The Confession (4 page)

“Not yet,” said Mike. “Alec said that he's been chartering one of his private jets out to old oil company clients for money. It's a plane he gifted his wife years ago, so she's the one getting paid.”

“And in turn paying his legal bills.”

“Right,” said Mike. “She needs him to win so she doesn't get screwed when she divorces him.”

Frankly, I was surprised Maxim's wife, whoever she was, hadn't already kicked him to the curb.

“Wish I had some friends who would rent
my
private plane for a little spending money,” said Amy.

“Can Chloe come over?” Paisley asked. She'd been quiet until now, and I'd almost forgotten she was here. I looked at her, big round eyes pointed up at Mike, and I remembered why Alec and I were apart.

I would never hurt her. And I would never hurt Amy.

I stood, and turned to my best friend. “Tomorrow night's the fund-raiser. I'll pick you up at six?”

“Tomorrow? No.” She shook her head. “Tomorrow's Friday.”

“Right.” My stomach was starting to pitch. I needed to go outside, get some air.

She looked at Mike. “Tomorrow night's the girls' play at school. Shit.
Shoot
,” she corrected. “I thought . . . I honestly thought it was Saturday.” She raced to the refrigerator and snatched the invitation I'd given her.

“No,” she said. “No, no, no. I have an amazing dress.”

“Let's hear about it,” said Mike.

She turned bright red from her scalp down.

“It's all right,” I said. Air. Anytime now. I went for my purse, leaving my dinner barely touched on the kitchen table.

“Come to the play,” said Mike. “Ditch the fund-raiser. Hang out with us. Amy's going to wear an amazing dress.”

“Can't,” I told him. “I already told my client I'd be there. They're bringing out all the kids the program has helped to give puppy dog eyes to the rich donors.”

Mike snorted. “You shouldn't go by yourself.”

I snatched my purse, my chest constricting more by the second. “I'll bring my dad. Thanks for dinner, Amy.”

“Let me walk you . . .”

“See you tomorrow,” I told Amy, cutting Mike off.

With that, I was out the door, swallowing huge gasps of humid night air as I jogged down the steps.

Yeah, I was fine talking about Alec. Totally and completely fine.

I
'd already gotten three texts from Amy asking if I was all right by the time I got back to my apartment. I stood in the threshold and texted that I was fine, and good luck with Mike, hoping that she saw my sudden exit as a setup and not a meltdown.

My place was small, and still sparsely decorated. I hadn't bothered to put much up on the walls, and the boxes Alec had sent over from his place were still full, shoved into the corner of my bedroom.

Not much point in unpacking if I was just going to repack in a few weeks anyway. I didn't know where I was going yet, but something would come to me. It always did. The only difference now was that the idea of moving was exhausting, where before it had always calmed me down.

It was probably a sign I'd stayed here too long.

A groaning came from the little couch against the wall, and I stepped into the living room to face my father, lying flat on his back, his socked feet dangling over the couch arm. He had a wet towel over his eyes, and a panting Great Dane under one hand on the floor.

“You all right?” I asked.

“I'm sick as a dog,” he said. “No offense, Mug.”

Mug lifted his big black head, as if just noticing for the first time that I was there, and then lay back down with a heavy sigh.

“You should have called me,” I said. “I thought you were on some big stakeout tonight.”

“Taking pictures of men cheating on their wives doesn't exactly qualify as
big stakeout
material.”

“So says the hotshot detective.” I reached for the washcloth on this face, and, finding it warm, went to rinse it out in the kitchen sink.

“Retired detective,” he corrected. Slowly he sat up, and began to cough. I went stone still, hating the sound of it. My dad was quite literally my hero—he'd saved me after my birth mother had overdosed—and ever since my
real
mom had died of cancer, I'd become more and more aware of his mortality.

He was a thorn in my side sometimes, but he was steady, and I didn't know what I'd do without him.

