Run to Me (23 page)

As soon as she’d closed the door to her room, he’d gone down to his basement and beat the hell out of his boxing bag. The exercise hadn’t helped. If he’d been able to beat on himself, he would have felt much better.

After that, he’d stalked around the house, muttering and cursing himself like a madman. Then he’d made a decision. He couldn’t do this to her. After almost destroying her one time, no way in hell would he do it again.

Wanting to get it over with, determined to do the right thing for once in his life, he’d put in a call to Noah.

In a somewhat groggy voice, McCall had answered, “What’s up?”

Only then had Ethan looked at his clock. His mind was so screwed up, he hadn’t even looked at the time. It was six hours later in Paris … three in the morning.

“Damn, I just looked at the clock. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll go to another room so I won’t wake Mara. What’s wrong?”

“I need you to find someone else to protect Shea.”

“Why?”

“Because she can’t stay here any longer.”

Noah blew out a resigned sigh. “What did you do?”

Ethan swallowed a humorless laugh. Noah McCall knew him better than anyone. “So far, nothing more than hurt her feelings. If she stays here, there’s no telling what else I’ll do.”

“She’s only been there a week or so. I figured you could keep things together for at least a month. Besides, she needs you.”

Alert to every nuance and word from his former boss, Ethan jotted a note, released a silent sigh. “You’re right. I’m just being a selfish prick.”

Noah snorted. “Some things don’t change.”

“I’ll try to keep my mouth shut.”

“Maybe that’s your problem.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means opening up is damn hard for some. Especially for people like us. But once you open up with the right person, life improves tremendously.”

Despite the underlying message, Ethan knew Noah was referring to his own shaky and volatile relationship with Samara before they married. Ethan had seen their pain up close. Though it had worked out for them, they’d gone through hell to get there.

“What I did was unforgivable,” Ethan said.

“How do you know unless you ask for it?”

Ethan changed the subject. “Anything else on the mole?”

“Not yet. How about on your end—any promising sketches?”

“Not really. Mostly half drawings and a few side profiles. Nothing that’s going to tell us anything.”

“Keep in touch. Give some thought to what I said. Women have an amazing capacity for forgiveness. Something I’m grateful for every day.”

Ethan had hung up the phone without responding. He didn’t deserve Shea’s forgiveness and seriously doubted she’d give it to him if he asked. Either way, she was here for the duration.

Now he picked up the sheet of paper he’d scribbled on last night. It’d been almost a year since he had worked for LCR. He didn’t think he was rusty, but he wanted to make sure he understood Noah’s message. Then he would destroy what he had written.

LCR had its own code. Created and taught by Noah, it was known to only a select few operatives. They were the elite, chosen by Noah to be the eyes and ears for the organization. LCR employed hundreds of people for a variety of jobs, but only twenty such operatives existed with this particular knowledge. They were the most trusted. Ethan and Shea had been part of that group.

Based upon certain words in a conversation, Noah could communicate another message. As technology advanced, so did the possibility that unwanted ears could be listening. Noah had developed the most simplistic method to communicate the most secretive of messages. And the hell of it was, it worked.

Noah’s comments last night indicated that the mole was close to being identified. If they broke away from their original plan, he might suspect something and pull back. Noah felt it’d be a month, maybe more, before they could confirm his identity.

As much as Ethan didn’t like it, he knew Noah was right. If they made changes now, the mole might back away. They couldn’t take the risk.

He slid the piece of paper into his shredder and listened to the satisfying munching of the machine.

He’d made the vow to protect Shea, and that’s what he’d damn well do. Not only from Rosemount, but also from himself.

“I need you to find my woman again.”

“I already found her for you one time and your people screwed up …
again.”

The miles separating them didn’t mask the young man’s condescension. Donald grabbed his new stress ball. Since he’d become acquainted with this young twerp, he’d gone through three of them. Someday very soon, he was so going to enjoy making this punk eat his words. Only by envisioning his dazed blank expression when he had served his purpose could Donald even stomach talking with him.

