KILLING ME SOFTLY (39 page)

The meeting with the feds had been near torture, hashing through details and theory when all he wanted to do was find Savannah. If she hadn't called him— If he hadn't understood— If he'd been a few minutes later— The possibilities chilled, but he also knew they didn't matter. Because she had called, and he had understood. He'd gotten there in time. Because of her tenacity, they'd finally learned what really happened that night, a seeming lifetime before.

"Not a day went by when I didn't relive everything," he said, needing to say the words almost as badly as he needed her to hear them. The truth. It was all they had left. "The first time I saw you—the first time we made love—and the last." He saw her eyes widen and couldn't resist the need to slide a hand to her face and touch, to feather his thumb along her cheek. "If you think for one second," he rasped, stepping closer and bringing his thighs up against her hips, sliding his arms around her waist and spreading his hands against her lower back, "I'm going to let you get away from me again, you don't know me as well as I think you do."

The light in her eyes dimmed. "I hurt you—"

And he couldn't let her do it, couldn't let her continue to berate herself for the decisions she'd had no choice but to make. "I was a cop," he reminded. "I know the statistics." The percentage of women killed by someone they knew and trusted, compared to those killed by a complete stranger, was chilling.

"I'd have to be blind to not see what this has done to you." But she'd come back to him anyway.

"Don't paint me as the victim," he said, loving the feel of her pressed up against him. "You're the one who went through hell and back. You're the one who kept fighting when most people would have rolled over and surrendered. Don't you think I know what it cost you to come back? Don't you think I know the risk you took?"

Long dark strands of hair blew into her face, but she made no move to brush it away. "I had no choice."

"Yes, you did." He slid the strands behind her ears, needed to see her eyes as he said the words. "You could have taken the evidence at face value and gone straight to the D.A. You could have crucified me. You could have had me locked away before I even knew what had happened. But you didn't do that."

"I couldn't—"

"You came back to me, Savannah." When every scrap of logic had demanded that she stay away. "You risked your life to come back to me."

And God help him, he was going to spend the rest of his life making sure she never hurt again.

"I never really left," she whispered. Holding his gaze, she took his free hand and drew it to her chest, where her heart beat hard and fast. "Not here."

Her smile, slow and daring and pure vintage Savannah, slayed him. "Do you remember what I told you at the cottage?" he asked. "That I loved you so much it hurt to breathe?"

Her eyes went slumberous. "Cain—"

"I still do," he practically growled, and with the words his restraint shattered, and he lowered his face to hers, needed to taste, to take back what he would never relinquish again. "Your life,
cher
. It
is
waiting." His mouth hovered just above hers. "And so am I."

EPILOGUE

C
ain pushed aside a stringy clump of moss, but even as he neared the clearing, he knew he would find no trace of the woman to whom he'd made love less than forty-eight hours before.

After almost two years away from the force, he remained intimately familiar with the taste and feel and texture of deception. But he'd become equally familiar with the taste and feel of deliverance. He knew what words to use, which to leave out. He'd learned to work illusion to his advantage, how to take something ugly and turn it into beauty. And no matter what had transpired in the past, this time the promise would be honored.

Come alone, the cryptic note had instructed. To the old, burned-out ruins. At midnight. Leave your cell phone at home.

A quick glance at his watch showed that ten minutes remained. With an early spring breeze rustling through the land, he stepped into the clearing and found the abandoned columns rising against the night sky, proud placeholders of the once-grand plantation. No longer pristine white, but ivory, the Corinthian pillars had persevered through time and the fire that claimed the manor they once embraced. Nature had done its best to enhance the remnants, making the columns look as at home among the sprawling oaks and towering cypress as Savannah felt in his arms.

It still awed him that she'd come back to him, that she'd found the courage to listen to her heart and not the malicious lies orchestrated by Val. If he let himself, he could still see the shell-shocked look in Savannah's eyes the morning before the attack, when he'd told her Bender was dead. Now he knew why. Now he understood. He could only imagine the devastation she must have felt when Bender had implicated Cain in Adrian's death. But now they knew Bender had been the dirty one, arriving at the scene before Cain and destroying the message Adrian had tried to leave for him. The prostitute Angel had been found, as well, and had confessed that she'd been hired to spew lies to further incriminate Cain.

But Savannah hadn't believed them. She'd trusted her heart, and she'd trusted Cain. Ironically, the same horror that had ripped them apart had ultimately brought them back together—and exposed the depth of Val's deception. If Savannah had stayed away, Val's lies would never have been exposed. The files the feds had seized from her real-estate office had contained a gold mine of information, names and dates, places and plans, all leading to several major arrests.

Both Adrian and Alec had died trying to expose her. The CDs they'd left behind, decoded by Tara, had proved that. On them she'd found a name that made his uncle very happy—an old nemesis of his.

