What She Doesn't Know (24 page)

Instead, she moved out of his grasp. What was going on here? Why was she so drawn to Christopher? Because of her need to save him, that’s what it had to be. The opposite of the transference a patient sometimes experiences with their therapist.
 

“Christopher, what we have here is double transference. I feel a strong need to help you, and you feel a need to reach out to me—for help.”

“I don’t want your help, and the only transferring going on here is you transferring your feelings for Brian to me. He was the man who was going to rescue you from your insecurities.”

She opened her mouth to rebut that but let out a breath instead. “I had built him up as my rescuer. That was a lot of my attraction, I admit. He was safe, and the distance helped me ease into our growing relationship. But I’m not sure I need rescuing anymore. Brian is not the man I thought him to be. I didn’t know him at all. I care about him, but I’m not in love with him. And now, I don’t think I ever could be.” There, she’d said what was lurking in her mind. “You may not want my help,” she said in a low voice, “but I think you need it.”

He slid off the bed and stood by the French doors gazing into the darkness, as though he couldn’t trust himself to be near her any longer.
 

She had another test for herself, this one having nothing to do with putting her ego on the line and having it stepped on. Quietly she got to her feet. She reached out to his shoulder, hesitated, then pressed her hand into the thick fabric of his shirt. His muscles were concrete-hard. He stiffened even more but didn’t move away.

“Christopher, have you ever been loved? I mean, really, truly loved no matter what you did or who you were?”

He waited a long time to answer, so long that she thought he was ignoring her. Finally he said, “No.”

“Me, either. I wonder what it would be like to loved that way. To love someone that way.”

He turned slightly, leaving her to look at his profile. “How would you know if you were doing it right? How would you know that it was even love?”

He was right; they were the last two people who should get involved in any context.

She let her hand drop. “Emmagee said something the other day, something in French. I don’t remember the words, but the gist was: don’t forget what’s important.”

“Lache pas la patate
.”

“Yeah.” It sounded even better on his lips, and she felt the same way Gonzales Addams did when Leticia spoke French. “What is most important? To you, I mean.”

“Justice.”

Taking a deep breath, she put her arms around his waist and leaned against him. The fabric of his shirt was soft and warm against her cheek. She was heartened to feel his hands on her shoulders, even though he’d eyed her dubiously, as though she had a trick up her sleeve. “
Lache pas la patate
. What’s most important?”

His fingers tightened on her shoulders. He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not the word
Justice
the way he’d said before without giving it any thought. That’s probably what he’d programmed himself to believe.

She closed her eyes and gave in to the solid strength of him. His arms went more fully around her. She could feel him breathe deeper, but not in the same sexually charged way when he’d kissed her. This was softer breathing, laced with resignation. His arms tightened, and she felt his cheek rest against the top of her head.

It was that moment when she knew what was most important to her. Not her work. Not her parental guidance campaign. Only to be held like this. To love, and be loved back, a foundation for everything else.

He hadn’t answered her, but she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was coming to the same conclusion. If he admitted it out loud, he couldn’t take it back. She had to get him to say the word. Not justice.
 

Love.

“Chris,” she said, using the shortened version for the first time. The accessible version. He tightened his hold. She wanted to stay there, but she needed to see his face. She backed away enough to look up at him. There was something raw in his expression.
Say the word, Chris. Say it.

That’s when she saw movement in her peripheral vision. She turned in time to see eyes set in a gold mask surrounded by black feathers.

“Someone’s out there! On the balcony,” she said in an urgent whisper.

He jerked around to catch the shadow of someone running toward the end of the balcony. “Stay put and lock the door,” he ordered and rushed out to give chase. She ran to the doorway, frozen in fear at the thought of someone standing there watching them.

Christopher climbed over the railing and dropped to the ground. With her heart pounding, she ran to the edge of the balcony and tried to see what was going on. His dark form raced through the courtyard and struggled through the tangle of trees at the corner. Then he disappeared, and his footsteps faded into the distance. Suddenly she felt vulnerable and alone, standing where some masked stranger had stood.

