She gave him an unwilling smile. "I'm not bored—just restless. Given a choice, this is exactly how I would choose to spend a winter Sunday—inside with breakfast, a newspaper, someone to talk to and nothing to do. It's not having the choice that makes it hard." Dropping into one of the two armchairs, she dangled her legs over the side and swung her feet back and forth. "What do you normally do on Sundays?"
"Watch TV, go out with friends, paint."
"Tell me about your friends—the ones who are as close as family."
He thought of Smith, whose call he hadn't yet returned, and Remy, who he also hadn't yet called. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He would catch him on his way to work tomorrow and tell him all about Valery.
Tell me about your friends. She made the request so easily, so breezily, and it would be as easy for him to obey. But talk without names would rouse her suspicions, and giving her the names would endanger her trust. If she wouldn't accept protection from Remy, she likely wouldn't accept it from his best friend, either.
"I'd rather not," he replied, his gaze even, his tone deliberately bland.
There was a momentary flash of emotion in her eyes. Hurt, he thought with surprise. He had answered all her questions—maybe not fully, but he had answered them just the same—until now, and she was just the slightest bit wounded that he wasn't going to answer this one. But she was responsible for his refusal. Until she trusted him with the truth about Remy, he certainly couldn't bring him up.
"All right. I understand." Her voice was frosty, her expression just short of a pout.
"Valery, my friends are—"
"Personal," she interrupted. "And this is business."
"Honey, there's not much that's more personal than having you inside my head," he pointed out wryly.
Her bad humor forgotten, she smiled slowly, provocatively. From five feet away it touched him, warmed him, wrapped itself around him with a haze of exotic scents and subtle hints. With no more than that, she damn near seduced him, and her soft promise almost finished the job. "You're wrong, Michael. I can get much more personal than that."
Finding his throat dry, he swallowed. An image of her as she'd looked last night—soft and relaxed, he troubles eased by sleep, her skin winter pale—came back, accompanied by more than a twinge of the way he'd felt seeing her. Desire. It was a comforting discomfort. A welcome reminder from his body that he was still alive, that he still had needs. It was pleasurable just feeling those needs.
And outright torment thinking about fulfilling them.
Only this morning, standing in the stillness of his room and watching her sleep, he had accepted the reasons why he couldn't have an affair with her. Their circumstances were too tenuous to risk the distraction of a relationship. Getting through this stranger to stranger would be hard enough; he couldn't afford to make it personal. She deserved better than he could offer—any woman did—while he didn't deserve anything at all.
But could a man be held to decisions reached in the middle of a sleepless night, when all was quiet, when everything seemed possible and nothing seemed likely?
Yes.
But those decisions could also be changed. If Valery was willing. If they shared the attraction, the desire, the risks. If she knew exactly what she would get. If he knew exactly what he could take.
She might be willing. That smile—that promise—suggested she was. But she didn't know all the things he couldn't give her. She didn't know all the things he needed to take.
She didn't know him.
Didn't know his life. His failures.
She didn't know what an utterly empty man he had become.
Forcing his muscles to relax, his voice to remain neutral, he ignored their last exchange and returned to the topic preceding it. "Tell me about your friends. Who's worrying about you?" What kind of people appealed to her? What kind of women did she befriend and what kind did she avoid? What kind of men did she like, date, get involved with?
"I'm not sure anyone is, besides my aunt and uncle."
"And your cousin."
She shook her head. "I doubt that."
Although he knew she was wrong, he let the remark slide. It wouldn't be wise to show too much interest in Remy. "No girlfriends who miss you? No boyfriends?"
"No girlfriends. No boyfriends. No lovers."
His muscles began tightening again. "Why not?"
"Why not which one?" She shrugged. "I have friends that I see on a fairly regular basis, but it's not unusual for weeks to go by without any contact."
"You don't think they've heard about what happened and worried about you?"
"Maybe some of them. Most of them would say, 'Gee, too bad. I hope she's all right,' and go on with their lives." She drew her feet into the seat and wrapped her arms around her knees. "I told you, I don't have really close friends. My friends are people I like and enjoy spending a few hours with from time to time, but they're not that important in my life, and I'm not that important in theirs. I wouldn't wish anything bad on them, and vice versa, but we're not close."
"Why do you keep them at a distance?"
Valery fixed her gaze on the gauzy curtains at the window, watching as they swayed in the current from the heating vent below. "I don't—"
"Are you afraid they'll leave you the way your parents did?"
Ruefully she wished she'd echoed his response when she had asked him to tell her about his friends. I'd rather not. It would have been safer and more comfortable by far.
Was she afraid? She would like to think the answer was no, that she hadn't made many friends for the simple reason that she didn't need them. She was happy with her own company. She liked spending most of her evenings alone. She liked not having the responsibility that came with a serious friendship. She didn't want the benefits of real friendship—the caring, the sharing, the companionship—enough to meet the obligations—emotional support, giving in exchange for what she took, being there when things were bad, remembering special days, providing a shoulder to cry on.
She would like to believe all that was true.
But it wasn't.
