Lover Unveiled, page 41
In the darkness, she could hear him breathing hard, a curse escaping what she knew were gritted teeth.
It was a while before the letdown came.
As hot as this was, as right as it felt, as careful with her as he had been . . . she came to realize that he was not going to take it any further than this.
He was not going to have her.
Not really.
Not . . . ever.
At six p.m. the following evening, Erika parked her unmarked off to the side of the Commodore’s main entrance. Putting her laminated CPD parking permit on the dash, she got out with her laptop and her bag.
Inside the lobby, there was a security guard station and a concierge desk. Both were empty, and she could hear some kind of argument around the corner, two men going back and forth about some FedEx package that had been misplaced.
Bypassing the whole check-in thing, she took the center of three elevators, and as she rode up, she stared at herself in the mirrored panels lining the inside of the car. Wow. She looked like she was a hundred and eight, the bags under her eyes dark, her skin sallow, the fact that she’d pulled her red-and-brown hair back and clipped it at the nape of her neck making every minor crease in her face like something that had been carved into her skin. And jeez, her navy blue blazer was also really wrinkly.
Maybe it was just the overhead lighting.
“Yeah, right,” she muttered.
Somewhere along the line, she’d read that the manufacturers of elevators had done a study and found that if people could look at their reflection as they went up and down, they felt like they were stuck inside the cars for less time.
Well, she had to give that one a big nope.
Sick of her reflection, she looked to the seam in the doors, but because this was a fancy building, every square inch except the goddamn floor was covered with tinted reflective stuff.
“Great.”
Ding!
The elevator bumped to a stop, and the double doors opened on the top floor of the building. Stepping out, she left’d and right’d it, and then went down to the triplex of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert C. Cambourg.
Which was what the engraved brass plate over the doorbell read.
’Cuz why would you put your wife’s first name on her home, too.
Then again, everything was hers now, wasn’t it.
Erika rang the bell and took a step back so that the peephole could do its job—
As the door opened, she braced for a maid in a gray-and-white uniform with sensible shoes and a bun. But no, the lady of the house was doing the duty.
“Detective,” Mrs. Cambourg said. “Come in.”
No silk robe and nightgown this time. Black leggings, black turtleneck, the brown hair long and loose and shinning. This was a woman who never looked bad, no matter the lighting. And Jesus, she was tall.
But her eyes were as bloodshot as Erika’s were.
“Thanks.” Erika nodded and walked forward. “I know it’s late. I appreciate you seeing me.”
The triplex’s top floor had a foyer that was big as Erika’s entire apartment building, or at least it felt like that. And there was so much marble, the browns, creams, and black separated by brass—or, shit, maybe it was even gold—curlicues.
“Would you like to come down to the sitting room?”
As Mrs. Cambourg waited for an answer, it was like she was used to holding up for the opinions of others to frame her own choices. Or maybe she was completely fried, and who could blame her.
“Sure. That’d be great.”
“It’s this way.”
As of the night before, Mrs. Cambourg had sealed off this top floor and stayed in the panic-apartment within the condo. She’d promised not to go to the collection rooms downstairs. Then again, why would she want to?
“Here.” Mrs. Cambourg indicated a silk sofa. “And can I get you anything?”
“Can,” not “may.” Plus no maid. This was new money—and a woman who wasn’t used to it at all. Not that Erika judged. She didn’t come from anything and it had never bothered her or been the kind of thing that had gotten in her way.
“No, I’m fine, thanks.” They both sat down together. “How you holding up?”
As Mrs. Cambourg gathered her thoughts, Erika glanced around. Unlike the gallery below—or the collection rooms, for that matter—up here, there was a lot of color. Well, assuming gold was a color. Even the sofa was gold and black. It was like the eighties had stalked through the previous three decades and decided to camp out in the present.
Through the archway, Erika noted that even the kitchen appliances were gold.
Toilets, too? Probably.
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I’ll bet. Anyone bother you?”
“Oh, no. I put the panic walls in place. They seal up the stairwell and everything, including the windows up here. Even if someone would have wanted to get in, they wouldn’t have been able to . . . you, know get at me. I mean. Yes.”
Erika cleared her throat. “So I have some news. I believe we’ve found your husband’s watches.”
Mrs. Cambourg sat forward. “You did?”
Erika nodded. “The insurance pictures you emailed us were really helpful, and we happened to be at another scene last night where we think they may have been fenced. May I show you some images for identification?”
“Yes. Please.”
Firing up her laptop, Erika put the screen between them. “Do you recognize any of these—here, use the cursor. Yup. That’s it.”
Mrs. Cambourg’s eyes teared up as she went through the pictures. “Yes. These are his—and yes, that’s the storage case he kept them in. The one that was in our safe.”
Absently, Erika wondered whether that diamond necklace was still on under that turtleneck. She was willing to bet it was. Although why that was relevant to anything, she hadn’t a clue.
“And nothing else is missing, correct?” she asked.
“No, nothing else was taken.”
