From the Heart (29 page)

She didn't hold on to him because she knew it was useless. He was going to do it his own way. “What if he shoots you?” she asked dully. “A hell of a bodyguard you'd make dead.”

“If he's going to, he'll do it the minute I stand up,” Slade told her, cupping her face again. “Then you'll still have the gun, won't you?” He kissed her, hard and quick, before she could speak. “Stay put, Jess. I'll be back.”

He rose nonchalantly, still looking down at her. Jessica counted ten long, silent seconds. Everything in her system seemed to be on slow motion. Her brain, her heart, her lungs. If she breathed at all, she was unaware of it. She lay in a vacuum of fear. Slade grinned at her, a flash of reassurance that didn't reach his eyes. Numbly she wondered if the smile was for her benefit or for the man in the grove.

“No matter what, you stay where you are.” With this he turned away from her and strolled easily to the beach steps. He hooked his thumbs lazily in his pockets as if every muscle in his body wasn't tensed, waiting. A thin stream of sweat rolled down his back.

A hell of a bodyguard you'd make dead.
Jessica's words played back to him as he forced himself to take the steps slowly. He knew how close that one silent bullet had come. He was taking a chance coming out in the open, not only with himself, but with Jessica.

Calculated risk, Slade reminded himself. Sometimes you played the odds. He counted the steps off. Five, six, seven . . . . It wasn't likely the gunman had the rifle trained on him now. He'd be waiting for Jessica to make a move from behind the clump of rocks. Ten, eleven, twelve . . . . Did she listen this time? he thought with a quick flash of panic. Don't look back. For God's sake don't look back. There was only one way left to keep her safe.

The moment he reached the top, Slade drew out his gun and dashed for the trees.

The carpet of dried leaves would betray him. Slade counted it a mixed blessing. It would distract the man's mind from Jessica. He took a zigzagging pattern toward the place where he had spotted the flutter of white. Just as he dashed behind an oak, he heard the dull thud. Dispassionately he saw splinters of bark fly out, inches from his shoulder.

Close, he thought. Very close. But his brain was cool now. The man would know he'd botched the contract. Just as he'd know, if Slade's luck ran out, that the police were involved. Slade's gun and his shield would tell the pro all he needed to know.

Patiently, Slade waited. Five eternal minutes became ten. The sweat was drying cold on his back. Neither man could move soundlessly, so neither moved at all, one laying seige to the other. A bird, frightened off by Slade's mad rush into the grove, came back to settle on a limb and sing joyfully. A squirrel hunted acorns not ten feet away from where he stood. Slade didn't think at all, but waited. The storm-brewing clouds closed in, completely blocking out the sun. Now the grove was cold and gloomy. Wind whipped through his loose shirt.

There was a muffled sneeze and a rustle of leaves. Instantly Slade sprang out toward the sound, hitting the ground and rolling when he caught a quick glimpse of the man and the rifle. Prone, he fired three times.

 

Jessica lay numbed by a fear icier than the wind off the Sound. That was all she could hear—the wind and the water. Once she had loved the sound of it, the howling wind, the passionate crash of water against rock. Staring up at the sky, she watched the clouds boil. With one hand she clutched Slade's discarded jacket. The leather was smooth and cold, but she could just smell him. She concentrated on that. If she could smell him, he was alive. If she willed it hard enough for long enough, he'd stay alive.

Too long!
her mind shouted. It's been too long! Her fingers tightened on the leather. He'd said he'd be back. She was going to believe that. With her fingertips, she touched her lips
and found them cold. The warmth he'd left there had long since faded.

I should have told him I love him, she thought desperately. I should have told him before he left. What if . . . No, she wouldn't let herself think it. He was coming back. Painfully, she shifted enough so that she could watch the beach steps.

She heard the three rapid shots and froze. The pain in her chest snapped her out of it. Her lungs were screaming for air. Dimly, Jessica ordered herself to breathe before she scrambled up and ran. Fear made her clumsy. Twice she stumbled on her way up the steps, only to haul herself up and force more speed into her legs. She broke into the grove, skidding on cracked leaves and branches.

