All of Me (Inside Out Series Book 6) (9 page)

About an hour into the event it’s time for Chris to enter a signing booth for autographs, and I’m amazed at how many people line up eagerly to meet him and get his signature. He laces his fingers with mine to pull me toward the booth, but I hesitate.

“I should stay. They want you, not me.”

“Baby, you are the topic of the night. Everyone wants to meet my bride-to-be.” Not taking no for an answer, he starts walking with me in tow, but I dig in my heels. Not for the reason he thinks, I’m sure.

He stops and looks at me again, and I glance at the line of people waiting, and then him. “I just . . . I wanted to say that you’re so good with people, and so talented. Sometimes I’m still a little in awe of you.”

He cups my face. “I’m the one in awe of you, and of how lucky I am to be marrying you.”

“Chris,” I whisper, emotion lodging in my throat. “I’m—”

“My future wife. Come stand by my side, where you belong.”

I warm with his words, and we move through the crowd and into the booth. Instantly we are in the midst of activity, both of us greeting people. It’s light and fun, and even without any mastery of the French language, I find myself laughing and having a good time.

About an hour later Chantal appears, waving at me, looking stunning in a sparkly navy blue chiffon dress. I tell Chris, “I guess Tristan finally let her out to play.”

Chris waves over a guard to bring her to me, and any fear I have that she’ll feel awkward with me is quickly dispelled as she greets me with a hug and we fall into our familiar banter, chatting with each other and the guests.

When finally the crowd dies down, Chris steps to a quiet corner to talk with some Louvre officials while Chantal and I raid the chocolate table.

“I’m so glad you made it,” I say. “You were such a help, and I clearly must learn French. It looks like we’ll be here regularly.”

“Tristan doesn’t want me to go to the wedding,” she tells me, “but I’m going. I’ll be there.”

“I’m glad. Do . . . you want to talk about Tristan?”

“No, not now. I can’t talk about what I don’t understand.” Her gaze lifts and she pales. “What’s Rey doing here?”

My gaze lands on the tall, good-looking man standing by the entryway, and I do a double take. “Apparently, looking all kinds of tall, dark, and handsome,” I say, shocked to find him in a tuxedo.

“And arrogant. As always.”

As if sensing her remark, Rey’s gaze lands on us, lingering on Chantal, and the charge in the air is electric and a bit hostile. Time seems suspended for several seconds before he cuts through the room and disappears.

I shake off the experience and stare at Chantal. “What the heck is going on between you two?”

“Nothing, really. I wanted him. We kissed. But it was more than a kiss. It was . . . .something I can’t explain. And then he told me he was bad for me, and he’d never touch me again. So he hasn’t.”

“And now you’re with Tristan.”

“Yes.”

“And he doesn’t like it.”

“He says Tristan’s bad for me.”

“And you say?”

“That Tristan needs me. I don’t know what Rey needs, but clearly it’s not me.”

“Chris thought
he
was bad for me, too. He’d been through hell, and he didn’t want to drag me into it.”

“Tristan has no problem dragging me into his hell.”

“I don’t know if that’s good or bad, Chantal. All I know is that if Rey doesn’t want to drag you into something he perceives as bad, he’s trying to be a good man.”

Chris is suddenly behind me, his hand resting on my back as he leans close and says, “I need to see you alone for a minute.”

“I’m going to leave anyway,” Chantal announces. “You’re here a couple more days, right?”

“Yes. We leave on the twenty-ninth.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promises.

Chris leads me toward a side door.

“What’s going on?” I ask softly as we step into a corridor decorated with artwork.

“I have something I want to show you.”

His expression is blank, his mood guarded, and a frisson of unease slides through me. He stops at a heavy white door with crown molding and opens it, motioning me inside.

I step inside to find a lounge area with a couch and two chairs. Rey is sitting in one of the chairs. “It’s Ella,” I say, my voice a choked whisper.

Rey doesn’t deny or confirm my assumption and Chris shuts the door behind me, his hand settling on the small of my back. “Let’s sit, Sara.”

“Is she dead?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Is Ella dead?”

“We don’t know,” Rey replies while Chris literally sits me down in the chair, kneeling beside me.

“He got a tip on Ella, but keep in mind this isn’t good or bad,” Chris says.

Rey hands me his phone with a picture displayed. “Is that Ella?”

I stare down at the photo of a woman staring up at a camera from some sort of counter, and while her hair is dark, not red, I’d know her face anywhere. “Yes. Yes, that’s her. Where is this? When is this?”

