Love Gone Mad (7 page)

“Marlee, this is Dr. Adrian,” Megan says.

Marlee’s hand goes to her mouth and she looks at Megan and then glances at Adrian. Her lips spread into a smile.

“You can call me Adrian,” he says, hearing a smile in his own voice.

She turns to him, takes a tentative step forward, and says, “Are you and my mom going somewhere?”

“Yes we are, honey,” Megan says. “We’re going out for dinner. And Alice’ll take you to Erin’s house.”

Megan introduces him to Alice, a ponytailed young woman wearing jeans and a UConn sweatshirt.

Marlee cups her mouth and pulls her mother’s arm. Megan bends down while Marlee whispers in her ear, still covering her mouth. She glances at Adrian and keeps whispering for quite a while. Megan nods and smiles.

Megan straightens up and says, “We’ll be leaving now, honey. Remember, when you get to Aunt Erin’s house, don’t play rough with Sampson. He’s just a puppy.”

“But he’s so cute,” Marlee says, looking at Adrian.

“So’re you,” Adrian says, grinning. “You’re as cute as any puppy.”

“I’m not a puppy,” Marlee says, laughing. “I’m a
kid
.”

“Well, you’re a cute kid,” he says, realizing he’s never felt so drawn to a child.

Giggling, Marlee hides behind Megan and then peeks at Adrian from behind her mother. As he and Megan head for the door, Marlee waves and smiles.

In the car, Adrian says, “She’s adorable.”

“She’ll
charm
you.”

“What’d she whisper to you?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Megan says with a sly smile, fumbling with the seat belt.

“Of course I would.”

Laughing, Megan says, “She thinks you’re very handsome. And so do I.” She leans toward him. Their lips meet in a long and deep kiss.

T
he Nathan Hale Tavern, with its roaring fireplace, chestnut beams, and colonial wall sconces, has a delightful autumnal ambience—cozy, old-fashioned, and very New England. Their table is near the fireplace, and Megan’s hair—lustrous in the firelight—is parted down the middle with a milkmaid braid dangling over her right shoulder. The flickering fire highlights her features—especially her cheekbones—as they dine on hearty American fare accompanied by a California burgundy. Food never tasted so good, Adrian thinks. Nor has he ever been as exquisitely aware of a woman’s beauty as he is now in this tavern.

They talk about their friends and their families.

“It’s obvious that you and Erin are very close.”

“As close as sisters can be.”

“It’s good to have family,” Adrian says, thinking of his widowed mother living alone in Florida. And he wonders how it would have been to have a brother or sister, a blood connection, some enduring tie lasting a lifetime.

As they talk, Megan’s hand slides across the table. He reaches for it. The fire’s warmth and her hand stir him; she responds with a gentle squeeze. “Actually, part of why Erin and I are so close is we had only each other after Mom and Dad died. We were two adopted kids with no one else.” She looks intently into his eyes. “Being adopted always made me wonder …”

“About?”

“Who am I? Where did I come from? Why didn’t my real parents—want me?”

“Those are very basic questions.”

“Because,” she shakes her head, “I’ve always felt that Erin and I were dispensable.”

“I never thought of it that way,” he says, nearly cringing at the word:
dispensable. Discarded … disposable … like medical waste
.

“Unwanted … given away … no returns.” She smiles, but her eyes moisten.

“It must’ve been hard for you.”

“Yes. Erin’s my only living family member, aside from Marlee.”

“What a delightful kid.”

“I had very mixed feelings about you meeting her.”

“I’m sure, but maybe my meeting Marlee says something …”

“What?”

“That you think I’m worthy of it,” he hears himself say, and squeamishness slithers through him. “Okay, it’s corny, but I mean it.”

“It’s not corny. It’s true.” She looks contemplative and then says, “You know, Adrian, you’re the first man I’ve let her meet.”

Heat creeps into his face.

“Really. I decided this afternoon that I wanted you to meet Marlee.”

“That means a lot to me,” he says, knowing something is happening and realizing Megan was saying it through Marlee and now expressing it directly.

“I’m trying to wrap my head around all this because it’s …” She pauses, smiles. “What can I say? It’s complicated.”

“I know. It
is
happening fast … and it
is
complicated, but I’m comfortable with it,” he says, feeling an intense urge to have her in his arms.

The beginnings of a smile form on her lips. “Actually, you know, Marlee’s quite taken by you.”