I filled up a glass of water, and brought both that and the washcloth back to him. Then I kneeled on the floor and began to unroll the air mattress he meticulously put away each morning to leave some walking space in this closet-sized living room.

“I've been thinking about getting a place here,” he said, after blowing his nose and throwing the tissue into a very full trash can beside him. “Maybe close by. Give you a little bit of space.”

I pictured him renting an apartment right next door to mine. I was sure that's what he had in mind.

“Who says I'm staying here?” I asked, without looking up. He grunted a response. “You can stay in my living room as long as you like.”

“How's Amy?” he asked.

“How do you know I wasn't out on a date?”

He smirked. “Hotshot detective, remember?”

“Retired, I thought.”

Another storm of coughing took him, and I winced.

“Dying,” he said. “This is what a dying man looks like, Anna.” He sniffled, and then groaned.

“Want to go to urgent care?”

He scoffed at this. “Men don't go to the doctor for colds. Men beat their chests and whine for their daughters to make them chicken noodle soup.”

I plugged in the mattress, and once it started filling, rose to fill his request.

“Men are such babies when they're sick,” I said, hoping I didn't sound worried. He rarely got colds. He was the strong one in our family. I sometimes wondered if he'd even tell me if he ever did get really sick. He'd probably just ride off into the sunset like in the old cowboy movies. He'd probably saddle up Mug. The dog was big enough.

“Your mom used to say that,” he said. I stared at the pantry, missing the chicken soup that was right in front of my face for a good thirty seconds.

“She told me it was a good thing she'd gotten the cancer. If it had been me, everyone would have abandoned me on the roadside because they'd get so sick of my bellyaching.”

“She had a point,” I said.

“Your mom was the tough one,” he said. “She was always strong. Even in the end.”

I blinked back the tears that had sprung up. I hated that she was gone. I missed her—how gentle she'd been, how she'd never once tried to pretend she was my birth mother, but proved she was my
real
mother by being a million times better in every way. But mostly I hated that she'd left my dad. He got on fine without her, but a piece of him was missing. He'd never be the same.

He'd never
want
to be the same.

Maybe it was shallow since Alec and I had had such limited time together, but I understood that now.

My dad's cell phone rang, and I picked it up. The caller ID said
UNAVAILABLE.

“Want me to answer?” I asked.

“No, I got it.” He motioned for the phone, and I tossed it to him.

“This is Ben,” he said, voice nasally. “Yep. She's here. She's . . .” I stuck my head around the corner. Was he talking to Amy? Mike? Unbelievable. Was my text not good enough?

Just let us
, Amy had said. I pulled out a soup pot, not bothering to keep quiet as I banged it against the stove. A friend in therapy after an abduction, a kid who witnessed her father abusing her mother, a dad out sick on my couch, and who were they all worried about? Me.

“She's doing well,” I heard my dad say.

“Who is that?” I tried not to sound snappy but wasn't very effective.

Terry
, he mouthed.

Oh. Terry Benitez. His friend on the Tampa Police Force. I'd been being paranoid. Stupid. Not everything was about me.

When my dad was settled, I retreated to my bedroom and kicked off my shoes. Still dressed, I lay down and stared up at the ceiling.

Mike's voice echoed in my head.
He's taking a beating. Max Stein's attorneys are tearing him up.

Maybe I'd been going about this wrong. Alec had been in touch with Amy, so it wasn't like I was betraying her if I just checked in and offered my support.

I just wanted to tell him not to give up. He was doing the right thing.

Before I could think it through, I snatched my phone out of my bag and flipped to his number, still programmed as my first speed dial. It went straight to voice mail. It wasn't even his voice, just a recorded message. I turned off my phone, and with shaking hands flung it across the bed.

Weak.

Talking about my mom, hearing that Alec was hurting, even hearing that he'd tried to help Amy, it had all screwed with my head. I'd made a decision, now I had to live with it.

