Damn. Her mind raced. She rubbed her clammy palms down the front of her robe. What could she do? Could she risk him realizing that the dead bolt had been thrown? Her pulse galloping, she returned to the closet and exercise room, her eyes searching for a tiny alcove, some niche where she could hide until he went to bed and fell asleep. Then she could let herself out through the office.
His voice filtered through the door she'd left ajar.
“Yeah . . . I know . . . No, I didn't call . . . I said I didn'tâShit ! You're sure? Yeah, I know about caller ID . . . Well, when? Within the last half hour? I wasn't home yet . . . Jesus H. Christ, someone's figured it out!”
Marla froze. She pieced together the conversation. Alex had to be talking to Kylie Paris and she was telling him about the phone call that Marla had impetuously made to her number. Oh, God, no! Somehow the woman was in cahoots with Alex, mixed up in this mess, but how? Why? Her head was pounding and she knew she had to get out. Fast.
“Well, hell, I don't know how! Probably Nick. I knew it was a mistake to drag him down here . . . okay, okay, calm down. Everything's going to be all right. But you have to leave . . . yes, now, damn it! They could be on their way, go to the carriage house . . . you'll be safe there for a day or two . . . lay low and I'll come for you . . . what? Of course I love you. If I didn't, would I have done everything I have for us?” His voice had taken on a desperate edge. He loved this woman, this Kylie. He'd done “everything” for her. Whatever that meant. “What? Yes. Okay. That's better.”
Marla didn't wait another second. He was involved in something deadly. Something that may have cost Pam Delacroix and Charles Biggs their lives. Something that might have been behind her nearly dying the other night. Oh, God, no one was safe. She had to get away, grab the children and run. Then, once she knew Cissy and little James were secure, she could figure out what was going on. But one thing was certain: Alex was in love with another woman. Probably Kylie Paris, who could very well be her half sister.
Heart in her throat, she crept stealthily through Alex's closet, across his room and through the door to the suite. She triggered the lock in the knob and couldn't worry about the dead bolt. Tamping down her panic, she made her way across the thick carpet of the sitting room and through the door to her room. She couldn't do anything tonight. She had to play dumb, like nothing was out of the ordinary, lull Alex into thinking she didn't suspect him of anything.
Oh, God, if only Nick were here, she thought desperately, then chided herself on her need to depend upon a man.
You can do this, Marla, you have to. Your children are depending upon you.
She tucked the gun under the mattress, threw off her robe, tossed it on the end of the bed and, as she slid under the covers, she heard the door to Alex's room open, his heavy tred crossing the carpet in swift strides to hesitate on the other side of her door. She slammed her eyes shut and tried to breathe normally. Slow. Regular.
Relax. Let your muscles go slack.
Her bedroom door creaked open and she feigned sleep, breathed deeply, forced her eyes to be still while her pulse raced.
He walked closer, his footsteps halting at the bed where, just as the intruder had last week, he leaned over her. She could feel his breath on her face and she wanted to scream.
Breathe slowly. Don't panic. This is your only chance.
“Marla?” His voice whispered over her face. She nearly shot out of the bed but forced herself to lie still. “Honey?”
She smacked her lips a bit, let her mouth fall open on a sigh.
The seconds dragged by and she itched to open her eyes and stare into his lying face. Was he her husband? Her lover? Her enemy?
“Marla?” he called again. His voice was calm, soothing.
She didn't answer.
“Are you awake?” Damn it, he wasn't going to give up. She rolled over, her forehead knitting and she flung one arm out across her pillows as if she was disturbed in her sleep. “Marla?” His voice was louder now, an angry tone edging it.
She had to respond. “Whâwhat?” She blinked her eyes open and squinted up at him. “Oh, God, you scared me! Alex?” Acting confused, she glanced at the clock and yawned. “What time is it?”
“Late. I know. I just got home. I think someone was in my office tonight. Here, the office here in the house.”
“Who?”
“I'm asking you.”
“I don't know . . . oh, God!” she gasped as if a horrid thought had taken hold of her mind. “The intruder! Do you think he's back?” She sat up in the bed, pulled the covers to her chest and snapped on the light. “The children!”
“I don't think it was an intruder,” he said, his gaze slicing through her facade.
“No? Then why are you waking me up?” she asked, allowing herself to let some of her fear into her voice. “We
have
to change the locks. IâI thought you were going to do that. The kids!” She flung off the coverlet.
“They're fine.”
