Текст книги "Tasting Fear"

Автор книги: Shannon McKenna

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 33 страниц)

Chapter

11

John scanned the shifting crowds. His face itched from the fake goatee, and he sweated heavily in the overheated hall as he listened with half an ear to the self-serving prattle of the blond slut singer.

He’d begun to fantasize about shutting her up. Definitively. After she’d delivered the services she was blatantly advertising with the rolling eyes and the heaving tits. At least she wouldn’t be chattering for that. He’d keep that shiny pink mouth way too busy to talk.

Where the fuck was Nancy, anyway? He did not want to converse with these idiot musicians any longer than was necessary. He was good at improvising a rap, but his ruse as a Hollywood movie producer was a thin one. Anyone asking the right questions would cop to it in no time.

Fortunately, Enid Morrow was too self-absorbed to ask the right questions. And Nancy herself would never get a chance to ask them. He fingered the tiny little transparent gel capsule in his pocket. A designer drug, exactly calibrated for her size and weight.

But where the fuck was she?

He was anxious to get on with it. Instinct was pricking and prodding, saying now, now, now. Even with people around, if he started the job at the right moment and pushed on through, hard and swift and decisive, they would probably be too absorbed in their own shit to figure out what was happening. All they’d notice would be a confusing kerfuffle of motion, a brief swell in the noise level, and voilà. Back to normal.

“…sorry that she’s so late this morning. It’s totally unlike her,” the slut singer burbled.

He smiled and stared at her tits. She obligingly arched her lumbar spine to facilitate his view. “I just hope I have a chance to discuss it with her before I go,” he said. “I wanted to present this idea to the meeting with my team in L.A. this afternoon. Get the ball rolling.”

“Of course,” Enid cooed. “It’s like fate! That you happened to be at the hotel by pure chance, and heard us play!”

“Yes, it is.” He scanned the room with his peripheral vision beyond the halo of blond ringlets in the foreground.

There! Looking pale and tousled and waiflike, her hair streaming loose. Last night’s makeup smudged around her huge eyes. She must not have even taken a shower. Probably had Knightly’s nasty spunk still inside her body. That dirty little bitch.

His heart rate quickened, his mouth watered, his dick stiffened. His instincts, his senses sharpening. Ah. He loved this part. She was his succulent little rabbit. He was the hawk, poised to dive and rend.

Enid craned her neck. The effort popped her bosom further out. “There she is! I’ll introduce you, Maitland—can I call you Maitland?”

“Of course,” he said. She hooked her arm around his elbow and towed him through the room. Aw. How sweet. His new little best friend.

“Hey! Nancy! This is Maitland! He’s the producer I was telling you about from MGM Studios!” Enid sang out.

Nancy looked over at her, her face oddly stiff and blank. “Huh? Oh. Enid, hi. Hey, have you seen Liam?”

Enid’s jaw dropped for a second. “Um, not lately, Nancy,” she said, in a warning tone. “Focus, please. Did you hear me? Maitland Sills? The guy from MGM Studios? Hollywood? Hello? Earth to Nancy?”

But Nancy kept rising onto her tiptoes, her gaze sweeping the room. “Hollywood? That’s nice. Could you folks excuse me for a sec?”

“Nancy!” Enid hissed. “Don’t be an idiot!”

“I’ll just be a moment. I need to check something in the hall.” She slipped like an eel through the crowd, and disappeared.

The predator inside him howled and gnashed its teeth.

Enid caught the vibe, and shot him a nervous look. “Um, ah, alrighty, then. I’m sure she’ll be right back. Say, how about if you just meet with me and Peter? We can speak for ourselves when it comes to big career decisions. Just come with me.” She began to tug on his arm.

Nancy had disappeared. The moment might be lost. The slut singer pulled again, babbling with a smile he wanted to knock right off her doll-like face. She tugged harder. His patience came to an abrupt end. He yanked his arm away, so roughly she teetered, stumbling on her tottering spike heels. “What is wrong with you?” she squawked.

