Sweeter Than Sin (12 page)

She let the simple pleasure of it chase away the ache of the nightmare, staring at the golden light shining through the tree branches. She caught her breath, almost afraid to move for fear that the dream would shatter.

When nothing changed, she dared to let the oxygen trapped inside her lungs out and then she let herself think. That, though, was a mistake. Everything caught up with her at once and the few hours of sleep she’d allowed herself, the confusing night, the fear, the worries of what was going to happen and just
being
here, it all hit, and it hit
hard
.

That hollow space inside her where she shoved dreams and nightmares and fears and misery just … exploded and all of it came rushing back at her. As everything slammed into her, a sob rose up to choke her. She shoved a fist against her mouth to muffle the sound, still staring mesmerized at the sunlight streaming through the trees.

Home—

Home—

Her father, in a nursing home because of the stroke.

How many times had she ached to be here, just one more time, to be in that house, hear his big, booming voice and sit at the table with him while they had dinner? To walk along that river? To hike through the park or stroll down Main Street?
Home.

Now, as the ache threatened to rip her in two, she knew she had just what she’d wanted, that one last time—she
was
home. She could see her dad, if she could figure out a way.

Noah … another sucker punch. He had moved on with his life, but how many times had she wished she could just see him, tell him she was sorry?

David. Where
was
he?

Adam …
She flinched, thinking of the anger in his eyes.

How many lives will you ruin
this
time?

That voice rose out of her dreams, haunting her.

Oddly enough, that was the memory that had the torrent of misery ebbing inside her. Yes, she’d ruined lives the last time. But she hadn’t been the one who’d been responsible for the systematic torture and abuse of children. Peter Sutter had headed that club and
he
was gone.

His wife, that cold, callous bitch, was gone.

Lana had been a stupid, terrified kid and she’d believed a man who said he’d make sure everything stopped.

Now she knew it hadn’t. She’d come back to put things to right.

You’re arguing with your conscience, Lana.

Sighing, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the T-shirt she’d slept in caught up around her thighs. Her mouth was dry, her belly a shriveled little knot, and she wanted a shower.

Rising off the bed, she stretched, arms high overhead, while a headache from the crying jag settled at the base of her skull and started to pound. And the hair on the back of her neck stood on end.

Swinging her head around, she found herself trapped in the brown velvet of Adam’s gaze. He leaned against the dresser, his arms crossed over his chest, brows low. For a second, as she stood there staring at him, his gaze left hers, dropped low to linger on her bare legs before traveling back up to stare into her eyes.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Instead of answering, he pushed off the dresser and paced toward her, his face unreadable. “You do this a lot?”

Blood rushed up her neck. Lana could feel it, staining her cheeks red, the heat of it suffusing her entire face. No point in asking what he meant. He’d been in there while she broke and cried like her heart was broken. “I don’t think it’s any of your business, is it?”

“Twenty years,” he murmured, like she had not said a word. “You come back to town, you won’t say why you’ve been gone. And you spent the past thirty minutes crying like you’ve had your heart ripped out. We used to be friends. Some part of me feels like it should be my business.” He reached up, caught a lock of her hair in his hand.

She tensed and immediately his hand fell away.

The glittering look in his eyes sent a shiver racing through her, though, one that left her skin feeling overheated while her nipples drew tight and pressed against the front of her shirt.

“Twenty years changes a lot of things, Adam,” she said, casually folding her arms over her chest.

His lids drooped low, shielding his gaze. Somehow she didn’t think she’d fooled him. Not on any level. “Does it really, Lana?” Then he shrugged and turned away. “I brought you some coffee, but it’s probably getting cold. Come on downstairs and I’ll see what I can salvage from breakfast. “

Then he was gone, shutting the door quietly behind him.

*   *   *

A long-sleeved black T-shirt had never looked so sexy until twenty minutes ago.

He hadn’t meant to intrude, but he’d heard her and he couldn’t have stayed away if he tried.

But the way she huddled there on the bed, rigid, her spine so stiff, he hadn’t thought she’d welcome his touch. And other than that one ragged, harsh breath he’d heard as he passed by the door, she worked very hard to keep him from hearing her tears, practically choking in her effort to keep silent.

He absolutely hated that.

He’d planned to say something, but then she stood up and his brain melted, just melted and died as he caught sight of long, sleek legs, strong muscle and sleek calves. The black lace of her panties had peeked out from under the hem of her shirt as she stretched and his blood had rushed to his cock so sudden, it was a miracle he hadn’t passed out from it. And when she’d turned to face him, her nipples had gone from soft to ready for him, ready for his mouth, in a blink.

And it was for him. He’d seen that lambent heat in her gaze, even if she wasn’t about to give in to it.

Attraction was easy, passing. It didn’t surprise him that she wasn’t the type to give in to it at the drop of a hat.

But the thought of those sweet little tits, nipples tight and ready for him, was going to haunt him.

Not as much as the expression on her face now, though.

She sat there like a shadow, her skin pale, her hands fisted in her lap, while she stared out the window at nothing.

She had nibbled at the bacon he’d put in front of her, taken a bite of toast. That was it.

Now she just … sat there.

He wanted to yank her out of that chair, push her up against the wall and kiss her stupid. Then he wanted to yell at her. He wanted to go to his knees and beg her to tell him what was wrong. He wanted to get lost in her … and then maybe beg her to …

Hell. He didn’t know.

He wanted a resolution.

He wanted answers.

He wanted
her
.

He had
always
wanted her, but she’d always been untouchable. First she was too young and then she’d been gone.

Now she was like a shadow and life was a fucking monstrous mess.

And he was … ruined.

