Laws of Attraction (22 page)

“You’ll be safely in the car, feeding me password possibilities through my earpiece once I access the offices.”

She swallowed. “That’s ridiculous. I’m familiar with every nook and cranny, including the private back corridor to the offices. If you’re going in, so am I.”

“No.”

“Don’t argue with me, McQuade. You know as well as I do this is the fastest way, and carries the least risk to both of us.”

“No.”

“I know exactly where everything is, and I won’t fumble around and waste time. Including wasting precious time ping-ponging passwords back and forth when I could just be typing them in.”

He scowled. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it. You do have to admit it’s the smartest option. And do you think if you’re caught that I’m going to let you take the rap all by yourself? I’ll step right up and accept my share.”

His scowl blackened. “Shit!”

“No guts, no glory.”

“Lord, save me.” He sighed. Got up and yanked open a drawer, pulled out a legal tablet and pencils. Brought his laptop in and booted it up. “Step one—we plan every detail.”

* * *

Three hours later, they sat at the island surrounded by charts, maps, lists, printed schematics of the building Dallas had accessed on his laptop, and half a dozen empty beer bottles.

“That’s it. We’re as prepared as we’re gonna get. I need to call Janet.” Dallas stood, stretched sinewed arms. “The Action Channel is running a Bruce Lee marathon. When I’m done, want to watch it?”

“Sure. Great idea.” Mia suspected, and appreciated, it was Dallas’ way of distracting her from their looming hazardous mission. She jumped up and strode to the sink. In an effort to burn some of the adrenaline coursing through her, she opened the dishwasher and started loading supper dishes. “I’ll clean up here while you call.”

He nodded. Pulling out his cell, he strode into the living room.

Because he wanted privacy, or because she was clattering dishes? Mia shrugged and continued the chore. Either way, Dallas wouldn’t keep anything from her that would jeopardize her safety. She knew that as well as she knew her own name.

She took her time, wiping down the stove, island, and counters, and scouring out the sink. Both to give him plenty of time to complete the call and to try and settle her clamoring nerves.

Then she made three bags of microwave popcorn, dumping the fragrant, fluffy kernels into a big red bowl. Finished, she headed into the living room, stepping softly in case he was still talking.

She stopped short. Dallas stood beside the sofa clutching the remote with shaking fingers. Body rigid, chest heaving, his stunned profile was riveted to the flickering images on the TV screen.

A shattered airplane summersaulting through space, passengers screaming as dropping cabin pressure sucked a woman out a jagged hole in the fuselage. Flying shrapnel sheared off limbs and blood spurted. Then the crippled plane hit the ground, exploding into a raging inferno while the crying, shrieking, terrified survivors fought to escape.

Horror gripped her before she recognized the main actor silhouetted against the flames. “Dallas, what’s wr—”

He turned, his skin ashen. Stark, haunted eyes met hers as his throat worked. “Crash.”

Dropping the bowl, she rushed over to him. “This isn’t a news broadcast. It’s not really happening. This is an old movie … it’s been around for ages.”

He stood frozen, shaking violently.

“It’s not real.” Grabbing the remote from his unresisting fingers, she stabbed the off button, making the screen go black. She flung the remote aside, cradled his face in her hands. “Dallas, it’s okay, the plane crash didn’t really happen.”

He flinched back. His Adam’s apple convulsed, and his fingers flew up to touch the ruby stud in his ear. “It. Did.”

Mia’s stomach twisted as terrible certainty snaked through her. “Dallas?” she said very gently. “Was Tyler-Anne killed in a plane crash?”

He clenched his jaw, inhaled a long unsteady breath. Swallowed. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Here, sit down.” Gripping his shoulders, she pressed him down onto the sofa. She knelt on the cushion beside him and hugged him hard. “I’m sorry.”

Dallas turned toward her, wrapped his arms around her and clung. He buried his face in her hair and she felt his every muscled tighten with the effort to regulate his breathing, slow his trembling.

“I can deal,” he finally said, his voice graveled. “It was a long time ago. Seeing that … carnage … on TV … caught me by surprise. Sometimes even when I see raging flames and smoke, I just kind of … lock up.”

