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She glanced at her watch. He was late. They’d agreed to meet at ten-thirty. Nearly an hour ago.
Patience had never been one of her strong suits.
Laura hated to be kept waiting. As an only child, her life to date had been one of immediate gratification, and she wasn’t very adept at handling anything less. Both her parents generally fell over themselves making sure her every need was met.
And she had a lot of needs. Most recently, a fondness for Prada, which she’d indulged during a weekend trip to Manhattan, maxing out her platinum Visa.
Her dad obviously hadn’t gotten the bill yet. All of his blood vessels were still intact.
But then giving her stuff made her parents happy. They were the ones who’d set it up that way. No, Laura, we can’t make it to your horse show this weekend, but if you do well, we’ll talk about that new pony.
They’d taught her the payoff system early in life. And she had always been a good student.
She moved to the dresser, picked up a sable powder brush and flicked it over nose and chin, studying herself in the mirror, liking what she saw. Small nose, full mouth, chin-length dark hair with subtle highlights courtesy of Madison Avenue’s Jean-Paul. When she walked by, men looked. A date tonight would have been a non-issue, and yet here she stood, waiting.
A knock sounded at the door.
Laura picked up her wineglass, and cleared her expression of everything but indifference. “Come in.”
The door opened. She hadn’t turned on a lamp, and for a moment, Jonathan was illuminated by the light from the hallway. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. “I’d given up on you.”
“Sorry,” he said, but didn’t look it.
She tamped down her irritation, refusing to let it show. She’d wanted him since she was sixteen years old. Had started flirting with him at her parents’ parties, a brush of the arm here, a lingering look there. Teasing him had been like tossing a match at the edge of a streak of gasoline, hoping it would strike and yet clueless as to how to put the fire out if it did.
It had taken six years for her efforts to finally burst into full flame. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure if she could handle what she’d gotten herself into. But she did like trying.
She crossed the room, slipped her hand inside his white shirt.
“I don’t have long,” he said, looking down at her with a flare of heat in his eyes.
Laura liked that.
She slid the strap of her dress off one shoulder, then the other. It fell to the floor. Beneath, she wore nothing.
His mouth found the curve of her throat, teeth nipping just behind her ear.
There were no lights on in the room, but the curtains were open, and noise drifted up from the party. He backed her closer to the window, kissing her so hard that she felt a bruise bloom on her mouth.
Anyone who looked up could have clearly seen them.
Laura liked that, too.
NICHOLAS’S SOCIAL SKILLS could be classified as rusty at best, and, with another half hour to go before midnight, he headed out one of the doors at the back of the house, intent on a few minutes of solitude. A slate terrace took up much of the yard. Round white tables with matching chairs were scattered across the expanse of it, umbrellas planted in the center of each one. A set of wide stone steps led away from the lit-up house.
Three-quarters of the way down, he saw her. Her hair was a pale blond, straight, parted in the middle. It grazed the curve of her shoulder. Diamond earrings matched the one on her left hand in size.
Compared to the plunging necklines most of the women had worn here tonight, her dress rated conservative. Understated though it was, it failed to conceal the curves of her body. She had a quiet elegance that was undeniably appealing.
He recognized her then. Recalled a newspaper photo of her at some fund-raiser.
Colby. Audrey Colby.
He should go back inside.
Nicholas had always trusted his intuition. It was almost never wrong.
But he ignored the voice of reason now. Something stronger pulled him across the terrace, as if he’d been drawn by some magnetic force field.
She looked up and took a step back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I didn’t hear you,” she said, one hand at her throat.
He slid one finger around the rim of his shirt collar. “It was getting a little stuffy in there. The air feels good.”
“Yes, it does,” she agreed after a few seconds. She watched him for a moment, then said, “Excuse me,” before stepping past him toward the steps that led to the house.
Again, that voice. Let her go. “You’re Jonathan Colby’s wife, aren’t you?”
She stopped on the third step, her back to him, pausing before she half turned, silent.
“I’m Nicholas Wakefield,” he added. “Ross just hired me. I’ll be working with your husband.”
