True Vision (8 page)

“You okay?”

She sensed him standing behind her, probably too squeamish to get too close to the barfing woman. She closed her eyes tighter. “I’m fine.”

“Right.” He waited a minute while she swallowed some more then quietly asked, “Done?”

She nodded, humiliated and miserable. This had to be in the top five worst days of her life. “I think so.”

He took her arm, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Let’s get you back into the car, shall we?”

She let him lead her to the Escape and didn’t complain when he opened the passenger door for her. She wasn’t in any shape to drive. Considering how much her legs still shook, she wasn’t even sure she’d be able to walk soon.

When he settled behind the steering wheel, he adjusted the seat to accommodate his long legs then put the car in gear. “Which way home?” he asked.

She let her head fall against the headrest, wishing it would explode and get it over with, and managed to point.

He didn’t speak as he drove, as though he knew she no longer had the ability to communicate coherently. After parking in the driveway, he walked around to her side and helped her out, steadying her when she swayed. He found the key on her key ring that opened the front door and led her inside and down the hall to her bedroom. By the time she collapsed onto her bed, the migraine had reached full status, blinding her with agonizing flashes of light. If she’d been alone, or with Alex, she would have been groaning big-time.

“Just lie back,” Noah said, bending to lift her feet onto the bed.

She obeyed, not having the energy to argue or tell him to get lost. Her first priority was simple: die now to escape the pain.

When Noah sat on the edge of the bed beside her, she opened her eyes to mere slits to look at him. Surely he was going to leave now.

Instead, he asked, “Do you take migraine medication?”

She let her lids drop closed. “No.” She didn’t have the energy to tell him that this was her first.

He got up and left the room, and Charlie relaxed, her body feeling strangely leaden. It would take a crane to budge her. A moment later, she heard him return but didn’t bother to look at him. Maybe she couldn’t have if she’d tried. Then she felt the cool, damp cloth settle over her eyes and put her hand up. Her fingers encountered his wrist, and she started at the spark of awareness.

“Sometimes this helps,” he said. “Just relax. Breathe and relax.”

She focused on a few deep breaths, embarrassed when a hot tear squeezed out of one eye and tracked back into her hair. Oh, God, she was such a freaking wuss. But the pain, God, it was killing her.

Noah got up and she heard the telltale sound of the blinds being closed. And then she sensed she was alone.

She let the tears she’d been suppressing all day go.

CHAPTER
FOURTEEN

N
oah stood in Charlie Trudeau’s living room and did a slow turn, taking it in. It hadn’t been her house first, he decided. The furniture was too old, the décor too old-fashioned.

At the shelving unit that held the TV, he glanced over the photographs in mismatched frames. Some looked a hundred years old, but the more recent ones showed a family in varying degrees of age. One of an older woman and Charlie outside caught his eye, and he picked it up. Charlie looked happy, and young, maybe sixteen. She had her arms thrown around the neck and shoulders of a woman who looked about sixty. Noah wondered if that sparkle in Charlie’s eyes had dimmed because she’d gotten older or because of something else. Life tended to do that to some people. Beat out the light in their eyes.

Setting aside the photo, he glanced back down the hall toward Charlie’s closed bedroom door. He debated checking on her but held back. He knew from experience that any little sound during a migraine could make the top of your head feel like it was going to blow off. Instead, he explored, telling himself he wasn’t breaking any laws without a search warrant. He’d been invited in, more or less. Besides, he wasn’t looking for evidence. Well, not criminal evidence.

He started in the second bedroom, which he was surprised to see was the master bedroom. The old woman’s bedroom. She must have died recently, he realized, because it smelled like lilacs and not the least bit stale. The wrought-iron bed was big and neatly made, a homemade quilt in pastels folded at the foot. Feeling slightly guilty, he drew open the bottom drawer of the huge, oak bureau. That’s where many people kept their secrets, he’d learned over the years. Bottom drawers.