He stared into her eyes. “Get out of my way.” He put a vicious punch of venom behind each softly uttered word.

Enid shrank away, stammering.

He forgot her utterly the second he turned his back on her and hurried after his prey, blood pumping fast and hot and hungry.

As Liam strode through the lobby, he avoided the hostile gaze of that butthead Peter Morrow as he strode through the lobby. He felt like he was caught in the guts of some pitiless machine, and it would churn on whether he was smashed to a pulp in its grinding gearwork or not.

He didn’t want to leave her alone, with the stairwell assholes gunning for her. He didn’t want to leave her at all. But that was not his problem. She’d made that clear. It never had been. She wasn’t his wife, his fiancée, even his girlfriend, and she wasn’t going to be. Because relationships weren’t based on fleeting perfect moments. They were based on solid, firm things. Respect. Compatibility. Shared interests.

Strange, how tired and pat that thought felt. Like he’d thought it a thousand times before, and worn off the nap.

“Liam!” Eoin bounded across the room toward him like a jackrabbit on crack, his eyes alight like flashlights in his skinny face. He had partied all night long, but he was still revved. “Hey, what’s up?” He looked at Liam’s bag. “I thought you were staying till tomorrow!”

“Can’t,” he said, though his mouth felt dusty and dry. “Gotta go.”

“I’m glad I saw you, then. A favor before you go, eh? I’ve been telling Eugene about that set of reels you wrote. I remember ‘The Dusty Shoon,’ and ‘Traveler’s Joy,’ but not the B and C parts of ‘The Old Man’s Beard.’”

His stomach curdled in dismay. “I have to go. Another time.”

“Oh, man, please?” Eoin entreated. “It’ll only take five minutes. Eugene has his DAT to record it. I had this great arrangement worked out, and the lads love it!”

Liam’s jaw ached from clenching so hard. “I don’t have my fiddle.”

“Eugene will lend you his!” Eoin’s eyes pleaded. “Five minutes?”

Christ on a crutch. Five minutes of stomach-churning agony. But he didn’t want to burden Eoin by telling him that the world had just ended. He let himself be towed into the small conference room and tucked Eugene’s fiddle under his chin. Tried to compose himself.

The kid was having such a great time. Let him fly, as far as the air currents would take him. A guy crashed to earth soon enough.

Liam wasn’t in the lobby. Nor in the parking lot. Nor in the showcase halls, or the alcoves, or the vending machine corners, or the lounge, or the gift shop, or the restaurant. No. He was gone. It was over.

Sadness settled down, like a smothering blanket. She’d come to depend upon him for feeling good. The world looked wretched and empty, dirt poor without him. And she was so angry. She wanted to break windows, smash furniture.

She couldn’t have caved to his demand. It took two to make a compromise. If she blew off an opportunity like this out of fear, she’d never respect herself again. And he wouldn’t respect her, either.

“Ms. D’Onofrio? Are you all right?”

Nancy dashed away tears, and looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“Can I get you something?” It was Enid’s Hollywood studio exec. Big, beefy guy. Muscle going to fat. He had a sleek black goatee on his broad face, gleaming black hair. His eyes were full of concern.

She tried to orient herself, vaguely remembering that this guy was significant for some reason. She was supposed to be kissing his ass.

“No,” she whispered. “Thanks. I’m fine.” She dug around in her pocket for a tissue. It was coming back to her now, in little fragmented pieces. The studio exec. The time crunch. The plane leaving for L.A. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We were supposed to have a meeting, right?”

“Yes, but it’s all right. I can see you’re not well,” the guy said.

Her spine stiffened with embarrassment. “No, actually, I’m fine. You’ve got a plane to catch, so let’s go to the bar and have some coffee.”

But Sills led her right past the bar and into the restaurant. He walked briskly past the few free booths, and sat down in the oddest spot. A table, not a booth, and way in the back. Out of sight of all but a few of the booths, but annoyingly close to the kitchen door, which continually swung open as tray-laden waitresses bumped and bashed their way through with hips and elbows to carry out orders.

