Fade To Midnight (19 page)

“So you got yourself a brother?” she prompted. “That's great.”

“Yeah, it was,” he said. “I needed him more than he needed me. He was the one who got me talking again.”

“How's that?”

He waved his hand, embarrassed. “Oh, he just talked my ear off. The kid literally never shut up. I had to regrow neural pathways just to tell him to zip his lip, or else I would have gone stark raving crazy.”

Edie saw right through his Bruno schtick, and gave him an approving smile so radiant, it made his breath stop. She cuddled closer, which necesitated rearranging his dick. He folded it up, stiff and wooden against his belly so he could get closer to her lithe softness.

Every detail of her was an experience of divine grace. The bones of her face, the plump, blush fullness of her lower lip, the fine grained softness of her skin. All the flares and tilts and luscious curves. A living, breathing cluster of improbable perfections. He was dazzled.

And she seemed to have the exact same look on her face as she stared at him. She touched his face like it was something precious, beautiful. Usually when he was intimate with a woman, he sensed that she was looking at a bunch of scars with a guy behind them. Not Edie. It was like she didn't see them. Or not exactly. She saw them. They were part of him, and she saw him. But that wasn't surprising. She'd been drawing him for years. She was used to it. It was no big deal.

And that simple fact just blew his mind. It changed everything.

“OK. So?” she prompted. “This business you have? Let's talk about that. Bruno's full name is?”

“Bruno Ranieri,” he said.

Her elvish eyebrows tilted up inquisitively. “Not Larsen?”

“Larsen's a made-up name. We started out making stunt kites. Named the outfit Lost Boys Flywear. Then we branched out after a couple years. Educational toys, models, science kits. Stuff like that.”

“Oh, my God. I know about you guys!” She jerked up onto her elbow, her eyes lit up. “I've bought Lost Boys stuff for my little sister Ronnie! She loved them! Especially the do-it-yourself firecracker kit. Although my dad still hasn't forgiven me for that. And wasn't there an article in the
Portland Monthly
about Lost Boys?”

Kev rolled his eyes. “With Bruno's shit-eating grin plastered all over it? Yeah. Portland's most eligible bachelor, yada yada. Swelled his head like the Hindenberg. He was insufferable. Still hasn't recovered.”

“Why weren't you on the cover with him?”

“I'm not in the market for a constant stream of consumable babes. Bruno's the ladies' man. You'll see, when you meet him.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Oh. Am I? Meeting him?”

“It's a step in the relationship upgrading process. I'm all for that.”

“I see,” she said demurely. “But you haven't adequately answered my question. You guys have a business together, so why aren't you Portland's two most eligible bachelors?”

He flopped down onto the pillow. “The first reason is because I threatened to rip the guts out of the photographer if he took any pictures of me.”

She blinked. “Ah.” She processed that, and went on, remarkably unperturbed. “And the second reason?”

He didn't want to go there, but there wasn't much point in lying to a woman like Edie. “Eighteen years ago, somebody tried to torture me to death. Doesn't seem too bright to advertise my face, location, and my new identity. And it would be false advertising. I'm not eligible.”

Her body stiffened, bending away from him. “You're married?”

He jerked. “Christ, no! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…ah, shit.”

She blew out a heavy sigh. “Whew. That was an unpleasant jolt to my nervous system that I definitely did not need.”

He tilted her chin up. “Please,” he said, earnestly. “I'm sorry. All I meant was, a guy who has no idea where he came from isn't eligible. Not in the sense that the magazine writer meant. Somebody tried to kill me, fucked up my face, took my memories, took the life I was supposed to have. I'm lucky I'm not dead, or a drooling vegetable. I can't see them coming, since I don't know who to be on the lookout for. It's not a topic for a gushy article about rich bachelors to make the ladies swoon. And besides. The scars don't photograph well.”

“Rich? Are you really?” she asked bluntly.

He cleared his throat. “Well. I don't know. Everything's relative.”

