He wanted to say something, anything, to take her pain away. But how could he? He was sick—sick at heart, sick to his stomach, sick in every way possible at what they were finding. He could only imagine how much worse it would be for Lacey, whose job it was to crawl into the gutter with these monsters and make some sense out of what they were doing.
In the end, he didn’t say anything at all. Just held her while she sobbed like her heart was breaking, then took her into the shower and held her while she cried some more. Finally, he put her to bed. She’d clutched at him, begging him to climb in beside her. Which he did—then held her as she slept. But he stayed awake, watching over her, counting down the hours until daylight. Trying to figure out how the hell he was going to make this okay for her.
As night bled slowly into dawn, he was as miserable as she had been. Because he had no new ideas—no ideas at all—that might somehow help Lacey fix what was going on down here. At least, not without getting her killed.
He was a failure, just like his father so often told him. Because it didn’t really matter what he was good at if he couldn’t do the one thing he needed to do above all else: keep his woman safe.
Chapter Eighteen
Lacey awoke the next morning to a steaming cup of coffee under her nose, and Byron’s face inches from her own. He looked tired, his eyes dark and shadowed, his handsome face drawn taut, and so worried that she felt her heart break just a little bit as her brain slowly kicked into gear.
“I have to go into work this morning, but I didn’t want to just leave without talking to you first. I’d stay, but I have this piece I have to finish and—”
She placed a soft hand over his mouth. “Go. It’s fine; I know you need to work. I’ve got enough stuff here to keep me busy for a long time to come.”
He handed her the mug and she took a long sip of the steaming brew. “I’ll try to knock off early and come back to help. Maybe we can—”
“Byron, over the course of my career, I’ve researched six books without you. And while any and all help you can give me on this one is completely appreciated, I understand you have other commitments. I’ll be fine until you get back.”
She took another sip of coffee. “Of course, I wouldn’t object if you wanted to start the shower for me.”
“Sure.” He got up and headed into the bathroom. When he came back into the bedroom a minute later, he was shirtless and Lacey’s mouth began to water. “You know, I do some of my best work in the shower,” he said as he unbuttoned his jeans.
“I thought you had something to build.” She shot him an amused look as she strolled, naked, into the bathroom.
He shrugged. “I make my own hours—kind of a perk that comes with being self-employed. It won’t matter if I’m an hour late.” Plus, when he’d left the stock exchange, he’d sworn to himself that he’d never be a slave to a schedule again. He’d work when he wanted, for how long he wanted, and when he wanted to go home, he’d damn well go home. In the year and a half he’d been in New Orleans, he’d kept that promise to himself.
He didn’t say any of that to Lacey, though, didn’t know how to say it without coming across as a shiftless loser to a woman who worked twenty-four/seven. Besides, he did have to get to work—that table he’d screwed up the other day wasn’t going to fix itself.
The look she shot him over her shoulder was somehow completely deadpan and smolderingly hot at the same time. “Yes, well I’m taking this shower alone, so you’ll have to save your talent demonstration for another time.”
“Alone?” He made a grab for her, but she eluded him. “Don’t you know we’re in the middle of a drought? We should do our best to conserve.”
She snorted. “It’s rained every day for the last six weeks—I think the drought is all in your head. Besides, if I let you in this shower with me, I have no doubt that water conservation will be the last thing on your mind.”
“You might be right,” he allowed with a grin.
“I am right.” She started to close the door behind her, but his arm shot out and stopped it before she got more than halfway.
“Still,” he said as he pushed his way into the small bathroom. “Won’t you be lonely in that great big shower all by yourself?”
“I think I can manage.”
“Yeah, but why settle for just managing?” He pulled her into his arms, ran his hands up and down her satin skin before cupping her glorious ass and pressing her body to his.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” she said, as stepped into the shower, pulling him with her.
“Ten minutes is all I’ll need.”
It turned out, he needed only three. The last seven, she told him with a laugh, were all about showing off.
Byron ran the sander over the top of the table yet again, praying that this time would be the charm. That this time he would look down and the gouge would magically be gone. He’d been over the table numerous times with the machine already, and he didn’t have much more room to try to correct his mistake. If the gouge didn’t come out soon, he’d have to start over—a prospect that left him both annoyed and frustrated, especially with the time he needed to put in with Lacey and her research.
But when he moved the sander off the spot where his hand had slipped and accidentally driven his screwdriver into the carefully carved wood, he sighed with disgust. The mark was slighter than it had been before this last run with the sander, but it was far from gone.
Didn’t it just figure? He was always so careful, always so meticulous when it came to his work, that it was totally ironic that when he finally made a mistake, it was on the most important piece he’d ever done.
Reaching out, he ran a finger over the long slice. He still couldn’t believe it had happened, that he’d managed to screw up weeks of hard work in the blink of an eye.
The whole thing was stupid, completely ridiculous. For the first time since he’d become a carpenter—for the first time since he’d walked away from his Ivy League education and seven-figure job—he’d been working while focused on something other than the job. Which was more than stupid; it was reckless. He was damn lucky he’d screwed up only the table instead of losing a finger or three.
