A Cry In The Dark

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Slowly, her eyes met his, but in them he no longer saw the stark fear or punishing desperation, only the soft glow of a resolve he saw every morning when he looked into the foggy bathroom mirror and lifted a razor to his face.

“I don’t need you.”

Her words shouldn’t have stung. She was right, after all. There were those at the Bureau who swore playing chicken with an oncoming freight train was smarter than putting your faith and your future—your son’s life—in Liam Brooks’s scarred hands.

He looked at her standing there, sleek and drenched and vulnerable in ways he knew she hated, and once again shoved his hands in his pockets. It was harder this time, because the thick denim was drenched and sticking to his body. Not because the urge was stronger. It was only human compassion, he assured himself, even if he hadn’t felt any in years. Hadn’t felt a woman, either. Hadn’t touched, hadn’t tasted.

Hadn’t wanted.

Until tonight.

“Yes, you do,” he said, and the words scraped on the way out. “You do.” He stepped toward her, again lifted a hand to her face. “You need me in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.” And he needed her even more. “That’s why I can’t leave you alone.”

Stopping the rain falling from the darkened sky or the wind lashing waves against the shore would have been easier.

Then, because he wanted to step closer, because he knew he’d pushed hard enough for one night, he turned and walked away.

He didn’t belong here.

That was her first thought. It was too dark, too quiet and spooky. Too far from home.

He was awfully brave. That was her second thought. The little boy with the sandy hair and skinned knees lay curled on a narrow white bed, staring into the darkness. He wasn’t crying, like she wanted to, wasn’t calling for his mommy, like she tried to do but couldn’t.

The small room was cold, not like the winter in Boston when big fat fluffy snowflakes fell for hours and hours and she wanted to go play but Daddy wanted her to stay inside by the warmth of the fireplace, but like the dark corner of the basement. And it was so still and quiet. Too quiet.

“Who are you?” she wanted to ask, but her voice didn’t work here.

The boy looked up anyway, looked directly at her, startled her with wide, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m Alex.”

His name echoed through the quiet, strangely smelling room, even though she never saw his mouth move. “Are—are you okay?”

He didn’t look hurt, just scared.

She didn’t really expect him to answer, because her voice still wasn’t working. But his little mouth puckered, and he nodded. “I wanna go home.”

So did she. She wanted to be back in her safe little pink and white room, in her cozy house with her mommy and daddy just a few doors down the hall. She wanted to open her eyes and see her favorite pink teddy bear, to hug it close to her body, to breathe deeply and smell the soft scent of powder and lotion, not this nasty smell that reminded her of mud puddles several days after it rained. She couldn’t remember the word her mommy used to describe that icky smell, but she knew it was a bad word.

Just like this was a bad place.

“What are you doing here?” the little boy asked. “How did you get here?”

She looked around, started to shiver. She didn’t know where she was. Didn’t know how she’d gotten there. It had all happened so fast. The last thing she remembered was crawling into her bed, her daddy reading a story, saying their prayers together, then him kissing her on the cheek and turning off the pink poodle lamp Santa had brought her for Christmas.

Swallowing a sob, trying to match his bravery, she studied him more closely. She couldn’t understand why she felt as if she already knew him.

He chewed his lips, glancing across the small room to where light leaked in from under the door. “We gotta get out of here.”

She knew that. She may have been only two, but she knew she had to help the little boy get out of there. He was scared, and he was in trouble, and even though she was scared, too, and just a girl, she was the only one who could help him.

But she didn’t know how.

The only thing she knew how to do was draw. Her mommy said she was the best. Her daddy called her a prodigy, whatever that was.

“I’ll try,” she promised bravely, then spotted the table and the crayons scattered on top. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to walk across the room, but knew she had to. Biting her lip, she forced her legs to carry her, even though they felt all heavy. It didn’t matter how hard it was. It didn’t matter how scared she was.

All that mattered was the little boy named Alex and finding some way to get him back to his mommy and daddy.

So she could go back to her mommy and daddy. And her pink teddy bear.

“What are you doing?” Alex asked, peering queerly at her.

She wasn’t sure, just knew she had to draw. “Just wait,” she said, picking up a crayon and pushing it against a blank sheet of paper. “Maybe this will help.”

Chapter 4

The first pinkish rays of dawn stretched lazily against the horizon. The sky lightened, from a smeared, drab gray to streaks and swirls in a soft palette of pastels. The storm had moved on, unleashing its fury for a short time, then hurrying southeast, leaving an eerie calm in its place.

Through it all, Danielle had stood by the lake and waited.

But no one had ever come.

She looked at her watch now, saw the hour nearing seven, felt the scratch of inevitability against her throat.

Just a little longer, she told herself. She’d stand here, and she’d wait, by herself, and she’d prove to them that she had not intended to disobey. She’d done just as instructed, even though it grated at her. She’d never been one to follow instructions, no matter who issued them. Except her mother. She remembered so little of the exotic woman with wild dark hair and laughing green eyes, just bits and pieces. The smell of gardenia. And her voice. It had been a soft voice, gentle, filled with love. Even when she’d lost her patience with the triplets, she’d disciplined them lovingly.

And Danielle had always, always responded.

It had been a different story with her father. She remembered less about him, just his big, booming presence. He’d looked neat and tidy, and he’d smiled whenever they had company, but when no one else was around, he’d turned into a different person, a person none of them liked very much. He’d order them around, his face turning red, his eyes bulging. That was her first memory of being defiant. She’d known she should obey him, that the consequences of disobedience were bad, but even at a young age, her Gypsy blood had been strong, and she’d been unable to follow his rigid rules.

