Always You (14 page)

“That’s another piece of the puzzle, isn’t it?” Cady said. “You’re having some kind of serious trouble at USITI.”

After exchanging a look with John, Chiara made a quick-fire decision to handle Cady the same way she had handled Grayson. She called upon the diversionary tactic of using one truth to avoid revealing another. “My boss made me take a polygraph test yesterday.”

“Why?” Cady looked alarmed. “Because your sales partner committed suicide?”

“Zhou was under suspicion for stealing.” Chiara hated saying the words, even if they were true. “Mr. Grayson wanted to see if I knew anything about it, and apparently my word wasn’t good enough for him.”

“Did you fail it?”

“I passed. I remembered the article you wrote on the dubious reliability of polygraph tests,” Chiara said. “I remembered Aldrich Ames.”

“Aldrich Ames was a fat liar, though,” Cady said. “He passed two polygraph exams when he was spying on the U.S. for Russia. When he told his Russian handlers that he had to take a polygraph exam, they told him that the best way to pass it was to just relax. If you didn’t have anything to hide, why would you need tips from Aldrich Ames?”

“I passed the test where the theft was concerned, but it registered a deception on something else. I hadn’t told anyone about the baby. I had to tell Mr. Grayson after that.”

“So is that why you quit? Because Mr. Grayson forced you to reveal your pregnancy?”

“I don’t like other people getting in my personal business.” Chiara went back to her box.

“You’ve been there for almost eight years.” Cady shook her head. “It seems like a lot to throw away for something he would have found out eventually.”

“Like I said,” Chiara sighed, squatting at her boxes. “I was planning to leave anyway. This just moved the date up sooner.” She picked up a thick white envelope sitting atop the second box. “John? Was this with the rest of my stuff?”

He peered over the kitchen counter. “No, Chele gave that to me before I left. She said it was on your desk when she took care of your boxes. It had your name on it, so I brought it along.”

Chiara used her thumbnail to open the envelope. She shook the contents, a thick vellum folder with the USITI logo in burgundy against the cream cover, into her hand. “It’s a dossier.” She opened it and scanned the first page before snapping it shut. “He’s got to be kidding,” she muttered under her breath.

“What is it?” John asked, concerned.

“Work,” she said, slapping the folder on top of her box just as a knock sounded on her door.

* * *

“Chiara.”

Emmitt Grayson filled her doorway. He was so out of context standing at her door on a Sunday afternoon, Chiara could only stare at him.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“Uh…um…of course, certainly,” she managed through her shock.

Grayson, his long, tall form wrapped in a black Burberry coat, brought a whiff of winter in with him. He peeled off his black gloves and shoved them into his coat pocket. “I realize I should have called first, but my manners deserted me when I heard what happened to you.”

Chiara aimed a sharp look at John, one he translated to mean, “What the hell have you done?”

“Chele Brewster brought your attack to my attention today,” Mr. Grayson said. “Inadvertently, of course, so don’t be too cross with her. I happened to be nearby when she was ordering flowers for you.” His hands danced awkwardly in the air before finally lighting on her upper arms. “My God, Chiara,” he muttered, his frosty blue eyes scouring her face. “You might have been killed. And your baby…” He took a step away from her, his fist to his mouth. “The authorities are handling this to your satisfaction?” he asked firmly.

“Yes,” Chiara answered, startled by his unexpected display of emotion.

“Your medical needs are covered?”

“Yes.”

With one fist on his hip, Grayson paced in a wide circle, the emptiness of the room allowing his long strides. He muttered softly to himself, seemingly oblivious to John and Chiara, who caught a snippet of his conversation with himself. “First Chen Zhou, now Chiara…What’s going on here?” He whipped around, turning his attention back to Chiara. “Miss Brewster informed me that you’d lost many of your possessions, but I never imagined the loss to be total. I’m sickened at the thought of you having been alone here, at the mercy of that maniac. Perhaps you’ll allow me to hire a personal security team for you, Chiara, at least until—”

“That won’t be necessary, sir,” Chiara said. “I’ve got John and my sister here. I’ll be fine. I’m leaving for St. Louis in the morning.”

Grayson flinched, noticing Cady and John for the first time. “Hello,” Cady said, offering her hand. “I’m Cady Winters-Bailey. Pleased to meet you.”

“I assure you, the pleasure is all mine,” Grayson said, taking Cady’s hand in both of his. He nodded toward John. “I hope all is well, Mr. Mahoney.”

“It will be,” John said. “Just as soon as I get Chiara home with me.”