Her mother, her father and Remy had taught her a simple lesson, one she had learned well: if she didn't let anyone into her life, then no one could abandon her. For that reason all her relationships were shallow, nothing more than surface deep, never involving any emotion stronger than liking. She liked the friends she went shopping with, the ones she saw movies with, the ones she shared dinners with. She liked the men she'd dated, had liked each one she'd gone to bed with.
She liked them, but she didn't need them.
She hadn't needed anyone since Remy.
Michael moved, a blur at the edge of her vision, from the table to the other armchair. That placed him in her line of vision, a still figure waiting patiently for her answer. She gave it with a shrug. "It's a matter of choice. You need friends in your life. I don't."
"You need me."
She shook her head. "I want you. I want your help. I want you to keep me safe. But there's a world of difference between wanting and needing. I don't need you. I don't need anyone."
He studied her for a moment, so quiet, so thoughtful. Whatever he saw—untruthfulness, deceit, vulnerability—he kept to himself. Instead, in a lighter tone—a damn near condescending tone, she thought with a scowl—he agreed. "Okay. So you don't need me. What would you be doing without me?"
"I'd be out of the city."
"And where would you go?"
"I don't know. Texas. Then probably Mexico."
"How would you travel? By plane? Bus? Are you sure no one's watching the airport or bus station?"
"Maybe I would rent a car—"
"How do you know the rental agencies aren't covered? And how can you rent a car without a driver's license? You left your purse in your own car when you ditched it. The FBI has it now."
She scowled harder. "Or borrow a car from a friend. Maybe I'd hitch a ride."
He simply gave her another of those long looks
that made her shift uncomfortably. All right, she grudgingly, silently, agreed, maybe traveling wouldn't be so easy. But if her life depended on it, if it was a choice between managing to leave the state or facing Falcone's people—or Remy's—she could manage. Somehow.
"Say that you make it to Texas, to the Mexican border. How are you going to cross without some sort of documentation?"
Triumphantly she smiled. "I had a friend in college who was from San Diego. You can go across for shopping or whatever without any problem. All you have to do is show proof of residence when you come back."
"So you pretend to be making a day trip. You cross the border, then disappear. How?"
Because she had no answer, she didn't say anything. She hadn't thought that far ahead. All she had considered was escaping the panic and the fear. Minor things like details hadn't entered into it.
"Do you speak Spanish? How are you going to support yourself when your money runs out? How are you going to protect yourself down there? Falcone's men aren't the only people in the world you have reason to fear. A pretty, naive woman all alone in a foreign country, doesn't speak the language, doesn't even have the legal right to be there… You'd make an easy target, sweetheart."
The phone rang, and he glanced at it before rising to his feet. On his way to the table where it sat, he stopped in front of her, resting his hand lightly on hers. "Maybe you could make it on your own out there, Valery. Maybe it would get easier with time. Maybe you could run so far that you could outrun the fear, and maybe you'd get used to missing the U.S. and New Orleans, to spending holidays alone, to keeping your past a secret, to never being able to see or talk to or write to your family. But you don't have to find out. If you let…"
He hesitated. Us, he'd been about to say. She knew it. If you let us help… Him. The police. The FBI.
"If you let me help, we'll find a way out of this. We'll make it safe for you to stay here, to go back home, to go back to your life. I promise."
She didn't look at him. She couldn't.
After one last ring, the answering machine picked up the call. He withdrew his hand and picked up the receiver before the outgoing message was completed. "Hey, Smith," she heard him say as he walked toward the French doors. "I've been meaning to call you." Then he went out onto the balcony, and she couldn't hear any more.
Damn him for taking away her only other option, she thought, only mildly annoyed in spite of the curse. Now, if she changed her mind, if for some reason she had to leave this apartment, she would have to do some serious planning—planning that she wasn't sure she could manage on her own.
Of course, running away wasn't her only other option. There was always Michael's first choice: the FBI. She could always decide to hell with Remy and his career and their family. She could cast enough doubt on her cousin that he wouldn't be able to get within fifty miles of her, enough doubt that his reputation would be forever stained.
Even if she was wrong.
There was also one other choice: She could tell Michael everything. She could trust him enough to hope that he would believe her, could trust that he would give her his best advice. But he was a cop. If he believed her, he would have to take some action. Remy would be in just as much trouble, and their family would wind up just as irreparably damaged.
Those arguments aside, there was one even stronger reason for not confiding in Michael: She didn't trust him. Not enough.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
* * *
Michael was up early enough Monday morning to watch the sun come up over the river, but the rays couldn't cut through the heavy cloud layer and the rain that left the pavement shining under the street lamp. He was tired of rain, tired of winter, tired of gloom. He wished for summer, but knew he would complain then about the unbearable heat, the mugginess and the tourists who thronged the city. Sometimes, he thought with a wry smile, it seemed he could never be satisfied.
And then he thought of Valery, spending her second night in his bed, and his smile disappeared.
She could satisfy him.
After Smith's phone call had interrupted their conversation yesterday, the rest of the day had passed more quietly. They had read and watched old movies on TV and talked very little. As dusk settled, they had started dinner together, at Valery's insistence, until they discovered rather quickly that the kitchen was too small for both of them. It was impossible to maneuver without constantly brushing against each other, and the contact had left them both equally unsettled. Finally she had volunteered to set the table instead, and when that was done, she had sat there and waited.
