Liberty At Last (The Liberty Series) (21 page)

“So you promised him? Didn’t you miss them?” I asked.

“Of course I did. But over time, the ache faded. The need to know how they were faded, because I knew it wasn’t possible. I love Angel, Liberty. I love him, just like you love my dad. I had to respect his wishes if I wanted to be with him.”

And live,
I thought. Angel would never have allowed her to go back alive, no matter how much he loved her. She knew too much.

“I hadn’t thought about my parents in a long time, not until you showed up,” Catherine said. “And I was curious. I wanted to know how they were and if they were okay. It surprised me,” she said, looking up at me. “I didn’t think I could feel anything about them anymore, because I’d made myself move on.”

“I still haven’t told anyone what you told me…” I said, feeling totally at a loss. She loved him, but she was also his prisoner.

“Don’t tell them,” she said, shaking her head. “Not yet. They can’t handle it, and I can’t deal with it.” She exhaled and the smoke curled around her.

“And the longer I’m gone, the more I’m worried,” she whispered.

“Worried about what?” I asked.

“Everything,” she said. “Just everything.”

I nodded at her, although I felt the immense weight of guilt sitting on my chest for keeping a secret. Keeping a secret with
her
, keeping something so important from John.
I’ll tell him when he can bear it
, I thought to myself. In my heart I still felt awful, though. I hated secrets. I would hate it if he were keeping one from me.

“I’m going into town to do some shopping,” I said. “I’m gonna get you some new clothes. And some food that you might like.”

“I want some jeans,” she said, “size 24.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

“That’s European sizing,” she said, looking at me like the hick I was. “And a tunic. Something with a pattern on it so I don’t get bored. And some
La Ciel
cream, nail polish, and lipstick — actually, since I’m seeing my mother, I need the works,” she said, perking up considerably.

She put down her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and got a pen and some paper. “I’ll just make you a list,” she said, suspiciously. “You probably haven’t heard of some of this stuff.”

She wrote and wrote and by the time I left, her mood seemed considerably lighter. She had asked for sushi and another bottle of expensive vodka as well, and I said I would get it all. Just if she would please consider seeing Ian, and not being awful to him. She said she would and even though I wanted to believe her, it didn’t matter. She was married to the head of an infamous Mexican drug cartel and even worse, she was in love with her husband. And I was the only one who knew the truth. I knew and I couldn’t tell her father, the man I loved, because I didn’t want to kick him while he was down. I knew I had to eventually, but I was afraid.

“How’d that go?” Jake asked when I came out, curiosity evident in his voice.

“Fine,” I lied, smoothly. “Fine.”

Michael was taking me into Providence. He’d just come back from dropping Sean at the airport and he sat in the drive in front of the house, the car idling, waiting for me. After I’d talked to Catherine I’d rushed back to the house to get dressed. Ian had moved all of my clothes from my old room in the barracks to our room upstairs, so I had a wardrobe, of sorts — just nothing that I’d owned in my previous life. All of that was still sitting in my apartment in Las Vegas, which John insisted he would pay for into infinity, or until we had time to go back and clean it out. This fact was another one of the line items we were going to discuss during my perfect date tomorrow. We were going to get it all straightened out because I was sick of calculating just how much money he’d spent and was spending on me, even though he just shrugged and rolled his eyes anytime I mentioned it.

“How’d it go?” John asked me as I came down the stairs, wearing a pair of jeans and a green stretchy tee-shirt he’d bought for me before we’d even met.

“Okay,” I said, holding up the long list Catherine had given me. “She seemed to get excited that I was shopping for her, so that’s at least good.” I tried to block out the rest of the conversation. I didn’t want John to see the guilt that had been coursing through me ever since.

“Take this,” John said, pressing a fancy-looking credit card into my hand. “If anyone has a question, have them call my cell.”

I looked down at it skeptically. “How many things do you want me to get her?” I asked.

“Not just her —
you
, too,” he said. “But please get Catherine everything she asked you for, and also pick up some toiletries for her, pajamas, sweats, long sleeve tee-shirts. Things she’ll be comfortable in, in the hospital,” he said, looking down. I could see in his face that it was weighing on him — his decision to have her assessed and possibly committed on Monday.

“Okay,” I said, thinking that I would hit Victoria’s Secret and pick up things for her there, and anything else I could think of that constituted “girl stuff.” Maybe that would score me some points with her, enough so that she might consider seeing Ian.

“And as for you…” he said, looking back up at me. He put his hands on my hips and pulled me to him, possessively. He flexed his fingers against me and I felt myself flush with heat and pleasure. He leaned over me and I looked up at him, lost in his sudden proximity, his smell, his strength. His thick brown hair had flopped down over his forehead and I pushed it back, smiling at him, never taking my eyes from his piercing blue ones.

