Anew: Book Three: Entwined (3 page)

Amelia

“I
can do this,” Ian snarls.

The physical therapist takes a step
back. He doesn’t look at all surprised by his boss’ bad temper, anymore than I
am. It’s been this way ever since the doctors pronounced Ian well enough to get
out of bed. That was three days ago, scarcely forty-eight hours after we
arrived at the compound. Everyone agrees that his recovery has been amazingly
fast. Everyone, that is, except Ian himself. He’s frustrated, cranky, and
generally doing his best to live up--or down--to the stereotype of big, strong
men making terrible patients.

I sit off to one side, staying out
of his sightline so as not to distract him as he angles himself between the
parallel bars. Bare-chested, wearing only sweat pants that droop low on his
hips, he looks formidable despite his injuries. Staring at him, my mouth goes
dry. His broad shoulders give way to a torso defined by perfectly formed abs
and the V of muscle that points the way toward his narrow hips and groin.

He managed to shave a few days ago,
having refused to let anyone do it for him. But he hasn’t bothered since with
the result that the clean line of his jaw is darkened by soft stubble. I think
of how it would feel against my skin,
between my thighs
. The resonance
of remembered ecstasy shivers through me.

My gaze is drawn to the rivulets of
sweat glistening on his skin, evidence of how hard and fast he is pushing
himself. Given the speed of his recovery, I might almost be able to overlook
the red scar running across the left side of his torso from below his arm to
his naval. There are other wounds but that’s the one--caused by shrapnel from
the drone--that came so close to killing him. That he’s alive is a testament to
the medical advances that saved him but also to his own tenacious will. He
simply won’t give up.

“Okay,” the therapist says, a bit
wearily, I think. “I’m convinced. You can walk. How about we try it with the
cane?”

“I don’t need a frigging cane!”

As if to prove his point, he steps
away from the bars onto the floor and promptly loses his footing. Only his
quick action in grabbing hold of one of the bars stops him from hitting the
ground.

“For heaven’s sake!” I exclaim,
jumping up. “Will you stop being such a baby! Take the damn cane!”

Both Ian and the therapist turn to
stare at me open-mouthed. My irritation stuns them both, which makes me think I
should let it out more often. The therapist recovers first. He quickly hands me
the cane and scurries off. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and believe
that he just wants to allow us some privacy. But I wouldn’t blame him if what
he really wants is to get a safe distance away.

Ian’s eyes narrow to glittering
shards of amber. “Watch yourself,” he says, very low. “You shouldn’t even be
here.”

I fight against a wave of hurt. The
push-pull between us is becoming unbearable. He can’t rest if I’m not there,
close enough for us to be almost but not quite touching, which he won’t allow.
I ache for his touch, even just the brush of his fingers, but he withholds it
for reasons I can’t begin to grasp yet shy away from trying to discuss. Nothing
can take precedence over--or distract from--his recovery. I understand that he
both needs to know that I’m safe and doesn’t want me to witness his weakness. I
get that, I even sympathize with it. It’s just Ian himself that I’m finding
hard to take.

“Where should I be?” I challenge.
“Back in Manhattan with Edward and my grandmother? Going to parties and
pretending that everything is fine?”

I’ve spoken with my brother several
times, enough to be hopeful that my family is not in any immediate danger. The
city is calm, so Edward tells me and I have no reason not to believe him. I’m
just afraid that it’s the calm before the storm.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ian snaps. A
look of horror--or is it fear?--passes over his face at the thought of my being
back in the glittering island enclave of the ruling elite that conceals a seething
underworld of decadence and abuse. “You aren’t leaving here until the danger to
you is over once and for all.”

“I thought it was,” I remind him. “You
keep insisting that Davos is dead.”

We’ve argued about this. Charles
Davos’ body still hasn’t been recovered. Until it is, I won’t believe that evil
man is truly gone.

“And while we’re on the subject,” I
add before he can interrupt. “What about the danger to you? You’re the one who
was almost killed.”

