Which meant that Remy was guilty of ordering Nate Simmons's murder.
Right now, right this minute, she didn't care. Later would be soon enough to worry over that. She had other worries now.
Michael.
What was he guilty of? she wondered. Bad judgment? Misplaced trust? Or something worse, something more sinister? Had he simply been foolish in trusting Remy enough to confide in him?
Or was he a part of their crime?
She wanted to believe the worst of him, wanted it with every bit of pain she was feeling, but she couldn't. He had suffered too much with Evan's death. She knew—knew—he'd meant it when he'd said that being responsible for another death would kill him. He wasn't a murderer. He was just a foolish man who had believed that because Remy was a cop like him, he could be trusted.
He was a man who had lied to her.
A man who had broken his promises to her.
A man who had broken her heart.
With a heavy sigh, she raised her gaze to the small slice of sky that she could see above the buildings opposite her. The rain clouds had passed, leaving a clear sky that was dotted with distant stars. It wasn't really such a bad night, weatherwise, if you were dressed for it. It would be a perfect night for zipping up a warm jacket and lacing on comfortable shoes and taking a long, quiet walk along the river. Of course, solitary midnight strolls along the river weren't advisable, not if you wanted to stay safe. But if you had someone to go with you, someone to hold you close, someone to protect you…
Bad line of thought, she admonished herself as the tears welled again. The only protector she'd ever had was Michael, and he had destroyed the trust she had so naively offered him. Now who would protect her from her protector? From down the street she heard footsteps, slow steps, tired steps. She didn't try to make herself into a tinier little lump to avoid detection; she was already as unnoticeable as she was going to get. She didn't worry, either, that the person might mean her harm. At this point, she was beyond caring. Her cousin was a murderer, and the man she had fallen in love with was a liar who couldn't be trusted.
That was two heartaches too many.
Slowly the steps came to a stop right at the point where the jewelry shop next door ended and her shop began, and he stood there, motionless, looking at her through the plate-glass windows.
Michael.
She didn't need to look to know that it was him. She knew. She felt it way down inside.
Clasping her hands tighter around her knees, she tried now to make herself smaller, less obvious. She would have crawled right inside herself if it meant not having to deal with him now, when the ache was so fresh, but, of course, she couldn't.
He came closer, shrugging out of his jacket, wordlessly offering it to her. When she didn't take it, he bent and covered her with it. It smelled of him, and it was almost warm enough to make her sigh with comfort. But she didn't make a sound. She didn't move. She didn't draw the jacket tighter to absorb its heat—his heat. She just sat frozen, inside and out.
After a moment, he sat down on one of the lower steps, his back to her, resting his arms on his knees. Staring out at the street, he finally spoke, his voice low, quiet, empty. "What happened at the apartment?"
Her voice was just as quiet, just as empty. "Right after you left, the men who killed Nate Simmons broke in. They were looking for me. They knew I was staying there. Someone had told them I was staying there."
For a long time he continued to stare off into the distance; then finally he looked at her. When he did, she felt the weight of his bleakness. "And you think it was me."
"No. I think you told Remy. I think he told them." Emotion crept into her last words, and she stopped to control it before going on. "I saw you with him tonight, Michael. You lied to me about knowing him. You lied about keeping my whereabouts a secret. Why?"
He lowered his head, resting it in his hands. The posture spoke silently, eloquently, of sorrow, of despair. It begged for comfort.
But she had no comfort to give.
After a time, he straightened a bit, lifted his head and turned on the steps so he could see her. "I've known Remy since we were eighteen years old. He, Evan, Smith and I were best friends. Since Evan's death, Remy and Smith are all that's gotten me through. They're my family. Remy didn't kill Simmons, Valery. I swear to God, he wasn't involved."
"You don't believe in God," she murmured.
"I believe." After a moment, he bleakly added, "But He doesn't believe in me. And you don't, either, do you?"
She didn't say anything. Not answering was easier and more effective. It added another degree of desolation to his expression.
"Remy knows about the visions. He and Smith both do. After what happened with Evan, I swore I would never get involved again. And then the visions of you started. Remy came to me, told me your name, told me that you were a witness to the Simmons murder and that you were missing. I told him I couldn't help. I didn't care if you died, but I wasn't getting involved. The next day Smith came, and he told me that you and Remy were cousins. Remy hadn't told me himself because he knew I would feel obligated to help. I owed him a hell of a lot. He saved my life after Evan died."
She remembered his story about the aftermath of Evan's death, about how he had tried to drink away his guilt and his grief, about his friend who had shaken him up enough to make him stop. At the time she had silently reflected that his friend had been a very good friend.
Now she knew that it was Remy.
"When you showed up at my apartment, I had to tell him. He was worried. He was afraid something had happened to you. I had to tell him that you were safe. He's known since Monday morning."
Monday. Michael had made his promise to her on Saturday morning. He'd kept it barely forty-eight hours. He had broken it before he'd kissed her, had betrayed her before he'd held her, before he'd made love to her.
And she'd never had a clue. Not a single clue.
"He didn't kill Nate Simmons, Valery. And he didn't hire those men to do it for him."
