Visions

by Kelley Armstrong

  James tried not to wince. Damn Olivia. Why did she have to make everything so complicated?

  "We like Ms. Taylor-Jones," Tristan said. "We believe she complements you perfectly. Attractive, but not unduly so. Ambitious, but again not unduly so. She's bright and witty and charming. From a solid local family. And now she comes with a very intriguing backstory, and we are impressed that you appear to see past that. Most men in your position would not."

  "There's no question of that. I love her."

  Tristan's smile held a touch of condescension, unsettling in one so young. "That always helps. We feel that your choice to support her through this tragic revelation will further endear you to voters. However, it would be better if you were more actively supporting her. We saw the photo in the Post."

  Now James did wince. "I--"

  "A biker." Tristan's lips twisted in distaste.

  "And an MBA student who is clearly trying to get out of the family business. As for his association with Olivia, it is purely professional. They share a lawyer."

  "Which brings me to issue number two. How well do you know Mr. Walsh?"

  "His reputation--"

  "We deal in fact, Mr. Morgan. Not gossip." Tristan opened his briefcase and handed James two folders. "That is the information we have collected on both Mr. Walsh and Mr. Gallagher. Neither is someone we wish to see associating with our candidate's future wife."

  "I--"

  "Our concern extends beyond their reputations for criminal and unsavory activities." The young man's voice dropped to a soothing murmur. "We fear for Ms. Jones's safety, as we believe you should."

  "What?"

  "We can see how she would find these two men appealing. They are both attractive and single, both powerful and successful in their own way, much like you. There is also the added appeal of . . ." Tristan seemed to search for a word. "Edge, perhaps. Excitement. Danger. These men have it in spades. While you . . ."

  James heard the words hanging between them. While you do not.

  You are James Morgan. You've made every most eligible bachelor list in the city for three years running. Women flirt with you everyplace you go. They buy you drinks. They give you their numbers. They pass you hotel room keys. And who is Olivia Taylor-Jones? The daughter of convicted serial killers. Yet she dumps you for a biker. A twenty-two-year-old biker.

  He heard the words as if someone whispered them in his ear, and he felt the outrage of them.

  If you want her, she should be yours.

  He looked up sharply. He could have sworn he actually did hear those words, but Tristan only stood there, waiting and watching him.

  She should be yours. You deserve her. They do not.

  "I'll leave those files with you, Mr. Morgan," Tristan said. "And I'll leave you with two thoughts. One, we would be very pleased if you reunited with your fiancee. Two, if you do not, and there is no one there to protect her . . ." His eyes bored into James's. "She is dealing with dangerous men who will hurt her. You need to understand that."

  James nodded.

  "Tell me you understand that."

  James felt his lips moving, as if someone was pulling them for him. "Yes, I understand that. I'll look after her. I'll fix this."

  Tristan smiled. "Excellent. We'll be in touch soon."

  He walked past James, heading for the exit. James glanced down at his hands--at the files and the business card. On the card he saw only a name. No contact information.

  He turned. "Do you have . . . ?"

  He was alone in the parking garage.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Gabriel had to stop by the office. He left the car idling as he ran in. While he was gone, my cell phone rang. It was James.

  "We need to talk," he said when I answered.

  "This isn't a good time," I said. "I'm--"

  "Cote d'Azur."

  "What?"

  "Cote d'Azur. The French Riviera. Next weekend. The two of us. To get this damned mess sorted out."

  I almost said that I wasn't free next weekend. But that implied I'd go otherwise. The door opened and Gabriel slid back into the car.

  I motioned I was on the phone and started opening my door to take the call outside, but he put the car in drive, with a flash of his watch, as if to say we had somewhere to be.

  "Liv?" James prompted.

  "There's nothing to sort out," I said. "I'm sorry. It didn't work. We tried--"

  "Tried? Two dates, Olivia. I got two dates and a damned coffee before you were off running around with--" He sucked back the rest and his tone smoothed. "We haven't tried, and we can't, not here in Chicago, with everything that's going on. You're confused--"

  "I'm not confused, James. I'm--" I looked over at Gabriel and lowered my voice again. "It's my fault, okay? Blame me. But I've made up my mind. We--"

  "What do you want from me, Liv? Clearly you're waiting for the right response and I'm not giving it. I've tried staying away. I've tried not staying away. I want this, Olivia. I want you."