“And I am by her,” he says, picturing that face—the reddish-blond curls framing it, her impossibly blue eyes, the smile and her whispering as she looked sidelong at him.

“And it’s much more than her just wanting some man around. I think it was
you
.” One corner of Megan’s mouth curls upward.

He watches the flickering flames throw shadow and light onto her face.

“I think she wants
you
as part of her life.”

Heat—erotic and longing warmth—spread through him. He brings her hand to his lips, kisses it, and tastes the tang of her skin. “Feeling wanted is very important,” he says. “And what about you? Do
you
want me in your life?”

In the firelight, he thinks he sees her nod.

“Because I don’t want to be dispensable …”

“You’re not,” she whispers and leans closer to him.

“You know,” he says, “wondering
who am I, where did I come from …?
”

“Yes …?” She leans even closer.

“I guess the follow-up is,
Where am I going
…?”

“Sure. We all need direction in our lives.”

“Remember that first night I came to your apartment?”

She nods.

“You said it was a month-to-month rental … until things get settled in your life.”

“Yes?”

“And you said Erin and Bob may move to Hartford …”

“Yes …”

“I wish you wouldn’t go … to Hartford, or anywhere else.” His throat tightens.

Megan’s eyes gleam. She sets her other hand on his.

“I want you to stay here in Eastport.”

She tilts her head.

“Because … you’re not dispensable …”

She plants a kiss on the back of his hand.

“Please don’t leave,” he whispers.

O
utside, they embrace and kiss; then, with his arm around her, they walk toward his car.

“Your place … or mine?” she asks.

“Wherever you’re comfortable.” A surge of excitement swells within him, and his insides quiver. But it’s more than just desire; it melds with a wish to nurture, to protect and provide for. He wonders if he’s ever felt this way before. No, he decides. Not
this
way.

“Then it’s my place,” she says. “Marlee’s with Erin and Bob.”

“Did you by chance plan this … for Marlee not to be home?”

“Why don’t you wonder about that?” she whispers.

They stop walking, turn to each other, and kiss. Their tongues slide over each other’s. She tastes of lamb, butter, burgundy, and Megan. When their lips part, they look into each other’s eyes. It’s a startling moment of intimacy. Adrian takes her hand and sets it on his chest.

“Your heart’s beating so fast,” she whispers, and she plants a kiss on his lips. They head for the car.

T
he Audi starts in an instant. A moment later, they turn onto the Post Road. She leans forward and flicks on the radio.

“You like rock?”

“Mostly the older stuff,” she says, punching in the buttons.

“How about Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin?”

“Love it. And I’m crazy about Italian opera.”

“I know squat about opera.”

“I’ll introduce you to it … tonight,” she says. “It’s very romantic.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it’s tragic, too … always tragic.”

“What else do you like?” he asks.

“I’m a movie freak.”

“What kinds?”

“Oh, drama, sci-fi, almost any kind—even horror films.”

“Horror?”

“Oh yes,” she says with a laugh. “When we were kids, Erin and I used to watch them and scare ourselves half to death. We’d lie in bed and wait for the Wolfman or Frankenstein …”

“And now, do you still like horror?”

“If there’s a rerun of
Halloween
or
A Nightmare on Elm Street
, I’ll watch it.”

Her hand rests on his thigh.

They’re cruising at thirty-five, passing a minimall with a Stop & Shop and retail stores. Far ahead, a red light turns green. He steps on the gas and the Audi cruises toward the intersection.

A shadow appears on the left. It creeps up slowly, and a moment later, it overtakes them. Adrian glances to his left—sees it out of the corner of his eye—the shadow looms larger now, dwarfs the sedan. Adrian veers right, sees it’s a pickup and it’s much too close.
Jesus! What’s wrong with that guy?
And then Adrian realizes it’s pulling ahead, veering toward them, and it’s going to pour into the Audi. It swerves suddenly, violently. There’s an explosive slamming—the raw crack of metal on metal as the Audi is hit and the steering wheel jolts in Adrian’s hand. His head slams into the side window. There’s a momentary starburst of lights as he clutches the steering wheel and fights for control.