She shifted position a bit on the cold brick step and, catching it as it slid, tucked his jacket a little closer around her, blocking off the night chill. "And how do you know that?"
"Because I know him. Maybe he's a stranger to you, Val, but I know him. If you would give him a chance, if you would just talk to him, you'd know it, too."
"If Remy isn't involved," she asked wearily, "how did those men find me? How did they know to come tonight? How did they know I would be alone?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. Something went wrong."
"Yeah. I trusted you."
Michael clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth ached. It had been a hell of a night—first the meeting with Remy, then the vision, the worry, the unspeakable fear. The certainty that Valery was in danger, that she was out there somewhere in the cold and the rain, afraid, needing him, looking for him, followed by the slow realization that she wasn't hiding from only the men who'd broken in but also from him. She wasn't trying to find him, wasn't trying to somehow connect with him, wasn't looking to him to protect her. She was hiding—hiding from him.
The realization had damn near broken his heart.
He wanted to shake her, to yell at her, to make her understand that he couldn't do anything to hurt her, that he couldn't let anyone else hurt her because he loved her. But shaking her and yelling wouldn't do any good. This was Valery, who even before tonight had believed that everyone who loved her would leave her, would somehow betray her.
And, damn it, she was right. He had betrayed her. He had hurt her.
But he still loved her.
And he wasn't going to leave her.
Feeling older and wearier than any man ought to, he got to his feet and extended his hands to her. "Come on. We can't sit out here all night. We need to find someplace safe for you to stay."
Seconds crawled by as she simply looked at him. He knew she was debating whether she trusted him enough to go with him, debating whether she
cared anymore about someplace safe. Her answers, whatever they might be, didn't matter. He wasn't letting her out of his sight again. He wasn't reneging on his promise to protect her. He wasn't letting anything else happen to her.
Just when he'd decided he was going to have to take her along by force, she slowly rose to her feet. She moved stiffly, as if she'd been sitting there on the hard steps too long. As if warmth hadn't yet found its way from his jacket into her body. As if she, too, felt older and wearier than a person should.
Avoiding his hands, she put his jacket on, fastening the snaps all the way up to her chin, curling her fingers so that her hands disappeared entirely inside the too-long sleeves. Ignoring him, she awkwardly descended the steps and turned automatically in the direction of his apartment.
They walked back in silence, then climbed the stairs and covered the length of the hall, still in perfect silence. He checked the door, making sure both locks were still secured, before using his keys to let them in, and then he locked it again immediately behind them. "Change into some dry clothes," he instructed, "then pack the rest of your things. We won't be coming back here for a while."
She disappeared into the bedroom, then the bathroom, a dry set of clothes folded over her arm. While she was in there, he took care of his own packing, hauling a seldom-used suitcase from the back of the closet, filling one half of it with his own clothing, leaving the other half for hers.
For the first time since she'd shown up at his door, he took his credentials and badge from the closet shelf, along with the extra clips for his pistol and an unopened box of shells. The credentials went into his hip pocket, everything else underneath his clothes in the bag.
Valery came out of the bathroom just as he was leaving the bedroom. At least she had on dry clothes now, but she still looked cold and pale, the color seeming permanently drained from her face. Her hair, still damp, was combed straight back from her forehead, and her eyes were cast down. He wanted to hold her, to warm her, but he knew she wouldn't welcome his touch, though she wouldn't pull away, wouldn't push him away, if he tried. Worse, she would just stand there stiffly, unyielding. As if she didn't care enough to stop him.
He went to the kitchen without speaking, clearing the way for her to enter the bedroom. Muttering a curse, he grabbed a shopping bag from the narrow space between the refrigerator and the wall and packed the few remaining items he wanted.
She was ready to leave in less than five minutes. Michael carried the suitcase in his left hand, keeping his right hand free, and she took the shopping bag. Once again, in damning silence, they made their way downstairs and to the narrow courtyard where his car was parked. They made only one brief stop on the way: at Luisa's door, where Valery carefully set down the rain-soaked red sneakers.
For tonight's refuge he chose a motel off the interstate that led to Baton Rouge. He borrowed cash from Valery so he wouldn't have to use his credit card, registered under a false name and got the key to a room that was clean, if a little shabby. A room with only one bed.
He watched her take note of that with more than a little cynicism, but he didn't apologize, didn't make excuses, didn't lie. Double rooms had been available; he simply hadn't requested one. Like it or not—like him or not—she was still sharing a bed with him.
At last he pulled off his jacket, tossed it over one of the two straight-backed chairs, then turned his attention to her. "We need to talk."
She faced him from across the bed, wearing her own coat now. Her hair was starting to dry in unruly wisps; together with the jacket that swallowed her, it gave her a waifish look. A lost little girl look.
When she made no response, he went on. "Remy wants to meet with you tomorrow. I told him I would ask you."
She still said nothing.
"The silence between you two has gone on too long. You need to talk. You need to settle what went wrong."
Still no response, not even the flicker of an eyelash. "If it would make you feel safer, we can include someone else."
That roused her interest enough to make her ask, "Who?"
He shrugged. "Smith? The assistant U.S. Attorney?"
