The Virgin: Redemption (3 page)

“Bite me.”

“I’ll notify the doctor that you wish to leave.”

“I’m not waiting.”

Her nostrils flared out a bit and I had a feeling she knew exactly what thoughts were running through my head. “There are forms you’ll have to sign if you leave against medical advice.”

Yeah. Right. She couldn’t make me sign them if I wasn’t here when she came back.

“Sure. You go dig them right up.” All I had to do was get my feet underneath me.

And figure out how to get Drake out of my way.

His hands caught my shoulders as I went to stand up. Glaring at him, I said, “I have to get out of here.”

The longer I stayed here, the harder the memories slammed into me and the worse the feeling of panic, helplessness hit me. A band constricted around my chest and I couldn’t breathe. “Shannon,” he said, his fingers hot against my icy flesh. “You’re hurt—”

“Listen to me.” I cut him off. He had to understand. Had to. “I can’t stay here. Please.” I reached up, touched his cheek.

His lashes flickered. Then he sighed and looked away. “I’m going to regret this.”

But he nodded, reaching up to cover my hand with his own. “Don’t leave. You got it? If you try to leave on your own, you’ll collapse and just end up back here.”

Well, there was that possibility. “Will you get me out of here?” I asked, panic swelling inside me.

“If you’ll wait for me. Just…just give me a few minutes.” His eyes all but begged me to trust him.

For some reason, I actually
did
. The band around my chest loosened. Oxygen rushed back into my lungs. The pain in my head started to cloud everything— including my ability to think— I heard his voice cutting through everything else.

“I want to talk to her doctor,” he said.

The nurse murmured something. I didn’t quite catch it.

“I don’t care. Get him in here.”

A hand shook my shoulder. I turned away from it and mumbled under my breath.

Drake persisted and I popped one eye open. Focusing on him hurt. “Go to hell.”

“Sure. After you tell me how many fingers.”

In response, I lifted one of mine.

A faint smile curved his lips. That smile made my heart flutter as he reached up to brush my hair back. “We did that. And then you disappeared. It took me this long to catch up to you and look how it’s turning out. I think we should get some stuff settled before we try it again.”

Despite everything, my belly went hot with hunger at the look in his eyes.

Averting mine, I stared at the wall. “Maybe there is no
again
. I told you I probably just needed to get you out of my system.”

“Is that a fact?” He touched my lip. “Lucky you, then.” His hand lifted again, showed me four fingers. “How many fingers?”

I made a face at him and then sighed. “Four. Now can I sleep?”

“Yes.” His hand cradled my cheek. That really shouldn’t feel so good. “Want anything while I’m in here?”

“Aspirin,” I muttered.

“Can’t. Head injury. The doctor ordered Motrin if you want it.”

I debated and then nodded. The bed shifted under him as he rose and the floor creaked as he moved away from me. Settling more comfortably into the bed, I stared at the exposed beams of the ceiling over my head. They were a soft, golden wood. Lovely, I had to admit.

I wasn’t going to be able to go back to sleep, I realized, lying there waiting for him.

Vague memories of him coming to me in the night, waking me and insisting I count his fingers, tell him my name, surfaced and I turned my head wondering what time it was.

There was a lovely, ornate clock, surrounded by twisting iron scrollwork on one wall.

And the view…

My gut twisted and my heart stuttered.

Slowly, I sat up, staring outside.

I knew that view.

The door opened behind me.

Without turning to look at him, I continued to stare out over the pounding surf.

It was all I could see, the sky a slate gray, the waters churned up as they pounded onto the beach.

I’d seen that view, almost every day, for the nearly the first eighteen years of my life.

My heart slammed against my palm. Odd. I hadn’t even realized I reached up to cover my chest. Weird…so weird.

“Where are we?” I asked, my voice wooden, my eyes dry as stone.

“Winsome Cove.”

It was like a sledgehammer, right to the heart.

Winsome Cove.

