EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE (9 page)

#

The present

Hollin sat up in bed, and reached for the lamp on the beside table. The room was soon bathed in soft light and she shivered. She hadn’t relived the incident or her past in years. It was too painful, too shameful, to face the memories. But if she was going to live in Whisper Lake, she had no other choice but to face it head-on.

She could hardly believe her memory was so clear after thirteen years, and yet at the trial it had been choppy, bits and pieces coming to her a little at a time.

But there was no denying what she’d remembered just now. She hadn’t seen a pocketknife on the ground that night. Which meant Griffin had been telling the truth. Someone had planted it. But who?

The other thing she hadn’t remembered until now was the man who had hurt her was wearing penny loafers. Griffin had worn boots that night. She knew because she’d watched him put his jeans on and zip the scuffed black boots before taking her home.

Covering her face with her hands, she sobbed. Not only for her loss but Griffin’s as well. She’d sent him to prison for three years for a crime he hadn’t committed. He’d been labeled by the town as some horrible, vile creature as if he wasn’t human.

And it’s all my fault.

She had to apologize to him. But first she had to find Rachel. What was she planning? And if Rachel knew who it was who had hurt her, why hadn’t she said so before now?

She remembered the look on Rachel’s face when Hollin had said she didn’t think Griffin would hurt her.

“No, he’s not going to hurt you. Unless he decides to get even.”

What on earth had she meant by that?

Jerking the covers back, she hopped out of bed. She ran down the stairs, without any regard for the way she was dressed--in boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing her bare feet into a pair of old loafers, she grabbed her trench coat, purse and the phone book from the drawer in the hall table, and ran out into the night.

She had to find Rachel. Before it was too late.

#

“Rachel, where are you?” Hollin screamed in frustration, her voice reverberating off the dark interior of her car. She’d driven up and down practically every road in town, and there was no sign of Rachel’s mustang anywhere.

But as she drove past the Peacock Motel for the third time, something made her stop and turn into the parking lot. One room had the lights on inside. Yet there were no cars in the parking lot. She found that odd.

Curious, she drove around back. There sat Rachel’s car beside a Van.

Hollin breathed a sigh of relief and drove back around to the front. She got out of the car, approached the unit with the burning light and knocked on the door.

About to push her way inside when Rachel, or maybe Randy, answered, Hollin took a step forward when the door opened, and then she froze. She didn’t recognize the tall, thin, bald man staring down at her. He was wearing nothing but a pair of blue jeans. His bare chest was covered with tattoos, and she found herself wincing at what must have been a long and painful ordeal. There didn’t seem to be one square inch of unadorned skin as far as she could see.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I was looking for my sister, and I seem to have gotten the wrong room.”

“Rachel’s asleep,” he said, stepping away from the doorway and jerking his head toward the bed.

Hollin’s gaze strayed to the bed to her sleeping sister, then back up into the stranger’s eyes. “You know who I am?” she asked, surprised.

Looking put out, he released a long breath. He smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He had a gold hoop in one ear and looked to be in his early to mid thirties. “Yes,” he said without so much as a smile. “I know who you are.”

“I see.” Now that she’d found Rachel, she had no idea what to do next. Noticing the empty bottle of gin on the bedside table meant her sister wasn’t going to be in any shape to talk, even if Hollin insisted on trying to wake her. She pulled her coat around her more tightly. There was something about the man that made her uncomfortable. “I don’t appreciate your getting my sister drunk and taking advantage of her.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

She was trying to decide whether to believe him or not when she noticed the wedding ring on his finger. It figured. Shaking her head with obvious disgust, she said, “Why don’t you go home to your wife, and I’ll stay here with Rachel.”

He blinked several times. “My wife is dead. I buried Sandra five weeks ago today.”

Her mouth fell open, and she felt ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Look, I just want to take my sister home and--”

“She’s not going anywhere tonight.”

Hollin was about to open her mouth in protest when he stopped her cold.

“My name is Travis. Travis Bowman. Has Rachel even mentioned me?”

This time Hollin was the one to blink. She had no idea who this man was, nor what he meant to Rachel. And her sister certainly hadn’t mentioned she was having an affair with a widower.

“Never mind. It’s obvious she hasn’t. Good night, Ms. Pierce.”

Hollin was soon facing a closed door.

#

He’d lost her. Where the hell had she gone?

When she’d run out of the house shortly after midnight he’d followed her as she zigzagged through town. She’d driven up and down the main roads several times, turning into the parking lots of every business establishment she’d come to. He deserved a medal for keeping up with her and yet staying back far enough to not be seen. Maybe he should have been a private detective. He almost chuckled, and would have if he wasn’t so pissed off at the moment.

