Wordless

by Sabrina Stark

  I stopped to study her face. From the look in her eyes, she meant it. And now I had to know, "So what's your theory?"

  She made a scoffing sound. "Well that's rich."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning that instead of giving me a straight answer, you're tossing out a question of your own. Does that sound fair to you?"

  I met her gaze. "No."

  She said, "But…?"

  Now I was seriously off my game. "But you're right. There's no one else."

  "But that's not even the question," she said. "I already told you, I believe you."

  I searched her face for clues. "But why?"

  "Why do I believe you?" She shrugged. "Call me stupid, but I don't see you as a cheater." Her eyes filled with tears. "And maybe I believe you too much when you say you love me."

  Her tears cut me to the bone. "You should, because it's true."

  "But you don't trust me."

  I moved toward her. "That's not it."

  And it wasn't. During the past few months, I'd come to realize that Becka wasn't a gossip. In some ways, she was nearly as private as I was.

  After Imogen's social media tirade, Becka had been the subject of intense media scrutiny. At nearly every book signing afterward, she'd been confronted by at least one reporter, sometimes two or three.

  On top of that, she always got plenty of questions from people waiting in line. I'd heard them with my own ears.

  Are you and Jack really a couple?

  What's he like in private?

  Is it true you that met at Flynn Archer's place?

  Through all of this, Becka never revealed anything – not to the media or to the crowds. Instead, she deflected their questions with jokes and good humor.

  I saw no trace of that humor now.

  In front of me, she said, "And, as long we're laying it out there, I saw that blonde again at the book signing."

  At today's signing, there'd been at least twenty blondes, thirty if I counted the guys. I asked, "Which one?"

  Ignoring the question, she said, "And that burly guy with the baseball cap. I saw him again, too."

  Something in my chest tightened as I realized what she was getting at. In a carefully neutral tone, I asked, "Anyone else?"

  "The tall guy with glasses. He wasn't there today, but I've seen him like a dozen times."

  I was stunned. "And you never said anything?"

  "No. But I'm saying it now."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know." She sighed. "I guess I was waiting for you to tell me. It just seems like you would've opened up by now."

  We were standing within arm's reach. I wanted to gather her close and kiss away her concerns. But from the look on her face, that wouldn't do the trick.

  Not this time.

  So I simply said, "I'm not lying to you."

  "You are by omission," she said. "Like even now, why aren't you telling me who those people are?"

  "Because you already know."

  Her mouth tightened. "Oh, do I?"

  "Sure. Go ahead and tell me."

  "No," she snapped. "For once, you tell me." Her tone grew desperate. "Please?"

  "All right. They're security."

  "I knew it," she muttered.

  "See?"

  "See what?"

  I tried for a smile. "You already knew, just like I said."

  "Still, it would've been nice to hear it from you."

  "And you did."

  "When?" she scoffed. "Just now? Are you serious?"

  "I meant in Ohio," I said, "when I told you I'd handle security." I searched her face. "You remember, right?"

  "I guess." Her shoulders slumped. "But you never told me that you'd be hiring people. And, you never mentioned when you actually did it."

  "Yeah. And I shouldn't have to."

  She stiffened. "Why not?"

  "Because I'm running the tour, not you."

  "I know. But that's not the point."

  "And," I continued, "because they're under cover."

  "So?"

  "So it's better if you're not friendly." I looked into her eyes, willing her to understand. "And come on, you know how you are."

  "And how's that?"

  "You're a nice person. And I mean that as a compliment."

  "I'm not that nice," she said.

  "You're wrong," I said. "You are." I shook my head. "Nicer than I deserve."

  "Even if I believed that – which I don't – what does my so-called 'niceness' have to do with anything?"

  "I’m just saying, if you knew they worked for me, you'd feel bad not saying 'hi.'"

  "So what?" she said. "I feel bad now. Seriously, you should've told me."

  "Maybe," I admitted. "But I didn't want you to worry. Or feel funny about it."

  "Oh come on," she said. "You knew about them. Did you feel funny?"

  "No. But I'm a different kind person."

  She scoffed, "No kidding."

  "I just wanted you safe," I explained.

  "What are you saying? You did this for me?"

  "For both of us."

  She grimaced. "So, do you want credit or something?"

  "Fuck credit," I said. "I want you to be happy."

  "Safe and happy?" She shook her head. "Tell me, do I look happy now?"

  I gave her a look. "You really expect me to answer that?"

  Ignoring my question, she said, "And how are they getting from place to place?"

  "The same way as everyone does. By plane, car, whatever."

  "And you're paying for all of that?"

  "Well they're not doing it for free. And I don't expect them to."

  "But why don’t you just have them fly along with us?"

  "Aside from privacy?"

  "Yes," she gritted out. "Aside from that."

  "All right. Because if they're seen with us, it defeats the purpose. Don’t you think?"

  "Actually, I don't know what to think," she said. "Which reminds me, you never did say. Where were you tonight?"

  Fuck.

  I didn't want to do it. But unless I wanted to send her away, I had no choice. "You remember that clause?"

  She shook her head. "What clause?"

  "The no-questions clause."