"Yours and Remy's best friend?"
"Jolie Wade." He saw recognition flash across her face. "She's a reporter for the Times-Picayune. She's covering the Simmons murder. She's doing a story right now regarding that and Remy."
"Invite them both. We'll talk." She started to turn away, then swung back. "If you're wrong about Remy—"
"I'm not."
"But if you are…"
Slowly he circled the bed, not stopping until he was right in front of her. "I would kill anyone who tried to hurt you," he said quietly, deliberately.
She gave that a moment's thought.
Then, with a single accepting nod, she walked away.
* * *
Thursday morning looked like another of those wonderful winter days, although it was hard for Valery to be certain, peeking out through rubber-backed drapes as she was. The motel parking lot had emptied out early; now only Michael's car remained at this end, along with one or two closer to the office.
Soon they would be having company. She had listened from the bed, just before Michael went to shower, as he called Jolie Wade and arranged the meeting. He had warned her to be careful, had asked her to pass on the information and the warning in person to Remy and to Smith. He had insisted that the three of them take whatever precautions were necessary to ensure that no one else knew where they were going or who they were meeting. He had assured her when he got off the phone that they would be careful. That they, too, would protect her.
She was nervous about seeing Remy—about seeing him, not about confronting him. Sometime in the long night just past, she had begun to believe in him at least a little, had begun to accept Michael's belief in him. He had earned from Michael the sort of loyalty and trust that she had always longed for, the sort of unwavering faith that she had never inspired in anyone.
Maybe he was innocent.
Maybe she was wrong.
God, she hoped so.
Behind her, the bathroom door opened and Michael came out. He was already dressed in jeans, but his shoulders and back were still wet, and his hair was dripping. She looked for only an instant, then turned her gaze to the parking lot again.
He had lain with her last night—not slept; she couldn't say either of them had slept much, if at all. But he had lain behind her with his arm around her waist, holding her close even when she had tried to keep her distance. In the end she had let him hold her because it was easier. Because she had needed it. Because … hell, because she had needed him. Even though he'd lied. Even though he'd made her a promise and only forty-eight hours later had broken it.
"Anything interesting out there?"
She shook her head, then let the panel fall back into place and turned to face him. "I wish you'd asked them to bring breakfast."
"No need. Sit down."
As she took a seat on the edge of the bed, he got the shopping bag he'd given her to carry last night. She hadn't looked inside to see what it contained. She'd been too numb to care. Now she watched as he removed two saucers, both delicate old china, the patterns mismatched, two forks and a small white bakery box. She recognized it as last night's dessert, the one they'd never gotten the chance to share because he'd had to go out and then she'd had to leave, too. Some part of her was touched that he'd thought to bring it.
The first part of the cake disappeared in silence. If she tried hard enough, she could pretend they were simply too busy savoring it to bother with conversation. It was that good—dark chocolate layers separated by sweet chocolate cream, all of it covered with rich fudge frosting and decorated with thick milk and white chocolate curls.
But indulgence wasn't the reason for the silence. It was nothing so simple. Nothing so easily overcome.
"I'm sorry."
Pushing her saucer aside, she used her fork to hook a white chocolate curl off the cake remaining on the cardboard tray an
d lift it to her mouth. After swallowing it, she sneaked a look at Michael, who was watching her from the other side of the dessert box.
She wished she could be cold, wished she could ignore his apology or, better yet, throw it back in his face.
She wished she didn't hurt worse every time she saw how he was hurting.
She wished she could hate him for what he'd done.
She wished…
Oh, God, she wished she could take away that sad look.
"I should have told you the truth from the beginning, but I knew that if you didn't trust Remy enough to go to him, you wouldn't trust one of his friends. I had to do whatever was necessary—including lying—to protect you."
"Because of Evan?"
"In the beginning." His gaze held hers, refusing to let her go, refusing through sheer will to let her look away. "But not anymore."
He wanted her to ask what his reason was now, but she was afraid to. Afraid of what he might say. Afraid of how she might respond. Still, the question came out, was dragged out against her will. "And now?"
"I'll do whatever is necessary now because I love you." He waited only long enough for the words to sink in, not long enough for her to come up with a response—something lighthearted to brush him off, a declaration of her own feelings, a denial. "I'm sorry I lied to you. I'm sorry I broke my promise. I'm sorry I'm not a better man, sorry I don't have more to offer you. Damn it, Val, I'm sorry as hell that I hurt you, but I'm not perfect. I'm just trying to do what's right … and I'm not very good at it. But I can promise you three things—I do love you. I'll always be here for you. And I will never leave you."
She wanted to believe him, wanted it, God help her, so badly that she hurt inside.
She just didn't know if she could.
One moment slid into another, and for Michael expectancy passed into despair, which gave way to resignation. Disappointed, he returned what was left of the cake to its box, then began gathering the dishes. Once everything was back in the bag and the bag had been returned to its place beside the suitcase, he turned to her. "I can wait, Valery," he said quietly. "However long it takes to gain your trust—a few weeks, a few months, a few years, a lifetime. However long, I'll be here."
MICHAEL'S GIFT Page 20