Because of me. He was in the line
of fire and he almost died because I exist and because of the feelings we have
for each other. There’s no getting around that, not for either of us. If
Susannah hadn’t made the choices that she did--

I don’t want to think about the
woman whose life I was created to save but who in the end gave hers so that I
could live. The whole subject of clones is so fraught and the truth is that I
don’t think of myself that way. I’m a person, me, with all the challenges and
responsibilities that entails.

Including facing the fact that Ian
didn’t ask for me to be in his life. Susannah gave me to him, just as she disposed
of other items of property before her death. In doing so, she hurtled us into a
situation so fraught that we’re still struggling to come to terms with it. Her choice--to
let me live rather than seize the chance for a few more months of life for
herself--was unprecedented. So was her decision to use neural imprinting to
give me her knowledge and skills but not her memories. She left me free to form
my own. For that and so much more I will always be grateful to her even if I
can never be anything like the delicate, refined woman Ian cared for deeply.

Despite what he told me in the
tunnel--that only with me has he been able to be his true self--I’m haunted by
doubts. Because of me, he’s been forced to confront demons he kept deeply
buried for years. I can’t help but worry how he feels about that now that he
has almost lost his life in the process.

“What’s wrong?” he demands. He’s
staring at me, his brow furrowed. Even coping with his own pain and
frustration, the man is too damn sensitive to my moods and thoughts.

“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Except
how bull-headed you are.” More gently, I add, “Take the cane, please.” I hold
it out to him.

He hesitates but after a moment, he
accepts it. A sigh of relief escapes me. I feel as though I’ve won a battle. Or
at least been through one. I’m exhausted. After a week of sleeping on a cot
beside Ian’s bed, listening to him moan in his sleep and seeing him shy away
every time I try to touch him, every bone in my body hurts. I want to eat
something other than hospital food. I want to wear something other than khakis.
I don’t want to see or talk to doctors, nurses, medics, or physical therapists,
wonderful people that they all undoubtedly are. I am the selfish, petulant, and
thoroughly worn out girl friend of a man who can barely stand to look at me but
who can’t rest if I’m more than a few feet away.

“People have tried to kill me
plenty of times before, sweetheart,” he says tauntingly. “I’m still here. You
should be concerned about yourself.”

There it is, the specter that has
hovered between us ever since the erotic excesses of Carnival. Ian refuses to
talk about what happened in the private suite atop the exclusive and very
discrete L’hôtel Perle. He’s stonewalled any attempt on my part to bring it up,
however tentatively.

Questions plague me. Just before
the final confrontation with Davos, Ian alluded to having been drugged that
night. What did he mean? There was no opportunity to ask him then and he hasn’t
mentioned it since. Nor have I mustered the courage to ask. Meanwhile, my
assurances that I was a fully willing participant in everything that happened
between us appear to have had no effect.

Angrily, I ask, “And why is that, exactly?
What is it you think I should be worried about?”

He turns away, his voice so muffled
that I can hardly hear him. The single word he utters reeks of self-loathing
that I cannot begin to understand. “Me.”

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

His head whips around. He looks at
me incredulously. “And you have absolutely no sense of self-preservation.”

We’re glaring at each other, at yet
another stand-off, when the physical therapist returns.

“Uh…sir, excuse me, your session is
over but if you’d like to continue--”

“No,” Ian snaps. He hears himself
and flushes. “I’m sorry. You’ve been doing a great job. I really appreciate it.”

“Sure, no problem.” The young man
casts us both a quick glance before withdrawing.

The moment stretches out between
us, filled with unspoken yearnings and unvoiced accusations. Finally, Ian says,
“I’m going to get a shower.”

He’s been able to shower by himself
for several days and he’s made it clear that he doesn’t want me around when he
does so.

“Don’t forget you have a meeting
with the doctor in half-an-hour,” I remind him quietly. Gathering my courage, I
ask, “Do you want me to sit in?”

I’ve been present during most of
the medical discussions but now that Ian has regained so much mobility, I have
to wonder if that is coming to an end. If it is, what are his expectations for
us? For that matter, what are mine? I’ve seen almost nothing more of the atoll
since the day we arrived but no matter how large or interesting it is, I know
that it will quickly come to seem a prison if we can’t get over the wall that
has come down between us.

