The Promise He Made Her (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

“I
HAD
A
degree in psychology from Stanford University when I was seventeen. My master's by the time I was nineteen. And my doctorate at twenty-one.”

Bloom spoke with authority. Because when it came to her own life, she was the expert. And that was okay.

“I'm smart. Aware. And a talented right brain, as well.” She could talk about her paintings. The artwork on her office walls. She didn't. They weren't pertinent and she had a job to do. A task to get through.

“Unlike many geniuses, I was also gifted with a good bit of common sense. When I was little my mother could get me through most unwanted tasks by telling me that Baby—a rubber doll from which I was inseparable—had to go through them, too. Baby had to get a shot, so I was fine getting one. If it was nap time, Baby had to take a nap, and so I would, too...”

Audience members were looking at her, nodding. A few of them even bore little grins.

“She tells the story that when I was eighteen months old, I announced from the bathtub one morning that I wanted chocolate for breakfast. At which point she informed me that we didn't eat chocolate for breakfast. I frowned for a moment, picked up Baby—who, of course, was in the bath with me—and announced that Baby wanted chocolate for breakfast.”

Yep. Three hundred faces were upturned in her direction. Bloom just kept on doing what she was doing. Because she'd told herself to do so.

“My mother told me to tell Baby that we didn't eat chocolate for breakfast. She was one step ahead of me the whole way. Until I held my rubber doll up to her nose and pointed out that ‘Baby doesn't have any ears.'”

The entire room erupted in laughter. Bloom started to sweat. It was those bright lights.

She was successful. Capable. And in control.

But she looked to the right, anyway. To the seat at the very end of the front row. She'd arrived early specifically to put a reserved sign on that chair. Lila McDaniel didn't have a lot of time. But when Bloom had called the director of The Lemonade Stand—the unique women's shelter where she'd lived for the weeks it had taken her to come back to herself after it had been discovered that her husband had been drugging her for months—to ask for support for the Friday morning keynote session, for backup statistics and a small informational speech to her colleagues about shelter work, Lila had immediately appointed herself to attend.

As the laughter died down around them, Lila nodded. She wasn't smiling. Yet there was no doubting the warmth in her expression. And it empowered Bloom.

“Mom recovered before I was out of the tub,” she continued. The room, when she paused to take a breath, was completely silent. She was speaking to interested bodies. Not walls...

“She explained to me that if I gave Baby chocolate for breakfast I would make her sick. And I told her that she couldn't give me chocolate for breakfast because she'd feel bad if she made me sick.”

A collective sigh moved around the room. There were men there. Many of them. All with psychiatric doctoral credentials.

She glanced at Lila again. The woman just looked at her without even so much as another nod of encouragement. To anyone in the room, Lila was just another attendee. To Bloom, she was fresh air in her lungs.

“I can stand up here and fill the next two hours with my mother's tales of my greatness. I can talk about the long-distance call I made when I was five to reassure my grandmother, whose purse had just been stolen, that she would be just fine because I loved her and so did other people, so she hadn't lost what mattered. I can entertain you all day long. To a room full of psychiatrists, my childhood is fascinating stuff. But entertaining you is not my purpose here today.” Heads tilted, a few people frowned, all eyes were still on her.

It could be
, a small voice inside her said. She could wing this. Be a huge success. But this invitation—to keynote for her peers on whatever topic she chose—gave her a chance to fulfill a higher purpose.

And to grow as a person, too. To take back another piece of herself that the bastard had tried to steal from her.

“I'm a smart woman. A wise woman. And a victim of domestic violence.”

Many of them knew. Bloom's husband had been an esteemed colleague to some of them. Even if just through professional organization memberships.

Knowing and wanting to hear were two different things.

She forced herself to look out at them. To continue to connect. All but a few heads were turned away or bowed. People were suddenly interested in loose threads in their clothing. Their shoes. The carpet. A clock on the wall.

“I am also a survivor,” she said, her voice imbued with emotion. “I am strong and capable, successful and healthy. Because I was able to get out. To get help. Because I had a counselor who was educated to my specific needs, who not only knew the kinds of things I was experiencing, but who knew what would most likely come as well, who was able to prepare me to handle those things, sometimes even on my own, when they did come.

