damn it. He reached over and lifted the plant on the side table. A key lay beneath.

  "Christian?" Brayden unlocked the door, for the first time invading her privacy since coming here.

  The room was lit from a lamp she’d left burning. His gaze landed on the bed. It was empty and his heart crashed in his chest.

  "Christian! Answer me damn it!"

  The whimper, just a whimper.

  He hurried around the bed and almost stepped on her. Quick reflexes saved them both.

  She was lying on the floor, tangled in a quilt. Had she fallen out of bed? Then he noticed the pile of blankets under her.

  On the floor, she’d been sleeping on the damn floor.

  "Ah, baby." Gently he squatted down and reached out. "Christian."

  She tossed away from him.

  "No, no. Stop," she pleaded, gasping for breath.

  Brayden sat beside her and gathered her to him. "Shh. Shh. It’s just a dream. Only a dream. You’re okay, Christian."

  She struggled within his hold, caught in whatever demons plagued her.

  "Let me go! Let me go! You sonofabitch!" She pulled and strained in his arms. "I hate you. Hate you. I always have and I always will!"

  Her voice was hoarse, barbed with malice.

  "Christian." Softly, he kissed her forehead. "Come on, baby, wake up. Shhh. You’re safe. You’re safe here." He rocked her, anger and helplessness warring within him.

  Finally, finally, she stilled. Brayden leaned back as she opened her eyes. Panic coated the smoky irises and she bolted in his arms even as her breath wheezed out. Another asthma attack.

  He let go. "You were having a bad dream," he told her softly.

  She stared at him with almost vacant eyes. Then, hugging herself, she rocked.

  He looked around, didn’t see her inhaler. "Where’s your MDI?" he asked, looking for her metered dose inhaler.

  She reached under her pillow and pulled it out, taking a deep breath of the medicine. Tears wet her cheeks and he reached up to wipe them off, but she shied away. On a sighing growl, he dropped his hand back and sat with her on the pallet. He was completely lost here. He had no idea if he was helping her or making things worse.

  "So, felt like camping out, did you?" he asked.

  What might have been a snort huffed out of her.

  "This floor is hard. No wonder you don’t sleep." He glanced at her. Tears still shimmered in her eyes.

  "Why the hell didn’t you sleep out on the couch if you didn’t want to lie in the bed?"

  She didn’t look away, but shrugged. Her bottom lip trembled. "I-I didn’t want you to know."

  Well, why didn’t she just hit him?

  "Why?" he asked softly.

  Again she shrugged. "I feel like such a-a-a coward," she finished.

  Counting wasn’t going to help. "A coward?" He couldn’t believe this. "Why in the hell would you..." No, she didn’t need his anger. With more calm than he thought he had, he said, "Sorry. Why would you ever think something like that?"

  Tears trailed down her cheeks and her eyes were hazy pools of pain. "Look at me Brayden! I’m a mess.

  A mess." Her eyes were still glazed and he noticed her voice wasn’t normal, not quite slurred, but not ...

  not ... well, normal.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked her.

  "Percocet," she mumbled.

  Silence settled between them and this time he waited her out. "I don’t know what to do," she whispered.

  "I don’t know what to do." Christian wiped her face on the knees of her pajamas. "I hate this. Hate this.

  Maybe I can fix-fix it. But I just panic."

  Again he waited, but this time, she didn’t continue. His feet were getting cold. Picking up the quilt he stood, wrapped it around him and sat, leaning against the bed and tucked Christian up beside him, the quilt engulfing them both. Her head rested on the crook of his shoulder. The scent of her shampoo drifted to tease him. He ignored, or tried to, the way she immediately stiffened. He could all but feel her forcing herself to relax. He absently wondered how much she would remember in the morning. She remembered some of the first night in Seneca but none of the plane ride and little of the first day here. But he didn’t care. He talked.

  "First off," he started, "no more sleeping on this cold hard floor. You don’t want to sleep in the bed, fine.

  The couch is out in the living room." He started to offer she could sleep with him if she got scared, he’d keep the demons away. But, that probably wasn’t the right thing to say. "Second, and let me make certain you understand this, I never, never want to hear you call yourself a coward again." My God, that she’d even think it. He tilted her chin up so that she was looking at him. "What you are, is a survivor.

  Remember that."

  Her eyes were haunted as she blinked. This close and at this angle of light, he noticed the size of her pupils, large and round, edging out the gray of her irises. She probably wouldn’t remember a bit of this tomorrow. He needed to remember to ask her about it and how the medicine affected her.

  "I can’t get him out of my mind, Brayden. He’s there. He’s always there. Just waiting, just like before.

  He won’t let me go, he--Ri--" She stopped and tucked in her chin.

  Ri? What was that?

  ...always have. I always will...

  ...just like before...

  His pulse leapt.

  "What were you going to say?" he asked her softly even as she settled against his shoulder.

  She shook her head. "Nothing, nothing. He’s just always right there. Right there," she mumbled.

  Brayden digested that and didn’t believe it. Right--long ‘I’ sound. She’d started to say something else.

  Something with a short ‘I’. A name maybe?

