Текст книги "Inside"

Автор книги: Brenda Novak

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

9

What could’ve happened?

Peyton tried calling Skinner again—twice—only to get a busy signal. She wanted to keep calling until she could be reassured that all was well, but she was afraid Lena Stout, who was running the front desk, would recognize her voice and begin to wonder if something was wrong. In case she was worried for nothing, she didn’t want to alert Lena or anyone else.

So…what should she do? She’d been concerned that Virgil might get hurt at Pelican Bay. She’d never seriously entertained the possibility that The Crew would find him before he could be incarcerated. He’d obviously been concerned about it, though. And he should know what they were capable of doing. He’d been one of them.

Is she in real danger? she’d asked Wallace about Virgil’s sister.

As real as it gets. Because Skinner could help the authorities get convictions against most of The Crew….

After putting on her tennis shoes, Peyton limped to her car on her injured ankle, which was improved but not perfect, and drove as fast as she could without causing an accident. She arrived at the motel in ten minutes instead of fifteen, but she knew it could already be too late.

Relying on the fog to cloak her identity from anyone looking out—fortunately, Lena was much less familiar with her than Michelle—she parked in the lot. Then she hurried to room fifteen.

The door was slightly ajar.

“Hello?” she breathed as she poked her head inside. The lights were on. So was the TV. A glance at the phone told her it was off the hook. It looked as if he’d aimed for the base but hadn’t been watching to make sure the handset connected. Why? Clearly, he’d been distracted….

“Virgil?” Afraid she might find him crumpled on the floor between the beds, she crept forward. There was no body, no evidence of a scuffle. But she didn’t think he’d planned on leaving, either. He’d gone through his bag—his clothes weren’t as neatly folded as before—and tossed his sweatshirt over the chair.

It was cold and rainy out. Why hadn’t he worn his sweatshirt? Also, some of the groceries from the sack Wallace had bought were spread out on the desk—peanut butter, jelly, a loaf of bread and some cookies. The files she’d given him lay on the bed.

Heart in her throat, she inched farther into the room. The bathroom door stood open. Would she find him murdered in the shower? That fear had her shaking by the time she reached it. Considering the company he’d kept in prison, nothing would be too gruesome to expect….

But the bathroom turned out to be empty. Did that mean he was safe? Or would his body be discovered in the forest or floating in the sea?

Hoping to catch Wallace before his plane could take off, she dug her phone out of her purse and was dashing from the room when someone came around the corner carrying an ice bucket and nearly knocked her to the floor.

When she realized it was Virgil and that he was fine, she threw her arms around his neck and pressed her forehead to his chest instead of stepping away, as she probably should have. “You’re okay.”

He didn’t seem to know how to react, didn’t put down the ice bucket and hold her, although she wanted him to. She could use the reassurance.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she muttered into his clean-smelling T-shirt.

“Sorry.” His lips grazed her temple as he spoke. She got the impression that was very much on purpose, although he wouldn’t allow himself to actually put his arms around her.

Feeling awkward when he didn’t make any other move, she let go. “Why’d you hang up on me?”

“I heard people approaching outside.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “Two teenage boys and their mother hurrying through the rain so they could get to their room. That’s all.”

“You thought it was…someone else?”

“A guy called right before that, asking for Hal. It made me wonder.”

Frowning, she took stock of his few belongings. She couldn’t leave him here. No way would she be able to sleep. She didn’t think he’d be able to sleep, either, not if he feared every footstep outside his door could be that of a man sent to shoot him. If she took him to her place, The Crew wouldn’t have a prayer of finding him. Not unless her car was followed. But the drive to her house was a lonely one. She’d definitely notice any vehicle behind her.

“Get your stuff.”

He’d just put down the ice bucket and was opening a Coke. “Am I going somewhere?”

“You’re not staying here.”

“Peyton, I appreciate this…mothering instinct of yours, but I don’t need you to babysit me.” He scowled as if she was being ridiculous, but she knew he was scared. If not for himself, then for his sister. “I’m not babysittting you. I’m giving you a safe place to stay.” What she felt was very different from what a mother would feel. As much as she knew she shouldn’t let herself care about him, she couldn’t help it. Probably because she was the only person who did seem to care.

He deserved more than that….

“It’s not wise for me to go home with you.”

“I don’t give a damn. Nothing is more important than your life. And I happen to feel you should get to enjoy the next two days without having to look over your shoulder all the time. We’re talking about a short stint at my place. No big deal.”

