The Scent of Shadows Free with Bonus Material (7 page)

There was silence again, and when the scraping of our forks across the plates became the loudest thing in the room, I began to fear we’d reached an impasse, that this was where it would end between us—the idea of violence between us—the same as it had all those years ago.

“How’s Olivia these days?”

Back to neutral territory, I thought, not knowing whether that made me want to laugh or cry. “Great,” I managed, over the lump that’d grown in my throat. “She’s an engineer at a space sciences laboratory. She devises innovative new ways to enhance sexual performance in a weightless environment.”

“Remind me not to fly NASA.”

I had to smile at that. Ben was one of the few guys who had never fallen under Olivia’s spell, and believe me, he was in a definite minority. Then again, Ben Traina had only ever had eyes for me.

“She’s still beautiful and flighty and trusting,” I said, aware of those eyes on me now. I thought about that for a moment. “You’re one of the few people who never put her down, you know that? I always loved that about you.”

He looked surprised. “Why would I? She’s as beautiful inside as she is out. Tough in her own way too.”

“Yeah, but nobody else seems to realize that.”

“Maybe it’s because she doesn’t let them.” At my raised brow, he said, “Hey, you’re the one who said we all become who we need to be in order to survive.”

True. I nodded, though it made me wonder again. Who had he become?

“Anyway,” he said, laughing self-consciously, like he knew what I was thinking, “I don’t want to talk about Olivia tonight. Go back to what you always loved about me.”

That surprised another laugh out of me. “Narcissist.”

“Damn right.”

I decided to risk a little. “I can’t tell you everything,” I said, leaning forward. “I’d need all night and we don’t have time.”

His lids went heavy, eyes growing soft. There was the Ben I knew. “Then tell me one thing.”

I didn’t even have to think. “I loved the way you never tried to change me. I loved how you never compared me with my sister. I loved your honesty.”

“That’s three things,” he said, and linked a hand with mine. His palms were wide and smooth and warm, and the heat from them flowed up my limb, flooding my body. I could have orgasmed right there, just from his touch, and I wondered if he was feeling as light-headed as I.

“Three of my favorites,” I agreed, squeezing lightly, licking my lips, tasting wine—and hope—as warmth flooded me again.

“I suppose I’ll have to ask you out again to hear the rest,” he murmured, tossing me a knowing look.

I toyed with my pasta, letting out a slow steadied breath. “Your books,” I finally said, “how do they end? The murderer is caught? The villain punished? Justice is served?”

“That’s the standard M.O. for mysteries.”

“And they all live happily ever after?”

He thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Those who are still living at the end of the book, I guess. Yeah.”

Sadly, that sounded more like fantasy than mystery to me, but I didn’t want to tell Ben that. I swallowed hard before glancing back up. “So. How’s this story going to end?”

“The guy gets the girl, of course.” And he shot me that dizzying grin. I returned it without hesitation, and just like that all thought of control dropped away. The room and all the people—single guy at the bar included—folded in upon themselves and disappeared. I bit my lip, he licked his, and we leapt together.

Three hours and two bottles of wine later we emerged from Taverna Deliziosa as though from a cocoon, sated with food and wine, but further intoxicated by long looks,
meaning-filled laughter, and the touch of fingertips across flickering stretches of candlelight.

Outside, we fell on each other like ravenous wolves.

The crisp air bit into our skins but dissipated like steam upon contact with the heat streaking from Ben’s body into mine. He kissed me, first pressing me against the building, the stark contrast between the cold brick behind me and his heated grip making me gasp and grind further against him. Next we were leaning against a low cinder-block wall, me straddling his straightened legs as his left hand snaked up my bare back to knot in my hair, pulling lightly. His right hand found access into my scooped blouse, and he fondled me there, echoing his caress with his tongue, mouth firm and rich on mine, tasting of unchecked lust and Italian grapes. Finally, we found ourselves reclining in the cab of his truck, his lips working my nipples through the silk of my blouse, teeth teasing, while his hands cupped me both above and below. I moaned and felt the echo slide down my body into his until it hummed through the erection pressed against my thigh.