“It's been two years since my recovery, ladies and gentlemen. And I stand before you today, a fully alive, contributing woman who truly enjoys life.
My
life. I got lucky. I landed in a perfect place—The Lemonade Stand—a place you all will hear about before this session is through.

“But first, my challenge to each and every one of you is to listen. To hear what I have to say. And to look inside yourselves. To ask yourselves the tough questions. And for those of you who receive positive answers, to help. Even if you are in the field you need to be in, you can still help raise awareness of the need for counselors who specialize in intimate partner violence. And for those who don't have special training in that particular field, you can help by being willing to refer their own clients to those who do...”

Bloom was on a roll. Confident. She gave statistics. Mixed in with difficult, but potent personal anecdotes. She grabbed her scholarly audience by the throat. Figuratively.

Much like she'd once been grabbed physically.

She took them down her road with her. As a victim and also as a psychiatrist with a successful practice.

Sparing them nothing, she made them feel her pain.

And brought them to her happy ending.

Thanks to a counselor who was a specialist in treating intimate partner violence, she was no longer a victim.

She was a survivor.

And it was up to all of them—herself included—to save every other victim out there.

* * *

S
AM
'
S
HOUSE
WASN
'
T
MUCH
. The fact that it was a cottage not far from the beach was the nicest part. Inside, the floors were linoleum—old linoleum that, before his time, had likely been laid for its ability to withstand sand and water more than for its ambience.

For his current purposes, however, the house was near perfect. Set up on a cliff, on private land, with only a skinny, private, fenced path down to the beach, it was the perfect place to hide.

Or to have someone else hide.

He'd spent Saturday morning cleaning the floors, the bathroom. Changed the sheets on both beds—his own and the one in the spare room. She could use whichever one she wanted.

He'd even thrown the rug in the front room, the one Lucy thought was hers, in the wash.

Probably should have given the Irish setter a trip to the tub, too, but his five-year-old mistress preferred to take her baths in the ocean—an arrangement which benefitted his bathroom walls—and he'd run out of time to make it down there.

He'd stocked the fridge with vegetables and several salad dressings, eggs and milk. Chosen two different kinds of bread. Brought in a box of sensible cereal and a box of sugared, too. Three types of crackers, microwavable popcorn and ice cream bars. Colombian dark coffee and breakfast blend.

He'd bought a new set of towels, two kinds of body wash, extra tissues, paper towels and toilet paper.

He'd packed a bag. Found a room he could rent by the week where Lucy would be tolerated.

And if he didn't get his ass in gear, it would all be for naught.

He had a plan. Possibly not his best, but the only one that was going to work.

And just a little more than twenty-four hours to put it in motion.

A little over twenty-four hours to convince a confident, intelligent, determined woman-in-charge that she was going to have to leave her home, her life and do exactly as he said.

* * *

B
LOOM
WAS
IN
her office late Saturday morning, just a few miles from The Lemonade Stand, having finished with her last client. She had a busy day planned—shopping to do, friends to meet in LA for a coffee house concert one of the women was playing in, a run on the beach—but was taking a moment to reflect.

To breathe. And be present.

Her speech the day before—and the lunch following—had been successful beyond her hopes. Lila had names of volunteers, counselors had Lila's card and many of her peers had exchanged cards with each other—those with specific domestic violence training and those without. She'd given out contact names for members of the High Risk Team.

And she'd talked Lila in to staying for lunch, her treat. She'd seen the woman, who was in her fifties, smile more that day than she could ever remember.

And hoped it wasn't just a reflection of the success of the morning. Bloom had no idea what Lila's personal life looked like. The woman was like a phantom—at the Stand seven days a week and some nights. She had an apartment someplace close by, but didn't appear to have any family. Or friends.

Which wasn't natural. And raised Bloom's professional radar above comfort level.

If anyone deserved to be happy, it was Lila.

And she hoped she was.

Because she had a few minutes before she had to leave for the city, Bloom caught up on enough world and state news that she'd be able to contribute to conversation at dinner that night.

A headline caught her eye. Because of the name. There couldn't be too many prosecuting attorneys named Trevor Banyon in Southern California.

He'd been arrested on gun running charges. She wanted to open the article. Like a bystander wanted to get closer to a car accident. You just had to see. To know.

But she knew better. Reentering any part of Banyon's life would take her places she didn't need or want to go. She'd left her past behind. And wasn't going to let it pull her back.

