Kiss Me Awake (19 page)

A few minutes later she stood hunched under the showerhead like a frightened child. It was only a nightmare, a trick of the mind, but it was so vivid, so real. Hot water streamed over the back of her head, running down her spine, yet still she shivered. She pinched her eyes tight, squeezing out the twisted and grotesque face that terrorized her in her sleep. She’d read about hell, and last night she swore she had paid it a visit.

Work and coffee was what she needed. Caffeine and getting her focus back on her objective would chase away the residual effects. Maybe.

She had considered talking to someone. A counselor or a friend, but the dreams had been less frequent since she’d started running. The trauma of last night’s terror had made up for the lull.

Jaida slipped a lime green sundress from the hanger and pulled it over her head. Her eyes were puffy with purpled grooves carved underneath. She covered the evidence of her miserable night with a layer of concealer to the dark circles, and a dab of blush to her cheeks then examined her work. No one would be the wiser.

She sat on the edge of the unmade bed and slipped on a pair of low-heeled sandals, her hands trembling the whole time. She had to shake this off, but her coping skills were failing her.

What she couldn’t resolve in her waking hours hounded her in her sleep and left her barely functional during the day. She needed peace. But there was no peace for the wicked. Isn’t that what the Bible said? Is that what she was? Wicked?

Not willing to go there, she shook her head at her own question and stood, her legs as unsteady as the rest of her. She climbed in the car and headed out, picking up a large coffee at the McDonald’s drive-through.

The familiar stretch of freeway she drove every day was behind her, her exit a distant blur in the rearview mirror. The detour was unplanned, and she would be late, but after last night, it was unavoidable.

The coffee was too hot when she took her first sip, and she scorched her tongue. She popped the plastic lid off and set the cup in the drink holder, the vented air blowing down on it. She didn’t want to feel anything. Not fear, or shame, or remorse. Emotions scared her. They were dangerous. They left you weak and exposed. Just like love. But today she couldn’t seem to override them.

The one-hour drive to Los Angeles had taken her two. She pulled into the dim light of the parking garage, the sound of her tires and the hum of her engine echoing in the concrete box. She took the ticket the machine spit out, waited for the red-and-white bar to raise, and found one lone spot near the front of the garage.

Her car was just one among rows and rows of vehicles. More SUVs and fewer hybrids filled the spaces. Was it only a couple of years ago that the Prius dominated the Los Angeles freeways?

Jaida unhooked her seatbelt and reached for the door, then drew her hand back, dropping it into her lap. When the reality of what she was doing sank in, she was no longer in a hurry to go inside.

She reached for her coffee and sat back, her gaze scanning the garage looking for one car in particular. She didn’t see it, but there were two more levels above her.

Instead of sitting here worrying over seeing him again, she should be in Fullerton, working on her cases. At least working on
the
case. She set the cup down and shoved the key back in the ignition, hesitated, then pulled it out again, her shoulders slumping.

Why did she need him? She didn’t understand it, but she couldn’t deny it. She needed Spencer. She looked up at the sound of an electronic squawk. Three cars down to her left, headlights flashed and a tall brunette with waist-length hair climbed inside a silver Audi. Jaida slipped the keys inside her purse and got out.

The elevator ride was smooth, not jerky like some of the older buildings. It shot to the top floor in seconds.
Seraph
was painted in gilt script on the top half of the glass doors and displayed prominently in large carved lettering over the information desk. The woman behind the marble topped counter pointed her in the direction of Spencer’s secretary.

It was incredible, what he’d done with this place. The house she lived in, the car she drove, and Spencer’s monthly checks were a testimony to his financial accomplishments, but seeing all of this with her own eyes left her speechless. He had done quite well without her.

The nameplate situated on the edge of the desk read: Rebecca Childers. Ms. Childers wore her graying hair coiled and pinned into a knot at the nape of her neck. The navy basket-weave skirt and blazer she wore, Jaida guessed to be from St. John.

She looked the woman over for any flaw and found none. No young sensual secretary for Spencer. His hiring habits were another example of his virtuous character, the one that widened the rift between her less-than-stellar one.

She took a breath and stepped up to the desk. “Excuse me, Ms. Childers?”

Eyes the shade of cinnamon peered up from the open book she cradled in her hands. “Can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Gordon.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She tucked a thin ribbon marker in the pages, closed the book, and set it aside.

Before Jaida could answer, the woman slid a date book in front of her and flipped the cover open.

“I’m afraid you won’t find my name in there,” she said. What would she do if she refused her?

Ms. Childers straightened, her spine not touching the back of the chair. “I’m sorry, dear, but Mr. Gordon doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. I can make you one now if you’d like.” She reached for a pen.

Jaida shook her head. “It really is a shame when a woman has to make an appointment to see her husband.” It was the lack of sleep she told herself. She hadn’t meant to say it, to strike a blow to Spencer, but there was no taking it back now.

Ms. Childers gave her a doubtful look. Her lightly penciled brows rose in silent question. It looked like she wasn’t the only one who had kept their marriage a secret.

“Mr. Gordon is your husband?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“Yes, he is.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Jaida,” she said, hesitating when it came to her surname. The name Gordon would be a given. She didn’t need to explain her use of another name, or her reason for taking it on.

“Please.” She gestured to the russet suede chairs in the far corner. “Have a seat. There’s a pot of fresh coffee and blueberry muffins from the bakery right over there.” She pointed, indicating a little nook on the other side of the waiting room.

