Rhapsody (The Teplo Trilogy #2) (30 page)

She wasn't a child. She wasn't defenseless.

You're not an agent.

You're a ballerina, Lillian. A fucking ballerina.

She wanted to put her hands over her ears to block out the memory of him saying those words to her. He hadn't even said them this morning, but he might as well have. She would never be anything more than a ballerina to him, someone incapable of protecting herself or fitting into his world.

After telling him that she would never beg him, after hating the thought of ever begging anyone for anything, she'd actually done it for him. She hadn't even had to think about it. All she'd had to do was open her mouth and let the pleas come tumbling out. And he'd still refused her. Because, to him, she was still just a ballerina. Someone who got in the way. Someone who put them both in danger.

A hole opened up in her chest, swallowing up every little bit of confidence he'd given back to her in the last weeks. Every word he'd said to her had been meaningless because when it came right down to it, she was just a fucking ballerina to him.

She didn't want to leave, but what else could she do? It's not like she could go to her house. And she couldn't exactly stay here. She couldn't stay with Tony and Jennie either, not if doing so put them in any danger. That left Zoë, and she neither knew Zoë well enough to foist herself off on her, nor particularly wanted to ask her and Jason to choose sides in this.

This was between her and Tristan.

Had he ever seen her as his equal?
Could
he ever?

What had she ever done to prove she could handle his world anyway? She'd panicked in Trinity. Panicked when he left her alone to go to the morgue. Panicked and left her gun at home last night. Panicked and let Malachi drag her off. Was it any wonder he didn't want her here now?

He didn't blame her for Malachi, but he couldn't forget either. Of course he couldn't. She would have preferred if he'd blamed her, yelled at her. It would have hurt less than him sending her away like a little girl.

A fucking ballerina.

"God," she laughed aloud at the thought. All her life, she'd wanted nothing but to be a ballerina. Now, the fact that Tristan considered her a ballerina actually hurt. He'd lied to her. She wanted to scream at him for that alone. She wouldn't though. She was done trying to convince him that she was strong enough. She didn't have the energy to fight him this time.

She packed up the few things she had scattered about his bathroom in silence, her heart hurting in ways that shouldn't have been possible after last night. Love really was exactly like she'd always performed it. Painful. Tragic. Hell.

She still would have chosen him though.

Even knowing how much loving him could hurt, she still would have chosen him.

Tristan and her father stood together in awkward silence when she entered the living room a few minutes later with her bag slung over her arm. Both turned to face her, matching grim expressions on their faces.

"Hi, Dad," she mumbled, jerking her gaze away from Tristan.

"Lillian." Her dad stepped across the room and pulled her into a tight hug.

Her arms went around him, clinging as tears welled in her eyes. She'd missed him so much.

"Don't ever do that to me again, Lily Elise," he chastised gruffly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know he called you."

"Obviously," her father retorted before setting her back down on her feet. He stepped back and looked her over. Only when he was sure she was in one piece did he relax. "You should have told me."

"I know." She did know that, but she wasn't sure she would have even had she not been asked, no,
ordered
to keep the truth from him. She hadn't wanted him to worry. Clearly that had been a wasted effort because he was worried anyway. "I'm fine, Daddy, really."

"Are you?" he asked, gazing at her as if he could see right through her blank expression and carefully chosen words. He probably could. She certainly made no secret of the fact that she ignored Tristan. She shifted her position every time he came into her peripheral, forcing him right back out.

"Yeah," she lied. "Are you ready to go?"

His eyes widened at her flat, lifeless question. "Uh, sure, kid, whenever you are."

"Beautiful–" Tristan started to speak but she didn't really want to hear him.

"I'm ready now," she blurted, cutting him off.

He sighed loudly in exasperation and stepped in front of her, refusing to let her block out the sight of him anymore. "Stop," he demanded, grabbing her shoulders in a gentle vise when she tried to turn away from him.

She stared down at her feet instead, coaching herself not to cry. She could cry later. She'd humiliated herself enough for one day. "I have to go, Tristan."

"Look at me," he demanded.

She shook her head mutely.

"Dammit, please look at me, beautiful.
Please
."

Damn him.

She peeked up at him, and had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering aloud at the powerful emotion in his eyes. He appeared so fierce and gentle at once. Like this hurt him, too. But it didn't matter now, did it?