  Tightening his hold on her, he said, "Don’t keep anything from me, Christian. Not even sleeping on the floor. I’m right here. You don’t have to do this alone."

  For a long time she was silent, so still and quiet he thought she was asleep.

  "Sometimes I have to," she whispered.

  "No, you choose to. There’s a difference."

  He felt her swallow, heard her ragged breathing and a drop as it fell on his hand.

  "The-last... He was angry. So angry. Banging on the door. Grabbed my throat and ripped that stupid locket off. Hate the locket. Hate it. Know what he said?" she asked shakily.

  Grinding his teeth at the pictures her jumbled words invoked, he answered softly, "No."

  "He-he said-he said..." She was crying. More tears fell on his hand holding hers.

  "Shh," he told her.

  Her head shook on his shoulder. "Can’t tell anyone. No one. Not a word or the Kinncaids will die."

  What? He started to push back, but she latched onto him like a lifeline. Her fingers clawed at his hand and chest as she burrowed against him. "First-first would be you and T-Tori." Tremors shook her.

  Smart bastard. Very smart.

  Pulling back, he turned so that he could cup her face.

  "Look at me."

  When her eyes rose to his, he said, "This I’ll defend. Do you think I wouldn’t defend you and Tori? I’ll admit I’ve done a shitty job so far, but never again, Christian. Do you hear me? Never again. You’re mine. Not his. I protect what’s mine. You’re a Kinncaid."

  She nodded, then leaned her head against his chest.

  Brayden held her, thinking about what she might know and simply be too scared to say. Too scared?

  No, the bastard had her so utterly terrified she even covered up slips of the tongue in a drugged state.

  That might explain it.

  But explanation or no, no one used
his family in any way.

  "Relax," he whispered. "I’ll hold you. You won’t have any more nightmares tonight."

  He’d make certain of it.

  * * * *

  He paced as the rage roared through him. Where the hell was she? They--those Kinncaids--had his angel somewhere.

  The question was location. He had to find her. After all this time, he could not bear to lose her again.

  Not again. Never, never again.

  Josephine was his.

  On a muttered curse, he stalked to the desk and sat down. His leather chair sighed as he leaned back, tapping a letter opener on the edge of his desk.

  Where? Where? Where?

  He threw the letter opener across the room. It embedded into the wall, the hilt vibrating.

  He took a deep breath through his nose, ran his hands through his hair. He had to think, calm down and think. Anger and rage only clouded reasoning. Grabbing up the remote to the stereo, he clicked it on.

  Mozart’s requiem drifted softly from the speakers. The somber mood fit in his present frame of mind.

  God, Josephine was still so incredible, so beautiful, so ... so ... succulent. Her body, that pliant luscious body.

  Closing his eyes he smiled and let the music fill him, allowed the memories of her beneath him to heat through his blood.

  Her soft skin like ivory velvet teased his senses, the taste of her haunted along his tongue.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. Lovingly, he picked up the photos atop his desk.

  They didn’t show her at her best, but were arousing all the same.

  Richard ran his fingers over the glossy surface, remembering how her naked skin had caught and held the dim lights, how it was warm through his gloves. As if caressing her, he rubbed his thumb over her stomach.

  One day he wouldn’t have to tie her down. He’d broken her before and he would again.

  First, he had to remove her safety net, her comfort zone. For a moment, he played with the idea of taking out the Kinncaids. All of them. It wouldn’t be impossible, difficult but not impossible. But the media fallout...

  The politician in him shuddered.

  No, something else. Something more subtle.

  Sighing, he flipped through the harsh pictures. He needed the perfect one. The perfect one. There. That one. A smile tilted the edge of his mouth up. This would make a lovely Christmas gift. The question was, to whom did he send it?

  The knight, or the damsel?

  He heard the click of heels down the hallway. Quickly, he stacked the photos and put them in his briefcase. The lid snapped shut just as his wife opened the door. As always, and befitting her station, she was perfectly groomed in her tailored skirt suit, pearls and coifed hair.

  "Richard, Senator Lend’s wife just phoned me. Have we found a place to live yet?" She crossed the Persian rugs, her heels muffled in the plushness. "I really think it would be unseemly for us to stay in a hotel come January. Don’t you? And what about Christmas and New Years? Mrs. Lend invited us to their party you know."

  Like a light, she shone the way. Poor misguided woman. He gave her a benign smile and pecked her cheek with an air kiss.

  "Yes, dear. I’ve been looking into some places. You know I like my privacy. I don’t want to be right in the middle of town. There are several places I’m checking on. Maybe we’ll fly out next week and look at them. How is that?"

  With enough money, he could find what he wanted.

  So subtle no one would realize it, no one but her.

  With a silent chuckle, he already calculated how much this investment would cost him.

  It didn’t matter. In the end, he always obtained what he wanted.

  * * * *

  The Venetians called it, La Serenissim--the most serene--and Christian supposed they did so wisely.

  The city echoed with sounds, not normal metropolitan sounds, but simple noises. Voices carried on the briny wind mixing with the lap of water against centuries old buildings. There were no blaring horns or the rumble of engines. The city seemed stolen from a time almost forgotten.