Each time we moved I had no memory of doing so, and each time I allowed it, submitting to the desire I saw firing his dark eyes, and answering the breathless demands he whispered against my flushed skin. Only the sharp look and disgruntled muttering of the man who’d been drinking alone at the bar reminded us we were still a part of the world at large…and necking like teens in a parking lot.

Ben pulled away and leaned his forehead against mine, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. Far off, to the east of the valley, a bolt of lightning scissored across the sky, followed by a low growl of thunder. I closed my eyes as if warding away the storm and smiled into his mouth. “Move your hand one inch higher, Traina, and you’re going to have to arrest yourself.”

His laughter was choked, hot on my cheek, and spoke
more of his passion than words ever could. It was a shock to find our passion could just start up again, like a match set to kindling, sparking thick in the throat, flaring in our loins, and burning the years that had gathered in between to ashes.

Not only that, but in the time we’d been outside I’d utterly forgotten my surroundings. I’d neglected to peer into the shadows, or look behind me, or hold onto even a tenuous awareness of my surroundings. I’d forgotten to sniff at the air for something foul or putrid, or about demonic faces leering at me in candlelight, or even that I’d been warned to survive the night.

What can I say? There was only Ben, his skin scenting the air, his touch turning the storm-ridden November evening into a humid, tropical night. Years of training melted away under the heat of his flesh. If I had an Achilles’ heel, I thought, Ben was it.

“Come home with me, Jo-Jo,” he whispered.

I moaned against his throat. Oh, how I wanted to. In his home, in his arms, in his bed, finishing what we’d started here. It was where I wanted to be. And where I belonged.

“I can’t,” I said, then repeated it to myself. I couldn’t just let myself pretend the last ten years had never happened. I wouldn’t lose sight of the woman I’d become. That was the woman I needed to be.

“Too soon?” he asked, then sighed—regretful, frustrated, understanding—at my answering nod. “Better than too late, I suppose.”

“I’m meeting Olivia in…” God, was it already eleven? “Half an hour. We have some things we need to discuss.”

He didn’t ask what, and I didn’t offer. Instead he leaned back and peered into my face, arms still linked around my waist. “And I suppose making plans with her was a way to keep you from spending the night with me?”

“Don’t be arrogant,” I said. “Yes.”

He smiled, looking satisfied as a milk-fed cat, and lifted
a hand to graze my cheek. “Are you always so practical, Ms. Archer?”

“Hmm.” I kissed his throat, my tongue a tickling trail just below his earlobe. Barely suppressing a shudder, he ran his fingertips up my spine, letting them linger and play along the lines of my bare shoulders and neck. Or I thought it was his fingertips. Pulling away, I reached up and touched cool, slim metal, brought it back in my hand and peered at it in the dim light. “What is this?”

But I knew before I’d even finished the question. The slender silver chain, a double-stranded braid, was simple and inexpensive, and had been given to me by Ben on my fifteenth birthday. But I hadn’t seen it since shortly after that. I thought it’d been lost in the desert.

“You left it at my house,” he said, his voice softer, more hoarse. “On that last night.”

Our last night
, I corrected silently as he reached out and gently plucked it from my fingertips. I bent my head and he draped it around my neck, fastening it there. Closing that circle. I let out a deep breath, felt tension I didn’t even know I was carrying drain from my body just as the first raindrop fell to my skin.

I fingered the chain, already warming around my neck. “Thank you.”

He bowed closer, bending to me so we were forehead-to-forehead in the thickening rain. Each other’s umbrella. “Sure you won’t come with me?”

I shook my head, rolling it softly along his, because I knew if I opened my mouth the answer would be yes.

“So practical,” Ben whispered, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “What if, for once, you didn’t worry about consequences? What if you just did what you wanted?”

I pulled away to look at him, my eyes traveling down to his lips, then back up again. “I just did.”

“Do it again.”

So I did. I leaned forward, took his face in my hands,
and the sky above us exploded with light. We pressed against each other, body and bone, and he lifted me so my legs were wrapped at his waist, fused at his hips, anchoring me against him. I nearly didn’t make it to Olivia’s at all.