  In front of me, she grew very still. "You're not seriously suggesting–"

  "Yeah. I am."

  At this, she looked like she wanted to strangle me. I knew the feeling. Hell, I felt like strangling myself.

  She glared up at me for a long moment, and I half expected her to pack her stuff right then and there. But she didn't. Instead, she asked in a carefully controlled voice, "This clause of yours, does it ever expire?"

  I nodded. "Next month."

  "At the end of the tour? That's what you're saying?"

  "Pretty much."

  "Well, that's nice," she said.

  Carefully, I reached for her hands. "Becka, listen…" But as my hands closed around hers, I didn't know what to say. Obviously, she was upset. And I hated that. But I'd rather upset her a million times than put her in any danger.

  Finally, I said, "I'd never do anything to hurt you. You know that, right?"

  She blinked away tears. "But don't you get it? You're hurting me now."

  "Not as bad as I could."

  "What does that mean?"

  "I just mean..." Shit. I didn't want to say it. But now I had no choice. "If it's a problem, maybe we should catch up after the tour. I mean, hey, it's only more three weeks."

  Her eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

  "It's not what I want," I clarified. "But if it's what you want, I get it." I stared into her eyes. "I love you. You know that, right?"

  After a long moment, she gave a silent nod.

  "So do me a favor. Please?" I gave her hands a squeeze. "No more questions."

  "But—"

  "Not 'til the tour's over, okay?"

  What I didn't say was that if something went wrong along the way, she'd be glad that she'd been kept in the dark.
r />   In front of me, she blew out a long, trembling breath. "I must be an idiot."

  Something in my shoulders eased. "So that's a yes?"

  Finally, she gave another nod.

  At this, I gathered her into my arms. "No," I said into her hair. "You're the girl I love. And trust me. The tour will be done before you know it."

  No truer words were ever spoken – because just four days later, it became painfully clear that she wouldn't make it to the end.

  Chapter 63

  Becka

  It was 3:24 a.m., and I was alone in our hotel suite – or more specifically, alone in our king-size bed.

  Only a few days had passed since our argument, and things were still way too tense between us. Oh sure, we'd been working hard to go through the motions, but still the tension lingered like a bad case of the flu.

  Jack was wary, and I was impatient. Even now, I couldn’t decide if confronting him had been a mistake.

  Maybe I should've stuck with my original plan – to wait it out, believing for some stupid reason that he'd eventually tell me everything on his own.

  But he hadn't. Not even after I'd confronted him.

  And now he was gone.

  Again.

  We were in a different hotel in a different city. But the dynamic was all too familiar. Now, lying in the darkness, I couldn’t help but wonder if I'd made a mistake by agreeing to that whole no-questions clause.

  Was I a sap?

  Maybe.

  And yet, I did believe him when he claimed there was nobody but me. And crazy or not, I honestly couldn't see him doing anything terribly immoral.

  In spite of all the secrets, I'd come to feel like I truly knew him. He was big into codes of conduct, old-fashioned honor, and everything associated with those things. And I loved him all the more for it.

  Still, in a perverse sort of way, this only made his disappearances more unsettling.

  What was he doing, anyway?

  As I stared up at the darkened ceiling, the question haunted me to the point of distraction. Finally, I couldn’t take it another minute.

  I got up, got dressed, and grabbed my newest paperback. I considered going down to the lobby, and immediately rejected that idea. After all, the last thing we needed now was something else to argue about it.

  And then, I remembered something. I had my own hotel room – not that I was staying in it. Still, it was someplace to go, if only to clear my thoughts.

  Did it work?

  No.

  Because the moment I opened the hotel room door, I realized my mistake. The room was already occupied.

  By him?

  It sure looked that way.

  As the door swung silently shut behind me, I stopped to stare. The lights were already on. And right there on the bed were the same dark clothes I'd seen Jack wearing on several other occasions. They were wrinkled and worn, like he'd just taken them off.

  Silently, I glanced around, trying to put everything into context. The bathroom door was shut, and the shower was running.

  I could hear it, even if I couldn't see it.

  Was Jack in there? He had to be.

  And surely, he was alone. Right?

  Like someone in a trance, I moved toward the bathroom door, only to pause halfway when I spotted his black notebook, along with a large manila folder, sitting on the nearby night stand.

  By now, I was beyond curious – so curious, in fact, that I did the unthinkable. I picked up the notebook and leafed quickly through it.

  On its tattered pages, I saw names and cities, along with notations that made no sense at all. Words like "private network" and "open secret" jumped out from the random scribbles of names, dates, and who-knows-what-else. Without any real context, I had no idea what any of this meant.

  With trembling fingers, I set aside the notebook and reached for the folder. Unable to stop myself, I opened it and looked inside. What I saw there made gasp out loud.

  Just then, the sound of the shower suddenly became louder. I turned to look and felt the blood drain from my face.

  The bathroom door was now wide open. Standing in the open doorway was Jack, wearing only his boxers and a deep, ominous frown.

  I was still holding the folder. And now I didn't know what to say.

  On so many levels, this wasn't good.