She stared at him for another long moment during which he saw something in her expression he couldn’t quite identify. Disapproval? A quick in-take of breath, and the look disappeared to be replaced with blankness. He thought he might prefer the disapproval, even though it made him curious as hell. He filed that alongside his initial impression of Colby. Interesting.
“Congratulations, Mr. Wakefield.” She started up the steps. “I really have to go now.”
Nicholas didn’t think there would have been much of anything left in the world that could bother him. For the past nine years, he’d had crazies traipsing through his office, calling him obscenities that would curl most people’s hair. Why then was he bothered by this woman’s tone? Maybe because there was judgment in it. And he wanted to know why. “Did I say something to offend you, Mrs. Colby?”
His question stopped her again halfway up the stairs. She turned around, slowly retracing her steps. She glanced quickly over her shoulder at the house. “I don’t know what would make you think that.”
“Why don’t we try this again?” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Nicholas Wakefield.”
Reluctantly, she offered her own. “Audrey Colby.”
Her voice was Southern-soft at the edges. Even in the shadowed light, her eyes ensnared him. Wounded eyes. As if they held scars that ran deep.
She glanced again at the doorway, then stepped deeper into the darkness close to the rock wall behind them. “All those people…it gets a little close.”
He couldn’t have said why, other than the fact that she was married to his new firm’s biggest client, but he was uneasy being here with her. It had been a long time since he’d felt awkward around a woman. “Yeah,” he said finally. “That crowd can get a little—” He broke off, deciding she wasn’t the person to whom he should reveal his real feelings about the party.
“Presumptuous?” she finished, surprising him.
He tilted his head to one side. “Your word.”
“Yes. My word.”
“Good music, though.” Jill Scott floated out from the speakers at the back of the house, the band apparently taking a break.
She glanced again in the direction of the door.
He leaned a hip against the wall and folded his arms across his chest. “So. Made any resolutions for the New Year?”
A stretch of silence and then she replied, “Only one.”
When she failed to ask the same question of him, he volunteered the information anyway. “I made one or two, despite my cynicism. Think you’ll stick with yours?”
She looked back out into the darkness, her face set, unsmiling. “Yes,” she said.
A door opened behind them. Laughter flowed out from the party into the night. Audrey took a startled step farther into the shadows.
A man crossed the terrace, stopped by one of the carriage lights and lit a cigarette.
“Are you all right?” Nicholas asked.
“Yes. Thank you. But I have to go,” she said.
He couldn’t explain the disappointment he felt. There was nothing logical about the instant connection he had with this woman. He knew nothing about her, and yet, inexplicably, he wanted to know everything there was to know.
She stepped around him and ran back up the stairs.
He lifted a hand. “Wait!”
But she kept going. And did not look back.
THE RIDE HOME was silent.
But in the back of the limousine, the air hung thick as a Georgia summer afternoon before a storm. Audrey kept her face averted, staring out the window at the passing night.
How easy it would be just to open the door and throw herself onto the pavement. Coward’s way out, though. That would only be ending her own misery.
And if it could have been as simple as that, she might have done so long ago.
But there was Sammy.
When the car glided to a stop at the front of the house, the driver opened the back door. Jonathan slid out and waited for Audrey to follow.
“Good night, Thomas,” Jonathan said.
“’Night, Mr. Colby. Mrs. Colby.”
“Good night.” Audrey headed for the front door without waiting for Jonathan. He was right behind her. She tried to stick her key in the lock, but he jerked it from her hand, stabbing it inside the hole and opening the door with a brutal shove.
Marsha Lynch, the sitter, appeared in the hallway, one hand to her throat. “Oh. Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Colby. I wasn’t sure that was you at first.”
Audrey forced a smile. “Is everything all right, Marsha?”
“Just fine. He’s been asleep for hours.”
Jonathan pulled out his wallet, paid the girl, his abrupt “Good night,” a clear dismissal.
“Call me anytime,” Marsha said, her face stiff with uncertainty. She left then, closing the heavy front door behind her.
Jonathan dropped his keys on the entrance table with a clatter that shook Audrey’s nerves and rang out in the otherwise silent house.