“I know. It’s okay.” She held onto him. “I understand about flashbacks.”

He slowly inhaled. Exhaled. His big body steadied. “Who hurt you, Mia?”

She drew back, looked at his strained features. “I hardly think now is the time or place to get into that.”

Dark indigo eyes compelled her. “You said you’ve never told anyone.”

“Not after the initial attempts to get someone to believe me failed.”

“Not even Valerie?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“What good would it do? It’s over now.”

“Not for you. It’d help you, to get it out.”

“And be highly selfish of me to start talking about myself when you—”

“I’d much rather talk about you. Besides, it’d help me, too. Help take my mind off … things I’d rather not dwell on.” Another inhale. “Mia, we’re almost done with this, and when it’s over … well … we— My work takes me all over the world, and I’ll be leaving. I’d like to think I left you with something.”

Her heart wrenched. They’d be going their separate ways, and she’d probably never see him again. And how like Dallas, to push aside his own pain, and focus on her. She’d never met a more unselfish person in her life.

She shivered beneath an onslaught of sudden chills. “Could we light the fire?”

“You bet.” She moved to sit beside him, and he picked up the remote from the coffee table to switch on the gas. As cheerful flames burst to life, he draped her legs with the lap quilt from the back of the sofa … a star pattern in bold blue, red and gold. “This’ll help, too.”

Mia traced the intricate stitches with a glossy pink fingertip. “You said your mom owned a quilting shop. Did she make this and that awesome quilt upstairs on your bed?”

“Yep. It’s darned near an obsession. I’ve got them all over the house.”

“What a great obsession. She’s talented. I’ve seen much less detailed work than this for sky-high prices at craft markets.”

Dallas draped an arm around the intriguing woman snuggled next to him. Smiled at her. “She gives them away by the bushel. Hell, half the U.S. is sleeping under Mama’s quilts. Ever heard of Project Linus?”

“I haven’t, no.”

“They donate cuddly new blankets to kids who are seriously ill or have been traumatized.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman,” she replied softly. “My mother … she used to make pottery.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah. I found some of her stuff in a box in the attic when I was packing to move out before college. A lot of it was smashed, but there were a couple of whole pieces. She was really good. Good enough to be a big success selling them if she’d continued.”

“Why did she quit?”

“She claimed she’d lost interest, but—” Mia hesitated. “The Colonel hated anything that took time and energy away from his needs. Mom ran herself ragged to please him and every time he ordered her to jump, she desperately strove to leap higher.” Bitterness edged her voice. “Maybe that’s why he never hit
her
.”

Sickness roiled in Dallas’ gut. “Your
father
is the one who beat you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” A lump lodged in his throat. “Your daddy is supposed to love and protect you, not hurt and betray you.”

“I survived.”

He stroked her hair. “Mia, honey … how bad did it get?”

“I … um … I had it worse than some, but not nearly as terrible as other cases I’ve seen.”

“Would you tell me about it?”

“Why? Why would you want to hear something so ugly?”

“Because when you bottle up the hurt, it eats away at your soul.”
Been there, done that, woke up screaming
. “Wouldn’t it be a relief to finally share the burden?”

“I …” Shadowed amber eyes sought his for a long, uncertain pause. “Yes,” Mia finally admitted. “Yes, it would.”

“When did it start, sweetheart?”

She sighed. “As lash-outs … when I was a toddler. I’d do something and get a smack across the butt. Or say something and get a smack across the mouth.” Her tongue touched her lower lip. “The more I got hit, the more I rebelled. My mother called me ‘headstrong and unmanageable,’ and delegated all the discipline to my father.”

He ground his back teeth together. “And his idea of discipline was the liberal use of his belt.”

She nodded. “It escalated from there. When I was four, he knocked me down a flight of stairs and I cracked my ribs. I told the doctor at the base hospital what had happened. But … My father was a high-ranking, respected officer with power and influence. It was his word against a child who’d been labeled ‘difficult.’ And back then, abuse awareness
wasn’t
part of the curriculum. It was shameful, something to be hidden.” Mia’s fingers bunched the blanket in her lap. “They didn’t want to believe me, didn’t want to deal with the red tape and repercussions. So they taped my ribs and sent me home.”