The ruthlessness with which Val had infiltrated Gabe's life staggered. She'd targeted him, moved in on him, played him like a song, all the while using her guise as the insecure lover to keep a pulse on the investigation into the criminal activities she herself was carrying out. The revelation had rocked Gabe, exposed him to ugly shades of gray he'd never imagined possible. But he was a strong man, and Cain knew his cousin would recover.

Lena Mae had recovered from the attack ordered by Val, as well. She'd moved on to Denver. Millie said her cousin was in love with the mountains. The town didn't seem the same without her. Neither did his uncle.

He saw her then, Savannah, drenched in moonlight as she stepped from the mob of cypress and oak. The sight of her fed that restless place deep inside him, and one by one all the pieces fell into place. Her hair was back to its original blond color, and even though he couldn't see them yet, he knew her eyes were as daring and crystalline blue as the day they'd met. His body tightened at the sight of her in black jeans and a soft olive sweater—and the anticipation of the little black dress that waited at the cottage. She didn't even have it on yet, and already his hands itched to take it off.

But this was her night, not his. She wanted her life back, and he was going to give it to her. Everything. Starting exactly where they'd left off, with the rendezvous at the cottage that had never happened. Rose petals once again lay strewn on the floor and the bedspread. A bottle of merlot once again sat waiting on the counter. And in his pocket—

But first he had one more gift to offer.

From across the clearing, their gazes met, and she started toward him.

For eighteen months he'd been a man of sunsets. But for weeks now he'd been leaving her bed before dawn and trudging through the wetlands, waiting with the land for the sun to boil over the swamp. He'd shot endless rolls of film until he'd preserved the perfect image.

That was his gift to her—a photograph of a sunrise, a palette of vivid reds and oranges and yellows chasing away the darkness. Just like she'd done by coming back to him. Against every feasible odd she'd picked up the threads of her life, not as though she'd never been gone, but as though she'd finally, finally found where she belonged.

Savannah was home.

* * * * *

Author Interview with Jenna Mills

Recipes from the Robichaud Family Cookbook

Creating the Robichaud Family Home

Why Romance Matters by Jenna Mills

Where did the idea for
Killing Me Softly
come from?

As strange as it may sound, I've always been fascinated with "back from the dead" stories, both real and fictitious: soldiers who go off to war and are presumed dead, only to return at some point in the future; people who mysteriously vanish into thin air, only to reappear years later, sometimes with no memory of who they once were; women or children who are abducted and feared lost, only to be found after all hope has been lost. The Elizabeth Smart case out of Utah still makes me cry happy tears.

What would it be like, I always wondered, to lose the one you love, only to find them again? Life goes on, after all. People change. Would your feelings be the same? Could they?

What would it be like to be the individual who was lost? To suddenly find yourself home. Could you walk back into the life you left behind? Would you want to?

These are the questions I sought to answer in
Killing Me Softly.
From the very beginning I had a vivid impression of Cain, a strong, passionate cop who lost everything: the woman he loved and the career that defined him. A man who faced a firestorm and came out on the other side. A man who has shut himself off from the world—and himself. And then comes along a woman, a woman who makes him feel things, remember things, he does not want to feel or remember. He finds himself falling for her, only to feel like he's betraying the woman he lost, and himself. The paradox in that obsessed me as Cain and Renee pulled me through their story.

And then there were the other questions that drove the story, those that dealt with the essence of love, and the power of the heart. Typically we think of recognizing a friend or lover by sight or hearing their voice. But what if you faced a complete stranger, someone whose face you did not recognize and whose voice you had never heard before, and yet deep inside, you felt a rhythm or a hum that felt … familiar. Does someone have to look or sound the same, to be the same? Can you recognize someone you love without use of the five traditional senses? Against all logic and conventional wisdom? And just where does love come from? Is it something that develops slowly over time, or is it something that is just … there, which can be neither created nor destroyed…?

Ah, poor Cain. He sure did go through the wringer to find his happy ending!

Did you need to do research for this story?

Yes! While the location of the story—southern Louisiana—is near and dear to my heart, crime and police procedure are not! To keep the story accurate, I consulted with a police detective friend on all the criminal aspects.

Why did you become a writer?

I'm not sure anyone ever
becomes
a writer. I think you're born that way (either that or it's a psychological disorder!). I know I was. From the time I was a little girl, I've adored stories and enjoyed creating my own. And if I didn't like the way a story I read or saw ended? Well, I'd just change the ending in my mind. In high school I was the girl who wrote the sappy love poems about the angst of being a teenager in love. I was also the freak who
enjoyed
writing research papers! So when it came time to go to college and earn a degree, journalism was a natural choice. By that time I had many notebooks full of poems and song lyrics and stories. However, it wasn't until many years later when I was married and settled in my life that I began writing seriously for publication. As to why I write … honestly, I think it's because I'd go nuts if I didn't. There are so many stories and scenarios and characters moseying around in my mind. I've got to get them out!

What matters most in life?