"What do you want?" she asked, steeling herself against that vivid blue gaze.

"I don't want you to go like this," he whispered, stepping closer. "I don't want you to hate me for this."

"I make my own choices, Tristan," she answered flatly. She didn't hate him. God, she wasn't even really sure she was angry at him right then. She just wanted to get out before she started bawling. When she started this time, she wouldn't be able to stop.

"Beautiful, I ne–"

"You were right, okay?"

His mouth snapped closed, his expression turning wary as she interrupted him.

"I'll never belong in your world. I'm a ballerina." She laughed, trying not to cry. "Not even that anymore, I guess. I'm just…me. Whoever that is. I was stupid to ever think I could help you do this, and I'm sorry. For everything." She stepped from his hold, tears burning like lava up her throat. "Goodbye, Tristan."

"Lillian, please don–"

The hole in her chest yawned wider as his expression crumbled.

"Thank you for letting me try," she whispered.

"Baby, please."

"Let's go, Dad." She hurried toward the door as quickly as her leg could carry her, holding her breath, praying for him to stop her. To change his mind. To call her back.

He didn't.

Somehow, she made it out of the penthouse and into her dad's SUV. She even managed to tell him she needed to go get some things from her house before the tears started falling.

"
Goddamnit
!" Tristan yelled into the silence of the penthouse as the door closed behind her and her father. He dropped his forehead to the wall and groaned loudly. She was really gone. And he'd let her walk out thinking she didn't belong in his world, that
he
didn't think she belonged in his world.

"You're so fucking stupid," he cursed himself. He wanted to bolt after her and demand she listen to him. He'd never even explained that he intended to come for her as soon as he eliminated the threats against her. She hadn't even let him tell her that he loved her, that he didn't want her to go, that he was only sending her away because he couldn't leave her with someone that didn't value her life as much as he did.

He could have put another guard on the door of the penthouse. Hell, he could have demanded Jason give her a shadow twenty-four seven, but it wouldn't have been enough. He knew exactly three other people that he trusted to put her life before theirs without hesitation. Jason, who couldn't drop everything to keep her safe. Kincaid, who'd already proven he would do whatever he could to protect her, but he couldn't exactly watch over her and help Jason, too. And her father, who lived far enough away to make it a little more difficult for anyone to get near her. If something went wrong today, he needed to know whoever had her would defend her life, even if it meant sacrificing their own. Her father would do that.

Still, he was the biggest idiot on the planet.

"I love you." He whispered the three words he should have said before he let her walk away. He wasn't sure right then that she'd ever let him say them again because she actually believed what she'd said—that she was only a ballerina to him. That was so fucking far from the truth though.
So far.
She'd never been
just
a ballerina to him. She'd been
the
ballerina. She'd been everything. Still was. He just had to make it safe for her to come home.

He had no intentions of failing.

He pushed himself away from the door and got himself together. Weapons, extra ammo, cell-phone, car keys, camera. Anything he could use to bring Vetrov down, he grabbed.

Half an hour later, he was in the Viper, racing across town.

He never noticed the dark blue Sedan following him.

"Mariah Jeffries has ties to Pedro Francisco, sir."

Jason sat back in his chair and stared across the desk at the same rookie agent who had delivered news of Mariah's identity two hours before. "You're sure?"

"Yes, sir. She's a distant cousin to his wife. It's in the file." The agent tapped the file in his hands. "She and Elijah Noel are wanted on suspicion of murder in California. Three counts. We were also able to confirm the blond working for Vetrov is the same Elijah."

"Good." Jason smiled his first of the day, inordinately pleased for the first time in weeks.

"There's a problem though, sir."

"What problem?" His smile slipped.

"According to what we were able to gather, Elijah Noel is deceased," the agent said.

"Come again?"

"He reportedly died in a shoot-out with Mexican authorities in Jalisco a year ago." The agent held out the file. "It's all right there, sir. First page."

No wonder their agents in Tijuana had no clue who Elijah was. They wouldn't have been looking for someone they'd presumed dead. He certainly hadn't thought to check that possibility.

Jason grabbed the file and began reading.

Sure enough, Elijah Noel had been declared deceased thirteen months, four days ago.