After dinner she'd gone to bed early, a book from his shelves tucked under her arm. He wondered now as he watched the rain if she'd gone to sleep easily. If she'd noticed how big the queen-size bed was when she was in it alone. If she had entertained, even for a moment, the notion of sharing it.
Turning away from the door, he went to the kitchen and removed a roll from the microwave. Evan's aunt Sirena had taught him to cook but hadn't been able to interest him in baking, so she kept his freezer well stocked with cinnamon rolls, muffins and an occasional cake from her own kitchen. It made for an easy breakfast, especially when he had things to do.
And this morning he was meeting with Remy.
He had already called his friend, had asked for a meeting in Jackson Square
at eight o'clock. He felt guilty about it—after all, hadn't he promised Valery that he wouldn't tell anyone where she was? He owed it to her to keep that promise.
But he owed Remy a whole lot more. Like his life.
He ate the roll while writing a note to Valery, then changed from the gym shorts he'd slept in to jeans and a T-shirt. Yesterday he'd moved some of his clothes from the bedroom to the laundry closet so he wouldn't have to disturb Valery—in truth, so he wouldn't have to disturb himself—by going into the room while she slept. This morning he was grateful for it. He didn't want to face her while he was getting ready to break his promise to her.
By the time he'd clipped his Beretta in place and put on a waterproof jacket, it was ten minutes till eight. He checked the locks on the French doors, propped up the note on the dining table and left the apartment with the only sound the necessary clicks of tumblers turning and locks relocking.
The rain had been falling hard enough and long enough to puddle in low-lying areas around the square. There would be no artists out today, no musicians playing for a few bucks. Some tourists would venture out, huddled under umbrellas or wearing cheap plastic ponchos that could be bought in just about every Quarter gift shop, but even they would give up after a few hours of cold misery and return to their hotels. Tonight would be a different story, though. Even if it was still raining, they would come out, eager for a fine meal in an expensive restaurant, for too many drinks in too many bars or the prurient entertainment to be found in the Bourbon Street
clubs.
Tonight he would be home, dry and warm.
With Valery.
Who, with no more than a look, with no more than her mere presence, could make him entirely too warm.
His shoulders hunched against the rain that dripped from his hair, he entered the square through the side gate and did a quick sweep of the park. He spotted two men near the statue of Andrew Jackson, both wearing dark suits and overcoats, one under a black umbrella, pacing restlessly, the other—Remy—bareheaded and motionless.
As he approached, Remy spoke to his partner, then met Michael halfway. "Couldn't we have gone someplace a little less damp?" he asked in greeting, his voice as dry as the weather wasn't. "My shoes will never be the same."
A glance down showed that he was likely right. That kind of expensive leather wasn't meant for this kind of weather. "If you people dressed like normal folks, you wouldn't have to worry about such things. My tennis shoes won't be any the worse for wear."
There was a moment's silence while they studied each other. Remy looked tired, worried—and no doubt he was.
Wh
atever the problems between him and Valery, she was still his family.
"You still look like hell. Been getting any sleep?" Remy asked.
"Some." Michael rubbed one hand across his jaw, bristly and rough, then slicked his hair back. "You don't look much better."
"It's been a tough week."
After another brief silence, Michael asked, "Who's under the umbrella?"
"Wilson. He's working on Falcone with me."
Travis Wilson. Michael didn't know him well and didn't like him at all. It wasn't that he was a bad cop; he just wasn't a very good one. He was sloppy in a business where sloppiness could be a fatal flaw. Maybe he would learn something from Remy, but Michael wouldn't bet on it.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, Remy tilted his head back and raised his gaze to the leaden sky. "This weather is perfect. It matches the way everything else has been going lately." Finally looking back at Michael, he said, "My parents have been calling every day. This is the first time I've heard from them in fifteen years, and it's because of Valery."
Michael didn't ask if he meant it was Valery's fault that he hadn't heard from them in fifteen years or if she was the only reason he was hearing from them now. He didn't ask why there was both bitterness and regret in Remy's voice, both resentment and concern in his expression.
"They're sick with worrying about her, and it doesn't help that I don't have anything to tell them. Of course, they're used to my letting them down, so they're not surprised."
Michael glanced at Wilson, still out of earshot, then, just for good measure, he moved a half-dozen feet farther away. Remy followed. "You've got to promise not to do anything with what I'm going to tell you. You can't tell anyone, not even your parents."
Remy gave him a hard look. "If it involves this case, I can't—"
"Forget the damned case and promise."
"Michael—"
"You got me into this. Now you've got to play it my way."
The look got harder, edged with speculation. "You know something about Valery."
"Promise."
"Damn it, Michael."
"I want your word, Remy, or I'm walking away—from this, from you, from her." It was a bluff, of course. Although he'd sworn last week that he would ignore the visions of Valery, in the end he couldn't have, no more than he could turn her out now. He was in it for the duration, and not for Remy. For himself. For her.
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 9