He poured the soda into a plastic cup with ice. “Wallace would never agree with this.”

“You don’t care what Wallace thinks, and neither do I.”

“What if he decides it’s irresponsible? What if he decides it’s a good reason to go after your job?”

“He won’t.”

He offered her the Coke. When she refused, he took a drink himself. “He could.”

“So we won’t tell him,” she said with a shrug.

“Peyton, no.” Setting his soda aside, he retrieved the television remote.

Why wouldn’t he let her do this for him? Couldn’t he accept a good turn? Had it been so long since he’d received one? “Why not?” she demanded and took the remote away so he’d have to focus on her.

She’d expected him to enumerate the many practical reasons or at least grab for the remote, but he didn’t. “I don’t want to care about you,” he murmured.

His honesty caused a flutter in her stomach the likes of which she hadn’t felt since she was a teenager. They weren’t touching, but the moment felt so intimate—because he’d just given her a glimpse of his soul.

Drawing a deep breath, she cleared her throat. Maybe they had no business sleeping in the same house, but she couldn’t leave him here, wouldn’t leave him here. And there wasn’t another place she could take him, not where they’d go unnoticed. It was nearly midnight. “If caring about me is the worst thing that happens while you’re here, I’ll feel you got off easy,” she said. “Are you going to get your duffel? Or shall I?”

He didn’t move. “You’ll be sorry. We’ll both be sorry.”

“No, we won’t. I refuse to believe that.”

A truck pulled up outside, one with a big diesel engine. When he glanced over his shoulder as if he wanted to check the window, she knew she had him. “See what I mean? You’ll be able to sleep at my house. There will be good food, a beautiful view, serenity.”

“What about you?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. I won’t be on pins and needles wondering if it was a mistake to leave you here. I won’t have to feel responsible if something happens because I didn’t try hard enough to stop it. And, like I said, it’s only for two days.”

He blew out a sigh. “Your plan is to bring me back here before Wallace comes for me? To keep this little arrangement to ourselves?”

Doing so would risk her job, but she’d rather risk her job than a person’s life. If working in a prison had taught her anything, it was the necessity of feeling valued by someone. She wanted to give Virgil that. “I’ll drop you off at a safe distance on my way to work bright and early Tuesday morning. Transfers don’t generally arrive until later in the day. We’re a bit of a drive from anywhere else, in case you haven’t noticed.” She laughed to create the illusion that what she was doing was fine, that it wasn’t a major breach of protocol. “You’ll be on your own while you’re waiting for him, but it’ll be daytime and you’ll only have to be on guard for hours instead of days.”

She could see the exhaustion in his face. Let go, she silently urged. Let me help you.

“Fine. Go get in the car. We can’t be seen leaving together.”

“No, we should grab everything and go. It’s so late and foggy, no one will see us. Michelle’s not even working tonight.”

“But someone else is. Do as I say. I’ll meet you around the block.”

Their eyes connected in a silent contest of wills, but she didn’t keep arguing. He wouldn’t relent on this. “I’ll be waiting,” she said, and ducked out into the rain.

“There’s no way.” Pretty Boy paced the length of the threadbare carpet in the dirtbag motel they’d rented not far from Laurel’s house.

Neither Pointblank nor Ink, both of whom were with him, appreciated his dissenting voice. Their expressions reflected that, as did Pointblank’s tone. “What did you say?”

This wasn’t a position Pretty Boy had ever wanted to find himself in. If it’d been anyone else, anyone besides Skin, he would’ve kept his damn mouth shut. He didn’t like the politics of The Crew, just the drinking, the joyriding, the easy money and even easier women, the camaraderie. But they were talking about Virgil Skinner—Skin. There wasn’t another man alive Pretty Boy respected more than his old cellie. If not for Skin, he would’ve been dead ages ago. The man could fight better than anyone and had never hesitated when it came to getting his back.

“I said there’s no way.” Now that he’d started this, he had to speak his mind, so he stopped in front of Ink with enough attitude to make it clear that he was ready to take this to blows, if necessary. He had no problem with a good brawl. Life in The Crew was filled with busted lips, black eyes, even knife wounds. Sometimes it felt like one glorious round of ultimate fighting. But he preferred to be facing a rival when he let loose, not a brother. “Skin would never flip.”

At this, Pointblank propped the pillows behind his head with one hand while holding a beer in the other, and crossed his ankles. Obviously he didn’t give a rat’s ass that he had his boots on the bed. Pretty Boy didn’t, either, but he noticed. And sometimes he noticed a few other things that made him feel just a little different from the men he’d joined.

