Face to Face (28 page)

She didn't try to go through the structure. It seemed to lean threateningly towards her, the remaining walls ready to tumble over at any minute. The bright moonlight cast eerie shadows through the timbers and brickwork left standing. Like some kind of wild animal with its fangs bared, that was what her home had become. 

Creeping around, she managed not to trip over any debris. Her bedroom furniture had tumbled out—or been blown out—and lay splintered, clothing strewn about and trampled on. The headboard Padraic had carved with such painstaking care had split in two. The way the scorch marks marred the red oak, it looked like it had been struck by lightning. The wrath of God.

The least of her worries, she told herself as she cast a tearful eye about the remains of her garden. Glass and shattered paving tiles littered the area where the patio used to be. Her cast aluminum glider lay upside down in the rhododendrons. Her own hands, so much sweat had gone into remodeling the patio and reviving the garden, now all gone in one fell swoop.

"Thought I might find you here."

Cassie turned at Drake's voice. Where else was she to go? This was her home. Always before, she'd run here for solace when life became overwhelming. Sheltered by quiet memories, safe from the outside world, here she could find her balance, regain her perspective. She hoped to find something—anything—she could save of the only home she'd ever had.

But there was nothing left. She breathed in and her mouth filled with the bitter taste of sodden ashes. Where would she go now?

Drake's hand landed on her shoulder, an answer, an offer. She shrugged it away. He had his own troubles to deal with. She couldn't lean on him, not if it meant leading him into danger. 

"Go away." She turned her face into the darkness so he couldn't see how much it cost her.

"I'm here to help."

How? Build her a new house? Catch the person trying to kill her? Get a child killer off the streets where she put him? Because that's what she needed.

She took a deep breath and turned to Drake. A crease of worry lined his forehead and his eyes were dark with exhaustion. 

"I don't need you," she lied. She wished he hadn't come. This was so hard. "Leave me alone."

"Never."

The word slipped out so easily, so calmly, she wondered if he even realized he'd said it out loud. It came as a gentle whisper on the breeze, come and gone so quickly she might have imagined it. She wished she had, it would make this so much easier.

"Not before I do what I wanted to do Saturday night," he said, moving close so she could clearly make out his features, his eyes burning bright in the moonlight.

"Sorry, I'm all out of booze," she told him, gesturing at the shambles around her.

"That's not funny. This is what I came to give you when I came home from the Lake." He pulled something dark from his pants pocket and laid it in his palm.

Cassie stared at the sapphire ring sparkling amidst the black velvet. This wasn't happening, she told herself. It was all a bad dream. Please God, she didn't have the strength for this. 

The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to hurt Drake.

Her gaze focused on the blackened remains of the last thirty years of her life. Thirty years in one place and now it was gone. She didn't even know where she'd spend the next thirty hours.

"Come with me," Drake persisted. "We can start over. Together."

Right. And lead whoever wanted to kill her straight to Drake. A swirl of ashes spilled across her feet, the wind dancing them over the debris. 

If he only knew how hard it was for her, him being here. Every person she'd ever loved had left her to stand alone–you think she'd have gotten the hang of it by now. But this was harder. This time she was the one setting love free, and, God forgive her, she didn't want to let it go.

"Damn it, Hart! Why won't you let me take care of you? What are you afraid of? Why won't you allow yourself to be happy?"

The words hit her with a force that bowed her head. Drake's hands on her shoulders yanked her back upright, face to face with him, refusing her any quarter, any room to hide. 

His eyes darkened to a deep indigo with their emotion. Then he pulled her back to him until she could feel the beating of his heart echoing hers. He lay his head on hers, his strong arms wrapping around her body like strands of a cocoon. Protecting, insulating, promising a brighter future soon.

"I love you! Why isn't that enough?" he demanded. "Do you still not trust me? Not believe that I'm not like King? I won't hurt you, not ever, I promise–" his voice trailed off and Cassie was horrified to see tears spill from his eyes. 

"I love you," he finished in a choked voice.