He’d hidden behind a building across from the Peacock Motel while she’d chatted with Travis Bowman, the guy who owned the tattoo parlor just outside of town. It was obvious Hollin was searching for something, or someone. But if it wasn’t Rachel, then what? Who?

And then, after more than three hours she’d stopped right in the middle of Baker Street, turned on the interior light, and was reading. Probably something in that phone book she’d tossed in her car. He’d had no choice but to pass her. He’d turned the corner, planning to go around the block and then swing around behind her when he ran out of gas.

He’d sworn and punched the steering wheel with his fist several times all to no avail. His hand still throbbed with pain.

Thinking maybe he could catch her on foot, he’d jumped out of his car and headed back to Baker Street. But by the time he’d run around the corner she was gone.

He swore some more as he took his time getting back to his car. No sense ruining his new shoes now. He’d paid a fortune for the Italian leather penny loafers. He always wore penny loafers. They were classics.

Climbing into his car, he sat there a moment, trying to figure out where Hollin could have possibly gone.

That morning, he’d watched her get Chelsea on the school bus. Which is something he’d never seen that bitch Rachel do. Then he’d followed Hollin out to Griffin Wells’s old place. That fucking shit hole. Why the hell had she gone there?

He’d left his car in a thicket of trees about three hundred yards back and had walked the rest of the way. He’d thought about surprising her--and wouldn’t she have been surprised if he’d walked in on her?--when he’d heard a vehicle coming down the road.

He’d hid behind an old shed when he realized it was Wells. The man had also parked a ways back, maybe because he’d seen Hollin’s car parked in the drive. Unless he’d planned on meeting her there.

The whole thing hadn’t made any sense, had made even less sense when he’d crept to the window and seen them on the bed. Wells on top of her, kissing her.

He’d turned quickly away, his rage exploding inside. He’d planned on making her his own, convincing her they were meant for each other. But now, he had no use for her. The fucking bitch. She was no better than her sister, the whore. And if he couldn’t have Hollin, then no one was going to have her. Especially not that piece of trailer trash Griffin Wells.

Griffin’s eyes popped open. Something had woken him. He listened for a moment. Nothing. And then there it was again. Pounding. Too tired and groggy to care who was at the door at four in the morning--according to the alarm clock on the nightstand--he rolled over, covered his head with the feather pillow and closed his eyes.

And then the doorbell sounded, not once but four times in a row. “Dammit!” Griffin threw the covers back, rolled out of bed and headed for the hall when he realized he was buck naked. He padded back to his room, shoved his legs in a pair of blue jeans and tugged the zipper up as he made his way to the front door. The ceramic tile entry was cool on his bare feet, alerting his senses like a cup of strong, black coffee.

Through the side panel window he spotted the shadow of a woman standing on his front porch. He flicked on the porch light. Hollin Pierce stared back at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

He hesitated a moment before unlocking and opening the door. What in hell could she possibly want at this hour of the morning?

Swinging the door open, he took in her disheveled look. She was wearing the tan trench coat she’d worn yesterday morning--or was that this morning?--it didn’t matter. The coat was open, the belt ties hanging loose at her sides. Underneath the coat she wore pale blue boxers and a matching T-shirt. Pajamas maybe? Her long legs were bare, a pair of brown loafers covered her feet. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and her blond hair had that I’ve-just-been-fucked look. Griffin wanted to laugh.

Nothing could be further from the truth. He’d bet his life on it.

“Did you come to face some more of your past?” he asked, not bothering to mask his irritation.

She gripped the edges of her coat, pulled it closed in front of her. “You could say that.” She swallowed, glanced past his shoulder as if she were looking for something, someone. “Did I interrupt you?”

“No, I was just sleeping, nothing important.”

She lowered her gaze from his face, taking in his bare chest, his jeans, bare feet. She glanced up again. “I’m sorry. Can I come in?”

Griffin sighed impatiently, leaning his hand against the doorframe to keep her from passing. “What do you want, Hollin?”

She took a step back, chewed on her lip while she seemed to be weighing her thoughts. “I believe you.”

Her words barely registered as he continued to stare at her, and then something in her eyes flickered. Not hatred. It was sorrow, shame maybe.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘I believe you.’ I know it wasn’t you who raped me.”

Griffin sucked in a deep cleansing breath. A huge weight had suddenly been lifted from his chest. He’d waited for years to hear her say that, and now that she had he didn’t know how to respond. He simply stepped away from the door and allowed her to enter. Closing the door behind her with a click, he felt for the wall switch and flicked it on.

Light spilled from the overhead chandelier, the tiny candle lights glimmering with gusto. He blinked, letting his eyes come into focus. Running a hand through his hair, he studied her. “Did you get out of bed to tell me this?”