That was the name I’d given this place, back when I’d thought it would be mine. Back when I could still dream about it. Silly daydreams about what I’d do when I inherited the hotel, if I happened to have a few million dollars and could do whatever I wanted.

Gallagher Enterprises had a different plan in mind.

They had sleek, sharp angles, shining glass and bold colors in mind, something sophisticated, to draw the tourists looking for something close to Boston. They weren’t looking for
homey
or
quaint
. I’d heard those very words as he spoke to my father, a meeting I wasn’t meant to hear.

It was our land they’d wanted, nothing else.

“You son of a bitch,” I said, rising from the bed and moving to the window.

Behind me, Drake was silent.

The pounding in my head increased and my knees were wobbly, almost weak.

It didn’t get any better. As I moved, my view improved. What I saw spoke nothing of sleek angles or bold colors. There was glass, though, and I could picture how it would gleam under the brilliant light of the sun. The windows ran from roof to floor, facing out over the beach so families could enjoy the view, early in the morning, late at night, whichever they chose.

My heart stuttered, clenched. Then it started to ache in a way that I couldn’t even describe.

What was this…?

To the left, there was a balcony and I turned toward it, almost mesmerized. Fumbling with the latch on the French doors, I moved through them and the scent of the saltwater breeze pulled at something deep inside me.

The little alcove had hidden this view from me and I realized we were tucked away, this cottage a little more private. The rest of them were closer together, but each cottage had its own balcony, with doors that opened to the beach, pretty little stone paths that ended at the edge of the sand.

Just as I’d imagined.

“What is this?” I asked, my voice rough.

He didn’t answer.

Turning, I stared at him.

He stood with his head bent, staring at the floor.

Wearing battered jeans and a faded T-shirt, he held an orange prescription bottle in his hand but he didn’t seem to remember it as he slowly lifted his head to stare at me.

But there was still no answer.

“Damn it, what in the hell is this!” I shouted it at him, the words ripping out of me while the agony inside my head kicked up.

“It’s what you wanted,” he said softly.

Then he put the bottle down on the little table sitting in front of the window.

Without saying anything else, he left me alone in that wide open room, the soft gray light coming in through the window.

“Stupid bitch—”

Pain burst through me. Pain. Shock. I was on the ground. How?

Then hands, dragging me up.

“They’re dead. You know that?”

His eyes, narrowed to slits, full of hate and fear, glared down at me as his hand squeezed my face.

Panic burst inside me. I swung out, remembered something my dad had told me.
Eyes, baby
, he’d said.
Go for the eyes.

Then he was screaming and I was running.

Down an alley and that was when I saw them.

Police.

“No!”

Sucking in a breath, I jerked into wakefulness.

I’d fallen asleep, slumped on the edge of the bed and staring outside.

Night was coming, sunset falling across the ocean like a curtain of gold and fire. The clouds had cleared and my heart burned at the familiar sight. It was almost enough to chase away the dark, heavy feel of the nightmare.

Part of me wanted to just hide in this room for a little while longer. A few hours. The rest of the night. A week at the most. That might let me get a grip, figure out just what was going on.

The nightmare continued to cling, ugly little wisps of it sticking to me like a spider’s web. Pushing my hair back, I rose from the bed and looked around. It was the first time I’d really looked around the room. Bright and open, the walls a soft ivory, the furnishings a pale gold. The focus of the room was the view, the splendid view of the Atlantic.

It’s what you wanted
.

Closing my eyes, I fought to shove that out of my mind.

Easier said than done.

I wasn’t going to be able to quit thinking about it until I
understood
.

Which wasn’t going to happen if I stayed in this room. Not for a week, not for the rest of the night. Even a few more hours seemed like too much. The four walls threatened to close in around me and the gloom from the coming darkness was thick. Hitting a light pushed the shadows back, but it did nothing to dispel the weight that threatened to crush me.

I recognized the feeling.