Slade sprang around the moment he heard her. He was quick, but not quick enough to prevent her from seeing what he'd been determined she wouldn't see. Jessica stopped her headlong rush into his arms, relief turning to shock and shock to trembling.

Cursing, he stepped in front of her, blocking her view. “Don't you ever listen?” he demanded, then pulled her into his arms.

“Is he . . . did you . . .” Unable to finish, she shut her eyes. She wouldn't be sick, she ordered herself. She wouldn't faint. One of his shirt buttons ground into her cheek and she concentrated on the pain. “You're not hurt?”

“No,” he said shortly. This aspect of his life should never have touched her, he berated himself. He should have seen to it. “Why didn't you stay on the beach?”

“I heard the shots. I thought he'd killed you.”

“Then you'd have done us both a lot of good rushing in here.” He pulled her away, took one look at her face, and yanked her back into his arms. “It's all right now.”

For the first time his tone was gentle, loving. It broke her down as his shouting and anger would never have done. She began to weep in raw, harsh sobs, the fingers of one hand digging into his shirt, the fingers of the other still holding his jacket.

Without a word he led her to the edge of the grove. He sat on the grass, then drew her down into his lap and let her cry
it out. Not knowing what else to do, he rocked, stroked, and murmured.

“I'm sorry,” she managed, still weeping. “I can't stop.”

“Get it all out, Jess.” His lips brushed her hot temple. “You don't have to be strong this time.”

Burying her face against his chest, she let the tears come until she was empty. Even when she quieted, he stroked the hair from her damp face, rocking her with a gentle rhythm. The need to protect had long since stopped being professional. If he could have found the way, Slade would have blocked the morning from her mind—taken her away somewhere, someplace where no ugliness could touch her.

“I couldn't stay on the beach when I heard the shots.”

“No.” He kissed her hair. “I suppose not.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“Ssh.” He took her lips this time with a tenderness neither of them had known he possessed. “You should have more faith in the good guys.”

She wanted to smile for him but threw her arms around his neck instead. The contact was another reassurance that he was whole and safe. “Oh, Slade. I'm not sure I could live through something like that again.
Why?
Why would anyone want to kill me? It just doesn't make sense.”

He drew her away so that their eyes met. Hers were red and swollen from weeping, his cool and direct. “Maybe you know something and don't even realize it. The pressure's on, and whoever's in charge of this business is smart enough to know it. You've become a liability.”

“But I don't
know
anything!” she insisted, pressing the heels of her hands to her temples. “Someone wants to kill me and I don't even know who it is or why. You said that . . . that man was a professional. Someone paid him to kill me.”

“Let's go inside.” He pulled her to her feet, but she jerked away. The helpless weeping was over and the strength was back, though it had the dangerous edge of hysteria.

“How much was I worth?” she demanded.

“That's enough, Jess.” He took her by the shoulders for one quick shake. “Enough. You're going to go in and pack a bag. I'll take you to New York.”

“I'm not going anywhere.”

“The hell you aren't,” he muttered as he started to pull her toward the house.

Jessica yanked out of his grip for the second time. “You listen to me. It's
my
life, my shop, my friends. I'm staying right here until it's over. I'll do what you tell me to a point, Slade, but I won't run.”

He measured her slowly. “I've got to call this business in. You're to go straight to your room and wait for me.”

She nodded, not trusting his easy acceptance. “All right.” He nodded, not trusting hers.

 

The moment she stepped into her room, Jessica began to peel off her clothes. It was suddenly of paramount importance that she scrub off every grain of sand, every lingering trace of the time she had spent on the beach. She turned the hot water in the tub on full until the room was misted with steam. Plunging in, she gasped at the shock of the heat against her chilled skin, but took the soap and lathered again and again until she could no longer smell the scent of salt water—the scent of her own fear.

It had been a nightmare, she told herself. This was normalcy. The cool green tile on the walls, the leafy fern at the window, the ivory towels with the pale green border she had chosen herself only the month before.