She forced her lips to curl into a smile, and he couldn’t help but notice that tiny mole beside her top lip. “Sort of. Actually, I was out looking for Rachel.”

“And you thought she might be here?”

“Yes. No, not really. I remember you said you bought a house across the lake. I saw your truck in the drive and . . .” She paused, licking her dry lips. “It’s kind of a long story. Can we please sit down somewhere and talk?”

Whatever she was trying to tell him didn’t make sense. And although he didn’t owe her the courtesy of inviting her inside, let alone to sit down, he led the way across the hall to the library. He turned on a lamp and nodded at the small leather sofa. “Have a seat.”

He saw her glancing around the room that had taken him months to remodel. The rich wood paneling now looked like new, the original hardwood floors sanded and sealed, and the built-in bookshelves had also been preserved.

“I love this room. It’s so homey. Did you do all the renovations yourself?”

“Yes.” He went to the teakwood bar he’d added while remodeling. “Can I get you something to drink?”

She shook her head, then seemed to change her mind. “Maybe a little wine, if you have any.”

Griffin opened the small refrigerator, watching her from the mirror behind the bar. “White? Red?”

“White sounds good.”

He pulled out a bottle of Chablis, turned to face her and held it up for her inspection.

“That’s fine,” she said.

He opened the bottle, took a wine glass from the shelf and filled it. After he made himself a scotch, he grabbed a napkin and carried the drinks over to the sofa. He handed her the wine and napkin, then took the chair opposite the sofa.

Watching as she took a small sip from her glass, he took a pull from his own drink. He probably should have made a pot of coffee, since he needed to go to work soon, but the warm golden liquid felt good going down.

There was a long and awkward period of silence. Griffin kept his gaze on Hollin as her own gaze flittered around the room.

“So,” he prompted, his voice a little louder than he’d intended. “Come into my web, said the spider to the fly.”

Her unsteady hand jerked, the wine splashing over the glass and onto the front of her coat. She let out a tiny squeal. Leaning forward, she set the near empty glass on the coffee table and pressed the napkin to the wet spot. She pulled the coat off her shoulders and shook her arms free then continued to blot. Apparently the wine had soaked through the coat as it had left a wet spot on the front of her T-shirt, just over her right breast.

She shivered, must have realized her shirt was wet and brought the napkin to her breast. Just below her hand, her nipple hardened into a tiny peak. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Griffin sat rigid in his chair, totally mesmerized with watching her.

“Do you have another napkin?”

“What?” Quickly, his gaze shot to meet hers. “Oh, sure.” He hurried to the bar, grabbed a stack of napkins and handed them to her.

He wasn’t aware he was standing over her, staring down at her nipple through the thin, blue cotton until he saw her press the coat to her chest and hold it there. He felt like a total pervert. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder what she had on underneath the skimpy boxers. Probably nothing but warm, bare skin.

Swearing silently, he downed his drink, set the glass on the coffee table and walked behind the sofa. Hitting the switch for the gas logs in the fireplace, he waited until the fire roared to life. “I’ll go find something for you to wear.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, but he was already in the hall, his feet padding across the tile floor.

Why the hell should he could care that she was naked beneath the T-shirt and boxers? That her skin was probably warm and fragrant with her womanly scent. It shouldn’t matter one bit. He felt nothing for her, and yet he was fully aroused.

Every time she came within two feet of him, his body betrayed him. Like it had at the trailer the day before, and the way it had when she was fifteen and he’d known better.

But he couldn’t help himself. Couldn’t control the way his body reacted to the sight of her. Disgusted with himself, he swore again.

Once inside his bedroom, he tugged a white T-shirt over his head before rooting through his drawers for something Hollin could wear. And then he found it. A black, cashmere sweater.

He’d worn it only once. Had no idea why he’d even bought the damn thing. Maybe just to prove he could finally afford the pricey wool. Yanking a blanket from the top shelf of his closet, he made his way back to the library. He dropped the blanket at one end of the sofa and handed her the sweater.

To offer her privacy, he picked up their glasses and went to the bar to refill them. He took his time, keeping his back to her. But he’d totally forgotten about the mirror behind the bar. He saw her stand, lift the T-shirt over her head. Her breasts were still small, delicate, her shoulders and waist slim. She quickly tugged the sweater over her head.

“It’s a little big,” she said.

He turned around, taking in the sight of her as he crossed the room. He set her wine on the coffee table, then returned to his chair and sat. She was standing in front of the sofa. The sleeves of the sweater hung way past her fingertips, the V-neck hung low, revealing the soft swells of her breasts, and the hem hit her at mid-thigh, hiding her boxers, but showing off her long, creamy white legs.

“You can roll the sleeves up,” he suggested.

