All of Me (Inside Out Series Book 6) (8 page)

“No,” he says. “It’s heavy. I’ll come back for it.”

I nod and walk with him to set Amber’s cross under the giant tree that shades his parents’ grave during the spring and summer. Then we do the same with Rebecca’s.

Chris drapes his arm over my shoulder as silence closes around us but for the rasp of a leaf here or there, and the whistle of the wind. And I can almost hear the two doors closing in the hollow of a cold winter’s eve.

Chris rests his forehead on mine and wraps his arms around me, holding me tightly, as I do him. And I know we are thinking the same thing.

We can’t lose each other.

It’s a fear our pasts have created, one that we’ll never fully escape, but I believe it will give us something so few people have: We will always relish every single moment together.

Trust: You have to have it, to give someone else control. And what is trust? It’s not as simple as that kids’
game when you shut your eyes and fall back and count on a friend to catch you, trusting that they won’t let you fall and get hurt. Trust is more complicated than that. Sometimes there are people around you who deserve it, but don’t get it. It’s that one person who speaks to you on some level. The soul, maybe? And when they do, it’s like a door opens because they had the key to set you free. Then you trust. There’s no real reason. No logic. There’s just your willingness to be
lieve at all costs that they will catch you.

Rebecca Mason

Part Eight

Ella

Five weeks later, Chris and I are returning from our tour of Ireland and Scotland. Rey’s lead on Ella never materialized, and I finally realized that I couldn’t wake up every day expecting that that would change without making myself crazy. I did that for half of our travels, until finally Chris convinced me to embrace life before it’s gone.

The private jet he contracted for our return to Paris changes altitude, our descent a bumpy one. I clamp my hands on the arms of my seat, and Chris closes his hand over mine. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs as we shake and shudder. “It’s just a little turbulence. You know that.”

I glance out the window, hating that I can’t see the ground. “Seriously, Chris. How are you a control freak, yet this doesn’t bother you?”

“I keep telling you, when you can’t control the action, control the emotion.”

The plane jerks and I squeeze my eyes shut. “Easier said than done.”

“That’s why it’s called control. And since you’re a highly successful control freak, I’m certain you can conquer this.”

“I don’t have control. That’s the issue.”

“You give me control.”

“And no one else
but
you. And you aren’t flying the plane.”

“You choose to give control to me and only me in certain situations. You can choose other times and other ways as well.”

“You demand it and I give it.”

“You can tell me no at any time. You make the choice. Everything, including your fear right now, is a choice.”

“Giving control to you is different than giving control to someone else. You’re my safe place, Chris.” The plane jerks and I gasp, tightening my grip on the arm rests. “I hate this. I hate it so much.”

“Block out the fear,” he commands.

“Just telling me to do it isn’t going to work.”

“What happened to me being your safe place?”

“You aren
’
t in charge up here.”

“Aren’t I?” he asks, unbuckling his seatbelt to stand up, nearly losing his balance as the plane shudders.

“What are you doing? You’re going to get hurt.”

“I’ll be fine,” he assures me, using the overhead bins as handrails to safely walk several feet to the open curtain between us and the steward’s galley, which he pulls shut.

I’m not sure what I’m more nervous about, his unsteady walk back or whatever he has planned. “What are you up to, Chris Merit?” I demand as he sits back down and buckles up.

He shifts in his seat, lifting the arm rest between us. “Making you relax.” He presses the buttons to lower both our seatbacks.

“Chris, no. I want to see out of the window.” My seat goes flat and his has too, and suddenly Chris is lying down with me, his jean-clad leg hugging my jean-clad leg, his hand on my face.

The plane shivers around us, and I clutch Chris’s wrist. “I can’t lie down like this. I need to see what’s happ—”

He kisses me and I press against his chest with the intent of escaping, but this is one of his deep, passionate, claiming-me kisses, and my resistance is feeble. With a swipe of his tongue, my elbow softens, my fingers relax against him, my body melts into his—but the plane jerks, and so do I. Chris anticipates my move, his hand sliding to the back of my head, holding me to him, his mouth demanding my submission. He arches into me, forcing our hips into an intimate hug, his free hand tracing the seam of my jeans down my backside.

My mind says to resist, but my hand goes to his hip, my tongue meeting his, tasting him. And when he caresses a path over my ribs and cups my breast, I moan and he rolls me over to my back, the heavy weight of him on top of me driving away the last of my fear.