He yanks the wheel, pumps the brake pedal, and feels the Audi swerve with a squeal as rubber shrieks on the asphalt. Everything rushes. It happens very fast. There’s no control, and the Audi hurtles off the road. He tries to pull left, but it’s too late. The Audi pitches and sways—there’s screeching, a lurching sensation, and then a blast as the front wheels hit the curb. The car bounces and the seat belt cinches Adrian’s shoulder; then there’s a downward thrust and the belt grabs his waist. His guts compress. The Audi leaps the curb, tilts upward, and careens onto a grassy area; the harness pulls at him. He’s jerked back and then forward. A blasting impact rocks him and something billows about him, blinding and smothering, and he can’t breathe. Everything stops. He fights for air and feels his lungs compress, and smoke surrounds him.

The deflating air bag hisses. The car fills with vapor; but it’s not smoke—it’s powder. Clunking comes from beneath the hood. The smell of engine oil and gasoline fills Adrian’s nostrils, and there’s a spiderweb of windshield cracks; suddenly, a section falls inward and onto them in a sheet of splintered glass. The car is angled, front wheels in the air, and there’s more noise—a strange clanking sound, a pinging—and a wave of fumes.
Don’t panic
, he tells himself.

“Megan!” he yells.

He hears a low moan from his right.

“Megan! Megan!”

Hissing comes from behind the fire wall. It’s steam and smoke mixed with the smell of gasoline. Heat percolates everywhere.

Megan is slumped in the seat, head down. There’s another moan. They’re trapped amid crumpled steel and broken glass, half-suspended, fumes wavering around them. The heat intensifies.

He unbuckles his seat belt and lunges for Megan.

T
here’s an explosion of lights—blue, red, and amber—and the wail of a siren, then another. An ambulance, squad cars, police officers, and EMS people swarm everywhere. Glass is smashed and metal creaks and groans. Megan hears shouting, and someone barks commands amid radio static; then comes the tortured squeal of metal shearing, and she sees firemen with crowbars. There’s another groaning sound as the Audi’s doors are pried open.

Megan’s wobbly and her chest aches where the seat belt wrenched her. Blood drains from her head; it’s a light-headed, bleached-out feeling, and the night turns white. A cold, prickly sensation rushes up her arms as she’s led away from the car. She hears Adrian say something, but it’s all so far away. She sits on grass—wet with evening dew—far from the car. The car’s crushed front end rests atop the remnants of a low stone wall. Its headlights cast white shafts of light into the air.

Adrian talks with police officers, describing what happened. How calm and unruffled he seems. It must come from doing surgery—life and death, a daily routine for him. But Megan feels hazy, dazed. And above all, so frightened she’s shaking.

“No,” Adrian says. “I never got the plate.”

“Did you see the driver?” asks a cop.

“No, it had darkened windows.”

Megan wonders if the cop might think Adrian was DUI and just lost control of the car. After all, his breath must smell of wine. But there’s a young man there—a buzz-cut college kid wearing a Fairfield University sweatshirt and jeans.

“Yes, Officer,” the kid says. “I was right behind them and saw the whole thing. A pickup just ran them off the road. No reason.”

“What color was it?”

“Dark, but I’m not sure because of the sodium lights,” the kid says. “It could’ve been dark blue or black. Its plates were spattered with mud.”

“Any identifying marks?”

“Not that I could see.”

“Could you make out the brand? Ford, Toyota … anything?”

“It could’ve been a Ford F-250 or maybe a Toyota Tundra, but I’m not sure.”

Cars slow to a crawl on the Post Road as people rubberneck. Cops direct traffic. Headlights pierce the night air; a stream of red taillights snakes off in the direction heading toward Fairfield; horns blare; Megan hears snippets of conversation. She nearly recoils at the smell of gasoline and smoke in the damp night air.

My God! We were run off the road by a madman
.

Megan’s shaking as she wonders why she didn’t take Ann’s advice, why she didn’t call an investigation agency—some by-the-hour PI who could run a quick check—find out where on earth Conrad is. It might take a few hours, but he could be located quickly.
God, he could be back here in Connecticut
. Was the pickup Conrad’s from years back? His was black—and this monster? She just glimpsed it. It’s three years now. Who knows if he even has that big Ford.

An EMS guy squats beside her. He looks into her eyes, scribbles something, and asks questions. God, he reeks of cologne—smells like Paco Rabanne or some other crap. Nauseating, cloying, absolutely puke-worthy. It’s worse than those gladioli. A sickeningly sweet scent seeps into her nostrils, penetrating her brain. Megan feels she could vomit.