“Oh, my God, the door… it was open.” She remembered the French door in Christopher’s room, the drawings on the floor…as though someone was about to abscond with them. A shiver shook her. She’d been in the room just seconds after the stranger had been. Stranger…and murderer.

She couldn’t tear away from the railing where she watched for Christopher’s return. Her fingers gripped the ironwork so tight the edge bit into her palm.

Was this what it felt like to care about someone? To experience this nerve-shattering fear that they would be hurt, that they might never come back?
 

“Chris, please be all right.”

She listened to the sounds of the night: the rustle of wind in the trees, music, voices, laughter. People having fun while Christopher chased some shadow into the darkness of New Orleans.

Like her terrified run to save him from his alleged jump, fear settled into her being. This was far worse. Last time the villain would have been Christopher’s despair.
 

This time the villain was an unknown evil. And Christopher was in real danger.

CHAPTER 15

Christopher walked back through the trees, limping but in one piece. He saw Rita at the balcony. Her body sagged when she saw him, relief palpable in her eyes.

He stopped below her and looked up. “I want you to go home.”

He hadn’t even caught his breath yet when she opened the kitchen door to let him in a minute later. He had the crazy urge to hold her but held back, mostly because she looked like she was contemplating the same thing.
 

She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it, emphasizing each word. “I want you to go home.”

“Why?” She sounded breathless, too, but it was her bewilderment that stuck to him.

I can’t do this again.
The pressure in his chest had nothing to do with exertion or the ankle he’d twisted. The feeling that she’d been followed, the guy knowing she was staying in a house, the missing letter opener, this creepy Xanadu thing…it added up to something sinister. He could not let her get dragged into it.

He turned on the lights in the courtyard. The shadows from the branches reached like fingers across the floor. He pushed her back against the refrigerator and blocked her with his body as he watched the backyard. He detected no movement out of the ordinary.

“What is going on?” she whispered, soft and afraid and too damned close to his ear.
 

He turned to her, planting a hand on either side of her face. He wanted to kiss away the fear. Instead he had to compound it. “I don’t know. I lost the guy in the crowd for the parade.”

“The guy?”

“Ran like a guy. If it was a woman, she’s in damned good shape.”

“Aris
was
pretty fit.”
 

“Yeah, but what about the guy who wanted to walk you home? He may be involved in this, too.”

“We can’t discount him, but we can’t be sure he’s involved, either.” She took him in. “Are you all right? You were limping.”

“I twisted my ankle when I jumped. I’m fine.” Her concern wrapped around him. What was most important?
Justice
, his brain screamed. Justice and keeping her safe. “I’m fine,” he repeated, and felt her muscles relax. “You were right. Something is going on here, and it probably has to do with whatever Xanadu is. This Sira has been in the house.”

“I know. When I went to get the sketches from your room, the door to the balcony was open. I thought the wind had opened it.”

“No, in the house before tonight.” He held up the letter opener with the ‘X’ on it. “Look what he dropped.”

“Who has access to this house?”

He shrugged. “Someone at the hotel, maybe. Anyone with a pick kit.”

“Emmagee has a key, and she’s certainly in good shape.”

He shook his head. “I’ve known her most of my life. I can’t see her involved in something like this.”

“But you haven’t been in touch with her for years.”

He hadn’t really known her that well. She’d been the tagalong younger sister of a friend and a bit of a tomboy misfit. “I’m going to get a locksmith over to change the locks tonight.”

“Should we call Connard now that we have something?”

He couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped. “The police are no help. Not without proof.” He could see another woman begging the police to help her. He pushed away the memory. “All we’ve got is our story about someone lurking outside the balcony, maybe a woman who we know was in the house, but we can’t prove it.” He looked away, trying to control the anger and feelings of helplessness raging through him.
Not this time.
 

“You’re right, I suppose. Connard already thinks I’m a kook.”

 
“Go home. I’ll keep digging and keep you posted.”