She’d begun to tremble, and Dallas squeezed her shoulders.

“When I got home, I got punished for ‘talking about family business with outsiders’ by losing ‘chow hall privileges’ for twenty-four hours. Going hungry was another regular discipline. I used to immerse myself in cartoons on TV. For a while, I could imagine myself in that cheerful, carefree world and escape the misery in my belly, the throbbing aches in my body.”

The weight on his chest made it hurt to breathe. “Ah. That explains the love for Bugs Bunny.” And the way she ate whenever she had the chance.

“Yes. So … um … eight months later when the Colonel twisted my arm and snapped my wrist, I didn’t deny the story that I’d fallen out of my bunk bed.” Her voice went quiet. “And, yeah, he repeatedly hammered it into me that it was all my fault.”

“
The sonofabitch
.” He wanted to hunt down the bullying bastard and teach him a personal lesson about tackling an opponent his own size. Dallas buried his fury. Mia didn’t need that from him right now. He kissed her temple.

“Anyway, a skull fracture when I was six was the final straw for my mother. She figured he’d eventually kill me, and he probably would have.” Mia shakily inhaled. “Mom wasn’t afraid for
me
, she was afraid of the consequences to
him
. She talked the Colonel into sending me to boarding school to ‘relieve his stress.’ Afterward, I was the recipient of an occasional ‘accident’ on holidays and summer vacations, but as I got older, I opted to stay at school year ‘round.”

“Nobody questioned that?”

“Nope. Lots of students stayed, especially kids whose parents had high-powered careers or traveled abroad. At seventeen, I left boarding school and started college with scholarships I’d earned. My first month there, during a ranting telephone call from the Colonel about my ingratitude, I hung up on him. I decided to break all contact with my parents. You can’t begin to imagine how empowered that made me feel.”

“God, you’re strong, Mia. It took smarts and determination to overcome all that. To sever ties with your abusers and carve out a new life, then put yourself through law school. Do you know how rare that kind of fortitude is? I admire the hell out of you.”

“Th-thank you. Most times, except for the occasional flashback, I try hard not to let what my parents did have any power over me. Something I learned in psychology class when I was studying for my degree in family law, is just because you have a biological connection to someone, it doesn’t obligate you to have a relationship with them. Especially if they’re hurting you, physically
or
emotionally.”

“They’ve never contacted you, even after all these years?”

“No.”

A giant fist squeezed his heart. With a ruthless, sadistic father and a doormat mother—who made excuses instead of quilts—no wonder Mia struggled with trust. Come hell or high water, he could count on his mother to stand by him. He never would have made it without her support. “Children should be able to count on their parents to protect and care for them. I’m sorry, darlin’.”

The slender shoulders beneath his arm squared. “Don’t be. My experiences made me what I am today. Made me strong. A survivor. And gave me the empathy and resolution to help others escape the cycle of abuse by practicing family law. Representing and helping women and children who’ve been victimized is what I live for.” A shuddering sigh. “Or it
was
, until Harper and Paul Grayson stole it from me. I speak for those who don’t have a voice, and they’ve silenced me.”

A terrible suspicion had begun to torment him. “Mia … did Paul Grayson … did he sexually harass you?”

She snorted. “He tried. And ended up curled on the floor choking on his nuts that my knee had jammed up into his tonsils.”

He smiled. “Good for you.”

“Not so much.” Mia hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to continue. But maybe if Dallas understood her motives, he’d know why she had to see this through. “I thought Paul was my friend. He’s five years older than me. I first met him when he gave a series of lectures my final year of law school, and I stayed afterward to ask questions. We ended up in a coffee shop talking for hours. He said I’d be a huge asset to the firm, and when I graduated, he gave me a glowing recommendation for a job. Although the only family law they practice is high-profile divorces, I took the job in order to hone my courtroom tactics. Paul even helped me study for the bar exam.”

She grimaced. “But when I started working there and saw his behavior toward the secretarial staff, I was stunned. Innuendoes, risqué jokes, an ‘accidental’ brush of his hands or body—clear incidents of sexual harassment. I got all the women together, helped them write up complaints, and brought them to Harper. I told him he’d better get rid of Paul, or I’d file formal charges.