  "And to hell with what I want?"

  "I don't think you know what you want."

  I bit my tongue. Hard. When I could manage it, I said, "I do know, James. And I'm sorry if it doesn't fit your plans, but that's my decision. Goodbye."

  I hung up and exhaled.

  "You made the right choice," Gabriel said.

  I glanced over, to make sure he was actually talking about my phone conversation. Of course he was. It wouldn't occur to Gabriel not to eavesdrop--or to pretend he hadn't.

  I made a noise in my throat, one that most people would interpret as "I don't want to talk about it."

  He ignored it. "I understand it may be difficult to give up the financial and social stability that a marriage to James Morgan would offer. Yet while you may not be living in the style to which you are accustomed, you seem comfortable enough to manage until you receive your trust fund."

  "You think I was marrying James for 'financial and social stability'?"

  He frowned, as if to say, Why else?

  I shook my head. "I was marrying him because I loved him, Gabriel."

  He gave a derisive snort.

  "Excuse me?" I said.

  A look over his shades. "You can't really expect me to believe you'd tie yourself to a man like Morgan for some silly romantic notion. You're better than that."

  "I think that's meant to be a compliment, but given the choice between lowering your opinion of me and letting myself be painted as a gold digger--"

  "Gold digging would be marrying a rich seventy-year-old in hopes he'll die while you can still enjoy his money. You chose a suitable match--in age, social standing, wealth, and looks. A man who would provide a satisfactory and easy life for you. Traditionally, that is the way for a woman to secure her future."

  "Sure. In the nineteenth century."

  "And that doesn't apply today? In your social circles?"

  He had a point, but I wouldn't concede it. "It wasn't like that with me. I have my trust fund, as you've pointed out. I had a family business that I could have joined. I have a graduate degree. Your low opinion of James is based on the fact you were able to fleece him, and to you that makes him a fool. James Morgan is a good and decent man."

  "Which is why it wouldn't have worked."

  "Ouch."

  "That's not an insult, Olivia. James Morgan is completely decent and completely mediocre, and he'd have made you completely miserable. At least if you were marrying him for stability, you'd get something out of it. But love?" His expression conveyed his opinion of the concept. "I'm glad to see you're done with him. Don't backslide again."

  "Backslide? Weren't you the one taking money to help me get back with him?"

  His hands tightened on the wheel. There was a moment of silence when I wished I hadn't said anything. Yes, he'd insulted me, but in his world there was nothing wrong with doing whatever it took to find a stable life.

  "I didn't take money for that," he said finally, adjusting his grip on the wheel. "Morgan
insisted on making it part of the deal, so I agreed, but I didn't accept payment for a service I didn't provide. I wasn't planning to accept . . ." He trailed off.

  "To accept what?"

  He shook his head, gaze forward. "Nothing."

  "Okay, let's . . . I'd like to move past that. Put it behind us."

  He exhaled. "So would I."

  "That doesn't mean I'm okay with it," I said. "Or that I don't think you'll do it again."

  "I won't." We were stopped at a light. He took off his shades and met my gaze. "I know I made a mistake. I knew I was making a mistake at the time. Even if I didn't see the harm in it, you felt betrayed. I understand that. It will not happen again."

  It would. Not that he was lying. He meant it. But a time would come when he'd betray my trust again and he'd tell himself it was necessary or that I wouldn't be upset or that it didn't count. I had to deal with the possibility. I didn't need to forgive him if it happened again, but I couldn't tell myself it wouldn't. Either way I'd get hurt, but at least if I had my eyes open, it might dull the sting.

  I nodded, and it must not have looked convincing enough, because he kept his gaze on me and said, "I mean it, Olivia."

  "I know you do. Thank you."

  He nodded, put on his sunglasses, and roared through as the light turned green.