Donald made sure his voice in no way indicated his antipathy. “The woman was an amateur.”

“You hired her.”

The grip on the stress ball went tighter. “You, however, are a professional. You can get the job done better than anyone.”

“Huh?”

Ah yes, not so certain now. “I want you to retrieve Ms. Monroe. You’ll be highly compensated, of course. But I also want you to bring me Mr. Bishop.”

An obnoxious snort assaulted Donald’s ears. “You’d have to pay me freakin’ millions to risk that.”

“All right.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You bring me my woman, I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty thousand. Bring Mr. Bishop also, I’ll give you a million.”

“A million for the Monroe bitch. Two million more for Bishop.”

“Done.”

Donald grinned at the audible nervous swallow. Money was a powerful motivator … second only to his special drug. However, this man would be torn. Capturing two LCR operatives, one of them as lethal as Ethan Bishop, would be virtually impossible. Donald had nothing to lose. If this young man was unsuccessful, he had no information to give on Donald’s whereabouts. If, however, he succeeded in bringing in both prizes, Donald would not only have his woman back, he’d have Ethan Bishop and this young man in his grip. And if only his woman returned, no matter. He’d have his woman and still get the young man. A win for Donald any way he looked at it.

“It’ll take me some time to come up with a plan. Bishop’s taken the woman off somewhere. Only a few people know where they are.”

“I’ll leave all the tedious details to you. Just contact me when the job is going to be done and I’ll make the arrangements for transfer.”

Satisfied with the call, Donald replaced the handset on the base. Tossing the stress ball into the air, he leaned forward to catch it. The chair rolled backward, and he fell to his knees. The ball bounced across the room and landed in a corner. A brilliant heat flushed his cheeks; he peeked over his desk to make sure the door was closed.

He picked himself up from the floor, straightened his clothes, and returned to his desk.
Damned chair should be outlawed.

His coordination was off because of his need for his kitten. He had suffered tremendously in her absence. The original plan of using his damaged creature had been delayed; he hadn’t recovered as quickly as Donald had hoped. An infection in his lungs had developed into pneumonia, and only then had they learned that his designer drugs reduced the effectiveness of antibiotics. His poor pet had almost died.

His condition had improved, but he was still weeks away from full recovery. If the cocky young LCR operative didn’t return his woman, his secret weapon would be waiting in the wings.

Warm summer breezes, glorious searing sun, and the quiet peaceful beauty of the Smokies turned into the perfect healing combination. Time passed at a slow, undemanding pace, and Shea grew healthier and stronger. Memories still erupted like the popping of tiny bubbles in her mind. Though they were not all pleasant, Shea forced herself to treasure each one for what it was—a piece of herself. Each memory made up the woman she’d become, and more than anything, she wanted to rediscover that person in her entirety … warts and all.

The nights continued to be the worst as nightmares continued to stoke the memories. She often waited until she no longer had a choice before she went to bed, knowing that the instant she closed her eyes, it would begin.

Last night had been one of the most awful. Ethan had come to her room several times, but she’d refused his comfort. She knew he wanted to help. The anger and helplessness sparkling in his eyes told her he shared her torture. Despite his obvious concern, Shea was determined to handle things on her own. She no longer allowed Ethan inside her room or her nightmares.

They existed as polite strangers. Though his protection and concern for her were obvious, he maintained his distance, setting up a barrier she didn’t know how to penetrate.

She stayed out of his way as much as possible. The deck at the back of his house gave her the air and sunshine she thrived on, as well as the privacy. Ethan rarely ventured out there. Most of the time, he was working outside, coming in only for meals and sleep.

They had eased into an odd and lonely routine. In the mornings, he would prepare breakfast, and as she ate he gently but inexorably interrogated her about her nightmares and memories. She rarely saw him again until dusk.