The waitress brought them a carafe of coffee. Maitland Sills poured and pushed the cup across the table. “You look tired,” he said.

Did he but know. She gave him a wan smile, and took a deep, grateful gulp of coffee.

She knew within three seconds that something was wrong. A numb, crawling feeling spread from the tips of her toes and fingers, creeping inward toward her core. Her heartbeat, louder and faster in her ears. She couldn’t move. She was frozen, fighting to keep breathing as the darkness rose. What the hell? Was this a panic attack?

She looked into the eyes of the MGM studio exec. Her insides flash froze. Those dark eyes, fixed and cold. Reptilian. His mouth, so wet. Her eyes fluttered, and in those brief eyelid flickers, she saw like tiny nano-sized film clips the monstrous thing he was beneath his human mask. Something fanged, tusked. Ravenous and foul.

His breath was fetid. It smelled like death.

He leaned forward and pitched his voice low, like a snake’s hiss. “Do you wonder what your mother’s last words were when she was gasping on the floor, Nancy?” he crooned. “Do you want me to tell you?”

She tried to open her mouth, scream for help. Nothing worked.

A waitress burst through the kitchen door and bustled past them without looking at them. The open door let a wave of clattering sound swell in volume, then diminish again as it swung shut.

He reached across the table, seized the pendant Lucia had given her, and began to twist. The burn of the gold chain tightening around her throat kept her conscious. Snap. The chain broke. He pocketed it.

He got up, came around the table, and reached for her.

“Let us by!” John bawled. “Move over! She’s going to be sick!”

He shoved his way through the snarl of employees in the restaurant kitchen. Nancy stumbled alongside him, nearly unconscious. He’d plastered her own hand over her mouth to muffle any sounds she might make, clamping his own hand on top of it. Her hair dangled down to hide her face. He dragged her past a waitress carrying a loaded tray, jostling her hard enough to make her stumble.

Plates of eggs Benedict flew, splattered. Shouts of protest. He hustled on, bellowing, “She’s going to be sick!” whenever anyone tried to interact with him, and burst out the kitchen entrance. He loped past the Dumpsters, toward the corner and the hotel parking lot.

He dragged her into the shrubbery, still doubled over, and let her drop, right next to a big fiberglass instrument case that he’d planted there four o’clock the previous morning. It was for an upright string bass, and big enough to carry a slender, curled-up, drugged woman.

He made barfing, choking noises, for the benefit of any employees who might have poked their heads out of the kitchen, but it was probably overkill, after the mess he’d made in there. They’d be too busy scrambling to clean up and replace orders to pay attention to him.

He snapped open the case in feverish haste and followed his carefully planned choreography. Rip off goatee and wig. Shove them into the case. Shake out his own shaggy dark hair. Strip off jacket. Replace with a fringed yellow leather jacket. Mirrored aviator sunglasses.

He scooped up the D’Onofrio woman, dumped her slight, limp weight into the wide part of the case, folded and tucked her limbs until she fit. Curled up like a chick in an egg. Soft and helpless. Prey.

He did up the fastenings, peeked out of the bushes, and yanked the rolling case onto the asphalt. Walking, oh so nonchalantly, toward his car. He glanced at his watch. From restaurant table to parking lot, barely over three minutes. Good show. He forced himself to stop grinning. Wouldn’t do to get sloppy, or too self-satisfied, or overexcited.

Time enough for excitement later. When it was time to indulge.

A big-name showcase was about to begin. Liam had gotten stuck in the crowd. He shoved his way through the crush, having finally extricated himself from Mandrake’s clutches. Something inside him was pulled so tight, it hurt like a bastard. When that part snapped, he did not know what would happen. He just knew he didn’t want it to happen in public.