“Six weeks ago in Italy, is all I know right now,” Rey says. “That was texted to me as I pulled into the museum tonight. The good news is that we know she left France, and Neville, alive. The bad news is that no one has seen her since that photo. The store attendant said she came in acting scared, wanted to use the phone, and left out the back door when a man came in the front door. Whoever that man was followed her out the back.”

“And then what? She just disappeared?”

“Yes,” Rey confirms. “But the fact that she’d changed her hair color leads me to believe she knew she was being hunted, and she’s hiding.”

I turn to Chris. “I want to go to Italy. We have to find her. We’ll look ourselves.”

Chris flicks Rey a look. “We need a minute.”

“We don’t need a minute. We need to go to Italy.”

Rey gets up and leaves.

“We aren’t going to Italy,” Chris states.

“What do you mean? I’ll go on my own if I have to.”

“No. You won’t. I’ll lock you up and throw away the key before that happens.”

“Don’t give me that threat again.”

“There’s a reward out for Ella’s return alive, possibly put out by Neville, though the person offering it is sealed information. It’s a big enough reward that people will kill to get to her. If we’re thought to be in the way, we will be killed.”

“She needs
someone
to come after her!”

“And we’ve sent help. But getting killed means she has no one to return to, Sara. We aren’t going. You aren’t going.”

I shove to my feet and all but climb over Chris. He’s on his feet and I’m pressed against the wall in two seconds flat, his powerful thighs pinning me in place. I shove at his chest. “Let me go. Stop acting like a bully.”

His fingers twine my hair on either side, framing my face. “I will protect you, Sara. It’s a vow I’m taking for the rest of our lives. I won’t let you get killed. I can’t lose you, Sara. I won
’
t lose you. And think about this: What good do you do her dead?”

My heart is racing a million miles an hour, but my mind is slowing, my emotions calming. “I hate that you’re right. I really, really do.”

Relief registers on his face. “I do, too, baby. I do, too.”

“I’m going to think too much about this. I need out of here. I need to get lost in you and us—”

He kisses me, a deep, hot, claiming kiss before he promises, “I know what you need. Let’s go home.” He takes my hand and starts for the door.

I need what Chris will surely do for me when we are there, the way he’ll take me to the edge where I can’t think. Because I know that my desperation to go to Italy stems from a fear I haven’t wanted to face. I’m not sure she will ever be found. I’m not sure she will ever come home.

Part Nine

Defining Moments

On Christmas Eve, Chris and I walk among the street vendors who have set up for the holiday on the Champs-Élysées, and for the first time in years for either of us, we pick out a Christmas tree and put it up. We even pick out Chris’s wedding ring, and arrange for it to be delivered to our home in San Francisco. I love how excited he is about his choice of a titanium band with an Art Deco design, and even more so about his decision to have it engraved with our names inside. Everything about the evening is romantic, and I’m happy in a way that I didn’t even know I was capable of being.

We decorate our tree, then make love on the rug beside it, where we fall asleep. It’s dawn when Chris carries me to our bed and wraps me in his arms, both of us drifting back into slumber.

I wake on Christmas morning to the smell of cinnamon and coffee, and Chris missing from our bed. Smiling at the certainty that he’s up to something wonderful, I toss aside the blankets and put on my robe. I brush my teeth and tame the wild brown mane on my head as much as possible, then I excitedly go into the closet and dig into my suitcase, where I’ve hidden the gift Chantal helped me secretly order for Chris. I remove the custom-made African-wood box that glistens with shiny perfection. On top, a replica of Chris’s signature is etched into the smooth wood. And inside is the very first paintbrush he ever used, which he has always kept wrapped in plastic in his office.

Eager to give it to him, I rush forward, but on a whim stop again in the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet. I pull out his cologne, spraying a tiny bit on me. Then, smiling, I hurry down the stairs to the living area, and follow my nose to the loft-style kitchen. Chris is behind the island, his shirtless back to me as I silently pad toward him in my bare feet. I take a moment to admire his broad shoulders, his inked right arm, and the blond hair that’s a little wild and untamed, just like the man.

He turns and his sexy, happy smile echoes what I feel. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

Returning his smile, I finish my walk up the stairs. “Merry Christmas.” I stop on the opposite side of the island and he sets a cup of coffee in front of me. I stuff the box in my robe’s generous pocket and wrap my hands around the mug. “Thank you. What smells so good?”

He opens the oven and pulls out a tray of cinnamon rolls, setting them on the counter. “They just need to be iced.”

“They look like extra hours in the gym.”

“Or in bed,” he suggests, setting a velvet box on the counter in between us. “Open it.”

Hoping this is what I think it is, I quickly pop the top, thrilled to find the engagement ring I’ve only seen on paper before. “It’s gorgeous,” I say, staring down at the diamond encased by a beautifully etched golden rose. My gaze lifts to his. “And so special, because you designed it.”