*   *   *

I slept in one-hour bursts, woken by the usual nightmares and my dad's coughing in the other room, and when the sun finally rose I was already dressed and ready for the day. Work went by uneventfully, apart from Amy asking me forty-seven times who I was bringing to the CASA fund-raiser, and five o'clock found me in her chair, getting my hair flatironed into a soft wave that kept swinging in front of my eyes every time I turned my head. It was annoying, but Amy called it mysterious, which of course was a perfect look for an event that supported foster care.

I'd started dreading the evening. It might have been all right with Amy, but without her dressing up, going out, smiling, and
pretending
 . . . it all seemed like an excruciating amount of work. If I hadn't told Jacob I'd be there, I would have ditched.

Amy finally ducked out to go to the girls' play. I promised I'd follow her out, and was just about to get my stuff when I heard male voices in the break room.

I stuck my head inside the small kitchenette, lined on one wall with lockers, and grinned at the two men sitting at the metal table.

“Your hair's really long,” said Marcos, crossing his arms over his white V-neck T-shirt disapprovingly. He'd let his dark hair grow out a little himself in the last couple of months. No more military buzz. No more polo shirts either. I couldn't help but think the second man at the table had something to do with that.

“She looks hot.” Derrick, Rave's owner, was wearing a yellow tank top with black leather pants today. With his thick eyeliner and pouty lips, he looked like a runway model.

I pushed the smooth strands of hair back over my shoulder. “It just looks longer because it's straight.” My hair was naturally wavy. Flat-ironing it had given it another three inches in length.

Marcos looked unconvinced. “You work at a barber's. You could get it cut, you know.”

Derrick's eyes narrowed to slits. “A
barber
?
Excuse me?
”

“Whoops,” I said. Marcos's comment didn't bother me. He'd practically been my big brother from the day he'd been assigned as my bodyguard. Saving my ass at the bridge had only served to solidify the role.

While Derrick educated Marcos on the difference between a barbershop and a salon, I grabbed my stuff.

“So, who's the lucky guy?” asked Derrick.

“What guy?” said Marcos.

Derrick laughed, and patted his cheek, which immediately had him blushing all the way to the tips of his ears.

“You're cute,” said Derrick. “A girl doesn't get her hair done
that
nice unless she wants a man to mess it up.”

“Wait . . .” Marcos was frowning. “You didn't tell me you were seeing someone.”

“I'm
not
,” I said, exasperated. “Not that I feel the need to run every little thing by you.”

“Then where are you going?” pressed Marcos. He did look handsome in his wrinkle-free white shirt, even with his serious mouth and thick eyebrows. They were sort of his trademark.

“A fund-raiser,” I said. “For CASA. Hey, what are you guys doing tonight?”

“Believe it or not, I own a business,” said Derrick. “Which I probably should be getting back to.”

I looked at Marcos. “Want to come to a fancy schmancy fund-raiser? It's formal.” I might as well have told him they'd be serving rotten fish.

He glanced at Derrick, who smirked back at him. Wow. They were already to the silent-ask-for-permission phase.

“I'm not dancing,” said Marcos.

“I wouldn't let you even if you wanted to,” I told him.

“Then yes,” he said. “What time? I'll pick you up.”

“Pick me up in an hour,” I said. We were all standing now, and though Derrick had already announced his exit, he had yet to leave.

Marcos glanced between us, and then shifted his weight to the other foot.

“Are you waiting to kiss good-bye until I leave?” I asked. “That's adorable.”

Marcos cleared his throat. “We weren't . . .”

“Yes, we were.” With that, Derrick grabbed his boyfriend's face between his well-manicured hands, and kissed him right on the lips. Marcos, still uncomfortable with the whole
out
thing, made a sound like he was dying.

And then started to melt.

I turned, just as his eyes drifted closed and his hands came beneath Derrick's elbows. It was too intimate to watch, and even if I was a little jealous he had someone to sweep him off his feet, I was genuinely happy for him.

“An hour,” I called, as I cruised to the door.

