Trouble (39 page)

Back from yoga, Dara strode down the hallway to her apartment, distracted by a local news story she'd heard on the radio on the way home. Mark Johnson, whom she hadn't thought about in ages, had rested his defense at trial without testifying. Experts predicted a conviction with a stiff sentence—oh, what was that?

Her foot bumped a smallish cardboard box wrapped with green tissue on the floor outside her door. She hadn't even noticed it.

Flowers, she realized, dazed, as she picked the box up, let herself in and set it on the counter. They were flowers.

Not Mike, she thought, dread and hope battling for supremacy inside her. Not again.

Well, she couldn't let him keep doing this to her—toying with her emotions and scrambling her thoughts. If she had any sense whatsoever, she'd throw the flowers away before they could infect her brain the way Mike's visit this morning had.

Too bad she'd never had any sense where Mike was concerned.

With trembling hands, she turned the tissue back and lifted out the lush gardenia plant.
Oh
. She'd forgotten how creamy and white the petals were, how deeply green and waxy the leaves were, how intoxicating the fragrance was. She lifted it to her nose and breathed deeply. This was obviously what it smelled like in heaven.

Mike. He knew how much she loved gardenias, the bastard.

How could he throw her into this kind of confusion when things had seemed so clear?

Oh, and there was a card tucked into the tissue paper.

Tapping her fingers on the counter, she eyeballed it, running through her options.

She'd been weak and opened the box, true, but she could be strong now and throw the card away. Better yet, she could throw both the card and the flowers away and start packing for Chicago. Yes. That was exactly what she should do—

She grabbed the card and ripped the envelope open.

Mike's blue-inked scrawl filled the plain card:

Forgive me
.

For one breathless second, her heart melted. For one pathetic, misguided second, she thought she should call and ask him to come back. For one blink of an eye, she thought she could forgive him and they could start over again.

But then the pain surged back with a vengeance.

Did he think it was this easy? That all he had to do was cry a few tears, buy a ring and send her one lousy plant, and she'd forgive him for breaking her heart for the
second
time?

Well, she wouldn't.

Part of her wanted to, though. A big part. Maybe most of her.

To add insult to injury, part of her foolishly hoped he really did want to marry her.

And she was woman enough to recognize her weakness where he was concerned. That was why this whole thing was so scary. She knew very well that once Mike set his mind to something, he didn't stop until he got it. Of course he wanted her right now. The sex had been good and he'd missed her for a couple of weeks. Big freaking deal. All that proved was that he was a typical man and she needed to protect herself from the typical melting female response.

Which meant she needed to nip this whole thing in the bud, because she was too weak—much, much too weak—to withstand a full frontal assault. Just the sight of him destroyed her resolve and turned her body to Jell-O. She'd barely stopped herself from falling into his arms this morning. Maybe next time he'd catch her in a weaker moment, and then who could say what would happen?

No, this had to stop. Right now. She'd never give him another chance to break her heart. He'd said he didn't love her and he couldn't have suddenly changed his mind. That being the case, he needed to stop toying with her emotions.

Tonight after work, she'd march down to his office and tell him so.

Just then, someone pounded on her door. Startled, she dropped the card and hurried to peek out the peephole. Not Mike again—

She recoiled, stifling a gasp.

It was Sean. Just what she needed. Not.

After hesitating for a beat or two, she swung open the door.

“Hi,” she said warily, remembering his ugly mood the other night. “How are you?”

It was like letting a cold front into her apartment. Ignoring what she'd just said, he strode to the living room and settled on the sofa, bringing with him an icy chill that originated in his eyes and seemed to permeate his skin.

Bewildered, she shut the door and brought up the rear.

“Mike told me,” he said.

“Told you what?” she asked as casually as she could with a lump suddenly lodged in her throat.

His lips thinned down to nothing. “That you're together.”

“We were,” she said faintly, sinking into the overstuffed chair next to the sofa. “It's over now.”

“That's not the way it sounded to me,” he said flatly.

Dara's thoughts churned aimlessly. She couldn't tell whether Sean was mostly angry or mostly hurt, but it probably didn't matter much anyway.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“Did you ever stop to think,” he said, his voice low and harsh, “how I would feel about this? Did that ever cross your mind?”

“Yes.”

She forced herself not to look away from the misery in his eyes because she'd earned it. She and Mike deserved it. She felt every bit as bad as she'd thought she'd feel if Sean ever found out. Even so, she couldn't find it in herself to apologize for loving Mike. That was something she couldn't change and didn't regret.

“But you did it, anyway.”

She raised her chin, determined not to be cowed. “I'm sorry we hurt you, Sean,” she said uselessly. “I'm really sorry. But my relationship with Mike has nothing to do with anyone other than me and Mike.”

He let out a bitter bark of laughter, too angry—or too hurt—to speak.

There was nothing else she could say, so she didn't try.

