Too soon, yet not soon enough, Chris stops in front of me, his big, strong hands coming down on my shoulders as he walks me back into the foyer, kicking the door shut, an act that says Rey isn’t getting an invitation inside. “Nothing is wrong, baby. Stop looking like that.”
“If nothing is wrong, why are you acting like something’s wrong? Why is Rey here? It’s Ella, isn’t it?”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Chris. I know your body language. I know you were upset. And you didn’t say it wasn’t Ella.”
“Sara. No. Deep breath, baby.”
My fingers close around his shirt. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Rey called me and said he had information he didn’t want to give me over the phone because it’s too sensitive.”
“What information?”
“We don’t know if this has any merit, but he has a contact inside Neville’s operation who says Neville believes Ella is alive, and he’s issued a reward for bringing her to him alive.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Yes and no. Alive is good. A reward for keeping her alive is good. Being hunted by someone connected to the mob is not. And buying information directly from someone inside the mob is not smart. It’s a potential blackmail situation that could end in very dangerous places.”
“Are you saying we can’t buy the information?”
“We can’t, but someone else can for us. That means using the contractors Rey suggests. So far, Blake says they’re ghosts; he has nothing on them, good or bad. I don’t like dealing with people we don’t know. I’m agreeing to use them for this one purchase to put distance between us and Neville, but I want them vetted before we go further.”
Emotion punches at me, my eyes burning. “Chris. She really might be alive?”
“We don’t know if this is real.”
“But it’s a really good ray of hope.”
He cups the back of my neck and rests his forehead against mine. “Then we’ll cling to it together.”
• • •
Chris and I spend the next few hours in his studio, with “The Gift” by Seether playing over and over on the sound system. Chris stands in the center of the stone-floored room, in front of an easel in his idea of a work uniform, which includes absolutely nothing but his low-slung faded jeans, no shirt, with his feet bare. I approve; oh yes, I do. Though I have to wonder if he gets cold. I’m chilly and I’m wearing my favorite long-sleeved pink sweat suit jacket and matching pants, and snuggled on a comfy overstuffed brown chair in the corner by the gas fireplace that Chris had installed several years ago as part of a renovation.
I try to do some research for a contract customer that Estaban referred to me, hoping to locate a rare piece he’s looking for. But between thoughts of Ella, and Chris’s canvas coming to life with dark, magical clarity for the first time since he started it the night of our arrival, I’m struggling to stay focused. The painting is one of his cityscapes—a stormy Paris that I know represents the day Tristan came to our house, and I’m in awe of how it’s come to life before my eyes. Aware that despite how much calmer he is out here in the country, away from everything else, this is a view into what he’s coping with inside. And he knows it, and has allowed me inside his creative world, though he lets no one else in. It feels like the final closed door with Chris is being opened, and I’m the only other person with the key.
My e-mail beeps and I click on it, hoping it’s Chantal, whom I emailed to check on after her encounter with Rey. Sure enough, there is a message titled “I’m safe. Stop worrying.” I’m about to click on it, but frown when I see Blake Walker’s name in my in-box, too. I didn’t even know he had my e-mail address—but then again, the man hacked my father’s unlisted phone number. I click on the message and read, “Tell Chris to call me right away. I’ve been trying to reach you both for hours.”
I sit up straight and set my computer on the chair, concerned by the tone of the e-mail and baffled by the fact that I get internet down here, though our phones won’t work. “Chris,” I call on my way to the stereo system built into the wall, which I turn off. “Chris.” He turns at my urgent tone, his brush still in his hand. “Blake just emailed me and said we need to call him right away. He’s been trying to reach us.”
Chris sets down his brush and grabs his boots, putting them on. “Maybe this means they caught Ava.” He grabs a black T-shirt from the stool next to him and pulls it over his head. “Blake’s been completely absorbed in hunting her down. And I’m sure her capture will be a firestorm for everyone connected, including us.”
Dread fills me. Her lies are many, and we always end up having to defend ourselves, as she seems to have a way of dragging everyone into her hell. Chris tugs his phone from his pocket as we hurry up the stairs, eager to find out what we’re facing. Will we have to suddenly rush back to the States? I’d love to cling to my solitude with Chris, free from interrogation rooms and the media frenzy we’ve finally escaped, but I am also eager to ensure Ava is put away where she can’t hurt anyone else.
“What’s up, Blake?” Chris says as we enter a long, wide hallway with a towering oval ceiling, and then turn right into a kitchen of various shades of gray stone and stainless steel. “What? When?” He inhales, then lets it out. “How bad?”