Hollin took his advice, rolling first one sleeve, then the other, to expose her small hands. And then she lifted her shoulder to her nose and took a long, deep breath.

“If it smells I can get you something else. I don’t think I ever washed it the one time I wore it.”

Lifting her head and relaxing her shoulders, she sat down. “You don’t wash cashmere. And it smells fine. It smells . . . like you.” She kicked her shoes off and folded her legs beside her.

Griffin tightened his grip on the glass. She had no idea how erotic her statement was. Or how damn sexy she looked curled up on his sofa, wearing his sweater, the glow of the fire’s flames licking at her tousled hair.

“You probably want me to get on with what I came to say so you can go back to bed.”

“I usually get up for work by five anyway. Besides, I’ve waited thirteen years to hear you say you made a mistake, what’s a few more minutes?”

She reached for her wine, took another small sip, then set it on the table once again. She took a deep breath, folded her nervous fingers as if she was working up the courage to speak.

“I haven’t been able to think about that night in years. Not that I haven’t thought about it. Trust me, I think about it everyday. But what I meant was, that I haven’t thought about all the details. What I saw, felt, heard, smelled.

“I remember there was a patch of lilies by the garage, close to where . . .” She shuddered, pulling her legs in closer to her hip. “I can’t stand the smell of lilies to this day.” Her eyes seemed to be searching his face, looking for something. But he had no idea what it was.

He took another swallow of his drink. “Go on.”

“At the trial I only answered the questions I was asked. They asked if I saw his face, and I said ‘No, he was wearing a ski mask.’ And they asked if I saw any distinct markings, like a scar or tattoo. What about a watch, ring or other jewelry. But no one ever asked me about his shoes.” She blinked her tired looking eyes. “Do you remember what kind of shoes you wore that night?”

Shoes? “I don’t know,” he said, and then it came to him. “Boots. Back then I only had one pair of black boots. They were a half size too small. Used to hurt like a sonofabitch.”

She smiled sadly and nodded. “They were scuffed. I remember.”

Confused, he lifted a shoulder and leaned forward in the chair. “What are you trying to tell me?”

“The man who hurt me wasn’t wearing boots. He wore loafers. Penny loafers, or at least I think he did.”

“You think?”

“I’m almost positive.”

“Almost? Were they black? Brown? Cordovan?”

She blinked, a blank look crossing her features. “I don’t know. Black maybe.”He leaned back in the chair, the air leaving his lungs in a huge rush.
“Maybe?”

“Brown. I think they were brown.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, he shook his head, trying to clear the fog from his muddled brain. Then he pinned her with a look. “What are you doing, Hollin?”

She stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what the hell are you doing?” He slammed his drink down on the table, and she jumped, her turquoise eyes growing wide. “Are you trying to convince me that you believe me based on that bullshit shoe theory, or are you trying to convince yourself?” He was bitter, his anger raw, real. “How dare you come here, half naked, in the middle of the night with some ridiculous story about shoes. You know what I think? I think you’ve known all along it wasn’t me, and you were just looking for someone to pin the blame on. You were pissed at me that night because I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear. You were all ready to give up your virginity in exchange for a few words of love. But the minute I gave it to you straight, you turned to ice.”

He saw her chest rise and fall with each breath. A glazed look of anguish spread over her pale face. Keeping her eyes trained on him, she stood and pulled her shoulders back proudly and lifted her chin. She walked around the coffee table and stopped directly in front of him.

“You bastard,” she hissed, and at the same time, raised her hand and struck his face.

Griffin didn’t so much as flinch, even though his cheek stung. Whatever minor pain she’d caused him, she had to be feeling double. “You got that right.”

She started to back away, but he caught her by the wrist and stood, looming over her. Close enough to smell her scent. To see the moisture building in her eyes. “Just so you know,” he said, giving her wrist a tug when she tried to pull away, “I understand what it’s like to be raped.”

She dragged her gaze upward to meet his. A look of tired sadness passed over her features, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

“Because of your lies, I went to prison.” He hesitated momentarily, already regretting what he’d said so far, but for some reason he pushed on. “A big guy, everyone called him Whale, decided he was going to make me his.” His voice broke miserably. “It took three of his buddies to hold me down.”

She choked back a sob, tried to pull away from his grasp, but he wasn’t about to let her off the hook so easily. She was going to hear it All of it.

“The next morning, one of the guards found Whale in the shower, covered in his own blood. His throat had been sliced. No, it wasn’t me,” he said, when she went still, all color draining from her face. “An old guy, a lifer, did it. Bragged about it to me the next day while we were eating lunch. Seems he and Whale had been enemies for years. But the guys who were with Whale that night, the ones who had held me, all thought it was me. From that day on, no one ever bothered me again.”