Bodyguard (35 page)

She was banking on the fact that he’d told her the truth. She was depending on the fact that he found her irresistible, because there she was. Right there in the light. No hiding, no excuses. She may not like what she saw when she looked into the mirror, but she liked what she saw reflected in Harry’s eyes. He liked her, bad hair and all.

He closed the window.

It seemed to take forever for him to walk back across the tiny room. And then he sat down on the edge of the bed, just looking at her, touching her only with the heat of his gaze.

And silent. Still so silent.

She took a condom from her bedside table and held it out to him. At his quizzical look, she explained, “I was hoping you’d be back.”

He touched her then, just one finger against her cheek. “You never give up hope, do you? Even when something’s completely hopeless.”

“But you did come back, didn’t you?”

He laughed in amazement. “I should go—if only to prove you wrong.”

“I hope you don’t go.” She moved then, straddling his lap, pushing him down onto the bed. “Of course, it’s always good to give hope a little help whenever possible.”

Alessandra kissed him hard, tugging at his T-shirt, pressing herself against him. And she knew that it had taken every ounce of his control to sit there without touching her for so long. He exploded, pulling her against him, touching her everywhere, skimming his hands across her body, groaning as he filled his palms with her breasts.

“Yeah, this is definitely helping.” He pulled his shirt over his head then reached down to help her unfasten his belt.

He covered himself with the condom in an instant then held her hips, pulling her down onto him.

His quiet “Oh, yeah” echoed her wonder at their joining so perfectly—it brought tears to her eyes. He was leaving on Monday. He was going to walk away from something so impossibly right.

She kissed him again as she moved on top of him,
awash in the simplicity of the truth she’d been denying for so long.

She loved Harry. She loved him unlike she’d ever loved anyone before. He was her friend, her lover, her one true love. He filled her heart and lightened her soul. She was okay without him, but how could she settle for only okay, knowing she could have this irreplaceable pleasure, this one-of-a-kind sense of contentment with him in her life?

The sheer strength of her emotion should have frightened her—love had always been an imprisoning thing. She’d loved Griffin, at least she had at first, and he’d locked her away from the world. But he’d taken her love and given her only material things in return, and he’d treated her like a possession.

She knew that she wasn’t Harry’s possession. He’d never treat her that way. He respected her too much. And—perhaps unfortunately—he wasn’t her possession, either.

Because she had no chains with which to hold him, he was bound and determined to walk away.

Harry groaned as he moved beneath her, as close to his release as she was to hers. As she looked down into his eyes, as she watched his emotions play across his face, she knew another truth. A far harder truth to face.

It simply wasn’t a matter of making him fall in love with her. Because even if he did love her, he wouldn’t stay. He loved his kids, she knew he did, yet he was leaving them, too.

It was as hopeless a situation as she’d ever encountered.

Harry reached between them, touching her, sending her over the edge as he gazed into her eyes. She kept her eyes open and let him see everything she was feeling, the sweet intensity of the pleasure he gave her, the limitless passion she had for him, the strength of her love. She’d
never dare to say the words aloud, but if he wanted to, it was there for him to see in her eyes.

His own release followed immediately, and although he, too, held her gaze, Allie closed her eyes.

She didn’t want to see his truth—that despite all she was willing to give him, that despite the fact that neither of them would ever find such perfection again, he was already gone.

Still, as long as she kept her eyes closed, she could hope he was going to stay.

It was a little before two-thirty in the morning when Kim let herself into George’s apartment. It was raining, she hadn’t been able to flag down a cab, her feet hurt, and she’d been touched inappropriately by patrons not just once tonight but twice. The bouncer had had to intervene, and it had gotten ugly for awhile.

The living room was dark, and she moved quietly, thinking that George had already gone to bed. But as she hung her raincoat in the front closet, she heard his voice from the bedroom.

He was talking on the phone. “No, she’s not home yet. And I’m not going to ask where you were, babe, out this late.” He laughed, the sound low and intimate, and Kim’s heart broke. Babe. He was talking to her. To Nicole. She headed for the bedroom, intending to tell George exactly what she thought of him, the two-timing son of a bitch.

“Yeah, you were working,” he said. “What a surprise. Anyway, thanks for calling me back, Nic. I think I figured out a way to find Harry.”

Harry. George’s partner. The one who’d run off with Alessandra Lamont. This was it. This was the information she’d been waiting all these weeks to hear. Kim froze, standing there outside the bedroom door.

She didn’t want to listen, didn’t want to know. She
didn’t want to have to betray George, even if he was a two-timing son of a bitch.

“I was watching some stupid late-night movie about this child-custody battle, and I suddenly remembered. Right before we went up to Paul’s River, Harry got this letter in the mail from some lawyers, telling him that a petition had been filed with the court challenging his custody of his kids. Something about a name change, too. That petition would be a matter of public record, wouldn’t it? The kids’ real names would’ve been used—Shaun and Emily O’Dell—and their address would be on the petition, right? That’s got to be easy to find—I mean, it’s just a matter of checking the county records. I know Colorado’s a big state, but the records are probably on computer … And once we find Harry …”

George was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was unnaturally grim. “This better get me a promotion, boss.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, right. Let me know what turns up.”

He hung up the phone, and Kim scrambled back, away from the door, as silently as possible. She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and stared inside as if she were looking for a late-night snack.

George stopped short at the sight of her, balancing precariously on his crutches. “Kim. God, when did you get home?”

She glanced up at him. “Oh, hi, baby. I just got in. I’m starving.”