The drawer held personal papers. Tax forms with the name Lillian Trudeau at the top. A copy of her will. Mortgage papers. Medical bills. He shuffled through the pile, not interested in snooping into the details of Lillian Trudeau’s life. He wanted something, anything, that would tell him why Charlie would be so hesitant to tell him the truth about her mother. What the hell difference did it make if she admitted the woman had a sister?

His fingers found something thicker in the pile of papers, and he sifted through the old bills and receipts to locate it. Finally, it slid into his hand. An envelope of photos, the kind that developed on the spot.

He sat back on his heels and pushed up the flap to slide out about five stacked Polaroids. His heart thudded to a stop when he saw the first one.

Oh, fuck.

CHAPTER
FIFTEEN

H
e sat in the big truck and watched the front of her house. The blond guy was still in there. And it didn’t look like he was leaving any time soon, considering he’d left his car at the dealership.

Damn it, how was he supposed to clean up this mess when that muscle-bound oaf hung around?

His cell phone started to trill, and he rolled his eyes. Here we go again.

“Yeah?”

“Did you do it?”

“I’m trying, all right? Maybe you should just lighten up.”

Silence.

Shit. Time to backpedal. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just as frustrated as you are.”

“She knows. That bitch told her.”

“And I took care of her. We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

“When will it be done?”

“I don’t know. Tonight’s not looking good. That guy is hanging around.”

“What guy?”

“That blond guy with all the muscles. He’s not from around here. He might be a problem.”

“You need to get it done. Do you realize what she can do to us?”

“Yes.” He played it over and over in his head every damn second of every damn minute of every damn hour. “But I can’t charge in there when that guy is there. And I don’t think it’s especially smart to be sitting around here all night. People will get suspicious.”

“
Now
you’re thinking? After everything that’s happened, you choose
now
to think.”

He stiffened. When had it gotten like this between them? It used to be so good.

A gusty, disappointed sigh blew through the phone. “Forget it. Just let me know when it’s done. And don’t let me down again.”

He held the phone to his ear long after the call-ending click and imagined what it’d be like to drive out of Lake Avalon and never look back.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

C
harlie woke, aware first of the warm body curled up next to her. She trailed her fingers over soft fur and stared into the dark, disoriented. What time was it? Hell, what day was it?

Beside her, Atticus rose and arched his back. She enjoyed the moment when he snuggled his head into the palm of her hand and started to purr. Unconditional love rocked.

It took her another few moments of scratching his ears and then his belly before she remembered how she’d ended up in bed. Dick Wallace. Migraine. Noah Lassiter.

Crap.

She sat up, moving stiffly. She felt like she’d been beaten head to foot. At least the migraine was gone. Her head still ached, but nothing like it had. Must have been stress, she thought. Though it had come on so suddenly and violently. Could it be related to the sudden, inexplicable visions?

She wished, as she did every morning, that Nana were still alive. She’d know just what to say, how to explain the weird stuff happening to her.

Help me, Nana, she thought. Help me figure this out.

And then she remembered a conversation they’d had only a few short weeks before Nana died. They’d sat in the kitchen drinking coffee after consuming a breakfast of pancakes, eggs and sausage. Nana had cleared her throat in her I’m-about-to-impart-some-worldly-advice way.

“If you or your sisters ever need guidance and I’m not around, I want you to go see a good friend of mine. Don’t hesitate.”

Fear had flipped Charlie’s stomach. “Nana? Are you—”

“I’m just saying. There might come a day when you need me and I’m not here. Now hush up and listen. Her name is AnnaCoreen Tesch.” She waggled an arthritis-gnarled finger at a pink notepad on the other side of the table next to the phone. “Write it down now.”

Charlie pulled the notepad over and snagged the pen before it could roll off the curved edge of the table.

“She lives over on Sandy Beach Way. 1237 Sandy Beach Way. You can go see her any time. Alex and Sam, too. Tell her you’re my granddaughters, and she’ll give you what you need.”

“Give us what we need? Like a million dollars?”

“Write it down, child.”

Shrugging, Charlie jotted the information on the pink paper. When she was done, Nana said, “Now, put it somewhere where you won’t lose it.”