“Jonathan, please,” she said in a quiet voice. “Sammy’s—”
“Sammy!” he exploded. “Can you think about anything besides Sammy?” He said the boy’s name with a sneer. He’d always insisted that she call him Samuel. It infuriated him when Audrey slipped and called her son by the name she preferred. Jonathan moved toward the living room, jerking his overcoat off and throwing it across the back of the leather couch.
Audrey stood in the foyer for several seconds, her eyes closed, a knot in her stomach. She headed for the stairs then. This could still be avoided. If she just left him alone, maybe it would blow over. She repeated the same rationalizations she always did, even though these episodes were like a storm moving in from the sea. She could do nothing but wait out its arrival.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he said, his voice louder now. If she ran upstairs, he would follow, knock down the door, if necessary. And then Sammy would wake up…
She stopped with one hand on the rail, then turned and made her way back to the living room, each step a force of will.
She paused in the doorway. “Jonathan, let’s just go to bed. I’m tired, and—”
“Was your little meeting on the terrace so exhausting?” He stood behind the wet bar, pouring scotch into a glass, his voice eerily calm.
She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He took a swallow of the liquor, added another shot from the decanter and crossed the room, the click of his shoes on the wood floor menacing. “I’m not in the mood for games, Audrey.”
“I went out for some fresh air. That’s all.”
“Fresh air,” he said, sarcasm tainting the words. “And Webster’s new partner just happened to be out there at the same time.”
Audrey hesitated, her mind racing for an answer that would defuse the situation. But there was no answer. It wouldn’t matter what she said. She tried for a note of reason. “He came outside for a couple of minutes. He introduced himself and told me he would be working with you. That’s all.”
Jonathan moved closer, his eyes narrowed. “I’m aware of how long you were out there.”
She met the hard look in his eyes, defiance flaring inside her. How? The view from Laura’s room? She pressed her lips together to keep from asking the questions.
“Why would you think he’d look at you, anyway?” His eyes scanned the length of her body. “I was embarrassed to be seen with you. There wasn’t a woman there who didn’t look better than you tonight. My wife. When are you ever going to develop any taste? You’re not in that backwoods family of yours anymore.”
She started to remind him he had picked out her dress, but he grabbed her arm and jerked her to him. Her shoulder wrenched at the socket. She bit back a gasp of pain. “Jonathan, stop!”
“It stops when I say it stops.” With the back of his hand, he slapped her across the neck. Pain shot through her left side. Excruciating. Reverberating. She moaned. But before she could right herself, he grabbed her and flung her backward across the couch. She hit the hardwood floor on the other side, her shoulder taking the brunt of her weight. She bit her lip to keep from crying out.
Sammy. Think about Sammy. He was upstairs. Please don’t come down. Please.
Jonathan was in front of her then, pulling her up and flinging her against the wall behind him. She hit it with the same shoulder. But this time, she couldn’t hold back the half-scream of anguish. She slumped to the floor where she put her head between her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, praying for oblivion.
“This wouldn’t have to happen if you would just listen to me. How many times have I told you that? And Samuel. He’s just like you. Neither of you ever listen to anything I say.”
Much to her shame, she was crying now. She’d vowed she wouldn’t cry anymore. Crying was weak. Gave him what he wanted.
He kicked her then, a hard fierce punt to her left thigh. She kept her arms wrapped around her knees, her head between her legs, praying for the end of it. I can live through this. One more time. Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, please make him stop. Please don’t make me leave my son alone.
Pleeeassse.
The word echoed once through her throbbing head, and then nothing.
CHAPTER THREE
THE CONFETTI had barely settled to the floor when Nicholas thanked the Websters for their hospitality and then ducked out.
He waited while the valet got his car, then pulled out of the driveway a little too fast in an attempt to accelerate past his preoccupation with Audrey Colby.
Two miles down West Paces Ferry, he let up on the gas, one elbow on the windowsill. What was it about her that had him so rattled? Her desire to be left alone could not have been more clear. And yet out on that terrace, he hadn’t been able to make himself walk away. He still felt as if everything inside him had been altered by the few words of conversation they’d had, shaken up to the point that all the pieces of who he had been didn’t fit back in their old places.
