Authors: Erica Spindler
The dog went spastic with pleasure, running circles around him, then rolling onto her back. Connor laughed at her antics and rubbed her belly.
Mira headed their way, using the moments to collect herself. He had left the ball in her court. She had taken it but now wasn’t sure what to do with it.
When she reached him, he straightened; their eyes met. His tormented expression broke her heart. “Connor? What’s wrong?”
“I heard about your neighbor. I’m so sorry.”
He took her in his arms and held her. She clung to him, thoughts reeling. Could she trust him? She wanted to so desperately.
If this was wrong, it wouldn’t feel so right. If he was a killer, she would know.
Wouldn’t she?
“The police questioned me again,” he said. “Detective Malone said you thought that I … Mira, I’ve had nothing to do with any of these murders. I couldn’t. Please tell me you believe me.” He rested his forehead against hers. “I need you to believe in me.”
She did, instinctively. With her heart. With her body’s response to his. With every part but that small corner of her brain where Detective Malone’s comments about keys, alarm codes and odd coincidences nagged at her.
Mira shut those doubts out. She wanted to believe him. On some elemental level, she
needed
to.
“I believe you,” she said softly. “Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should run. But right now, I don’t want to be anywhere but with you.”
He cupped her face in his palms. “Thank God. The police, they made it seem like you—”
She brought her fingers to his lips. “I don’t want to talk about that, not now. Not about Detective Malone or the murders. Not about anything that’s been happening. I just want to be with you.”
She caught his hand and led him into the house. In the foyer, alone, door closed and locked behind them, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. When he didn’t stop her, she deepened the kiss, pressing herself against him, winding her arms around his neck.
For the longest second of her life, he stood as still and unresponsive as a wall. Then he shuddered, his hands dropping to her backside, cupping her, deepening the kiss even more.
Without breaking the kiss, he lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom.
Her
bedroom. Not the one she and Jeff had shared. The one she had never shared with anyone. A first. Special.
They tumbled onto the bed. Mira took the lead. Impatiently tugging at clothing, greedily tasting and taking. Each time he tried to slow her pace, she defied him.
There would be time for leisurely lovemaking, but that time was not now. Now was for heat. And greed. And animal gratification.
It had been six years since she had been with a man. And impossibly, it felt like she had been waiting for this one, for Connor, forever.
He thrust into her; she cried out in pleasure, bucking up against him. Just like that. No coaxing or cajoling. No advance and retreat. He joined her, crying out her name.
Afterward, they lay together, a tangle of arms, legs and damp bedding. Beneath her palm, his heart pounded, its wild beat matching her own. She turned her face to his chest, breathing in his scent. So different from Jeff’s. Earthier. Not as sweet, more … masculine. But not offensive. Heady. Exciting.
He cleared his throat. “Mira?”
She lifted onto her elbow to meet his eyes. “Hmm?”
“What the hell was that? Not that I don’t like—.” He grinned. “I do. But damn, girl.”
She laughed, pleased. “It’s been a long time.”
“Forever, actually.”
She searched his gaze, a lump forming in her throat. She bent and kissed him. “What do you want to do now?”
He’d waited “forever” for the first time. And only ten minutes for the second—though he made her wait in other ways, dragging out her pleasure and his own.
Long after they’d both succumbed, Mira lay in his arms, drifting and relaxed. And happy. Sweetly, deliciously, ridiculously happy.
She ran her hand along his back, stopping on a jagged ridge below his shoulder blade. She smoothed her fingers over it, following the ridge down his side and around, nearly to his abdomen.
At her exploration, he grew still. Over the years she had seen him shirtless many times; this was new. “What is this?”
“A souvenir from my fun-filled days and nights in Afghanistan.”
“What happened?”
He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the ceiling. She propped herself up on an elbow, so she could see his face. “If you aren’t ready to talk about it, I understand.”