The past was an unhealthy place for her. The present, which contained her hopes for the future, was the road she was consciously traveling. A road that was already giving her a happy life.

Closing the news app, she gathered her things, planning to leave straight for LA from the office. Her overnight bag was in the trunk of her six-year-old hunter green Jaguar.

A gift from Ken—Dr. Kenneth Freelander—after he'd verbally brutalized her the first time. Before he'd started drugging her to keep her in line. She loved the car, as she'd once loved him. And kept it as a reminder that lemons could always be made into lemonade. That thorns had roses.

That it was up to her what she saw when she opened her eyes in the morning.

Out of the office, door locked, she nodded at a couple of people she knew, professionals who shared her office building, as she walked down the hall. Shared the elevator with a woman and a young girl, presumably patients, as they'd pushed the button for the fourth floor, which housed all pediatric and dental specialties.

Bloom exited the elevator and then the building, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. Even in July the California coastal air wasn't smoldering with heat. But it was warm enough to be a comfort to her skin after spending several hours in air conditioning.

A man approached her on the sidewalk. She moved to one side in preparation for their eventual passing, not really noticing him any more than she noticed any of the other patients who came and went.

But she noticed enough to take a second look. Did she know him? Was he, perhaps, the husband of one of her patients? The tempo of her heart upping just a small notch, she looked more closely. If he was an ex...

Hand on the jeweled canister of mace attached to her key ring, Bloom made one deft move with her thumb, unlocking the release.

And almost as quickly returned the safety catch. She did know the man. But not because of any of her patients.

She knew him because of herself.

Detective Samuel Larson was the man who'd saved her life.

 

CHAPTER THREE

H
E
ALMOST
DIDN
'
T
recognize her. Hell, what was he thinking? If it hadn't been for the fact that he'd memorized every bone in that face when he'd studied the crime scene photos, he wouldn't have recognized her. Her high cheekbones and that little bit of a squaring off of her chin gave her away.

That and the slight bit of crookedness on one side of her jaw.

That auburn hair, more brown than red but with a hint of fire that had drawn his attention every time, was longer now. Softly curled.

Her body stood straighter, was fuller without losing the slenderness that drew eyes to her when she walked.

Bloom Freelander had...bloomed. His body took note.

WTF.

Had he left his mind back at the cottage? In the toilet he'd cleaned?

Still several yards away she didn't appear to have seen him yet. Which gave him time to get his head out of the plumbing and back to the case at hand.

Maybe the fact that he was dreading the next minutes, the fact that her life could very well depend on his ability to force her to do his bidding, was the reason he'd gone so far south.

He'd thought about her often over the past couple of years. Had wanted to check in on her. But he'd had no reason. No right.

Had thought it was not good or fair to remind her of the time in her life she was working so hard to escape.

Maybe he'd hoped he'd run into her. Maybe, when he'd been at the beach, or the grocery store, he'd kept an eye out for her.

Fate hadn't seen fit to bring them together.

But it had damned sure seen fit to put her in danger again.

He was no fonder of the fates at the moment than he was of his overresponsive nether region.

No doubting now that she'd seen him. She was staring right at him.

As if she couldn't believe it was he? Or was trying to place him?

Didn't matter.

Either way, it was showtime.

* * *

“D
ETECTIVE
L
ARSON
.”
Bloom slowed down, stepped off the walk into the grass as he drew closer, so as not to block traffic into and out of the building. If he had a medical appointment, she couldn't keep him. But...she'd thought of him so often during her months of healing. Wanted to let him know that he'd helped. A lot.

“Dr. Freelander...” He stepped off the walk, too.

“I told you,” she said with an easy smile—something she'd been unable to give him when he'd known her. “Call me Bloom. Dr. Freelander is someone else in my mind. My former self. And the nemesis of my former self, too.”

“Did you get your divorce?”

From anyone else the question would have been rude. But Sam Larson had been in every intimate crevice of her life as he'd built the case that had put her diabolically intelligent and demonic husband behind bars.

“I did,” she told him, smiling again. “It was final just last month.” Because Ken had fought it tooth and nail. From the throne he seemed to think he sat on in his prison cell.

Detective Larson's frown was something she remembered well. It gave her stomach a sexy little jolt to see it now.