“T
here's a handsome cop at the door to see you.” My dad stuck his head into the bathroom where I was just finishing my makeup. His nose was red from the cold, and he'd succumbed to wearing his giant glasses rather than his contacts. “You can see how I'd find this surprising, given our lengthy discussions about dating cops.”

I blinked, checking my mascara for lumps. My dad had two rules when it came to dating: one, Don't date, and two, Don't date cops.

“We discussed it when I was seventeen, Dad. Anyway, that's Marcos. He's the one Terry assigned to my protective detail before . . .” Everything fell apart. “I thought you'd met him.”

He made an unconvinced noise. “I would have remembered.”

“He's just a friend,” I said. “He's dating a friend of mine.”

“Oh.” Dad's face lifted. “Well, that's good news.”

I followed him out to the living room where Marcos was waiting, looking somehow more comfortable in his formal police blues than in jeans and a T-shirt. A cop, through and through. It occurred to me I should have told him he could have just worn a suit, but I doubted he had one.

“You look nice,” I said.

He was staring at me with a scowl on his face. “Don't you need a sweater or something?”

The dress I'd chosen wasn't as sexy as you might have believed based on the concern in both men's eyes. It was black satin, with ruching along one side of the waist, and a hemline just below my ankles. Though my shoulders were bare, the neckline was modest, and the back was only open over my shoulders.

The material was thin enough that I couldn't wear panties, but I wasn't about to tell them that.

My dad slapped Marcos on the shoulder. “I'm liking you more by the second, kid.” Marcos managed a smile, just before my dad followed with, “I think it goes without saying that if you touch her, I'll kill you.”

“Don't worry,” Marcos mumbled.

“Dad.”
I reached for my clutch, and kissed him on the cheek.

If I'd known how the night would end, I would have told him I loved him, too.

*   *   *

The fund-raiser was held at the Savoy Hotel downtown. Marcos had brought his cop car, which wasn't exactly easy to squeeze into wearing a fancy dress. The monitors and radio stuck out over the passenger seat, leaving me pressed against the door with a side view of the customary pump shotgun above my head.

“My dad used to drop me off at the mall in his patrol car when I was in high school,” I told him while we parked.

“Bet your friends thought it was cool,” he said.

I groaned. “Amy called it the
birth-control mobile
.”

Marcos smirked. It occurred to me that he had brought this car for the same reason.

When we got to the second floor where the event was being held, I gave the doorman our tickets, and we stepped into a bustling ballroom lined with enormous, half-draped windows overlooking the Bay. Men in suits and women in dresses that put mine to shame loitered in groups, taking appetizers from the waiters that passed by with trays. Along the walls on either side of the entrance were bulletin boards with blown-up quotes and testimonials from children and families who'd benefitted from the program.

“Wow,” said Marcos. “How much do they pay you again?”

I slapped him on the arm. He knew the day-to-day dealings of CASA were far less glamorous.

A woman I recognized from the courthouse smiled at me, and unconsciously I fiddled with the straps of my dress. Her white chiffon gown could have easily made a red carpet appearance at the Oscars.

Marcos glanced at me. “Stop it,” he said. “You look fine.”

“Fine,” I repeated. I never felt just fine when I was with Alec. I felt hot. Scorching. I felt like the most beautiful woman who had ever walked the face of the earth.

Marcos stilled my hand and gave it a squeeze. I looked up at him, seeing a sad sort of kindness in his eyes.

“You look really pretty.”

“Thanks,” I said quietly. I don't know why it hit me right then, but I nearly told him I was going to be leaving soon. I hadn't told Amy, or work, or even my dad really, but something about the moment made me feel like I ought to confess that secret, just so he'd know not to invest too much in our friendship.

I think he thought I was regretting my decision to come, because he said, “Can we eat first, or do we need to find your kid?”

I focused on Jacob. That was why I was here. To support Jacob. To support this important program. I would talk to Marcos later about things. When I had a plan.

“Let's meander,” I said.