“To my father, you mean?” Her voice was matter of fact.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Compared to him, I'm barely scraping by.”

“What does barely scraping by mean to you, exactly?”

He sighed. He deserved the grilling. “I own my home and vehicles outright. I've got some savings, some stocks, and a reliable source of income. Six figures, anually. Bruno's patented my designs. He figures I'd be begging in the streets, if not for him. Maybe I would be.”

She shook her head. “He's cut me off, you know.”

“What?” Kev floundered, lost. “Who cut you off? From what?”

“My dad. He's cut me off from the Parrish money. I won't get a penny of it, unless I reform, and I'm not capable of reforming. I just thought you should know. I like to be upfront about the fact that I'm actually not an heiress at all. Saves problems. Misunderstandings.”

“Well, and so?” he asked carefully. “What of it? You seem to be doing fine without your family's fortune. What's the problem?”

She waved her hand at the tiny room, at the pressboard dorm room furniture. “You call this fine?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I call
you
fine. Like a South Sea pearl.”

She opened her mouth, and closed it. Color came and went in her face. “Ah,” she whispered. “Um, thank you. For saying that.”

There was an awkward silence. He hid his own emotion by hiding his face against the swirling coils of her hair, pooled against the sheet, inhaling its scent, memorizing its texture. Fragrant and silky.

“So. Um.” He searched for another starting place, and recycled an old one. “So you read that dumb article. That's wild. Small world.”

“I read the whole thing,” she said. “Your brother's cute. Great dimples. I'm a sucker for an eligible bachelor story.”

Was she fucking with him? He lifted his head, peered at her. A weird moment passed in which she wouldn't meet his eyes, but her lips were quivering. “Maybe I don't want you to meet him after all,” he said.

The curve of her mouth widened. She poked at his chest. “Come on,” she wheedled. “Can't I tease? Weren't we trying for lighthearted?”

“It's not my strong point,” he confessed.

“Mine, either, but I'll make an effort if you will. And keep in mind. I haven't spent the last ten years of my life drawing sexually charged graphic novels about your little brother.”

It was the first time she'd openly admitted to their mysterious bond. He wrapped himself around her and tried to let himself believe that this was really happening. He actually did feel this good.

It scared him. The better he felt, the deeper and vaster the abyss into which he might plunge. Even so. It felt good, to be known, to be seen. Who knew. He was more egocentric than he'd ever dreamed.

“Kites and toys,” she mused. “I've been buying Lost Boys science sets for Ronnie for years. Great stuff. Mind candy for smart kids. Fun for adults, too. Strange, though. You don't strike me as the playful type. Have you always wanted to design toys? Since you can remember?”

He shook his head. “No. It was just something I did with my hands, to keep busy. Bruno had the idea to turn it into a moneymaker. It would never have occurred to me.”

“But you're so good at it,” she said.

He didn't answer, unwilling to sound arrogant or ungrateful. Truth was, he felt the same cool detachment about Lost Boys that he felt about almost every other aspect of his life. Floating, indifferent. It wasn't the work he was supposed to have been doing.

It was honest work, and Bruno had made it lucrative. No complaints there. But it was busywork, not real work. He could do it half asleep, blindfolded, with his hands tied. Sitting on the john.

He longed to throw himself at something bigger, harder, thornier. Something complex, that kicked his ass, drove him nuts. Something he could flog his brain against for years before he reached a conclusion.

What that something might be, he did not know, but he figured it had slipped away from him forever, even if he did get his memories back. He'd lost a huge chunk of his life, and his professional potential along with it. Whatever tight competitive window he might been aiming for before his life broke in half, he'd have missed it by decades.

Whatever. Designing toys was a way to keep his hands busy and bills paid. He didn't want to seem as if he were belittling Bruno's remarkable accomplishment. It was due to Bruno that Lost Boys was a thriving business. That was talent, too, of a different type, a type he did not have, and he respected it. He'd throw toy designs at Bruno for as long as his little brother cared to develop and market them. Easy money. It made life smoother. He was grateful for that. He truly was.

