I’d never hurt her. I’d never hurt any woman. I’ve hurt men who have tried to hurt women and never regretted it, not once; black eyes get better and broken noses can be reset. I knew that by the time I was thirteen.
But this is hard. Literally, this is very, very hard. Dear Abby: I’m sharing a room with my (kind of) boss who’s supercute and I haven’t masturbated in ninety-six hours (that I know of—the Lake Como sojourn is still a total blank) and she has lovely soft, strong hands and I might be getting Stockholm syndrome, because I’m looking forward to working with her tomorrow even though I’m terrified of Peeps. How skeevy is it if, while being very, very quiet, I just lie here and take care of my—
No point even finishing the question. He knew it was unacceptable levels of skeevy. He sighed and flopped over on his back.
After more ginger ale, followed by nap chasers, he’d felt very, very close to human. Lillith still fretted and hovered and practically guarded him—it was equal parts intimidating and comforting—and finally she’d gotten so tired, she’d curled up on the floor beside his bed and fallen asleep. Teresa had scooped her up and put her to bed; he’d fallen back asleep, then woke up hard as a spike.
Which was too damned bad.
Just don’t think about it. Of course! Don’t think about it! Why didn’t I think about not thinking about it?
No, really. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about Delaney just a few feet away, warm and fragrant in her bed. Don’t wonder what her mouth tastes like, and the spot behind her ear, and her lovely long throat. Definitely don’t wonder what it’d be like to gently rub your cheek over her stiffening nipples. What she’d sound like if you slipped a hand between her legs and gently stroked her open. Nope. Don’t think about any of it. Easy-peasy. And definitely don’t grab yourself. A lot.
Delaney sat up, like Frankenstein in the lab after the lighting hit. Rake almost shrieked. Oh God, she’s a telepath and knows I’m a perv! My lustful thoughts were so loud, they woke her up! Let death come quickly! “What?” he shrilled from the sofa bed. “What is it? Not the face, okay?”
She didn’t answer. Just abruptly swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and went straight to the biggest window in the room, squashing Peeps and grinding chocolate eggs into the carpet but not stopping. Not even slowing. She got to the window and stood and looked and said nothing and did nothing.
He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?” Please don’t kick me out. You can’t help being hot, and I can’t help finding you hot, but I’d never act on it. Never, unless you made it clear you wanted me in your bed. And maybe not even then, because although you’re hot, I’m a little scared of you.
Nothing.
She was still, so still. He’d never seen her like that, like a statue in the dark. “Delaney?”
She turned to look at him and he felt a chill; her gaze wasn’t on him, not really. It was like she couldn’t see him, was looking past him, or through him. “I don’t…” she began in a low, halting voice unlike any she’d used before.
He pushed his blankets off and went to stand beside her, relieved that when she’d clomped toward the window like a cute Frankenstein, his penis, Mr. Roboto, had turned back into Flaccido Domingo. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know where I am,” she whispered, sounding young and lost. And damned if she didn’t look young in the barely lit glow by the window.
She reached out as if she was going to touch the glass, then let her hand drift back to her side. The woman who’d laughed when he’d barfed and yelled when he’d bitched and called him on his entitled douchebaggery was afraid to touch a window, or raise her voice, or make eye contact.
“It’s always different, you know,” she murmured. “I don’t know where I am.”
“You’re in Venice,” he said, and now he was whispering. “It’s—it’s okay. I mean, you’re safe and everything. I’d never— No one’s going to hurt you.”
And God, the way her face lit up. That smile. Jesus. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“No one will come in? Unless I let them?”
“No one,” he promised through numb lips. Fuck. A nightmare that she’s sleepwalking in? Or sleepwalking during a nightmare? What is this? “It’s okay. You’re safe. You—you can go back to bed. If you want.”
“Bed?” And she flinched. Claire Fucking Delaney flinched.
“Well, you don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
The smile again. The relief. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay,” she said, and beamed at him. Then she turned around and walked back to her bed and climbed under the covers and flopped over on her side and twenty seconds later she was dead asleep again. He watched her for a while to make sure she was really out. Now he had a whole new thing to wonder about. Did that make him a good man, or just easily distracted? Both? Neither? And was he wondering about that so he wouldn’t think about how scary she had been, and sad, and afraid?
What the hell was that?
He waited until they were enjoying the modestly priced continental breakfast in one of the common rooms, the others, including Lillith, taking up the table across from them. They’d saved the last table for Delaney, and the two of them had it to themselves for the moment. It had been almost a celebration, his first day back on solids and out of the room. Certainly Delaney’s family had seemed happy he was mostly mended.