That pink slip of paper was still stuck to the refrigerator door by a Metamucil magnet.

As Charlie sat up, her fingers encountered the damp cloth, and she remembered how Noah had placed it over her eyes before he’d left her alone. She glanced at the closed bedroom door, her heart starting to beat faster. He couldn’t possibly still be here.

First stop, bathroom. There, she discovered her complexion was almost gray, and dark circles made her eyes look hollow. The last time she’d looked this bad, she’d had a killer flu.

Flu, hmm. Maybe that was what hit her so fast. That would explain the barfing and lethargy.

And then she saw that it was the middle of the night. No way would Noah still be here.

After splashing water on her face and brushing her teeth, she ventured out of the bedroom. Dead silence and moonlight filled the house, and she began to think she was indeed alone when she heard a soft snore. She saw him sprawled on her sofa, and her breath stopped.

Noah Lassiter slept without his shirt on, and holy God, what a sight. Moonlight worshipped the ridges, valleys and flat, smooth plains of his chest. One big hand splayed over his lower belly, his fingers relaxed in sleep. The back of his other hand rested over his eyes, as though he’d had to block the moonlight to sleep.

Was it warm in here?

It must be. Why else would he take off his shirt?

It hit her then that he had stayed here all day while she’d slept. What had he done for all those hours? And why? He could easily have called Logan and let him deal with getting someone to stay with her. Not that she’d needed a babysitter, but still.

Hunger nudged her, and she reluctantly turned away from Noah’s naked chest. Not that kind of hunger, she told herself as she padded into the kitchen and debated turning on the light. Not wanting to wake him, she left the light off and pulled open the refrigerator. A few pieces of cheese and some crackers, and she’d be good to go. But she paused, block of cheese in hand, surprised to see something unfamiliar in her fridge. A casserole dish covered in foil.

She flicked the foil aside, and her mouth immediately began to water.

“It’s spinach lasagna.”

She jerked in surprise, barely missing ramming her head into the freezer door as she pulled her head out and turned.

Noah leaned in the kitchen doorway, his thumb hooked in the waistband of his jeans, still beautifully shirtless.

Charlie swallowed as she deposited the cheese she’d liberated from the fridge on the counter. “Uh, hi.”

He smiled, cocked his head. “Hello to you. Feeling better?”

She swallowed again, told herself she was drooling because of the lasagna, not because he looked so absolutely freaking hot in the moonlight. Glittery green eyes, shaggy hair and cut chest. Gulp. “Yes, thank you. Uh, you cooked?”

He padded across the tile, and she glanced down, surprised that he was barefoot. Something in her stomach clutched hard. A beautiful man barefoot in her kitchen . . . how odd.

She stepped back, out of his way, as he slid the casserole dish out of the fridge and set it on the counter. “It’s not cooked yet,” he said. “I didn’t want the smell to disturb you. Migraines and food smells don’t mix.” He reached over and cranked the dial on the oven. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

She didn’t mention that it was the middle of the night. She was busy looking at the lasagna’s evenly sprinkled mozzarella and parmesan and thinking, The man
cooks
. Can I keep him?

A moment later, he flicked on the overhead light. Charlie blinked at him, belatedly realizing she wore no makeup and looked like hell.

He gazed at her with a weird, half smile as he went to work on the cork of a bottle of red wine that she knew for a fact he hadn’t found in her house. In fact, she’d had no lasagna ingredients, either.

“You went shopping?” she asked. Nice throaty growl there, Chuck, she thought, as her cheeks flooded with heat.

His half grin turned full. “Did you miss me?”

She shrugged. “Hardly knew you were gone.”

He opened a cupboard door and retrieved wineglasses. He already knew his way around her kitchen. The clutch in her gut did its thing again, and she cleared her throat. “So, you didn’t have to stay.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to be.” He splashed wine into the glasses, set aside the bottle and handed her one of the glasses. Then he clinked his own against hers. “Here’s to lasagna at two A.M.”