“On foot patrol in Helmand Province, an IED went off in the middle of my squad.” He cut his gaze to hers, expression harsh. “It’s war. Men die. I’m not worried about a little scar.”
She held his gaze. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like.”
“You’re right, you couldn’t even come close. You think Katrina was bad. At least you knew which direction she was coming from. And who the enemy was. Over there, the enemy mixes with the civilians. How’re we supposed to—”
He bit back what he was about to say and started again. “We’re walking down this damn dirt road, I see a young guy and his grandpa in the field ahead. Jones spots the buried IED—”
“A roadside bomb?”
“Yeah. An improvised explosive device. So he sees it, turns to tell us and
boom.
He’s not there anymore. Someone had to pull the detonator to make it explode. Was it grandpa? The kid? Someone in the trees? I don’t know.
“The smoke clears, Jones and I are in a ditch. I hear Orazio call in a chopper for us.”
“What happened to Jones?”
“He died.”
Mira caught his hand, laced their fingers. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it happens.”
Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She blinked, fighting to keep them from falling. They were both battle scarred. And they were both survivors. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Me, too.” He cleared his throat. “I was lucky.”
Lucky, she thought. Her, too. She hadn’t realized just how lucky until this moment. For the first time in forever the future seemed bright. Something she looked forward to.
Her stomach growled loudly, and he laughed. He looked at her, grinning. “Hungry?”
“Starving, obviously. You?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He climbed out of bed, then helped her to her feet. They re-dressed and headed for the kitchen. She sent Connor to the wine closet to pick out a bottle while she poked through the refrigerator.
“Red or white?” he called.
“Are you kidding?”
“That’s what I thought.” He exited the closet carrying a red. “Does a 2007 Sonoma Coast Pinot Noir sound okay?”
“Sounds perfect. I’m thinking omelets.”
“If there’s cheese involved, I’m with you.”
Nola, who could hear a refrigerator door open from a mile away, had padded into the kitchen. Mira filled her bowl.
Mira and Connor worked together, choosing and chopping ingredients, sipping wine. Discussing nothing more serious than favorite meals. She cleared the bar, then set two places.
The eggs came out perfectly, delicately turned, light and fluffy yet crisp at the edges. Mira ate ravenously, finishing before him, all but licking her plate clean.
He smiled at her, amused. “I guess we should have made more.”
“I would have eaten it.” She carried her plate to the sink, then went back for his. He was studying the notepad she’d had earlier, the list she’d started.
“What’s this?” he asked, glancing up at her.
“Nothing.”
He frowned. “Not nothing. My name’s on it. Deni’s. Chris and Dr. Jasper.”
“This morning a detective suggested that to find the truth, I needed to take everything I knew to be true and put it back on the table. Question it. Start over.”
“What detective? Malone? Or Bayle?” The venom in his voice startled her.
“No. Detective Killian.”
“My name’s on this list.”
“Right. I made a list of all the people in my life who I trusted.”
“But worried you couldn’t.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like? You told me you believed in me. That you trusted me. So why’s my name on this list?”
“Because I was trying to do what the detective suggested.”
He shook his head. “There’s trust and there’s not, Mira. It’s like faith. You believe or you don’t.”
“Earlier, you asked me to make a decision. Right then and there. And I did. I went with my gut.”
“Your gut. What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. It means you push away your doubts and go with—”
“Great.” He tossed the pad angrily onto the bar. “Isn’t that what men get accused of all the time? Of following the brain between their legs?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Really?”
“I was following my heart, idiot!”
“Ask me if you can trust me.”
She tipped up her chin. “Can I trust you?”
“With your life.”
A whisper of doubt flickered through her. It must have registered on her face because he swore. “I can’t believe this! Son of a bitch!”
She took a step toward him, hand out. “You’re not being fair.”
“I’m not being fair? Mira, I’m in love with you. I’ve laid my heart bare for you. If that’s not trust, I don’t know what is.”
“Six years ago you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. Instead, you ran away.”
“That was different. You were married to my best friend.”