“Thank you,” Jaida said then sat in the chair nearest to the woman’s desk, which was still a good stretch away. Her stomach churned. She’d had enough coffee on the drive over. A muffin might quell the shakiness overcoming her, but she didn’t think she could hold it down.

Ms. Childers picked up the phone and their eyes met. She turned away with her head dipped low and her hand cupped around the mouthpiece. The woman didn’t believe her. Wasn’t she in for a surprise? Did she think she was some lunatic with plans to bribe Spencer or sue him for alimony?

Her palms were clammy, like the skin under her arms. She wove her fingers together and clasped her hands in her lap. Why was she so nervous?

She blew out a breath and straightened. Ms. Childers couldn’t have spoken more than a few words before she hung up the phone and looked at her from across the room. Jaida moved to the edge of the seat, preparing to rise. Would he see her? She couldn’t imagine him turning her away.

A door across the hall opened, and Spencer stood in the doorway. She automatically came to her feet when he saw her.

“Jaida.” He gave her a brusque nod. The light from the window behind him gilded the blond in his hair like a halo. She half smiled at the image.

He held the door for her, stepping back in silent invitation. She entered and her hand grazed his. She wanted to reach for it, wanted to absorb the comfort and strength she knew it held, but she held back, afraid he would refuse her, just as she had refused him.

She breathed in. “It smells like citrus,” she said.

He shut the door, his hand sliding from the knob and into his pant’s pocket. “Air freshener.” He gave her a quizzical look, his penetrating gaze asking her what she was doing here.

She shrugged in response and tried to smile, but it felt false and he saw right through it. Her nerves tightening, she slid her fingers together then pulled them apart. She ran them over the desk’s marble top. The wood base was a warm cherry, and it complemented the chocolate suede couch on the other side of the office.

“You outdid yourself, you know. Everything is so well done.” She touched the aluminum shade on the desk lamp. It was a Pablo Pardo design. She lifted her eyes, daring a glance in his direction. He still hadn’t moved away from the door.

His silvery-green gaze was fastened on her, but he didn’t respond, didn’t take part in her weak attempt at conversation. And the way he watched her only served to heighten the anxiety unraveling her on the inside.

She tried again. “I haven’t been here since the real estate agent walked us through.” The building was in poor condition back then, inferior next to the neighboring structures. But Spencer had a vision, and he had more than fulfilled it.

“I’m glad you appreciate it.”

She heard the familiar clicking and looked down at his left hand. His fingers were wrapped around the pen, the end of it at the mercy of his nervous thumb.

She looked into his eyes. “Old habits die hard.”

“Why are you here? Is this your way of getting even? Letting my staff know that I have a wife who wants nothing to do with me?” 

It was the calm he had greeted her with, but the storm was just beginning to brew. He moved away from the door. “I apologize, Jaida. I’m sorry I told your friends about us. Are you able to call it even now?”

“That isn’t why I came. I…I just needed to see you.” She lowered her face and closed her eyes. She’d been caught up in the moment and didn’t think before she spoke.

“Why?”

She looked up at that, a mixture of hurt and offense tightening around her heart. “What kind of question is that?”

“A reasonable one. Why did you suddenly need to see me? You made it known you didn’t want me around. What changed?”

“I
am
your wife.”

“Do you tell that to the men you’re with? That you’re my wife?”

She jerked her chin up. “Do you think that matters to them?”

“I would think that it should matter to you.”

Her hands started to shake, and like an electrical current the trembling spread up her arms and through the rest of her body. She remembered the gnarled hands that reached for her, the hideous faces that mocked and tormented her.

Fear flashed in Spencer’s eyes. She was scaring him. Did he think she had lost her mind? Maybe she had.

Their spat forgotten, he stretched out his hand, beckoning her. She stepped into his arms and pressed her face to his chest. He was her lifeline, and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his back.
Don’t let me go.

But Spencer didn’t hear her silent plea. He stepped back and lifting her chin with his fingers, he angled her face toward him, his own need exposed and as raw as her own.

It was she who made the first move, touching her lips to his. He responded, his ardor unexpected. Instead of pushing her away, he welcomed her, his hands capturing her waist and drawing her closer.

Yes, this was it. This was what she needed. This was what she wanted. She missed him. Missed what they had. Missed what she had kicked, and scratched, and fought so hard to free herself from.  

He dragged his fingers through her hair whispering her name over and over again. His lips moved to her jaw, her neck and then without warning, he gripped her shoulders and pushed her away.

“Stop,” he rasped.

“I don’t want to.” She tried to shrug from his grip, to get beyond the barrier he’d erected with his arms, but he was too strong for her.

“It’s no longer about what you want. I thought love would be enough to bring you back.” He pressed his lips into a tight line and shook his head. “But I was wrong.”

He watched her then slowly lowered his arms and moved away, placing himself behind the safety of his desk. Her mouth went slack. What was he doing? Why was he ruining this? 

“Are you asking for a divorce?” The thought terrified her. But why should it? She’d been living without him. What difference did a piece of paper make?

His eyes glistened. Fear gripped her when he didn’t answer. Was that it? A divorce? He said he never would, but everyone had their limits. Had she pushed him beyond his?

“No, Jaida. I’m not asking for a divorce. I’m asking you to love me.” He waved a hand to where they stood clinging only seconds ago. “And that’s not what this is about. Is it? Not for you anyway.”

The truth was a rapier—razor sharp and precise—and it cut to the quick. She dropped her gaze to her bared toes peeking up from her sandals. Spencer was right. He was always right when it came to her.

She closed her eyes. “I wish it was Spencer.”
I wish it was.