“Yes?” I asked. He seemed to have forgotten he’d been speaking. He was pulling me to him, and I could feel him getting hard through his jeans. I rubbed myself up against him, unable to stop myself.
Mmmmmmm,
I thought,
maybe this shopping could wait.

But Michael was out there. I could hear the SUV idling through the screen door.

He heard it, too. He pulled back and smiled at me. “As for you,” he said, and straightened his white button-down shirt, open at the throat, “I want you to buy a dress for dinner Sunday night. I also want to you buy a whole bunch of regular clothes — jeans and shirts and pajamas and shoes — just so you have some things to wear that you’ve picked out, not just the stuff we picked up for you a few months ago. I want you to buy yourself enough clothes to last forever.”

“John, I have plenty of clothes out in Vegas —”

“And I want you to buy workout clothes,” he cut me off.

I looked up at him and scowled.

“You’re not getting out of it,” he said, and traced my lips with his finger. “You need a bunch of stuff — a couple of pairs of
everything
, including sneakers. If you see something you like, buy five of them. You’re gonna go through them pretty fast. You need clothes for cross-training. Running and yoga and marital arts.”

“Martial
arts
?” I asked him. “As in, breaking a piece of wood with my bare hands? Are you freaking
kidding
me?”

“Nope,” he said, “but you’re right to wish I was. It’s intense training.”

A whine escaped my throat. He shot me a look and I ceased, immediately. “You need to buy clothes for all of it. We’ll deal with the things you need for South America right before we travel. I’m hoping you’ll have gained some weight by then.” He flexed his fingers against my hips again and even though I was mad at him, my body lit up on fire.
Stupid body
, I thought.
You won’t be so hot for him next week, when you can barely walk or lift your arms after you’ve trained all day.

“If you want me to gain weight, why don’t you just let me sit around and eat? Instead of running and doing downward dogs and karate-chopping things?” I asked. I could gain weight, no problem. Just give me a bunch of macaroni and cheese and a couch.
Duh.

“You need to gain muscle, Liberty. I’m not backing down on this — that is, of course, unless you’ve changed your mind about going,” he said, and smiled down at me.

I glared at him. “I’m not changing my mind. You can make me run until I throw up,” —
and you probably will,
I thought — “but I’m going with you to South America, and anywhere else that’s dangerous you might want to go.”

“Great,” he said.

“Great,” I said. We looked at each other, neither one budging an inch.

I turned to go and he slapped me playfully on the ass. “Don’t forget the tiny dress. And the sporting goods store,” he called.

I looked back over my shoulder at him and couldn’t help myself — I smiled. “What’re you going to do?” I asked.

“Work out with the guys who’re here this weekend. Sit down with Ian to go over the books. Design our workout schedule for the next month. Wait for you — you know, the usual.”

“I love you,” I called.

“I love you too, babe,” he said as the screen door closed behind me.

Michael was the oldest of John’s employees, maybe fifty. He was a physician, so he handled any and all of the guy’s medical issues, as well as those of the occasional prisoner. He’d served with John, and after he’d retired he came right to work with him. He also handled a lot of the management of the company — ordering, planning menus, hiring staff. Every night at six o’clock, he had a margarita. You could set your watch to it.

“Where to?” he asked, smiling at me.

“Wherever John told you,” I said, and laughed. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“You’re a woman — you’ll figure it out,” he said, not unkindly. “But John said
Neiman Marcus
first.”

I wished I had telepathy so I could beam an image of
Neiman Marcus
to Catherine, so maybe she’d smile. “He’s the boss,” I said.

The salespeople were extremely helpful, even before they saw John’s fancy credit card, which was swiped many, many times. They found everything on Catherine’s list. This included the print tunic she’d requested, which was over six hundred dollars. My jaw dropped when I looked at the price tag. I asked Michael for his phone so I could text John.

“$600 for a shirt? For Catherine?” I wrote.

“Sounds good,” he texted back. “<3 — BTW, that’s a ball sack!”

I shook my head and just handed the phone back to Michael. He looked down at the phone. “He says not to forget the stuff you need for yourself,” Michael called, as I headed off towards the desk to pay for the ridiculously expensive shirt and several pairs of $400 jeans that she’d also asked for. Not to mention the $400
La Ciel
face cream.

“Now, what else can I help you with?” asked the sales clerk. He had shiny black hair with side-swept bangs and the coolest indigo-framed glasses I’d ever seen. He was wearing some sort of velvety blazer and skinny trousers. I would have felt very frumpy in my plain green tee-shirt had he not been so down to earth and kind.

“I need a dress,” I said, frowning at him.

“What kind of dress?” he asked, frowning back at me. “Who frowns about buying a dress?” he asked.

“Me,” I said. I sighed. “I need a tiny one. For dinner,” I said, and followed him off through the racks.

“Boyfriend’s orders?” he asked.