“You might as well be there,” he
murmurs--grudgingly, I think--and turns away.

I stand, watching his back, until
he disappears into the locker room. As the swinging doors close behind him, my
shoulders sag. I want to sit down somewhere private, put my head in my hands,
and have a good cry but I’m not about to do any such thing.

Instead, in the brief time I have
to myself, I get a cup of tea and take it out onto the terrace. Looking out
over the lagoon dappled with diamond shards of light, I try to prepare myself
as best I can for the possibility that Ian no longer wants me with him. He may
be dead set against my returning to Manhattan but I don’t believe he would try
to force me to stay at the compound if I insisted on leaving. At least, I hope
that he wouldn’t.

Despite my legal status, or lack
thereof, I’m not without resources. The McClellan family, which has accepted me
with unstinting love and generosity, is both wealthy and powerful. I can go
anywhere that I have to in order to be safe.

The problem is being without Ian. I
had a taste of that when we parted shortly after my arrival in the city. The
devastating sense of loss that I experienced still haunts me. I will do
everything possible to avoid living through that again. Starting with finishing
my tea and heading back inside to face whatever is coming next.

Ian

I’
m lying through my teeth, literally since I’m
gritting them as I discuss with the doctor the severity of my wounds, how lucky
I am to be alive, how important it is that I don’t push myself too hard,
yada
yada.
Remind me why I pay this guy? Oh, right, he’s one of the best trauma
physicians on the planet and he’s seen every combat-related wound imaginable.
He’s also about my age and he can’t, although I can tell he’s trying, keep his
eyes off Amelia. It must be my recent near-death experience but I’m not even pissed
at him for that.

She looks so beautiful that it’s
all I can do not to take her in my arms right here and now. But her eyes are
unnaturally big in the pale oval of her face. She’s exhausted even though she’s
trying to hide it. The slight slump of her shoulders, evident only to someone
who knows her well, gives her away. A stab of guilt goes through me at the toll
the days and nights at my bedside have taken on her. For that alone, I need to
pull myself together and go after the bastard who caused all this.

Funny how I can remember almost
dying but the time right before then is a blank. Short-term memory loss,
commonly associated with trauma. I know because I looked it up. What I haven’t
done is mention it to the doctor or anyone else. The last thing I need is to
give anyone a reason to keep me chained to a hospital bed a moment longer.

“Sure thing,” I say, as phony as
they come. “Not overdoing, I’ve got it. Now are you going to let me out of
here?”

It’s a polite fiction that I can’t
just come and go as I please but what kind of example would I set for my people
if I ignored medical advice? I can tell the doctor isn’t totally buying my
routine but I haven’t left him with much choice.

Reluctantly, Rosen says, “On the
understanding that you’ll continue with your physical therapy and respect the
fact that your body is still healing. Push yourself too hard and you’ll be
right back in here.”

Hell. Freeze. Over. Rather than say
that, I just smile again and stand up. On my best behavior, I even use the
goddamn cane, which I’m planning to chuck in the lagoon the first chance I get.

Amelia stands as I do. She takes a
step toward me, as though she thinks I may need help, but catches herself and
just eyes me cautiously. I can’t tell whether she’s debating the wisdom of
remaining in my charming company or has already decided against it.

 “Let’s go,” I say, hoping to
pre-empt her choice.

To my relief, she complies. That’s
something I can never take for granted with Amelia, who has as strong a will as
any I’ve ever encountered. I’m pitifully grateful for that because if she
didn’t, I either wouldn’t be able to ever touch her or I’d loathe myself for
doing so. It’s a toss-up, which just reminds me of how little self-control I
have where she’s concerned. After what she went through at Carnival and in the
club, she should have run as far away from me as she could possibly get.
Instead, she ran to me and in the process saved my life.

That part I have no trouble
remembering. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her. Not that I’ve found the
guts to tell her that yet.

We make the trip across the lagoon
in silence. She sits a little apart from me in the boat, her arms wrapped
around herself. She’s lost weight. I blame myself for both. Resolve hardens in
me that from now on she’ll have better care, whether she wants it or not.