“I don't know what I meant to do with my life before…what happened to me happened,” he said quietly. “But it wasn't making toys. It's great that they sell. But it's not my…I'm not at peace with it.”

“You're bored,” she said quietly.

She'd nailed it, but he declined to accept or deny the truth of that statement. “I haven't been to work for months,” he said. “Bruno's producing from the overflow stockpile. I've been too busy since the waterfall. First recuperating. Then trying to find clues to my past.”

She propped herself up onto her elbow. “How did you find me?”

He quickly told her of waking from the coma, the flashback that led to Patil's misfortune, and the name he'd remembered. Osterman.

“I did some research, and found a picture of Osterman on Facebook. Desmond Marr was in the picture, which led to Helix. And the Helix site is where I saw a picture of your father. I recognized him, from my dreams. But I was nowhere with it until I found his name.”

“Until now,” she finished. “You're somewhere now.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. Incredible, but true. He was somewhere. But amazingly, this somewhere had nothing to do with his past. And everything to do with what was happening right now. This perfect, precious second. Edie. Sweet and warm. He could forget all of it, the ghosts and the nightmares. He was tempted to just leave the past alone. Concentrate on just being with her. It was enough for this lifetime.

God, it was enough for all eternity.

He buried his face in her hair. “Do you have any more condoms?”

“I think it was a three pack,” she murmured, laughter in her voice. “There should be two left. Was that an idle question?”

“Are you sore?” he asked, nervously. “Did I hurt you?”

She stretched luxuriously in the clasp of his arms. “Fishing for compliments, are we?”

“No. Just rock bottom, baseline reassurance.”

She grabbed his face, jerked it around so it was inches from her own, and kissed him, her fingers holding his jaw. “I have never in my life dreamed that sex that good existed,” she said. “Are you reassured?”

The scar tissue on his right cheek was burning again. He didn't smile that big very often. “So where are the condoms?” he demanded.

“Top drawer, right side, way in the back,” she said.

He bounded up like he was on springs, and rummaged through delicate, feminine scraps until he found what he sought.

No power games this time. He was buzzed up on a wild, manic high. He needed to get as close to her as a man could get to a woman. To look into her eyes, make her sigh and buck and heave against him.

He rolled on the condom, and poised himself over her, waiting for the invitation of her body, arms reaching, legs parting, hips canting to accept him. She wiggled to find the best angle. Embracing him as he squeezed himself inside her, in one slow, deliberate shove. He stopped, breathless with effort, holding his weight off her. “You OK?” he gasped.

She nodded, her hips jerking against his, her pussy clenching tight. Pulling him into that delicious suckling kiss of acceptance.

He wished he could feel it without the latex. But there would be time enough for that. The thought of a future with her gave rise to a surge of terrified joy. His body took over. He went at her, bed squeaking, breath rasping, hips thudding against hers. Whimpers jolted from her throat, but she clutched him, egging him on. Her nails stinging his skin.

Slick, hot. So beautiful. Those delicate pussy lips clung, bathed him with lube. He pulled her up and rolled over, setting her astride so he could watch those amazing breasts bob and swing, her hair brush his chest when she sagged forward, swirling when her head flung back. Riding him frantically straight into a shuddering mutual climax.

He lay there, blasted and shaking. Destroyed.

He was so unused to sleep sneaking up on him, he had no chance to fight it. It grabbed him, and yanked him under.

E
die clambered off Kev, taking care not to wake him, but there was no need for such stealth. He was out for the count. Strange, to see him like that. He was usually the embodiment of mindful attention. The energy radiating from him was so intense, so concentrated. Seeing him sprawled and totally unconscious reminded her of his vulnerability.

He was no superhero. She'd worn him out. She almost laughed. Make way for Edie, femme fatale. Men swooned when she drew near.

She snorted. Hah. Or fled, rather.