  The morning was chilly and she sat wrapped in a sweater, out on one of the balconies. Christian studied the scene in silence, almost calm in the early morning light. Gondolas slid seamlessly through the waters, sleek as black snakes.

  It would be nice to ride in one. She loved gondola rides.

  For the last few days Brayden had been badgering her to get out of the palazzo and see the city with him. She knew she ought to, that the fear was unreasonable. But it was easier to hide inside.

  She heard the click of his shoes on the stones as he crossed to the little table, speaking in rapid Italian to the maid. He was probably ordering breakfast. Italian was one of those languages she just couldn’t seem to grasp for some reason. The cup of coffee warmed her palms. She looked away from the scene below to Brayden.

  His studying gaze was not new to her, behind his shades, she couldn’t see it, but she could feel it.

  "Morning," he said.

  "Morning."

  Moments stretched to minutes and the silence remained. She didn’t know what to say to him. How to talk to him. Unlike the days before, Brayden seemed quiet today, as though his mood followed hers. It made her twitchy. And she was already off enough between her emotions, lack of sleep, the nightmares, the pain meds and stress in general.

  Finally, she asked, "What?"

  The wind off the canal was cold and she pulled her sweater tighter against her.

  "Hmm?" he asked, his gaze studying the scene below.

  "You seem quiet this morning," she ventured.

  He shrugged and leaned back. "Just thinking."

  "About?"

  She watched as he ran his tongue around his teeth. Without looking at her, he only said, "It’ll keep."

  All she could do was stare at him. It’ll keep? What did that mean?

  "Fine," she said, standing.

  "In a minute." He patted the seat beside him. "Sit back down, I want to ask you something."

  "What?" Dread tightened the muscles in her neck and nerves twisted her stomach, but she sat. Seconds stretched to minutes and onto moments.

  Brayden cleared his throat. "I didn’t want to bring it up because of how upset you got with Morris, but I have to ask...." He raked a hand through his hair, then turned to face her fully. "Why didn’t you tell me about the photos? The calls? The gifts?"

  His voice had never been a humorous one, and had been known to cut a person with a scathing word, herself included. But now, now his voice was different. She caught the underlying edge of angered steel, laced with disappointment, and the hurt rang clear through her.

  What did she tell him?

  "Did I hurt you so badly that you couldn’t even talk to me about this? I knew I was stupid that morning in the hotel, knew it as soon as the door slammed, but I don’t ... I can’t.... Ah, hell," he finished on a frustrated sigh.

  Brayden stood and stepped to the railing, gripping it as if it supported him. "Maybe I should coddle you.

  Not that I’ve ever been the coddling type of guy. Don’t even know if I know how and I’m afraid if I do, I could lose you, that you’ll just fade into-into this quiet unseen person." He continued. "I know if I push too hard, you’ll just shut down on me," he whispered, "and I’ll lose you either way." He turned to her. "I don’t want to lose you."

  That’s what he thought? She sighed, and knew she couldn’t argue with him. She didn’t know anything herself, how could she tell him what to do, or not do.

  "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

  "You need to get out of the palazzo."

  "I am out of the palazzo. I’m on the balcony," she told him.

  Brayden walked to her and squatted beside her. "Outside these walls. I want to show you Venice. I know you love it."

  And she did.

  "Today is market day," he tried. "Fresh fruits and vegetables. The Basilica. The Bridge of Sighs."

  She smiled, and it
felt good. "Maybe. You know, you’re not doing a bad job."

  "At what?"

  "Coddling."

  "Am I? I wonder."

  He sat back down beside her, his hand coming up to cup the back of her neck. "Even now," he continued, "you’re tense at the thought of talking to me. I wish you weren’t."

  "Brayden," she tried to pull away from his hold, but he only moved closer. For a moment her heart skipped, but this was Brayden. Only Brayden. She sighed.

  "Don’t shut me out. I’m sorry, Christian. I am every kind of fool and stupid coward you called me that morning and I don’t plan on being one again. I want to know, to understand why you kept this from me."

  And he would. Brayden was a man who analyzed everything and was, she knew, blaming himself.

  She licked her lips and looked down, his hand gently messaging the cords of her nape.

  "I don’t know. I do, but I don’t. And I know that makes no sense," she admitted. God, she wished she could tell someone. Quiet stretched between them as if he waited for her to continue, but she didn’t.

  What could she say?

  Brayden cleared his throat. "There was a picture in several of the packets, an older picture of you with longer and lighter color of hair."

  Oh, God. She’d forgotten about that one, her high school picture. Her hands shook in her lap and she fisted them.

  "We never pushed you on where you came from or what you ran away from," he said quietly. "Or maybe who?"

  Too close, he was getting too close. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t talk about this, not here, not now.

  "Things he said on the phone, things you’ve said, make me wonder...." He trailed off.

  And wonder he would. Brayden gave tenacious a new meaning. And observant was an understatement when describing him.

  What had she said? And when would she have said it? That first night? She couldn’t remember too much of it, there were glazed pieces but nothing solid to hold onto other than feelings. On the plane?

  Some other time?

  "Did you--did you come into my room last night?" She couldn’t remember that either, or she could, but it was mixed up and fogged.