“That’s what you keep telling me, man,” Pointblank said. “And I want to believe it. Skin’s a tough dude. He’s not someone I’d like to mess with. But if he’s going to disrespect me, I don’t have a choice. I’m responsible for keeping him in line. I got people to answer to.”

“Skin wouldn’t disrespect you.” But if he disagreed with Pointblank’s leadership, he might dispute it or simply walk away. That Pretty Boy wouldn’t put past Skin because Skin lived life by his own rules and he didn’t answer to anyone. His independence had created difficulties for him with The Crew before.

“So you’ve heard from him?” Pointblank taunted. “You can tell us where he is?”

Wearing his leather coat like a badge of honor, Pretty Boy shrugged to hide the discomfort in the pit of his stomach. Skin had already been gone a week, long enough to indicate that he didn’t plan on coming back. But Pretty Boy couldn’t give up hope. Not when it came to Virgil. “No. But…”

“What?” Pointblank demanded. “I’m supposed to cut this asshole extra slack just because he used to be your cellie and you know his mind and shit like that? Come on, the man got a lifeboat. That gives him a clean slate. And a clean slate can change the way you think about certain…affiliations.” He tapped his skull before taking a pull of beer. “Skin knows too much. We can’t let him forget who his friends are.”

Pretty Boy ignored the sense of impending doom that’d crept over him the minute he’d been sent to Colorado to round up his old buddy. “I’m telling you he wouldn’t rat us out. Maybe he’d disappear for good, but he wouldn’t debrief.”

“Something’s going on,” Ink piped up. “And we’d better get a handle on it. Watching his sister’s place is a waste of time. He must think we’re all pussies, that we won’t really hurt her, because he hasn’t even called the bitch. Hasn’t even driven by to make sure she’s okay. What kind of asshole doesn’t care about his own family, for chrissake?”

“He doesn’t think we’re pussies,” Pretty Boy said. “He only thinks you’re a pussy.”

Pointblank nearly spewed beer across the bed, but Ink didn’t take the joke quite so well. His face grew mottled, and he jammed a finger in Pretty Boy’s direction. “I’ll show him what a pussy I am when I gut his sister and her kids.”

Pretty Boy had never hated Ink more. “You think that’ll solve the problem? Killing the people he cares about?”

“It’s better than sitting in front of her house for days on end, jacking off. That ain’t gettin’ us nowhere.”

Ink was a bloodthirsty bastard who enjoyed abusing everyone and everything he touched. Pretty Boy had heard he maimed a couple of prostitutes before they left L.A. for Colorado. That was part of the reason upper management had given him this assignment. They wanted Ink out of the way until the flurry of interest surrounding that incident died down. His legendary cruelty gave him a degree of power in a group that prided itself on violence. But Ink had no loyalty, no honor, no soul. “You kill Skin’s sister or harm those kids and you’ll find him, all right. He’ll come to you in the middle of the night and string you up by your balls. Then he’ll pick off the rest of us.” Pretty Boy stepped closer so he could make a point of staring down at the shorter man. “Starting World War III is hardly gonna improve our situation.”

A flicker of fear danced in Ink’s eyes, but he quickly masked it. Taking his gun from where he’d jammed it down his pants, he made a show of unloading and reloading the cartridge. “Just because you’re scared of him don’t mean I am.”

Pretty Boy couldn’t help wishing he’d blow his dick off. “I see him, I’ll let him know how you feel.”

“Enough with the bullshit,” Pointblank said. “We’re all going stir-crazy on this assignment. We want it to be over, and we want it to end well. But this…thing between you two—” he motioned to make it clear that he was talking about their mutual dislike “—it’s not cool. We need to ignore our differences and finish the job so we can get the hell out of this dump.” He tossed his beer bottle at the garbage can and hit the wall instead. When it shattered, a woman in the next room screamed that they should have some consideration, and Pretty Boy wondered what she’d think if she ever learned that Ink would probably kill a woman for less.

“Shut up, bitch!” Ink yelled back. Then there was silence.

Apparently she’d gotten the point. Or she was busy calling the manager. Either way, the interruption had been timely because it allowed them to refocus without either of them having to back down.

“So what do we do?” Pointblank asked. “Do we go back to Skin’s sister’s or not?”

Before they could answer, Pointblank’s cell phone rang. “It’s Horse,” he said, checking the screen, and answered.

