Freefall (60 page)
Curt removed the gag and settled back
against the wall. “So what’s it like making movies?”
The question, his tone and posture were so ludicrous they struck her dumb. Did he seriously intend to converse as though this were a social occasion? As though one of them wasn’t there by force? He’d swung so erratically between rage and calm, she didn’t know what to think or how to be, but it was such a relief to have the gag off that she answered the question. “It’s difficult.”
“How?” His blue eyes looked stark now with the dark brown hair and eyebrows.
“To keep the focus; step outside yourself and play the part.”
“That’s not hard. I do it every day.”
She looked away. What she did was nothing like his cons. She represented the truth in an imaginary scenario. He made real life a lie.
“So is your life perfect now that you’re a big celebrity?”
That question proved him certifiable given the situation. “My life’s not perfect.”
“Everyone screaming and begging for your autograph? Like you’re something special, something more than anyone else. Your face in all the papers.”
“The lies people tell.” She looked him dead in the eye. “And the lengths they’ll go to destroy me?”
He rubbed his face. “I didn’t want it to be like this.” He didn’t seem to know where to rest his hands, as though they anticipated already the task before them.
She thought of Uncle Rob lying in the hospital in Kauai, fighting for his life. And of herself with no idea who she was and only a vague sense of fear to tell her something was very wrong. “How did you think it would be, Curt? When you imagined it.”
“I didn’t.” His agitation grew. “I just took the opportunity I got.”
“Did you ever think there might be more to it than taking what you want?”
He gave her a cold stare.
“Maybe if you’d thought beyond that, things would have turned out better.”
“Beyond it to what?”
“To what you could do for someone else.”
He snorted. “When your lunch is whatever you can grab, and a good day is when you break the other guy’s nose? Yeah, I’m gonna worry about someone else.”
“There’s always someone worse off. And someone trying harder. There are people bringing good out of the worst things imaginable.”
“Is that what you tell the kids in your troupe? Take this crap and make it good?”
“I tell them God knows the plans he has for them, plans to prosper and not to harm.” But harm happened. It happened and happened and happened. Something inside her cracked.
Curt scoffed. “When he shows up with my plan, let me know, cuz so far it’s been straight from hell.”
“Your plan is the same as everyone’s.” She sounded like Daniel, so sure of the truth he’d made certain nothing ever tested it.
Curt tossed his head back and feigned a quavery voice. “Salvation through my personal Lord and Savior.”
The fracture inside widened.
Out of the depths I call to you….
But did God hear? She had promised Cameron the Lord would answer, but where was he now?
“Problem is, when they handed out personal saviors they skipped me. Maybe you got mine, you with your fairy-tale life.” His face darkened dangerously. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up starving and bruised and pray your teacher won’t notice and call authorities to move you from one hell to another.”
“I don’t pretend to know what you’ve been through. But it doesn’t give you the right—”
He lunged up and grabbed her. “Don’t tell me my rights. You think you know fear? Pain?” He brought his hands to her throat. “Prove it. Show me some therapeutic improv.”
He had intended to wait until Joe called with a name. He’d wanted to give LAPD a chance to arrive, but the longer he waited without hearing from the detectives, the more it hurt to think of Gentry in that shabby room with a guy who’d slipped into the zone between conscience and crime. What if stuff happened because he hadn’t acted soon enough?
With those thoughts churning, he barely held himself in check. He knew not to interfere with a police operation, but when the dented pizza-delivery car pulled into the lot, Cameron was out of his truck and crossing traffic before he found a reason not to. The motel looked pretty empty. Did he dare hope…? A hundred bucks bought the pizza, the hat, and the room number. They were in there.
As the car pulled out, he placed a 911 call, gave the address for a hostage situation, and hung up. He shouldered the box and approached room seven. Brim lowered, pizza tipped to fill most of the peephole, he knocked and called, “Pizza.” Then he slipped his Glock from the holster.
He hadn’t planned a showdown, but some instinct outside himself drove him now. The seconds ticked. Had Curt slipped out some other way? He wanted to call out to Gentry. But he waited, head down.
Open the door
.
At last he heard motion. A bolt. A safety chain. Cameron dropped the pizza, brought both hands to his weapon. The door swung open and they were face-to-face, guns raised. Cameron rasped, “Put it down.”
Curt took a step backward, another. “You don’t want to do this.”
“Just give me Gentry. You can walk away.”
Curt backed again.
The room looked empty, even the bathroom, but he couldn’t see the tub. “Where is she?”
Without breaking eye contact, Curt swung his arm, pointing the muzzle down. Gentry whimpered. Cameron’s heart hammered. With the gun on Gentry, all risk factors skewed, as Curt had known they would. Even shot, he could squeeze off a bullet, but he would not risk her.
“Put it down.” Curt’s voice shook. The tendons stood out in his throat.
Cameron’s rigid arms went soft. If Curt hadn’t hurt her yet, maybe he wouldn’t. If he got what he wanted … “Let me see her.”
“Drop it.” Curt’s hand shook. “Drop it or I shoot.”
Worked up as he was, he could shoot her by mistake. Cameron swallowed. His breath came in short bursts. “Okay. I’m putting it down.” He started to lower the gun.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
“What did you—” Curt swung the gun around.