That sense of dread had chased me for months, years after I’d left and it had taken me years to shake it off completely. I wasn’t going to let it pull me down again.

All of this was supposed to
free
me of my past, not drag me down further.

I headed toward the door, practically desperate for escape, but halfway there, I passed by the mirror and the sight of the woman there made me pause.

Going still, I faced her, saw the pallor, the shadows under her eyes.

Sighing, I closed the distance and reached up, touched the reflection. “I thought I’d buried you,” I murmured.

It was a shattering revelation, standing there and realizing I could still see her. Still see echoes of the scared, tired girl I’d been ten years ago. Oh, I
looked
older and the naiveté was gone. But the fear, the vulnerability was still there. That uncertainty and lack of confidence. Naïve, no. I wasn’t that. But I was still unsure. I looked like the timid girl the police had pulled off the streets that day.

I looked like a victim.

It wasn’t acceptable.

Curling my hands over the edge of the hand-carved bureau, I breathed, held it. Took another, slow, steadying breath.
You aren’t who you used to be. A few bad dreams, a knock on the head, that’s not enough to send you back there, Shannon
.

My head throbbed, pain emanating from a spot just above my right ear, but I ignored it, focusing on the way air moved in and out of my lungs, the soothing lull of my own heartbeat. After a few minutes, I felt steadier. Almost calm.

When I looked back at my reflection, I looked almost like myself again.

Tired, yes.

But I could live with tired.

I’d just had the sense knocked out of me.
Tired
was acceptable.

Weak wasn’t.

* * * * *

The lights were low when I opened the door.

But I had no trouble seeing him.

He sat before a slow-burning fireplace, the glow from his MacBook casting light on his face, while the fire cast amber glints off the whiskey gleaming in the glass a few inches from his hand.

He wasn’t working, though.

He sat there, just staring at the fire.

Until he heard me, that is.

Then he turned his head, his lashes low, shielding his gaze from me.

He reached out a hand, caught the glass and I watched as he lifted it to his lips. His throat worked and it was just insanity that I still wanted to go to him and press my lips to the strong muscles there. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

He put the glass down and looked away, focusing on the MacBook with an intensity that would have completely fooled me had I not seen him staring at the fire blankly just a moment before.

“How’s your head?” he asked.

“Sore.” I moved a little farther into the room, looking around. The place was huge, practically the size of the condo I’d been renting in Philadelphia. Off to the side, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, lost in shadows. “You haven’t been in to make me practice my counting skills.”

His hands stilled on the laptop, then he shrugged. “It’s been twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty…” I blinked, freezing in my tracks as I did the math. It was completely over, then. I’d hit my head and slept through the final hours of the anniversary. Turning away, I pressed my lips together while tears burned my eyes. The ache in my throat was massive, like I’d swallowed a boulder. “I need to call my mother.”

“She’s called you.”

Slowly, dread curdling inside me, I turned back to him and watched as he reached out a finger, nudging the phone toward the edge of the table where he worked. “I let it go to voicemail the first few times, but then she started calling every hour, thought she might be worrying so I took the call. Told her you’d hurt your head and I was just watching you while you got some sleep.”

A fist grabbed my throat. “Did you…” Oh, no. This…This was bad. “Did she ask who you were?”

“Yes. I told her my name was Mike, that I was a friend of yours. She accepted it.”

“Mike…” The relief slammed into me and I sagged, collapsing on the low chair a few feet from the couch. “Michael—that’s your middle name.”

He didn’t respond. His expression was like stone as he focused back on whatever he had been working on.

I fought the urge to apologize. I’d left him in the lurch. I was a selfish bitch, and I knew it.

Guilt and shame knotted inside me and I wrapped my arms around my middle as it all twisted and stormed inside me.

A hand touched my knee and I looked up as he wrapped a blanket around me. “You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“Am I?”

My teeth were chattering. Distantly, that struck me as odd. I wasn’t cold—was I?