Pretty Boy walked to the window, parted the drapes and stared outside while listening to Pointblank’s side of the conversation.

“She’s there. She never goes anywhere but work…. She doesn’t know anything, hasn’t heard from him…. Ink went inside, confronted her. I don’t think she’s lying—he had a gun to her kid’s head…. We’ll do whatever you say, but…What? Who told you that?…Shit!” He threw down his phone.

They turned to look at him as he jumped to his feet, took his gun out of the drawer of the nightstand and began loading it.

“What’s going on?” Ink asked.

“Skin’s cut a deal with the feds.”

Pretty Boy couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

“You heard me. Shady knows a woman inside the Federal Bureau of Prisons. He’s had her doing some research. She says she doesn’t know where Virgil Skinner is, but she heard his name mentioned in the hallway after a high-level meeting between the bureau and some guy called Rick Wallace from the California Department of Corrections. She claims a federal marshal attended one last week.”

“That means someone’s going into the Witness Protection Program.” Ink’s tone and his hatred stabbed at Pretty Boy.

“Skin?” Pretty Boy asked.

Pointblank shook his head. “No. A woman and two kids.”

“Laurel.” Virgil was trying to protect her. “But why didn’t the feds act sooner?”

“Who knows? They’re acting now. Word has it someone’s coming for her.”

“And?” Pretty Boy said.

Pointblank shoved his gun in his waistband and lowered his shirt. “We need to make sure she’s dead before they can take her.”

Pretty Boy’s breath caught in his throat. “And the kids?”

“A rat’s a rat,” Ink muttered. “I say we kill them, too, and really make him pay.”

Pretty Boy scrambled to find some way to stave off what was about to happen. “Wait! We kill them, Skin’ll talk for sure. He’ll tell ’em everything he knows. No one will be spared.”

Ink started out of the room ahead of them. “He’s talking, anyway, man. What don’t you get about that?”

“But why would the CDC be involved? Something’s up.”

“Whatever it is, we don’t have time to figure it out.” Pointblank again.

Pretty Boy grabbed Pointblank’s arm. “So you’re going to kill three innocent people?”

Jerking away, Pointblank doubled his fist as though he was about to take a swing. “That’s enough, do you hear? The feds don’t spend the money to put people in the program unless they’re getting something worth the expense. What does Skin have to offer except our heads?”

Pretty Boy had no answer to that, but he still couldn’t believe it had come to this. Skin wouldn’t rat them out.

Apparently willing to let their skirmish go, Pointblank stalked outside. “You coming or not?”

Was he? Pretty Boy wasn’t sure he could go through with the slaughter. He’d killed other men, but never a defenseless woman. And he couldn’t even imagine hurting a child.

But if he didn’t fulfill orders, he’d soon be lying on the ground, bleeding out, himself.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” He went outside and got in the car. But his heart was racing and his palms were sweating and he was deeply conscious of Ink’s thirst for blood as they tore out of the lot.

What the hell, Skin? What am I supposed to do now?

10

Peyton didn’t get it, Virgil thought. She had no idea that her kindness, her beauty, even the sanctuary of her house didn’t help him. On the contrary, it gave him something fresh and memorable to miss when he went back inside come Tuesday. But he didn’t expect her to understand. Someone who hadn’t been through what he had couldn’t grasp how necessary it was to remain aloof and detached. Having encounters like the ones they’d been having tempted him to soften. And he couldn’t afford that. His first few days in prison would be rough—and make or break all the days after.

He should’ve refused to come here tonight, for that reason and others. But he hadn’t. Instead of whiling away the hours at the motel, he was wandering around her house in the dark, hating the passage of every minute. Fatigue dragged at him, but he remained on his feet, studying what he could see of her pictures and furnishings—cataloging every detail while pretending he wasn’t dying to slip inside her bedroom.

He’d have this night at her house and two others. Then his freedom would be stripped away from him yet again. But the memory of this place, of her, would fuel his dreams for days, weeks, months…who knew how long? Memories of the girl he’d known in high school had been a focal point for more than a decade, undoubtedly much longer than she’d been thinking about him.

The floor creaked behind him. Turning, he spotted a dark shadow—Peyton dressed in a T-shirt and sweat bottoms—at the entrance to the room. He’d left the lights off, been as quiet as possible. He wasn’t sure what had awakened her.

“You realize it’s three o’clock in the morning,” she said.