“Have you met Hamako?” I ask as we
walk up the path to the house. My plan is to keep her talking so she won’t
notice the effort it takes me to negotiate the steps. Once again, I gesture for
her to go ahead.

She does so but without replying. When
we reach the top, I have to take a moment to catch my breath. She waits,
watching me climb the last few steps, not saying a word. Damn woman, she’s an
expert at letting silence make her point for her.

Finally, she brushes aside a strand
of hair that the wind has worked from the twist at the nape of her neck and
says, “Yes, I’ve met her. She seems very nice.” Amelia hesitates before she
adds, “This place is different from the palazzo and the penthouse.”

I frown, trying to figure out what
she’s thinking and as usual failing. “Does that mean you don’t like it?”

She looks surprised that I could
think so. “No, not at all. It’s very appealing.”

I should have guessed that a
dancer, with a dancer’s discipline, would sense the reverence for control
embodied by a design that strips all extraneous details away and makes the
essential beautiful. But I wonder how much she’s consciously aware of that or
why it attracts me.

Before I can give into the urge to
ask her, Hamako appears to welcome us. She beams me a smile and bows deeply.
“Welcome home, Mister Slade, Miss McClellan. I have prepared a bath for you, if
you would like. Or perhaps you would prefer something to eat?”

After the climb up the stairs, a
long soak in the Japanese-style
furo
tub sounds great. As much as I’d
like to ask Amelia to join me, I’m not about to give into that temptation.
Besides, the look on her face would be enough to make me back off. Something’s
bothering her. Not for the first time, I wonder what she isn’t telling me.

“Bath first,” I say and hobble off
toward the bathhouse before I can think about how angry I am that she still
withholds any part of herself from me. That’s completely unreasonable on my
part but it’s still the truth.

The combination of a hard scrub and
a long, hot soak removes the film of sickness and pain that clung to me from
the hospital. By the time I emerge an hour later, I’m in a far better frame of
mind. I’ve been determined from the moment I regained consciousness that I’ll
recover fully but now, for the first time, I truly know that I will.

With that in mind, I pull on a pair
of sweatpants and a T-shirt, and go in search of Amelia. She isn’t in the house
and for a moment, I feel a spurt of panic. What if she’s wised up and left? Instantly,
my heart races. I can feel it punching against my rib cage like it’s desperate
to get out. I have to take a breath and dig deep before reason reasserts
itself.

Amelia wouldn’t do that, plain and
simple. She may leave me--I have to face that possibility no matter how
gut-wrenching it is--but she’d never do so without saying goodbye. She’s too
brave and honorable to do less. Crazy brave. Like when she refused to escape
from Davos’ hell hole until I agreed to go with her.

Apart from almost dying, that’s the
last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital. Hollis has filled me in
on what happened after I went down--the instant implementation of the plan I’d
put into place, the smooth evacuation, and so on. Rosen has described the
procedures that were done on the plane to bring me back from the brink of death.
I didn’t tell him that I wasn’t going to die. Amelia wouldn’t let me. She held
fast to me then. I can only hope that she’ll keep on doing so.

She’s in the garden. The moment I
find her, my world rights itself. The weight is gone from my chest. I can
breathe. She appears lost in thought, gazing at the delicate white blossoms of
a jasmine bush. I don’t want to startle or alarm her but before I can let her
know that I’m here, she turns as though sensing my presence. Her smile pierces
me. I don’t deserve her but then I never have.

“Are you feeling better?” she asks
softly.

I clear my throat and nod. No way
in hell will I burden her with my thoughts. “Much. Nothing beats a Japanese
bath. You should try it some time.”

Once again, a shadow flits across
her face but she just says, “You look better. This place is good for you.”

I shrug. I’m not entirely
comfortable talking about the compound. The people here either get its purpose
intuitively or they figure it out quickly enough. We don’t spend a lot of time
gabbing about why it is what it is. But Amelia deserves at least some
explanation.

 “I like to keep my resources
spread out and my options open. But besides that, the compound is a private place
for my people to train not just physically but also mentally for what they face
in the field. Not to mention recovering afterward.”

“What does that mean, train
mentally?”