“You checked?” she demanded and made her way to the nursery, rushing to the crib as if she really thought someone had broken into the house. James was sleeping soundly. “Thank God,” she whispered.
“I just think someone got into my office andâ” He followed her to the hallway where she opened the door to Cissy's room and looked inside. Cissy was asleep, her television flickering in blue shadows across her face. “She knows she's not supposed to leave this on,” Marla said as if irritated at her daughter, then marched across the room and snapped off the TV. Cissy didn't so much as flinch.
Back in the hallway, she stared up at him, “Are you going to check the other floors?”
“No . . . Marla . . . I don't think anyone broke in.”
“But you said . . .”
“I thought maybe you were in the office.”
“Me? How? Isn't it locked?”
“Yes.”
“Then how . . . ?”
“I don't know,” he said and his face in the shadowed hallway looked evil, his gray eyes cold as death. “But Mother's keys are missing.”
“You think I found them and broke into your office?” She ran fingers through her hair as if she were weary to her bones. “Oh, Alex, don't be ridiculous.”
“The screen saver was on in the office.”
“What does that mean?”
“That someone had used the computer in the last ten minutes, it's programmed to stay on that long before going into sleep mode and the monitor turning black.”
“Well, I can't explain it.” She gave him a pained expression, then reached upward and ran her hand down the side of his face. “You're working too hard. Go to bed, Alex. We'll figure this out in the morning.”
“Just tell me you're not lying,” he said, his eyes hard and assessing.
“Okay, âI'm not lying' and you're acting like a lunatic!” She turned, intent on making her way to her room when his arm snaked out, grabbed her by the elbow and spun her around.
His features had contorted into a barely controlled rage, his nostrils flaring, his lips barely moving. “Don't cross me,” he warned, his fingers digging tight into the muscles on her forearm. “That would be a big mistake.” He let go of her then and stormed off to the office. Probably to discover that his gun was missing. Marla's knees nearly gave way. She held on to the rail and told herself to buck up. She had to put up with only a few more hours in this house. And now she had a weapon.
Tomorrow she'd take the kids and leave.
And go where? With what? You don't have any money. You don't have any identification. You don't have a car.
But she'd find a way to leave this prison.
Even if it killed her.
Chapter Eighteen
“I swear to you if you try to take my son away from me, I'll kill you!” Alex's face loomed over hers as they stood in the foyer. Fury etched his features, hatred turned his gray eyes black.
“No! Oh, God, no!”
Marla's eyes flew open. Her heart pounded wildly. Sweat oozed on her body.
She was alone. In her bed. In the dark. Somewhere outside a tree branch banged against the window and in the foyer the old clock ticked off the minutes, but there was no one with her.
Slowly, as the horrid nightmare disappeared, she pushed herself upright, gathering the edge of the blanket in her fist and holding it to her chest. “It was a dream,” she told herself. “Just a dream.” She glanced at the clock. Four-thirty. Not yet light outside. She rubbed her arms, but the nightmare didn't fade. The image was too lasting and sharp. It seared deep into her brain, a replay of some other scene, one that came back with mind-numbing clarity.
“I won't let you get away with this,” Alex had growled. “I won't let you take him away.”
“Watch me, you bastard,” she'd thrown back, advancing on him. “I'll take you to court, I'll do whatever it takes, but my baby isn't going to be raised in this . . . this travesty of a situation. Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Bull!”
“Look for yourself.”
“If you've hurt him . . .” Her voice faded, strangled at the thought. “I swearâ”
“Never. He's just hidden away.”
“I don't believe you.” She'd taken the stairs two at a time and he didn't follow. Oh, God, he was telling the truth. She raced to the bedroom floor and was only vaguely aware of the phone jangling over the beating of her heart. The nursery was empty. Cold. Austere. She swept through the other rooms, but knew in her heart that he was telling the truth and this house, one she'd often thought was a storybook mansion, was cold and heartless, no servants, no family, no . . . baby. She was breathless by now, her labor had been only a few days before. She made her way to the stairs and paused on the living room level, holding on to the rail and seeing Alex, his back to her on the phone. His voice was soft, yet distinct.
“Yes . . . yes, I said I'll be there. Just wait . . . I don't know . . . two hours, maybe three . . . I have a situation to take care of here . . . yes, I know . . . I do, too . . .” His lover, he was talking to his lover and . . . and this all had something to do with the baby. “Hang in there . . . look at the ocean, walk on the beach . . . just calm down . . . that's it.” “Who is that?” Marla demanded, hurrying down the rest of the stairs.