Erika nodded. “While we were at the other scene, we found some security cameras. Their footage shows your husband’s watches being delivered by a man, and I’d like to see if you recognize him? May I play you a clip?”
Mrs. Cambourg dragged a hand through her silken hair. “Of course.”
“Here.” Erika pulled the laptop to herself and loaded the next file. “Look at this.”
As she hit play and angled things back to the other woman, she felt her lungs tighten up. And then, even though she’d watched the footage a dozen times, and had been the one to crop the file, she got lost once again . . . as the man in black walked on-screen.
He was tall, and given his muscular contours, he looked like he worked out often and intensely—and he sure as hell moved like he was in total control of his body. Up top over those big shoulders, his hair was dark and cut short, but it was his affect that really got her attention. There was such a cold, calculating calmness to his stunningly attractive face. Even as he stopped and looked at the corpse with its brains blown out on the wall behind the couch.
It was like he’d seen a lot of dead bodies.
But of course, the image of the deceased had been redacted from this cut. Mrs. Cambourg had had enough shock. Speaking of which—
Erika frowned at her expression. “Do you know who that is?”
It was a while before the other woman answered. And when she did, it was in a soft, confused voice.
“That’s the man in my dream.” She pointed at the screen. “That’s the man I dreamed of.”
• • •
“Blue shirt . . . red shirt.”
Nate held one in front of himself. Then the other. Both were flannel. Both had a black-based plaid. Both—
No, the red. The red was definitely better.
Tossing the blue aside on his bathroom counter, he leaned over the sink to make sure where he’d nicked himself shaving was healed. Looked good. He took the piece of toilet paper off the blood spot.
Well . . . shit. The red shirt was a good idea until he tucked it into his blue jeans. Then he looked like the Brawny paper towel man.
“Damn it.” He checked his phone. “New shirt.”
As he removed the offending flannel, he took a minute to study his chest. His arms. His shoulders. They were okay—by a human standard. Against someone like his father? He was the skinny kid at the beach who got sand kicked in his face.
If Elyn really needed me, could I make sure she was safe? he asked his reflection.
“Fuck.”
And he wished he had some cologne.
Out in his bedroom, he went over and pulled open the closet door. Sweatshirts. More flannels. Polos that would have worked if it were May. June. July.
Unless he was Shuli, of course. And he wasn’t on so many levels.
In the end, he went with a plain white Hanes t-shirt that was brand-new and a let’s-be-casual Mark Rober sweatshirt. Just as he was pulling the latter over his head, there was a knock on the door.
“Yeah?” he said.
Things opened as he was back at the mirror in the bathroom, and his father walked in, dressed for war. All of Murhder’s weapons were on his body, his black daggers strapped, handles down, on his chest, a holster of guns on his hips, a knife on one thigh. His red-and-black hair was hidden under a skullcap, and was that . . . yes, a Kevlar vest.
Nate swallowed. “What’s happening. What’s wrong?”
“I’m leaving for the night.” There was a pause. “Look, I know things have been . . . weird between us. And I just didn’t want to go before I told you that I love you. Nate, I couldn’t love you more than if you were from my own blood. You’re a good kid, and you’re going to be a great male, and—”
“Dad?” Nate said in a small voice. “What’s going on. Why are you wearing that vest?”
“It’s just another night in the field.”
No, it wasn’t, but it was clear he was going to get no information on the why’s.
As he grappled with a sudden terror, Murhder kept talking. “I don’t even know what exactly went wrong for you here. I mean, you were happy, for a time. I’m not sure what changed, but whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. There are all kinds of resources for you, and if it really comes down to it . . . we don’t want you to leave, but we just—well, I said it before. We love you as our son, no qualifiers. And I couldn’t leave without telling you that. Some nights, you just better say your piece because you don’t know how things are going to go.”
Nate’s brain bubbled with so many kinds of super-scaries, he literally lost his voice.
And in the silence, after a moment, Murhder nodded and turned away.
“Wait, Dad.”
Nate launched himself out of his bathroom and grabbed on to the Brother just as Murhder pivoted back around. “I love you, too, Dad. I love you.”
Murhder made a choked sound, and then those huge arms were holding Nate. “I’m glad, son. That makes . . . it makes all the difference for me.”
Nate stepped back. “Are you going to die tonight?”
Murhder shook his head. “Not if I have anything to say about it. And no, I can’t talk about it. But you and your mom are safe here—”
“WhataboutLuchasHouse?” Nate asked in a rush.
“The—oh, yeah, no, you should be fine out there. But you know, this does make me think. Do you want to have some training—”
“Yes.” He thought of Elyn. “I want to learn how to fight.”
Murhder got very, very still.
“What?” Nate said. “Do you not think . . . don’t you think I can?”
“I think you’ll be good at it. I just didn’t want this life for you, son. I’m not going to stop you, though. I’ll talk to the brothers and set something up.”
“Okay. Thank you. Is Mom home tonight?”
“She’ll be at the training center. Are you—”
“I’m going to Luchas House.”