I hesitate, not sure how much to
tell her about the down-and-dirty business of what I do. I don’t want her to be
tainted by any of it but she genuinely seems to want to know.

Slowly, I say, “Physical endurance
and tactical skills aren’t enough. By themselves, they can just make a person
dangerous--to himself and others. The difference between being a true warrior
or just a violent savage has to do with accepting and living by a code of
behavior.”

 “You’re talking about what the
Japanese call bushido?”

I shouldn’t be surprised by her
perceptiveness. Whatever she was given in the way of knowledge and skills,
Amelia herself is both highly intelligent and insatiably curious. Something I’d
be smart to remember.

 “The Way of the Warrior,” I say,
nodding. “Some people have compared it to the medieval concept of chivalry but
it’s really much more. Honor, duty, and sacrifice are just the beginning. At
its heart is a recognition that both the willingness and the ability to use
violence have to be tempered by wisdom and personal serenity.”

“That explains this house,” she
says with a smile, “and the geisha-style housekeeper, the swords and suit of
armor in the living room--”

“How did you know that Hamako used
to be a geisha?” I ask.

Her eyes widen. “I was kidding but
she really was…that?”

I can’t help grinning at her shock.
“What do you think ‘that’ is, exactly?”

She doesn’t mince words. “A woman
trained to please men.”

My cock jerks at the sudden thought
of being pleased by Amelia, and pleasing her in turn. He’s been letting me know
that he’s fully recovered and raring to go, not missing an opportunity every
time Amelia got too near. Now he’s downright insistent.

“As an entertainer and a hostess,”
I counter as smoothly as I can manage. “Anything else was a private
arrangement. As for Hamako, she was part of the geisha revival that brought the
tradition back from the brink of extinction a few decades ago. Until she agreed
to move here, she was a highly respected teacher of the geisha arts.”

Amelia’s brows knit together. “Why
would she give that up?”

I shrug, a little worried that the
answer will seem self-serving. Cautiously, I say, “To please her husband. Takashi
wanted to take the job but he loves her far too much to take her away from
something that really matters to her. They went round and round on it until she
finally convinced him that she couldn’t be true to herself if she let him make
such a sacrifice.”

“So she made it instead?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.
The other way is that they both gave each other what they needed.”

 Reminding myself that I’m
determined to make sure that Amelia gets what she needs, I say, “I appreciate
you being here, more than I’ll ever be able to say. But just so we understand
each other, you’re sleeping in the guestroom.”

She flinches and I see the sudden
wave of confusion that clouds her eyes. It’s all I can do not to reach out to
soothe her. Assuming that she would let me try.

Hastily, before she can walk away,
I say, “I can’t bear the thought of hurting you again, Amelia.” The words are
wrenched from me. They represent the deepest, darkest fear that haunts my soul.
Even speaking them aloud makes me feel sick.

I don’t know what reaction I’m
expecting from her but whatever it is, that’s not what I get. Softly, she says,
“I thought we got past that.”

We did? When?

“You told me that you’d been
drugged,” she continues.

“That’s no excuse,” I say harshly. No
way will I let her think that I would ever try to take less than total
responsibility for what I did.

“It didn’t sound that way,” she
assures me. “It was more of an explanation although you didn’t get very far
before we were interrupted by Davos and his goons. I still don’t know what you
meant.”

Okay, moment of truth. I can handle
this. I don’t have any choice, not if I’m going to be at all straight with her.
She has to know the worst.

“Davos had me dosed with a illegal
drug called Jekyll/Hyde. The council meeting I was called to was a ruse to get
me out onto the street where I could be targeted. The crowds that were
gathering for Carnival just made that easier.”

Slowly, not taking her eyes from
me, she says, “I’ve heard of Jekyll/Hyde. There was a mention on the news feed
about people being hospitalized because of it.”

I nod. “It’s billed as a nice,
cheap high with a few bells and whistles that the legal stuff doesn’t provide.
But it’s really a very sophisticated smart drug, programmed to identify and
eliminate chemical alignments in the brain that are associated with the
long-term repression of powerful impulses. Essentially, it lets the psyche
loose to do whatever it damn well pleases.”