A high-pitched commotion was taking place. He tried to wiggle around it, but the press of bodies filing into the hall was too thick. It was the blonde, the singer who was married to the butthead. She was having a snit fit. He didn’t particularly want to know the details, but someone was wheeling a fucking piano into the hall. It blocked his way.

“…can’t believe that guy! That asshole! Can you believe what he said to me?” She caught his eye and promptly directed her outrage toward him before he could turn and shrink away unnoticed. “He shoved me!” she shrieked. “How dare he?”

“Calm down, baby. Don’t freak. There are concert presenters all over the place,” the butthead pretty boy was muttering desperately.

“Calm down? Screw you, Petey! I was, like, attacked in public, and all you can say is just calm down?” She turned her bug-eyed blue gaze to Liam. “He shoved me!” she repeated. “I almost fell!”

“Who shoved you?” Liam asked.

“The producer asshole, but you know what? I bet he wasn’t a producer at all. I mean, he didn’t look like one. He didn’t have that Hollywood gloss. And he was big and fat, and he had bad breath. Like, nobody’s fat with bad breath in Hollywood! And why would he want to talk to Nancy, and not me? I mean, I’m the talent! She’s just—” Enid struggled for a word sufficiently dismissive—“administrative help!”

First the hairs on his back prickled, and then icy cold talons sank into his gut. Big fat guy. Bad breath. Wanted Nancy. Shit.

He grabbed Enid’s shoulders so hard, she squeaked. “Did he go with her? Where did he go?”

She goggled at him. He gave her an impatient little shake.

“Do you mind?” she sniffed, wrenching away. “He went after her, toward the restaurant. She’s welcome to him. Rude son of a bitch.”

“What does he look like?” Liam demanded.

“Hey!” the butthead Peter blustered. “Don’t touch my wife!”

“Fuck off,” Liam said, not bothering to look at him. “What does he look like? Hair color, eyes? Talk to me, goddammit!”

Enid was starting to look scared. “Um, black hair?” Her voice had gotten small and uncertain. “A goatee, and, um, a black leather jacket.”

He lost the rest, already forging through the crowd amidst shouts and grunts of protest. Fear propelled him toward the restaurant.

He’d lose too much time if he stopped to get the gun and load it. He jogged through the restaurant, checking all the tables. No Nancy.

Think, meathead. Think. The door to the kitchen burst open. A harried-looking waitress came bursting out. Behind her, there was some sort of commotion in the kitchen. People were yelling. Good enough for him. He pushed his way through the swinging door. A woman caught sight of him and ran forward, holding up her hands to bar his way.

“Hey! No customers in here!” she yelled. “Get back!”

“What happened in here?” he demanded.

“It was gross,” a round-faced girl standing near the entrance confided. “This lady was sick to her stomach, and the guy gets the bright idea to drag her through the kitchen? That’s so unhygienic! The Board of Health could shut us down for—hey! Where are you going?”

Liam barreled through the people. He slipped, arms flailing, in a long, harrowing slide down the straight-a-way between two rows of range tops, in a slippery skid of yellowish sauce, barely keeping his feet.

He pitched out the door, reeling. Loading bay, garbage. No movement. He took off, heart thudding, for the parking lot.

A harried mother pushing a stroller. A young couple. A retirement age man and his blue-haired wife getting out of a sedan, arguing. Their voices floated over. A big guy in a yellow fringed coat rolling a string bass behind him. No black-haired guy, no black jacket. No Nancy.

He looked again. Nothing else moved. The man and his wife passed. Their babble did not penetrate his mind. He stared at the parking lot, feeling with all his senses. Doubts niggled. Maybe Nancy was in the hall, safe and sound, conducting her business. And he was out here chasing phantoms created by his own overheated brain.

And maybe not. Big fat guy. Bad breath.

He gave the yellow-coated man a second look. The guy slowed to a stop and looked around. Sun glinted off his mirrored sunglasses. He looked at Liam for a second, and turned away, but when he started to move again, he was moving slightly faster. Dragging his big instrument case. It rattled and bumped behind him.