After a moment, he stood and walked to the door.

She followed, relieved the conversation hadn't been worse.

But then he wheeled around on the threshold.

“
Why
, Dara?” he asked. “You
know
how I felt about you! Why couldn't it've been me?”

“The question isn't why it wasn't you, Sean,” she said gently. “The question is why it only could have ever been Mike for me. And one day, when the right woman comes along, the question will be why it could only be Sean for her.”

Sean stilled. “Wow,” he finally said, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “That's something to shoot for, eh?”

“Absolutely.”

“I need to get my act together first. I need to be worthy.” He laughed, the sound bitter. “Right now I'm not ready for jack shit.”

“What're you going to do?”

“I wish to God I knew,” he muttered.

That night, Mark Johnson sat in his dark SUV waiting patiently. Some things were worth waiting for, and revenge was one of them. He'd been there an hour already, but he didn't care. He'd stay all night if he needed to. His wife, Alicia—
bitch
—wasn't waiting up for him at the crib. Who would have ever thought she'd have the balls to change the locks on the house?
His
house! The one he paid the mortgage on! That had been a kick in the teeth the day he'd gone home and discovered his key didn't fit. He'd have kicked down the door if she hadn't threatened to call the police. Another arrest was the last thing he needed. So he'd let Alicia's insult pass, for now. He'd deal with her later, when he planned to have the last laugh financially.

He'd deal with Baldwin now.

The jury was out deliberating, but he knew they'd convict him. It was just a matter of time. The trial had been a joke from start to finish, with the prosecutor trotting out all those punks who'd claimed they saw him threaten Dante before the shooting.

To make matters worse, his replacement lawyer—the one he'd been forced to hire after Baldwin gave him the boot—had thrown a hissy fit and threatened to withdraw if he insisted on testifying in his own defense. The lawyer had spouted some nonsense about him not being a good witness and doing more harm to his case than good. So he hadn't had the chance to tell the jury his side of the story. And they hated him. Any fool could see the way they glared at him and rolled their eyes whenever his stupid lawyer made an objection. And when they returned the verdict, they'd immediately revoke his bond and throw his ass in jail.

So tonight could very well be his last night of freedom for a long, long time.

And he wasn't about to miss the chance to even the score with Baldwin.

He reached for the gleaming pistol on the passenger's seat and ran his fingers along the butt, smoothing a smudge. Old Faithful. They'd seen a lot of action together, the two of them. She'd never let him down. That was all a man could count on, really. Himself and his gun. He couldn't count on anything else. Certainly not a woman. Or a business partner.

Or a lawyer.

He'd parked in the narrow alley behind Mike Baldwin's building. He hated to try to pull off something like this downtown—the getaway would be that much harder—but what else could he do? He'd watched Baldwin's house all week, but he was never home. The alley, actually, wasn't that bad a spot. He had a clear view of the brownstone's back door. There were also some trash cans lined up along the curb, but that was no problem. Baldwin had parked his own SUV out there, and when he was ready to leave the office, he'd probably go out that door. Then,
bam
! He'd pop him and it'd be all over for him.

A quick shot to the head was better than Baldwin deserved. It still pissed him off when he thought about how Baldwin had dropped him. Just like that. Didn't that punk know who he was? Didn't he know he'd be a Hall of Famer as soon as he was eligible? That he was worth a cool seventy million? Hadn't he heard that on the streets back in LA, his nickname had been
Killa
? Didn't that entitle him to a certain amount of respect?

He kept his eyes on the back door but flexed his legs a little. They weren't too happy about sitting in this cold car for so long; his bad knee was really starting to talk to him. Well, it'd all be over soon. When he was finished here, he could head over to Cheryl's crib. Cheryl had been only too happy to pick up where Desiree left off.

Desiree. Another bitch. The world was full of them.

He'd kicked her out of his apartment after she'd talked to Baldwin. Then she'd had the nerve to call his wife and tattle. Well, now Desiree could try to make it on her own in the world. Let her try to make it on her back in someone else's bed. Let her run up someone else's titanium card. It was no skin off his back. Cheryl could work him better than Desiree any day of the week, anyway.

His thoughts shifted back to Baldwin. The disrespect was one thing. He could almost deal with that. No, the reason Baldwin had a date with his piece was that he'd thrown him to the wolves. He'd had to find another lawyer, some chump who didn't know his head from his ass. Now the new lawyer had blown it. Plus, Baldwin had encouraged Desiree to tell the truth on the stand, so Johnson had had no alibi to give the jury.

And Baldwin had to answer for that.

Soon the SOB would come through the screen door, and he would pop him before he got to within ten feet of his own car. Johnson thought of how he'd would look with his brains blown out all over the street and could feel himself getting hard. Yeah, he'd need Cheryl tonight.

Johnson picked up his gun and pressed it to his lips for a good-luck kiss.