He hung up. Looked guilty as he whirled around.
“Where's my baby?” she demanded.
He'd grabbed her then. With lightning swiftness, he grabbed her upper arms in his big, viselike hands. She felt the blood drain from her face. His grip was so tight she'd been certain he would snap her bones as easily as matchsticks. His face had contorted with a hatred so intense, he'd actually sprayed her with spit as he'd shaken her. “Don't push me. This is the way we planned it.”
“Like hell,” she'd countered.
“We have a deal.”
“Had.
Had
a deal. I want out! And I swear by God that I'm going to take my baby with me. Away from this horrid place and all the lies, all the treachery.”
“Don't threaten me,” he'd warned. “ 'Cause you're in the big leagues now and I swear to you if you try to take my son away from me, I'll kill you!”
And then . . . and then what? Her memory eluded her once again as she sat and shivered on the bed. “Oh, God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. What had she gotten herself into? Who was she? What kind of person would bargain with her husband about the fate of her child?
Don't cross me,
he'd warned just last night,
that would be a big mistake.
She'd stumbled into the bedroom, lain in the dark and stared up at the lacy, spider weblike canopy and waited until she'd heard him leave. Just as he always did. Where had he gone? Whom did he meet? What was he doing? She'd finally dozed off without any answers, sleeping fitfully as in the waking moments that peppered her sleep, she'd tried and failed to come up with some kind of plan to wrest her children from their tyrant of a father, to save them.
From what?
From whom?
Alex and the woman he was involved with?
If only she could remember.
Damn it, somehow she would. She reached under the mattress. Alex's cold pistol was right where she'd put it. Close. So she had a weapon and Eugenia's keysâsurely there was a key to the ignition of one of the cars, and with enough digging through documents, she might be able to access some of the bank accounts. She needed to find her checkbook statement and some kind of IDâthen she could draw out some cashâmaybe from one of those automated cash machines . . . if only she could come up with a password.
Her head pounded.
She had to do it. She had to find a way out of this mess.
This is the first day of the rest of your life. This is the day you escape and start living.
The door to the suite cracked open.
She jumped. Reached for the gun.
Her fingers surrounded the cold metal as the door to her room inched open. Her nerves stretched to the breaking point. Beads of sweat ran down her temples.
You won't take my kids from me, you son of a bitch,
she thought, expecting Alex. Holding her breath, she narrowed her eyes as a man's head was thrust into the room.
“Marla?”
“Nick!” She sagged in relief.
Nick.
Thank God. She wanted to crumble into a million pieces.
Stepping into the room, he closed the door behind him. Stripped bare to the waist, he wore only a pair of disreputable jeans. “Are you all right?” His voice was a balm. Tears burned behind her eyes. “I thought I heard you cry out.”
“IâI probably did. I mean, I'm sure of it.” She slid her hand free from between the springs and mattress, leaving the gun. “I had a dream, a nightmare, but it seemed so real.” Still sitting in the bed, she plowed both sets of fingers through her short hair. “I dreamt that Alex . . . he accused me of trying to take the baby away from him, he . . . he threatened to kill me. But it really happened. I
know
it did. We were standing in the foyer and he was . . . he was . . . so angry. Ruthless.” Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the headboard. “God, it was horrible.”
“But you're sure you're okay?” he asked again.
Gently. As if he really cared.
She heard him approach the bed and felt the mattress sag as he sat on the edge. He touched her shoulder and she fought the urge to tumble against him and sob like some stupid, weak female. No, that would never do, but a part of her melted as she felt his fingers, so strong, so warm, touching her shoulder through the thin fabric of her pajamas. “Are you okay?” he said again, and she opened her eyes.
“I think so.” Her voice was lower than usual, raspy as she fought to control herself at his tender gesture. Deep in her heart she knew that no one in her life had ever been this concerned about her. This kind. Not her father, not her husband, no other man in her life . . . She swallowed hard, refused to fall apart.
“I was just checking on you. Why don't you go back to sleep?” he suggested, and in the darkness she saw the outline of his face, noticed how his eyebrows pulled together in concern, sensed the tension in his muscles.
“I can't. I have too much to do today.” She cleared her throat and admitted, “I have a lot to tell you, Nick. A lot.”
His fingers tightened over her arm. “What?”