He was silent, just looking at her.

“I’m thinking about running out for some donuts.”

“Oh,” he said. “Really? Isn’t it raining? And we’ve got some of those good cookies you like …”

Kim frowned into the fridge. “No, I think I want a donut.” There was a pay phone in front of the twenty-four-hour Frosty Donuts. She could call one of Trotta’s
men while the information was still fresh in her mind. Shaun and Emily O’Dell. Petition to the court. Name change, custody. Colorado. She couldn’t let herself think about what that phone call would mean for Alessandra Lamont. She could only focus on what Michael would do to Kim if he found out she knew and didn’t tell him. And he would find out. He always found out.

George sat down heavily at the kitchen table, as if his leg was really hurting him again. “So, you’re going to, like, go back out at this time of night? In the rain? For a donut?”

She closed the refrigerator. “Want one?”

“No,” he said quietly. He stared down at the table, and when he looked up at her, she could swear for just an instant that he was going to cry.

There was no way he could know she’d overheard that phone call—that phone call to his ex-wife, Nicole, whom he was still in love with, whom he spoke to and got together with, every chance he could. The bastard. He deserved to be betrayed, didn’t he?

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she said.

She hurried to the closet and got her raincoat, took her keys from the table by the door, and let herself out of the apartment.

The stairway down from the fourth floor was brightly lit, as was the glistening street outside. The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle, and as Kim headed for the pay phone, she glanced back up at the windows to George’s apartment.

She could see him standing there, just a shadowy silhouette, watching her go. He lifted one hand in what might’ve been a wave, but she turned quickly away, pulling her collar around her neck, pretending not to see, pretending not to care.

* * *

Alessandra kept her eyes tightly closed when she woke up, keeping reality at bay for as long as she could.

Harry was not going to be there, still in her bed, still lying beside her. But as long as she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend that he was.

She listened for a moment, but her apartment was silent. The water didn’t run in the bathroom, the kitchen stove didn’t make that odd ticking sound as it heated the water under the kettle, no one stirred and sighed beside her.

She opened her eyes.

Just as she’d expected, Harry was gone.

There was no note, no sign he’d ever been there at all. Just the slightest burn from his unshaven face on her chin. Just his scent and the warm memory of his touch, lingering on her skin.

She’d lost. If he could leave after last night, she’d lost for good.

And soon Harry would be leaving for New York, and he wasn’t going to come back.

Maybe not ever.

Unable to stop her tears, Alessandra stepped into her shower and washed herself clean, wishing it were as easy to wash Harry from her heart.

Harry knew exactly when Allie spotted him.

She was approaching the intersection of Gulch and Main when he caught up with her, and she hit the brakes of the Merry Maids truck just a little too hard.

Her next stop was a sprawling stucco ranch on Killing-worth Lane. She sat in the truck for a long time, as if she was waiting for him to approach her.

But he didn’t move.

He couldn’t move. It would entirely defeat the point of this kind of surveillance if he approached her. Besides,
what could he possibly say? Thanks for another of the greatest sexual experiences of my life?

Glancing back at his car, Allie finally took the cleaning cart to the front door and disappeared inside. It was at least an hour and a half before she came out, again looking over at him hesitantly, as if hoping he’d get out of his car, stroll over, and chat.

He still didn’t move.

He could tell from the way she climbed into the truck and from the jerky way she pulled out into the street that she was mad.

Her next stop was right around the corner. This time, instead of unhooking the cleaning cart from the back, she climbed down from the cab of the truck and marched toward Harry’s car.

Ah, shit.

“You’re just going to pretend last night didn’t happen?” Her words were clipped, her face tight as she gazed down into his open car window. “Just like that, we’re back to so-called normal? You keep your distance, we don’t talk unless you’re … you’re … fucking me?” The words came out a whisper. She looked so completely upset, so devastated, Harry had to close his eyes. He hoped it would shield him from the guilt, but he knew it wouldn’t help. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed last night. He knew it would be a terrible mistake.

“Look, you were the one who asked me to stay. It was your idea.” But he should have walked away. He should have, but he’d been completely unable to. All of his willpower was completely gone when it came to this woman, and that still scared the shit out of him.

“Were you just going to follow me around until Monday and then leave?” she asked, both tears and hope in her eyes, as if she actually thought he might tell her no. No, he was going to come over to her place for dinner
tonight and what? Confess that he was completely in love with her, and that despite that—or hell, maybe because of it, he was still going to go to New York? And—as long as he was taking the complete fantasy route here—then he’d gently explain his obsessive need to fill the awful emptiness Kevin’s death had carved inside of him with his pursuit of Michael Trotta, and he’d explain it so that she’d understand.

But Allie wouldn’t understand. No one could. He didn’t understand it himself.

As he gazed up into her pale, pinched face, he knew if he didn’t get pissed, he was going to start to cry.

“I’m not sure what you want me to do,” he told her roughly. “Send flowers? Not my style. Propose marriage maybe? Lie and pledge my undying love? I don’t see the point in playing those games. I’m out of here on Monday, and I’ve already said good-bye.”

He saw the complete and total death of hope in Allie’s eyes, and he knew without a doubt that he’d pushed too far. He’d finally killed whatever it was she felt for him.

She turned away, her movements wooden, and he knew that although she’d told him not to bother to come back before, this time if she said it, she would mean it.

And sure enough, she turned back. “There’ll be locks on my windows tonight,” she said, then walked toward her truck, not looking back again.