“You be careful out there. Call me if you need me. No matter what’s going down, I will always answer, I will always come find you.”
After a long moment, Murhder nodded and left the bedroom, heading for the carpeted stairs that led up to the kitchen.
Some nights, you just better say your piece.
“I met someone,” Nate blurted.
As he heard his own voice, he was surprised he’d spoken up. But it was something he wanted his father to know, especially if he didn’t get the chance to say it to the male again.
His dad slowly turned around, and the expression on his face would have been funny. On another night. About another thing.
He looked like somebody had just told him that the Tooth Fairy was real: Wonder.
“You have?” Murhder said.
“Yeah, and I think I really like her, Dad.”
No, cereal’s fine. Really.”
As Mae sat at the table in her kitchen, her bowl filled with store-brand Cheerios, the skim milk somehow passing the nose test even though it was one day after its expiration date, she was trying to hold it together. And no, not because she was about to go into a crying jag or something.
She was choking on questions she had no business asking. Mainly, like, why had Sahvage drawn that line? Two consenting adults and all that.
Except there was only one consenting adult, evidently.
As Sahvage sat down across from her with some toast and a cup of coffee, she tried to smile in a casual, no-problems-over-here kind of way. The fact that she hadn’t had any eggs or bacon to offer him, and that it had been a miracle there had been enough coffee for them both to have some, was a commentary on how badly the last few weeks had been going for her.
And everything they hadn’t done in bed was just the shit cherry on top of it all.
While they ate, they didn’t say much . . . so all there was in the house, in the whole world, it seemed, was his crunching through the toast and her spoon hitting the side of her bowl. But the thing was, she didn’t trust herself to broach the elephant in the room.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to go well. She was frustrated and angry about a lot of things, and he was going to get double-barreled with stuff that didn’t have anything to do with their horizontal issues—
She closed her eyes.
“You okay?”
Keeping a curse to herself, she nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m all right.”
He pushed his crumb’d plate away. “So I’m going to go get some ice.”
Mae looked up. “What?”
“For your brother. I need you to stay here. It’s the safest thing—and I have a car I can use.” He got up, his chair scraping back on the floor. “It shouldn’t take me that long.”
“Ah, there’s a gas station not all that far from here.” Except she felt a territorial urge to do the ice buying. That was her job. “But I could always just—”
“Get into another accident?” he said as he took his dishes to the sink. “Like last night? We all know how well that went.”
Mae frowned. “Excuse me, as if I planned that.”
Sahvage braced his palms on the counter and hung his head. As his jaw made circles, she was disappointed he was struggling to control his temper. She wanted an argument.
And that made her a bitch, didn’t it.
“Is this about the Book again?” she demanded. “Because we’re done disagreeing on that subject.”
“You’re right about that.” He shook his head. “I’m not trying to talk you out of anything anymore. I never should have gone there in the first place.”
“Thank you.” Mae exhaled in relief. “And I’m sorry for getting so defensive. I’m glad you finally see where I’m coming from.”
Sahvage nodded and then stared off into the narrow distance between him and the shuttered window in front of his face. It was impossible not to study those hard features and powerful body without thinking about what they’d done in the dark. But there was nothing sexual at all about him at the moment. He was somewhere else in his head, far away even though she could reach out and touch him.
“I won’t be gone long,” he said eventually. “I mean, I’ll have to drive my car across town, but yeah, it shouldn’t take a lot of time.”
“It’s okay. Like I have any kind of schedule.”
Actually, she had work to do so she could keep this roof over her head. Assuming she made it through this, she was going to need to live somewhere.
“And I have to call Tallah,” she heard herself say.
After a moment, Sahvage turned his head and looked at her. Something about the way he was so self-contained made her feel like—
“Don’t say it,” she whispered, a dull, lonely ache setting up shop in her heart. “Don’t say goodbye. I’d rather just . . . have you not come through the door again than have to go through the words.”
Besides, that way, she could be ever on the verge of seeing him again. A goodbye was a closed door. Nothing was . . . nothing.
“I don’t want closure,” she said in a weary voice. “I’m really fucking tired of closure.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
Yeah, sure, she thought. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” Mae smiled a little, but couldn’t keep up the farce. “I would leave me if could.”
“I told you, I’ll be back soon. This won’t take me long.”
That was how he left things.
And he didn’t look back as he walked out into the garage.
• • •
Sahvage was way in his head as the door bumped shut behind him, but he had enough presence of mind to wait for Mae to walk over and lock the dead bolt. When she didn’t, he opened things back up, intending to remind her to come across and flip the copper mechanism.
Down the short hallway, she was still at the kitchen table and had put her head in her hands. She wasn’t crying; she just looked as if she couldn’t hold herself up and needed her elbows to keep her face out of her cereal bowl.
It took everything in him not to go back in there, and take her into his arms, and tell her everything was going to be okay. But he didn’t like making promises he couldn’t keep.
So instead, he reclosed the door and reminded himself that the thing they were really worried about getting into the house was already locked out. Mae was safe.