His bare feet sank into the padded carpet of her office as he continued to walk around the room. He liked the feel of the heavy pile, the scent of lemon furniture polish that hung in the air. Her home was so warm and comfortable—the exact opposite of the concrete walls, floors and fixtures he’d become accustomed to. “Is it that late? I haven’t been keeping track.”

She came inside and snapped on a lamp. “Would you like a sleeping pill?”

Now that they could see each other clearly, he became ultraconscious of two facts. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. And she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Being constantly forced to strip for various searches had made him indifferent to his own nudity. But he would’ve liked to shield the scars and tattoos on his torso from her view. Prison tattoos weren’t like other tattoos. For one, they didn’t have the pretty colors. Securing the ink was too much of a problem. His had been done with various “rigs” constructed of tape recorder motors, a pen barrel and guitar string. The ink came from the carbon residue of burning plastic mixed with an aftershave solution. They were all blue or black and some of the symbols were standard jailhouse stuff. “No, thanks. I’ll go grab a shirt—”

She raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t bother. I’ve seen a man’s chest before.”

No doubt that was true. But he didn’t want to be lumped in with the prison population and he couldn’t imagine that she saw the proof of his history in a positive light.

“It might help you relax.”

“What might help me relax?” Certainly not what he saw. That made it difficult to even think.

“A sleeping pill.”

He forced himself to focus elsewhere—on her degree, which was framed and hanging on the wall, a wood carving of an owl that decorated a side table, the stack of work awaiting her attention on the desk. On anything except the soft mounds of flesh that acted like a high-powered magnet to his eyes and his hands. He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to relax.”

“Why not? Isn’t that why I brought you here?”

“I’m not sure why you brought me here,” he said. “I’m still trying to figure that out. But if I’m keeping you up…” He would’ve returned to the small guest room she’d outfitted for him, but she stood between him and his only escape route.

“You’re not keeping me up. I was already awake.” When her eyes ranged over him, he again wished for a shirt—but wouldn’t insist on it. He was what he was and wouldn’t hide from anyone, even a woman who made him wish he could be more.

Her breasts swayed slightly as she leaned on the back of a chair. “I’m surprised to find you in my office.”

He examined a seashell paperweight. “Why’s that?”

“Because there’s nothing of interest in here.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be kidding?”

Returning the shell to her desk, he glanced up. “This room says so much about you.”

“More than the rest of the house?”

“Of course. This is where you spend most of your time.” He pointed to the books filling two separate cabinets. “You’re well-read—psychology, forensic books, reference, self-help, classics and—” he bent closer to make out the titles of the paperbacks on the bottom shelf “—true crime.”

“So…you’re snooping,” she said with a grin.

She was flirting with him. “Basically.”

This made her laugh. “I guess that means you don’t care if it bothers me.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Does it?”

Raking her fingers through her tousled hair, she shoved it out of her face, and he decided she couldn’t be more attractive than she was at this moment. Flashes of what she’d look like nude sent all the blood his heart could pump to his groin. “I don’t plan to put a knife to your throat like you did mine, but—” she shrugged “—it’s a little invasive.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. But he wasn’t. Not really. She was the one who’d brought him here for a second visit. And she’d gone through his stuff at the motel, hadn’t she? “I lost my sensibility to ‘invasive’ after my millionth body-cavity search.”

“That’s an indignity I wouldn’t want to suffer.”

“To get where you are today, you were once a C.O., right?”

“For ten years. I’ve performed more than my share of body searches, if that’s where you’re going.”

“Did you ever proposition anyone you searched?”

She seemed appalled. “Never.”

Pretending preoccupation with yet another pile of books, he tried to make his next question sound casual. “Ever have a relationship with an inmate?”

“No.”

That told him what he wanted to know. He had less of a chance with Peyton Adams than he’d assumed—and he’d started out at zero. But he was still curious. Why was she being so nice to him? “What about C.O.s?”

“I had a brief fling with one—but he was quitting, had already given his notice. Today he owns a breakfast joint.”

She was far more open about her background than he’d expected her to be. Maybe it was the late hour. Or maybe she didn’t have a lot to hide. She’d lived a circumspect life, which made her even less likely to be interested in someone like him. “Have you ever been married?”

“No.”

He thumbed through a National Geographic he found on the table, wondering why she’d brought this particular magazine in here at all. The cover showed a family of polygamists. “Engaged?”

“Twice.”

Uninterested in learning about one man with ten wives and a zillion kids—too remote from his own experience—he abandoned the magazine. “What happened?”