The case. The fucking case. Oh, sweet suffering Christ.

He took off running. The guy was opening the hatchback of an SUV. He heaved the instrument up and into the back of it, slammed it shut. Glanced at Liam racing toward him. Dove for the driver’s seat.

The motor roared. Brake lights came on. Liam was shouting, screaming. The SUV started to pull out. It had to stop and correct. Liam flung himself at the back of the vehicle, yanked at the latch of the hatchback.

It opened. The guy had been in too big of a hurry to lock it. Liam flung himself inside, next to the case. It lay there like a deformed coffin in a hearse. The guy screamed back over his shoulder.

Liam scrabbled for something to grab on to as the guy backed up again, with a violent burst of speed, and then braked abruptly.

Liam slid out the back, dragging the case with him. It toppled, rolled, rocked on the asphalt. Bam, the asshole took a shot at him. Liam flung himself to the side. Zing, another bullet ricocheted off the asphalt.

A car window exploded. Glass rattled, tinkled. The case was still lying right behind the vehicle’s tires. The SUV had stopped moving.

Liam guessed the filthy fuck’s intentions and leaped to heave the case out of harm’s way right before the SUV roared into reverse and ran it down. They landed between parked cars in the opposite row. He flung himself onto the case, landing with a bone-wrenching thud, in case the bastard stopped to shoot again. Shouts, screams. People had heard the gun.

The SUV peeled away, tires squealing. It tore out of the parking lot, ran a light at the corner, and was gone.

Liam slid off the case onto his ass, shaking. His face was wet. His nose streamed with blood. He turned the case gently right side up and unlatched it with trembling hands, his heart in his throat.

Nancy was curled inside the padded interior, hair over her face. He felt her throat, rejoicing at the pulse. Scooped her out into his arms and cradled her. He brushed the hair off her forehead, murmuring her name over and over. Alive. Not shot. Not broken. Not taken. Oh, God.

He was crying. He couldn’t stop. He just sat on the ground, while the commotion buzzed. Rocking her. Holding her.

Until they pried her out of his arms and took her away from him.

Chapter

12

Nancy stared out the window of her apartment from her seat on the couch. It was full dark, but she couldn’t be bothered to turn on the light. And she was too tired to wrestle the couch down into a bed.

She should be at the cathedral uptown, where Novum Canticum, her Gregorian chant choir, was having their big New York debut concert. It was an important gig for them, their first well-established classical concert series, and she should be there to support them.

But she couldn’t get off the couch. Her ass was weighted down.

They would understand, of course. Everybody was extremely understanding these days. They were treating her like blown glass.

She’d tried to stay too busy to be miserable. How could a woman wallow in self-pity when her cell phone never stopped ringing, and her e-mail in-box never had anything less than twenty new messages? She was surrounded by people who needed her. The hub of frantic activity.

The Jericho gig had been a smash. Peter and Enid were besieged with offers. Record companies that had previously disdained them were making unctuous overtures. Nancy boosted concert fees by a judicious 50 percent and passed out promo packets right and left, wondering why she wasn’t happier. It was finally coming together, and that was something, wasn’t it? All that heroic effort had paid off. Hadn’t it?

No. It hadn’t. The horrible events in Boston had laid her pathetic emotional stratagems bare. She’d been scrambling for love all these years. And she only knew that because she’d finally gotten some of it. Just enough to know what it felt like, anyway. And now it was gone.

She’d been better off before. Not knowing.

No, she hadn’t earned any love from all her heroic efforts. Love couldn’t be earned, or God knew she would have more of it. She finally understood Lucia’s impulse to matchmake. Her mother had wanted so badly to find Nancy someone solid. A man she could lean on. The joke was on them, though. Liam was so solid, he was like an outcropping of volcanic rock. Immovable. A cosmic joke, but she wasn’t laughing.

