Shattered Secrets. Jane M. Choate
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Something flitted through her eyes, but he couldn’t make out what it was. His eyes narrowed when his gaze zeroed in on the bandage that marred the perfection of her cheek. He fisted his hands at his sides to keep from reaching out and skimming his fingers over it.
“It’s nothing. Only a prick of a knife,” she said softly.
His hands tightened at the thought of men threatening Olivia, using a knife on her. Even though he’d decided that he and she couldn’t be together, he cared about her. Always would.
“Olivia.” Just her name. It was all he could manage. The feel of it on his tongue was infinitely sweet.
She looked down, away, and then gestured to her office. “Let’s talk inside.”
He followed her into the office. His tongue seemed stuck to the roof of his mouth so he looked about. Water damage from the sprinklers was as evident here as it was throughout the suite of offices.
Even with the damage, though, he could make out the spartan decor. A desk with an efficient-looking chair behind it, a couple of battered file cabinets and two uncomfortable chairs for visitors comprised its only furnishings. He remembered her saying that comfortable chairs invited visitors to linger and she had too much work to do to indulge in small talk.
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to call. I know Shelley would have come, but she’s like a hundred months pregnant.”
Sal smiled at the exaggeration. Shelley was eight months pregnant and counting, but to hear her tell it, Olivia’s description was more accurate.
Olivia looked down at her hands. “You didn’t have to come, but I’m glad you did.”
He schooled his voice to a coolness he was far from feeling. “You called. I came.” Because he cared about her. Whatever had transpired between them didn’t change that. “You had to know I would.”
“I wasn’t sure.” The silence stretched until the air was thick with it. “I figured you never wanted to see me again.” A punch of hard silence followed.
He ignored the past and focused on what was important. “What’s going on, Olivia?”
“I told you over the phone. Two men broke into the office. If it hadn’t been for Teresa—the cleaning lady—they’d have killed me.” She recited the words by rote, probably having said the same thing to the police.
“Can you describe them?”
She gave a detailed description that had him nodding in approval.
“What about their clothes?” he asked.
“Their pants dragged on the floor. One man kept having to yank his up. He looked annoyed each time he did it and I remember wondering why he just didn’t wear clothes that fit.”
“Prison shuffles,” Sal said, naming the pants in question. “Anything distinctive about their voices?”
“They both had an accent, but I couldn’t place it. It wasn’t Spanish. I would have recognized that.”
“Middle Eastern?”
“More guttural.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was too busy concentrating on not throwing up on their shoes and making them really angry at me.” The last was said with a half smile that quickly died.
Sal kept his voice quiet as he asked further questions. The last thing Olivia needed was for him to come on like gangbusters. She looked fragile enough to break. Who could blame her? Being held captive and threatened with torture and death was enough to send anyone into a tailspin.
She picked up a mug of coffee from her desk, her hand trembling so much that she had to set it back down again. The small gesture was telling in the extreme, but he pretended not to notice. Just as he pretended not to notice that his own breathing was having a tendency to stutter.
“What did they want?”
“I don’t know.” Her already husky voice turned even huskier.
“You said the men mentioned your boss. Where is he?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him in two days.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he said, thinking aloud. “First your boss disappears, then you’re threatened by two men you’ve never seen before. The two have to be connected.”
“I don’t see how. Calvin would never have anything to do with men like that.”
“He’s a lawyer. Lawyers work with all kinds of people, including ‘men like that.’”
There was a new edge to his voice now, and he worked to gentle it. Olivia wasn’t one of the men he’d commanded in his unit. She didn’t snap to attention when he barked out an order.
In an attempt to curb his impatience, he lifted his gaze to study the vivid print hanging on the far wall. Fortunately, it had escaped being drenched with water. Bold colors depicted a boat docked at the Savannah harbor at sunrise, the clashing tones juxtaposed against the quiet scene. That was Olivia, he thought, both bold and quiet.
She was a contradiction in many ways. Right now, she was frightened and looking to him for help, both in keeping her safe and in finding out what the men were after.
“I’m here now. You’re not alone.”
And with that, tears gathered in her eyes.
“Ah, Livvie.” The nickname came automatically to his lips. He watched—oddly helpless—as she swiped at the tears now trickling down her cheeks.
He had fast-roped from a helicopter into choppy seas, done HALO drops from 30,000 feet, and escaped the clutches of a warlord who’d put a price on his head and a target on his back, but he was as clueless as the next man as to how to handle a woman’s tears. Helpless wasn’t an emotion that sat well on his shoulders.
Being with Olivia had always been emotion-laden and fraught with unspoken feelings and unanswered questions. Those too-short weeks with her had been the best of his life. She’d filled him, and all of those dark places inside of him had grown a little smaller, a little brighter. He couldn’t forget that, didn’t want to forget it, even when he’d realized there was no hope for a future between them.
Though he’d fallen in love with Olivia, he knew he wasn’t the right man for her. The violence in his past made him unworthy of her. He’d walked away from her two years ago, certain it had been the right choice. The only choice. So why was he regretting it now?
* * *
After spending most of the night answering the police’s questions followed by a full day in court, Olivia returned to her office, slipped off her jacket and toed off her shoes, yawning heavily. She’d worn a lipstick-red suit, a favorite that gave her much-needed confidence. She had splurged on it last year, living on macaroni and cheese for the following month in order to afford it, and wore it on days like today when she needed a boost.
Feminine vanity had her wishing she didn’t look as exhausted as she felt, and she put a hand to her hair to push it back from her forehead. Out of habit, she sat behind her desk while Sal took one of the uncomfortable chairs in front of it.
“Why?” The question had taunted her all day. “Why did those men come after me? I don’t know anything.” The breath tumbled from her lips at the memory of the wicked-looking knife pressed to her cheek.
“Someone thinks you do,” Sal pointed out.
“Not helping.” She tried a smile, but it came out flat.
“Sorry. It’s likely you know more than you think you do. A couple years ago, you were Chantry’s right hand. I’m guessing that’s still true.”
“I suppose. But that doesn’t mean I know what those men were talking about.” A fresh shudder poured through her.
Across