Laura had left him in her office and returned to the kitchen to work on dinner—so ET can phone home alone, as she’d put it.
Rick still remembered the home phone number, at least what the number used to be. How many years since he’d called home? He didn’t remember. Wasn’t even sure his mother still lived in the same house. But then, she’d need an awful good reason to leave a waterfront property on Long Island Sound. She sure as hell didn’t need the money from the sale, so odds were high she’d stayed there.
He held off punching in the number and looked around. He’d never been in here before. He moved to the nearest wall and browsed the photo gallery. Sprinkled among the many pics of Marissa were a sampling from Laura’s youth. Her Mormon father had met her Mayan mother while doing a missionary work in Quintana Roo.
Laura had grown up in Salt Lake City and did she ever stand out in her school photos. This beautiful dark-skinned, dark-haired, blue-eyed girl surrounded by all her lily-white Mormon classmates.
Rick wondered how that must have felt growing up. He’d been born with a face and a name that would be welcome in any country club in the world, while Laura had grown up a swan among ducklings.
Ah, but what a swan she’d turned out to be. He’d hesitated to rest his hand on her shoulder but the urge had been overwhelming. He’d settled for simply touching her when what he’d really wanted to do was knead her shoulders until she was good and relaxed and then slide his hands down her front to her—
Whoa. Stop. Not the time or place for fantasies. Like thinking about the night in Kirkwall when, after a lot of wine, they’d started kissing. What might have happened if Clotilde had waited an extra hour before interrupting them?
He shook it off, pulled away from the photos, and punched in the old phone number.
A woman answered in accented English. “Allo?”
Obviously not his mother.
“Is this the Somers’s residence?”
“Yes. Who is it calling?”
“Rick—Garrick Somers.” He’d almost said Rick Hayden. “May I speak to Mrs. Somers?”
Some muffled conversation as the receiver’s mouthpiece was covered, then a familiar voice came on.
“Garrick? Is this really you?”
Paulette Garrick Somers had given him her maiden name as his first and had never once called him “Rick.”
“The one and only, Paulette.”
And he’d stopped calling her “Mom” sometime during college.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you.”
“You have?”
“Well, not me, personally. Lena tried, but your number has been given to someone else.”
He’d had easily a dozen or more phone numbers since they’d last spoken.
“Who’s Lena?”
“My assistant. She even called that gang of thugs you joined but they said they’d never heard of you.”
No surprise there. Part of his deal upon leaving the CIA was that all records of his connection with the Company would be buried.
“Not with them anymore.”
“Now that’s the first good news I’ve had in weeks.”
“Look, I’m calling about Keith.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
“Only heard about it twenty minutes ago.”
“How is that possible? He’s your brother.”
“If it’s not front-page news, I usually miss it. And frankly, what I looked up just before I called doesn’t tell me much. Was he kidnapped? Have you had a ransom demand?”
“No, nothing like that. I haven’t heard from anybody, especially Keith.”
“What about the police?”
“Worse than worthless, as expected when it comes to anything other than abusing minorities! They think he pulled a disappearing act on his own. Patently ridiculous! Something happened to him and it’s all because of that damned monkey.”
“Monkey? What—?”
“It’s too involved to go into.”
“Isn’t anybody looking for him?”
“I am looking for him. But I’m the only one. First you left to join those thugs, then Cheryl left and won’t tell me where she is, and now Keith.” Her voice broke on the name. Keith had always been her favorite. “I’m all alone in this.”
Was she looking for his help? Paulette would never come straight out and ask—especially not someone even remotely connected to the CIA.
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’ve got everything under control.”
Sure as hell didn’t sound like it.
“Look, I’m not far away—just down in Shirley. I’m coming over.”
“Don’t put yourself out.”
“See you soon.”
He hung up and walked back to the kitchen where Laura was chopping romaine. He stood and watched her for a moment. She had such a unique look—slim, sturdy frame, inky hair, olive skin, but those eyes … those startling pale-blue eyes were the cherry on the whipped cream.
But her looks were just the wrapper. Inside she had smarts, she had guts, she had character. She was funny, she was true-blue, all the corny stuff that goes into being a hausfrau and mother. And still something oh-so-sexy about her.
Not to mention her aura. Not the new-agey nonsense, her presence. It suffused her home. The world outside was ugly and petty and populated by trolls and leeches. But here in this place, this home, he sensed serenity. All because of Laura.
He wanted her. God, how he wanted her.
Here was the woman who could save him. But what would save Laura from him? That mission in Düsseldorf … he’d discovered a darkness within him. He’d made the world a better place, but at such a cost.
The Company had assigned him to infiltrate a group of violent young Germans. Despite being into anarchy and nihilism, they seemed more into talk than action until a mysterious stranger gave them an old book by a long-dead Düsseldorf native. They took to it and it led them into an unspeakable vileness that defied categorization, performing ceremonies that involved mutilating children in the hope of summoning something they called the Dark Man.
Rick had trapped them in their farmhouse and ignited the explosives and incendiaries they’d stockpiled there. They’d booby-trapped the barn where they kept the children—couldn’t allow anyone to see what they’d done—and when the farmhouse went up, so did the barn.
Eleven adults gone—good riddance—along with fifteen irreparably damaged children.
And as they’d burned, Rick had seen something in the flames … something dark …
The shrinks who’d debriefed him afterward had tagged him with PTSD, and maybe they were right. He’d faked getting over it but he hadn’t. Not really. Because he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t all going down again. Right now. Had the man with the book given another copy to another gang of psychos and were they now doing the unspeakable to other children?
Yeah … PTSD all right.
But he hadn’t been prone to fits of violence, he hadn’t been suicidal. He’d have to feel something for any of that, and he’d felt nothing.
Which didn’t mean that he couldn’t project feelings. He learned to fake them really well, enough to fool the shrinks, enough to fool the various women who’d passed through his life since Düsseldorf. He conned them all, ushering them past the Potemkin village of his emotions.
But Laura had awakened something he’d thought dead forever. He cared about someone again. And that felt so damn good. He’d discover her traipsing across his field of thought at the oddest times.
He’d told her about Düsseldorf, but not the whole story. Three quarters of it, but not the worst part, not the part that made him a monster.
The truth will set you free? Yeah. Set him free from Laura, set her running from him. She could never know. Because if she ever did …
She deserved better. He believed that—no, he knew that.
And yet he couldn’t stay away.
He stepped through the doorway. “Looks like I’ll be making a quick trip home.”
She put down her knife, wiped her hands, and trained those eyes on him. “And where might that be?”
“The Incorporated Village of Monroe.”
“Really? That’s North Shore.”
“Preferred North Shore, don’t you know. Do you mind?”
“You’re going to make it back for dinner, right?”
“Better believe it. Keep the bubbly cold.”
He’d need it after visiting with his mother. Might even have to pick up a second bottle on the way back.
And what the hell had she meant by “that damned monkey”?