But the minute breakfast was over, he knew they were all going back to work and if he didn’t carpe the diem now, who knew when he’d get another chance?
“So.” Easy. Nice and casual. Nothing weird is going to come out of your mouth. “Do you remember last night?”
She looked up from her oatmeal, into which she’d ladled a mound of brown sugar and an astonishing amount of cream. She’d brought the laptop with her, of course. She never left it in the room, though there was a perfectly good safe in the closet. It was always within arm’s reach; she’d brought it to dinner, too. Maybe she was a paranoid screenplay writer, and sold scripts to fund her charity work? If it was strictly to keep track of the charitable donations, she wouldn’t need the secrecy. Twenty-two letters in a password representing something she didn’t have to think about. Hmm. And the safe combo. Something else quick and easy. “Delaney? Remember?”
“Mostly, I remember your relentless whining about the cost of cell phones in this day and age,” she replied, grinning.
“Tim Cook and his corporate thugs should be ashamed of themselves. But I meant after that. Dammit! I mean I don’t whine. And after. In your sleep. You—”
She was waiting for him to finish, and hadn’t realized there was jam in the corner of her mouth that he definitely didn’t want to kiss away. She wasn’t tense, or embarrassed. Just patiently curious. Curiously patient? “I what, Rake?”
You walked and talked in your sleep. You were afraid. You didn’t know where you were, and when I said you were free to come and go, you were so happy. And who didn’t help you when it wasn’t Christmas, Delaney? Why do you hate careless, maybe twice-a-year charitable donations? What’s in the spreadsheets you won’t let anyone see?
“You— It’s no big deal.” He hadn’t thought of this, and he should have. He’d expected heated denial or embarrassment, not amnesia. “You talked in your sleep is all.”
“Oh yeah?” Still totally unconcerned. “What’d I say?”
“‘Go, Packers.’”
She laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. I don’t like football, but if I did, I’d never root for the Packers. That’s practically a violation of state law.”
Christ, she has no idea.
“Well, you mumbled something, I didn’t quite catch it, I was supertired because you’re such a goddamned slave driver.” He wasn’t sure why he wasn’t telling her everything. He didn’t want to embarrass her, that was part of it, but he also had the uneasy feeling that the Delaney who walked in her sleep wasn’t this Delaney, the confident young woman who walked right up to a dripping, livid man who’d just been fished out of the canal, who’d tossed a kid into his life, ruthlessly put him to work to earn a cell phone, frequently told him to shut up already, stole the last piece of toast off his plate, and laughed when he complained.
“Sorry if I disturbed you.”
“You didn’t.” Lie. “It was no biggie.” Lie.
“All righty.” She’d finished her oatmeal, waved at a couple of the others, gathered her stuff. “Ready to get back to it?”
“Not at all. Not even a little bit. I’d rather be doing almost anything else.”
“We can get your new phone tomorrow.”
“Bring me every Easter basket in this building!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “And then stand back, ladies, because you’ll see a basket-stuffing fool.”
“Or just a fool,” Teresa piped up.
“Silence, peon!”
That got Elena and Teresa and the others laughing, and he smiled at their gentle teasing, and that was good; it was always good when people were laughing because their guards went down and no one ever seemed to notice that while they laughed, he was figuring them out.
Delaney left the table and he was about to follow, when …
“She was sleepwalking, wasn’t she?”
“Gah! Jesus, Lillith. How do you do that? Only get noticed when you want to?”
“Mama taught me. She was, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Because she didn’t know what foster home she was in.”
“… Yeah.”
“It’s okay. I was surprised the first time, too. Just say nice things to her and she’ll go back to sleep.”
“Yeah.” It was low, but his options were limited. He already knew that asking Delaney for details was futile. Time to pump a kid. (Argh. Phrasing.) “So I get the feeling she had a rough childhood.”
“Yes.”
“Like your mother.”
“Yes.”
“And Sofia and Teresa and Elena.”
Lillith nodded.
“There’s a bigger picture here, isn’t there? It’s not just about finding your dad.”
She beamed. “I knew you were going to get it. Y’know, eventually. They’ve been saving for the Big Pipe Dream for years. That’s why they need us.”
“Wait, ‘need’? Us? How do—”
“C’mon, Rake and Lillith.” Delaney was standing in the front of the restaurant, beckoning them forward. “And the rest of you lazy bums, too. Back at it.”
“Fanculo questo,” Eleana replied cheerfully.
Exactly. Fanculo questo. Times ten.