She flopped down onto her side, curling around the empty space inside her. Liam had saved her from the guy with the reptile eyes. He’d come to her rescue as heroically as ever, but after snatching her from the jaws of death, he’d decided that his duty as a righteous dude was fulfilled. He’d shaken the dust off his boots and walked into the sunset.

Not a word from the man. Not a call. Not a peep.

She was having nightmares, crying fits every night. She’d stayed with her sisters for the most part, but she’d slipped away from everyone tonight. She needed to be alone. Scary though that was.

The doctors said that it would take a while for the anxiety to ease. The pills they’d prescribed rattled in her purse. She hadn’t taken them. All she had were her feelings. She didn’t want to cut herself loose from those, too. And she wanted to be sharp, if Reptile Eyes came calling.

She thought constantly about calling Liam, but something always held her back. She’d told him that she loved him, so technically, the ball was in his court. But this was no game. She was too raw, too sad for games. She just wanted to go to him, hold out her heart and say, “Take this. It’s yours anyway, you great big idiot. So take it already.”

The intercom buzzed. She leaped up, her heart in her throat.

Her sisters both had keys. And Reptile Eyes would not buzz. He would transform into fetid slime, ooze under the crack in the door, and reconstitute himself on the other side like the über-evil Terminator III.

She didn’t want to talk to anyone. Just as well she’d left the light off. She curled into a tight ball, and gave the intercom the finger.

Buzzzzzz, it rang, loud and long and demanding. Persistent bastard. She waited. Two minutes. Three. Buzzzzzz, again. Curiosity laced with fear dragged her to the window. She leaned out to peek.

Liam stood on the top of her stoop. Her heart leaped, thudded heavily against her ribs. Her legs started to wobble. Buzzzzz, he hit the intercom again. He looked up into her eyes, and held out his hands, palm up, in silent entreaty. She shuffled to the intercom like a zombie and buzzed him in.

She unlocked all the locks, of which there were many. She’d added three more to her collection since the Reptile Eyes episode.

She opened the door. He was thinner. Pale, drawn, and deadly serious. In the flickering light from the stairwell, she saw the fading bruises beneath both eyes. A broken nose, Eoin had said, and cracked ribs. Hanging out with her was hard on a guy’s health.

She suppressed the concern, the guilt. The desire to fuss.

Her heart was careening at such a fast clip, she felt woozy and faint. She couldn’t speak, so she just stepped back and gestured him in.

He shoved the door shut after him, blocking out the light, and she was grateful she’d left it off—until she started remembering the last time they’d been alone, in this room, in the dark. Making love.

He cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She blocked all the automatic babble-mode replies at their source. The “Oh, I’m fine and how are you” bullshit. She had nothing to lose, no reason to lie. “No,” she said flatly. “I feel like shit.”

He took a step closer. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She choked on her laughter. “Oh, are you? I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t concentrate. I’m scared of my own shadow. I am wrecked, Liam. I am roadkill. So don’t ask stupid questions. And don’t tell me that you’re sorry. Because I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re going to have to hear it. Because I’m not done saying it.”

“Oh, yeah?” She backed up, and her thighs bumped against the couch. She was so wobbly, she sat down with an undignified thump. “Don’t tell me what I have to do, because I am so very done with all your arrogant pronouncements and your bullshit ultimatums!”

“I love you,” he said.

That cut her tirade off and left her gasping for air. She just hung there, head dangling, hands clamped over her mouth.

Liam sank down onto his knees. He pried one of her hands off her mouth, pulled it to himself, and kissed it, with reverent slowness, like a sacred ceremony. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

She didn’t know where to start. This thing between them was a maze, a confusion of entrances and exits, full of dead ends, land mines. Her heart shook at the idea that there might be a way through it.

If she could find that narrow, winding way. If they could find it, together.

“Why didn’t you call?” she blurted. The question she’d sworn she would not ask had popped up and asked itself, without her permission.

He hesitated, his face turned away. “I couldn’t. First, I was numb. Then, I was scared. Then, I was embarrassed. I was just…stuck. In a big machine. I had to shake loose of it. It took some time. But I’ll regret how long it took for the rest of my life.”