It was the look in her eyes. A look he’d seen too many times in the eyes of people who had lost a loved one to a senseless crime. A glimpse into the soul of someone who’s been broken.
But Audrey Colby? He didn’t think so.
He ran a hand over his face. Told himself to leave it alone.
As of tonight, by his own proclamation, he had started over with a career he could accept. No more crusades. No more families looking to him for justice. No more trying to fix in himself what could never be fixed.
Audrey Colby was married to one of the wealthiest men in Georgia. Probably had a life most women would sign up for in a heartbeat.
His problem? He needed to quit imagining that the whole world needed his help.
He turned into his driveway and hit the remote for the garage door.
Something darted out in front of him, seeking cover under the hedge of boxwoods separating his driveway from his neighbor’s.
A light above the garage illuminated the center of the driveway, but the bushes were shadowed, making it difficult to see anything.
He rolled down his window, then cut the engine. A soft whimper drifted from under the boxwoods.
Nicholas got out, walked over to the hedge and dropped to his knees. Two unblinking eyes stared back at him.
Black as the night sky, the dog wasn’t wearing a collar. It inched backward, making another whimpering sound.
Nicholas sighed. He just wanted to go to bed. Sleep for at least a dozen hours. He lifted the lower branches of the bush. “Hey,” he said. “Are you hurt? Come on out. Let me take a look.”
But the dog wasn’t budging.
Food. He needed a lure. The only thing he had in the car was chewing gum. He grabbed his keys from the ignition and let himself into the house, heading for the kitchen. It looked like a mini shrine to pizza takeout. Four empty boxes sat on the table. One sink was stacked high with coffee cups.
On Mondays, a cleaning service came in and got rid of the boxes, washed all the cups. It was a little like living in a hotel. A place to eat and sleep. Temporary.
He found a loaf of bread in the pantry and removed a couple of slices from the bag. He went back outside, dropped to his knees again, moisture seeping through his tuxedo pants. He held the bread out, tried some coaxing words. The dog sniffed, but didn’t move. Nicholas waved the bread around. No interest. He sat for a minute or so, tried again. Still not budging.
Finally, he stood. What else could he do? Drag the dog out from under the bush? He’d tried. He could go with a clear conscience. “Okay. I give up. I’m going in.”
But no sooner had he stepped away than the food won out. The dog crawled forward far enough to reach the bread, and gobbled it up in a single bite.
Medium-sized, it appeared no more than three inches wide at its thickest point. In the light, he could see white markings on its legs and chest. The dog’s coat was matted in places, dull by malnutrition or maybe parasites. It looked up at him, instantly shrinking to a crouching position. Nicholas’s stomach turned. He dropped to his knees again. “It’s not like that. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
The dog scooted away from him, then jumped up and trotted off toward the street.
Headlights flashed from the intersection at the corner. The dog sent an anxious glance over its shoulder. The car was almost in front of them now. Nicholas sprinted after the dog and lunged. The dog dropped flat, looking as if it wanted to melt into the driveway.
“Hey, it’s okay. I just didn’t want you to get on the road.” He reached out to rub the dog’s head. The animal quivered.
A clinic a few miles away stayed open all night. He could drop the dog off there, and they could figure out what to do with it.
He picked the animal up, carried it to the car, placed it in the passenger seat and eased the door closed.
He reached the clinic within five minutes, grateful to see lights on when he pulled into a parking space. He got out and jogged to the front door. A small plaque gave instructions to ring the bell. Someone would be right with him.
Thirty seconds later, a young woman appeared. “May I help you?”
“Yeah. I have a dog outside. It’s hurt,” he said.
“Do you need help bringing it in?”
“No. I’ll be right back.” He walked to the car and carefully opened the door. In the front seat, the dog had tucked itself nose to tail. He rubbed its back once, then picked it up as gently as possible. It whimpered again. “Sorry,” he said.