“I, um, I need to get my thoughts together,” she said, as deep inside she felt a yearning that she had to ignore. He was so close. Too close. She smelled his skin, felt his heat . . . oh, Lord, she couldn't be distracted. Wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she said, “Listen . . . just give me a few minutes to shower and look decent, then I want to tell you what I found out.”
“Promise?” he asked, his teeth flashing white.
“Promise.” Oh, God, she'd love to kiss that cocky smile off his face.
She scooted to the far side of the bed to break contact with him. This was much too intimate, too tempting, too erotic . . . too dangerous.
“You've got fifteen minutes.”
“I only need ten,” she shot back and winked at him as she dived for the bathroom.
Nick watched her leave and didn't follow, though he wanted to, damn it. Despite everything else, including the knowledge that they were in danger.
Gritting his teeth against the lust that burned through his body, Nick forced himself out of the room. He didn't like the turn of his thoughts. Seeing her lying there, feeling her warmth through her pajamas, smelling her perfume, knowing she was vulnerable made him want to hold her, to comfort her, to kiss her and touch her . . . “You miserable bastard,” he growled under his breath as he made his way downstairs. This woman was so unlike the conniving Marla he'd known in the past and yet he was drawn to her, wanted her, felt the need to make love to her even more strongly than he had fifteen years ago. She was different, he sensed that. Mature. Self-reliant. Sexy without knowing it. This stronger woman appealed to him at a deeper level “Give it up,” he muttered on his way to the kitchen. He'd nearly scared her out of her wits when he'd knocked on her door and she'd seemed so vulnerable and frail for a second that all he'd wanted to do was hold her.
And make love to her. Until they were both spent and gasping.
Hell, he was a fool. There was too much to do before he allowed erotic thoughts to enter his head, but his damned stiff cock wasn't taking the hint.
He needed to tell her about Pam, and about Monty, but it could wait. In the cavernous kitchen, he dug through the cupboards, scrounged up some coffee and made a pot in a machine that gurgled and sputtered. He glanced outside to the darkened garden where he'd spied Marla on the swing looking lost and frightened. As if Marla Cahill had ever been afraid of anything. He tapped his fingers nervously on the counter, his head crowded with thoughts of Alex, Julie, Monty . . . and, of course Marla. Alex was fast running out of money, he was bribing every one under the sun, lying between his teeth and all of it centered on his wife. Somehow . . . slowly the pieces were fitting together and the puzzle picture being created scared the hell out of Nick.
But Marla's involved. You know that. You still can't trust her.
The coffeemaker gurgled its last dying breath. Hooking two cups on his fingers, he carried the pot upstairs to the suite, then poured them each a cup.
He told himself to wait for her in the sitting area, that she'd emerge in a few seconds, but curiosity and pure male lust argued against him and won. He pushed open the door to her room and, hearing the shower running, walked toward the bathroom where steam was fogging the mirrors and the smells of soap and water were heavy in the air.
Don't do this,
the rational part of his brain screamed,
you're only begging for trouble.
But he couldn't stop himself. He set her cup on the counter near the sink and, in the mirror, caught a glimpse of her body through the steamy glass doors. His gut tightened. Through the hot mist he saw a flash of long legs, and an impression of white breasts with dark nipples. She was bent over, rinsing her hair, and he noticed a flash of her rump, two firm cheeks that caused his manhood to swell, harder than before.
Get out now, before she sees you,
he told himself, but she turned then, lolling her head back and the fleeting image of a dark triangle at the apex of her legs was visible through the wispy veil of steam.
God, she was beautiful, nearly ethereal looking with her thin waist and sleek, wet skin. His damned cock thickened painfully, pressing hard against his jeans. She was humming, slightly off-key, over the rush of water.
For Christ's sake, man, you
don't
have time for this!
Knowing that he was playing with fire, that he should just leave her cup near the sink and make tracks back to the suite, Nick didn't budge. Instead he waited, sipping his coffee, leaning his hips against the edge of the counter and staring at the foggy vision as he listened to the sound of her voice. She rotated under the spray, lifting her arms. He saw the slope of her shoulders, the curve of her spine and just a glimpse of two dimples over her buttocks.
Caught in her own world, she hadn't noticed him yet, which suited him just fine. A smile played upon his lips as she twisted off the faucets suddenly and opened the shower door. She reached for a towel as her eyes met his through the haze.
A glorious flush swept up her skin. “What're you doing?” she asked, startled and dripping, dark, damp ringlets framing her face.