It was actually kind of fun cruising around with Marcos. We tried strange, fancy hors d'oeuvres and champagne. We made fun of the donors who were clearly afraid of the children that ran between them. We listened to the welcome speech by the president of the local CASA chapter, and clapped for the kids who had graduated from the program. Jacob found me after a little while. He'd already lost his tie, and his shirt was untucked. He gave me a card he'd made with his foster mom. It made me cry.

While we were talking, Marcos had gone to say hello to some cop friends he recognized, and when Jacob bounded off to play with his friends, I found myself alone.

My champagne glass was empty, but I clung to it anyway, needing something to hold in my hands as I stared absently at the posted testimonials. The old familiar feeling was creeping back over me again. I was an advocate, a welcomed guest at this event, and yet the sense of belonging was somehow overwhelmingly uncomfortable. Jacob was okay now. He didn't need me. If I stuck around too much longer I would become a burden to Marcos.

Amy and Paisley . . . well . . . I think we could all safely say that their lives would be a lot less
exciting
without me in it.

I didn't like thinking this way. I hated it. It made me feel small. The way my birth mother had made me feel—like I wasn't important, even with the proof otherwise all around me.

A new place would change my perspective. Open up new opportunities. I just needed a fresh outlook on life. Somewhere with a lot less drama. Somewhere with a lot less Alec.

“Anna.”

I fumbled with the glass as it slipped from my fingers. When I'd caught it, I held it so tightly I thought it might break.

He was right there in front of me as if he'd never been gone. Dark, wavy hair that curled at his collar. A small scar over the bridge of his nose. That piercing blue gaze that reached straight into my soul and ripped it to pieces.

He was wearing a black suit with a baby blue silk tie, and my eyes locked on the knot because it was the same one we'd used in the bedroom one night when he'd bound us together.

My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe. He was gorgeous and he was perfect and he was tired—I could see the stress weighing him down like a physical thing. I wanted to hold him. I wanted him to hold me. I wanted to kiss him and fan my fingers over his broad chest and scream,
What took you so
long?

The memories shook through me, one after another. The first time he'd kissed me. His hand between my thighs in his Jeep. The tight feel of his grip on my waist when he pulled me down over him. The look on his face the night we'd said good-bye.

“Alec,” I whispered.

As his gaze lowered down my face to my mouth, I became aware of how dry my lips were and licked them. His jaw flexed and his eyes roamed again. My throat. My bare shoulders. My fingers, white with their grip on the empty glass. Every part of me came alive under his stare. My blood felt like fire coursing through my veins. My skin, so sensitive I could feel the air from the vents brush across it and raise goose bumps. I felt so alive in that moment I wondered if I'd been dead before, because nothing felt as real as I did when I was with him.

Clapping came from around the stage behind us, reminding me of our surroundings—reminding me that this was a fund-raiser dinner for court-appointed advocates and that Alec shouldn't have been here. I blinked, trying to decipher if he was real, or if I'd just imagined him again. I hadn't had a lot to drink lately; maybe the champagne had pushed me right over the edge into psychosis.

I couldn't decide if I was more relieved or disappointed at the prospect of him being a hallucination.

Test: “What are you doing here?”

His gaze shot back up to mine, giving my pulse a jolt. It was too intense, too exposing, and I looked down at my glass. My hair swung over the side of my face, and in those seconds I was grateful for Amy's flatiron work, because I was in serious need of a curtain to hide behind.

But then he had to go and touch me.

I was unable to move as I watched his hand move toward my face. His warm fingertips brushed my cheek, eliciting the tiniest of gasps that made him pause. Slowly, the back of his hand slid down the edge of my hair before tucking it over my shoulder.

As if he'd done something wrong, he scowled, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“How are you?” That voice. Low and smooth, falling over my whole body like this satin dress.

“I . . .” I'd asked him something first, hadn't I? I couldn't remember what. “I'm great.” Could he hear the lie? I couldn't tell. “What about you? How's your chest?”