  Chapter 64

  Becka

  From the bathroom doorway, he said, "So, did you get a good look?" His eyes were cold, and his mouth was tight. He was obviously angry.

  But so what? I was angry, too.

  With a hard scoff, I tossed the folder back onto the night stand. When it hit, a few of the pictures slid halfway out, revealing an older man with a much younger woman.

  As far as her exact age, I couldn't say for sure. She might've been the same age as me, or possibly even younger.

  Either way, the guy was several times her age and girth. Both of them were naked and going at it, doggie style, in what appeared to be an upscale hotel room.

  I glanced around. Was it this hotel room?

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Could it?

  I looked to Jack and said, "Did you take those?"

  He frowned. "You think I did?"

  "I don't know what to think," I said. "None of this makes any sense."

  He gave me a hard look. "What are you doing here?"

  Wasn’t it obvious? "It's my room."

  "Which you weren't staying in."

  My chin lifted. "Yeah, so?"

  "So who gave you a key?"

  Obviously, he didn't mean a physical key, but rather one of the key cards assigned by the hotel.

  I replied, "It was on the nightstand."

  He looked toward the nearby nightstand, where those awful pictures were on partial display.

  I looked, too. At the sight of the images, I felt like throwing up. It wasn't that I thought sex was ugly or anything. But to have naked pictures of another couple in mid-thrust, well, it was more than a little disturbing, especially considering the differences in their ages and appearance.

  I yanked my gaze from the photos and looked back to Jack. "I meant the nightstand in your room."

  His jaw clenched. "You mean our room."

  I knew what he meant. And if I were feeling any less distressed, I might have admitted that he was right. But I was distressed and tired of being reasonable at all. "No. I mean your room, just like I said."

  "Your bags are up there. Not here."

  "So what?" I threw up my hands. "And why are you putting me on the spot, anyway? You're the one who's running around doing Lord-knows-what." My voice rose. "Seriously, what are you doing here, anyway?"

  In a deadly calm voice, he replied, "I might ask the same of you."

  As if he didn't know. "I woke up and you were gone." I crossed my arms and waited for his response.

  None came.

  I tried again. "And I couldn't fall back asleep."

  "So?"

  With a sigh, I pulled the paperback out of my purse. I gave it a little wave and said, "So I was going to read until I got sleepy."

  He barely glanced at the book. "We have a suite."

  Now it was my turn to say it. "So?"

  "So what's wrong with reading up there?"

  "Maybe I needed a change of scenery." I made a scoffing sound. "And obviously, hanging out in the lobby isn't an option." Under my breath, I added, "At least according to some people."

  He didn't look thrilled with the reminder. "And that's a problem?"

  "Yes. Sort of." I paused, and my shoulders sagged. I was angry, but I didn't want to be unfair. "All right, I guess not. I mean, I see your point about safety. But don't you get it? That's why I came down here instead. I thought this room would be empty."

  From the look on Jack's face, he wasn't buying it. "Right."

  "What, you don't believe me?"

  "Should I?"

  And just like that, I was playing defense yet again. I didn't like it. "Hey, I'm not the one s
kulking around at night."

  He gave a low scoff. "You sure about that?"

  "Of course I'm sure. Unlike you, I haven't left the hotel."

  "But you left our room."

  I stared up at him. "You say that like I'm some sort of prisoner."

  He stiffened. "Is that how you feel?"

  "No. Of course not." It was true. But once again, he was missing the point. "And this isn't about me." I extended my arm and pointed to the photos. "Who are those people? And why do you have pictures of them?"

  "No questions. Remember?"

  I forced a laugh. Even to my own ears, it sounded wrong – half-crazed and devoid of any real humor. "How could I forget?" My head was swimming, and my thoughts were a mess. I blurted out, "And do you realize, I don't even know where you live?"

  As I said it, it occurred to me how disturbing this was. For months, we'd been spending nearly every day together. Nights, too.

  And we'd talked. A lot.

  By now, I knew how he felt about politics, the world in general, chivalry, honor, pop culture, and everything in-between. But about his own life? I knew very little, because Jack seldom talked about it.

  In contrast, I'd shared countless details about my own life.

  And now I couldn't help but wonder at the imbalance. Maybe he'd only encouraged me to ramble on about myself because it spared him the trouble of doing the same.

  He said, "It's a cabin in the mountains, as you damn well know."

  Oh, please. Because his bio said so?

  I crossed my arms. "Do I?"

  "If you want," he said, "I'll fly you there tomorrow."

  Silently, I considered his offer – and the way he'd phrased it.

  Me.

  Not us.

  I asked, "Would you be coming, too?"

  "Sure." He paused. "After the tour."

  At this point, I wasn't even sure I believed him. But what did it matter? If we had so little trust between us, I'd be a fool to even consider it.

  Again, I glanced toward the pictures. "And I suppose you're not going to tell me why you have those?"

  In reply, he said nothing.

  Into his silence, I added, "Or who those people are."

  Still no response.

  "Or," I persisted, "how you came to have those photos at all."

  When he still said nothing, I gave a snort of derision. "You know what? Forget it." I glanced toward the hotel room door. "Now will you please get out of my room?"