Not an altogether comfortable experience. She was healthy. Happy. Just as she was. Without sex. Been there, done that. Didn't want the complication. The physical experience just wasn't worth what it put you through, exposed you to, made you vulnerable to...

Besides, she was professional enough to recognize that any feeling she might have for this particular man was transference—a former captive gravitating toward the safety net offered by her rescuer.

“I thought you were going to change your name.”

The fact that he remembered gave her another jolt. Nice to know that of all of his many cases she'd been...memorable.

Or he just had one hell of a memory. Which was impressive, too.

“I was,” she told him. “But it's on my degree. My doctoral certificate. And on the deed to the house I was just awarded as part of my settlement.”

And that was enough about her. “You look good,” she told him, smiling again.

“Thank you. So do you.” He would know, as closely as he was looking her over.

Just as he'd done in the past. As though he didn't miss a single freckle. She'd thought the intensity of his regard had been due to the fact that he'd been the detective in charge of investigating her case.

But there it was, two years later, still searching out her secrets...

“I imagine you have an appointment to keep,” she told him, pulling the strap of her black leather satchel more closely to her body. “I just wanted to thank you. You have no idea how many times I've thought of you since Kenneth went to prison and I could begin to heal, and I wanted to let you know what a difference you've made in my life. That you helped. So much. That the work you do...it matters so much...”

It wasn't like her to babble. Those brooding brown eyes of his, the flop of blond hair that never seemed to be in place, they were...familiar. As though she took them with her everywhere she went.

The idea was shocking, and yet recognizable, too. His calm, his strength, they'd been like examples of a parent to her. Something she'd been emulating as she rebuilt her life.

Rescuer, rescuee. Safety net. Sense of security.

“I don't have an appointment,” the detective said, rocking back on the heels of the black slip-ons he'd always worn. They looked like the exact same ones from back then. Did he buy several pairs at a time? Were they some kind of detective issue? Uniform to go with the dress slacks and button-down shirts he'd always worn? With a sedate tie in varying shades of blah.

“You're here on a call?” she asked now, adrenaline rushing to the fore. Knocking out the other...inappropriate emotions his unexpected presence had raised in her. “I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have kept you.”

Even as she said the words she realized that if he'd been on an emergency call he most likely would have had a partner with him and wouldn't have stopped to chat.

Which meant he was following up on a lead of some kind. Investigating every angle. Just like always.

“You might say I'm here on a call.”

Sliding his hands in his pockets, he continued to peruse her, an odd glint to his eyes. Sadness?

What? She didn't look recovered enough to him?

The thought left her wanting to march him straight upstairs to her third-floor office, show him her walls and furniture and big mahogany desk. The drawers of patient files, proof of her success, and the awards that were hanging on the walls of the private bathroom attached to her suite. They were there so she would see them several times a day to remind her who she was. And so only she would see them. She wanted to instill a sense of comfort in her clients. Not intimidate them. Not to spill her ego over onto others.

“I'm here to see you, Bloom. Is there someplace we can go?”

Bloom.
She liked the inflection he put on her name. Liked that he'd finally used it. Honoring her request.

Liked the fleeting sense of power that it gave her. But knew it for what it was. A change from her past when he'd insisted that he wasn't comfortable using her first name. That he needed the distance of formality between them.

Because she'd looked horrible with a broken jaw, drug-blurred eyes and black-and-blue skin?

He'd seen her later, too. Physically healed and pretty enough to turn heads...

“Bloom? Is there someplace we can go?”

She didn't move. Inside or out. “Why do you need to see me?”

The part of her life where she had a detective in it was done. Forever. No more trouble with the law. Of any kind. She'd promised herself. Never again.

“I just... Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

They could go back up to her office. But she didn't want him there anymore. Her car? No better.

She took him to a bench out in the yard behind the building. It was in a garden. With several benches. And a winding walkway with trees for shade. She chose to sit in the sun.

“What's going on?”

Even as she asked the question, she had a flash of the news headline she'd seen less than an hour before.

Trevor Banyon.

Had the jerk said something untoward about her? Released some confidential information pertaining to her case? Were his files being turned over as part of the investigation against him? Was there something incriminating to her reputation there? Something that would embarrass her professionally?

“I assume you've heard about Trevor Banyon...”

She started to breathe again. Relaxed against the seat. That was it then. Something from her case was going to be exposed.