“The first time I said yes to a marriage proposal was in the eighth grade. We outgrew the infatuation by summer.”

He had to smile at the thought of her making such a promise at that age. “And the other time?”

“I was in college and had fallen in love with a musician. He felt we were meant to be together, but wanted me to wait until he’d made his mark in the music industry. I wasn’t too excited about becoming a roadie, always standing in the wings, hoping he’d have some energy left for me after everyone else took their piece of him. So I moved on.”

The tips of her breasts had hardened. He could see the outline through the cotton material of her shirt. Was she as aroused as he was—or just cold? “Where is he now?”

“I’ve lost track.”

“He must not have made it too big.”

“I don’t think he did. For all I know, he’s still playing bars.”

Had she slept with the musician? Made love to the C.O. with whom she’d had that brief fling? He wanted to ask, but wouldn’t. He wasn’t sure he could tolerate any more sexual tension. “Who is this?” He picked up one of the photographs standing on her desk.

“My mother. I took her to Napa Valley a year or two before she died. She said it was her favorite trip.” Peyton walked around the chair she’d been leaning on and sat down. Pulling her legs up, she hugged them to her chest—thankfully concealing what he was having such a difficult time ignoring. “Was the C.O. who propositioned you, the woman you mentioned to me, someone who performed a strip search on you?” she asked.

He was staring at her mother. Peyton had the same smooth skin, the same chocolate-brown eyes. “Yes.”

“Did it upset you?”

Confused, he looked up. “Why would it upset me?”

“Because it wasn’t right. She was in a position of authority, which makes it a form of sexual harassment.”

He couldn’t help chuckling. “I don’t know very many guys who worry about sexual harassment, at least from women. They can always say no, can’t they?”

“Unless they feel it might adversely affect their situation.”

Seemed like a small problem to him. If only that was all he had to worry about. “Maybe it’s just a prison thing, but if a woman wants to get it on with me, I’m flattered.”

She straightened her legs but folded her arms immediately after. “And yet you said no.”

“Have you had sex with every guy who’s paid you a compliment?”

“Of course not.”

“There you go.” Setting down the picture, he continued his exploration. “Anyway, she might’ve been a whore, but she wasn’t all bad. She used to slip me extra paper, books she thought I might like, chocolate, stuff like that. And some of the other guys enjoyed more…personal favors from her. A woman wasn’t an easy—” he was about to say commodity, but caught himself “—treat to come by.”

She tilted her head as he fingered a stack of files. “If you think I have a file there on you, you’re wrong.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you so interested?”

Because, as much as he wished otherwise, he was interested in her. She must realize that already. If not, he wasn’t going to point it out. “These things…” He waved to indicate a cabinet that held a variety of handmade objects—baskets, pictures displayed on small easels, leather pieces, jewelry.

“What about them?”

“They’re gifts?”

“Yes.” She seemed proud.

“From inmates?”

“Mostly.”

That wasn’t difficult to guess. Many of the inmates he’d known made similar objects—weak attempts to make their lives matter when they didn’t matter at all. “Why do you keep them?”

“Because they’re special to me.”

Jealousy stung him but he also experienced an emotion that went far deeper. “They’re trophies of some kind?”

“Trophies?” she repeated.

“Tokens of the creators’ admiration and devotion. Proof of how many men have wanted you.”

She jumped to her feet. “Stop it!”

“Am I being too direct?” he asked, but he was glad she was angry. He wanted to make her angry because he was suddenly angry himself.

“It’s the implication I’m having a problem with. That’s the second time you’ve accused me of leading men on!”

“Isn’t that what you do?” Why else was she being so kind to him? He could only imagine she liked the risk of “slumming.” Or she enjoyed the thrill of bringing men like him—hardened, bitter men—to their knees.

She crossed over to him, coming close enough to jab a finger in his chest right below the medallion that hung from his neck—a Spanish eight-real coin from 1739, which was the only object of any value he owned. His father had left that behind. Not for him, exactly. He’d just forgotten it when he packed.

“You have no idea who I am, what I’m like. You know that?” she said.

Her touch sent an electric charge through him and nearly triggered the reaction he hoped to avoid. He almost dragged her up against him, but he knew that would scare the hell out of her, and fear wasn’t what he had in mind.

He swatted her hand away instead. “Then why do you keep them?”

“Because they mean something to me, okay? And so do the men who created them. They’re proof that beauty can be found where you’d least expect it. That most people have some good in them. That the amount of talent that goes to waste in prison is a tragedy.”