She knelt, stared at his scars. It was almost inconceivable that someone would deliberately hurt another person like that. Her eleven-year-old imagination had not really grasped it. Which was a good thing. Her childhood traumas had twisted her quite enough already.

He was so beautiful. Greek-god beautiful, scars or no scars.

The thought sparked the urge to draw, never far from her fingertips. He'd given permission, after all. He'd asked her to. Begged her, even. She didn't have to feel guilty about it. Or even particularly sneaky. Who knew? Maybe if he was asleep, their mutual lust vibes wouldn't be clouding the airwaves, distracting them. She might even sense something that could be helpful for him. She'd never drawn a sleeping person before. Maybe she would see his dreams.

She tiptoed into the other room, avoiding the squeaking floorboards. She grabbed her big sketchbook, and some pencils. Big man, big page. Lots of space. Her fingers twitched with eagerness.

She'd drawn naked men in her classes back in school, but this was no exercise in human anatomy. He was so long and lovely, every fluid line of him. The picture grew and changed as she lost herself in it. The lines of his sleeping face looked so different in repose. Younger.

She tried to capture the muscles over his ribs, the muscular swells and dips of his flanks. His prodigious member was draped across his thigh, still sheathed in latex. She'd take the condom off herself, but she might wake him, and she didn't want to miss the chance to catch the details. There were newer scars on the swell of his thigh. Bright red, cross-hatched from stitches. Surgical scars. The waterfall incident.

She realized that she'd started drawing a background behind his reclining figure, but it wasn't a room, or a landscape. It was a web of interconnecting lines. She'd filled the page before she recognized it.

A spiderweb. Oh, God. Chills began to shake her, but she did not stop drawing. He'd asked for this. She had to see where it took her.

She could always rip it up before he woke. If it was really bad.

Her pencil was going faster. Sketching quickly, filling in the huge ovoid shape, the hairy, jointed legs. A spider, gigantic in proportion to his sleeping body. She lurked, black abdomen gleaming, the image of gloating malevolence. Kev stretched out before her, unconscious. His face, in her inner vision, was deathly pale, but he did not seem dead.

He seemed drugged. Helpless. And doomed.

As a graphic artist, she knew instinctively how to make the the picture work. The light, the shadows, the proportions, the perspectives. She knew how to make it spooky and evocative, how to invoke dread. Her pencil worked fast, did its job. She finished the horns of the spider, the hot, mad gleam of its little eyes, and the pencil dropped from her cold, numb hand. The sound of it hitting the floor woke him.

Kev jerked up onto his elbow and read the scene in one quick glance; the sketchbook, the fallen pencil, the stricken look on her face.

“What did you see?” he asked.

She closed the sketchbook. What she'd just drawn would send any guy with half a brain running to get away from the spooky, possibly psychotic girl. “Nothing much,” she hedged. “Just, you know, the usual hooey. Disaster, scorched earth, apocalyptic doom. Standard, for me. I didn't see anything in particular.”

“Bullshit.” He swung his legs over the bed. “I saw the look on your face. It was a bad one, right? Come on. Show me.”

He seemed so unperturbed, for a guy who'd just gotten his fortune told in the worst possible way. He held out his hand.

She shook her head, clutching the sketchpad to her like a shield.

“Don't be upset,” he urged. “Try not to worry, Edie.”

The words, juxtaposed against the image of a gigantic venomous spider made her shake with hysterical laughter. “Don't be upset?” she gasped out. “What, does doom just not bother you?”

He shook his head. “It's not like it's a surprise. Somebody's out there gunning for me. It's written all over my body. I wish I knew who, and why, but I don't, so I don't bother worrying about it. They'll find me, or they won't. They'll finish the job, or they won't. Why sweat it?”

“So you just don't mind pesky issues like mortal danger?”

“You get used to it.” One smooth lunge brought him from the bed over to her, on his knees. He plucked the sketchbook out of her hands.