She slid him a glance and he fought the urge to look away. Every woman he’d touched over the past twenty years, he’d either pretended he was touching
her
or done it to forget her.

Every drink he’d taken had been to dull the pain or to punish himself for not saving her.

Because he
knew
.

Not right away, no. If he’d known the second she was calling that she’d needed help, he would have been there, found a way to get it out of her, called the cops … something. But after that second call, with a leaden weight and fear in his gut, the suspicion had grown and then the days bled away and there was no news from her.

The rumors flew and the fear grew and he just knew.

If he’d been a better guy, if he hadn’t been pulling away from her, if she’d trusted him … something, anything. If he’d just been … better, he could have saved her. If she had trusted him the way she trusted Noah, he could have saved her.

That knowledge was the one constant in his life. Maybe he’d stopped reaching for the bottle, but he still hadn’t forgiven himself for that.

And now she was here. Sitting there and watching him with unreadable eyes, her face blank.

Like she had no idea.

Like it didn’t matter.

Like the hell he’d lived with—

Fuck.

It’s over. Ancient history,
he told himself. Twenty years of it. What he needed to do was just distance himself from her. He couldn’t have exactly just left her sleeping on the street, but that didn’t mean he had to put himself out there for her, right?

He’d just mind his own business and try to fix the mess that was his life. Somehow. She was alive and that meant one of his nightmares hadn’t come true. Time to move on from that.

Forward. Away from her. Starting now.

Good plan.

He congratulated himself on that idea. All he had to do was get up and walk away without really engaging with her.

“What do you plan on doing today?” The question seemed to form without him even giving himself permission to
ask
it.

Lana blinked, a slow, almost lazy lowering of her lids, a faint smile on her lips as she shrugged and looked away.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she drawled, lifting her coffee cup and curling her hands around it. She didn’t drink, though, just held it and stared down into it. “Maybe I’ll sightsee. Catch up with the people who think I’m dead. What do you think?”

He snorted. “I think you’ll stay here and hide.”

She lifted a brow. “I’m not hiding.” A quiet sigh escaped her. “If I wanted to hide, I never would have come back to Madison. I just need to … figure out my next step.”

He thought the next one was obvious.

She should go see her father.

But Adam wasn’t going to suggest it.

He already knew she was going there.

She’d been checking the map online when he walked by his computer earlier. Although she’d shut the window down the second she’d heard him, she hadn’t been fast enough—he saw what she’d been looking up.

There was only one person in there who would interest Lana.

*   *   *

Lana had powerful memories of her father.

He had always seemed larger than life, working long hours at the electric company, then coming home and helping her with her homework, spending evenings in his workshop, where he crafted rocking chairs and rocking horses and bookcases by hand, selling them at flea markets and the like on weekends, anything he could do to make sure he provided for her.

She’d been his world, and for the longest time he had been hers, the one solid person she could count on. Her mother was a nonentity, somebody who had run off when Lana was just a baby. She had made herself stop caring about her mother when Leanna Rossi hadn’t come to the mother–daughter day in sixth grade. Dad had come, though. He’d switched shifts, and when people eyed them oddly he’d told Lana,
People may look at you weird your whole life. It’s up to you whether or not you’ll let that affect you.
She had already noticed that people gave him odd looks sometimes. If he didn’t let it bother him, she wouldn’t let it get to her. It had been one of those defining moments in her childhood.

He had stood so big and tall and handsome as he walked with her to her table in the middle of the cafeteria, and more than a few of the moms had blushed when he spoke to them in his gruff voice.

Now he was a thin, pale shadow of himself sitting in his wheel chair in the courtyard. Watching him made an ache settle in her heart and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything, had to lock her knees to keep from going to him.

There was the softest sound behind her and she tensed, spinning around to see Adam standing there, just a few inches away.

“Didn’t know where he was, huh?” He stood there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, legs spread wide, his head cocked as he studied her. He looked rough and ready … for anything. She’d been able to see the tattoos clearly earlier—the tattoos and the healing burns on his right arm—the burns left her gut twisting, because she knew how he’d gotten them.

From the fire. She’d read up about it, how he, Noah and some guy she didn’t know how been there when that hell house went up in flames. All because of a couple of boys. She suspected she knew why, but she didn’t let her thoughts linger on it, not yet.

She wanted to stroke a hand down Adam’s arm, ask if he hurt. She wanted to learn the lines of those chains, link, by link and the thought of it made her mouth go dry. What did those chains mean? They wrapped around him from the wrist up. So many links, such heavy chains.

If she were the girl she’d been, she would have asked him about the burn, about the fire. She would have asked him about the chains and whatever it was that bound him, because she knew Adam too well to think he’d just picked that design randomly. But she didn’t have the right to ask him anything these days.

Because he continued to stand there watching her, because she could feel the strength inside her wavering, she reached for the attitude that had pulled her through so much shit over the years. Heaving out a frustrated sigh, she gave him a pained look. “You never used to be the creepy stalker type, Adam. Let me clue you in on something. No matter what books might try to sell you, in real life that shit is never sexy.”

She went to go around him, refusing to let herself give her father another look.

Adam stopped her, a hand on her shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I—” The lie caught in her throat, stuck there.
Don’t look back, don’t—

But she couldn’t stop herself. Slowly, turning her head until she caught just the edge of his profile, Lana shook her head and then looked back at Adam. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“What’s it going to do to him, if I go to him now, and then have to disappear again … or, worse, end up in jail?” She knew it was a possibility, a knowledge she’d carried inside her all these years. There was no real evidence; there couldn’t be. But even after so many years, people still had the Sutter family on a pedestal. While she was forgotten. If she was the only one to return after so much time, she knew what people would think.

It was a price she’d pay, but she wouldn’t bring her father any more pain.