I placed my hand on my own side, in the place where he'd been stabbed. But the flashes that returned from that night weren't of a man with a knife. They were of a lap dance. Red lingerie. My hips grinding against his.

“What? Oh.” He shook his head. “Fine.”

My thoughts shifted to his back, and the scar that would forever serve as a reminder of when he'd been jumped in prison. How many times had Alec's life been endangered because of Maxim Stein?

“And everything else? Work? Parole?”
Smooth, Anna.

One of his brows lifted. “I had to stop work. With the trial it got . . . complicated. And parole's done. I finished last month.”

I smiled. “I don't know why I said that. Nervous, I guess.”

I closed my eyes tightly. He chuckled, and the velvety sound loosened every one of my muscles.

“Alec, there you are.” A woman came up from behind him holding a champagne flute in one hand. She looked stunning in her short red dress with her auburn hair swept up in a twist on the back of her head, and it took me a moment to place her.

“Anna Rossi,” she said, as if we hadn't seen each other in years. “I was wondering if you'd be here.”

Something in her voice told me she wasn't thrilled.

“Janelle,” I said, tensing. “I'm still a volunteer. Is everything all right?” I glanced back to Alec. “I didn't know you were planning on coming.”

She wiped at the lipstick on her glass with her thumb. I tried to remember her in one of her suits with a gun in her holster, but couldn't. All I saw was full makeup, dangly earrings, and the way Alec stiffened as her shoulder brushed against his arm.

“Before the FBI I worked for the state police busting child abusers,” she said. “CASA's always been an important program to me.”

“You're a donor,” I realized.

“You make it sound like I'm giving a kidney or something.” She laughed. Sipped her drink. “I just write a check.”

“Well.” Something was wrong here. Very, very wrong. “Thank you.”

Alec was scowling. I wanted to reach up and rub the lines between his brows away with my thumbs. Once, I would have done so without thinking, but things were different now.

“You look good,” I said to Alec. Wow. Nice move. I turned quickly to Janelle. “I mean, you both do. Like . . . movie stars. Or something.”

What the living fuck.

“Aww,” said Janelle. “That's sweet. I wasn't sure how this would go, but Alec insisted it would be all right. I should have trusted him.”

“This?” I asked, right as she slipped her arm into the crook of Alec's elbow.

My lips parted, but I immediately shut them. I was an idiot. I was the world's biggest fool. What did I think he was doing here? What had I thought when I'd seen them together? That he was just a friend, like Marcos was to me?

I felt ill. My head was starting to pound, right at the base of my skull.

“That was fast,” I muttered.

I straightened and looked him in the eye, wishing I could see past the wall he'd thrown up.

“It was nice seeing you,” I said. “Excuse me.”

My ankles wobbled on my high heels as I turned and walked faster and faster through the crowd of people toward the nearest door. I'd hoped for the exit, hell even a bathroom, but I found myself in the kitchen.

“Can I help you?” a woman in a black tuxedo asked me as I rushed past. I didn't stop, I kept moving until I'd reached a quiet corner, surrounded by metal racks, and sunk down against the cold metal wall of the refrigerator.

Alec and Janelle were dating. They were here as a couple. She'd always had a soft spot for him—even at the safe house when she was angry with him, I could see it. I wondered how long they'd been together. If he kissed her the same way he kissed me. If she fell to pieces in his arms when they fucked.

I wondered if he loved her.

I pushed down on my stomach, trying to stop it from twisting.

Two and a half months ago he'd been mine.
Mine.
And I'd let him go. Of course he had moved on. He needed someone who understood the pressures of the trial, who wasn't afraid of his dark side. He was too gorgeous and too sexy to be alone. I wondered how long after I'd left it had been before Janelle had swept in. Maybe she'd been there to comfort him after we'd broken up. Hell, he'd been working with her while he was still in prison. Maybe he'd wanted her the whole time.

It wasn't until now that I realized I'd been holding out hope that we might someday find each other again.