Trust him? She did, with all her heart. Because when he left he would be taking the best part of her with him.

It took all of her strength to meet his gaze. "Please leave me alone," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady although the rest of her body was trembling.

He stared at her a long moment. "I came here tonight to ask you to marry me." He held the ring box up in the flat of his palm. "Is that your answer?"

She slapped his arm away. The box went flying into the ashes of her home. Pain seared through her and she felt like she was being torn in two. But it was only a feeling. She knew how to ignore feelings, lock them away until it was safe. 

Drake's glare didn't help. She turned her back to him.

"Go. Now." The last came out with a force Cassie didn't know she could command. The one syllable stole all her remaining strength. She grabbed the trunk of a sugar maple to keep from turning back to him or collapsing.

Her breath rattled through her constricted lungs and she almost surrendered, wanted to turn back to him, when she heard his footsteps crackle on the broken glass and he was gone.

Cassie turned. Drake's shadow was the last she saw of him. She stood alone. Once more.

Her knees buckled and she fell to the ground. She closed her eyes against her silent tears and remembered the last time she woke with Drake in her bed. Remembered that feeling of utter contentment as she lay against him, his heartbeat echoing in her ear, the weight of his arms resting comfortably around her. She etched every detail of that moment into her brain, to cherish it always–the one perfect moment of peace, of release, of contentment–of love. Of knowing her home didn't have to be made of brick or mortar as long as Drake was near.

And now both were gone.

Cassie wept alone as ashes swirled around her.

When she finished sobbing and opened her eyes, she saw the sapphire glinting from the ashes at her knees.

It looked so hopeful, shining like a beacon. Bright as Drake's eyes, a memory she would cherish for the rest of her life.

She squeezed the ring in her hand, tears splashing onto ashes, turning them into mud. Her insides felt empty as if they too had burned away to nothing. Except for the memory of Drake, the look in his eyes, the feeling in his voice. 

What had she done?

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Drake stood guard at Hart's garden gate. The sound of her crying was the most painful sound he had ever endured. His legs wanted to propel him back into the garden, he wanted nothing more than to lift her up and carry her away from everything.

But he knew that would be the worst thing he could do, so he restrained his impulses and listened, motionless.

He always sensed Hart had a place in her heart bound by grief, a place not even the fiercest love could penetrate. Not quickly, at least. But Drake hoped with time and patience, he could chip away at the stony barrier that separated them.

Now he knew he had, at least to some degree, been successful in his endeavors. Of course the timing couldn't have been worse.

The garden grew silent. Hart slowly rose to her feet, moving like an old woman carrying a burden too heavy. Drake looked to see no one was nearby, and quietly moved across the street to where he'd left the minivan.

CHAPTER 32

Drake squirmed, stretching his legs out against the dashboard. Something poked into his back; he reached a hand around and withdrew a Matchbox car. Jeff Gordon, courtesy of Bridget. Her brother was strictly a Rusty Wallace man. He ran the small race car up and down his jeans, flipped it off the curve of his knee, crashed it over the dash until the amusement wore thin. 

Yawning, he reached over and changed the radio station once more, craned his head out the window trying for any hint of air not contaminated by his woefully unwashed body. Despite wearing the shirt borrowed from Jimmy and new jeans, the scent of Jack Daniels still surrounded him like a fog. Seeping from his pores, in his sweat. He had a roommate in college like that, would binge all weekend, still smell of Southern Comfort on Wednesday.

To this day Drake couldn't stand that smell. No wonder Hart wanted nothing to do with him if she thought he'd end up the same as her ex. Drunk, worthless, good for nothing. 

Unable to protect her. Capable only of hurting her.

He cringed. There was more to it than that. Thus his non-covert surveillance of her motel room. He wasn't undercover here. He was advertising to anyone intending to harm her they'd have to go through him first.

An invitation to try some target practice. With him as the target.