His mouth lifts, leaving me breathless as his eyes meet mine, and the look he gives me is blistering heat and challenge, daring me to do the one thing I have always failed at miserably: to deny him anything he wishes.

Holding my stare, he walks his fingers under my shirt, up my belly, pulling down my bra and teasing my nipple, a soft touch that turns to rough tugs. I am panting, and on some level, I am aware of the plane shaking and jerking, but I’m too entranced with the way his mouth is getting closer and closer to care. But he withholds the kiss I crave, his warm breath whispering over my lips, my cheek, until he whispers in my ear, “Who has control, Sara?”

“Clearly you do.”

He pulls back to stare down at me. “Because you chose to give it to me. Remember that.”

I open my mouth to argue differently, but he moves first, his head dipping low, his tongue swirling over one of my nipples and then the other. I arch my back, wanting more, craving what he has yet to give me, and he answers my silent demand. He sucks the swollen peak, a deep, sweetly punishing drag that has my fingers twisting in his hair. I bite my lip, sensations spiraling from my nipple straight to my sex, where I need Chris to be now.

He seems to understand where I ache, shifting his body again, inching off of me just enough to allow his hand to travel down my ribcage and over my belly and over the seam of my jeans, and somewhere in the wash of sensations, and him kissing me again, I’m moving with the now rhythmic stroke of his fingers, my sex clenching. The tingling promise of release comes over me. Part of my mind still registers where we are, but the rest of me just wants another taste of Chris, another stroke of his fingers.

We hit the runway at the exact moment I tumble into release, the wheels hitting with the same force as my orgasm, an intense jarring of my body that’s fast and hard and then over. I bury my head in Chris’s shoulder. He twines his fingers in my hair and turns my face to his. “Why are you hiding?”

“I’ve never . . . I don’t even have my clothes off!”

“And it was fucking sexy as hell.” His voice is a low, rough rasp.

As we taxi, Chris says, “We can’t get home soon enough to suit me.” He leans in to kiss me, but stops as his cell phone buzzes. “Welcome back to reality.”

“Told you that you should have turned it off.”

He leans back and pulls his phone from his pocket, punches a button and reads, a stunned look crossing his face.

“What’s wrong?” I demand quickly.

“Nothing at all. Ava and Ricco both made deals with the DA. There won’t be a trial for either of them. It’s over, baby.”

I shake my head, certain I’ve heard wrong. “Both of them?”

“Yes. It’s over.”

“I want to be happy, but does that mean Ava gets off easy?”

“She took twenty years with no parole.” He glances at his watch. “Blake’s in meetings for the next couple of hours, but he sent us an email that might answer all our questions. Let me get my iPad.”

The plane halts at our private hangar and Chris stands to grab his backpack from the overhead bin, then sits back down. As he powers up his e-mail, he tells the pilot we need a minute.

After he reads for a few seconds, I prod, “Well?”

“Ryan is in custody after Mark exposed his illegal activities, and it’s believed that he helped hide Rebecca’s body. It sounds like they feel a deal is in the making, so no trial for him, either.”

“They’re making deals with everyone.”

“Apparently it’s a calculated decision, based on the absence of a body and statistics with juries at trial in similar cases.”

“What did Ricco get? Does the email say?”

“Three years and probation. And that sales rep at Allure who helped him with the counterfeit operation—”

“Mary,” I supply.

“Yes. She got off on probation, for turning state’s evidence on Ricco.”

“I’m not sure I’m happy about any of this.”

“None of them get off scot-free. Focus on that.” He returns his iPad to his bag. “There’s a memorial for Rebecca on the thirtieth; one of the local churches in San Francisco set it up. We’ll have to leave a day earlier for the States, but it’s doable if you want to go.”

“Yes. Please.”

I glance at my own messages. “This doesn’t sound good. Katie wants to know if we know that we’re all over the news again.”

“I didn’t know, but I assumed as much. They’ll retell the story over and over for ratings. Don’t be surprised if we get cornered here.”

“What about the Louvre event tonight?”

“I’ll warn them. They have good security.”

I type a message to Katie, then pull up my next text. Frowning, I read it twice. “This is . . . unique,” I murmur.

“Do I want to know?”

“Mark sent me a text. He’s going to be in San Francisco for the memorial and to attend to business. He wants us to have dinner with him and Crystal.”

“That
is
 . . . .unique.”

“Us with Mark and Crystal. If that’s not interesting, I don’t know what is.”

Chris smiles. “Since the two of them are involved, and she’s as far from submissive as he is, it’s more than interesting. It’s entertainment.”