He rounds the island and stands beside me, removing the dragon ring he also designed from my left ring finger and moving it to my right hand. “Soon,” he whispers, sliding the rose onto my left hand, “you’ll be all mine.”

“I’m already all yours, and you know it.”

“But then the rest of the world will know it.”

“I’m pretty sure they do already.”

We both break out in spontaneous smiles and he encloses my hand with his. “Come. I have something else for you.”

As he does so often, he doesn’t wait for a response, leading me down the stairs to the elevator. He punches the button and it opens immediately. “We’re going to the garage?” I ask as we enter and he punches the button for the bottom level.

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

That boyish mischief I know so well dances in his eyes. “Wait and see.” With only one floor to travel we’ve already arrived, and he pulls me into the foyer, places me in front of him, and opens the garage door. As I walk forward the motion detectors turn on the lights, and I gasp when I see a shiny, metallic-blue 911 with a huge red bow on top.

I whirl on Chris. “You bought me a car?” I ask, stating the obvious.

“Actually, I bought you two. There’s a silver convertible Mercedes waiting for you in San Francisco. And you can trade either or both for something else.”

“Chris, that’s two one-hundred-thousand-dollar cars!”

His hands come down on my shoulders. “Stop putting a price tag on things, Sara. We have money, and I want you to have anything you want or need. The money isn’t any sort of control over you. But it does gives us control over our lives. And it lets us make a difference in other people’s lives. Together. We do these things together.”

I inhale and let it out. “I know—I do. My father used money as a weapon for so many years, it’s still a trigger. I hate that he still impacts me that way.”

He smiles, banishing the darkness, and holds out the remote. “Go on. You know you want to check it out.”

I nod, the fun of the moment rising. “Yes!” I take the remote and run toward the car, climbing inside to inhale the new leather scent and run my hand over the dash. “It’s gorgeous!”

He squats down beside me. “You’re sure? You like it?”

“I love it!” I turn toward him and set my feet on the garage floor, my knees touching his, then I reach into my pocket and hold out the box on my palms.

His brow dips and he strokes his name on the top. “That’s my signature.”

“Yes. I had it copied. And the wood—”

“Is African. I know.”

“Open it,” I urge.

He flips the lid and stares down at the brush. He’s silent so long, I say, “It’s—”

“The first brush I ever painted with. I know.” He looks skyward a moment, as if battling some emotion, before his hand comes to rest on the back of my head and he pulls my mouth to his, kissing me softly, tenderly. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “This gift represents both of the most defining moments of change in my life: my decision to paint, and my decision to let go of the past and hold onto you.”

•    •    •

It seems like the holiday is over in the blink of an eye, and then it’s time to leave for the States. Chris encourages me to dress comfortably to sleep on the plane, and like him, I choose a sweat suit. I scoff at the idea that I will ever sleep on a plane that could drop out of the air at any moment, but after a winter storm delays our flight for eight hours, and with the help of a Bloody Mary, I change my mind.

At the private hangar in San Francisco where we land, we meet Alex, the newest local Walker Security employee. Alex is tall, with wavy dark hair, and, like Jacob, appears to be in his early thirties. He’s dressed sharply in a suit and is reserved and efficient. He delivers us to our apartment at four o’clock, just two hours before we’re to meet Mark and Crystal at the restaurant, but Chris and I are both too curious about the meeting to cancel.

As we step out of the car into the sixty-something-degree air, Chris makes arrangements with Alex for our later departure.

My cell phone buzzes and I glance down to find a text message from Katie.

Are you there yet? I confirmed that the cakes and flowers were delivered. I need to know your choices by six or we will lose your Valentine’s Day bookings.

I quickly type,
We just arrived at the building
.

Chris joins me again. “Apparently the press has been here today, in anticipation that we’ll be around for the memorial. We’re going to leave out of the garage tonight to be safe.”

My phone buzzes again and I glance down at Katie’s message.

Oh good. Let me know!

I hold up my phone to show Chris. “Katie is freaking out about the cakes and flowers.”

“She’s going to be a crazy woman by the time the wedding happens. Let’s preserve her sanity as long as we can for our own good, and go sample the cakes.” He wraps his arm around me and leans in close, his breath a hot fan on my neck. “And then I’ll have you for dessert.”

I laugh as we start toward the sliding glass doors. “We don’t have time for that.”

“Cake sampling is five minutes. You, an hour.”

Thanks to that erotic promise, I’m all smiles as we enter the building.

When we pass the security post, there’s a fifty-something man in a suit there.