At those words, my heart starts racing. “What happened?” When Chris doesn’t look at me, I grab his arm. “Chris, please. What happened?”
He moves the phone from his mouth and says, “Crystal was attacked and beaten up. She’s in the hospital, but she’s recovering.”
“Oh God. Was it Ava?”
He nods. “That was last night. They got Ava, but not her accomplice.”
Relief washes over me.
He turns his attention back to Blake and I hang on every word of his conversation. There are a lot of partial sentences and random questions, and it’s driving me crazy.
“I’m sure they will,” Chris agrees at one point, running a hand through his hair and giving me his back, leaning against the countertop running the length of the kitchen. “I don’t like the unknown. No. I know no one does.”
Where is this headed? “What unknown?” I ask, unable to take this one-sided conversation any longer.
“Give me a minute, baby,” Chris tells me, then returns his attention to the call. “I’ll handle it, but I need to know what’s happening when it happens—not after the fact.” He ends the call.
“What’s happening that we need to know about?” I ask.
He sets his phone down on the counter and pulls me to him. “Ava and a man known to be a hired killer attacked Crystal. She’s lucky to have survived. Since she’s involved with Mark and his family, the thought is that it was meant to punish Mark.”
I’m stunned, and don’t even know which question to ask first. “How could Ava even know a mercenary? These people don’t walk around the streets handing out business cards.”
“Ava says Ricco hired the guy to help her escape, and wanted him to use her to torture Mark. Apparently when he was done with Ava, the mercenary was to kill her.” He laughs. “She went to Mark for help.”
“To Mark? Was she crazy? Oh God. He didn’t hurt her, did he?”
“No. Apparently he locked her in his trunk and handed her over to Walker Security.”
I let out a breath. “Can this story get any crazier?”
“Yes, actually. Apparently Ryan has been laundering money for some criminal organization. Mark uncovered it and got him arrested.”
I shiver. “I knew he was trouble. I felt it in my bones. I’m glad Mark caught him.”
“As it stands, Ryan is promising to turn state’s evidence on Ava for a deal.”
“What kind of evidence does he have?”
“That’s being kept under wraps, but I expect it will come out soon. Mark believed Ryan was involved in Rebecca?
??s murder in some way. If he gets out, he’d better run, or Mark will go after him. In the meantime, we need to talk about us.”
“Us?”
“The press is all over us in the States. They want to know where we are. Are we running from something, and on and on. It’s only a matter of time until they track us down here.”
“What are you saying?”
“Let’s go travel for the next month, in places they won’t expect to find us. We can come up with a plan tonight, and I’ll clear it with the police tomorrow. Germany, Australia, Belize—wherever you want to go.”
“I don’t want to leave. I like it here.”
He strokes a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I know, baby, but the reporters are coming.”
“What about the Louvre event for Christmas?”
“We’ll fly into Paris right beforehand. The press flurry should be over by then—at least until the trials start sometime next year for anyone who doesn’t strike a deal with the DA.”
“I don’t even want to think about any trials we might have to testify at.”
“All the more reason to escape now, and have what peace we can where we can get it.”
“What about Ella?”
“If they find her, we’ll fly to her immediately. Waiting here for news is only going to make the time feel longer.”
“You’re right. So we’ll plan our trips and we’ll leave.” I take his hand. “This seems a good time to show you something outside.”
His brow furrows. “Outside?”
“Outside,” I confirm.
“Now you have me curious.”
“Not for long,” I promise, leading him out of the kitchen and into the hallway, not stopping until we’re by the door.
He helps me bundle up in a white puffy hoodie and he slips on his Harley jacket, then we step outside as the sun is sinking low in the sky. A bitter cold has rolled in from the south. I shiver as we walk down the stairs and Chris wraps his arm around my shoulder, his hip pressing against mine. We cut to the left, bringing the two large vases I’ve left by the wall into view. Each holds a three foot high cross, one with a dragon etched on it that reads “Amber,” and one with roses etched on it that reads “Rebecca.”
Chris stares down at the crosses, as still as stone.
“You needed closure, and neither of them has had a proper funeral. They deserve to be honored. Since the ground is frozen, I figured we could place them this summer.”
He looks up at me, his green eyes filled with pain. “You’re right. I do need closure, something I usually avoided with a whip.”
He says those words easily, not hiding from the past or from me. He kisses my forehead, then bends down to pick up Amber’s cross. Though it took both me and Chantal to carry each of these before, I reach for Rebecca’s.
“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 believe 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 care
sses 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?”