His eyes constantly scanned the mirrors and the terrain of the almost empty parking lot. No sign of anyone taking him up on his invitation. Despite the Slipknot screaming from the radio, his eyelids began to droop. He was half-tempted to play another volume of Jungle Jams—at least the children's stories kept him awake. 

He tensed, the Matchbox abandoned and his gun in his hand, as the door to Hart's room opened. She emerged, dressed in tank top and shorts and walked directly to the minivan. 

"You wear down the battery," she said, leaning in the driver's window, her tone casual, "and Denise is gonna kill you."

He reached a hand across to the ignition and turned it off. "Wouldn't want that." He was half-tempted to slide across, back into the driver's seat in order to be closer to her. Which was ridiculous, of course. The entire point of this exercise was to get her out of the range of fire, not in the middle of the kill zone. "Happy? Why don't you go back inside?"

"I know what you're doing. It's not going to work—"

"You thought it a good enough plan to send me away earlier tonight," he countered.

To his surprise, she looked down. "Yeah, but I was wrong."

He inched closer to her, afraid he'd scare her off.

"We've both been fools, Drake. Pushing each other away to try to keep each other safe. Exactly what whoever is behind this wants. Time to regroup." 

She arched an eyebrow at him. "Besides, I've got air conditioning and," she wrinkled her nose, "a shower inside."

She pivoted and strode back toward the room. Drake watched her, his gaze locked on the sinuous muscles of her naked legs. He'd have to be an idiot to refuse an invitation like that. 

He grabbed the keys and ran to join her as she reached the door. She paused, looked up at him. The yellow light beside the door etched her face in shadows as if the events of the past few days had sucked the life from her. He remembered last night, how close he'd come to losing her and couldn't resist.

He took her by her shoulders, pinned her against the still-closed door and kissed her deeply, trying to breathe life back into her, to share his energy. What little he had left, he offered to her. She responded immediately, her hands reaching up to his shoulders, pulling her up into his embrace.

They were sitting targets, but for a few seconds the rest of the world vanished for Drake. There was only the woman before him. The woman he needed so desperately, the thought of forsaking all others seemed a tiny sacrifice. Not if he had Hart by his side.

They broke long enough to catch their breaths. Hart leaned her weight against his chest. He reached behind her to open the door, swept her into his arms and carried her inside the dark room, kicking the door shut behind them.

The bang echoed through the room, then there was silence except for the friendly hum of the air conditioner and the sound of their breathing. Cool air brushed over his sweat-covered body with a tingle. Hart made no protest as he cradled her against him, standing still, absorbing every sensation.

She felt light; she'd lost weight these past few days. The thought angered him. He should have been here to look after her, should have taken better care of her. From now on he would. 

He crushed her to his chest, lips brushing against the brittle remnants of her once luxurious hair. A small gasp escaped her and he immediately relaxed his hold on her, lowered her back to the ground.

"I'm sorry," his voice emerged a hoarse whisper. "Did I hurt you?"

In answer, she took his hand and led him into the bathroom. He blinked against the glare of the light. He caught his breath when he saw her, for the first time in light bright enough that he could begin to catalogue the changes in her appearance. 

She seemed oblivious to the scrapes and cuts that covered her arms and legs, the peeling skin of superficial burns, the haphazard appearance of her hair, chunks of it broken off. Instead, she raised his shirt, tracing her fingers along his ribs, the bruises from the few blows Spanos had landed.

Christ, she was worried about him? He pushed her hands aside, turned her so he could continue to evaluate her injuries, cursing himself again when he raised her top and she flinched as the fabric brushed against a large patch of angry red, peeling skin. Her back to him, she raised her head and watched him in the mirror.

"Guess neither of us are a pretty sight," she said, a wry smile twisting her face.

How could she joke at a time like this? His hands fisted at his sides and adrenalin roared through him with the need to find whoever had done this to her, to pummel them into the ground, to make them pay for every second of pain they had caused her.

She turned within his arms, her hands feathering to his, slowly forcing his fists open with their gentle insistence. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt when you came to my house Saturday night?"