“I miss Jacob,” I say after we’re out of his earshot.

“The new man’s name is Max,” Chris says. “He’s ex-military and very capable.”

I sigh as we step into the elevator. “I don’t like change.”

The doors shut and Chris slides his hand to my hip. “Things change, baby.”

“Meaning us? Will we change, too?”

“Yes. We’ll get old and gray.” The doors ding and the elevator opens. “But I’ll still be able to do this.” He lifts me and throws me over his shoulder, and I laugh, remembering the first time he did this, and his “Me Tarzan, you Jane,” proclamation.

“Put me down, Tarzan,” I order as he walks down the living room stairs and crosses to the kitchen door. “The blood is rushing to my head.”

He stops dead in his tracks. “Holy shit.”

I try to twist around and see what he’s seeing. “What?”

He slides me down to the floor and turns me to face the kitchen island. Flowers cover every bit of it, and just beyond, in the windowed alcove, our kitchen table is completely buried under a variety of cupcake choices.

“We sure aren’t going to be hungry if we taste all those cupcakes,” I say.

“We aren’t doing this today. There’s no way the florist and the bakery had the same deadline.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “This is Katie’s deadline, and she’s going to have to wait until tomorrow.”

I grin, walking to the counter to inspect the many bouquet choices, immediately eying an arrangement of pink roses.

“I know, Katie,” I hear Chris say. “Yes. I know. Yes.” I smile, certain she is lecturing him, one of the few people on the planet who can pull it off. “Pay triple if you have to,” he finally says. “Just get us until tomorrow. We have the memorial. Not exactly the right day to be making wedding decisions.” There is a long silence. “Yes. No. I need—Katie. Tomorrow.”

I walk toward the cupcakes, and the counters by the fridge and stove are also covered in flowers, including another pink rose arrangement. I lift it from the vase to see how it’s different from the one I already admired. Chris enters the kitchen and I glance at him. “Everything okay?

“Tomorrow is fine,” he replies, stepping up beside me.

“Thank goodness.” I show him the flowers. “I like these. I love the whole leather and pink thing. It’s so us. I still think you should wear your leather jacket, not a tux.” I glance up and go still at the way his expression has gone all hard lines and tension. “What’s wrong?”

He takes the flowers from me and sets them back in the vase, his hands going to my waist as he backs me against the wall. “One day,” he says, his voice a tight band of well-contained emotion, “I’ll want the whip again.”

My hands go to his upper arms. “What just happened?”

“Katie. Something she said.”

“What could she have possibly said to make you think about the whip, Chris?”

“Nothing I want to talk about when we need to be ready to leave in an hour and a half.”

“We can cancel dinner. You’re what’s important.”

“We aren’t canceling; we came back early for that. And I’m not letting this interrupt our lives. Ever. But I need to know that you know this battle isn’t over. Tell me you can handle it.” It’s a terse, urgent command.

“I know that. And I can handle it. We can handle it.”

“I won’t go there again, I promise. I’ll want to, but I won’t. If I didn’t believe that with everything I am, Sara, I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me.”

“I believe you, Chris.”

“It builds. I never know the trigger. Maybe it’s the next Dylan—and there
will
be another Dylan, through our charity work. Or maybe it’s a nightmare about the shooting. I don’t know what it will be, but it will happen. But you need to know this, Sara: I’ll tell you. I won’t hide it. I won’t shut you out.”

“I know. Remember when you told me to see you? To
really
see you? I do, Chris. I really see you, and I love every part of you. I love you,” I repeat.

He swallows the proclamation with a kiss that is more than simple passion. It is a question that I’ve answered before, but something Katie said made him doubt, and I know what he means by triggers. There are things that make me remember Michael. Things that make me remember my father, and fear Chris will one day leave me. But Chris no longer sets those triggers off for me. No matter what he feels now, I am not afraid that this is the end.

He tears his mouth from mine, his gaze heavy-lidded, his desire so raw and palpable that I’m right there with him in an instant, wet, hot, and in need in a way only he can satisfy.

As if echoing my thoughts, he says, “I need to be inside you, and out of my own head.” His voice is rough erotic sandpaper on my nerve endings, and he doesn’t give me time to respond. He turns me to the wall and tears my shirt over my head, one arm wrapping my waist, holding me to him, another hand cupping my breasts, fingers shoving down my bra, pinching my nipples. Sensations spiral through me and already my knees are weak, my body heavy against his. He abandons my breasts and I want to pull him back but already he is shoving down my sweatpants. I help him every way I can, and somehow I am able to toe off one of my shoes but I’m pretty sure he somehow gets the second one off for me.