“But
we
were supposed to be friends! You told him. Why not me? What would have been so difficult? How can you love someone when you don’t trust her enough to be honest?”
“I was protecting you.”
“Right,” she said sarcastically. “You were protecting yourself.”
“You want honesty?”
“Total.”
They stood nearly nose to nose, gazes locked. His hands were clenched into fists. Mira leaned toward him, silently daring him.
“That list of names you scribbled. Why isn’t Jeff’s name on it?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“His name should be on the list, too. He was cheating.”
She must have heard wrong. He couldn’t have said what she thought he had.
“Jeff was having affairs.”
She caught her breath and took a step back, feeling as if he had physically struck her. “You’re lying.”
“I couldn’t be a part of it. I told him so.”
She shook her head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Think back, Mira. How many nights did you wonder why he was late? How many times did you call me or the Crescent City Club looking for him?”
Not many at first, she remembered. Then, toward the end, a lot. He always had a logical explanation. “He was out with you,” she said. “Or business associates. Sometimes Anton and his cronies.”
“No. He was out with other women.”
“I don’t want to hear this,” she whispered. “Please stop.”
“You need to hear it.” He caught her hands and brought them to his heart. “In the past six years you’ve built Jeff into a saint and your marriage into this idyllic paradise.”
He lowered his voice. “I couldn’t tell you. But I couldn’t sit back and watch. I couldn’t be party to it.”
She dropped her head to his chest, too drained even to cry. To-the-bone exhausted.
Ironic, but the one thing she had believed in, one hundred percent, had been a lie.
“I should have told you before. I wanted to. I started to a hundred times back then and since I’ve been home. But each time, I couldn’t do it.”
She lifted her face to his. “I think you should go.”
“Mira—”
“It’s not you. I just … I need to be alone for a while. I’ve got to process this.”
“That detective, what she told you to do, I think she was right.” He searched her expression, his determined. “Everything’s on the table now.”
“What are you saying?”
“I think the murders and everything that’s been going on have something to do with Jeff. I’m going to try to find out what.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Thursday, August 18
12:01
A.M.
Despair clawed at him. Doubt picked at him, like the constant drip, drip of a faucet in the night. What if he had been wrong? What if he had misinterpreted his Father? What if this wasn’t his time? If she wasn’t meant to be his?
The thought knocked the wind out of him. He sank to his knees, where he belonged. Pleading for mercy and forgiveness.
He closed his eyes. His head filled with the image of the latest felled demon. Her eyes wide and terrified. She had known who he was. And what he was capable of. His power had grown so strong, his presence alone had killed her.
So why couldn’t Mary see him? He could root out evil ones, fell them with not more than his gaze, and yet his beloved didn’t recognize him.
Worse, she turned to others. Like a prostitute. Like a cheap whore.
His guttural cry shattered the silence. He raised his hands heavenward. “Why does she still not see? I’ve followed Your instructions, been a good and faithful servant. This one thing is all I ask!”
When his Father didn’t respond, he lashed out. “You never liked her! I know that. But to turn away from me now?” He fisted his fingers, angry—yet deeply ashamed of the emotion and where it wanted to lead him. “If only you could see her as I do!”
The anger left him and he collapsed. “Tell me what to do,” he whispered. “Help me.”
Why do you despair? You are the Chosen One.
The voice in his head. His Father. He started to cry. “Forgive me, Father, for my anger and my doubt. I’m unclean. Mary doesn’t recognize me because of my sin.”
The pull of the earthly world is strong. It’s not Mary who turns away from you. It’s the Evil One who pulls her away. Your mission is not yet complete.
He grew still, heart racing. “Haven’t I brought judgment on four who meant to harm her? Demons set on keeping me and Mary apart? Didn’t I announce, through the Holy Scripture, what I had done for her? Why won’t she open her eyes!”
There are Seven Demons, my Son. Why would this time be any different than in Bethany? She is still in their grasp.