But he hadn’t been able to help himself. Hadn’t been able to rip his mind away from Lacey and the heat they generated whenever they were in the same room with each other. At the time, he’d been wondering what he could possibly do to get into her hot little pants. Just the image had had him slipping—it was a good thing he hadn’t known the reality the other day, or he might have punched a hole right through the damn tabletop.
With a groan that was part disgust and part satisfaction that at least the most important thing in his life was going right, he started the sander up again and ran it over the table in a final run-through that was more of a Hail Mary than the final pass in last year’s Super Bowl. It hadn’t worked for the NFC team then, and he doubted it was going to work for him this time. But he loved this table and couldn’t see junking it—not if there was even the slightest chance that he could fix what he’d ruined.
As he worked, he tried like hell to concentrate, but couldn’t keep his mind from wandering to Lacey time and again. With everything else that was going on, it was stupid of him to be concerned about what she did or didn’t do on that damn blog of hers. But he did care; he gritted his teeth as annoyance ripped through him. He’d checked a couple of hours ago, and sure enough, she’d uploaded another fantasy. One that involved a moonlight beach, a blanket and an audience. Now, how the hell was he supposed to live up to that? While he didn’t necessarily mind the first two, the third set him on edge. Not that it should surprise him; she obviously had an exhibitionist streak in her, or she wouldn’t be posting to the blog to begin with.
But she’d never had such a public fantasy before, not in all of the blogs she’d ever written. And he should know—he’d read them all. So what was this new fantasy, and why was she posting it less than an hour after making love to him? And what did it sa
y about his lovemaking that she couldn’t talk to him about what she wanted in bed, but she could post it for her slobbering audience of adoring fans?
He shook his head, tried to snap himself out of this ridiculous fit of jealousy. A few days ago, he’d been jumping for joy at having found his fantasy woman, and now he was envious because she wasn’t sharing herself exclusively with him. How ridiculous was that? One week, no matter how spectacular, did not a relationship make. Especially not under the conditions they were facing.
But it did make a relationship for him—that was the problem. He was crazy about Lacey, absolutely, positively in love with the brave, funny, heart-wrenching woman she was. And the idea that he wasn’t enough for her—that once again he loved someone who wanted more than he could give—had thrown him into a complete and total tailspin.
Brooding, out of sorts, he continued to work on the table until he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. At the first glimpse, Byron froze, as it sunk in that he was no longer alone. Stopping the saw, he pulled off his gloves and slapped them on the table before heading to the front of the shop, where a man was waiting.
Byron felt himself tense as he looked at the guy, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. The guy looked perfectly normal—dressed in a pair of dark pants and a silk T-shirt—but there was something about him that rubbed Byron the wrong way.
It wasn’t that he was in his shop, as he wasn’t the first customer to stop by the address listed on his business card, and hopefully wouldn’t be the last. Maybe it was the way he was looking around Byron’s work space, like he was analyzing every detail—and found it lacking.
But this was a working woodshop, not an upscale New York office building, and he’d treated it as such. When he’d moved here, he’d wanted to get as far away from his former life as he could—from the stress and the phoniness and the all-around ugliness. This place had been the result.
But when the man looked at him, there was no censure in his face, no disgust. In fact, the only thing Byron could see was a lively curiosity that drained some of his own tension.
Putting his paranoia down to residual angst because of Lacey’s blog, he extended a hand as he asked, “Can I help you?”
“I sure hope so.” The man’s handshake was firm and brief. “My wife saw your work spotlighted in this month’s edition of Southern Living and fell in love with it. It’s all she’s talked about for days.”
His voice was low, the Southern accent smooth as molasses. Everything about him screamed good ol’ boy, and Byron felt himself relaxing despite his earlier suspicions. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“No, thank you. I’ve racked my brain for days trying to figure out what to get her for our tenth anniversary, and that article helped me make up my mind. I want my gift to be really special—really unique. You know, something that she remembers forever.”
“Of course.” Byron gestured around his workshop. “But what you’re describing sounds more like a piece of art. I’m a carpenter, Mr. . . . ?”
“Call me Mark. I know you’re a carpenter, Byron. But you make the most beautiful furniture around. I would love it if you could make my wife something really special.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”
Mark shrugged. “Now, that’s where I’m not exactly sure. I was thinking maybe a beautifully carved trunk—you know, the kind they used to have in the old days.”
“A hope chest?”
“Yeah, something like that’s exactly what I mean. A hope chest. But I don’t want it to be just a plain box. It needs to be beautiful—really well made. Hand carved and stained—like that table you were just working on. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, of course. But a piece like that’s going to cost you around a thousand dollars, maybe a little more, depending on the kind of detail you want.”
“Doesn’t matter. The sky’s the limit. Just make it beautiful. My wife deserves something beautiful after putting up with me for all these years.”