Yanking it back would be a losing battle. She braced herself as he rifled through the pages. He found the picture she'd just drawn.

She looked away, dreading the look she had seen too many times before. The look that said,
this chick is more trouble than she's worth.

But he didn't look up. He gazed at the drawing, brow furrowed.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “A giant spider. And I'm her lunch. Yeah, it's creepy. I can see how that might upset you. Sorry about that.”

The shudders were edging closer to a screaming sobfest. She'd been weepy enough during the sex, and thank God he'd been mellow about that, but enough, already. “You're the king of understatement,” she snapped. “And why should you be the one to apologize? You're not the one who drew it!”

“Yeah, but I'm the one being hunted by the spider, right? I wonder what the spider vibe is all about,” he mused. “Looks like a black widow. The dangerous ones are female, so is it a female to look out for? The danger comes from a woman? Strange. What I remember of the stuff that happened to me didn't involve women. Only men.”

His tone astonished her. Calm, practical. Is it going to rain today and should I take my umbrella. Trying to logically analyze the giant spider she'd drawn for him. To extract conclusions from it.

After all the thundering drama she'd taken all those years for her psychic drawing, it knocked her right on her ass. She burst into tears.

Kev tossed the sketchbook aside, alarmed, and reached for her. “Oh, God! Edie, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you!”

“You? Upset me?” That made her laugh and cry at the same time. “I'm just…it's so strange, that you take it so well. This is the part where everybody's yelling, and I'm climbing out a bathroom window and shimmying down a drain pipe before I get hauled off to the psych ward.”

He dropped a warm kiss on top of her naked thigh. “I asked you to do it for me,” he said. “Hey, are you hungry?”

It was such a weird non sequitur, she stared at him stupidly for over a minute before she could organize her thoughts to reply. “Ah,” she said at last. “I don't know. I hadn't thought about it. Why do you ask?”

“We could go out,” he suggested. “Dinner. Like a normal couple.”

That phrase made her shake with giggles. “A normal couple? How do normal couples act? You'd have to coach me. I don't get out much.”

“Me neither, but we could fake it. It would be nice. Hell, it would be fun. We can…I don't know. Find a nice restaurant? Catch a movie? Find some music, in a jazz club? Whatever you want to do.”

A date. Wow. It did sound nice. It did sound like fun. In fact, it sounded incredibly, supremely wonderful. She was so moved, it prompted another surge of tears, which she fought down savagely.

“That's sweet, Kev, but I can't,” she said, with huge regret. “I have to go to this hellish corporate banquet for my dad's retirement from Helix tonight. I hate these things, but I can't afford the price I'd pay if I didn't go. Plus, it's a chance to see my little sister, which I'm usually not allowed to do. So I can't miss it.”

He looked crestfallen, and then glanced up again, a speculative gleam in his eye. “What about after?”

“After?” She was startled. “It'll be late. After midnight, at least, by the time all the speechifying and schmoozing is done. I'll have to stay to the bitter end, since my dad is the star of the evening.”

He shrugged. “So? I don't sleep. I certainly won't be able to tonight. Especially not if I have a chance in hell of seeing you again.” He hesitated, looking uncertain. “Of course, if you need sleep yourself—”

“No, I don't,” she said hastily. “Not at all. It's not like I have a day job, or anything.” In fact, she usually worked at night, when the air waves were least polluted, and it was easiest to concentrate.

He grinned. “Excellent. I'll pick you up after the banquet.”

She wiped her eyes, and gave him a tremulous smile. “And I'll try to find a moment to ask my father about your—”

“No,” he said firmly. “Don't.”

She was taken aback. “But don't you want more information?”

“I don't want to make trouble for you. You've got enough problems. I'll take care of it. We'll keep our thing separate, and private.”

She hesitated, but there was no point in not coming clean. “There's something you need to know,” she said. “Nothing is private in my life. My father is probably studying photos of you as we speak.”

He looked startled. “How's that? We just met!”