  --

  I felt more centered after my talk with Gabriel. It was like sweeping away the last of the cobwebs, the stage clear to start again. It helped that he was in a rare truly good mood. We went to dinner at my favorite steak house--he'd made a reservation.

  As we ate, Gabriel regaled me with the story of a past case, one he knew would amuse me. Compared with other diners deep in conversation, his gestures were restrained, his affect muted, his tone even, but for Gabriel he was positively animated. Possibly even a little drunk, having finished almost an entire glass of wine. His blue eyes glowed with a warmth I'd never seen, even at his most engaged, and I wanted to lean back and bask in it. But every time I relaxed, a little voice reminded me I needed to discuss something with him while he was in a good mood.

  When we moved on to dessert, I worked up the nerve. I took a bite of my cheesecake, then said, as casually as I could manage, "Earlier, being at the station, it reminded me of something."

  He sipped his coffee, brows arching, waiting for me to continue.

  "Have you identified those photos yet?"

  As soon as I said the words, I regretted them. He froze, coffee mug at his lips. He'd been having a good night, something he probably hadn't had in a very long time, something he deserved, and with six words I'd completely fucked it up.

  "I'm so sorry," I said. "This isn't the time. I just--So, about the Meade case--"

  "I haven't had a chance to see the photos," he said, lowering his mug. "I need to, obviously, and I will."

  "I'll go with you," I said. "Whenever you're ready."

  At that, he met my gaze and he smiled. It wasn't more than a wry twist of the lips, but it reached his eyes, warming them, as if I'd just volunteered to do a year's worth of research free of charge. Even when the look vanished, the smile lingered as he nodded.

  "It's simply a matter of finding time." He leaned back in his seat. "I should make time, I suppose. It's not going to magically manufacture itself. Let me know when you're ready and we'll go."

  "Whenever you are."

  "What's your shift tomorrow? Yes, I know, it's Sunday, but if you're free . . ."

  He'd decided to do this thing, and if we didn't arrange a time, he'd find an excuse to postpone.

  "I have tomorrow off," I said. "I can meet you anytime."

  "I'll pick you up."

  "No, that's fine. I--"

  "You're doing this for me. I'll pick you up. I might even let you drive."

  He smiled then, a real smile, and I couldn't do anything but agree . . . to a time late enough for me to get my ass home from Ricky's.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  I drove Gabriel back to his office. I'm sure there was no way in hell a few ounces of wine could legally intoxicate a guy over two hundred pounds, but it was definitely more than he was used to. Besides, I was happy for any excuse to get into the driver's seat. I took the long way and told myself I was just making sure he was sober, windows down, fresh air rushing in. He wasn't in any hurry, either, and we sat outside his office talking for almost an hour before I remembered he really needed his sleep. For once, he seemed relaxed enough to actually get it. So I said goodbye, grabbed the key Ricky had left behind my tire, and headed for his place.

  Ricky's apartment was in a graduate housing complex on East Hyde Park. He lived with his dad, but he wanted a place for when he had classes. Technically, being a part-time student, I suspect he shouldn't have gotten into graduate housing at all, but I wasn't surprised that he'd managed it. Between Ricky's charm and persuasion and Gabriel's lock picking and sleight of hand, if I took enough lessons, I could become a first-rate private eye. Or a master criminal.

  The building was quiet. Not a lot of students around in June. The floor layout was an odd C shape, with the elevator depositing me on the far side. I had to round a corner, then another--

  I stopped. Ricky's apartment was two doors down. I could see the number. But someone was trying the doorknob. My hand went to my purse, sliding inside to where my gun rested. Even as I reacted, I chastised myself. Going for my gun because a drunk student had the wrong apartment? But my gut told me it wasn't a drunk student, and when I caught a glimpse of his profile, I jerked back around the corner, heart pounding.

  It was the guy from the motel a month ago. The guy whose attack made me flee to Cainsville. A random motel clerk obsessed with my parents. And now he was here? Breaking into Ricky's apartment? How did that make sense?