I glance down at my screen and read another message from Mark. “Whoa. They’re more than involved—they’re getting married in September!”

“Mark Compton, getting married? Dinner just got downright popcorn-worthy.”

•    •    •

Chris and I leave the Paris airport at noon, stopping at the bank on the way home. Thankfully there’s only an hour’s time difference between Scotland and France, because by the time we finally arrive home to Foch Avenue, we’re both so wired that neither of us even tries to rest. By six-forty-five we’re in the Porsche and headed to the Louvre, and for the third time, I try to call Chantal to confirm she’s attending tonight, but get her voice mail. “It’s this ongoing thing with Tristan,” I say after I end the call. “She’s less and less responsive to me.”

Chris’s phone buzzes and he glances at the caller ID. “Blake. I’ll put it on speaker.”

Ten minutes later, Blake has recapped what we already know about Ava, Ricco, and Ryan. He also confesses he’s hired Jacob to stay on full time through Walker Security to work specifically for Mark.

“Bastard,” Chris grumbles to Blake as he pulls the 911 into a VIP parking spot in the Louvre’s underground garage. “I knew I shouldn’t have introduced you to Jacob. You hired him right out from under us.”

“All for the good of mankind,” Blake jests.

“Mankind, my ass,” Chris complains. “And what the hell does Mark want to meet with us about?”

“I don’t have a fucking clue what Mark wants,” Blake replies. “Ah, sorry, Sara.”

“I’m used to you now, Blake.”

“I wish my wife would say that. But as for Mr. Compton, Jacob is the guy to talk to. He has some kind of understanding with the man. He gets him. I don’t.”

We end the call and I sigh. “It’s going to be weird, not having Jacob at the building when we get back home.”

Chris pockets the key to the 911 and opens his door to exit. As I reach for mine, he grabs my arm, stilling me. “I’ll come and get you.”

Warmed by Chris’s gentlemanly command, I wait as he rounds the back of the car to open my door. He offers me his hand, and when I press my palm to his, the heat that simmers in his touch is something I never tire of feeling. I stand, my long black jacket draping over the pale pink knee-length sheath I picked because it’s the color of the wedding dress I almost chose. One of my hands flattens on his black Louvre T-shirt signed by himself, the other slipping to his waist beneath his sleek black leather jacket. A couple walks by us, the man in a tux, and I smile up at Chris. “My future husband—the rebel in leather and denim.”

“They’d think I was an impostor if I wore a tux. This is who I am. They know it. You know it.”

“Oh yes. And I like it. When I was trying on wedding dresses, I was thinking that it’d be kind of sexy to have me in a gown and you like this.”

“I’m wearing a tux for the wedding.”

“Don’t wear it for me, Chris. Seriously. I like you like this.”

“The joy of putting on a tux is you taking it off of me when it’s all over. And you still need to decide where we’re going for our honeymoon.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and there’s only one place I really want to go: to the place I first thought of as home with you.”

“You want to stay in San Francisco?”

“Very much. We’ve been everywhere but there, it seems. I just want us, in our own space.”

He curls my hand in his and brings it to his lips. “Home it is, then.”

We lace our fingers together and head to the elevators. There I lean against Chris, the bond between us, which I always felt, now possessed of a name:
love
. I think I loved him the moment I met him; I just didn’t know what the feeling was until later.

We exit into a long corridor and the press is everywhere, taking pictures of important people coming and going. Chris flags down a security guard, who motions us to a side door, and Chris leads me forward.

For the briefest of moments I’m back in L.A. with Chris, at another charity event. That was the night my ex-fiancé, Michael, showed up, and all hell broke loose. I have a flashback of crying in a bathroom stall after Michael threatened me, only to have Chris storm into the ladies’ room to save me. And it hits me then that he is always quick to say that I’ve saved him. I need to make sure he knows he’s saved me, as well.

After our coats are checked, Chris and I are ushered into a magnificent room where an orchestra plays beneath towering arched ceilings, and artwork surrounds us on every wall. Around us, fancy ball gowns and tuxedos are sprinkled like glitter on a night sky, elegance alight everywhere. And much to my delight, the food is all my favorite French cuisine, which includes puff pastries, macarons, and chocolates, which I nibble on in between the many conversations that have me struggling to understand bad English, and our visitors struggling to understand good English. Chris is charming to everyone, as always, creating laughter and smiles, and I don’t miss how he touches me every chance he gets, and finds ways to engage me in every conversation despite the language barrier.