“Come.”

The word, the last Ben said to me before we parted ways, hummed through my mind as I drove to Olivia’s, like a bee addicted to the pollen of the same sweet flower, refusing to settle and be silent.
Come
.

I was holding the card he’d pressed into my palm before I drove away…and before I returned for one last kiss and drove away again. He’d printed his home address on the back of it, with a message saying he’d leave the door open for me. Just in case. I almost put the card in my purse before deciding against it. It was very schoolgirlish of me, but I wanted it close and instead tucked it into the hollow of my back as I headed into Olivia’s building.

Unlike me, Olivia lived in the center of town, buying a condo in a chic residential high-rise that came with its own valet, dry-cleaning service, and a twenty-four-hour concierge. Though it wasn’t my style, I had to admit the place was stunning, and convenient for those who wished easy access to the six mile stretch of neon playground a mere block away. Gleaming plate-glass windows bowed high into the
sky, reflecting the polished wood interior in its shimmering sheets. Discreet lighting dotted the complex’s foyer in artful little niches, and the design was duplicated in Olivia’s apartment nine floors above.

I stepped from the elevator and was poised to knock when the door flew open to reveal my sister, clad in bright coral sweats, an even brighter smile lighting her expectant face. There were some things only a sister could understand. A giggle escaped me, surprising us both, and that was all the encouragement she needed. She squealed, her high-pitched voice shattering the sound barrier, and wheeled me inside before the dogs came running.

“You look fabulous, brilliant, stunning!” she rattled in quick succession, before pressing a finger to my swollen lips. “And you’ve been kissing! Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

“Can I get a drink first?”

“Martinis are already prepped,” she said, and disappeared with a skip into the adjoining kitchen. “I’ll bring them to the living room.”

I grinned at this sign of her excitement and headed into the core of the apartment.

The kitchen, where Olivia could be heard happily singing to herself, lay to the left. The bedroom was tucked around a slip of an alcove off to the right. I crossed the penthouse foyer, stepped down into the sunken Italian-marbled living room, and found myself facing a sheer wall of glass revealing the un-real estate of the Las Vegas Strip. It was a block so densely lit it could be seen from the stars. Tossing my coat over an overstuffed armchair, I positioned myself in front of the window to wait.

I felt framed, a statue displayed on a very high shelf, out of reach, and almost eye level with storm clouds so thick they reflected the city’s lights back on itself. Strange. The effect was one of condensed power, like electricity boxed between concrete and cloud, the light in between magnified to manic proportion. As the storm’s muffled rumble signaled its approach from the west, I turned my back on
the wild city and relaxed in the bright and feminine luxury of Olivia’s home.

Olivia—again, unlike me—had surrounded herself with things. Beautiful, numerous things. There was a collection of fine crystal on a floor-to-ceiling sweep of built-in shelves. She had a preference for Scandinavian designs; the clean lines of Orrefors mixing with the bright, whimsical creations of Kosta Boda. Next to that was a marble fireplace, unlit and unused except as a holding place for some of the trees and plants that seemed to sprout from nearly every corner and niche in the room. I rubbed the leaf of a wildly trailing spider plant, wondering how she did it. The things absolutely thrived under her care.

Instead of a sofa, she’d placed an oversized daybed with high scrolled sides in the middle of the room, piling it high with bright chenille pillows. A large tray inlaid with mother-of-pearl and onyx sat in the middle of the bed and was used in place of a coffee table. Candles burned everywhere—colored ones, scented ones, tea lights and tapers—and a television unit, rarely used, was tucked inconspicuously off to the side.

Despite this colliding mishmash of color and items, Olivia’s home managed to feel airy and alive. She even had a cat skulking around here somewhere, full of attitude and ever waiting to trip a person up.

I lifted a copy of the latest computer journal from the tray, and noted it was already thumbed through, dog-eared, and marked in places. The first time our father—
her
father—had caught Olivia reading a scientific journal, we were all clustered around the breakfast table, pretending to be a normal, well-adjusted family. I’d known for a while she’d been reading
Popular Science
and
Computers Today
, and was teasing her about it, calling her a technogeek and, on my more caustic days, Bill Gates’s wet dream.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Xavier had said, staring from her to the magazine that had fallen from her hand.