A flash of motion as Gentr y dove for his legs. Curt fired. Cameron launched himself. Another shot went wild. He grabbed Curt’s wrist and yelled for Gentry to back off, but she clung to Curt’s knees and kept him from kicking loose. Cameron banged the gun out of Curt’s hand and took a punch to the temple.
Gentry scooped up the gun and rolled out of the fray. The sirens screamed louder. Curt punched Cameron’s ribs. Cameron drove his fist into Curt’s face, feeling his index finger crack. Curt grabbed his throat. Cameron broke the hold. They rolled. Curt heaved him off and leveraged another grip on his throat.
Gentry hollered, “Stop.”
Curt’s grip tightened.
“I’ll shoot!”
He couldn’t breathe to tell her not to.
Cops burst into the room, grabbed and subdued Curt Blanchard. Cameron rolled to his side and watched Gentry lower Curt’s gun to the floor between her knees. Good thing she hadn’t tried to shoot. She could have hit either one of them.
He crawled over to her, breathing hard and bleeding from a cut to his shoulder. One of Curt’s bullets? She untied the gag hanging around her neck and threw it. He pulled her to his chest, crushed her with his embrace. She was safe; she was whole. He swallowed the lump in his throat and rasped, “Are you through scaring the wits out of me?”
The medical team had bandaged her wrists and Cameron’s grazing, treated the cut on the back of her head, and provided them both a light pain-killer. The detectives had taken her statement, the arduous retelling of everything that had happened. She had enthralled them with no effort at all, signed a sheet of stationery for Detective Stein’s daughter;
To Haley, may all your dreams come true
. But she no longer took that for granted.
Her bold confidence had been shattered. The helplessness she’d felt, the fear and pain were now intrinsic. She would never face danger without its shadow. Curt’s hands on her throat, his desire to silence, to quench her light. If Cameron hadn’t come to the door …
They rode the elevator up to her apartment, where Curt had sneered at her candles. He would be there in the glow, their scent eliciting the cloying fear in the back of her throat. She had to purge him, his words, his brutality. The helplessness.
Was it worse because he’d shown her his soul? Because she’d heard the pain behind his accusations? Because no one had stopped his suffering, given him strength and hope when he needed it. She hated feeling compassion for the person who had cracked her spirit. She swept aside a tray of pillar candles and pebbles that clattered to the floor.
Cameron reached out and drew her close. Concern etched his face, and she hated that too. Curt Blanchard had damaged her life, her family. Her soul.
She clenched her jaw. “He had no right.”
“No.”
“How could he do what he did to Uncle Rob, to me?”
“Lots of messed-up people in the world.”
She had cared once, tried to make a difference. “No one can reach them all.”
“Doesn’t mean we don’t try.”
She looked up at him. “And be sneered at and targeted?”
He cupped her cheek. “I stop cons like Curt. You change lives. We can only do our parts.”
“What difference does it make? We can’t stop evil?”
“But we can stand against it.”
She clenched her fists. “I felt so helpless.” That, more than anything, fueled her rage.
He raised her face and kissed her bruises. She kissed him back ferociously. He responded, engulfing her with his own wanting. They fell to the couch, unable to get close enough. She wanted nothing between them, not even air. Her fingers snagged his hair. She kissed his mouth, sweeter and deeper than any stage kiss. This was real. This was now. All the wanting she’d pretended couldn’t touch it. “Make love to me, Kai.”
“Gentry.”
Her whole body shook. “Tied to the pipes, to the bed, all I could think was he could take everything, even what I want to give you.”
“Not like this, in anger.”
“Yes, in anger. In rage.” She could hardly contain it.
His kiss was soft, his embrace a safe confinement. His palm warmed the back of her neck, in the way he always held on as though she could be lost too easily. He murmured, “I love you. And God knows I want you.”
Heat coursed through her. But instead of stoking the fire burning inside, it soothed the awful ache.
His fingers stroked her cheek. “I cherish you.” His lips found the hollow of her throat. “And I’ll protect you, even from myself.”
“But you can’t. Life is too precarious. I want …”
His mouth silenced her so long the words died away, then he pressed his forehead to hers. “Please. Let me give you this.”
She started to cry, haywire emotions crippling her senses. He held her as the rage dissolved.
Her sobs deepened. “Don’t let me go.”
“I promise.”
She wept away her anger, frustration, and fear until the tears were spent. He still held her. She could feel his desire; she’d spoken hers. She’d yearned for his body. But he gave her his soul. And she loved him more than she’d ever thought possible.
Exhaustion hit like a tidal wave. She slept. And woke. He kissed her, and she felt whole.
“Kai,” she breathed, thinking of turquoise waters and golden sands, the salt tang and deep-blue mysteries. Fresh tears came, but no anger or fear. “I can’t let you go.”
“Then don’t.”
“Have you ever thought you might want to marry me?”
He expelled his breath. “I think it every day. Every hour. I make myself work between thinking it.” He touched her lips. “I told you I love too hard. I gave you fair warning.”
She ran her fingers over his beard, surprised again how soft it was. Not at all intimidating. “I have to finish
Just Illusions
.”
“You’re saying this because …”
“After that …” She gave a single shoulder shrug.
His fingers shook as he traced them over that shoulder. “Are you proposing?”
Everything she felt for him found her eyes; she couldn’t hide it.
He half laughed. “You’ve just carved one bombora wave. You’d better see if you can stand me when nothing worse than a traffic ticket comes your way.”