  I peeked around the corner and realized it wasn't the same man. He had a similar build--tall and wiry--but this guy was younger, had lighter hair, and bore only a passing resemblance to my attacker. Yet I couldn't seem to shake the association. I moved my gun into my jacket pocket before I rounded the corner.

  "Can I help you?" I said.

  He was taking something long and silver from his pocket. A lock pick? When I spoke, he jumped and turned, dropping the object back into his coat.

  I double-checked the number on the door, confirming it was Ricky's.

  "Are you looking for someone?" I said.

  He paused. "Rick Gallagher," he said finally. "Is this his place?"

  "Is he expecting you?" I asked.

  "Olivia Taylor-Jones," he said, snapping his fingers. "I knew I recognized you. So you're coming to see Rick?"

  "How do you know him?"

  "Are you expecting him back soon?"

  I sized him up. A reporter? From a school paper or blog? I'd been worried about that when the picture hit the Post. Ricky hadn't. While he didn't advertise who he was, he didn't hide it, either. Professors and students who knew his background presumed he was trying to "break the cycle." He didn't disillusion them.

  "You should leave now," I said.

  A brief smile. "Should I?"

  I met his gaze. "Yes."

  "When do you expect Rick back?"

  "Do you want to leave a name and number? I'll tell him you dropped by."

  He held my gaze, easing closer as my fingers tightened around the gun in my pocket. "Why don't I come inside and wait with you."

  I sputtered a laugh. That seemed to surprise him. Had he really expected me to agree? He stood there, eyes locked on mine, as if he could . . . I don't know, hypnotize me? When I just smiled and shook my head, he looked honestly baffled.

  "I think you should let me come inside with you," he said.

  "I think you should haul ass back to the elevator before I call the police."

  He blinked, finally breaking eye contact. One last look at me with that perplexed frown. Then he walked past, so close his jacket brushed me. I stood my ground.

  "Shall I tell him who called?" I said.

  He kept
going. I waited until the elevator dinged, then I hurried to the stairwell. I zoomed down the flights and made it to the first floor just as he was walking through the front door.

  I could see him outside, but the reflection of the lights against the glass made him seem to disappear as he walked. Not vanish or fade, but blend into his surroundings.

  He passed a parked light gray car, and his jeans and jacket seemed to lighten to match, leaving a gray blur. Obviously a trick of the darkness and the reflection of light. As soon as he was far enough away, I opened the door to see better, but once I did, I lost track of him completely.

  He must have darted between parked cars. I went out and looked around. No sign of him.

  I spent another few minutes looking. I wanted to see where he would go, what he drove, maybe get a license number. But I'd waited too long before stepping outside, and now he was gone. After one last look, I retreated inside.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Ricky's apartment was what I'd expect for student housing--a place the size of mine, with a bedroom, bath, and all-purpose living and dining area. About as tidy as mine, too, which meant not spotless but not noticeably messy. Casual and lived in. I got comfortable on the bed while I did some work for Gabriel.

  When the door opened a few minutes later, boot steps told me it was Ricky. He rounded the corner into the bedroom. I started to close the laptop.

  "Don't let me disturb you," he said. "I'm just enjoying the view."

  He stood at the foot of the bed, a little bleary-eyed after a long day but waking up now, brown eyes glittering as they traveled over me, facedown on his bed, dressed only in my panties. As he admired me, I twisted to look over my shoulder and did the same back. He'd shucked his jacket at the door and wore a dark T-shirt, tight across his biceps, the edge of one tattoo peeking from under a sleeve. His blond hair was mussed from the helmet, raked back with his fingers, falling forward now as he watched me. His jeans were faded, fraying at the seams, sculpted to his thighs and everything else. I rose and his gaze never left me, sliding down then back up to my face, lingering at points in between. Then he lifted his hand, stopping me.

  "Don't you have work to do?" he said, gesturing at the laptop.

  "Yes," I said. "But not with this." I closed the computer and shot a pointed look at his bulging crotch.

  A rough chuckle. "As tempting as that is, I'm going to have to insist you go back to work. You tested my distractibility. Now I get to test yours."