Startled by his sudden appearance, she nonetheless recovered, and lifted the periodical between two well-manicured fingers to use as a lipstick blotter. Watching from over the rim of my coffee cup, I’d been surprised to see that instead of angering Xavier, this seemed to pacify him. Olivia avoided looking at me for the rest of the morning. And I never teased her about her reading habits again.

I tossed the magazine back down and nestled myself among pillows the color of buttercream and scotch. There, I removed my weapons, placing my purse with the
kubotan
on the tray in front of me, along with the fixed-blade at my back. I left the short blade where it was; sheathed and secured in my boot. I felt too naked if bereft of all my weapons.

Olivia, carrying two oversized martinis, raised a brow at the knife settled between her vanilla candles and knickknacks, but there was no widening eyes or surprise. She was as used to my weapons as I was to her scholarly journals.

“Vodka martini, straight up, two olives stuffed with Roquefort,” she said, winking. “Just in case you haven’t already had an orgasm today.”

“Be still my heart,” I said, taking one of the glasses. She settled across from me and folded her legs beneath her.

“Happy Birthday!” she said, raising her drink in a toast. “Here’s to you always being older than me!”

“Thanks. I think.”

“And,” she said slyly, “here’s to Ben Traina bringing your hormones back into whack.”

I lowered my glass. “My hormones weren’t out of whack.”

“Yes, they were.”

“No, they weren’t.”

“Yes, they were.”

I scowled. She smiled sweetly. “So, is he everything you remember? Different? The same?”

How could I tell her? What words could explain how the
edges of the boy had been whittled down into such a finely sculpted man? Sure, there were some sharp edges too—and I was determined to be careful of them—but how to tell her about the new passion ignited between us? That he made Michelangelo’s
David
look practically wilted? There was just no comparison between my girlish feelings for Ben and the thoughts I entertained now. Perhaps Olivia was right and he
had
brought my hormones back into whack.

“He’s more, Olivia. So much more.” And I left it at that.

Despite this inability to articulate my thoughts, Olivia was satisfied. Her eyes went dreamy and she sighed into the bowl of her martini. Reaching down, she absentmindedly stroked the cat that had appeared from nowhere—what was its name again?—and said, “You’re finally going to get laid.”

I choked on my cheesy olive. “Excuse me, but how do you know I haven’t been?”

“Because you’re always too tense,” she said, shaking her arms. I think she was illustrating how to relax. “You treat sex like a combat sport, like that ‘dog maga’ stuff you practice.”

“It’s ‘Krav Maga,’” I bristled, “and I do not.”

“You do,” she insisted. “You treat it like it’s a battle to be won. You wear your femininity like a badge, and you’re daring someone to make you flash it.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, pretending not to wonder at that. “Besides, none of my lovers have ever complained.”

“Because they’re probably afraid your viselike vagina would squeeze off their manhood. Like those credit card machines that suck up the card and won’t give it back.” And she laughed gaily, waving off my outraged cry. “Besides, we’re not talking about lovers, we’re talking about
love
, and you haven’t allowed yourself to go there since Ben.”

My mouth snapped shut. True. Even I’d thought those emotions had dried up like a shallow lake bed beneath the desert sun.

“Like you’re an expert,” I muttered.

“Darling,
I
fall in love on a daily basis,” she said, waving a hand around her. “I love that tree and this drink and Luna here.” Ah, that was the name of the beast twining about my legs. I reached down and scratched Luna behind her ears. Her throat rumbled. Outside, lightning flashed. “I love you,” Olivia continued, “and I love Ben for loving you too.”

I must have looked surprised at that. My hand stilled on Luna’s back.

“You know he does,” she said.

“Maybe he does,” I nodded cautiously, stroking the cat again, “and maybe I know it, but how do you?”

Olivia leaned forward. “Because how could anyone know the real Joanna Archer and not love her?”