Dinnertime was the most awkward. Since he made breakfast, she had taken to making their evening meals. Ethan always ate quickly, rarely saying a word until he finished. Then he would thank her politely for preparing dinner and disappear once again, either into his office or the gym downstairs.

She told herself she should be happy he’d made his position clear so soon. Prevention of a needless heartache. Unfortunately, it was too late. Her heart already ached.

Now, as the sun forced the moon into hiding, Shea rubbed gritty, sleep-deprived eyes. Her mind blurred from exhaustion, she contemplated what last night’s nightmares had revealed. Putting a positive spin on these memories was difficult. Though she wished she could say they were simply nightmares, with no base in reality, she recognized the truth. The recollections of abuse and neglect were real. She’d had a horrific childhood.

A knock on the door was barely a warning before Ethan’s golden head appeared. “Feel like breakfast?”

The concern in his eyes steeled her resolve. So what if she’d had a bad upbringing. Many people had experienced much worse and still lived productive lives. So could she.

“Give me a few minutes to shower and I’ll be down.”

His expression revealing that he wanted to say more, he nodded and closed the door.

She showered, slipped on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and quickly braided her hair. Ethan would have breakfast waiting, and she needed to spend as much time on her face as possible. She applied makeup, paying special attention to the shadows under her eyes. After surveying the results, she released a disgusted sigh, grabbed a tissue, and wiped half of it off. A clown’s face wasn’t any more attractive than that of a washed-out insomniac.

At last, halfway satisfied with the results, she stuck her tongue out at the image, whirled around, and headed downstairs.

Ethan stood beside the kitchen table. Tall, ruggedly masculine, and as out of reach as the sun.

Pulling out a chair, she sat down and took a bracing gulp of Ethan’s strong coffee. Before he could begin his questions, she asked, “How much do you know about my past … before I came to LCR?”

Across from her, Ethan scooped scrambled eggs onto a plate, his stony expression a good indication that he knew a lot. He took a sip of his coffee before replying gruffly, “Enough to know that if you never got your memories back, you’d be a hell of a lot better off.”

“You know about my stepfather?”

A wary look came over his face. “A little.”

“Did you know that from the time I was twelve until I ran away at fifteen, he raped me repeatedly?”

“Yes,” Ethan said quietly.

“My mother knew about it. Told me I shouldn’t complain because he bought the food and my clothes.”

His grim, unsurprised look told her he knew that also. “What else do you remember?”

She lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Bits and pieces. I don’t remember my real father. Before Mama married my stepfather, she had enough boyfriends to fill a football stadium. They never touched me. Once she married, that changed. To Mama, it wasn’t a big deal. The first time it happened, she forced me to drink a glass of wine because I couldn’t stop crying when she told me what she wanted me to do. After it was over, I threw up on him.”

“You never told me about that.”

She shrugged again. “It kept him off me for almost a month. Then, one night, he came into my room. He’d been drinking. He poured something vile down my throat. Told me if I threw up on him again, he’d kill me. I still threw up. Just went to the bathroom to do it after it was over.

“The older I got, the more I resisted. He continued to force alcohol down me, trying to make me more cooperative. One day, I hit him with a lamp. Mama had to take him to the hospital for stitches. I ran away. The police tracked me down. He’d always threatened that if I ever told anyone, he’d kill me. I couldn’t take it anymore, figured death had to be better. So I finally told them what had happened. He and my mama went to jail, and I went into foster care.”

“What do you remember about that?”

“That it wasn’t much better.”

“You had one good experience … do you remember it?”

Her mouth moved up into a small smile. “Allison and Todd Hobart.” The young couple with two little kids had taken her in with open arms and understanding smiles. For the first time, she saw how a normal family behaved. Parents who loved each other and loved their children. The Hobarts had given her such hope. She’d lived with them for three months. Had just begun to feel safe and secure when her mother was released from jail. After she’d convinced a judge that she was reformed and wanted her daughter back, Shea had been forced to go home. Having seen what life could be like, she ran away again days later.