“Very well, then.” Grayson spent another long moment looking at Chiara, as though the answer to his earlier conundrum were written in the bruises on her face. “If there’s anything I can do, anything at all…please don’t hesitate to ask. You’ve been…” He suddenly looked uncomfortable and cleared his throat as he plucked his gloves from his pocket. “You’ve been a valuable part of USITI, Chiara, and I want you to know that you can always turn to me for help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grayson,” Chiara said. “I…I’ll keep that in mind.”

He finished putting on his gloves before he took Chiara’s face with his fingertips. His eyes seemed to record every detail of her face before he met her gaze directly. Chiara couldn’t tell if the warmth she saw in his eyes was the reflection of her own emotion, or something organic to Grayson. But as quickly as the emotion appeared, it disappeared when Grayson let go of her face and started for the door.

“My driver is waiting for me, and I have urgent business to take care of at USITI,” he said, opening the door. “Please make sure you update me with your new phone numbers and address, Chiara. I’ve got you for two more weeks, and it is my sincere hope to keep you around longer.” He glanced over his shoulder, and he almost looked tender. “I don’t want to lose you, Chiara.”

Chiara and John had an early dinner with Cady before seeing her off in a taxi for a flight to St. Louis out of Midway. At Chiara’s insistence, Cady had agreed to fly home instead of spending one more night on the air mattress and then climbing into Chiara’s Mitsubishi and riding with her and John to St. Louis.

After dinner, John had suggested dessert at the Park Grill Restaurant, which was housed in the McCormick Tribune Plaza and Ice Skating Rink in Millennium Park, one of their favorite parts of the city. Bundled in a thick, voluminous wool cape she’d picked up in Japan, she’d held John’s hand as they’d strolled around the rink after dessert, watching the skaters. “Feel like taking a spin on the ice?” John asked.

“It’s on my personal list of no-nos until after the baby is born,” Chiara said.

“Add climbing Cecile Brunner to that list, would you?”

“I wish it were summer,” Chiara said. “We could stay for a concert at the Pritzker Pavilion, or go to Navy Pier for fireworks.”

“You sound like you don’t want to go home tonight.” John put an arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer.

“I don’t. I feel safer out here in the moonlight than I do under my own roof. What used to be my roof.”

“I’m surprised Mr. Hopkins let you out of your lease so easily.”

“I’m not,” Chiara laughed dryly. “Once his doorman went on the record saying that he let in strange men in the middle of the night, Mr. Hopkins was agreeable to anything I asked of him. He’s not even holding me liable for the physical damage to the apartment, not that he could anyway. None of it was my fault.”

“It’s not, you know,” John said. “None of it.”

They walked back to Chiara’s car passing Cloud Gate, Anish Kapoor’s dazzling, stainless steel “Bean.” The 110-ton elliptical sculpture looked like a gigantic drop of mercury, and it reflected Chicago’s skyline and Millennium Park. It was Chiara’s favorite element in the park, along with the brushed stainless steel ribbons that made up the headdress topping Pritzker Pavilion. As she and John walked away from it, Chiara imagined what it would be like to watch her child’s face the first time he saw the Bean for himself.

At the car, John took the wheel. “Could you take the scenic route?” Chiara asked him.

He obliged, driving past many of Chiara’s favorite sites, places she and John had shared. He took her south, to Buckingham Fountain in Grant Park, before doubling back north. The fountain was off for the season, but Chiara had no trouble picturing the fountain in its summer glory, when its center jet, surrounded by over one hundred smaller jets, shot a pillar of water 150 feet into the air. As lovely as the fountain was by day, it was positively breathtaking at night when its lights were lit.

John took South Lake Shore Drive to East Balbo to get to North Streeter Drive so he could drive her through Navy Pier. They had patronized every restaurant and shop there during their years in Chicago, and had taken many twilight walks along the Pier’s East End, which offered perhaps the city’s best view of the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan. “I can’t wait to bring the baby back here in a few years,” Chiara said, her eyes glued to her window.

“He won’t be a baby in a few years,” John chuckled. “He’ll be a little boy.”

“I can’t wait to take him on the ferris wheel and to the Crystal Gardens.” Chiara had enjoyed Navy Pier so much as an adult that she was sure that she’d love sharing it with her child even more. “We’ll be able to do the things we never did before, like go to the Children’s Museum and ride the carousel.”

“I’m looking forward to taking him to the Skyline for his first reggae concert,” John said. “And miniature golf. We can’t deny the child the singular delight of miniature golf at Navy Pier.”