I smiled at her sincerity but looked away. It wasn’t that the sentiment wasn’t appreciated, but her rhetorical question brought to mind that afternoon’s confrontation with Xavier.

Olivia, sensing that, quickly changed the subject. “Don’t you want to open your present?”

I nodded, but didn’t reach for the package in the corner of the coffee tray. “I need to ask your help with something first.”

“Want me to take Ben for a little ride? Break him in for you?”

“I think I can handle that on my own,” I replied dryly.

“Too bad,” she said, demurely sipping her martini.

“I want to find out who my real father is,” I said. “I think Xavier knows, but he’s keeping it from me.”

“Why would he?”

“Knowing him, it’s probably just a power trip, something he can use to keep me under his thumb.” I frowned and tapped my finger against my glass. “But I was thinking about it this afternoon. What if he knows where the guy lives? What if Zoe mentioned it to him at some point?”

“What if,” Olivia finished for me, “she returned to this man when she left Xavier?”

I smiled at her use of his name. “So you’ll help me?”

She looked at me like I had the mental capacity of a two-year-old, which was unsettling. “I’ve already begun.” She rose and jerked her head, indicating I should follow. I did, leaving my present, my martini, and Luna on the couch behind me.

Mother Nature was apparently determined to make the city of light look like a dimly flickering bulb. The glass wall extending through the bedroom normally offered up a 180-degree view of the valley’s surrounding mountain ranges. Tonight, though, the oddly low cloud cover kept us from seeing even two feet beyond the glass. Lightning slashed at the sky, and as thunder rumbled directly overhead, I shuddered, thankful we were safely inside.

I turned my attention to the computer console, and sure enough, the machine was already on, bathing the corner of the room in an unflattering greenish hue. Circling to the other side, I saw the screen dancing with lipstick tubes and bottles of fingernail polish. I’d have wondered where Olivia found such a thing, but knew she’d probably designed it herself. Then I watched as she positioned herself in front of the monitor, placed acrylic against the ergonomic keyboard, and became the Olivia Archer most people never imagined.

Her fingers flew, following paths that could as easily access data from government sites as blow through a game of FreeCell. She’d gotten her first fake ID this way, and as a teen I’d had her pull up my psych evaluations as well.

Joanna Archer is suffering severe physical and mental trauma due to the attack and subsequent sexual assault she endured six months ago.
Well, duh.

Olivia hummed absently, her eyes fixed on the screen, brows pulled down despite repeated botox injections, and glossed mouth pursed in pretty concentration.

She had discovered computers around the same time I had escaped into Krav Maga. Our mother had left no indication that she would ever be returning, and our father had so thoroughly removed himself that neither of us even
thought of turning to him, and I was emotionally unavailable, which left Olivia to fight her demons alone.

I’ve always felt guilty at how I shut her out in those early days, but this—a skill few possessed—was the good that had come from it, as strange and unexpected as a lotus blooming in a trash heap. She’d developed an identity outside of her physical body, one completely at odds with the way others thought of her. She may have had a body manufactured in Sin City, but she had a mind to rival the finest graduates of MIT.

In short, she was an unnaturally talented, self-taught computer genius.

With an underground website catering to hackers and their faceless clients, her business generated a far greater income than her generous monthly allowance from Xavier. There were bulletin boards on everything from the technology needed to take care of outstanding parking tickets to assistance establishing offshore bank accounts, and help in funneling untraceable money into those accounts. Her screen name? The Archer, of course.

Because Xavier had discouraged Olivia’s interest in anything beyond basic cosmetic application, she’d developed the habit of working at night, an M.O. that served her exceedingly well. To the outside world it appeared she slept all morning, spent her days shopping or lunching with the ladies, and partied all night. But most of the time she could be found here, and this, I’d realized, was Olivia’s warrior side. The part of her that flipped the bird at Xavier and everyone else.

“See,” she was saying, pointing at a graphic flashing at the top right corner of the screen, “there are multiple levels to break through in order to access your birth records. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. We’ll see if Mom covered her tracks as well as she thinks she has.”