Sometimes she and Elizabeth had hidden from him to avoid the belt. Usually they wedged themselves under the bed, sometimes in a closet—like they’d done the night their mother died. She’d lost them both that night, her mother to violence, her father to a question mark. Benedict Payne had simply vanished.

That night marked a transition in her life, but patterns instilled by her parents remained. A wild child, one foster family had called her. A bad seed. A hellion. But if the names were supposed to wound, they never had. If anything, they’d encouraged her. She’d seen what happened to her mother when she bent to her father’s will like nothing more than a flimsy sapling in a gale-force wind. She remembered the arguments, the tears, and she’d resolved to never, never let anyone dominate her. To never blindly follow someone else’s rules. To follow her own path, her own calling.

And she had.

Until yesterday.

The breeze whipped off the lake, cooler now, no longer warmed by the lingering heat of the day. She turned toward the endless expanse of blue, stared at the lone red-and-yellow sail already visible in the distance. Her clothes were still wet from the rain, her hair sticky, but she wasn’t ready to leave yet. Wasn’t ready to give up.

The irony burned. For the first time in thirty-one years, she’d been willing to play by someone else’s rules. She’d been willing to go along with the request, do whatever was required to get her son back. With a stab to her throat she remembered the way she’d torn at her clothes, offering herself to Liam in exchange for Alex. She would have done whatever he wanted, gone down with him in the sand, let him have her, use her.

But he’d stopped her.

Frowning, she tried to focus on a lone gull dipping over the blue, blue waters of the lake. Instead she saw Liam, the way his eyes had darkened, not grimly, but like smoke. She remembered the feel of his hands grabbing hers, not cruelly or harshly, but tenderly. She felt the brush of his fingers along her breasts, the startling tingle of awareness. That was only physiological, she knew. A purely female response to the first male touch in more than two years.

“Danielle.”

The sound of her name on his voice, so low and hoarse, whispered through her like a caress. She closed her eyes to the feeling she didn’t want, didn’t trust, but her heart kicked up a notch, anyway.

His hands, big, strong, deceptively gentle, settled against her shoulders. “It’s time to go home, honey.”

She opened her eyes to the bright blue of early morning, the truth she didn’t want to see. “Not yet.”

“No one’s coming,” he said quietly. “You can wait all day, but I’m the only one who’s going to be here.”

She spun toward him, ready to lash out at him for ruining everything, for watching her at the hotel and showing up at her house, for following her to the beach and ruining her chances of getting Alex back. But when she saw him, the shadows beneath his eyes, the stubble at his jaw, the same damp clothes he’d worn the night before, words failed her. So did her breath.

“They’ll make contact again,” he promised in that low, raspy voice of his. “But you need to be home to get the call.”

She swallowed hard. “You didn’t leave.”

“Not with you here by yourself, no.”

She wanted to be angry at him. She wanted to blame him. But standing there in the hazy light of a storm-washed morning, she could find no anger, no blame. There was only the memory of the torrent of words he’d unleashed on her last night, the admissions that lingered in his gaze.

I know what terror tastes like and smells like.

Last night she’d been too lost in her private hell for the words to fully register, but they swirled through her now, dark, dangerous, unearthing the crazy desire to lift a hand to this man’s face and wipe away the shadows.

I know what it’s like to be willing to trade anything.

Even his soul. Because he had, she knew instinctively. It was there in his eyes, the aura of black that surrounded him like his own personal storm cloud.

The voice deep inside, the one that had finally started speaking to her after weeks and months of dormancy, whispered a little louder. What happened to this man? What had hurt him so? What had he lost?

But the voice of logic and reason, the one she’d forced herself to live by, refused to let the questions past her throat. Whatever had happened to this man didn’t matter. He didn’t matter. Only Alex did.

Behind him a snarl of traffic already inched its way down Lakeshore Drive, streaming south into the city, just like countless other days. Odd that life could march on in a cloud of normalcy, when with one simple phone call, her entire world had turned upside down.

“Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, bringing with them a staggering infusion of warmth. “We need to get you out of these clothes—”

She couldn’t help it. Her eyes flared all by themselves.

“—and into some dry ones.”

Danielle the wild child, the hellion, the rebel, would have fought this man, his command. She would have dug in her heels and refused to go anywhere with him.

But the Danielle who’d stood on the deserted beach all night long, in the rain and the wind and the soul-shattering dark, waiting for a rendezvous that had never come, the woman who’d ripped at her blouse and offered herself to this man, who’d seen the pain hollow out his eyes, heard it drench his voice, the one who was so tired she could barely walk, that Danielle wanted nothing more than to be home again, in the small house she and Alex had picked out, where his picture sat square and center on the mantel, where the phone could ring, and she could find some way to convince his abductors that last night had been a mistake. That she really was willing to play by their rules.

Pay their price.

Whatever it was.

With one last look over the light chop of the lake, where a second sailboat had joined the first but the gull remained solitary, she let Liam lead her across the expanse of sand and rock, allowing herself to think only of Alex. She refused to think of the way the warmth of Liam’s hand seeped into her, beyond flesh and bone, to the core, where for the first time the chill didn’t pierce quite so deeply.

The little house, with its faded siding but bright window boxes brimming with petunias and impatiens, sat still and quiet, much too still and quiet. Liam eased his rental to a stop at the curb while Danielle pulled into the driveway. He didn’t know how much longer she could function without collapsing.

He’d walked away last night, even climbed into his car and driven away, but within minutes he’d been back. No way was he leaving her there alone during the long, dark hours of the night, waiting for Titan or one of his goons to arrive. Especially not after the way she’d thrown herself at Liam, willing to trade her body in exchange for her son.