She was shaking her head. “I can’t sit back a thousand miles away and wonder what’s going on. I can’t leave.”

“Stubborn, narrow-minded—are you plain out stupid?” He held up the letter opener. “It’s not a knife, but it would do in a pinch.”

Instead of being afraid, she asked, “What if there were fingerprints on it?”

He let out an agitated breath. “She wore gloves. I couldn’t see any skin at all. Besides, this isn’t a common criminal we’re dealing with. We don’t even know what we’re dealing with or what she wants. Even worse, there may be two of them. Rita, you have to go.” His voice had gone hoarse with those last words, and he could see her expression as she detected desperation.

In a soft voice, she asked, “What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She reached out and touched his raspy cheek. “I’ll be all right.”

He closed his eyes at her touch. Her hand was cool, yet her skin burned into him and made him want to press up against her and kiss her the way he’d really wanted to up in his room. He wanted to shake her silly and tell her that her promise was useless.

He’d only known this woman for mere days, yet she had him so twisted up, so worried now that her delusions weren’t…delusions. He removed her hand from his cheek before he did something rash, like he’d done earlier, but he didn’t let go. Her hand was small and soft. He squeezed it in his grip.

“Do you know what it’s like to have someone stalking you? Do you know what it’s like to live in constant fear, knowing he wants to kill you, knowing he’s ruined your life without even touching you? But that’s not enough for him. No one can help you, not the police or your parents or your friends. And even though you promise to be careful, to stay alive, you know deep down inside that he’ll probably get you anyway.”

She tugged her hand free. “You’re not talking about me, are you?”
 

He turned away from her. “Just go home.”

“No.” She stepped in front of him. “This isn’t about me at all.”

“Oh, yes, it is.”

“All right, but it’s about someone else, too. The reason you put sea monsters in your moat, I’ll bet.”

He walked away to call the hospital and warn the guard to keep a sharper eye out than usual. Rita hovered nearby, fear shadowing her eyes. Good. She needed to be scared, and more precisely, scared away. He walked into the parlor where the light from the chandelier washed down over the room. He heard the sound of her breathing, felt her warmth as she took hold of his arm. She looked beautiful, ready to fight him, ready to pull out his heart and tackle every tear and hole with needle and thread.

“I’m not even thinking about leaving until you tell me why you’re so adamant that I go.”

He held his breath for a moment before releasing it. “If you stay, then I’ll be responsible for you. I don’t want to be responsible for anyone again, but especially not you.”

“Why me, especially?”

Why did he want to hold her when all she wanted to do was drag answers out of him? “I don’t know why. Maybe because I know you, because—”

“I remind you of her?”

“No.” Even he did not want to examine why. “It’s as plain as chicken broth. My brother was into something, and someone may have tried to kill him because of it. We don’t even know what this someone looks like, other than your description of the nurse and possibly the guy who tried to escort you home. This person is not going to stop at Brian to get whatever it is she wants.” He lowered his voice. “And if you’re in the way, you’ll be killed.”

He let that sink in and hoped to God he’d convinced her to go.

“My motivation for staying isn’t as clear as broth,” she said at last. “It’s as murky as gumbo. I can’t leave until I know what happened to Brian and why. He came to me in the gray place, and I believe he asked for my help.”

“You’ve convinced me that he was pushed. Mission accomplished. Time to pack up and go. Bye, have a nice trip.”

She looked away, then back at him. “But I’m involved now. With Brian. And with you.”

It was happening all over again, that feeling of falling into a dark pit, his hands scrabbling for purchase. Not knowing what awaited him at the bottom. “Let me handle this.”

Damned stubborn woman was shaking her head. “I can’t leave. I can’t. I’m not going to end up like her, whoever she is. You’re going to have to accept that. But you don’t have to accept responsibility for me. I don’t want you to.” She wrapped her arms around herself but dropped them again. “I’ve been taking responsibility for my life for a long time, for my risks, fears and hurts. I’m not letting you take that away now. This is my choice, my decision.”