“All right, then.” Byron walked over to the desk he kept in the corner, pulled out an invoice slip. “I’ll need you to fill this out—name, address, all that. Plus if you have any special instructions—minimum and maximum size for the piece, type of wood, what kind of stain you want on it.” He gestured to the corner. “I’ve got samples over here for you to take a look at.”
“Excellent.”
Byron spent about half an hour with Mark Cavanaugh. And when he left, Byron couldn’t help staring after him. Envying him the fact that he had a woman he loved, who loved him in return. One who not only wanted an acknowledgment of his feelings, but expected it.
Soon, he told himself as he began putting his tools away for the night. Soon, Lacey will be ready to give me what I want. A hint of unease niggled at the base of his spine, but he ignored it. Lacey did care about him—he was sure of it. He just had to give her a good enough reason to admit it.
Chapter Nineteen
Come on, Derek. Talk to me.” Lacey smiled up at the lean black man who towered over her. She’d met him months before, when she’d made her first trip to New Orleans to investigate Crescent City Escort Service, back when she’d been trying to decide if she wanted to write the book.
He’d spent three years working as chauffeur for the escort service, though when she’d met him, he’d been unemployed. At the beginning, Lacey had been skeptical of the depth of the story, and when she’d dug a little, hoping to prove the allegations false, she’d run into Derek.
“Last time I talked to you, it got me in trouble. I don’t want to talk to you no more.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Now, you know better than that. Do I look like the kind of guy to kiss and tell?”
No, he looked like the kind of guy who had fallen far since she’d last seen him. When she’d first met him, Derek had dressed in suits and spoken with a kindness and courtesy that had immediately set her at ease, despite the circumstances. Now he looked like the big, bad wolf out for whatever he could get, and the implication that she had done this to him made her sorrier than she could say.
“You look like the kind of guy who knows a lot more than he’s saying. About a lot of things.”
He flashed a smile, and for the first time he looked like the same man she’d met a lifetime before. “Too true, girl. Too true.”
“So how about swinging a little bit of that knowledge my way? I won’t quote you—unless you want me to. I just need you to point me in the right direction.”
“Hell, no, I don’t want you to quote me. The only reason I even decided to come meet you is ’cuz you said you’d be here, just in case I showed up. I couldn’t stand the idea of you waiting around out here all by yourself. This isn’t the kind of neighborhood a girl like you should be hanging in.”
Like she hadn’t been able to figure that out by the number of drug deals and john hookups that had happened in the few minutes the two of them had been talking. Keeping a lid on her sarcastic side, she said, “So why don’t we go somewhere else? You can come to my place, or we can get a cup of coffee somewhere.” When he didn’t bother to disguise his snort, she added hastily, “Or a drink. We can go to whatever bar you want—my treat.”
“No offense, Lacey. I mean, you know I like you, right? But I would rather have a drink with a stone-cold killer than sit down at a bar with you. There’s a much bigger chance I’d get to leave the bar alive.”
Skitters of alarm ran down her spine and had her shivering, despite the oppressive heat. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Derek sighed, then leaned in close to her. “It means that if anyone found out I was talking about what you want to talk about, if anyone found out I’d talked about that shit, I’d be a dead man. Hell, if I’m seen with you and it gets around that you’re asking about this stuff, I’ll be dead anyway. Even if I don’t tell you a thing. I know what happened to Veronique—I’m not stupid.”
Lacey’s stomach clenched and her hear
t beat double time. “I thought this was just a story about a prostitution ring, one that’s already been broken up.” She tossed out the bait and waited for him to bite.
It didn’t take long. Derek’s look was filled with reproof. “Don’t kid a kidder, girl. If this was just the story of a little old N’Awlins escort service, we wouldn’t be here, where nobody knows us, waiting to get stormed on.”
“You picked the meeting place, not me.”
“Yeah, because I wanted to scare you off. You don’t want to get mixed up in this.”
“I’m already mixed up in it—you know that. Besides, I signed a contract to write this book.”
“Well, unsign it, then. Or you’re going to be as dead as those girls you’re researching.”
His words hit her like a blow. Lacey tried to steel herself so he wouldn’t see how much he’d affected her, but Derek was a pretty smart guy and he knew exactly what he’d said—and how she’d respond to it. “I’m sorry, Lacey. I know you don’t want to hear that. But it’s the truth. These guys you’re messing with are bad business.”
She let the rest of his warning go—after all, it wasn’t like she was going to back off now—and latched on to the last thing he’d said. “Bad news how?”
“Bad news like, if you cross them, you end up dead.”
“You already said that. Can you be a little more specific?”
He laughed, but this time the sound was far from pleasant. “You want more specific? How about raped and dumped on the side of the road with your throat slit? How about broken into so many pieces even your mama won’t recognize you? How about sold to some guy with perversions that make the freaks in this town look like altar boys? Is that specific enough for you?”
He was angry, agitated; his hands clenched into fists so tight it was amazing he hadn’t broken something. She wanted to let it go, wanted to let him go, but what he’d said echoed everything she already knew.