“He keeps tabs on me, 24-7,” she said. “I'm so used to it, I barely notice anymore. My dad is heavy into control.”

He digested that. “Your father will recognize me if he sees photos.”

“I imagine so,” she agreed. “If I did, he will. He'll be hysterical. In fact, now that I think about it, it might be tricky for me to slip away and meet you tonight. I'll try, but don't take it personally if I don't show up. It just means I'm trapped in a limo, being scolded and lectured.”

He smiled. The heat in his eyes made her reach up and give him a playful shove. “Stop smoldering at me,” she said. “I have to go to the salon to meet my cousin and my aunt. Wild sex is over. Duty calls.”

He jerked his chin toward the dress that hung from the wall sconce, wrapped in billowing yards of clear plastic. “Is that your dress?”

She nodded. He touched the finely pleated champagne pink chiffon frill at the hem. “It's pretty,” he said.

“Thank you. I have a closet full of these dresses in my bedroom at my family's house. Used for one night, and then into the closet. God forbid anyone photograph me in an evening dress that's been seen.”

“I like it.” His voice was a sensual rasp. “Put it on.”

She was charmed, but suspicious. “Don't get any ideas, because it wrinkles if you frown at it. And it won't fit without the strapless bra—”

“By all means, model the lingerie, too. Can't I just watch you dress? Watch you do your hair and makeup?”

“I'm not dressing here,” she said, regretfully. “I'm not trusted to do my own makeup and hair. In about, let's see—” She leaned over, and peeked at a clock on her bookcase. “Holy shit! I'm thirteen minutes late! The car's waiting already, and my aunt's going to kill me. I have to jump into the shower. Excuse me.” She lunged for the bathroom.

Once alone with the latch hooked, she tried to release backed up emotion in a sigh, but her chest was too full, too tight, to let air in or out. Her legs shook. Her tender inside parts were so sensitive, sending shockwaves of pleasure down her legs with every movement.

She twisted her hair into a loose, fuzzy knot and anchored it with a hair-stick, since Philipe the stylist from hell would insist on washing it himself even if she came in dripping wet. But a shower could not be foregone. Not after the marvelously juicy events of the last hour or so.

He was waiting patiently, fully dressed, when she came out, swathed in the towel. She forced herself to be businesslike about being naked in front of him. He'd seen everything she had. At close range.

Still, it was hard to pull on the cream colored thong while he watched every move like a hungry cat watching a mouse. She hocked her C-cup boobs into the strapless bra, engineered to immobilize cleavage to discreet china-doll firmness, and control indecorous bouncing not fitting for a Parrish, and he didn't miss a move. A flush was burned onto his cheekbones. A visible, prominent erection pressed against the jeans that he had discreetly redonned. What a scorching turn-on it was, to be a turn-on for someone else. Who knew. Revelation after revelation. She reached for her jeans. Kev looked betrayed.

“Wait a goddamn minute!” he protested. “What about the dress?”

“Kev, I'm already so late—”

“Please, humor me. Just slip it over your head. I want to be able to imagine you there. All dressed up. Your hair, swirling down.”

The intensity of his gaze made her fingers clumsy, and her breath catch. She heaved up the billowing sheer plastic to pluck the gown off the hanger. Slid it over her her head, let it slither over her torso.

She turned her back to him. “Fasten the hooks for me, OK?”

He was on the task before she finished saying the words, deftly doing her up. He turned her back toward the mirror, and loomed behind her, his big hands spanning her waist, his body heat burning through the delicate fabric. His eyes burned. She gulped, shivered.

“A princess in a fairy tale,” he said. He swept her hair to the side and tenderly kisssed her throat. “I wish I could sneak into the ball and abduct you.” The seductive touch of his lips made her shiver. Pleading silently with his body, for something he knew she could not grant him.

Manipulative bastard.

“Don't,” she whispered. “Please. I'm already late, and I'm going to pay for it in chunks of bleeding flesh.”