That startled a watery smile out of her. “Don’t get melodramatic. The rest of your life is a long time.” She paused. “I hope.”

“Do you?” He slid his arms around her hips and laid his head in her lap. “No matter how long it is, it’ll be too long without you.”

Whoa. Following up his advantage, the crafty, presumptuous bastard. He’d caught her in a weak moment, and now he was just waiting for her to cave. And oh, how she wanted to cave. So badly.

Nancy put her hands on his shoulders, with a vague notion of pushing him away, but as soon as they made contact, her fingers dug in. His muscles seemed leaner, harder than before. He trembled.

She couldn’t push him away. She had no strength for it. She found herself bowing down like a wilting flower. Draped over him, her hands splayed over his ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

“How’s your nose?” she asked.

“Healing,” he replied. “No big deal.”

“It was for me,” she said. “It was huge, for me. You saved my life. Again. Thanks, by the way.”

He lifted his head, and frowned. “Speaking of which. You should not be alone here. It’s not safe.”

She sighed. “Don’t start. If it comforts you, my sisters have been babysitting me. I just needed to be alone.”

He looked dubious, but let it go. After a moment, he cautiously tried again. “So. Ah, how did it all go?”

“How did what go?”

“The gig. Peter and Enid. Are they megasuperstars now?”

“Not one bit of sarcasm out of you, or it’s out the door, Knightly.”

He lifted his hands in quick surrender. “Sorry.”

She harrumphed, unmollified. “It went well,” she said coolly. “It was a big boost for both their careers. And mine, too, incidentally.”

“Ah. Well, good. I’m happy for them. And you.”

She was appalled to realize that she was trying not to smile at his supercareful, kid-gloves tone. “That’s very big of you, Liam.”

“I hope they appreciate you now.” The edge was back in his voice.

“I think they do. They even paid back the money they owed me.”

“No shit?” He looked impressed. “How’d you swing that?”

“I put my foot down. I admit, that approach does have its uses.”

He looked away. She couldn’t see his mouth, but she could feel that he was trying not to smile. “Funny how you should say that,” he said. “Myself, I’ve been working on the concept of compromise.”

“Oh, really?” Her heart thudded crazily. “And how do you feel about it these days?”

He shrugged. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”

They gazed at each other. She laid her fingertips against the bruises under his eyes, petting them. He seized her hand, kissed it.

“I called my father,” he offered.

She blinked, taken aback. “Wow. And? So? How did it go?”

“It was weird,” he admitted. “Awkward. But we got through it.”

“So? What did you say to him? What did he say? Tell me!”

He kissed her hand again, and again, making her wait. “I, uh, asked him if I should send him an invitation to my wedding.”

Her jaw dropped. Too much, all at once. Her throat shook.

“Ah, shit,” Liam muttered. “I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. I know I have to propose, and beg and grovel first. And I didn’t mean to sound like it’s a done deal. It was a…a hypothetical question.”

“Hy-hypothetical,” she whispered.

“Yeah. You know. In case I get lucky.”

She hid her face. He waited patiently for several minutes.

“So?” he coaxed. “You are my queen. Everything that’s beautiful and fine. I’ll spend my life trying to be worthy. Trying not to fuck this up. Please. Say yes. Be my wife.”

“I…I love you, too,” she burst out.

His grin began to spread. “That’s a yes? That means I got lucky?”

“That means I love you,” she said. “I already have two wedding dresses in storage. I don’t know if I could handle being engaged again.”

“Okay,” he said promptly. “Let’s skip the engaged part, and go straight to the married part. I got on the Internet before I came here. There’s a red-eye flight for Vegas. Tonight.”

She started to laugh, helplessly, tears in her eyes. “Oh, God.”

“We can get married by an Elvis impersonator. Spend three days on a vibrating bed. Rent a convertible, drive through the desert.”