She wouldn't wish for it. But didn't care all that much, either. In her new life she kept no secrets. So there was nothing to hold over her. And thus, nothing to fear.

Not that he'd know that. The Bloom Freelander he'd known had been afraid of her own shadow. When she was even aware of it following her around.

“I just saw something this morning,” she said, looking him over again, glad to have a few minutes with him now that she knew she had nothing to worry about. He was there as a courtesy. She got that now. And liked him all the more for it. It was so like him to follow up. “Something about him running illegal guns on the side?”

Sam Larson nodded. That flop of blond hair coming down on his forehead. The man had to be nearing forty, but you wouldn't know it by his hairline.

Maybe the lines at the edges of his mouth gave a hint of experience...

“Do you think he'll go to jail?” she asked now, trying to keep her mind on topic—something that usually came naturally to her these days. “Locked up with all those people he put away...” She didn't wish it on him.

The man had done her a great service—putting Ken behind bars. He'd fought hard for her.

“That's what I'm here to talk to you about.”

“What does Trevor Banyon going to jail have to do with me? Do they need me to testify on his behalf? To talk about the good he's done? The lives he's saved? Because while I don't condone anything to do with illegal arms, he really did help save my life...and I'm sure many others. Are they thinking that if they have enough mitigating circumstances he'll just get probation?”

She had no idea how serious the charges were against the man because she'd closed the app without reading the article.

It was about that time, when her voice dropped off and nothing else filled the silence, that Bloom realized part of the reason she'd been rambling so much. He was letting her. His long silences almost begging her to ramble.

“What's going on?” Was he in trouble? Did he have something to do with Banyon's side career?

She'd never have thought so. Couldn't believe it.

Maybe Banyon had something on him?

He was clearly having difficulty saying whatever it was he'd come to say...

Just like that she switched from a previously needy woman with her earthly savior to psychiatrist mode. Wanting to help him as he'd helped her. Whatever he needed...

“Sam...” she used his first name, though he'd never invited her to do so. “What's going on? Can I help?”

He was there for a reason.

When he shook his head, her heart sank. Please, God, don't let this man have done something bad enough to put him in jail. A world without him in it, Santa Raquel without him out there keeping it safe...

The idea left her bereft.

His expression cleared. “Yes, you can help.” He seemed to have fought some internal battle and...won?

“Okay.” She smiled. Couldn't seem to stop smiling at him. Wanted to put her hand on his knee where it rested close to hers. Or on the hand he had resting on it. “What can I do?”

“I need you to do me a favor.”

“Sure. Fine. What?” This was Sam Larson. He'd saved her life. She owed him far more than she'd ever be able to repay.

“I need you to pack up whatever keepsakes and possessions you most value, along with clothes and personal items, and be ready for me to pick you up late tomorrow afternoon.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. Didn't know her mouth was hanging open until she felt the dryness on her tongue.

“You're abducting me?” They were the first words that came to her mind. He was in that much trouble?

“Of course not!” He shifted next to her and she felt the holstered gun he always wore under his jacket. He'd have one strapped to his ankle, too. “Well, not in the way you make it sound.”

“But you are planning to take me away against my will.” Her insides were frozen. Not shaking. She wasn't even sure her heart was still beating.

And she didn't give him time to answer. “I trusted you.”

He was wearing his badge. She'd seen that hooked to his belt, too, when he'd first taken a seat. He was on the job. Not committing a crime.

Didn't feel any different to her.

When he bowed his head, she started to shake. Just her hands. Nothing else.

“Banyon.” She managed the one word past the sting in her throat. A tainted prosecuting attorney.

“He was selling guns to certain disreputable persons while prosecuting their competition. Twenty-four of his cases have been thrown out,” Detective Larson was saying. “Drug dealers are going to be back out on the street.”

“I don't know any drug dealers.”

“You know someone who provided drugs to one in exchange for protection in prison. Drugs he'd been slowly, illegally, siphoning for years.”

To use on her. And others?

“Ken gave away the evidence.”

After a lot of intricate tracking of hidden trails, Sam Larson had found proof that Ken had been writing prescriptions for the various ingredients in the cocktail he'd been feeding her. But they'd never found drugs that correlated with the prescriptions. If he'd fed them all to her, she'd have been dead.