Chiara’s heart sank a little when John had finished circling the Pier and steered them north, toward home. She leaned her head against the window and stared up at the pearl moon hanging in its blue velvet home.
At least the moon will be the same,
she told herself.
Whether it’s shining on me here or in St. Louis.

The drive to St. Louis wouldn’t be so bad; she’d done it numerous times before. But actually crossing the river from Illinois to St. Louis would be the hard part. Driving to St. Louis from Chicago, she’d always felt as though she were literally crossing from one world to another through the wide, welcoming legs of the Gateway Arch. Behind her was the civilized hustle and bustle of Chi-town, while before her lay the staid stillness of St. Louis. The city was boring in that regard, but having traveled the world, Chiara had a keener sense of something she was sure that John now felt, too—that even quiet little dead zones like St. Louis held many dangers, some of which were smaller than a postage stamp.

* * *

John used Chiara’s keys to unlock her door. Even though common sense told her that she had nothing to fear as John opened the door and walked into the apartment, she clutched at the back of his heavy coat.

“Everything’s fine,” he said, flipping on the freshly replaced foyer light. “We’re the only ones here.” He took her cape and ushered her into the living room where she suddenly stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath of air. “It’s okay,” he assured her. “This is my work.”

Chiara swallowed nervously at the sight before her. Roses, hundreds of roses in every shade of red, filled her living room. The windowsills, the kitchen counter, the floor space surrounding the air mattress—everywhere, roses. And the air mattress itself was covered in a layer of petals so thick they looked like a textured blanket.

John stepped around her. He took off his coat and hung it with hers in the foyer closet.“Mr. Petrie helped me out with this,” he said. “He likes you a lot. I think he’s really going to miss you.” John moved about the room, using wooden matches he’d picked up at the restaurant to light candles Chiara was only now noticing. “I think he got Mrs. Mayo to help him. She gave him most of these candles.”

Chiara covered her mouth with her hands. The golden light of dozens of flickering candles warmed the room. Standing amid the bouquets of roses, John turned to her and offered his hand. Chiara went to him as though magnetized. “I wanted your last memory here to be a good one,” he said.

“When did you do all this?” She smiled in amazement.

“I picked up a few things when I went for your boxes. I ordered the roses online and Mr. Petrie agreed to accept delivery while we were out. He offered to come in and arrange them, too. He’s a good guy.”

“What else did you pick up?”

John bent down and retrieved a small, dark brown bottle from the side of the air mattress. “This is arnica oil. I got it at that naturopathic skin care boutique near Loyola. It’s supposed to relieve pain and muscle soreness. It’s also good for reducing swelling and discoloration.”

Chiara took the bottle, opened it and sniffed at the cap. “It’s nice. Since when did you become a mystical medicine man?”

“I read about arnica in Kyla’s book,” he said.

“I thought her book was just recipes.”

“You haven’t read it?”

Chiara guiltily dropped her eyes. “I haven’t gotten around to it.”

“It’s more than just a cookbook. Your sister gives a lot of tips on using healthy, natural things to promote good health. In her section about sunflowers she wrote about the pain relieving properties of arnica oil.”

“Am I supposed to drink it?”

John smiled and took the bottom of her tunic. “Nope.” He eased the garment over her head and cast it aside. Chiara’s skin pleasantly prickled when his hands went to the front closure of her silky black bra. He stripped it off her and went to work on the side zipper of her pants. They, and her black bikini briefs, joined the rest of her clothes on the floor. John took the oil from her and guided her onto her belly on the air mattress. The cool, velvety rose petals delighted her skin as she stretched out atop them.

John knelt beside her and poured a small measure of the oil into the palm of his hand. He rubbed his hands together, warming it, before he applied it to her bruised shoulder blades. Ever so gently, his hands glided over her, working the oil into her skin without causing her further discomfort. He stood on his knees to reach every part of her back and shoulders, and Chiara moaned into the pillow of her arms.

John’s therapeutic touch left no part of her neglected. From her neck to her ankles, he eased her aches in ways her prescription medication couldn’t. When she rolled onto her back, inviting him to expand his treatment, she wasn’t prepared for his serious expression.

“It helps,” she told him. “It’s probably you more than the oil, but it hardly hurts anymore.”

She could only imagine how the colors of her bruised chest and thighs clashed with the beauty of the rose petals. “I’m so ugly now.” She crossed one arm over her chest, the other over her midsection, and she brought her left leg up over her right.

John tenderly pulled her arms apart. “No,” he said firmly. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more beautiful.”