A month ago, she thought, when her life had been simple. There'd been no man then coolly attempting to kill her for a fee. David had still been the brother she'd never had. Michael had been her friend, her partner. She hadn't even heard of a man named James Sladerman.

She closed her eyes, and pressed hot, damp fingers to them. No, it wasn't a nightmare. It was real. She had lain curled behind a pile of rocks while a man she barely knew—and loved—had risked his life to protect hers. It was horribly, horribly real. And she had to face it. The time was over when she could try to pass off what Slade had told her as a mistake. While she had been blindly trusting, someone she loved had deceived her, involved her. Used her.

Which one?
she asked herself. Which one could she believe it of? Would either David or Michael have stood passively by while someone arranged to have her killed? Lowering her
hands, Jessica forced herself to be calm. No, whatever else she would believe, she wouldn't believe that.

Slade thought she might know something without being aware of it. If that was true, she was no closer to the solution than she had been before. Jessica slid her body down in the tub and closed her eyes again. There was nothing for her to do but wait.

 

Anything but satisfied with his conversation with his contact, Slade put a call through directly to the commissioner.

“Sergeant, what have you got for me?”

“Someone tried to kill Jessica this morning,” he answered curtly.

For a moment there was dead silence on the wire. “Give me the details,” Dodson demanded.

Briefly, emotionlessly, Slade reported while his knuckles turned white on the receiver. “She won't leave voluntarily,” he finished. “I want her out, today. Now. I need you to officially give me the right to put her in protective custody. I can have her in New York in less than two hours.”

“I take it you've already checked in with this.”

“Your friends in the Bureau want her to stay.” This time he didn't attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “They don't want anything to interfere with the investigation at this delicate state,” he quoted, jamming a cigarette between his lips. “As long as she's willing to cooperate, they won't move her.”

“And Jessica's willing to cooperate.”

“She's a stubborn, thick-headed fool who's too busy thinking about Adams and Ryce and that precious shop of hers.”

“You've gotten to know her, I see,” the commissioner commented. “Does she trust you?”

Slade expelled a stream of smoke. “She trusts me.”

“Keep her in the house, Slade. In her room if you think it's necessary. The servants can think she's ill.”

“I want—”

“What you want isn't the issue,” Dodson cut him off curtly. “Or what I want,” he added more calmly. “If it's gone far enough that a pro was hired, she'll be safer there, with you,
than anyplace else. We've got to nail this down fast, with luck, before it's known that the contract on her is no longer operable.”

“She's nothing more than bait,” Slade said bitterly.

“Just make sure she isn't swallowed,” Dodson retorted. “You've got your orders.”

“Yeah. I've got them.” Disgusted, Slade slammed down the receiver. Looking down at his hands, he realized, frustrated, that they were as good as tied. He was up against a solid wall of refusal from Jessica right on down. The investigation, the justice of it, didn't matter to him any longer. She was all that mattered. That in itself destroyed his objectivity, and by doing so, made her vulnerable. He cared too much to think logically.

His hands curled into fists. No,
cared
wasn't the right word, he admitted slowly. He was in love with her. When or how, he didn't have the faintest idea. Maybe it had started that first day she had come tearing down the steps toward him. And it was stupid.

He scraped his hands roughly over his face. Even without the mess they were in, it was stupid. They'd been born on opposite sides of the fence, had lived their entire lives on opposite sides of the fence. He didn't have any right to love her, even less to want her to love him. She needed him now, professionally as well as emotionally. That would change when it was over.

Right now he couldn't afford to think of how he would deal with his feelings once Jessica was safe again. First he had to make certain she would be. With slow, deliberate force he crushed out his cigarette, then went upstairs to her.

They came into the bedroom together, Jessica from the bath, Slade from the hall. She was wrapped in one of the ivory towels with the pale green border. Her hair fell wet around her shoulders while the clean, sharp scent of soap surrounded her. Her skin was flushed and glowing from the heat of her bath.