The young woman held the door for him and then led him to a waiting area and through a set of double doors into a large examining room. “I’m Dr. Filmore, the vet on call tonight.”
“Nicholas Wakefield.”
The walls were lined with large cages in which a few dogs were sleeping. A dark-brown cocker spaniel raised its head and whined.
“It’s all right, Bo,” Dr. Filmore said. “You can go back to sleep. On the table here,” she directed to Nicholas.
He placed the dog on the stainless tabletop as gently as he could. “I found it outside my house.”
The vet dipped her head, then looked back up. “She.”
“What?”
“The dog is a she.”
“Oh,” Nicholas said, nodding.
“She’s starving for one thing.” The vet was young, but she spoke to the dog in a soft, reassuring voice and ran her hands over her in a way that suggested she knew what she was doing. “I think her left hind leg is broken. It feels like she has a couple of busted ribs, as well. We’ll have to get some radiographs.”
“Could she have been hit by a car?”
“Maybe. More likely kicked from the way she’s acting,” the doctor said, her voice flat as a Kansas plain.
A sick feeling settled in Nicholas’s stomach. “You see this often?”
“Too often.”
He didn’t know what to say. What kind of person would kick a helpless dog? “Doesn’t it get to you?” he asked.
She sighed. “Yeah. It does. But the only alternative is to quit.”
He’d once said the same thing about his own profession. He admired her dedication. Wished for a moment that the fire of his convictions hadn’t burned out.
“So you’ll fix her up?”
She nodded. “The best I can. You could wait, or go home, and I’ll call you when I know something.”
“She’s not my dog.”
The doctor frowned. “Are you saying you don’t want to treat her?”
“No. I mean, yes, treat her. But I can’t take her home with me.”
The young woman dropped her gaze, then looked back up, her jaw a hard line. “Would you like to treat her first and then call Animal Control?”
He heard the disapproval in her voice, and yet he balked at the implication that he was somehow responsible just because he’d happened across the dog. “I can’t have a pet,” he said. “I work long hours. I’m not set up for—”
“Leave your information with the receptionist out front,” she interrupted, then turned her back to him in dismissal.
Nicholas glanced at the dog. She was stretched out with her head on her paws, eyes closed as if she could shut out everything around her. He swung back through the double doors, filled out the forms at the front desk in handwriting that was barely legible. He couldn’t get to his car fast enough.
But once he was there, he stared at the building.
Animal Control.
He slapped a hand against the leather steering wheel, got out and rang the after-hours bell again. The receptionist let him in this time and pointed at the doors leading to the examining room. “Go right on through.”
The vet was still busy working on the dog. She didn’t look up when Nicholas came in. “Yes, Mr. Wakefield?”
“Call me when she’s ready to go.”
The young doctor glanced up, her smile instantly removing him from her loser’s list. “Did you leave your number?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Have a good night then.”
IT WAS AFTER 3:00 a.m. when Ross Webster pulled on his robe and headed downstairs where he poured himself a stiff shot of scotch. He tossed half of it back, coughed a couple of times, then collapsed onto the closest chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
He was tired. The kind of tired that didn’t go away after a night’s sleep.
His life was making him tired.
Ross was old enough to recognize he’d taken some of the wrong forks in the road. The choices he’d made were the kind that turned things around permanently. Once, he had been a different man. Or at least he liked to think so.
He’d started out in the public defender’s office, hard as that was to believe now. Like his new partner, Wakefield, he’d had his own ideals. Villains to conquer.
Wakefield still had that light in his eyes. Oh, he was convinced it was gone. Had left the prosecutor’s office with his tail tucked between his legs because he’d lost one too many cases to the bad guys.
But what Ross had finally figured out—what Wakefield obviously hadn’t—was that being one of the good guys didn’t get you anywhere. It had started out innocently enough. A little gray bleeding into the black and white.
And then Jonathan Colby had walked into his office. Showed him how he could have the kind of life he’d always wanted. He’d signed on. Just like that. Too late, he’d realized he’d shackled himself to the devil. If he wanted to go anywhere, he had to take Jonathan with him.