She reached up and took his face, drawing his mouth to hers. She kissed him, leaving no doubt in his mind that despite how her body looked, she was ready and eager to share it with him. John handled her more tenderly than he ever had, and that care stimulated Chiara even more. She hugged his head to her as he kissed her throat and collarbone, took the hardening tips of her breasts between his lips. His hands tightened at her waist before he moved lower, tasting the oil on her skin on his way to the welcoming heat between her legs.

Cradling her buttocks in his hands he held her to his mouth, first delicately sampling her, then nibbling with an aching tenderness that made her wrap her legs about his head and shoulders. His hunger seemed insatiable, relentless in its gentleness as he worked his tongue against the hard nub hidden within her soft petals. When he took it lightly in his teeth and flicked his tongue over it, she cried out, her noises of pleasure echoing in the near empty apartment. Her kissed her there as deeply and fully as he’d ever kissed her mouth, and her legs fell wide apart, offering him everything she had.

John tore away from her to tug off his sweater. Sitting up slightly, Chiara grabbed his face and roughly kissed him, tasting herself on him. John’s desire for her was so great his hands trembled as he unfastened his jeans and struggled out of them, Chiara making his work harder by suckling his nipples and taking his growing thickness in her hand.

He kicked off his sneakers and socks and spread himself over her, careful not to put too much of his weight on her. Chiara took his hand and slipped it between her legs, guiding his fingers in the way that most pleased her while using her other hand to bring him to his fullest. John moved lower, oiling his body with the residue from hers, and kissed her breasts. Chiara guided his longest finger into the slick heat of her body and John took a long, easy draw on her nipple. Her hand tensed around him, almost painfully, before it began moving in firm, steady strokes that matched those of his finger.

John’s muscles strained from the effort of holding back, of letting Chiara determine the pace of their coupling. Blinded, deafened by his need to plunge deep inside her, John became a creature of primal instinct, using his mouth at her breasts to bring her to the same place of senseless want that she had taken him.

A guttural groan crawled out of her throat as she tossed her head back, her hips driving into John’s hand. She pulled at his wrist, removing his hand, and then grabbed his hip and urged him atop her. She guided him into her heat, thrusting upward as he trembled downward, catching his mouth in a deep, satisfying kiss. She hooked her arms around his shoulders, and on shivering arms he supported his weight, his head thrown back. Against the background of roses painted in candlelight, John was a thing of beauty that made Chiara’s heart surge.

Digging her fingertips into his hard biceps, she raised herself to suckle his earlobe. He wrapped his arms tight about her shoulders and waist, the slow, deep movement of his hips driving her with exquisite tenderness into the mattress. Sweat from his brow dripped onto the rose petals, which adhered to their skin and gave up their heady perfume as John and Chiara became one more completely than they’d ever thought possible.

Cocooned in his embrace, her legs tight about him, Chiara had never felt safer. Or more powerful. His love was a tangible thing that pulsated through her veins, replacing pain with pleasure, leaving strength in place of fear. He was her friend, her lover, the other half that made her complete. His gentle passion was strong enough to transport her to a world immune from harm, and Chiara lost herself within the sanctuary of John’s loving. She cried out loud when he shuddered upon her, his love exploding within her to ignite dizzying pulses of pure sensation from the place where they were joined. Chiara voiced the pleasure of each one of them, until John covered her mouth with his and kissed her back to their bed of roses. Chiara lay on her back, wonderfully weak, with John’s weight and warmth half cloaking her. As John gazed down at her, working his fingers through her hair, Chiara wondered if her body had ever been treated so well.

“What do you think about having a real wedding in the near future?” John asked her.

If John hadn’t proposed so many times before, Chiara might have reacted with more excitement and less practicality. “I think we need to wait until it’s safe.”

“Going about our ordinary lives would go a long way toward convincing Emmitt Grayson that we don’t know anything about his chip.”

“But we do know about it.” She touched the tip of her index finger to his lower lip and traced its fullness. “And we have to do something about it. We can’t just forget about it and act like it’s no big deal.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But we can’t let it rule us, either.” He leaned over her to grab something from the floor. It was a tiny black velvet pouch. “If your finger turns green this time, someone at Jeweler’s Row will have some serious explaining to do.”

John upended the pouch and a ring dropped into his palm. He took Chiara’s left hand, slipped it onto her finger and pressed her hand to his heart. He didn’t have to say he loved her, or that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He’d never loved anyone else, never even had a chance to, not when Chiara had come into his life so early that he could scarcely remember her not being a part of it.